The Sentinel (22 page)

Flanagan stood and shrugged off his suit jacket. "Maybe that was part of the plan they didn't tell you about. Maybe they had to get rid of you because you planted the bomb on Marine One and are the one who could hand them up. They certainly weren't planning on you getting the drop on the guy they sent to kill you."

"You're barking up the wrong tree, Flanagan. You're wasting your time with me. You are following a false lead and the President is in danger because of it. What would be my motive, for God's sake?"

"The Aryan Disciples have money. They could have offered to make you a rich man. You wouldn't have been the first-"

"That's horseshit and you know it."

Flanagan leaned back in his chair, and Garrison hoped he would fall over.

"I have a proposition to make," said Flanagan. "If you'll help us make a case on the others involved, the Director is willing to intercede with the Attorney General on your behalf - to cut a deal for you. If you'll tell us everything you know, a judge might look at you as the guy who made one mistake in his life and was willing to step up to the plate to rectify it. On the other hand, if you sit here like a stiff prick and deny everything, things could go the other way. You will end up being the new Lee Harvey Oswald. Everything you've ever accomplished - your entire life - will be ruined. There will be no way back for you."

"Flanagan, you are being
used.
Can't you see that?"

"We're going to find out the whole story. One way or the other, with or without you, now or later, we will get the ones who are behind this. The Director will assign every agent in the Service to work on this case if he has to. Be reasonable, Garrison. Time is running out. The sooner you come to terms with what you have done, the sooner you can help yourself."

Garrison had the feeling that he'd been abandoned at a train station in a foreign country whose language he didn't speak. He knew there was nothing he could say to convince Flanagan that he was innocent. Someone had framed him. Was it the Aryan Disciples? Had they sent the blackmail letter?

"Flanagan, you're wasting your time."

"Don't take it personal, Pete. I'm just doing my job," Flanagan said coldly.

Garrison gritted his teeth. Talking to Flanagan was like trying to communicate with granite. They were focusing on him. He was the number one suspect in the helicopter bombing.

At the Riggs Bank on Madison, Breckinridge and Rachel Kallenstien sat at a desk as the bank operations officer leaned close to a computer and tapped keys. Acting on Wintergreen's orders, Breckinridge had provided the operations officer with a photocopy of a release form signed by Garrison, giving permission for the Secret Service to review his financial records. All Secret Service agents signed such paperwork when they first entered on duty. The releases were a permanent part of every agent's personnel file, and were used to facilitate the gathering of evidence against the agent if the agent became the subject of an internal investigation.

"Got it," the operations officer said.

She pressed a key and the printer activated. She tore off the page that came out and handed it to Breckinridge.

Breckinridge read it and was utterly astonished. She offered it to Kallenstien.

"For the record," Breckinridge asked. "Does this mean that two hundred thousand dollars was wire-transferred into Garrison's account this morning?"

"Yes. From a bank in Antigua. It's definitely unusual, considering that Mr. Garrison has never had a deposit to the account more than the amount of his government paycheck. The bank sent this from a general account, and then closed the account immediately afterwards, which means that we may never know the exact source of the money. Offshore banks don't give out such information. They make their money from the fees they receive from the sender. Will you be needing anything else?"

Breckinridge shook her head. "No, thanks," she said softly.

"If you'll excuse me, I have a customer waiting."

Breckinridge nodded. The operations officer walked toward a desk where a man and woman were waiting. Breckinridge sat in stunned silence as she considered the import of what she had found.

"There is no way Garrison is going to be able to explain his way out of two hundred grand being deposited into his personal account on the day the Man's chopper is sabotaged," Kallenstien said.

"Rachel, I don't believe he is guilty."

"You think someone spent two large just to falsely incriminate him?"

"I don't believe he is involved in any Presidential assassination conspiracy. I just don't see it."

"How well do you know him?"

"Not that well. But I haven't seen anything so far that would lead me to believe that he is involved in something like this. No clue whatsoever."

"Were not psychics, Martha. If you got involved in defending someone from this kind of a charge and it turned out that he actually was guilty, you could be cutting your own throat. You know how the Service treats agents who go against the grain."

Breckinridge had a heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach. There was something wrong and she couldn't put her finger on it. "And if Garrison is innocent?"

"Don't get angry at me. I'm just trying to figure out where you are coming from. I'm just pointing out some issues-"

"I know I'm not explaining my doubts clearly, but it's not just Garrison. There is something about this that is all too pat. It's as if someone is tying Garrison up in a nice big package for some prosecutor. This isn't the way the average assassination case comes together."

"It did for Lee Harvey Oswald."

"Oswald was a psycho, a screwball. Garrison has undergone every test and trial that you and I have. He's not a nut case. Its possible that someone could have set him up."

"Who, for God's sake? Who could it be?"

Breckinridge rubbed her temples. "I don't know."

"Martha, you and I both know that it had to be an agent. No one in the Aryan Disciples got inside that helicopter and planted a bomb. That is a given. Don't you agree?"

"Yes. But that doesn't mean I think it is him." Breckinridge stood, took out her cell phone, and dialed Wintergreen's number. He answered. "Breckinridge here. I've completed the bank records search." She told him the result of the records check.

"Very interesting," he said. "Now head for the courthouse and get a search warrant for Garrison's apartment."

"Shouldn't he be interviewed first?"

"That's being handled. Call me the moment you have the warrant."

He gave her Garrison's address, and she wrote it down. The telephone clicked.

"What now?" Kallenstien asked after Breckinridge set the phone down.

"It's search-warrant time."

At Scott Circle, Breckinridge steered her sedan to the curb in front of Garrison's apartment house. Wintergreen was already there, standing on the sidewalk, waiting.

"Never seen Wintergreen out on a case," Kallenstien said.

"Neither have I."

Breckinridge nodded agreement, and she and Kallenstien got out of the car. Breckinridge showed Wintergreen the search warrant. She and Kallenstien had written it with the help of the duty officer at the U.S. Attorney's office, and then had taken it to a federal judge for signature. Wintergreen read it quickly.

"Let's do it," he said.

At Garrison's apartment, Breckinridge tried the door. It was locked. Peeking through the crack in the door, she determined that there was a dead-bolt lock above the handle. She returned to her car and got a pry bar from the trunk. Returning to the apartment, she pried the door open. An alarm sounded. They went inside and began hunting for the alarm box.

A middle-aged woman came to the door with a baseball bat in her hand.

"Hands up!'"

Wintergreen had his badge out. "Federal officers."

"I'm the manager here. What's going on?"

"We have a federal search warrant."

"Pete Garrison lives here and he is a U.S. Secret Service agent."

"We know," Breckinridge said, and gently took the bat from her. "This is an administrative matter."

"Is Pete in trouble?"

"You'll have to ask him," Breckinridge said.

"I live next door and heard the alarm."

"Ma'am, I'll have to ask you to leave. I'll give you your bat back later."

"I hope Pete is okay," the woman said before departing.

Kallenstien opened the closet door. "Here's the alarm." She turned it off.

"Are you going to participate in the search, Mr. Director?" Breckinridge asked.

"You two go ahead. I'm just here to monitor the investigation."

He took out his cell phone and began dialing as he walked toward the kitchen.

"I'll take the bedroom," Kallenstien said.

Breckinridge began searching the living room, lifting sofa cushions, moving furniture. She heard Wintergreen on the phone, telling someone that they were inside the apartment. It felt strange searching Garrison's home. She knew him, if only casually, but nevertheless it was a personal, invasive thing to do to someone, a violation. She went through Garrison's fishing and hunting magazines and some copies of the
Journal of Explosive Ordnance,
a professional publication for U.S. Army bomb experts. There was nothing in his entertainment center but some Jerry Vale and Elton John CDs.

Wintergreen joined her. Seeing that there wasn't much to search, he walked into the bedroom.

With the living room search completed, Breckinridge walked into the kitchen, which she thought was relatively clean and neat considering that most men were pigs when it came to cleaning. She opened drawers and cupboards. Nothing but dishes and glasses. One drawer was filled with bill receipts and other home miscellanea. She opened the refrigerator. On the top shelf was a flat, rectangular piece of yellowish, putty-like material about an inch thick and a foot long. She touched it. It was malleable. She'd first seen it in Secret Service training school, and over the years she'd found it more than once when searching the homes of suspected terrorists. It was military-grade C-4 explosive material, also known as plastique. She was aware that in its inert form, it was completely safe.

"Rachel," she said loudly.

Kallenstien hurried into the kitchen. "My God. He was keeping it right here."

Wintergreen joined them. Breckinridge shoved the refrigerator door closed. Wintergreen stared at the bomb material. He turned away, took out his cell phone, and began dialing.

"No wonder he put an alarm system in," said Breckinridge.

"Garrison could get the death sentence," Kallenstien said softly.

Breckinridge nodded. She felt dizzy.

Wintergreen departed a few minutes later, still making calls on his cell phone. A Secret Service forensics team arrived about twenty minutes later. For the next few hours Breckinridge supervised them as they took photographs and lifted fingerprints. Finally, as they began to leave, Breckinridge felt enervated.

"Rachel, you know Garrison," Breckinridge said. "Would you ever think that he could be involved in something like this?"

"No. But I've been surprised before. Maybe it's one of those things. Maybe there are secrets in his life."

"But
assassination?"