Cloudburst (11 page)

Art didn’t see Jerry Donovan come up from behind. A tap on his shoulder alerted him. “Jerry. How the hell did you get here? I mean, in
town
?”

Donovan had been on a backpack fishing trip in the Maroon Bells area of Aspen, Colorado. “Let me tell you, it’s a damn shame when an Army chopper plucks you out of a spot that God Himself made for the fisherman. What’ve we got going here?”

It took five minutes to update his boss. “He’s got some relatives, according to some lady two doors down. But that’ll take some time to confirm.”

Donovan took it all in. He had obviously come straight from a quick change of clothes and a shave. His balding head of black hair was longer than he usually wore it. “A smart one, it seems.”

“Maybe.” Art wasn’t sure about that. Fortunate, possibly, and well directed more likely. He felt it in his gut that there was a further player in this, someone behind Jackson.

The second agent felt his top collar button pop. “Damn fast dressing!” He left it undone. “Hey. What say you and me head on back to the barn.” The barn was the office, and Art hadn’t been there since the morning of the shooting. Donovan bent forward and down, examining Art’s chin. “If that’s the worst you ever get…”

“I know. I’m lucky.”

“Who’s senior here?”

“Hal Lightman.” Art looked to the front.

“Good. Ready?”

The drive to the FBI office was slow in the lingering Los Angeles rush-hour traffic, taking nearly forty-five minutes.

“I went a little out of channels, Jerry,” Art admitted as the car exited the freeway. Donovan’s silence meant ‘go on.’ “Eddie’s over at the Israeli consulate. I wanted to contact someone I knew from their embassy—a terrorism expert.”

“I don’t know, Art.” Donovan could see how that might backfire. “Picture the media if they get a hold of it. ‘FBI and Israelis investigate the middle eastern connection in the assassination.’” His gaze emphasized the words. “You get my drift? Especially if this Jackson connection pans out. The press would read that as a homegrown job, even if it’s not.”

Art wanted to tell his superior that his line of thought was bullshit, but wisely toned down his tongue. “I understand, but one of the shooters is—”

“Alleged shooter, Art.” Again, Donovan spoke louder with his eyes. “Remember that.”

“Are you telling me to back off on that?” Art asked, with no love of the idea in his voice.

Donovan paused. “No. It’s your call.”

There hadn’t been any doubt in Art’s mind. His boss was just doing his job, and in a small way, he was right. But then he thought in political terms, not those of a cop. He had come up through the ranks from the financial investigations section, a path that was safe and deskbound from beginning to end. That, Art believed, made him a candidate for something, somewhere, someday. Fortunately, though, he didn’t impose his own skittishness on those he supervised. And there was that small bit of truth in Donovan’s words. The whole thing could be taken wrong, and that could lead to even more problems. International incident? Maybe. But the detrimental effect it could have on the investigation was what worried Art the most. The Israelis certainly wouldn’t be happy to share any information if their role were disclosed and twisted. He had to make sure it was kept quiet, and he had to get a good, solid link. Evidence that Obed was one of the shooters, and that there was something substantive in any relation he or the other assassin had to any terrorist backing.

From the underground parking garage at FBI headquarters Art went up six floors, directly to his office. The guard sitting at the reception area near the elevators paid little attention to the senior agent.

Art opened the door to the outer office. Carol, his secretary—administrative aide, he corrected himself—was gone. He checked his watch. It was almost six.
Shit… Eddie.
He picked up the phone.

Eddie answered on the first ring as it echoed in the Hilton’s banquet room. “Toronassi.”

“Ed. How’d it go?”

“I hear you’ve been kickin’ doors, boss.”

“It keeps me young. What happened at the consulate?”

“It went good. They were helpful, to say the least. Damn nice people. I guess they’ve had enough experience with this crap too. Anyway, I spoke with Meir. He said he would personally work this through and call back as soon as he has anything.”

“Ed. I want you to take the call. No one else.”

“Okay.” Eddie wondered what the problem was. “Something up?”

There was no need to burden Eddie, or anyone else, with the trivial crap that had trickled down. “No. I just want to keep this under wraps.”

“No problem.” Someone was laying something on the boss. Eddie figured that had to be it. The boss didn’t let little things show, but he couldn’t hide those things very well that really bothered him.

“Great. Thanks for handling all that.” Art pulled off his tie with a tug and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. Then the jacket came off and landed on the couch. “Jackson was clean gone. No suitcases or anything like that left in the house, and lots of his clothes were gone, so I think we can safely say he wanted to get out of town before the—“ Art’s phone buzzed. “Hold on, Ed.” He pushed the intercom button. “Jefferson… Okay.” Art pressed another line. “Hal, what’s up?”

It took only a minute for Hal Lightman to explain the development.

“All right. Okay, get that out as a supplemental. Good work.” He returned to Ed. “Good news.”

“Jackson?”

“One of his neighbors got home from work a while ago and had some very interesting info for us. It seems our friend pulled into his driveway early Saturday in a brand-spanking-new Cadillac DeVille, white with that gaudy gold trim—her words. She said it looked like a pimp’s car. He threw a few suitcases in the trunk and took off. She didn’t remember any plates on the car, just a dealer frame. She couldn’t remember where from.”

“It looks like he came into some money,” Eddie said.

“But from where? Or who?” Art fumbled with his sleeve buttons before rolling them up. He dropped his body into the high-back leather chair. “God, this feels good. Ed,” he said, leaning forward on the desk, “get everything you can on Jackson. Personnel records and everything. One of the neighbors mentioned something about him having relatives back East, but not much more than that. There might be something in his records somewhere. Check that against his five-oh-two arrest. Maybe his mother or brother or someone bailed him out then.”

“Okay. We’ve already got his file from the building manager, but they don’t keep very good records. There’s nothing there about family.”

That was a little strange. “Was there a place for it?”

“Yeah. It was just blank.”

Oh, well
, Art thought. Nothing was going to be direct or easy in any of this. “Who was his last employer?”

“RTD. He drove buses for them starting about ten years back. We should have that file in an hour.”

Art nodded, looking at the coffeepot. It was off and empty. Carol usually had a pot waiting for him, but then he usually walked into the office at six A.M. “Okay. Let me know if the Israelis call, and call me if you get anything on Jackson. Jerry said the director wants an update in the morning, so I’ll be here for a while. It’s longhand tonight.”

Eddie chuckled. “Carol’s gonna love you tomorrow. Good luck.”

Art hung up and pulled his top drawer out. He set the legal pad there, then got up to make a much needed pot of coffee. Again the guard paid Art no mind as he filled the glass pot at the water cooler. Back in the office he put a prepacked filter in the drip drawer and switched on the machine. Three minutes later the first smell of fresh coffee reached him behind the desk.

Two cups and four pages into the report he felt the uneasiness again. First he found himself focusing on his hand gripping the pen. It wouldn’t move.
Damn!
Two weeks had passed since his last…
She’s gone. You blew it.

The pen slid out of his hand. Art stretched the fingers from both hands out, examining the palms and his quivering fingers. They steadied after a few breaths.

Art rose from his seat and went to the couch, sitting at the end uncluttered by his shed clothing. He wondered if anyone in the office knew how many nights he had slept here. The apartment just wasn’t the right place. It didn’t feel like a home. Home was the house in Monrovia, and Lois had gotten that as part of the divorce settlement.
You drove her away.
Hell, she deserved the house, and a lot more. Art was sure of that. It had been a good fifteen years, or so he thought, that had ended less than a year ago. Now she was in the house alone…or was she? He decided he was beating himself up enough without throwing in the ‘new lover’ factor.

He took the jacket from his left and balled it into a pillow, adding that to the cushioned arm of the couch, then lay down, his eyes looking straight up. The doctor said these relaxation exercises were important as part of his overall program to better his health—and save his life.
Overall program! Quit smoking and do visualization exercises.
It was supposed to do good. He would do them as promised.

First, he found a point on the dim ceiling as he closed his eyes…

Georgetown

As morning passed to afternoon, and afternoon to evening across the nation, people dealt with the shock of the previous day’s events in whatever way they could. Some were indifferent. Some were in disbelief. Some were openly grieving.

Bud DiContino was quiet in his contemplation of his feelings. President Bitteredge had been a man of integrity and high morals. He only wished he had been given the opportunity to know him better and work more closely with him. Deputies did not have the privilege of easy access to the president.

But what about the new president? Would he be as rock steady in his beliefs as his predecessor? Could he handle the job? Bud didn’t know. No one did. He had done well so far. But the adrenaline rush of the day and the motivation to get the job done would wear off of everyone, including the president. What then? Bud decided that waiting was the best cure for his questioning.

It had been a long day and his side hurt like hell as he lay on the bed in his jogging shorts. With these ribs he wouldn’t do any running for a while. Next time, he thought, to hell with the Tylenol. Pure codeine, as the E.R. doctor had suggested. The shower had felt good, standing under the hot stream for twenty straight minutes. Bud glanced at his watch and let both arms rise in the air and fall to the bed above his head. His eyes were closed. The two Secret Service agents assigned to him had been asked to wake him at five A.M., just in case he found his way to the snooze button. They would pass it on to the twelve-to-eight detail shortly.

Sleep came easily. He could feel it enveloping him as his mind drifted off to a place where yesterday never happened.

Four

DEMONS

Georgetown

Bud rolled over at the sound of the phone.
God, it can’t be five already.
He felt cold with just shorts on and pulled the sheets up to cover his shoulders as he picked up the receiver.

“DiContino.”

“Sir,” the male voice began, sounding much like one of the many government subordinates, secretaries, and deputies who came on a line in advance of their superior. “This is the NSC watch officer. I have a priority-one message from the FAA.”

Bud pushed himself up to a sitting position on the bed’s edge and shook the last of the sleepiness from his head. “Go ahead.” It took only a minute for the situation to be explained. “Jesus. You better get the coffee going. I’ll be there shortly.”

He released the line and dialed the White House communications center. It rang only once.

“Com center.” The operator was female and all business.

“This is NSA DiContino. Secure this line and connect me with Secretary Meyerson.” There was a hollow hum as the connection was switched and then the ringing at the other end, sounding like an alarm bell in a tunnel. There hadn’t been time since his ascension in government to install one of the newer UltraCrypt telecommunications security systems on his phone, an older, still compatible system having been placed in a rush.

“Hello,” an abruptly roused Meyerson answered.

“Drew, this is Bud.”

“What time is it?”

Bud checked. “Almost three.” He switched the receiver to the other ear and flipped on the bedside lamp. “There’s a situation.”

The secretary noticed the sound of the secure line. “What?”

Bud took a little longer explaining to the secretary than the NSC watch officer had giving him the information. Meyerson was already half dressed when he hung up, and only his tie was left to put on by the time he made the call he had to make.

Flight 422

Captain Bart Hendrickson leveled the
Clipper Atlantic Maiden
off at three thousand feet above the shimmering Mediterranean Sea. Normally he would be flying at an altitude of thirty-one thousand on a heading of three-zero-zero degrees, but this was obviously no ordinary flight plan, and certainly not normal conditions. It had been nearly a year since he had commanded with a third man in the cockpit, thanks to the advances of the 747-400, and never had he flown with that third person wearing what he said was a bomb and pointing a submachine gun at the back of his head. He figured it was going to be a day for firsts.

“Any other instructions?” the captain asked.

The young man, looking like a Middle Eastern businessman traveling on the Athens-to-London leg of the flight, pressed the muzzle of the 9mm Mini-Uzi harder into the captain’s neck. “Two-five-zero…just fly,” he repeated the earlier orders.

The first officer had to grit his teeth in an effort to restrain himself. An old Marine, Buzz would always retain the habits instilled in him by the Corps—like keeping his crew cut. And there were other more valuable ones: like respect, and pride. To some they were clichés. To a Marine they were part of the soul. Which was why his stomach was turning at the sound of the pirate ordering his captain around.
You fuckhead
.