ROGUESTATE, page 25
Conner kept the Glock trained on the two rent-a-cops. The one he hit in the chest was still breathing—at least with one lung. The headshot looked bad. A .45 round at ten feet appeared to have taken the left side of his scalp and plastered it on the corridor wall. Conner responded instinctively to the new threat and belatedly realized it had not been necessary to use deadly force.
He decided not to press a deteriorating situation. Killing Harmony and Stoney seemed to be a public good—murdering the rent-a-cops rattled Conner further. He stumbled over their bodies and into polished mahogany hallway. His heart pounded in his ears and his limbs trembled. Right and wrong blurred as he headed for the stairwell. Conner was out of control and running. Only the twisted logic connecting Damn Layne to a nebulous sense of redemption kept him from jamming the Glock’s barrel down to his tonsils and pulling the trigger.
* * * *
“Subject is making a phone call,” announced the technician.
“Who’s he calling?”
The technician’s finger flew over the keyboard and he answered distractedly, “I’ll have that information for you in a just a minute.” The digital synapses fired between the mobile van parked a few blocks from Bridger’s office and the super-secret main-frames at Fort Meade. The dialed number’s area code and exchange was read from Bridger’s phone. This information identified the telecommunications company that serviced the destination phone number.
The NSA computers accessed a special law enforcement account established to handle routine checks. Seconds later the last two months’ billing and phone calls dumped into the hard disk on one of the computers in the van. Jonas had another name to add to a growing list of people connected to Damon Layne. The billing information identified the owner of the cell phone as Kurt Martin.
Bridger’s voice crackled on the speakers. There was approximately a thirty-second delay as one of the NSA’s satellites plucked the conversation from the nearest relay tower. Signal enhancement circuitry scrubbed the static and boosted volume strength. The conversation Jonas heard was actually clearer than the one Bridger heard.
“Hello,” answered Martin.
“This is Bridger! Do you have any idea where Conner Fadden is these days?”
“Sounds a bit pissed,” murmured Mister Jones.
Jonas nodded.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” answered Martin.
“Uh-huh.”
“Three guys have been leading me around with your pager. I ended up shooting one of them yesterday. The whole Bureau came crashing down.”
“I don’t care about your problems!” yelled Bridger. “Fadden was here in New York—in my office!”
“Oh,” answered Martin lamely.
“He took three shots at me! He just tried to kill me!” It sounded like Bridger was frothing at the mouth. “You’re supposed to kill him! He’s not even supposed to know about me!”
“All right—all right, I’ll take care of it.”
“Make sure of it!”
The phone call terminated.
It was time to talk to Harvey.
* * * *
Alexandria, Virginia
Eduard Gurov cruised the streets surrounding Alexandria’s Old Town district. He had spent two hours groveling before Gennadiy Panferkov. He needed intelligence and only theWild Bunch could provide it.
Gennadiy grudgingly provided him the raw intelligence he required, and wagged his overfed fingers under his nose. “Do not come to the Embassy. If you must contact me, use this procedure.” He pressed into a contact procedure Eduard’s hand.
He left the bench they had shared along the Reflecting Pool between the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument. The information Eduard requested was in an office envelope
Parvez dutifully checked his sister’s voice mail account every day. If she had message to deliver to him, she changed the announcement and he called her cell phone at a specific time. They were circumspect about powering up the cell phone due to recent press reports suggesting the government could track location based on an ID chip embedded in the circuitry.
While Parvez was hiding from the Bureau, he foolishly established a pattern. TheWild Bunch tracked Parvez using the Caller ID system and identified the phones he had been using to make contact. Parvez did not carry a cell phone and relied on pay phones.
Eduard noted that Parvez used phones in Alexandria, Virginia, more often. He presumed Parvez had a base of operations close by. He knew he would find Parvez. He had time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Chechnya,London Telegraph,Nigel Turner, October 1, 2000 –At the Chernokozovo prison camp, they call it the elephant. A prisoner’s head is stuffed into a gas mask and their hands are tied behind their back. Next the air hole is pinched closed, and prisoners begin to suffocate, making the sound of an elephant.
For particularly difficult prisoners, CS gas is squirted down the hole into the faces of people gasping for air. The elephant is just one of many torture devices being used by the Russian Army against civilian prisoners.
Washington D.C.
Monday, November 6
2000, 5:30 P.M. EST
Haley Dickinson parked her car on the streets surrounding the Russell, Dirksen, and Hart Senate Office Buildings. She had earned the special parking permit pasted to the inside of her windshield based on her longevity. She had been with the senator for twenty years, and ten years before that when he was a struggling state legislator.
She had served as confidant, advisor, nurse, and nanny, but never lover. She knew his secrets and sins, and she made sure his biggest contributors received the legislative perks they craved—a tax loophole here and a federal grant there. As long as the money rolled in, she could continue her comfortable life in the Maryland countryside.
Haley’s skills did not extend to typing and constituent correspondence; rather, she was one of the shrewdest political operators on the hill. No one dared to say to her face the name that circulated amongst friends and enemies. Haley was a little more than five-feet tall and weighed a bit more than one hundred eighty pounds. It caused one disgruntled congressional staffer to christen her theDwarf. Three days later, he found himself packed off to Wichita.
Whatever Haley desired, she acquired. She detested the Metro with its mixture of bored federal employees, wide-eyed tourists, and soldiers fulfilling their Pentagon duty. Not only did Haley have one of the coveted parking permits, she had a special slot long enough for her Cadillac, and she had the Capitol Police trained to ensure her spot was always free. Towing another permit holder had happened more than once.
They found Haley’s hand and arm still clutching the handle to the driver’s side door of her Cadillac. The bomb blast corkscrewed the four-thousand-pound car upwards, ripping and twisting it into deadly metal shards. Haley took the major brunt of the blast as it appeared to have been shaped to produce maximum damage to the driver. Haley might have had the opportunity to bleed to death from the terrible internal damage, but the car landed sideways and crushed her before she had a chance to suffer.
The bomb blast occurred across the street from the Capitol Plaza; a couple blocks down Pennsylvania Avenue
sat the J. Edgar Hoover Building. Dwayne Morton’s office windows rattled during the event, and the emergency vehicle sirens followed less than a minute later. Deep in his gut, Dwayne knew he would spend the next hours perusing another crime scene. The carefully crafted theory that hung the bombing murders of Jayne Skinner and Alicia Montgomery on Allan Skinner burned up in the fireball over Haley Dickinson’s car.
Bad news traveled fast, and Dwayne had a grip on the worst kind. Lou Feldman and Rita Mason bore down on Dwayne less than an hour after Haley Dickinson had been smeared like strawberry jam across Capitol Plaza. He groaned inwardly as he watched them stride purposely around the EMT people and forensic specialists. The top floor at the Hoover Building was nervous and they had sent Feldman to make sure he understood just how concerned they were about the current predicament. The next victim might be standing for election.
Dwayne examined the Cadillac. It was a twisted and confused wreck, but it was also indicative of the killer he was hunting. The bombings were progressing towards someone truly important, and the last thing Dwayne needed for career enhancement was a member of Congress to get blown apart outside their home.
“Dwayne,” boomed Feldman in his most pompous and self-important tone.
Dwayne might as well have tried to stop an avalanche as the two cornered him next to a D.C. Metropolitan Police van. The amount of media attention was paltry as it was focused exclusively on the last-minute campaigning by the two major Presidential candidates with muted commentary as to whether or not the Green party would cost the Democrats the vital California Electoral College votes.
“The Director asked me to come down here,” continued Feldman in his most serious and hushed tone.
“He’s quite concerned about three bombings over last two weeks,” echoed Rita.
“He wants you to understand that you have the full force and resources of the Bureau backing you up,” explained Feldman.
“And naturally they want to know what you’re doing to bring this matter to a swift conclusion,” clipped Rita.
“We need to stop this before someone important gets hurt, and you know what that’ll mean,” warned Feldman
“Congressional hearings, funding denials, and all manner of investigations into the Bureau,” added Rita.
“The Director is quite concerned that we protect the Bureau,” concluded Feldman.
Dwayne pushed his way through the two of them and said, “Right now I have three dead bodies, residue from a bomb that appears to be homemade, and the wrong guy in jail.” He walked away from them, wondering how they were going to protect the Bureau, much less the targets, from a determined killer. A smart and cunning criminal was one of the worst-case nightmares any law enforcement agency faced.
* * * *
Crystal City, Virginia
Mark Schaeffer paced up and down before the large white board. He had photographs of Adrian Bridger, Conner Fadden, Damon Layne, Isaac Timmerman, and Kurt Martin taped to the board. There were a series of arrows connecting the players together, and the tableau it portrayed made his palms sweat.
Jonas Benjamin, Harvey, and Mark huddled together in Harvey’s temporary office. They poured over the NSA phone intercepts made against Bridger. Jonas managed to get the NSA to check the last seven days and a filter process that consumed machine time on one of the CRAY super-computers that returned Bridger’s conversations for the period of time preceding the discovery of Isaac Timmerman. Bridger appeared to be in constant contact with contract killers, drug dealers, and corrupt union stewards. Damon Layne and Panama receded into the background like a bad dream, as Adrian Bridger became a terrible and frightening specter.
“None of this stuff you have here is legal,” protested Mark.
“I know,” muttered Jonas dejectedly.
“In fact, we should destroy it all. I mean you’ve violated the law big time here by spying on Bridger.”
Harvey waved his hand to silence Mark. It was all very familiar territory for Harvey. The Chinese spy hunt, the demands from the White House that he cease and desist, the destruction of his marriage, the estrangement of his children, and his banishment to West Yellowstone and obscurity. Harvey had assumed his true nemesis had been the White House’s efforts to circle the wagons and protect the president, but Panama caused him to doubt his conclusions, and Adrian Bridger went far beyond the scope of national security. It was all tantalizingly familiar—layers upon layers of dead ends and blind alleys.
“We can’t ignore Bridger,” protested Jonas.
“We’re way beyond the law. You have no court orders to authorize these phone intercepts,” replied Mark reprovingly.
Harvey stared at the words on the pages before them and asked, “Do you really think they could steal the election?”
Mark Schaeffer had been through more political battles than he cared to remember. Voter fraud was alive and well in America and the ability to abuse the system had been further enhanced with same-day voter registration and motor/voter laws. On a smaller scale, he and witnessed busloads of “voters” marauding from poll to poll, casting the same votes as different citizens.
Before his Washington days, Mark had worked in states that had passed same day voter registration. He ran a program where every voter registering on Election Day was mailed a congratulatory letter. In certain congressional districts, over fifty thousand letters were returned either because the address was a vacant lot or the person did not exist.
Everyone knew that dead people voted for Jack Kennedy during the 1960 election. Dead people were still voting in those districts where felons and the deceased were not purged from the voting rolls. Voting technology provided another method to defraud the voting public. Punch card systems were fairly easy to gimmick and the conventional voting machines with toggles and a handle could easily be manipulated before or after the vote.
Mark nodded slowly. “If it were organized well enough, you could steal any election.”
Harvey rubbed the back of his neck and said, “But a national election?”
Mark nodded again. “Look at it this way, they don’t have to steal the entire nation. They only have to get a couple of places.” He spun the billing records around and after a minute, he started tapping the pages. “Look at where these calls go. Philadelphia, Miami, and Detroit.”
“We need to do something,” urged Jonas.
Harvey shook his head. “In a few hours they’ll start voting in Maine and New Hampshire—besides we’re getting off the point.”
“What’s more important than a presidential election?” snapped Jonas.
Mark shook his head. In his heart, he agreed with Jonas’ youthful desire and his head told him Harvey was right. Whatever Bridger had put together it was too late to stop; besides, who could they tell? The Bureau would not be open to their allegations, and the Justice Department might be in on the scheme. After eight years of Buddhist monks granting five-thousand-dollar contributions and Chinese moneymen, the sanctity of the ballet box was about as real as the Easter Bunny.
“There’s nothing we can do about it right now,” concluded Mark sadly.
Harvey got to his feet and walked up to the white board. He tapped the photograph of Kurt Martin, “Did you tell Harper where to find this guy?”
Jonas shrugged. “It’s Harper. He demanded to know how I could track him. I owe Jim my life—what was I supposed to do?”
Mark realized he had missed something. “What are you talking about?”
Harvey looked from Jonas to Mark and said slowly, “This is the guy who killed Darby Hayes in the subway. God help him, Harper has gone hunting for blood.” He shuddered, remembering what Harper was capable of doing.
“You mean like he’s going to kill him?” queried Mark.
“No, I mean he’s going to find this guy and rip his heart out. Jim has a very parochial view of the world,” explained Jonas.
“It’s black and white,” added Harvey.
“That’s murder,” whispered Mark. “He can’t up and murder someone.”
“Harper doesn’t see it as murder,” replied Harvey.
“He’d call it justice,” concluded Jonas.
Mark ran his hand down his face and muttered, “Golly, we have laws and a system of jurisprudence. We have a rulebook, and you can’t arbitrarily ignore certain rules. Murder is one of the big ones.”
Harvey nodded tiredly. “We’ve got two questions that we don’t have answers for. The first one is: What is the connection between Damon Layne and Adrian Bridger?”
Jonas nodded focusing on the white board again.
“Wait a minute—that’s it!” snapped Mark. “You’re just going to ignore Harper’s vendetta?”
Harvey answered quickly, “Yeah, that’s it. Wecan’t stop whatever Bridger is going to do tomorrow, and we’renot going to try and stop Harper.”
“What’s the other question?” asked Jonas.
“How did Conner find out about Bridger? What’s the connection?”
Schaeffer decided to pursue the illegalities later and added, “There’s a third question.”
“Oh?” asked Harvey.
“Yeah, why did Conner try to kill Bridger?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Chechnya,London Telegraph,Nigel Turner, November 1, 2000 –The Russian army base at Khatuni is the frontline on the edge of Chechnya’s unconquered and unbowed rebels.
Russian generals believe the three most wanted men in Chechnya—Shamil Basayev, Ibn-ul-Khattab and Chechen president Aslan Maskhadov—are close by. Amidst the magnificent mountain splendor and dense forests, 3000 rebels continue to bleed the Red Army. The Red Army hopes the coming winter will reduce the rebel’s options and permit the elite 51stparatrooper division to finally hunt down and exterminate the Chechen resistance. If the summer is any guide, the Red Army might be overly optimistic.
Cape Charles, Virginia
Tuesday, November 7, 2000
2:00 P.M. EST
Parvez Hyder pushed the throttles forward and the twin Perkins 185 horsepower diesels came to life. The forty-three–foot fiberglass trawler, calledGay Chance, surged forward into the Atlantic. Behind him Hampton Roads, the Newport News Shipyards, and Norfolk Naval Station (home of the United States Atlantic Fleet [COMNAVSURFLANT]) receded into a blue gray haze as the sky met Chesapeake Bay.
TheGay Chance crossed below Chesapeake Bay Bridge running from Virginia Beach to the Eastern Shore. Fisherman Island hung to the north as he angled the boat to run along the barrier islands on Virginia’s Eastern Shore. Ahead he could see the Cape Charles Lighthouse. It was his marker to move north along Smith, Myrtle, and Ship Shoal Islands before changing his heading due east and driving for the deep water beyond the twelve-mile territorial limit.
While he had never been to the Norfolk Naval Station, he had spied theRonald Reagan ’sisland at the Newport News Shipyard from the freeway. It was a stark reminder that an awesome naval presence harbored nearby. CVN-76 was due to be christened on March 4, 2001—the forty-ninth wedding anniversary of America’s fortieth president, for which it was named.
