Designated Survivor (22 page)

Grace paused. “No. Let’s just walk and talk.”

They left the ETTF and moved through the hallways of the building above them, talking in low voices and standing still only when no other people were in sight.

“If you think Graham is behind the Capitol bombing, to what, become president? Then what is his play now?” Arrington said. “It almost made sense in a sick way when he was set to claim the throne, but now he’s way down the line of succession.”

“That’s the only thing bugging me,” Grace said. “There’s no reason for it, not for personal gain at least.” He looked down the hall at a man and a woman talking outside a restroom door. By their body language Grace guessed they’d slept together and the woman wanted to cut it off. “Unless it was to cover up the first attack.”

“What do you mean?”

“If we look down a list of people who had something to gain from the first attack, his could easily slide to the top,” Grace said. “But if a second attack happened in which he’d have no potential for climbing the ladder, then his name would drop off the list of suspects.”

Derek Arrington shook his head. “That’s a lot of time, money and effort to clear yourself, especially when the entire country and every intelligence agency is looking at foreign terrorist organizations, not the secretary of transportation.”

“Still just a working theory,” Grace said.

CHAPTER 43

The old U-Haul truck’s vinyl seats were torn and the springs poked through into Arash Abbasi’s back as he lay with his head resting on a rolled up moving blanket, another one covering his body. It had gotten down to 17 degrees in the night, but now the sun was hitting the windshield and warming the cab up. The truck was parked on the edge of a construction site not far from the Homeland Security compound in Herndon. He’d been awake for an hour, just listening to the sounds of traffic building up as rush hour began. He knew the sound of the diesel pickup truck the site foreman drove. As soon as it went past, Abbasi would sit up and drive the truck away and park it in a grocery store parking lot to prepare for another day of waiting.

Just as the knocking sound of the diesel Ford two-ton pickup rolled past, the cell phone in his pocket vibrated then stopped. He didn’t have to look to know that it was finally time after three days of waiting. The phone would have a simple message on the screen, a single number. That would be the time that the president was scheduled to arrive at the ETTF for a briefing by her intelligence and military leaders. His men would begin an hour before that to be ready.

He pulled the phone out and looked at the screen, then glanced at the time on his watch. Two hours until they carried out their last mission for this client. And perhaps, he thought, tomorrow he would find and kill the client once the funds had cleared in his account.

The engine groaned to life as Abbasi sat up and put the truck in gear and drove away. He was ready for a warm bed again, a good meal, perhaps in his favorite restaurant in Caracas.
I can be there in 24 hours
, he thought.

His men would be waking up in the back of the truck, still in darkness, as it bounced over the curb onto to the four-lane road. He was excited to tell them that it was time, that soon they would part ways. He knew some of them would not survive the mission. It was a given based on the plan. He had not shared all of the details with them as he was sure it would have created dissent. At the next intersection he turned right then left into the parking lot of an abandoned Walmart, a newer and larger building having been built a block down the road, and parked the truck behind the store. He got out and slid open the back door.

“It is time, warriors,” he said. “Today we strike. Tomorrow we are rich.”

He saw the men look out of the darkness at him and knew none of them believed they were warriors in this mission. They were all guns-for-hire and nothing more and were all tired of sleeping in abandoned buildings and rusted moving trucks. Only he knew that most of them would likely be dead before the day was over.

With time before they needed to move into position, they split into small groups to feed themselves at the various fast food restaurants that lined the street, making sure no more than three of them were seen together. When it was time, they arrived back at the truck.

Khouri would stay with Abbasi, the only two of the men who couldn’t blend in as easily. Ormand Baasch was already wearing the thick blue work pants and grey shirt with the name Francis embroidered on the name patch. His work would be the most difficult and the most dangerous. If he failed, the entire mission would fail.

With no words shared, Baasch walked off across the parking lot to the street, pulled the plastic metro card out of his pocket, and waited for the next bus to come past and carry him down the road to the target.

Abbasi watched after him, knowing it might be the last time he saw the man even if the mission went well. The chances of him carrying out his tasks and getting out of the building were slim.

Two other men of European descent, Gerald Moline from the UK and Alexandre Fortier from France were the next to move out. They’d spent the last few days doing surveillance on a business down the road and were anxious to do something more than sit all day.

The remaining four men had carried out the majority of their job two days earlier and would now be on hand to aid in the recovery of the rest of the team. The plan didn’t require all of them in the building, but they were going to be close by in case they were needed and Abbasi had plans ready for them as well.

Glancing at his watch again, Abbasi smiled.
So close
, he thought.
Soon it will be done.

CHAPTER 44

Grace woke up in his apartment and went to the kitchen to find sour milk in the refrigerator and not much else. He’d barely been there since arriving home from the mission in Russia and there’d been no time to shop. He wandered around the small apartment deciding where to head that day, not really feeling like being under the microscope of the ETTF but also wanting to avoid Buzzard Point. The rest of the team was going to the memorial service for Chip Goodson near the ocean in Maryland. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go; it was just best to avoid any unnecessary questions about his relationship with Chip. The team was under orders to avoid interactions outside their group and to get out as quickly as they could. Mourning is important, but he needed them ready.

He found one clean pair of khakis and pulled an Army Rangers tee shirt on, his way of honoring Chip that day, then a striped and untucked dress shirt over the tee. The pants easily covered the small Glock he kept on his ankle and the shirt somewhat obscured the nine-millimeter pistol on his side. At the door he stopped to see the repairs the landlord had done to the lock after Arrington’s bodyguards had smashed their way in four days earlier.

Outside he walked to the far edge of his apartment’s parking lot to his car. It had sat unused for two weeks, a layer of dust covering the shiny black paint of the twin turbo BMW M5 sedan. He’d bought the car used and had some work done to it at a shop in Wheaton, Maryland that specializes in armoring personal vehicles. He never drove the BMW on missions, but still felt safer knowing that nothing short of a .50 caliber shell could penetrate the glass or sheet metal that surrounded him. The engine had been modified to handle the extra weight.

The engine came to life with a light tap of the start button to the right of the steering wheel. Grace turned on the stereo and spun the volume knob up as the mp3 player in the glove box pushed the song “Vicarious” by Tool to the speakers. He threw the shifter into first gear, let out the clutch, and let the rear tires spin for a second as he launched from the parking space. At the exit onto the street he considered heading out on a drive to clear his mind, cruising the high-powered car towards the Shenandoah Valley or even West Virginia, but decided to save that for another day and took a right to head to Herndon.

The drive didn’t take long enough for him that morning and as he cleared the security gate he wished he’d opted for Skyline Drive instead, but he parked the car and went in.

The ETTF was busy for eight in the morning and he looked around at the constant motion of suits and uniforms. He then saw Ben Murray sitting at his desk and went over to him.

“Thought you were going with the rest of them,” Grace said.

“Didn’t know him that well,” Ben said. “And I wanted to get back to work.”

“I understand,” Grace said. “Find anything new?”

“Not much. A few photos of Graham with his cofounder of Cunningham,” Ben said.

“Oh, wait,” Grace pulled his phone out and handed it to Ben. “When Netty and I were at their offices I took a bunch of photos of the CEO’s walls. Something else to go through.”

Ben plugged the phone in and glanced through the images stored on the internal card and copied them to a folder on his desktop. “I’ll see if there’s anything there.” He stopped, looking past Grace.

Turning, Grace saw Richard Graham and his partner walk into the ETTF and over to the growing group of Capitol Hill dignitaries.

“Why’s William with him?” Grace said.

“Didn’t you hear?” Ben said. “Graham made him his chief-of-staff.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Fired his old one in cold blood over the phone,” Ben said. “Had a press release out five minutes later.”

“Ballsy,” Grace said. “Guess he wanted to make sure they never got separated again.”

Derek Arrington emerged from the group in the middle of the room and came over. “Been talking to Monroe,” he said.

“Yeah?” Grace said. “How’d that go for you?”

“Better than you might think,” Arrington said. “He thinks the Cunningham connection is too big to ignore. He isn’t putting any weight behind your theory yet, but he wants to cover his ass just in case.”

“So . . . ”

“So, we’re going to talk to Graham,” Arrington said.

“Incredible,” Grace said. “I’ll do it.”

“No way,” Arrington said. “I’ve seen how you talk to people. Five minutes in and you’ll be waterboarding him. This needs to be handled by Justice. We’re going to get him to a room without causing a stir. Monroe will do the talking. You can be in the observation room.”

“What about William?” Grace said. “I think he’s permanently stuck to Graham’s side now.”

“We’ll have Amanda distract him,” Arrington said. “Tell him he needs to complete some new security checks as Graham’s chief-of-staff.”

Arrington and Grace went down the hall and opened a private room then went next door and got set up to record. On the monitors they saw Monroe lead Richard Graham into the room and ask him to sit down as he closed the door behind them. Graham looked at the cameras mounted in the corners then to Monroe as he sat down.

“What’s this about?” Graham said.

“Just need your help with something,” Monroe said. “You were president of Cunningham Construction, correct?”

“Cunningham?” Graham said. “We’re in the middle of a national security crisis and you’re asking me about Cunningham?”

“Just a few questions, Richard,” Monroe said. “We’re following up on a few things and feel you’re the best person to talk to. Why did you leave Cunningham?”

“I started the company. I left when Abrams asked me to run transportation,” Graham said. “I’m very confused here. Why are we talking about Cunningham right now?”

“Did you know they had a contract to do work in the south wing of the Capitol a few months ago?” Monroe said.

“No, I didn’t,” Graham said. “But good for them. I wasn’t sure they’d amount to much after I left.”

“No faith in your co-founder?” Arrington said.

“Plenty in him, not much in the company that bought them a while back,” Graham said.

Monroe glanced at his handwritten notes in the brown leather book he kept in his suit pocket at all times. “So you were president when Cunningham was purchased by Whitlock?”

“CEO, and yes, I was,” Graham said. “We were struggling and got a good deal. Whitlock put some money into the company and turned it around. At first they really just wanted to absorb our assets and take over our clients, but I convinced them we had a name, a reputation.”

Jim Monroe looked up to watch Graham as he continued, wanting to gauge his reaction. “Cunningham is suspected to have been involved in placing the explosives in the Capitol,” he said.

“What?” Graham looked at the cameras again. “Is this why . . . ? Are you interrogating me?”

“Not at all. When we saw your connection to them we thought you might have some knowledge of the inner workings of the company that could help us out,” Monroe said.

In the next room Arrington and Grace watched as the conversation was being recorded.

“They were the only firm with access in the areas the explosives were known to have been located,” Monroe said. “The type of work they were doing would have given them all the access they needed to hide the C4.”

“You’re delirious,” Graham said. “Why would they do that? And how? Their employees have been with them for years. It’s just impossible.”

“They used contractors to do the work, so very few company employees were on site,” Monroe said. “This could have allowed them to bring in explosives experts.”

“Even still, what does this have to do with me?” Graham said. “I have nothing to do with the company anymore.”

“Again, just some groundwork before we dig deeper into them. I appreciate your assistance,” Monroe started to stand up then stopped. “Oh, you ran for Senate a few years ago, right?”

“Ancient history,” Graham said. “Lost by six percent.”

“Who’d you lose to?” Monroe said.

“The way you’re asking I get the feeling you already know,” Graham said. “Rebekah Abrams.”

“That why she appointed you to her cabinet?” Monroe said.

“I guess,” Graham said. “The call surprised me when it came. She promised in her campaign to reach across the aisle so I figured she picked me because she thought she could control me. But I don’t hold a grudge and in politics you just don’t turn down a Cabinet position.”