Too Secret Service: Part One

by Declan Finn

We!

  “Who’s ‘we’?” he asked.

  “Wayne and myself, sir,” she answered.

  He nodded, mouth slightly ajar. “Uh, huh… Wayne, is it?”

  She gave a tiny shrug. “It would sound sort of ridiculous calling him ‘Mister Williams,’ sir.”

  He chuckled. “Good point. Since you’re still alive, and since he would’ve left even you limping should you two have fought, I deduce that you’ve gotten along with each other? Playing well with others isn’t your strong suit, but neither is his.”

  “We’ve gotten along so far, sir.”

  “Good. What are you going to do now?”

  “In terms of the weapons, I can only think of flying to Rome. We haven’t had any other leads here. As for right now, I can only think of taking a quick shower before dinner.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “You’re dining with him?”

  “Any other suggestions, sir?”

  He stood and crossed the room. He was her height, so he only had to look straight to meet her eyes. “I want you to keep an eye on him, STRONGBOW.” He gently gripped her shoulder. “A close eye on him. He’s important; you read his file, so you know why.”

  “I can only guarantee that I’ll bring him back in as few pieces as I possibly can, sir.”

  “That’s all that we’re asking for.” He let his hand drop. “If he died…it would be a real waste of genetic material.”

  “Understood. And if he asks about me, what should I tell him?”

  He was taken aback. “Asks about you?”

  “Should I even admit to being STRONGBOW? What I am? What I do?”

  He waved it away. “You know his life story, down to who he dated in high school. It would only be polite to do the same, assuming you want to. It’s your private life, STRONGBOW, not mine; just leave me out of it. Aside from that,” he shrugged, “he’s covered by the Official Secrets Act, same as the rest of us.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She paused for a beat. “Are you going to leave, or do you want to watch me shower?”

  He paused, as though considering it. “Nah. My wife would kill me.”

  STRONGBOW didn’t have to say She wouldn’t be the only one. Both knew it quite well. She had actually beaten him during their hand-to-hand combat lessons when she had been recruited fresh from that boys club called the army.

  “I’ll let you go, STRONGBOW,” he said. “Just one last piece of advice: I don’t like what’s going on here, and I suspect that there are forces at work we will not want to know about, so watch your back.”

  She nodded once. “I will, sir.”

  And with that, she turned her back on MONIAK.

  * * * *

  Wayne walked into his hotel room and glanced around. Nothing was out of place, and the scotch tape hadn’t been disturbed. Paranoia in his business wasn’t a hobby but a requirement.

  He pulled out one of the two remaining grenades from the guard post from his pocket. He had left the Uzi and the combat belt back in the rented Chrysler, while keeping Blaine Lansing’s H&K hidden in the small of his back, covered by his shirt. He wished he’d had time to retrieve his specialized belt, just so he wouldn’t have to scrounge. Williams walked into the bathroom and scanned the area around the sink. There was the little package he remembered: a small, clear plastic book wrapped around a needle, thread, and two buttons. He’d been taught to improvise, but this would be stretching it.

  He put the grenades together on the sink, their spoons opposite each other to keep them from rolling. Wayne walked into the bedroom and knelt by the bedside, reaching for the suitcase he’d hidden before leaving for the guard post. He placed the case flat on the bed and snapped the latches. There was the small roll of black duct tape he always used to cover up bright patches on dark clothing when he needed to be inconspicuous.

  Wayne walked back into the bathroom and laid the duct tape next to the threading kit and the grenades. They were for later, now he had just enough time for a quick shower. Afterwards, he would have fun. He reached back and turned the water straight to hot. By the time it warmed up, he figured he’d be undressed.

  Williams slowly pulled the turtleneck over his head. His back felt a little sore. He folded the shirt and tossed it on top of the closed toilet lid. After he removed the bulletproof vest, he turned his back to the mirror and looked over his shoulder, catching the image of his back out of the corner of his eye. Wayne bit his lip and considered what he saw. It explained a lot, actually.

  He felt the steam rise from the bathtub and decided that the heat would do him some good, aside from removing the stench of smoke from his hair.

  * * * *

  The ambulance stopped in front of the apartment building, and the EMT’s rushed upstairs; Blaine Lansing’s apartment was on the first floor, and they didn’t have time to take the elevator. They pushed their way through the crowd that had been drawn by the gunshots, vultures who wanted to see blood. The two men charged into the apartment and came out two minutes later. Blaine’s face was pale and bloodless.

  A sidewalk observer, judging by the speed of the EMTs, would have concluded the casualty was still alive. There wasn’t a corpse, so there wasn’t any fun for the audience. The crowd disbanded before the police could arrive. Shootings just weren’t fun without a corpse, really they weren’t. And in the back of the hallway, in a dark corner, a towering black man melted away into the shadows, planning his next move.

  Chapter 18

  Williams waited in the hotel lounge, dressed in a black suit and tie, skimming through Dead Simple so he wouldn’t attract any more attention at one in the morning. His trembling hands were steady enough to hold the pages; the adrenaline rush had died down sufficiently. To his surprise, there had been one or two other people there when he arrived. What was even more amazing was the fact that the restaurant was open and half-filled with a new tour group that had arrived from Hawaii, and their body clocks kept telling them that it was two in the afternoon instead of one at night.

  He’d arrived five minutes early: another habit from years ago. He decided that if Catherine was five minutes late, he’d go check on her room—they’d swapped room numbers the second they parked.

  The elevator bell rang, calling Wayne’s attention to the passenger that got off: a blonde woman who could’ve qualified for a fashion magazine, wearing a white jacket and slacks, with a red sweater and an equally red purse. It didn’t look like her. No, probably not her at all. He looked straight down at his book, as though he’d been rudely distracted. He irritably glanced at his watch: four minutes and thirty seconds late. If she was—as he suspected—military, then she was later than average. He closed Dead Simple and tucked it away in his suitcase, closing it with a snap.

  Williams stood, bringing his suitcase with him as he walked toward the steps between the segregating brass bars. The blonde waited there for him, smiling benignly.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she told him, “the wig didn’t want to cooperate.”

  Wayne’s foot stuck on the last step. He turned toward the blonde. The body shape, he guessed, was right. The complexion was… what was her complexion? He couldn’t tell in the poor light from the street, and he hadn’t noticed when they walked into the lobby. The woman before him was Caucasian, and her eyes were an emerald green. He looked deeper into her eyes and smiled.

  “Catherine,” he said softly. “Or should I say Mariah?”

  She smiled with red lips. “Catherine will do for now. Any good restaurants open at this hour?”

  “The hotel restaurant.”

  She frowned for a moment, shrugged. “I typically don’t like eating where I stay, but I don’t think we left many people who would wish us harm.”

  He nodded and offered her his arm. She accepted it gracefully and walked toward the restaurant, making a left at the elevators.

  The hotel restaurant was as classy as the rest of the hotel: a white marble pathway to a carpeted floor, brass fixtures, real silverware, white linen tablecloths; it
was all quite interesting. The stone fireplace was dead, almost never used. Two of the walls were composed of French doors, made of oak and panes of glass, which led out to the al fresco dining area.

  The two agents were led to a table furthest from both the entrance and the non-bulletproof French doors, and in the corner where they could both sit facing toward any possible external source of enemy action. The waiter handed them both menus and placed the wine list in the center of the table. He then picked up the Waterford crystal candle holder, lit it, and set it down. He gave a slight bow, mentioned some pleasantries, and then gave them time to discuss the entrees.

  “Not bad,” Wayne said, skimming the menu. His eyes landed on a prime rib, and decided that Agent Lansing’s money was worth it; especially considering the last time he ate was two minutes before he’d put a hole into Bewley’s ceiling. He closed the leather-bound list.

  “Agreed,” she told him, doing the same with her menu. He offered her the wine list. She declined. He shrugged and laid it off to the side.

  “You don’t drink?” she asked.

  “Never got the hang of it,” he explained. “Personally, I even have problems with Church wine. I drink it, but…eh.”

  She started to nod understanding when she stopped, considered his statement, and then shook her head, not wanting him to elaborate any further.

  “So,” he began, “it’s a pleasure to meet you Miss…”

  “Catherine,” she said. “And it is Catherine.”

  “Catherine.” He smiled. It was a pretty name. “And you probably know how many fillings I have in my teeth, so I won’t even bother.”

  “You haven’t been inside a dentist’s office except to have your teeth cleaned since you had your braces taken off at age twelve,” she said automatically, raising the water glass to her lips.

  He opened his mouth, and hesitated. “And so you prove my point.”

  Catherine placed the glass down on the table. “I don’t really know everything about you, you know. I can tell you everything written down on paper—your physicals, your expressed beliefs—but what’s written down on paper doesn’t fit with what I’ve seen.”

  It took him a moment to process her meaning. He then took a deep look into his glass, contemplating the number of ice cubes. “Oh,” he said at last.

  Wayne said nothing as the waiter approached, setting down the breadbasket next to the candle. Wayne flatly ordered his entree while Catherine mentioned the salmon. The waiter collected the empty wine glasses, shot a glance at Wayne’s melancholy expression, and discreetly walked away.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  Wayne’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you believe the official version? That I’m a loose cannon?”

  “I also heard that you’re a homicidal killer who took it upon himself to shoot Secretary Stevens. I’ve heard everything about you except that you’re the damn bogeyman. I know that isn’t the right version.”

  Wayne gave a cruel laugh. “And how do you know that those six years of rehabilitation in the Naw’lins office mostly working the swamp lands of Mississippi didn’t cure me of any particularly nasty habits?”

  Now it was her turn to smile. “I’ve been to Bourbon Street. If anything about New Orleans had changed you, it wouldn’t have been to rehabilitate.”

  He laughed without bitterness this time. “You’re right.” He kept laughing as he grabbed a roll and a pat of butter. He broke the bread over his dish once, then twice.

  “What did happen?” she asked. “Not everyone at the Agency is convinced that you’re as bad as you’re reported to be. It’s not just because you saved my life.”

  “Although that doesn’t hurt.” He kept smiling as he broke the roll a third time. He buttered a piece as Catherine patiently waited for his answer. He popped the piece in his mouth and chewed as he collected his thoughts. He swallowed. “Did they put my version in the file?”

  “I didn’t even know you gave an official version.”

  “That’s right,” he said cheerfully, almost manic-cheerful. “I didn’t. I didn’t have time to.” He growled. Wayne leaned back in his chair. “I’ll give you the easy version. Do you have any pleasant experiences with our previous President?”

  Catherine rolled her eyes. “Barry? Of course not. No one in the armed services liked him. Why?”

  Wayne coughed slightly, took a slug of water as though it were a good shot of scotch, gently placing it back down once he finished. “Neither do I. Most importantly, do you remember what led to his downfall?”

  Catherine considered the rise and fall of the last President. “The Vatican incident? Sure, he backed the wrong horse on that, but you had nothing to do with it.”

  Wayne’s smiled flickered. “My father and my brother were involved in that. They were on the other side. Barry backed the UN forces to shoot up the Vatican. My family shot back. That dumb-ass had the gall to bring me into his office and read me the riot act. Then he had Scofield send me down to New Orleans before the echo faded away.”

  She leaned forward. “Winston Scofield, director of the FBI?”

  Wayne shook his head. “He wasn’t director then. God only knows how he got promoted.” He chuckled. “Maybe it was his little notebook filled with secrets. Six years later, he’s running the FBI, and I’m here with a dazzling woman in the prettiest country on the face of the planet.” He grinned again. “I think at the moment, I may have come out ahead.” He popped another piece of bread into his mouth.

  She blushed a bit, even though she knew it was an attempt to change the topic. She hadn’t been complemented like that since right before she slit the throat of Sendero Luminoso’s last leader. He had been a charming man, really, even if he had killed a few hundred people in cold blood.

  “What about Scofield?” Catherine asked.

  “Scofield?” Wayne beamed cheerfully. “First I intend to get back to the District; perhaps jog alongside the President’s limo for my morning workout. Then, when the dear Director is properly put in his place, I’ve considered killing him before he can cook something else up. So,” he said, picking up his glass, “now that I’ve told you parts of my life story, and you probably read all about the rest of it, what are you?” He started to sip.

  “Hmm?” she asked, as thought snapping out of a daydream. “Oh. Me? I’m just an assassin.”

  If it were not for Wayne’s natural restraint, he would’ve choked. “Someone has an ironic sense of humor,” he commented, putting the glass down. “The Secret Service agent working with the assassin.”

  “Not quite,” she corrected him. “I’m just listed as a Wet-Girl on the Company payroll.” She paused, considering her words. “That came out badly, didn’t it?”

  “I understood you perfectly.”

  * * * *

  Michael DeValera was a patient man, he always had been. He stood between the trees and the homes, lost in the shadows, waiting for word to come to him from the hotel. Word would come, or he would take personal retribution, something that didn’t come too often in his business. Vendetta was something to be savored, but he knew better than to dawdle should his time come. He wouldn’t take any fancy High Noon stunts, or let either one of them go for a weapon, a’ la any Western he’d ever seen.

  It would just be a simple hit.

  * * * *

  “So,” Wayne said, after demolishing about half of his prime rib, “what brought you to the Guard Post?”

  “Do you remember the one I told you about who tried to kill me in Virginia?” Catherine asked as she cut her fork through the salmon. Williams nodded. “I searched his room, and I found his notes. He had scrawled ‘BABGP number nine’, and the phone number for a trucking company.”

  “I went through the truck company, too,” Wayne told her, stabbing his dinner. “Only I had a little help from the IRA first.” He sliced through the meat like he was an expert with knives.

  “The man you shot inside Bewley’s?”

  “Stabbed, actually.” William
s raised the cube of meat to his face and stopped halfway there. “You were there?”

  “I saw you carry him outside. I’d been following someone who called himself Michael Dredd—we ran into him as DeValera, I believe you called him.”

  Wayne lowered the fork. “Michael DeValera is the name I got on him. I’m having it checked on now. I should have results soon, I hope.”

  “Michael DeValera,” she muttered. “It sounds familiar, somehow, and I don’t mean the historical significance.”

  “As I said before, someone has an odd sense of humor.”

  “But what I don’t understand is why—”

  “—Ten devices?” Williams finished.

  “Exactly.” She cut off another piece of salmon.

  He chewed thoughtfully. “Well, there’s the theory I’ve bounced around in my head so many times that it must be obvious. Something else is going on here. There’s a game behind the scenes.”

  “Wheels within wheels,” Catherine sighed. “God, that’s what I hate about espionage, so freaking complicated. Have you ever tried dealing with one of those raving lunatic-type assassins?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “Try dealing with them when they have control of an army, or a nation. They’re really intolerable to deal with. This is probably some megalomaniac with an ego the size of Jupiter who’s angry at his mother for not breast feeding him.”

  “With any luck, it’ll be Scofield. That’ll put an end to all of my problems,” Williams joked. He laughed at the thought of Scofield behind bars between Sirhan Sirhan and the Unabomber at their weekly bridge game to make up for the loss of Timothy McVeigh.

  Catherine forced a smile. “Maybe.” It was a nice hope, but she knew it was hopeless to consider it. She knew the man behind it had to be CIA related, but she didn’t want to consider candidates for homicidal leadership material just yet. There was only one, real choice for the ideal leader in something like this, and it was a frightening option.