Breckinridge swallowed. "What do you know about him?"
"She told me he works in Beltsville at a government training place. My sister told me he has a picture of him with President Jordan in his living room. She thinks he is a White House bodyguard for the President. His first name is Gilbert - Gilbert Flanagan. That's it..."
"Thank you. Thank you very much."
"Next time come during the day. I have to go to work in the morning and I need my sleep."
Using her cell phone, Breckinridge anxiously reached Pete Garrison at the Watergate and told him she was going to stop by. As she drove along 23rd Street making her way to the Watergate, the car radio was playing softly, a familiar tune that for the life of her she couldn't name - probably because she was exhausted. The day before, her life had been going along normally, and now she was sneaking around in the dark trying to figure out which one of her colleagues was trying to kill the President.
Suddenly, a wave of trepidation came over her. She checked the rearview mirror. It didn't appear that anyone was following her. But she knew that if one was the target of a sophisticated surveillance, there was no way to detect it. She'd been around long enough to know that Washington, D.C., was a place where people played for keeps, where individuals like her got steamrolled every day of the week. She told herself to stop thinking about what could happen.
At the Watergate, she knocked on Garrison's door. Moments later, she heard footsteps and assumed he was looking out the peephole.
"It's me."
He opened the door with a gun in his hand and let her in. She told him how she'd established a connection between Hightower and Flanagan and about Flanagan's part-time housekeeper's sister's telephone number being on the Aryan Disciples threat letter.
"Flanagan," he said. "That sonofabitch. This is a breakthrough. A real breakthrough."
"Is that coffee I smell?"
"I figured you could use a cup about now."
In the kitchen, Garrison poured cups from a steaming pot and seemed extremely pleased, animated actually, as she told him the details of her investigation.
"The CD," he asked. "You have it?"
She patted her purse. "Exhibit A."
"But it's not enough, Martha. In fact, it's a long way from proving anything. Flanagan can just cop to it - he could say that he worked with Hightower on a case and knows nothing about him after that. As far as the phone number on the letter, it's evidence, all right, but it doesn't tie him directly to anything. It won't be his handwriting. It sounds like the housekeeper just wrote down her sister's phone number on a piece of paper and Flanagan ended up using the sheet of paper under it to create his phony letter. I could see a defense attorney making the case that the phone number could be anywhere, because it didn't have an area code with it. We need more. A lot more."
"What we need is a statement from Flanagan," she said. "A nice, long, written confession."
"I'd like to have a heart-to-heart with him-"
"Pete, I'm going to confront him."
"Too dangerous."
"Not if I do it in a public place. He's not going to kill me unless he thinks he can get away with it. Look at the way the rest of this case has played out."
"I feel like I should go with you-"
"Won't work. You're wanted. And we can't be letting the other side know what we're up to."
"Then you should take Rachel Kallenstien with you."
Breckinridge shook her head. She'd already gone over it in her mind. "No."
"Why not?"
"If I have any chance of getting Flanagan to either cooperate or say anything that would incriminate him, I'm going to have to be alone with him. He's not going to talk when I have an independent witness there who he knows could corroborate everything he tells me."
"That is if he says anything at all."
She sipped coffee and it warmed her throat. "I have to take the chance. If the roles were reversed, you would do the same and you know it."
"Look, you know as well as I do that once you question him, you're going to be in danger."
"Pete, if I can get him to swing, we can wrap up this case. We can take him straight to the President."
But even hearing her own words, she got the feeling that it wasn't going to be that easy. She could tell by Garrison's expression that he was concerned.
"I wish there was some other way," he said.
"But there isn't. Leave here and you'll end up dead. Then I'll be carrying this weight alone.... Did anyone ever tell you that you make great coffee?"
"Thanks."
Breckinridge thought he had a nice smile. They spent the next two hours going over possible ways that she could approach Flanagan. She knew that getting any suspect to talk against his own interests was an art. And dealing with a trained Secret Service agent, she would need some luck as well as skill, but there was a chance. Flanagan was a yes-man. Everything he'd accomplished in the Secret Service was a direct result of his connection with Wintergreen. Flanagan wasn't a man of great inner strength. They came to the determination that she would have to play the interview by ear.
Finally, she could barely keep her eyes open. Garrison showed her to a well-furnished guest bedroom, where she caught a few hours sleep. When she awoke, Garrison had prepared her a big breakfast of eggs, toast, and sausage. They went over the interrogation plan again before she before departed.
"Pete, I know how you feel about having to sit here while I am out working the case. But there is no other way."
"Promise me you'll call me the moment you finish the interview."
"I promise."
Breckinridge sped along Highway I north from D.C., passing through College Park, Maryland, the car radio tuned to a jazz station featuring a series of cabaret singers. Breckinridge liked melancholy songs, those that had a sense of rueful destiny and failed opportunities. One tune was called "Lament," about the pain of a woman who married a man she'd met at an elegant party who romanced her, then told her he had a sweetheart.
I remembered him in the sun
Because my eyes couldn't see
A dream in tears
When I savored love's destiny
Destiny, she thought. Was it destiny that she had ended up with the Charlie Meriwether case?
At a sign that read NATIONAL AGRICULTURAL RESEARCH CENTER, she turned left and drove down a short road to a security booth at a compound surrounded by a tall chain-link fence topped with razor wire. After displaying her credentials to a uniformed guard, she drove along a one-way road that led into a wooded forest, spotted with cleared areas. Hidden from view of the highway, the U.S. Secret Service Training Center was in a large cleared area dotted with modern-looking prefabricated government buildings that contrasted with the wooded surroundings.
She parked her car in a gravel-covered parking lot, and walked past a block-long replica of a city street where Secret Service recruits practiced live fire at mechanical assassins who popped up in windows and doors. From the range areas beyond the buildings, she heard the sound of submachine-gun fire. She continued along the trail, passing a special fifing range where a utility van raced along a line of targets as agents inside fired submachine guns out of its windows and open door. Three trainees walked by her dressed in orange T-shirts, Levi's, and hiking boots. Two of them were holding Uzi submachine guns, the U.S. Secret Service weapon of choice, chosen for its firepower, simplicity, reliability of operation, and the fact that it was small enough to fit inside a briefcase.
At the corner of the cleared area was a one-story building with tinted windows, the headquarters of OFCO, the Secret Service's special counterthreat unit headed by Flanagan. The sign on the door read: SPECIAL TRAINING UNIT - RESTRICTED ACCESS. She straightened her blouse and suit jacket, then knocked on the door. Moments later, Agent Beatty opened it.
"Breckinridge. What are you doing here?"
"Looking for Gil Flanagan."
"What do you want to talk to him about?"
"What, are yo
u his secretary?"
"He's busy at the moment. We're running a priority internal investigation at the request of the Director."
"Just tell him I want to see him."
He shrugged, left her at the door, and walked down the hall. Breckinridge glanced into the squad room. There were three radio consoles. On the wall was a large map of Washington, D.C., that was crisscrossed with lines that divided it into squares of equal size-the type of map used for surveillances. There was a stack of photographs of Garrison spread about on a desk - copies of his official photo, the one that was on his identification card and passport. Seeing them gave her an eerie feeling.
Flanagan came down the hall. "What's up?"
Breckinridge told him she had to speak with him privately. He looked puzzled.
"I'm kind of busy-"
"This won't take long. I was running out some leads on the Charlie Meriweather case."
He led her outside, and she thought it strange that he hadn't invited her into his office.
"What about the Meriweather case?"
"Your name came up."
"In what regard?"
"Have you ever heard of Operation Blue Velvet?"
"No."
Breckinridge felt her spine tingle. "Are you sure?"
"What's this about?"
"I just told you. Have you ever had any dealings with an informant named Frank Hightower?"
He cleared his throat. "Who sent you here?"
"No one. You didn't answer my question."
"We'll have to do this later. I'm in the middle of a manhunt."
"I'm investigating Charlie Meriweather's murder."
He cleared his throat. "Catch me tomorrow." He walked toward the door.
"I'm not afraid to follow you inside and to ask you the same questions in front of everyone in there."
He stopped. "Look, I don't know anything about the operation you mentioned," he said angrily.
"Blue velvet. Operation Blue Velvet. An illegal weapons caper."
"Never heard of it."
"It took place on the Canadian border."
"Do you want me to say it again? I know nothing about it or the fucking Canadian border."
"The informant was Frank Hightower."
He swallowed. "Never heard of him."
"Are you sure, Gil?"
"One-hundred-percent positive. Jesus. What do I have to say to get you to understand'?"
"I have a copy of the arrest videotape, Gil. You're on it."
He stared at her and all the color left his face, leaving his lips slightly bluish. He stood there a moment, and she imagined his mind racing at a hundred miles an hour and ending up in a cul-de-sac. A look crossed his face that told her that he was furious at himself for having spoken to her. He cleared his throat.
"I don't remember every case I've ever worked on-"
"It shows you and Hightower together. You were using him as an informant. And there is something else. There was a telephone number on the Aryan Disciples threat letter - the latent impression developed in the crime lab - that registers to someone indirectly connected to you - your housekeeper's sister. It looks like she may have written the number down on a stack of typing paper that was in your house, leaving an impression on the sheet of paper that had been under it. Then someone happened to type the threat letter on that same piece of paper. What do you think about that, Gil?" He turned away from her. She moved in front of him and looked him in the eye. "Allow me to translate that for you. When I finally put the pieces of this case together, you may end up as one of the major players. You might be in some real deep shit."
He glared at her. "Be careful that you don't get involved in something that you can't handle, Martha. Something way over your head."
"That sounds like a threat, Gil. Is that a threat?"
"It's just you and I standing here. You have nothing. I strongly suggest that before you go any further with this, you head straight back to headquarters and talk to the Director. You need to talk to him."
"What is he going to tell me?"
"I'll phone him. He'll see you the moment you get back into the District. Go straight to his office. He will explain everything."
"Why don't you save me the trip? What's going on?"
"I'm ... uh ... under orders."
"On this Hightower thing?"
"He'll brief you on what you need to know. But if you go off half-cocked before you speak with him, you might find yourself in a real bind. That's all I can say at the moment. It's a classified matter."
She wasn't sure what to do. She needed time to think. But letting him think that she was going to talk to Wintergreen before telling anyone else wasn't going to harm her position. She nodded.
"Okay, Gil. You make that call. I'll head back."
He turned and walked away.
Striding briskly along the walkway toward the parking lot, Breckinridge anxiously went over in her mind every word Flanagan had said. She unlocked her car and climbed behind the wheel. She realized that she was breathing hard. She looked about. There was no one else in the parking lot. She unbuttoned her blouse and unclipped a miniature microphone from her brassiere. Reaching her right hand to the small of her back, she pulled a miniature Nagra tape recorder from inside her panties, along with the wire and mike. She pressed R, and then waited. The tape began to play. Both her and Flanagan's voices were clear. She turned it off and shoved it in her purse. Finally, she had something concrete. She knew it was no smoking gun, but it was evidence. It was more than she had expected to gather. Flanagan had been foolish to speak with her. Breckinridge dropped the tape in her purse and started the engine.
At the security booth at the main gate, the guard was holding the phone to his ear. His eyes were on her. She beeped the horn. He set the receiver down.
"Uh, do you have your gate pass, ma'am?"
"You didn't give me a gate pass."
"You're Agent, uh...?"
"Martha Breckinridge."
"Right." He picked up a clipboard and slowly thumbed pages. "Let me see if I have your name here somewhere."
"I'm in a hurry."
"Just a moment."
The guard furtively glanced back toward the parking lot. She figured Flanagan had called and told him to stall her. Flanagan was going to make a move on her. He was going to try something. She could feel it.
"Open the goddamn gate before I drive right through it."
Glancing toward the lot again, the guard pressed a button. The gate rose. Breckinridge stepped on the gas.
Reaching the access road, she turned left. Before reaching the highway, she swerved into a service station and parked, watching the road for a minute to see if anyone was following her. Seeing nothing untoward, she drove out of the station.
Entering the highway, she thought about the day she had graduated from the Secret Service Training Academy. If someone had told her then that one day she would be investigating an assassination conspiracy involving the Director of the Secret Service and his adjutant, she would have laughed out loud. But somehow, here she was. Cruising at the speed limit, she picked up her cell phone and dialed Garrison's number at the Watergate. The phone rang, and then stopped.
"Pete?"
"What happened?"
"If I was some kind of a jerk, I might say that I had both good news and bad news."
"Meaning?"
"I have Flanagan on a nice, clear tape recording right here in my purse. It's not a confession by any means, but it's incriminating. It's enough to put the clamps on him. He told me to go talk to Wintergreen - that he would explain everything. But I'm convinced it's nothing more than a stall. Pete, I think they are both in on this conspiracy. It's them. Flanagan must think Wintergreen can talk me into keeping my mouth shut, to stall until they figure out what to do with me. I'll see you in a few minutes and we can go over it. I don't trust this phone."
"Martha, they know you're on to them now-"
"I'm aware. But I don't think he has the guts to
try anything with me. On the other hand, the guard tried to stall me when I was leaving, as if someone might have needed some time to set up a surveillance on me."
"I don't like the sound of that, Martha. Where are you?"
"Highway 1 passing Hyattsville."
"Keep your eye on the rearview mirror."
"And my hand on my purse?"
"Right."
"I'll see you in a few, Pete."
She pressed OFF and dropped the phone on the seat beside her, and stepped on the gas. The highway traffic was light. She mused about what Flanagan had told her, about what she now knew. She couldn't wait to go over everything with Garrison in person-to hash out the facts with him so they could plan their next move.
She glanced at the rearview mirror. A utility van was a few car lengths behind her. She activated the right-turn signal, and then changed lanes.
The van pulled into the right lane.
Waiting until the last moment, she cut onto an off-ramp and sped up. In the rearview mirror, she watched as the van swerved to follow her. Reaching the end of the ramp, she slowed to a stop, then accelerated across a street and onto the next highway on-ramp. Returning to the highway, she checked the rearview mirror. The van wasn't in sight. She realized she was speeding, and slowed down to the speed limit.
A few moments later, she saw the van behind her again. It pulled closer at high speed.
Garrison stood at the window of Watergate Condo 1303 staring outside at the Kennedy Center. He'd spent the last hour pacing the living room, waiting for Breckinridge to call back. She should have arrived by now.
The phone finally rang and he picked it up on the first ring.
"Hello," a man said. "This is Sergeant Chester Maxwell of the Hyattsville Police Department. I need to speak with someone concerning a lady named Martha Breckinridge-"
"How did you get this number?"
"Are you related to her?"
"I'm ... Martha's husband."
"You got a name to go with that, sir?"
"Pete - Pete Breckinridge. What's wrong?"
"Sir, I'm sorry to report that your wife has been in a serious traffic accident. I know this is going to sound strange, but I am at the scene of a traffic accident - a hit-and-run-and she had no identification. I found a credit card receipt in her pocket with her name on it and a cell phone. I pressed the redial button-"
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