ROGUESTATE, page 23
“We’re going to skew VNS’s norm table tonight and run a test over the weekend,” answered Lawrence.
“It would help if these polls shifted towards the Vice President over the weekend. A little November surprise might be needed,” added Kenny. He had examined the same internal numbers Bridger saw every morning. They tended to trust the opposition’s polls more than the Vice President’s campaign. The stupid Texans were too honest.
Bridger nodded. He had a few things in mind.
“We have hacks into CBS’s and NBC’s exit polling systems. We’re going to make it look like the NRA failed to mobilize its base and that nobody trusts those risky tax schemes,” announced Lawrence.
“That ought to shut up Charlton Heston,” muttered Kenny nastily, referring to the most effective spokesman for the Second Amendment in a generation.
Bridger nodded absently. The Electoral College projections showed the Texas Governor getting somewhere between three hundred and three hundred twenty votes. The Vice President continued to show weakness in his home state. No candidate had ever won the Presidency while losing their home state. In fact, the Vice President showed weakness in every state that had formed the Confederacy. No democrat had ever been elected without winning some of those states. He nodded distractedly and made his way back to his office.
Forty flights below Bridger’s corner office was a much different problem—Conner Fadden had trackedThe Fixer to his Manhattan office tower. He had spent the last two days wrapped in a ratty blanket nestled next to an empty bottle of Thunderbird in a brown bottle bag.
Conner traced the phone number he found in Maryland to a New York City phone exchange. The exchange was located in the office tower across the street, and last night he mapped the phone system to a specific office on the fortieth floor. From his prone position, he had identified the office on the building’s near corner.
Once he had a floor and office location identified, Conner attached a name and a face toThe Fixer. Conner took his new knowledge to an Internet/coffee bar and ran a search on Adrian Bridger. He spent the next two hours reading about Bridger’s activities over the last three years. Nowhere in the copious discussions and descriptions did Conner glean any direct connection to the United States government.
Conner Fadden noted Bridger had made sizable contributions to several successful political campaigns inside the city. Philanthropy was another element of his character, and Bridger appeared to spare no expense in hosting an art exhibition or finding his name on the politically correct charitable organizations.So why was Bridger part of the briefing and training team for Spanish Poppy?
Conner intended to answer that question.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Kennebunkport, Maine,Reuters,November 4, 2000 –Texas Governor and presidential candidate George W. Bush confirmed reports that he had been arrested in September 1976 for drunk driving.
Governor Bush indicated he did not reveal the drunk driving arrest, because he did not want his twin daughters to follow his example.
Furthermore, the candidate said, “I don’t know if my opponent’s campaign was involved, but I do know that the person who admitted doing it at the last minute was a Democrat and a partisan in Maine.”
L’Enfant Plaza, Washington D.C.
Saturday, November 4, 2000
9:00 A.M. EST
L’Enfant Plaza is a vast Metro station buried beneath the Washington Mall. The gray cavernous ceiling houses two levels as the Green, Blue, Orange, and Yellow Metro lines run crossed one atop the other. Escalators carry people between the two levels and the four lines. The incoming trains send a palpable shudder through the huge underground chamber.
L’Enfant Plaza is one of the largest and busiest Metro stations in the entire system. It serves tourists from the surrounding Virginia and Maryland satellite systems, disgorging them in the center of Washington where the Smithsonian Museums and the famous monuments await. It emerges on the Mall halfway between the Capitol and the Washington Monument.
Kurt Martin had been leading his very persistent shadows to L’Enfant Plaza. He counted three men with clear spiral earpieces—a black man built like a smaller version of Arnold Schwarzenegger, an overweight cowboy sporting a Stetson, and a very angry looking man. It was time to play.
Yesterday, Kurt figured out the messages appearing on the message pager Bridger handed him were a little too convenient. He never found anyone who looked like Conner Fadden, so he started looking for a disguise and discovered a trap. He stepped onto the platform and started down the concrete apron to the UP escalator.
Darby Hayes moved onto the platform and moved after Martin. “I think he’s figured it out,” muttered Darby into the lapel microphone attached to his collar.
Harper jostled a group of people examining their Metro map and swinging cameras around their necks. He lost a couple of steps on Darby.
Harvey moved to a spot where the nearest escalator could be boarded. He started to turn back towards Darby.
They were all out of position.
Martin saw the moment as clearly as the ten-ring on a range target. The Ruger P90 slid into his hand and he thumbed the decocking lever to the firing position. Martin never carried a weapon without one round up the pipe.
No one saw the weapon emerge. Martin shielded the motion from Harper and Darby, using his body, and he counted on the momentary loss of contact with Harvey as the former FBI agent positioned himself next to the escalator.
In one fluid motion, Martin brought the satin silver muzzle to presentation, holding the weapon with both hands. He caught Darby at less than ten paces and started shooting.
Kill zone!
The .45 thundered and three bullets slammed into Darby in less than two seconds. Rumbling trains and milling crowds quickly sucked up the noise of the gunshots. Most people outside a twenty-five–foot radius hardly noticed the shooting. They caught him full in the chest. Darby had left his vest at the hotel that morning. He complained it itched too much.
Darby staggered backwards. His world turned gray and his knees folded up beneath him. He hit the floor hard as his heart pumped precious purple blood across the floor.
Kurt Martin tucked the P90 back into his coat and slid sideways. He ignored the startled stares and frightened glares. He moved diagonally and strode into the crowded walkway, finding people who were still looking for the source of the muffled shots. In seconds, he vanished completely.
Harvey turned towards the gunfire. He gripped his Smith & Wesson and started running back into the crowd. Someone screamed and others turned towards the noise, uncertain what they had heard.
Harper had his Glock in hand and ran through a gaggle of people. “Sergeant!” he shouted in to his microphone. Only static greeted his ears. He knew what had happened before he saw it.
Harper’s old nemesis—the Reaper—had returned.
Harvey and Harper arrived over Darby at the same time. There was blood everywhere, and Darby’s Beretta was still in its holster. “Sergeant!” yelled Harper. He rolled his friend over and pulled apart his shirt.
Harvey set the 10mm autoloader on the floor and applied his beefy palms in direct pressure to the wounds. They were clustered around his left lung, and blood bubbled from Darby’s nostrils. Harper took off his jacket and rolled it up as a pillow for Darby’s head. Harvey never noticed the blood running down Harper’s arm as it mingled with Darby’s nasty chest wound. Harper’s world spun dangerously as the nausea swept over him and the crowd noise bombarded his senses.
Harper had seen more combat wounds than he cared to remember. Darby was in rough shape, and he appeared to be going into shock. Harper surveyed the crowd, but he knew he had lost their quarry.
The Metro cops showed up next. They saw Harvey’s Smith & Wesson lying on the ground next to his knee, and Harper’s Glock sticking out of his holster. It did not help that Darby’s Beretta was visible next to the still-pumping holes. They surrounded the trio and drew their own weapons. Kurt Martin vanished in the commotion and Darby bled to death before the paramedics arrived.
* * * *
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Harvey Randall and Jim Harper sat in a locked room on the third floor of the JEH Building. They remained dressed in their blood-splattered clothes, and their wrists were handcuffed to chairs bolted to the floor. Their pockets were inside out from the rough search they underwent once the FBI showed up in force.
Harper stared hollowly at the wall. The emergency medical technicians arrived too late to save Darby. Darby’s heart stopped while Harvey and Harper attempted to stem the bleeding under the nervous gaze of two Metro cops who kept their guns pointed at their backs.
The defibrillator paddles shocked Darby several times, but after fifteen minutes, the inevitable conclusion was reached. The FBI and a black, plastic body bag arrived together. Harper looked from Darby’s too still form to Harvey and said quietly, “The Sergeant was with me in Iraq and Panama.”
Harvey nodded.
“He was supposed to be watching my back, and I let him down,” continued Harper grimly. He silently cursed his weakness. Darby had taken the lead position in order to give him a chance to conserve his strength, and Darby was dead for his care. Another ghost to walk along his path, and another face to haunt his dreams. He intended to see justice carried out, and he had no intention of waiting for the judicial system. His weakness had killed Darby as certain as Kurt Martin’s gun.
“Major…”
Harper shook his head, “His parents are dead and he had no family besides the Corps. Now he’s dead.”
Harvey sighed. “He knew the risks.”
Harper nodded as a five-man Bureau team slapped the handcuffs on their wrists and led them away to parked armored Suburbans.
Harvey watched Harper from his iron chair. Harper remained still locked away in his thoughts and replaying his private hell. He had not spoken since the Bureau agents relieved the Metro cops. Harvey suspected Harper was at a dangerous precipice, and sitting handcuffed inside the Hoover Building was not the time to leap. It frightened him to realize he did not know what was going through Harper’s mind, but he surmised the warrior blamed himself for Darby Hayes’ death.
Harvey had a more immediate concern. They should have been handed off to the D.C. Metropolitan Police, but they never showed up. Instead, the Bureau descended as if they were expecting an opportunity to present itself. A shooting amidst tourists beneath the Washington Mall gave the Bureau wide latitude. He considered the problem, and did not like any of the likely answers.
The gray door opened and Lou Feldman walked in trailed by his sycophant aide—Rita Mason.
Harper looked in their direction before returning to the wall he had been studying. His hands formed into fists and he tugged at the restraints, causing his wrists to chafe. He wanted to smash something, and Harper decided Feldman would do.
Rita curled up around a chair armed with her multicolored ink pen and notebooks. Feldman popped the cap on his water bottle and took a sip.
It was going to be a good day.
“Harvey,” whistled Feldman as he shook his head. “You’re in a great deal of trouble.”
Rita Mason decided to use blue ink for Harvey and red for Harper. “Do you have a permit for this pistol?” She dangled his Smith & Wesson Model 1066 upside-down by the trigger guard.
Harvey thought about his answer and decided to say nothing.
“Major James Harper, Special Forces Retired,” sneered Feldman.
Harper glanced up at Feldman who had yet to take a seat. Harper tugged at the handcuffs and shot a goblet of spittle between Feldman’s running shoes. Their relationship had all the charm of the neighborhood bully teasing a junkyard dog.
“You’re Louis Edwards’ super-soldier.” He chuckled gleefully and shook his head. “Louis Edwards ain’t going to show up and save you this time. There aren’t any Federal Marshals to keep you out of my custody. General George Carnady doesn’t even know you’re here today.” He thought he had all bases covered—as usual Feldman was overly optimistic.
Harper glowered at Feldman. A myriad of remedies occurred to him—none of which would bring Darby back or keep him out of jail.
Harper said quietly, “My Sergeant was murdered today, the killer got away, and you have me handcuffed to a chair. Maybe you think this a game, Agent Feldman, but I assure you I don’t.”
Harvey recognized Harper’s tone and it left Harvey cold. “Feldman, it might be best if you got to the point.”
Feldman chuckled again and paced back along the length of the table. “The point…” He shook his head. “…the point is very simple. I have you, Harvey, and I’m going to squeeze you for all of your petty words.”
Rita Mason glanced over the top of her notebook and said, “I think he means you’re going to jail.”
Harper looked over at Rita Mason and whispered, “Sergeant Hayes was a man of honor who put his life on the line more than once to protect his country. I don’t know what you are, but honor is something you know nothing about.” Harper flexed his legs, but the chair was bolted to the floor with case-hardened steel.
Feldman turned back to Harper before Rita could answer and said sardonically, “And what super-secret mission are you involved in that permits you to flaunt the District’s gun laws? Oh, I know—I’m not cleared for that. Well, I’ll tell you what I am cleared for.”
“Stupidity?” asked Harvey.
Feldman’s lips flapped shut.
“Lou, we’re not involved in a frivolous exercise. A man was killed and his killer is on the loose,” Harvey explained, as if reason would work.
Rita Mason produced a photograph taken from the L’Enfant Plaza surveillance cameras. “This man?”
Harper stared at the photograph, burning the image into his memory. He decided he would kill this man—slowly. Harper was no longer thinking rationally. He was slipping over the edge into a land of revenge, mayhem, and murder. Feldman and Mason were obstacles barring his path to his true goal.
Harvey glanced at Rita and said, “Yeah.”
“We’re looking for him, Harvey,” said Feldman. “Why don’t you tell us why a three-man team followed him through the Metro?”
“Why don’t you find him yourself?” snapped Harper. “You’ve been tracking us with CYCLOPS so you should be able to find this man.”
Feldman concentrated on Harper and said, “You’re not supposed to know about CYCLOPS.”
“And you’re not supposed to be so ugly,” quipped Harvey.
“You won’t sound so smart after I turn your case over to the US Attorney’s Office for the State of Virginia.”
Harvey shook his head.
“What’s wrong, Harvey, run out of Chinese spies this week?” snarled Feldman.
Harvey held his silence.
Feldman smiled and said, “Rita—please note the great Harvey Randall hasn’t any come-backs.”
Rita jotted down a notation.
Harper watched her with a mixture of disgust and pity.
“The first thing we’re going to do is find a nice, sturdy cage for the super-soldier. A white rubber room at Bethesda Naval Hospital should work very nicely.” Feldman leered at Harper.
“Lou, what exactly have we been charged with?” asked Harvey.
“Weapons violation should be a good start.”
Harvey shook his head. “I believe you will find that we both have Federal permits to carry weapons anywhere in the country.”
“We must have misplaced the paperwork,” replied Feldman. “Isn’t that correct Rita? We have no record of any such permits.”
Rita flipped through her notes and shook her head. “None.”
Lou turned back to Harvey and said, “I guess you’re out of luck on that score Harvey.”
Harper lived in a world of stark contrasts between good and evil, white and black, right and wrong. The slights and harassment came to mind, and his white-hot anger raged. His gaze shifted from Rita to Feldman, and he said slowly, “You’ve followed me, tapped my phone, read my mail, harassed my wife and bothered my friends. You’re not interested in finding the man who killed my Sergeant; you’re only interested in playing your petty little political games.” Harper did not understand political games, and was not interested in learning.
“Games? This isn’t about games. You put two FBI agents into the hospital for three months down in Panama. There were murders, explosions, and all sorts of unexplained incidents while you were in country. You broke the law, Major, and now it is time to pay the price.”
The soldier’s code to follow his orders and complete the mission overrode Harper’s desire to explain. The truth held no currency in this conversation, and Feldman was not interested in the facts. He could not talk about Chinese missiles in Panama or OperationNineveh. It was a secret history buried deep, and he had no idea what the Bureau knew or did not know. His duty was clear; it was not something he could discuss regardless the price.
“Lou, you don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” explained Harvey.
“Really? Then why don’t you explain,” offered Feldman.
“Lou—” began Harvey.
“You’re not cleared for that information,” declared Harper flatly.
The gray door opened and Mark Schaeffer walked in. Feldman turned towards the disturbance and Mark flipped a card at him. “Mark Schaeffer, Attorney at law.” He took in the room and examined his clients.
“Who are you?” demanded Feldman.
“I’m their lawyer, and this is an order from a Federal judge ordering you to release my clients,” explained Mark. He slapped the folded paper onto Feldman’s chest and dared him to speak.
Feldman started to unfold the court order, and Mark pointed towards Rita. “You! Get these handcuffs off my clients.”
Rita remained coiled about the chair and Mark bounced forward, snapping, “Now!”
“This is highly irregular—”
Schaeffer stuck a finger on Feldman’s chest and growled, “So are violations of the Constitution by Federal Agencies. I don’t think the ACLU would look kindly on your surveillance system that you are running on the Metro and spying on American citizens in abeyance of a warrant to suspend their rights. You know—the fourth amendment, unreasonable search and seizure. Or do you want the news shows talking about CYCLOPS?”
