by DJ Steele
"You’re right." Wagner was surprised at how close to the truth the President had come. Except for the number of SVR assets. There were many more.
Wagner added, "We’ll catch him. He’ll make a mistake and when he does, we’ll unmask him."
"Good. But don’t be too short-sighted and believe this Russian asset is a man. It could be a woman. A wife. A lover. Remember Anna Chapman."
Shit. I should’ve been more careful with my words.
How could he forget Anna Chapman? His past handler had reminded him. He’d met Anna at a rave party in London’s Docklands. She was one of the best Russian operatives due in part to her sexy looks. It was a shame she was caught before she could develop ties in policy-making circles.
"Yes, I do remember when Anna Chapman was revealed as a spy. She got sloppy and the FBI arrested her in New York City in 2010. It’s said she was ordered by her superiors in Russia to seduce NSA whistleblower Edward Snowden."
The President’s eyes narrowed. "We cannot be too careful. You, Alan, are one of the most eligible bachelors on the hill. I heard Time magazine is thinking of featuring you on their cover next year."
Wagner was sure he knew what the President was implying about him being a bachelor. The President was warning him that the women he dated could be spies, just like Anna Chapman.
"I understand and share your concerns. These long workdays give me little time to date."
"Alan, I’m not asking you to be some goddamn monk," said the President with a placating smile. "You need to find time to date. You should have a personal life. Just be careful who you associate with."
Wagner nodded.
"Right now, I’ve got the Vice President barking up my ass. He’s convinced the Russians had something to do with his wife’s death. I don’t believe it, but the V.P. is a war hawk who’d blame Moscow for anything including his wife’s death. The sooner we nail this Russian spy, the better for all of us."
"Yes sir, I understand. You can count on me."
He had lied to the President that morning, knowing it was a lie that could cost him his life. His fear was not the Americans. It was the Russians. They would never tolerate failure.
Alan Wagner, a tall, thick man with deep-set blue eyes enjoyed the power that came with being Speaker of the House. His role as speaker gave him the ability to cultivate and influence American politics, especially the President. After the assassination attempt, he convinced the President against the impulse of escalation of the situation.
Wagner had worked hard long hours to become the top dog on Capitol Hill. His colleagues were impressed with his work ethic and ambition. But many expressed skepticisms he’d be tough enough to succeed in the hugger-mugger world of politics. Once the gavel was passed to him as the new Speaker of the House, the same naysayer colleagues rushed to show support. Political hypocrisy was part of the game.
The FBI had compiled and grown a list of suspected Soviet intelligence assets. None thus far were connected to the White House. The public and media were supposed to be kept in the dark, yet the Russian cyber warriors were hard at work on social media planting false stories to stoke fears about immigration and minorities. What better way to keep the public from thinking about a Russian mole in government than to throw one distraction after another at them.
He went back to his office after that meeting believing he’d been foolish to have worried the President would have suspected him of being the traitor. Sitting behind his desk, he told himself everything would be alright.
But two hours later, he knew he was wrong.
Congressman Dan Quatterman, a man he despised had burst into his office. The towering man had an uncanny ability to find dirt on other lawmakers. That was why Wagner had made sure to include the Congressman in his private meetings with other lawmakers. Keep your enemies close he reminded himself. It was wise to feed the over-weight man’s ego. Wagner might find the man useful in the future.
Quatterman dropped a bombshell when he informed Wagner that a freelance reporter named Charlotte Bollinger was investigating a possible mole in the government. Wagner didn’t have to pretend to be rattled by the news. He was.
Wagner took a few deep breaths before asking, "What’d she tell you?"
"Not much. She’s just starting to interview people. She’s a cute redhead. Told me she had read some online conspiracy theory that the Russians had infiltrated our government. That got her to thinking maybe the suicide bomber who almost took out our President and Vice President was somehow connected. The whole thing sounded far-fetched to me, but she’s damned determined. Maybe she can help our task force find out if there really is a spy in our government."
Wagner was confident he could steer the task force away from suspecting him, but a story-hungry reporter wanting to make a name for herself was cause for concern.
He felt his leg under the desk start bouncing.
"All this reporter will do is interfere in our investigation. Sounds like she’s inexperienced and could be dangerous making baseless accusations built on some crazy online conspiracy theorist. False accusations could hurt our party and destroy careers," said Wagner.
"Yeah, you’re right. I hadn’t thought about that."
Wagner placed his hand on his bouncing leg to settle it down. He sat back in his chair and swiveled to face his picture window in order to think about what to say next. With his back to Quatterman he said, "We can’t afford to screw up this investigation. You’re my biggest confidant, Dan…and my friend." He was glad his back was to the man he despised.
"Thanks Alan. It means a lot to hear you say that. I came to you first with this information because I knew you’d know what to do. I mean she could be a problem. Maybe she’ll uncover things that are none of her business."
Wagner had to restrain a smile when he turned his chair to face Quatterman. He knew now that Quatterman would play ball.
"Give me her name again and I’ll handle it. I’ll meet with her. If she doesn’t back down, then I’ll turn her name over to the FBI."
Quatterman pulled out a calling card from his jacket pocket and offered it to him.
Lowering his eyes Wagner read the simple calling card.
Charlotte Bollinger
Freelance Writer
[email protected]
"Also, don’t say a word to anybody about this, Dan. Just in case there is a traitor in our inner circle," warned Wagner.
"I’d never leak anything to a traitor," declared Quatterman.
* * *
That afternoon, he made the decision to contact somebody he knew. His old roommate from Miami University in Oxford, Ohio. They were both economic and political science majors. That was where the similarities ended. Max wasn’t a rich kid like the majority of Wagner’s fraternity brothers. He kept his gang tattoos hidden. Max was trying hard not to end up like most of his family.
In prison.
Or dead.
After graduation, Max moved to the D.C. area. Except for the few times Max had run-ins with the law, Wagner never heard from him. When Max had gotten in trouble, Wagner would pull a few strings to help him. He liked Max. But Max still had plenty of bad habits. Mainly the people he hung out with.
His old roommate had jumped at the chance to help him. Max told Wagner he knew a guy who knew a guy who could help.
A short time later, a meeting was set up with Wagner and the stranger in a park across town. Wagner had been instructed to take the bus. Alone and without his security detail.
He remembered waiting in the designated area, his hands gripping the manila envelope tight. The stranger was late. After thirty minutes, Wagner doubted the meeting would take place. He silently chastised himself for trusting Max. He crossed the street to the bus stop and waited for the next bus.
A man in a long overcoat wearing a black fedora and smoking a cigarette walked toward him from across the street. The stranger’s eyes cast down toward the pavement until he stopped in front of him.
"Leaving so soon,
Mr. Wagner?" he asked.
Something about the stranger’s voice made him tense. Wagner’s eyes darted from side to side to check if anybody was within earshot.
The stranger had a biracial look, full lips, slightly flared nostrils and a scar above his right brow. He stood straight, over six feet tall and held an air of confidence, a man you didn’t want to meet in the dark. When Wagner looked into the piercing black eyes, he realized the stranger was waiting for a reply.
"I didn’t think you were going to show," he had replied, extending his hand.
The stranger kept his free hand deep in his coat pocket. He tossed his cigarette butt to the ground.
"You should learn to be more patient."
Wagner then raised the manila envelope and extended it to the stranger. "The reporter’s name, address and contact information are in the envelope. The agreed upon first payment is in there too. After you finish the assignment, I’ll pay the balance."
"What exactly is it you want me to do?" The coldness in the stranger’s voice caused Wagner to step back.
Wagner’s eyes lowered in an attempt to find courage. "Find out what the reporter knows about the investigation into a Washington mole. Then I want you to persuade her to leave the area. If she wants money, I’ll pay."
"Consider it done," the man had told him.
"I need to be kept out of this," he warned the stranger.
The man tucked the envelope inside his coat. "I’ll be in touch." He turned and left in the direction he had come.
Wagner noticed the man walked with a slight limp. Not noticeable at first, but upon closer inspection, definitely there.
He had been clear concerning what he needed the stranger to do. Or had he? He never asked how the stranger was going to get the reporter to tell him what she had uncovered. Or how he’d persuade her to leave town. He wanted to ask, but his mouth had gone dry and the words stuck in his throat.
On the way back to his office he felt something was off with the stranger. It went beyond the guy’s creepy looks. He didn’t doubt after meeting the man that he could get the reporter to tell him everything she knew and scare her into leaving town.
That would solve his problem. Yet there was a little voice inside his head that told him it wasn’t going to be that easy.
Raymond House
Present Day
* * *
It seemed surreal, like a bad nightmare that kept getting worse.
Now he knew he’d made a grave mistake.
The Speaker of the House paced around his office. How could he have been such an idiot? When he first learned of the reporter, he should have alerted his handler instead of trying to resolve the issue himself. What drove him to handle it himself was a remembrance of something that had happened not that long ago. That event shook his mind. His previous handler had been murdered when her cover was blown.
If the reporter had discovered he was the Russian mole the FBI was hunting, then he would face the same fate as that handler. The Russians had their own way of handling problems. They eliminated them.
As it turned out, his problem with the stranger had gotten bigger. And messier. A surge of nausea swept over him.
That reporter was never leaving town.
She was dead.
Chapter Eight
The truth.
That’s what Julia needed to know.
She was sure she’d get Kat Lejeune to tell her what was going on when they met in her office at 5:00. Even though she had plenty of time before the meeting, she kept a heavy foot on the gas pedal. She was still rattled by the explosion.
"All I can find out is what we already know," said Laquita. She was using her phone to search for information on the explosion at the motel.
"We’ll get to the bottom of this soon enough," Julia said with faltering determination.
"I reckon." Laquita stared out the side window and continued, "What if Kat doesn’ come by herself?"
"What do you mean? You think she’d bring somebody to harm us?"
"Don’t know fer sure, but I ain’t buyin’ that story she fed ya."
Julia felt the same way. She was nervous. It wasn’t right to involve Laquita in this problem.
"Not doing it," spat Laquita.
"I haven’t told you what I’m thinking. What I thought was when it's time for Lejeune to come, you could go down and wait in the bakery. They don’t close till seven. Watch and see who takes the elevator up around five. If you see an attractive Black woman and a man together then you can call me on my cell."
Laquita nodded a couple of times. "Not a bad idea, detective Julia."
* * *
She stopped short of inserting her office key in the lock.
The door was ajar.
She turned her head and pressed her index finger against her lips to signal Laquita. Either Laquita had not pulled the door shut when they left for the motel or somebody had broken in.
Julia lowered her backpack to the floor and nudged the door open. Standing by the threshold, her eyes scanned the office area. Laquita leaned too close from behind bumping Julia. "For God’s sake, back up," Julia protested in a whisper over her shoulder.
The tall woman took a few steps back.
"I locked the door and shut it tight when we left," Laquita said defensively. "You ‘member how you gave me a dirty look for slamming the door."
Annoyed, Julia glared at Laquita as she pumped an open palm down toward the floor like she was dribbling an imaginary basketball. "Shhhh!"
After not detecting anyone lurking inside, she decided to enter her office. Leaving the door wide open, Julia and Laquita inched their way inside.
Julia’s hand grabbed the baseball bat she kept propped against the wall next to the tall bookcase. The bat came with the purchase of the business. She almost got rid of it when she moved in. Now, she was glad she had it. Back in high school, she had taken several self-defense courses. That was the reason she kept the bat. She knew how to use it as a weapon. Most people would swing the bat at the head or body of the attacker, she would shatter their knees.
Both hands wrapped tight on the bat, she sidled cautiously around the office. Laquita shadowed her every move. She bent down and checked under her desk.
Clear.
She tiptoed to the closet. The door was shut. Her hand reached for the round knob. Laquita was so close she could feel her breath on her neck. She started to twist the knob then abruptly stopped.
Something felt off.
With hand gestures she communicated for Laquita to open the closet door. She would stand on the other side with the bat aimed and ready to strike. Julia and Laquita locked eyes. They exchanged nods.
A quick twist. Laquita yanked the door open. In unison, they let out a gasp. There was nobody hiding in the closet.
"Damn, Julia," Laquita said while patting her chest. "I thought fer sure that killer was hidin’ in there."
Julia lowered the bat and pored over the office again.
Even though there was no visual evidence that anybody had been there, Julia sensed she’d missed something.
"Maybe I didn’t yank the door hard enough to latch it when we left," confessed Laquita.
"Perhaps," replied Julia. "Maybe we’re just getting paranoid."
No, she told herself. She vividly recalled feeling irritated when Laquita slammed the office door.
Julia walked over and inspected her desk. Nothing was out of place. She opened the desk drawers and searched.
"Good Lord Julia, think ya got ‘nuff candy bars in there?"
"I get low blood sugar. They’re granola bars," snipped Julia.
"I shoulda figgered ya had low blood sugar. That explains why ya was crabby when we got here."
"I’m not crabby," Julia snarled while unwrapping a granola bar.
Julia held one out to Laquita. "Want one?"
"Nah. ‘Em things are full of carbs and sugar."
"You’re health conscious?" Julia stared at Laquita’s large butt.
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"Reckon I am. You need to watch what ya eat."
Julia was on the edge of a reply when her eyes focused on the dented file cabinet. She headed over to the cabinet and tugged on the file drawer till it finally pulled opened.
It didn’t look like any of the files were missing. But one folder was out of order. A green one was misplaced. It was in with the blue files. She had color coded them herself earlier that morning. How did I mess up and put this file in the wrong section?
Julia pulled the green file out in order to file it correctly. The name on the file caught her attention. Kat Lejeune. The client who hired her to get photos of her cheating husband.
"The intruder’s color blind," Julia blurted out.
"Whaa?" Laquita tilted her head to one side.
Julia held the file up. "This file should be in the green folder section. Somebody took the file out and put it in the wrong place. They were looking for my latest case. Kat Lejeune." Her MacBook was still on her desk. Why didn’t the intruder take it? Probably because the thief didn’t need to. The thief was looking for something specific.
She had to warn Lejeune. If she wasn’t involved in the murders, then Lejeune's life could be at risk.
The intruder had left the office without a trace anybody had ever been there. Except the file being in the wrong spot and the door not being latched, she would’ve never known anybody was in her office. The intruder had left in a hurry.
Earlier when they left to go to the motel, Laquita slammed the office door because the inside lock was turned and there was no quiet way to shut it. Unless you locked the door from the outside with the key. Since the intruder didn’t have a key, he wouldn’t be able to shut the door without them hearing the noise.
Shit. Fear tumbled into her thought causing her heart to race. They must have just missed the thief.
"We need to get out of here," Julia instructed Laquita. "Whoever did this is looking for something and I’m afraid we still have it."