National Burden (21 page)

“Yes, sir, he says it’s about Mr. Lockwood.”

Other than Travis, Lester Miles, the president and the Secret Service, the rest of the White House staff was told that Lockwood died of a massive heart attack. It wasn’t the whole truth, but until the investigation into Lockwood’s co-conspirators concluded, no one needed to know anything but the fact that he died of natural causes. Zimmer wondered how in the hell McKnight had heard about it.

“Did he say what specifically?”

“Yes, sir. Apparently Congressman McKnight and Mr. Lockwood were roommates in college and he’s calling on behalf of Mr. Lockwood’s family.”

That surprised Zimmer. Other than their Hispanic heritage, Lockwood and McKnight were polar opposites. Hell, one was a Democrat and the other was a very right leaning conservative.

“Put him through please, Ellen.”

Zimmer waited for the proper number of clicks to sound. “Good morning, Tony,” Zimmer said warmly.

“Good morning, Mr. President. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

“No, not at all. Just the usual pile of nonsense.”

McKnight laughed dutifully. “I assume your secretary told you why I’m calling?”

“Something about Santos Lockwood?”

“Yes, sir. We were friends, roommates actually, at Florida State.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss. I just heard about it.”

“Thank you, Mr. President. I’m also very close with his mother. She was sort of, well, my mom and dad were never around and Mr. and Mrs. Lockwood sort of adopted me in college. Mrs. Lockwood is very upset, as you can imagine, and wants the body sent home as soon as possible. She’s getting some pushback from the Secret Service and asked if I could help. I didn’t promise anything, but I told her I’d look into it. I’ve called the Secret Service, got passed around a couple times until I told them who I was, and they told me it’s normal procedure that they do a full autopsy. Something about dying in the White House. It sounded, well, like an official statement when they can’t really say what’s going on. Is there something they’re not telling me?”

The president didn’t know how to respond. He shouldn’t say anything, but he felt for Lockwood’s mother. “I’m sure it’s just policy, like they said.”

“I understand.” McKnight was silent for a moment, and then said, “Mr. President, could you do me one more favor?”

“Name it.”

“If you hear anything, would you mind having someone give me a heads-up? If Santos was up to anything, I’d like to soften the blow with his mom if I can.”

“I will.”

“Thank you, Mr. President. One last thing, if you don’t mind me saying, you’re doing a helluva job given the situation. I know we’re supposed to be on opposite teams, but I’d like to say that I’m here to help if you ever need me.”

“I appreciate that, Tony. I’ll definitely keep you in mind. Have a good day.”

Zimmer replaced the phone in its cradle. He wondered if there could be any connection between McKnight and Lockwood’s attempt to influence the presidency. He’d have to mention it to Travis and let him run it down. Like most of his daily conversations, the busy president put his latest out of his mind, and got back to work.

+++

Tony McKnight replayed the conversation with the President. He’d practiced what he wanted to say and Zimmer acted predictably, even telling McKnight without outright saying that the Secret Service was investigating Santos. The congressman had to be careful, but he was confident of his abilities. He was confident that not a shred of evidence existed to implicate him with Lockwood’s scheme. There’d been numerous middle men who’d provided the doctored drug Lockwood gave the president. The plan had worked to perfection up until his untimely death.

A friend of a friend had one day mentioned to McKnight on a trip overseas that a former Russian scientist was making millions on the underground medical market by supplying various criminal organizations with undetectable poisons made from common plants readily found around the world. Poison was older than human kind, and had been used for centuries as an effective tool. There was something poetic about its beauty, McKnight thought.

He’d had Lockwood track down the scientist’s organization and put in several small orders through American small businesses who were only too happy to take delivery of the tiny packages and forward them on to P.O. Boxes in Virginia and Maryland. Never once had McKnight had direct contact with any of the packages or contacts. He did, however, have all the information should the need arise to let someone else take the fall.

Making his mind up, he began laying down plans for the official unveiling. He had just the person in mind to become his scapegoat.

They’d separated the five mercenaries into different cells. The first hour was spent with polite questioning, Lucas doing most of the talking, as the stripped down mercenaries refused to talk. It was obvious that these men were trained to take interrogation, silent across the board. But Lucas was a professional, a patient man, a former spy turned protector of France. He’d spent the last ten years battling the influx of Middle Easterners looking to turn his country into another haven for smugglers and terrorists. Lucas despised most of the citizenry of France, too consumed with touting the superiority of French cuisine or railing against the Americans to see that their beloved country was growing a cancer which could no longer be walled off with concrete.

By the second hour, Lucas knew that three out of the five men were muscle and nothing more, paid to give the crew some added firepower. After the fingerprinting came back, they found that all five men were former French Foreign Legionaries, a revelation that didn’t surprise Lucas, who in his late teens and early twenties had spent five years with the famous commandos. As was common in specialized military branches around the world, many Legionaries went on to have extended careers in private security companies, only retiring when they were too old to keep up, or too dead to care.

The leader of the small band, the eloquent man who’d spoken to Jonas Layton, went by the name Taureau, which in French means
bull
. His real name was Alexandre Fortier, and after some digging, and a phone call with an old comrade, Lucas found out that Fortier was employed by a quickly growing French security company called Sécurité Lion International. Lucas knew the outfit to be tight-lipped and any phone call he made would most assuredly go unanswered. The company was a constant thorn in law enforcement’s side, having already been implicated in half a dozen shoot-outs that year.

To Lucas they were no better than common thugs, although this Fortier fellow seemed to be one of the exceptions, his blue eyes scanning carefully, thoughtfully, not a hint of rage like the others. Lucas sat across the heavily scratched metal table from Fortier, whose hands were shackled to the bolted steel chair, making him lean down every time he took a drag from his unfiltered Gauloises cigarette.

The microphones and video cameras kept rolling as Lucas waited patiently, looking for any sign that the man wanted to talk. None came. “Tell me, Taureau, what did you want with Mr. Layton?”

Fortier shrugged, cracking his thick neck from side to side. “I told you, I was only given orders to escort him.”

“Yes, yes, I forgot. And who did you say hired you?”

Another lazy shrug. “I didn’t because I don’t know. Why don’t you call my boss?”

Lucas chuckled. “You know as well as I do that your employer will never take my call unless we have a warrant from the government. Now, while I could do that, and have you sit in a cell as those wretched bureaucrats decide which one will steal the credit for taking your company down, I’d much rather handle this between us, two old Legionaries, eh?
”

“You were in the Legion?”

“Oui.”

“You’re pretty small.”

Lucas smiled. “I had my talents. I still do.”

Fortier took another drag from his cigarette, sizing up Lucas for the first time. “You know I can’t say anything.”

“I know. Look, I’m happy to look the other way, and call this a, well, we won’t call it anything. I’m sure your employer will be upset enough about you not completing the job. Wouldn’t he be even more upset to find out that we picked you up?”

Fortier didn’t answer, but Lucas knew the truth. As the team leader, Fortier would more than likely take the heat, maybe even have to pay a penalty out of his own paycheck. Such men rarely parted with their money easily.

“Alex, all I need is to know where you were taking Mr. Layton. Tell me that to my satisfaction, and I will let you go, I’ll even destroy the paperwork.”

“And why would you do that? Just a favor for a fellow Legionnaire?”

“Unfortunately, no. Let us simply say that Mr. Layton is a very good friend of my employer and of our government. They would be very unhappy to find out that you and your company were involved in harming such a good friend.”

Fortier’s eyes darted briefly, the first hint of nerves he had shown. He looked up at the video camera, motioning with his eyes.

“Perhaps we should have this conversation in a more private location, say my office?”

“And you’ll destroy the footage you’ve already taken.”

“You can watch me do it.”

Fortier nodded.

+++

Jonas Layton was halfway across the Atlantic, stretched back in his roomy white leather lounger in first class, reading the latest edition of
Fast Company
when his phone rang. “Lucas?”

“Hello, my friend. I take it you’re flying home comfortably?”

“Yes, thanks to you.”

“Ah well, it was an easy thing to do for someone to which we owe so much. Can we speak on this line?”

“It’s fully encrypted.”

“Good. I found out where they were taking you, but not why.”

“Where?” Layton put a finger to his lips, wondering if his hunch had been right.

“You were first to be transported to your hotel to retrieve your belongings and then driven to a villa outside Reims.”

“Did they say who hired them?”

“The man in charge of the team mentioned overhearing his employer talking to someone on speakerphone who was obviously an American. He thought he heard the name Geoffrey. Does that help?”

Layton entire body went rigid. He’d had his suspicions, but this was too much to ignore. “It does. Thank you, Lucas. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to return the favor.”

“Completely unnecessary, my friend. Let me know if I can be of further assistance.”

Layton ended the call and pressed the button for the flight attendant. A pretty brunette in knee high stockings and a blue skirt suit that perfectly contoured her body walked down the aisle and asked how she could help.

“A double whiskey on the rocks, please. No, make that straight up.”

The stewardess nodded and left to fetch his drink. Jonas Layton looked up at the white ceiling and thought about who he could ask for help.

“You took care of it?”

“I did.”

“And you did like I told you, hard to find, but not too hard?”

“Come on, pal, I know what I’m doing, okay?”

“I know. Just making sure. I’m wiring you the funds now.”

“Cool. Let me know if you need anything else.”

Congressman McKnight removed the voice modulator from the pay-as-you-go phone, pocketing the modulator and throwing the cell in the construction dumpster being used near the Washington Monument as he walked. He smiled, his eyes gleaming behind black Gucci sunglasses. It was so easy to find good, cheap help.

+++

The Secret Service investigator sat in what he wouldn’t even call a bedroom. One larger room was crudely cut into four by wire strung curtains, typical of low-paid government workers living in the city. There was a mussed single mattress, clothes thrown haphazardly around the curtained off space. Luckily he’d brought a camp stool and sat on it as he pecked away at the laptop belonging to the now deceased Santos Lockwood. All the recent files seemed harmless. Another team would go into greater depth later. He was there to get immediate results.

There hadn’t been much security to keep him from nosing around until he found a file marked NMP stashed in a random location with copied internet articles. He double clicked the folder and a password screen popped up. Rather than lock himself out, he pulled a thumb drive out of his pocket and plugged it into the computer’s USB drive. The connection registered on the screen and he waited for his personal icon to appear, a parrot wearing a skull t-shirt. As soon as it did, he clicked and dragged the parrot, repositioned it over the locked file and released. The little icon pecked away as it worked, circumventing the protocol in less than a minute.