Friendly Fire (23 page)

“Truthfully? At this moment? I have no idea. I need to talk it over with some of my staff.”

“Are you going to mention it to Sergeant Dale?” Cletus asked.

The chief didn't seem to like the question. “Is there a reason I shouldn't?”

Should he answer or shouldn't he? He decided, what the heck. “Well, sir, to be perfectly honest, he's not going to be happy I came here. I've still got thirty-one days to go, and I don't want them to be miserable, you know what I mean?”

The chief grinned. “I know exactly what you mean,” he said. “If I speak with Sergeant Dale, I'll make it clear that I appreciate your inquiry, and doubly clear that he should appreciate it, too.”

“He's likely to suggest to you that I took them,” Cletus said. There, it was out.

“I think you and I both know that that's absurd,” the chief said.

That meeting had happened nearly twenty-four hours ago, and as far as he could tell, the world had not left its axis. He was almost certain that the chief had talked to Sergeant Dale, because shortly after their meeting ended, Cletus saw Lieutenant Hackner head toward Dale's office, and then together they walked back toward the chief's office. If there had in fact been a meeting, it didn't last very long. Ten minutes later, the sergeant walked back toward where he'd come from. It might have been Cletus's imagination—probably was—but it seemed that Dale was making a real effort to not look in his direction.

He didn't like these unsettling times. He didn't like the feelings of paranoia. Cletus wanted to be happy again, to laugh again in the middle of the day. Honest to God, it used to be that way. Maybe he should have mentioned that to the chief as well.

As soon as that thought crossed the threshold of his mind, he dismissed it. They'd just think he was being sentimental, just being old. And he
felt
old. Maybe it wasn't wrong that they thought of him that way.

What it really came down to was showing some damned respect. He hadn't been on the receiving end of that in a long, long time.

And then it was all clear to him.

The reason why Dale's meeting with the chief had been so short was because they all dismissed Cletus's concerns as crazy. Chief Michaels probably told Dale to keep an eye on Cletus. You know, to make sure he didn't do something stupid. The reason why Dale didn't look at him was because he couldn't trust himself not to laugh.

Good Lord, he hated himself sometimes. Hated the way he thought. Yeah, retirement couldn't get here soon enough.

As he pulled into his driveway, he laid out a plan for Abby and him tonight. He'd open a bottle of wine, cook up a couple of those steaks he'd had in the freezer out on the barbeque. And he'd grill those fresh ears of corn that Blake Thorpe, his next-door neighbor, had brought up from the farmer's market they'd shopped coming back from their trip to Florida. Then, armed with about two thousand calories of good food apiece, they could settle down and blast through all the shows they'd recorded but hadn't watched.

He pulled his Camry as close to the garage door as he could without denting anything and shut off the engine. One day, he was going to get around to clearing out enough crap to actually get the car
into
the garage, but getting Abby to part with her various collections was like putting light back into the sun. A waste of time.

A nice breeze greeted him as he walked to the front door, making him look even more forward to his time in the backyard with the grill. He had his key out, but saw that it wouldn't be necessary. Abby had left the door open a couple of inches. Cletus was going to have to say something to her about that. There were security issues to think about. These days, things being as they were, you couldn't be too—

He froze on the tile floor of the foyer, one foot in and one foot still holding the storm door open. “Abby?” he said. She sat in a chair straight ahead of him, in front of and facing the stairs. It was a dining room chair, one of the end chairs where you could rest your arms while eating. “Abby, what are you doing?”

She didn't answer.

“Hey, babe, are you all right?” He hurried forward to help her. “Do I need to call—”

Three strides into the house, he sensed a shadow. Before he could react, he felt an arm cross his face from behind, and then white and red lights erupted inside his head.

Chapter Twenty-four

J
onathan sat in the darkest back corner of the Maple Inn in Vienna, Virginia, his back to the wall, watching across the bar for the arrival of his dining companion. Located on Maple Avenue, just six miles south of CIA headquarters, the Maple Inn had long been a spooky place, a kind of gastronomic Switzerland, where intelligence assets from all sides could meet in peace to take care of the kind of business that seemed beyond the abilities of politicians and their appointees. More than a few world crises had been defused in this dank little place and others like it, dotted throughout the Washington Metropolitan Area.

The place was packed as it always was. Literally, always. Home of the best chili cheese dogs on the planet, as well as damn good breakfast selections, it was a favorite of the locals. Jonathan couldn't imagine how much money this place generated per unit of time, but it had to be spectacular.

He arrived early to claim his booth of choice, and his waitress, Brittany, was more than happy to move the nearest table a few feet away in order to provide him with more privacy. One quirk of the Maple Inn was the placement of the television, elevated on a 1980s-vintage metal platform immediately over Jonathan's head. If you kept your voice low, nothing you said could be audible past more than a few feet.

Irene Rivers's bodyguards entered the place first. Thankfully, they'd changed into polo shirts and khaki pants, but the rod-straight posture and razor-sharp creases announced their true identities to anyone who knew what to look for. They flanked the door while their boss entered, and then took seats at the bar, where they would have the best view of the room.

Irene smiled as she approached. She, too, wore casual clothes—a plain white blouse tucked into off-the-shelf blue jeans.

Jonathan stood as she approached the table. She proffered no handshake, so neither did he. She looked pissed. In fact, Dom had told him she sounded pissed when she'd called him to arrange the meeting. The fact that she demanded it to be held right by God now sort of confirmed the supposition. She'd suggested Saint Matthew's again as the meeting spot, but Jonathan pushed back and told Dom to relay that he would meet her in the middle here in Vienna. Jonathan liked Irene, and he had undying respect for her, but it was important for her to know that he harbored no fear of her. They'd collaborated on far too many clandestine projects. Each had been for the right reasons, but in Washington, rationality was almost always trumped by transient political priorities. Hey,
somebody
had to keep politicians from destroying the world. Ask anyone who'd occupied this back booth over the years.

“Nice outfit,” Jonathan said, taking a pull from his beer mug. “You going on vacation?”

“When in Rome,” she said. She leaned in close, her forearms crossed on the table. “What were you thinking?”

Jonathan ignored the bait. “Right now, I'm thinking about how good the chili cheese dogs are, and wondering if I have chili tracks on my cheek.” He flashed his smile, but she clearly wasn't in the mood.

“I'm talking about your antics involving Our Lady of Sorrows,” she said.

“Oh, that,” Jonathan said. He knew damn well that's what she meant, but why give her the satisfaction? “How did that go?”

“Don't be an ass,” Irene seethed. “You had no authority to go to Senator Baker's house. You terrified her staff, who in turn terrified everyone in the school.”

“Are the daughters safe?” Jonathan asked. He took another bite out of his chilidog.

“That's not the point.”

“It's kind of important though, isn't it?” Jonathan asked around his mouthful.

Irene glared. There were times when she enjoyed the banter. This clearly was not one of them.

“Oh, give me a break, Wolfie,” he said after the swallow. “Those kids are on a target list, and Big Guy and I saved their asses. We saved Senator Mom's ass, too, along with some guy named Prince. Honest to God, who would name a kid that?”

“Focus, Dig.”

Jonathan put the chili dog down and planted both hands on the table, as if to demonstrate that he was unarmed. “Tell you what,” he said. “Why don't you have yourself a good rant? I'll listen politely and then tell you the scary shit that's happening.” He sold it with a smile that was not intended to be all that friendly.

“You misrepresented yourself as an FBI agent. You stirred a hornet's nest. Senator Baker wants to know the names of the two agents responsible for this. What am I supposed to tell her?”

“Tell her to blow it out her ass,” Jonathan said. He felt heat rising in his ears, and it was a struggle to keep his voice in check. “Then tell her to give those little girls a hug for her Uncle Dig who saved them from being shipped off to their deaths.”

Irene's features blanked for a few seconds, and then morphed to a look of concern. He had her attention.

“And, if I might remind you, the badges we used were given to us by you.”

“For very specific purposes,” Irene said.

“And I would number saving lives among those purposes.” Jonathan told her about the dead drop. “The address led us to a house belonging to a Mr. Appleton,” he explained. “We went there because Appleton was a nobody as far as we were concerned, so we wondered why would the address be part of a dead drop.”

“So, you didn't know that it was the senator's house?”

“Not a clue,” Jonathan said. “I know I'm an insensitive pain in the ass, but if I'd known that, I believe that even I would have given you a heads-up.”

Irene took a moment to process it all. As she was thinking, Brittany approached, but then retreated from the subtle shake of Jonathan's head. This was not the time.

“Your suspicions were correct, Irene,” Jonathan said. He'd wrested control of his tone again, and hoped that he sounded as earnest as he felt. “Al-Amin is targeting the families of congressmen and senators. How else to explain the Johnson girl and then the Baker girls? I don't know if they're focusing specifically on girls, but this is a big deal. I also don't know what their end game is. I don't know what they plan to do with those they kidnap, but we both know it's nothing good. In the best case, it's a ransom demand. In the worst case, it's a video record of them being decapitated, drowned, or burned alive.”

“Jesus.”

“I'm confident that of all the prophets who have a vote in this madness, Jesus is not among them,” Jonathan said. “Let me tell you about the guy who inadvertently led me to the dead drop. Okay, we'd actually sort of figured it out on our own, but the guy who tried to kill me to keep me from getting the address—”

“Someone tried to kill you?”

Jonathan waved off her concern. “He wasn't nearly as good at it as he thought he was. But I'm willing to bet the dog that he's a former operative of ours.”

Irene recoiled from the thought. “Oh, come on—”

“He had the look,” Jonathan said. “Desert kit, battle beard, Oakleys. The whole nine yards.”

“You just described ninety percent of the people who attend gun shows,” Irene said with a dismissive wave.

“He also had the neck and the shoulders,” Jonathan said. “And the knife skills.” He grinned. “Sometimes, though, really good is just not good enough.” He turned serious. “Trust me when I tell you that he was the real deal. And I'll tell you something else. This guy was born in Ohio as a Presbyterian. Or in Kansas as Methodist. There's not a drop of Islamic blood in this guy's veins.”

Irene's scowl deepened. “Don't make me guess, Dig,” she said. “What are you trying to tell me?”

“I'm telling you that we've got a terrorist cell of the highest American order working right here in Virginia. You lean on your intel assets to give you the details, but I'm not making this shit up. The incident in Woodbridge is linked directly to the stabbing incident in Brookfield, which is directly related to the
foiled
kidnapping in Arlington. Notice the emphasis on the word
foiled.
That part was me. The guy you came here to yell at.”

“Don't pretend that you are a sensitive man,” Irene said. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

“If you're looking for a recommendation, I'd tell you to tell the Baker family to stay away from their home, and to keep their kids away from school.”

“How can I do that?”

Jonathan leaned in very close and lowered his voice to almost a whisper. “You're the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. You're good friends with the director of every alphabet agency in the world. I'm guessing that between all of you, you can find a way. Especially when you consider the alternative.”

“Which is . . . ?”

“Congressional children being held hostage,” Jonathan said. “It's a brilliant plan, if you think about it. We don't provide security for members of Congress or their families, and most of them couldn't possibly afford it on their own. It's not exactly as if Congress does anything for the country now, but can you imagine the political constipation if there were real personal consequences for their actions? Holy crap, the mind boggles.”

Irene stewed over her options for the better part of thirty seconds. “Where's the end point?” she said finally. “When can I tell them that it's safe to return to their home? And what do I tell the other five hundred thirty-four members from the two chambers about their families?”

Jonathan didn't bother to answer because he had nothing to offer, and he didn't imagine that she expected anything from him.

When a solution finally occurred to Irene, she sat a little straighter. “I have another job for you,” she said.

“Does this mean I'm forgiven?” Jonathan asked.

“You're being an ass again,” she said.

He laughed. Hey, when you're right, you're right.

“I want you to find him and follow him.”

“Who?”

“The man you accosted in the park.”

“You know he was the one with knife, right?”

“Like it matters,” she said. She smiled. “You're alive, he's hurt, everyone is happy. I want to know what he's doing.”

“Didn't we already discuss that you're the director of the FB friggin' I?”

Irene looked at him for a few seconds, telegraphing that he was an idiot. “And what, exactly, would I tell my agents? How would I justify that budget entry? I may be the director of the FB friggin' I, but I still have to answer to congressional and presidential oversight. Is that really your preferred route?”

Jonathan chuckled. “You know, when you put your mind to a buzz kill, there's nobody better than you.”

Irene gave him a little grin. “So, that means yes?”

“It means I'm going to speak to Mother Hen, and she'll get pissed. But yes, that all translates to yes.”

Irene extended her hand. “It's always a pleasure doing business, Scorpion,” she said.

He returned the gesture. “Why do I have the feeling that by the time this is all over, I'm going to get shot at?”

“It's what you do,” she said.

* * *

“Put the drinks down,” Spike Catron demanded as he stormed through the door of the Moose lodge. He didn't know for a fact that anyone was drinking, but he followed the smart money. He heard plastic mugs hitting the surface of the bar and the various tables. This was the second time in three days that he'd gathered everyone into one place, and the exposure made him nervous as hell.

Vinnie met him halfway to the first bank of chairs. Clearly, he'd been waiting for the confrontation. “Hey, Boss, you want to tell us what the hell is going on?”

“Sit down, Vinnie. This isn't the time for your power play. There's too much to do.”

Vinnie had made no secret of his desire to oust Spike from power, but it had always been an unstated undercurrent. He seemed unnerved by Spike's direct address of his ambition. He returned to a stool at the bar and sat down.

“Give me a report,” Spike said.

“Bangstrom is dead,” Vinnie said.

“And?”

“He told us that he told the police chief and a lieutenant who works for him.”

“Told him what?”

“About the missing uniforms,” Vinnie said. “Bangstrom pretty much figured out what we're planning. I told you that this would be a—”

“Save it,” Spike said. What had or had not been said prior to this made no difference. “What else do we hear from our friends in the police department?”

“Our primary contact doesn't think that the chief bought it,” Vinnie said.

“What does that mean?”

Vinnie shrugged. “It means that I think we still have time.”

“And what do you think will be the case when they find out that you killed Bangstrom?” Spike asked.

“You told me—”

“Answer the question,” Spike said. “Do you think that maybe when they find out that the guy who blew the whistle on an attack is dead they might draw the conclusion that he was right?”

Vinnie arose again from his bar stool. “If they do, you can't lay that on me,” he said. “I was following your orders.”

“What did you do with the bodies?” Spike asked.

Spike cocked his head, the way a dog does when it's confused. “What are you driving at?”

“It's a simple question, Vinnie. You killed Cletus Bangstrom. What did you do with his body?”

“I killed his wife and his dog, too,” Vinnie said. There was defiance in his tone. “And as far as I know, they haven't moved from the spot where I dropped them.”