by J. C. Fields
“But…”
“Several have their own self-interest in mind and are totally incompetent.”
Joseph just nodded.
With a slight shake of his head, Griffin leaned forward in his chair and put his elbows on his knees.
“You’re my National Security Adviser, so… advise.”
“Do you want to know what needs to be done, or what is practical to do?”
“Both.”
“You need to fire all of them. But that would be impractical at this time.”
“Agreed. Who should go?”
“First, the Secretary of Education.”
“Why?”
Tilting his head to the side, Joseph grinned and observed, “You know why. You just want someone else to say it.”
“Indulge me.”
“She lacks a background in teaching or educational administration. Her presentation today was a disjointed series of random thoughts. Why was she appointed and how was she confirmed?”
Roy Griffin sat up straight in his chair. “You’d have to ask the senators who slept through her confirmation hearings. Okay, who else?”
Joseph evaded the question. “Have you decided on a Chief of Staff?”
Griffin shook his head. “I’m thinking about asking Bob Short to take the position.”
“I think he would be an excellent choice, Mr. President. He served President Blair well.”
“I’ve also been in contact with President Blair and he agrees with you about the Cabinet. Although he cautioned me about putting members of his administration into those positions. He indicated it would have bad optics.”
“Good advice, Mr. President.”
“He did give me some names.” Griffin turned back to his desk, opened the top drawer and removed a sheet of paper with the president’s handwritten notes on it. He handed the sheet to Joseph. “Those are his suggestions.”
Studying the page, Joseph nodded and handed it back. “Good list.”
Griffin nodded and placed the sheet back in the drawer.
Joseph cleared his throat, “Uh, Mr. President.”
“Yes?”
“We had a serious development the other day. I just found out about it before your Cabinet meeting and did not have an opportunity to discuss it with you.”
Frowning, Griffin pursed his lips. “What happened, Joseph?”
“Someone tried to kill Stephanie Kruger and Mia Diminski.”
Sitting back in his chair, the president took a deep breath. “Good God. You said tried, I hope they’re okay.”
Joseph explained about the accident, their injuries and which hospital they occupied. “Sean believes forces are trying to intimidate him into dropping his investigation of Dmitri Orlov.”
“I would tend to agree with him.”
“One other thing.”
“Yes.”
“Sean has gone to great lengths to hide where he lives. JR has been instrumental in keeping this information out of the public domain. Both of them believe there is a leak here in Washington and I tend to agree with them.”
“Who would have this information outside of the FBI and the Department of Justice?”
“Actually, the DOJ does not have the personnel records; the FBI maintains them. But Director Stumpf assures me the information is unknown to anyone but a few individuals at the Bureau. He did mention a possibility.”
Griffin did not respond, but kept his gaze on Joseph and waited for him to finish the thought.
Pausing for a moment, Joseph continued, “Paul believes there are a few members of the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence who might know where Kruger lives. If not the exact address, at least the city.”
“Why would anyone on that committee know?”
“Because they conducted an inquiry into the terrorist attack on Bud Walton Arena. The inquiries did not start until Sean and Stephanie moved to Springfield. He was subpoenaed as a witness. To issue it, the committee would have needed his current address.”
“If I remember correctly, those were closed sessions. No public information was ever released.”
“True, but the members of the committee would remember.”
“Do you think one of them could be the source?”
“Paul thinks so and so do I.”
The President placed his elbow on the small desk and rested his chin on his palm, one finger covering his lips. It was the same pose he struck during the Cabinet meeting earlier. He was quiet for several minutes.
“How do we find this individual without revealing we know?”
“Let me handle it.”
The President nodded.
***
After decades working for the CIA, Joseph Kincaid knew more “spooks” than most people in Washington. The correct title within the agency remained “operations officer.” Currently, the former CIA employee he was meeting earned his living as a consultant: a fancy way of saying he charged a lot of money for information other people needed.
The time approached 10 p.m. as Joseph sat at a table in a small bistro he and Mary frequented. The individual approached the table and smiled as he pulled out a chair.
Extending his hand, he said, “It’s been awhile, Joseph. Congratulations on joining the ruling class.”
William Fischer, better known as Will to his friends, did not possess the looks of the stereotypical Hollywood spy. On the contrary, Fischer displayed unruly dark rusty brown hair, bushy eyebrows he refused to trim, a round face accented by a broad nose and a red walrus mustache. Dark green eyes looked at Joseph through smudged lenses of his black horn-rimmed glasses. His dress could best be described as thrift shop chic: rumpled corduroy sport coat, khaki pants two inches too long, scuffed loafers and a wrinkled white oxford shirt.
“It’s a temp job, Will. Helping the new president get his feet on the ground.”
“Right.” He looked around the sparsely-populated café. “What’s with the clandestine meeting this far off the D.C. circuit?”
“I like the place.”
“Whatever. I need a beer.” He looked around and waved at a waiter.
“Relax, Will, I have one coming. I ordered it when I saw you enter.”
The larger man tilted his head slightly. “Guinness?”
“Of course—what other kind of beer is there?”
“None.” Fischer smiled. “You know how to get me in a compliant mood.”
When the beer arrived in front of Fischer, he took a long pull, wiped his lips with the back of a hand and looked over the top of his glasses at Joseph. “What do you need this time?”
“Information.”
“What kind?”
“Info on members of the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence.”
“Which one?”
“Don’t know. We think someone on the committee is selling information or could be compromised by a foreign agent.”
Fischer chuckled. “Half the guys on the committee fit that description. You’ll have to be more specific.”
“That’s all I can give you.”
“Huh. Let me think about it.” He took another long pull of his beer. “You’re gonna have to order another one. My brain isn’t as fast as it used to be.”
The grin on his face told Joseph the man had something to say.
Joseph looked around, spotted his waitress and pointed at Fischer’s beer. The young college student nodded and went to get another.
After setting down his now-empty glass, Fischer took off his glasses and started wiping the lenses with his cloth napkin. “Ever hear of a law firm called Rothenburg and Sandifer?”
Joseph sipped on his own beer ordered earlier. “They were the firm who represented Robert Burns Jr.”
“Exactly. It’s pretty much common knowledge the two managing partners sold out right after the unfortunate accident Junior suffered.”
Joseph nodded.
“What’s not commonly known in this town is who actually bought the firm.”
Fischer smiled and took a swig of the new beer sitting in front of him. “You heard correct, but another individual was also involved.”
Raising his eyebrows, Joseph looked at his guest. “Oh?”
“Who’s rumored to be the richest person in the world?”
“Last I knew it was Jeff Bezos.”
“I’m not talking about what Forbes reports, I’m talking individuals who don’t discuss their wealth. People who don’t exactly earn their money, they just take it.”
Now Joseph stared at Fischer. “He’s involved?”
“According to my source. Orlov just brokered the deal and the money came from a longtime friend from his KGB days.”
“Did your source tell you why they bought out the attorneys?”
Fischer shook his head. “No, but I can guess.”
“I’m listening.”
“Sandifer has been an attorney for decades. He’s represented more than a few members of Congress in his day. You can draw your own conclusions from that statement.”
“Influence?”
“That would be a logical guess.”
“So, who would be vulnerable on the committee?”
“First name that comes to mind is Tony Holt.”
“Why?”
“He’s the chairman and quite possibly the biggest piece of shit in the entire House of Representatives.”
“Do you think he’s dirty?”
“He maintains a squeaky-clean image, which he perpetuates every time he gets in front of a camera lens. Deep down, he’s a scumbag.”
Joseph frowned. “Being a scumbag’s not a crime. Why do you suspect Holt?”
“He’s been represented by Sandifer for over ten years. I’m sure the new owners of Rothenburg and Sandifer know all of his secrets.”
“Who else might be vulnerable?”
“I can think of about twenty off the top of my head. You need a list?”
“It would be helpful.”
Chapter 32
Southwest Missouri
Jimmie Gibbs waited until the reverberation from the rifle shots stopped before switching his communication device back on. What he heard brought a smile to his face. Someone was actually worried about him.
Alexia’s voice was frantically calling his name.
“Jimmie, Jimmie, are you okay? Jimmie, answer me, please, please answer me, are you okay?”
“Yes, Alexia, I’m fine. How is everyone inside?”
“Everyone is fine.”
“No one hurt?”
“No, just a lot of shattered glass everywhere. Your friend Sean Kruger will have seven years bad luck.”
“Why?”
“Because he made that man shoot a mirror.”
Gibbs chuckled to himself. “He did what?”
“He stood off to the side, with a mirror reflecting his image out the door.”
Now laughing out loud, he shook his head. “Where’s Sean now?”
“He and Sandy are going to look for the man who fired the rifle.”
“Is the man still out there?”
“They do not think so, but are taking precautions. They are going to drive the big SUV out to see if they can find him.”
A cold chill went up Jimmie Gibbs’ spine. The adrenaline started to subside and he took stock of the situation. With full daylight now available, he trained his rifle scope on the spot where he sent his last bullet. What he saw allowed him to relax.
He keyed his mic. “Alexia, tell them not to bother. Target is down.”
***
Gibbs was the first to arrive at the site. After shedding his Ghillie Suit at the hide, he sprinted toward the spot he identified as the last place for the sniper. What he found gave him pause as he stared at the prone unmoving body before him.
The assassin remained in the same position taken after turning his rifle toward Jimmie’s location. Only now his head was unrecognizable as human. The trajectory of Jimmie’s bullet pierced the front lens of the rifle scope and traveled through the man’s eye and out the back of his head. There remained very little of the man’s skull intact.
Having seen more men die by the weapons of war than he cared to discuss, he normally felt sympathy for his fallen brethren, but not this man. He had tried to kill three of his best friends and those types of friends were hard to find.
Knoll and Kruger parked the Denali next to the tree line. Kruger got out and walked over to where Jimmie stood.
Gibbs turned and looked at him. “A mirror? Really?”
Kruger shrugged. “Worked, didn’t it?”
Gibb smiled and nodded. “Glad it did.” He looked back at the body lying on the ground. “Who do you think he is?”
“No idea. We’ll have the sheriff’s department get fingerprints. Maybe he’s in a database somewhere.”
Shaking his head, Gibbs said, “Guys like this don’t get fingerprinted by cops. If he has fingerprints on file, they’ll be with a military unit somewhere.”
“You’re probably right. You need to go back to the house and let Alexia know you’re okay. She didn’t want Sandy or I to know it, but she’s been on the verge of hysteria.”
Gibbs smiled and headed toward the house.
Kruger turned to Knoll. “Now comes the hard part—determining who this guy is.”
The big man pointed to an exposed part of the dead man’s left arm. He knelt next to it and pushed the sleeve up a few inches.
“It may not be that hard. I recognize the tattoo. This guy was with the French special forces at one time.”
***
Christian County Sheriff Jessie Summers offered his hand, which Kruger shook. Both men smiled at the other. Summers spoke first. “It’s been, what, a year, Agent Kruger?”
“Eight months, Sheriff. How’ve you been?”
“Good. Thought you were retired. Guess you’re back, huh?”
Kruger nodded.
“Like I told you last time we worked together, once Bureau, always Bureau.”
“That you did, Sheriff. That you did. Did you find the guy’s vehicle?”
“Yeah, one of my deputies found an abandoned rental car about a mile north of here. A wallet with a Florida driver’s license in the name of Matt Wallace was found in the glove compartment. Photo matches the assailant. He also had a couple thousand dollars and a platinum American Express Card in the same name. No wants or warrants on him, but then, no one by the name Matt Wallace lives at the address on the driver’s license.”
“Figures.”
“You want to tell me what happened?”
“He’s the guy who ran my wife and her friend off the highway the other day. He was after me.”
The sheriff looked at the shattered glass still scattered around the back door. “Who shot first?”
“He did.”
A half grin appeared on the older man’s face. “Good. That makes my job easier. Now it’s a righteous shooting. Who shot him?”
“FBI Agent James Gibbs, retired Navy Seal.”
Summers made notes in a small notebook, smiled and looked over his glasses at Kruger. “You’re making my job too easy, Agent Kruger.”
He glanced out of the shattered door and saw an ambulance pull up and park next to the crime scene. “Looks like the medical examiner just got here. Guess I need to add my expertise to his examination.”
“Thanks, Jessie.”
The sheriff put his hand on Kruger’s shoulder. “Sean, if you need someone to protect that wife of yours after she’s out of the hospital, let me know. We’ve got a bunch of deputies who would be more than happy to help you after the incident at the river last year.”
“I appreciate your offer, Sheriff. I’ll keep it in mind. By the way, there will be a swarm of FBI agents here this afternoon. Hope you don’t mind.”
Summers shook his head. “They’re the ones who’ll be wasting their time, not me.”
He turned and walked out of the room through the b
roken glass door. Looking at the mirror fragments, he chuckled and shook his head as he walked toward the tree line. Kruger heard the sheriff mumble as he walked out, “A mirror. Hell of an idea. I’ll have to remember that.”
***
The time approached noon as Kruger and Knoll sat in a diner several blocks from the funeral home containing the last remains of the assassin. It was their first meal of the day after the events of the early morning. Knoll absentmindedly ate his hamburger as he read an email on his cell phone.
“Huh… They’ve already identified the shooter.”
Kruger munched on a french fry. “Who was he?”
“DOD sent the fingerprints to the French and they immediately knew who he was. According to this, his name was Jean-Luc Larue, a member of the French Special Operations Command. He was part of the 13th Parachute Dragoon Regiment and declared MIA during the Battle of Tora Bora on December 13, 2001.” Knoll looked up from his cell phone. “Guess he had a change of heart about things.” He returned his attention to the email.
“Born in Marseille, his father was a diplomat stationed in Washington, D.C., during his high school years. He spoke English without an accent, was fluent in Spanish and passable in Urdu.” Knoll looked up again. “Tora Bora is in the Spin Gar Mountain Range which, for lack of a better word, separates Afghanistan from Pakistan on its southeastern border.”
“I’m familiar with the area.”
Knoll frowned.
Kruger took a sip of his ice tea. “Long story, go on with what you were saying.”
“The conclusion of the French Special Operations Group now is that he deserted and made his way into Pakistan. They have no idea where he went after that.”
Kruger put his burger down without taking a bite. “Did he have a discipline problem?”
“No, not according to the report the DOD received. French authorities are wanting details about his death and where his body is. Apparently, we stirred up a hornet’s nest this morning.”
Finally taking a bite of his burger, Kruger chewed and stared out the window next to their table. When he turned back to Knoll, his expression was grim. “More importantly, who hired him and was he the individual who sprayed A-232 on Jolene Sanders and the reporter?”