America's Trust (29 page)

“Are you okay?” asked Jack, standing to assist him with a thump on the back.

“Yes, Mr. President,” Kenneth coughed.

As the commotion died down, the Homeland boss, who was responsible for the Secret Service, answered. “I’m sorry, Mr. President, I’ve no idea who they are.”

The attorney general beat Jack to it, as bemused as he was. “Special Agent Swanson is an FBI agent, head of the D.C. office, who went missing with a Tom Butler, who was believed to be attempting to kill the president.”

“First I’ve heard of it,” the secretary replied.

“The Secret Service haven’t told you?” asked Jack.

“I’ve just had an update with the head of the Service and he didn’t mention it.” She sounded as confused as they were. “If you just give me a second, I’ll call him on another line.”

They waited in silence, and Kenneth began to type an SMS. His fingers were visibly shaking as he typed:

‘Major problem with Butler, president asking questions and they know.’

“What’s wrong, Kenneth? Are you alright?” asked Jack.

“Yes, sir.” He stopped typing and looked up.

“You don’t look alright,” said Jack.

“I’m-I’m fine,” stammered Kenneth. “Just a bit shaky from choking,” he added, hoping it would cover his panicked expression. The Homeland boss returning to the conference call saved any further discussion.

“He has absolutely no idea who either of the two people are and we have no active investigation into either, as far as he is aware,” the secretary updated.

“As far as he is aware?” asked Jack.

“Poor choice of words, Mr. President. Categorically, the Secret Service is not aware of these individuals,” she confirmed with a finality that ended any further doubt.

Kenneth quickly finished his message:

‘Secret Service not involved now.’

He hit send.

Roger Young read the message and hurled his cell across his office. He retrieved another cell from his desk drawer. It was cloned like the six others in his drawer to the same number. He had a habit of taking bad news out on inanimate objects. Unfortunately, he couldn’t kill Chan twice.

Forty-eight hours, just forty-eight hours. After years in the making, they had just forty-eight hours to go. Everything was on schedule and running just as they had planned. That was apart from Butler, the infinitesimally small problem that wouldn’t go away. In the grand scheme of things, Butler was a speck of dust in the atmosphere. But as Roger knew, that meant nothing. Even the tiniest of things could have a massive impact, just like a mosquito in a bedroom.

Roger’s new cell sprung to life and began to ring. It was Kenneth. He was in a hurry after just having rushed out of the president’s office. “The FBI called the president just after my text to you. Butler and Swanson are turning themselves in to the Baltimore field office in the next few minutes!”

With some persuasion, Swanson had finally managed to get Butler to agree to the meeting. Initially, he had refused to go but after a heated debate, which had required significant assurances, Butler had agreed to join her. The FBI Station Chief had balked at the meeting when it was first suggested. He had heard from Washington, where he had numerous friends, about Swanson and the Butler guy ‘doing a runner’ and wanted no part of whatever they were up to. Swanson sensed, however, that something else was going on. The Station Chief had made no bones about how much he wanted to get to know Swanson better. After dropping into the conversation that Butler was old enough to be her father, the Station Chief had opened up, telling her he thought she had fallen for the guy. Assuring him that she hadn’t, he had needed an hour to get everything set up, something Butler was extremely uncomfortable with. Swanson assured him she could trust the Station Chief. He was as straight and honest as they came.

The hour flew past. First, they had to secure a rental car, which was no easy feat in itself. Butler was insistent that the car was a necessity. If they smelled a rat, he wanted to be able to get the hell out of there fast and not on foot. However, it seemed a lot of people had decided that being in close proximity to Washington during the current situation with the world’s second largest holder of nuclear missiles, was not a great idea. Combining that with the fact that neither of them had a credit card nor any sort of ID, an absolute necessity for every car rental agency, their plans to hire a car were evaporating fast. Finally, with only minutes to spare, Swanson came across the EZ-GO car rental company, no cards required just cold hard cash, and although far pricier than their published rate, thanks to the Baltimore drug trade, they were good to go.

“That’s the FBI building just ahead,” said Swanson once they’d reached Pennsylvania Avenue. The imposing low rise building took up an entire block of the industrial estate.

“
Swing into the parking lot, and remember if anything’s not as we agreed, hit the gas and don’t look back,” said Butler, the assault rifle sitting ready on his lap.

As agreed, the barrier to the parking lot was up, allowing them direct and instant access to the parking area. Swanson drove towards the rear of the area and, as promised, the Baltimore Station Chief stood in the disabled slot nearest the service entrance. Not another soul was visible.

“That’s him,” she confirmed, noticing Butler’s finger tighten on the trigger.

“Special Agent Swanson.” The chief stepped forward and hugged his counterpart from Washington as she stepped out of the car.

“Mike! So good to see you!” she replied, hugging him back. “Sorry about all this,” she motioned around them and stepped back.

Butler got out of the car but was still very nervous and watched intently for the slightest thing out of place.

Swanson turned to him. “Mike, this dodgy character is Tom Butler.”

Mike walked forward to shake his hand. Butler didn’t move, both hands remained on the assault rifle. “Pleasure to meet you, Tom.”

Butler looked at the outstretched hand but did not shake it. “Likewise.”

“Shall we go?’ asked Butler. The parking lot was a little public for his liking.

“
Yes, , this way please,” the chief replied, catching Swanson’s eye and raising his eye brows in a
what the hell
type gesture. Swanson grimaced an apology. She really hadn’t wanted to involve him.

In the elevator, Mike pressed the button for the top floor. “All the precautions you asked for are in place. I have ten armed agents outside the front door and the office overlooks the front of the building. The video camera is all set and ready to go to get your testimony. I can’t promise we’ll get the tape directly to the president but it certainly will get to the FBI director and attorney general.”

Butler nodded. It was their best hope. He had to do something and fast. The Trust had made Washington almost impossible to get to and as the world situation worsened, time had become critical.

The office ticked all of Butler’s boxes. It looked down over the entrance to the FBI building below and he could see the agents that had been posted out front. Although a couple of stories up, it was clear they were doing their job diligently, watching and analyzing their surroundings and not standing lazily talking amongst themselves.

Butler relaxed a little and took a seat. A freshly brewed pot of coffee was sitting before them at the small conference table that formed one half of the office. If they were going to arrest him and double cross him, they’d have done it already.

The Colonel did not take the news well. His troops were on a wild goose chase, chasing after a car headed to Washington that the drug boss had supposedly traded as part of the deal for the Land Rover. It was bullshit. Local operators wouldn’t have believed a drug dealer but unfortunately, locals weren’t an option. For what they were planning, only foreigners could partake. The Humvees were already back in Washington, hunting a nonexistent car along with the rest of the Trust’s Washington contingent. Baltimore was once again devoid of operatives.

As he considered his limited options, the blueprints for the FBI building in Baltimore were relayed to the screen built into the table in front of him. The operations center at the heart of the Trust was buzzing with action. The final plans were constantly being tweaked in accordance with data pouring in from across the country and beyond. He looked down, long and hard, pinching the tabletop screen and zooming out to see a more complete picture of the area surrounding the building. All the time the clock was ticking. Roger Young had been explicit, time was absolutely key. The targets were due to arrive at the FBI building shortly and had to be dealt with no matter what it took, up to and including leveling the building if required.

The Colonel preferred a far more precise and surgical approach. At least that way, you had definitive proof that your target was down. A couple of five thousand pound bombs were great at destroying a building but it would be days before they knew if they had dealt with their targets. His plans were limited. Time was his biggest issue. All that became irrelevant when the TV screens began to play footage of the National Guard patrolling the streets. Their deployment changed everything.

A live fire training exercise running at the far side of the camp was about to become a very real event. The Colonel radioed his troops, sent through the images of the targets and waited.

Mike joined them at the table and poured the coffee. “So, are you going to tell me what this is all about?” he asked over the sounds of military helicopters filling the sky as the National Guard took hold of the city.

Swanson took the cup offered by Mike. “It’s a long story but--”

“You’ll hear it as we tape it,” Butler cut in. “I’m not staying here a minute longer than we have to. Can we get started?” He got up to start the video camera, not waiting for Mike to answer.

He pressed ‘Record’, and all of their eyes were caught by the flash and instantly dragged towards it.

“Shit!” screamed Mike as his office across the street was engulfed in a flashbang grenade.

Swanson and Mike stared in horror. Butler grabbed his rifle and headed for the door. Directly across the front parking lot from the FBI office sat the offices of St. John Properties, where Mike had chosen the office to meet with Butler and Swanson very carefully. He wanted to see his own office, to prove to Butler he could trust the FBI. Butler’s insistence at not meeting in the FBI building had annoyed Mike but, as requested, he had told nobody of his plans other than his secretary who he trusted with his life and who was friends with counterparts in the offices opposite. She had secured the office without mentioning Mike’s name. Mike was horrified. He had spoken with only one person outside of his secretary, the director of the FBI.

The flashes from across the parking lot reduced in size. It was gunfire. Always three flashes. Whoever had assaulted the building was working their way through the offices. The FBI staff would have nothing but their standard issue handguns. They didn’t have three-burst settings. It would be a massacre. Swanson turned to speak to Butler but watched him, speechless, disappear out of the door.

Swanson grabbed her rifle and went after him, screaming for Mike to follow. Mike was frozen to the spot. His secretary was being held against the glass of his office window, her face contorted with the force, a pistol to her head and, from the movements that Mike could make out in the distance, a soldier screaming at her. The soldier was dressed head to toe in black fatigues, very similar to the FBI’s own SWAT team, even down to the gas masks covering their faces. She was staring at Mike and although he couldn’t make out her expression from the distance, the slowness of her movements told him she was trying not to tell them where he was. But she had two young kids; Mike knew she had to tell them to survive. He nodded his head and her arm rose, pointing directly at him. The soldier’s gaze followed her pointed arm across the parking lot and settled on Mike. Her body jerked once and fell to the floor.

“Come on!!!” screamed Swanson.

“Motherfuckers!” screamed Mike, watching his dead secretary slump to the floor.

Swanson was almost out the door when she heard the chink and thump. She looked around and dived through the floor and out into the hallway. Mike’s falling body was quickly followed by a line of bullets where she had been standing. The chink had been the very precise sniper’s round, which had been quickly followed by the soldiers’ far less accurate general fire.

Butler rushed back down the hallway and grabbed Swanson unceremoniously by the arm and dragged her out of the line of fire. As she stumbled to her feet, both made off at a run. The sound of a helicopter buzzing overhead increased. A whump above them suggested the troops across the parking lot in the FBI building had backup in another helicopter. It had just landed on the roof of the St. John’s building.

Butler hit the fire exit bar on the emergency door and with Swanson in tow, barreled as fast as he could towards the parking lot below. With boot steps cracking less than a floor behind them, they did not have much of a lead. Butler hoped it would be enough to get in the rental car unspotted but it was going to be tight. With his parkour training and experience, he could have been down the stairs and out of the door ten seconds earlier but once again, he thought of having left Swanson in the woods and the guilt returned. They had a chance to make it. For that, he’d give it a try. If there was no option and she was the difference between getting out or not, that would have required a different decision.