The Running Mate (A Jack Houston St. Clair Thriller)

by Andrew Delaplaine

  The doors to all the bedrooms on the second floor gave off this wrap-around gallery.

  It was simply a matter of neutralizing the few agents outside the front of the house, and overpowering the ones who would be immediately inside (maybe five, no more than ten).

  Then, his team would sweep up the marble staircase and crash into each room (focusing on the Dumaine suite and the President’s at either end of the house), peppering whoever was in each room with machine pistol fire.

  The whole thing could be over in five to eight minutes from the time they exploded from the cluster of trees. And chances were, with the advantage of the silencers, the people sleeping in the bedrooms wouldn’t hear a thing. Any shots they did hear would come from weapons fired by their Secret Service defenders, not Shahzad’s people. Shahzad’s intention was to strike so fast, most of the Secret Service agents wouldn’t have time to get off a shot. They simply would not expect anything Shahzad had planned for them.

  At this time, two helicopters would land with additional personnel to provide covering fire for their exit, spraying the roof with automatic fire to eliminate any sharpshooters they’d missed on their initial assault, as well as repel guards and agents from the seawalls heading toward Flagler Hall.

  Shahzad and his team would scramble into one of the two S-76 choppers, head out sea, then south to Cuba.

  Safe.

  Well, if everything goes as planned, thought Shahzad.

  Shahzad lowered his high-powered Zeiss binoculars and lifted his head into the cool night air. The breeze was up. The forecast called for stiffer breezes tomorrow night. Maybe even up to 20 knots. Shahzad liked that. The bigger the breeze, the less the patrols would hear—on land or water. And it would be more difficult to spot the Zodiacs making their silent way across the Bay in choppy water. Much more difficult.

  This operation was beginning to look like a piece of cake, Shahzad thought, but then he caught himself.

  It’s never a piece of cake.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 94

  Breakfast was a big affair at Flagler Hall, done up in the British style that the President favored.

  “We do it better here than they do in the White House,” he often bragged. While there was a large breakfast room downstairs overlooking the pool and the putting green, that room was for members. The President had his own rather lavish dining room on the private second floor, converted many years ago from a parlor. Here, the staff laid out an enormous breakfast, and for once the President was glad to see he had enough people around his table to put a dent in it.

  Dumaine came in and went to the sideboard to fill his plate.

  “Sleep all right?” asked the President.

  “Like a baby. Just came from seeing the girls. They seem to be holding up all right. Most of the crying’s stopped.”

  “I’m glad we moved them to the smaller rooms in the old servants’ quarters,” said Jack, just coming in and taking a seat with Francesca.

  “Yes, it’s better. There the nanny can sleep with them in the same room,” said Dumaine.

  “Kids don’t like the big bedrooms on this floor,” said the President, picking up a piece of bacon and eating it. “But I do!” Everybody laughed. St. Clair slept in Flagler’s old suite on the southwest corner of the house where he got the best breezes and had the best view of downtown Miami. “I never changed the bathroom,” he said.

  “It’s still the same as when Henry Flagler installed it in 1902,” said Francesca.

  “Well, the hot water’s a little more reliable,” said Jack.

  “I must say, it’s quite a place, Flagler Hall,” said Dumaine. “I missed coming here when you had a meeting of the Foreign Relations Committee.”

  “That’s right,” said the President. “You were in Moscow or somewhere and we were all down here.”

  “It was winter, and let me tell you, winter is better here than in Moscow.”

  Everybody laughed.

  Jack ordered another café con leche.

  “Well, you’ll have to visit more often,” said the President, who suddenly rose and held out a scroll. “And to make it easier, I’m making you a bona fide member of the St. Clair Island Club, effectively immediately.”

  The people at the table applauded.

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. President,” said Dumaine. “Maybe you’d better not jackhammer those extra helipads, because I’m planning on taking you up on your offer to visit.”

  “You only have one more day here, Bill,” said Francesca. “What do you want to do while you’re in Miami?”

  “The girls want to go to the zoo.”

  “Have you cleared it with the Secret Service?” asked Jack.

  “That’s just it. If I go, it’s a major hassle.”

  Jack chuckled.

  “See? You’ll learn. Everywhere a President goes, a small army must follow.”

  “But if the girls go alone, it’s not such a big deal, so I’m sending them down with Tim.”

  “I’d like to go along with them,” said Francesca, “if I might.”

  “Certainly,” said Dumaine.

  “Well, then, why don’t we play a few holes of golf,” said Jack. “You said you wanted to yesterday.”

  “That’d be fine,” said Dumaine. “But I noticed when we went swimming at your house yesterday, Jack, that you have a professional size poker table in your Game Room.”

  “A gift from me,” said the President, chewing on some hash browns. “My son’s a better gambler than I am!”

  “And that’s saying something,” said Jack

  “So maybe we could play a little poker after the golf game.”

  “Fine by me,” said Jack. “I’m always up for a game.”

  * * *

  The day c-r-a-w-l-e-d along for Shahzad and his team. He had come in at 5 A.M. and gone straight to bed, but still tossed and turned. Finally, around 7, he drifted away, waking at 10.

  He checked with his team, but there were no reports of any major or even minor changes in the security patterns on St. Clair Island. The Americans had their system down and they were sticking to it. He forced everybody to get a few hours of shuteye in the afternoon and early evening. The night ahead would be a long one.

  * * *

  After a swim, the twins left with Tim and Francesca and a small Secret Service detail for the trip down to Metrozoo south of Miami. They’d be gone all afternoon.

  Jack and Dumaine got in a full round of golf. Dumaine decided he wanted Verges along after all, and they were able to talk about his ideas to revolutionize the way the Pentagon spent money. Secret Service agents followed in golf carts at a discreet distance.

  They circled back to Jack’s house after the round.

  “Let’s have some of your famous mojitos, Gargrave.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  They took seats and relaxed out on the patio under the awning as Gargrave took cold bottles of water to the Secret Service agents, led by Agent Rodriguez, watching them from golf carts out on the fairway.

  “How long have you had Gargrave?” asked Dumaine.

  “Ever since I left the Navy,” said Jack.

  “British, I see.”

  “Yes. From Sussex.”

  Gargrave went back into the Game Room, made the drinks and returned with the mojitos.

  “Why’d you leave the SEALs, Jack?”

  Dumaine instantly felt some tension from Gargrave and Jack, and noticed Vergas’s head jerk toward him when he asked about Jack’s Navy career.

  “Your mojitos, sir,” said Gargrave, filling the pause.

  “It’s a long story,” said Jack.

  Dumaine took a sip.

  “These are really good,” Dumaine said.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Gargrave.

  “So, Jack, about the SEALs…”

  Gargrave interrupted, offering a small tray with snacks.

  “Señora Acevedo made some very nice empanadas, sir. Perhaps you’d like one?”


  Dumaine took one.

  “Thanks.”

  “She had to leave, if you’ll recall, sir,” said Gargrave to Jack. “Her sister’s in town visiting.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Your cell phone has a call from Ms. Santopietro, sir.”

  “I’ll go inside and get it, Gargrave.”

  Jack got up and left and Gargrave followed him back into the house, pulling the sliding glass door closed behind him. Verges leaned over to Dumaine.

  “He doesn’t like to talk much about his SEAL days,” said Verges.

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Well, what happened?” Dumaine asked, biting into the empanada. “Mmm, this is good.”

  Verges leaned back and took a long draw from his drink and smacked his lips.

  “Boy, that Gargrave really knows how to make a drink.”

  “I guess when I’m President I can call for Jack’s file and find out, right?” said Dumaine with a friendly smile.

  “That you can, Mr. President-elect. I’m not sure of all the details, but Gargrave there was a captain in the SBS.”

  “Ah, that’s the Special Boat Service. But you’ve got to be kidding. That guy? He seems like a cliché for a British butler.”

  “He’s not. He’s tough as nails, Gargrave. He was with Squadron M.”

  “Really? Squadron M?”

  Dumaine raised his eyebrows as he nibbled his empanada. He knew from his Foreign Relations Committee experience that Squadron M was an elite Special Ops section in the SBS, itself a covert unit within the Royal Navy.

  “All I know,” Verges went on, “is that they met during a combined operation that deployed sections of SEAL Team 9 and a company from Squadron M. They were after somebody in Afghanistan but got involved in a—”

  Verges shut his mouth when he heard the glass door slide open. Jack came back out and sat down.

  “Tim and Francesca are back with the kids. They’ll get the girls cleaned up and we’ll go over in a little while for dinner. How’s that sound?”

  Dumaine let out a deep breath.

  “Sounds great. It really is relaxing here, Jack. And the weather’s a lot better than my place at Hawk’s Landing.”

  “Well,” said Verges, “you’ll have to have a summer White House up in Wellfleet and a winter White House down here on St. Clair Island.”

  “I’ll be the first President to have two getaway White Houses!”

  “How about another drink?” said Jack.

  “Love one,” said Dumaine.

  They went inside the Game Room and over to the bar where Gargrave was cleaning what looked to Dumaine like an antique musket and a modern machine pistol.

  “Another round, Gargrave.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gargrave put the weapons down and started on the drinks.

  “That’s a machine pistol,” said Dumaine.

  “That’s nothing,” snorted Verges. “Can I show him the Gun Room, Jack?”

  “Sure.”

  Verges led Dumaine down a hallway and around a corner, and into a room at the far side of the house. He swung open a thick oak door and took Dumaine into Jack’s Gun Room, a room jammed with what seemed to Dumaine like a hundred different weapons of all sizes and shapes.

  “Wow—Jack might be a Democrat, but this is a Republican’s collection,” said Dumaine. There were weapons from every vintage, almost like a mini-museum.

  They went back to the bar where Gargrave was putting the mojitos on the bar. Jack was raising his silver cup to drink.

  “That’s quite a collection you have back there, Jack.”

  “Let’s just say that I believe in the Second Amendment,” said Jack with a smile. “Gargrave here knows his weapons. He and I’ve been collecting them for years. Here he’s cleaning a musket from the Revolutionary War, probably made between 1760 and 1780. This other weapon is a MAC-10.”

  Dumaine picked up the long musket.

  “Careful, sir,” said Gargrave. “It’s loaded.”

  “Loaded? You mean this works?”

  “Everything you saw back in that room works,” said Verges, tilting his head toward the Gun Room in the back.

  “It’s a hobby. Both Gargrave and I love weapons. Our days in the military. Gives us something to do.”

  “Will you still be playing poker tonight, Mr. St. Clair?”

  “I think we will, Gargrave, if nothing prevents it. The President-elect here wants me to relieve him of some of his money.”

  “Maybe pay off some of your dad’s campaign debts,” laughed Verges.

  “I’ll make something to eat then, sir. Roast beef and perhaps some sliced chicken sandwiches?”

  “Yes, Gargrave. Use some of that Roquefort dressing from Epicure on a couple of them for me, one chicken and one roast beef.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “And some horseradish.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “And lots of booze!”

  “As always, sir.”

  They had a final round of mojitos, and convinced Verges to join them at the poker table later. Jack invited Verges to dinner with them at Flagler Hall. Then everybody went his own way to freshen up for the night ahead.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 95

  The forecast had been correct, and by 7 P.M., the wind was up to 18 knots. By 1 A.M., up to 21-23 knots, creating a light chop on the waters of Biscayne Bay. The thousands of little whitecaps appearing and disappearing every second provided ideal cover for the specially prepared Zodiacs Mahmoud Yazdi acquired for them. These were F470 Combat Rubber Raiding Crafts (CRRCs), the same boats used by U.S. Navy SEALs, but with a difference. These boats were powered by super-silent electric KXV Type 2 motors. The horsepower wasn’t as high, but for close-combat nighttime work, silence was essential. And Shahzad was impressed as they made their quiet way across the Bay at 3 A.M. without attracting any attention. There was zero marine traffic in the Intracoastal Waterway.

  All lights on the island were off, except for the floodlights at Flagler Hall lighting up the perimeter. From the southwest side of the island as they approached, they saw that all the houses were dark.

  The CRRCs approached St. Clair Island, and when they were about three-quarters of the way across, they held up, side by side, a commando in each boat holding on to the other one so they wouldn’t drift apart in the rough water. They waited patiently and looked through their LUCIE type night-vision goggles. They could easily see the patrol boat anchored on the south side of the island, its blue police light flashing continuously, the little craft bobbing sometimes violently up and down on the roiling water.

  It took another ten minutes for the boat patrolling around the island to make its appearance coming from the east side of the island around to the south side.

  Shahzad noted that the patrolling boat stopped for about two minutes alongside the anchored boat. The men were probably commiserating about the foul weather, hoping it would subside and the winds would go away.

  In two minutes, however, the second boat began moving again, plowing slowly through the water all the way to the southwest end of the island, its spotlight swinging back and forth as the crew flooded the docks adjoining the seawall with light, checking things out. It turned to round the southwest corner, now directly in front of Flagler Hall, now directly below the President’s darkened windows, now further along the west side of the island until… it disappeared heading around the northwest corner of the island.

  Shahzad jerked his head and the Zodiacs powered up and slid noiselessly across the Bay. They had a good forty minutes to make landfall when Shahzad was sure they’d make it in twenty or thirty.

  Far out from the island, heading east toward Miami Beach, they passed Flagler Hall. Then Shahzad noticed a house light on he hadn’t been able to see from his previous angle of vision. He raised his Zeiss binoculars and had a look. This would be Jack Houston St. Clair’s house, the next house over from Flagler Hall, but
shrouded by trees. It seemed like one or maybe two rooms had lights on. Probably some kind of late-night party going on, Shahzad mused. The houses around it: all dark.

  They had to make a wide turn around the anchored patrol boat in order to get to the far side of the island where the seawall patrols on foot were fewer. Using their Zeiss binoculars and equipped with night-vision, they easily saw the agents covering the seawall.

  They simply maneuvered into an area between the agents and unloaded everything. The Zodiacs were secured simply by lashing them to a dock at a house with two large yachts. No one saw them.