The Sentinel (35 page)

"Uh, do you have your gate pass, ma'am?"

"You didn't give me a gate pass."

"You're Agent, uh...?"

"Martha Breckinridge."

"Right." He picked up a clipboard and slowly thumbed pages. "Let me see if I have your name here somewhere."

"I'm in a hurry."

"Just a moment."

The guard furtively glanced back toward the parking lot. She figured Flanagan had called and told him to stall her. Flanagan was going to make a move on her. He was going to try something. She could feel it.

"Open the goddamn gate before I drive right through it."

Glancing toward the lot again, the guard pressed a button. The gate rose. Breckinridge stepped on the gas.

Reaching the access road, she turned left. Before reaching the highway, she swerved into a service station and parked, watching the road for a minute to see if anyone was following her. Seeing nothing untoward, she drove out of the station.

Entering the highway, she thought about the day she had graduated from the Secret Service Training Academy. If someone had told her then that one day she would be investigating an assassination conspiracy involving the Director of the Secret Service and his adjutant, she would have laughed out loud. But somehow, here she was. Cruising at the speed limit, she picked up her cell phone and dialed Garrison's number at the Watergate. The phone rang, and then stopped.

"Pete?"

"What happened?"

"If I was some kind of a jerk, I might say that I had both good news and bad news."

"Meaning?"

"I have Flanagan on a nice, clear tape recording right here in my purse. It's not a confession by any means, but it's incriminating. It's enough to put the clamps on him. He told me to go talk to Wintergreen - that he would explain everything. But I'm convinced it's nothing more than a stall. Pete, I think they are both in on this conspiracy. It's them. Flanagan must think Wintergreen can talk me into keeping my mouth shut, to stall until they figure out what to do with me. I'll see you in a few minutes and we can go over it. I don't trust this phone."

"Martha, they know you're on to them now-"

"I'm aware. But I don't think he has the guts to try anything with me. On the other hand, the guard tried to stall me when I was leaving, as if someone might have needed some time to set up a surveillance on me."

"I don't like the sound of that, Martha. Where are you?"

"Highway 1 passing Hyattsville."

"Keep your eye on the rearview mirror."

"And my hand on my purse?"

"Right."

"I'll see you in a few, Pete."

She pressed OFF and dropped the phone on the seat beside her, and stepped on the gas. The highway traffic was light. She mused about what Flanagan had told her, about what she now knew. She couldn't wait to go over everything with Garrison in person-to hash out the facts with him so they could plan their next move.

She glanced at the rearview mirror. A utility van was a few car lengths behind her. She activated the right-turn signal, and then changed lanes.

The van pulled into the right lane.

Waiting until the last moment, she cut onto an off-ramp and sped up. In the rearview mirror, she watched as the van swerved to follow her. Reaching the end of the ramp, she slowed to a stop, then accelerated across a street and onto the next highway on-ramp. Returning to the highway, she checked the rearview mirror. The van wasn't in sight. She realized she was speeding, and slowed down to the speed limit.

A few moments later, she saw the van behind her again. It pulled closer at high speed.

Garrison stood at the window of Watergate Condo 1303 staring outside at the Kennedy Center. He'd spent the last hour pacing the living room, waiting for Breckinridge to call back. She should have arrived by now.

The phone finally rang and he picked it up on the first ring.

"Hello," a man said. "This is Sergeant Chester Maxwell of the Hyattsville Police Department. I need to speak with someone concerning a lady named Martha Breckinridge-"

"How did you get this number?"

"Are you related to her?"

"I'm ... Martha's husband."

"You got a name to go with that, sir?"

"Pete - Pete Breckinridge. What's wrong?"

"Sir, I'm sorry to report that your wife has been in a serious traffic accident. I know this is going to sound strange, but I am at the scene of a traffic accident - a hit-and-run-and she had no identification. I found a credit card receipt in her pocket with her name on it and a cell phone. I pressed the redial button-"

Garrison closed his eyes. "Martha. What is her condition?"

"She is unconscious, Mister Breckinridge. She is being transported to Prince George's County Hospital emergency trauma center-"

"I'll be there in a few minutes."

Garrison racked the phone and hurried toward the door. He had a horrible feeling of guilt. He should have gone with her. He could have waited nearby, until she finished interviewing Flanagan....

In Hyattsville, Garrison sped off the highway 1 and drove up a hill to the Prince George's County Hospital, a red-brick structure overlooking Washington, D.C. Inside, he moved through a crowded waiting area to a long counter where he asked a nurse about Martha Breckinridge. The nurse tapped keys on a computer.

"Intensive Care Three. Down the hall and to the left."

Garrison walked briskly along corridors. The odor of hospital cleaning chemicals and the bright fluorescent lights made him recall other crises. For everyone except doctors and nurses, being in a hospital was to feel helpless. In the intensive care room, he moved close to a gurney surrounded by doctors and nurses.

Seeing Breckinridge in a hospital bed gave him a start. Her eyes were shut and she had clear, plastic tubes entering her nose, throat, and arms. Her skin was a ghastly, fishy pate. There were bloody bandages on the shiny tile floor next to the table. Garrison felt like someone had shoved a hand into his guts, into his heart.

A doctor who was treating Breckinridge looked up at him.

"How is she doing?"

"Please don't bother us now."

Garrison didn't move.

"Sir, did you hear me?" she said angrily.

Garrison backed away.

The doctor turned to a nurse who was standing nearby and told her to make a note on the chart about two broken ribs and to call the ENT and tell him that she had a patient with a ruptured sinus.

"Mr. Breckinridge?" someone whispered. Garrison turned. "I'm Detective Maxwell, Hyattsville City Police."

Maxwell cocked his head toward the door. They walked out of the room into the hallway. Maxwell was fiftyish and of medium height. Maybe it was because of his florid complexion and sagging belly that Garrison thought he looked like the quintessential police detective.

"The hit-and-run. What happened?"

"Mr. Breckinridge, at first it sounded like your wife was in some kind of a traffic argument; a road-rage thing. But one of my people just interviewed a truck driver who was a few lanes behind her when it happened. He saw a white delivery van force her car off the road - possibly a Dodge. But he said that as far as he could tell, her car and the Dodge hadn't been close enough earlier to have had a traffic dispute."

"Someone ran her off the road?"

"That's what it looks like. A Dodge truck hit her car on the right rear bumper while accelerating - sort of turned right into her. Her car hit the edge of a ditch and rolled at least three full times. It's almost like the driver of the Dodge seemed to know what he was doing. Like he was trying to kill her. Then, here's the zinger: He stops and, from what we've been able to establish, searches her car. A truck driver who stopped to help sees a guy crawling out of the car carrying a woman's purse, then get in the Dodge and speed away like a bat out of hell. He said the Dodge didn't have license plates."

Garrison felt a rush of anger. "Did the witness get a look at him?"

Maxwell cupped his chin. "Unfortunately, he wasn't able to provide more than a general description: a male wearing a baseball hat. That brings me to the million-dollar question: Do you have any reason to believe someone would want to harm your wife - to steal her purse?"

It was then that Garrison saw the suspicion in Maxwell's eyes. And why shouldn't he suspect him? Most murders involved family members. But should Garrison tell him the truth? Could he tell him that there was a conspiracy to kill the President of the United States and someone involved in the conspiracy had tried to kill Breckinridge? Because her purse had been stolen, Maxwell didn't know Breckinridge was a Secret Service agent. But he would surely find out when he ran the car registration. This would cause Maxwell to notify his superiors, who would, in turn, call Secret Service Headquarters, thus putting Breckinridge in jeopardy. Garrison cleared his throat.

"Yes."

The expression that crossed Maxwell's face was one familiar to Garrison. It was the probing, intense stare all police detectives get when an investigative lead suddenly pops into view like a well-lit road sign. Garrison reached inside his suit jacket, took out his Secret Service identification card, and handed it to Maxwell.

Maxwell's eyebrows elevated slightly.

"U.S. Secret Service?"

"Martha Breckinridge and I are special agents. I'm not her husband. She and I have been working on a sensitive federal case - an internal investigation targeting a person suspected of crimes against the U.S. I can't tell you any more than that at this point for reasons of national security."

Maxwell studied the identification card, then handed it back to him.

"Sounds like I'd better phone my captain-"

"If you do, it will hinder the investigation and endanger lives."

"This is an attempted murder. I can't sit back and do nothing because you think it's a good idea."

"Would you agree that proving a case would depend on having a victim?" Garrison asked.

Maxwell furrowed his brow. "Generally."

"In order to protect Agent Breckinridge's life, I'm asking that you hold off doing anything for the moment - except to take steps to protect her. She needs to be re-registered under an assumed name and an officer should be posted at the door of her room twenty-four hours per day."

Maxwell rubbed his chin. "Lemme see that ID again." Garrison complied. Maxwell studied it. "We all have a boss. I'm going to have to report this up the chain-"

"Did you know Charlie Meriweather when he was in your department?"

"As a matter of fact I did," Maxwell said after a moment. "We worked in the same patrol division."

"I take it you heard about what happened to him?"

"A damn shame."

"I believe the same people who ran Breckinridge's car off the road may be involved in Charlie's murder."

"Is that so," Maxwell said as a statement of fact rather than a question.

Garrison assumed that Maxwell was trying to decide whether he was telling the truth. He was using his police officer's sixth sense; the lie-detector of singular police judgment based on having listened to ten thousand lies during his career.