Death of an Intern (36 page)

T
he terminal clock at Ronald Reagan National Airport read 5:51, as George Manchester walked through the terminal. He missed not having Milo pick him up. He would probably never know what happened to his friend, but right now, he had a panicky Frankie Grayson to deal with.

The Graysons were both babes in the woods when it came to taking care of things in the real world. The Vice President's forte was charm and politics. Frankie's toughness was limited to her sphere of authority. It was not his kind of toughness.

“I have a new tape, recorded ten minutes ago,” Special Agent Reed Davis told Max. “I'll play it first, and then we'll talk. One is home; Sparrow's at work.”

 

 

The line went dead.

“Manchester is on his way to the Alexandria townhouse as we speak,” Davis said.

“What's the plan?”

“We have stakeouts in Alexandria and in Arlington at One's. Why don't you come here? I am planning to follow Sparrow. Have you talked with Ms. Wolfe?”

“She was unhappily going to her apartment.”

“We'll see that she gets the proper credit.”

“That's not her concern. She wants to be in on the end.”

“She'd have to be inside our building to know what's going down now.”

“From your lips to God's ears. See you in a few.”

Laura didn't have to be inside FBI headquarters to know. She would sense it. He called her cell. It was turned off. “Now what was she up to?” he mumbled. “Delia!” he called out.

She came to his doorway.

“I can't reach Laura. I want you to call her home, cell, and office every five minutes until you get her, or hear from me. I'm on my way to FBI headquarters. Things are hot.”

“You buying dinner?”

“Order whatever you like. Get Hayes to join you. He's probably champing at the bit that he's not a part of this too.”

T
aking New Hampshire was certainly no shortcut. I should have gone down P Street to 23rd. I waited at every corner as this diagonal road cut through the square grid of streets. I looked around. The same guy who was behind me at DuPont Circle just flicked his cigarette out his window. What a slob, I thought. Smokers think the world is their ashtray.

I merged with M Street and, two blocks later, turned left on 23rd. I eventually crossed L Street and noticed the smoker was still behind me and lighting up again. My paranoia kicked in. Could he be following me?

At Washington Circle, I had a choice of routes and decided to stay in the outside lane and stayed on the circle going completely around past where I had entered it. I signaled I was turning at 23rd, next to the hospital where Kat was. Instead, I stayed on the circle much to the dismay of drivers who loudly blared their horns.

I could have gone east on Pennsylvania or K, but I continued around the circle a second time. This time the light cycle caught up to me, and I had to stop for a light. The cigarette guy was three cars back. I was definitely being followed. He had xht to know I'd made him. When the light changed, I shot forward ahead of the driver on my right, cut across his bow, and exited the circle, and then made a hard left onto the emergency ramp that cut under the Reagan Medical Center.

An EMT waved frantically that I was going the wrong way. I lowered my window and yelled. “A guy has been following me in a gray sedan.” I saw in my rearview mirror that it had just hit the lower part of the ramp. “He's on the ramp.” The EMT saw it and yelled to someone to help, and the two rushed the car. I shot down the ramp and screeched right onto 23rd Street going south.

A stoplight caught me at G Street, but the guy was not in sight. Traffic was filling in behind me. I kept an eye on the rearview mirror as the light changed. No cigarette man. I felt sticky from perspiration. Why would somebody be after me now? If he was the killer…no, that made no sense.

I crossed the Potomac River on Memorial Bridge with no sight of the cigarette man's car. I hoped the EMTs hadn't put themselves in danger. I dug out my water bottle and took two long swigs.

It was 6:40 when I reached Fairlington Villages. I pulled over to check my map book. Buchanan Street was a block ahead. I reached it and turned right. Carr's place was three quarters of the way down on the right. I drove past it and did a U-turn at the end of the street and parked across from Beth's townhouse.

I felt frazzled and decided to rest a couple of minutes.

M
ax was led into an FBI conference room. Special Agent Reed Davis, a.k.a. Mr. Brown, was with four men and two women. Some sitting, some pacing like expectant parents.

“Ah, Max. The Vice President will be departing for Alexandria at 7:15. Manchester is already there.”

Max was sitting next to Davis. “They don't waste much time rounding up the horses, do they?”

“Our director should be meeting with the Director of the Secret Service about now. This is all precautionary, you understand. The Attorney General has been fully briefed and is now with the Secretary of Homeland Security. They will both be joining up with the two directors. They'll be following everything we say and do.”

Six miles south of FBI headquarters, agents Nielssen and Wallace observed Beth Carr's townhouse from a third-floor perch across the street. Their designation was Watcher Lookout. They had been reviewing the various positions vehicles should take to secure the area, if and when that was required.

Another two-person FBI team, Watch Dog, referred to as Dog, was parked fifty yards west on Buchanan, with a direct line of sight to Carr's front door. A car that had just driven by Carr's had turned around and was now parked directly below them and across from Carr's. The driver took some time before getting out.

“Shit,” Nielssen said.

Wallace was surprised. “What?” “

Below. That woman. She's the newspaper reporter, Laura Wolfe.”

“Damn!”

“This could be trouble.” She clicked on her headset. “Dog, the visitor is
Washington Daily Star
reporter Laura Wolfe. We'll have to wait it out. Can't blow our cover.”

“Roger,” Dog replied.

They watched in disgust as Laura walked to Carr's front door and rang the bell.

A phone rang in the FBI conference room, answered by Agent Judy Samuels. “Oversight.” She listened, and then replaced the receiver. “Ms. Grayson just left the White House grounds.”

“All right, headsets everyone.” Davis turned his on. “Sparrow Watcher, this is Oversight, Sparrow is flying.”

“Roger.”

“Oversight is moving to the staging point.” Davis switched off and turned to MPD's Homicide captain. “Max, you all set?”

“Ready to go.”

The staging point would be in the south parking lot at the Pentagon, a perfect jumping off place to either Grayson's Alexandria townhouse or Carr's in Arlington. Little Nest was the code for Grayson's place.

The three-vehicle FBI caravan was on the road in minutes, emerging from the garage under the headquarters building onto 9th Street. White, mid-sized FBI patrol cars closed off the intersections of Pennsylvania and Constitution avenues, which allowed the caravan to cross the two main arteries without delay, then dive down into the 9th Street tunnel toward the Southwest Freeway, I-395, and to the staging area in Virginia.

“You have an efficient operation,” Max said to Davis, his headset turned off as they sat in back. Two agents were up front in the black SUV. The two SUVs behind them contained six agents and a two-person medical team.

Kevlar vests and FBI windbreakers had been issued to all.