The Second Shooter (11 page)

"Is he?" Blackstone said. "Having second thoughts, I mean."

"That's what I'm here to find out."

"Can I ask—"

"About the nature of the operation?" Garcia said.

Blackstone nodded.

"No."

Blackstone really wasn't liking this guy's tone. "I assume the op is going to be pretty messy if it's given one of your consultants the heebie-jeebies."

"Assume all you want," Garcia said. "But do it on your own time."

At least now it was clear, Blackstone thought, exactly who was working for whom. He looked at Donahue. The FBI man looked dumbfounded. Fucking pogue.

***

Favreau was refueling the Cessna from a self-service pump on the apron of a deserted airport in rural Kentucky. Like the airport in Virginia, this one was for general aviation only and had no lights or air traffic control. At 5:15 a.m., still an hour before dawn, it was closed.

"When you steal an airplane," Jake said, "it should at least come with a full tank of gas."

"I didn't steal it," Favreau said. "I borrowed it."

Jake eyed the credit card in Favreau's hand, the one he'd charged the aviation fuel on. "Did you water your card?"

The Frenchman looked confused. "Pardon?"

"Your credit card," Jake said, pointing. "Looks like it grew."

Favreau laughed. "Like a house plant." He raised the card. "But no, this is a different card. And too big, I think, to unlock handcuffs."

"Does being an international fugitive make it tough to get credit?"

Favreau shoved the card into his wallet. "It belongs to a friend."

"Same friend who lent you the plane?"

"I have lots of friends."

"Somehow, I doubt that."

The pump handle clicked and the latch snapped off, signaling the tank was full. As Favreau shoved the handle back into the slot in the pump, Jake looked in the cabin window and saw Stacy curled in a back seat, sleeping.

Favreau whispered, "She's in love with you."

"We've never even been on a date."

"You don't have to date to be in love."

"See, that right there just proves it," Jake said, turning to the Frenchman. "You really are crazy."

"If she doesn't love you, why is she risking her life to help you."

"Because she's a friend."

Favreau shook his head and smiled. "She's a lot more than that." He wagged his finger at Jake. "One day, you will see that I am right."

"Get in the plane," Jake said.

Max Garcia leaned against a sideboard in the assistant special agent in charge's office, arms folded across his chest, eyeing the other two men in the room: Donahue, who sat in an overstuffed leather chair behind his desk; and Blackstone, seated on a matching leather sofa against the far wall.

The FBI agent was soft, a pencil pusher, totally out of his depth. He probably came up through financial crimes or public corruption, maybe the Civil Rights Division. Some type of assignment that carried little risk and required minimal physical action. Garcia doubted the man had set foot in the field in years.

Blackstone was a different sort. Physically tough and possessed of a certain air of command. Garcia knew the type, a hard charger, rigid, disciplined, self-styled super patriot. Blackstone's haircut said ex-Army, not jarhead, and his demeanor said company-grade officer, probably a captain. Got his ticket punched at the right schools and assignments. Probably a tour in the Rangers. Maybe some time with Special Forces. But he didn't quite have the cold steel look that was the trademark of Delta operators. Somehow his career had jumped the tracks or else he'd still be in the Army. Got in trouble or just been passed over for promotion. One pass was all it took. Officers either moved up or moved out.

Maybe Blackstone had a temper. Maybe he drank too much. Maybe he beat his wife. Or he got caught screwing somebody else's wife. Whatever happened that torpedoed his Army career, Blackstone had ended up working for one of several contract security firms the Agency kept on retainer and kept busy.

Of the two, Blackstone merited the closest scrutiny. His survival instincts and combat skills would be much more finely honed than Donahue's. And those skills would also make him much more useful than Donahue. The FBI man was pretty much dead weight.

"How did your agent get involved with Favreau?" Garcia asked Donahue.

The FBI supervisor stabbed a finger at Blackstone. "I already told him."

"Tell me," Garcia said.

Donahue let out a dramatic sigh before he answered. "Your alleged French terrorist called the after-hours number and asked to speak to the duty agent. The Comm Center forwarded the call to—"

"Tell me exactly how that works."

"How what works?"

"The thing you were just talking about," Garcia said. "The duty agent."

"I assume it works here pretty much the same way it works at your..."

"Don't assume anything," Garcia said. "It makes you look stupid. Just tell me how it works at the FBI."

Donahue opened his mouth, probably to protest, but he must have decided against it, Garcia thought, because after an awkward pause with his mouth hanging open, all he said was, "All right."

Garcia made an impatient wave for Donahue to continue.

"The Bureau is, of course, a twenty-four hour a day operation," Donahue said. "But generally our duty hours are Monday through Friday, eight to four-thirty. Nights and weekends we roll the phones over to the Communications Center at Bureau Headquarters. We have a duty agent during those hours to handle any calls that require an immediate response. All non-supervisory agents serve as duty agent on a rotational basis for a week at a time. This week was Special Agent Miller's turn. I believe it was his first time."

"First time as duty agent?"

"Yes," Donahue said. "He just completed his field training. New agents are exempt from duty-agent status while they have an FTA."

"What's an FTA?"

"Field training agent. For the first six months after they graduate from the Academy, new agents are assigned a senior agent as a mentor to guide their transition from the training environment at the Academy to real field work."

"And Favreau just happened to call in during Miller's first time as duty agent?" Garcia asked, not liking the sound of that at all. He had found during his long career that true coincidences were rare, and that even when two occurrences seemed truly coincidental, if you just dug deep enough you usually found out they weren't.

"We get dozens of after-hours calls a week," Donahue said. "Most of them are routine and the Comm Center can simply take a message."

"But sometimes they're not routine."

"Correct," Donahue said. "And when that's the case the Comm Center calls the duty agent."

"And this week that was Miller."

Donahue nodded.

"So what did Favreau want?" Garcia asked.

"He wouldn't say. But he insisted on speaking to the duty agent. So our communications people did what they were supposed to do and passed the information on to Agent Miller. When Miller called back, Mr. Favreau insisted on a face-to-face meeting."

"Is that unusual?"

"Generally speaking, yes, it is," Donahue said. "Bureau policy is that any after-hours meetings with callers must be attended by two agents. For security reasons."

"And Miller didn't follow that policy?"

"No, he did not," Donahue said. "Agent Miller met Mr. Favreau at a diner about six blocks from the White House. From what I understand, Miller was en route to meet some friends at a football game. To save time, he decided to violate Bureau policy and attend the meeting alone." Donahue pointed to Blackstone. "His men apparently had Mr. Favreau under surveillance and monitored the meeting. When they moved in to take the fugitive into custody, Miller reacted poorly. He's a young, inexperienced agent, but I think what happened was at least partially due to the extremely heavy-handed approach of Mr. Blackstone's agents. I honestly don't think Miller had any idea what was going on." Donahue paused, then said, "I think his involvement was random chance."

"Favreau is a meticulous planner," Garcia said. "Nothing he does is random. He has some connection to your agent."

"That's not possible."

"Who's the female?"

"Stacy Chapman," Donahue said. "One of our intelligence analysts. She and Miller seem to have a...thing."

"You keep up with office romances?"

"We don't condone relationships among employees, but we don't expressly forbid them either," Donahue said with a note of defensiveness in his tone. "Frontline supervisors are asked to monitor, on an unofficial basis, any fraternization among personnel. It's not written policy. More like a suggestion, for the good of the Bureau."

"It sounds exactly like J. Edgar Hoover policy."

"Director Hoover died when I was in eighth grade," Donahue said. "So I never had the pleasure of meeting him."

"I did," Garcia said. "Several times. And let me assure you, meeting J. Edgar was never a pleasure."

Donahue looked like he was about to get snippy, but he swallowed whatever response he was going to make.

"Where would Miller run if he got into trouble?" Garcia asked.

"I have no idea," Donahue said.

"His father is retired FBI, right?"

Donahue nodded.

"Where does he live?"

"Bethesda," Donahue said.

"Do you know him?"

"We play golf a couple times a year."

Garcia checked his watch. It was 6:30 a.m. "Let's pay him a visit."

President Noah Omar stepped out of the second-floor residence at the White House at seven o'clock and quietly closed the door behind him, more out of habit than necessity. There was no real need to be quiet. His wife had her own bedroom, as did their two teenage daughters. They were probably all up anyway, the girls getting ready for school and Mona getting ready for whatever it was she had scheduled this morning.

A pair Secret Service agents were waiting for the president in the hallway outside his bedroom, as was Richard Finch, his deputy chief of staff. Finch held an open leather portfolio with several printed pages crammed on top of a yellow legal pad.

"Anything happen last night?" the president asked.

Finch walked beside the president toward the stairs with the Secret Service agents trailing them. "Pretty quiet," Finch said. "Nothing that needs immediate attention."

"What about today?"

Finch scanned the first of his printed pages, the summary of the president's daily agenda. "This morning is fairly light. After the intelligence briefing, you have three meetings, one hour each with a ten minute break between. Lunch with the Saudi ambassador at 11:45. Then we leave for Dallas at two o'clock."

"Why so early?" the president said.

"You have the Petroleum Club dinner tonight."

The president shook his head. "I forgot about that."

"I can promise you they haven't."

"Fat-cat oil executives are not exactly my favorite dinner companions."

"Three hundred guests at ten thousand a plate."

"I doubt even an extra three million will make the DNC happy," the president said. "But for that kind of money, I can break bread with Texas oilmen."

"The midterms are going to be brutal, so every dollar helps."

"Million here, million there, next thing you know you're talking about real money."

"Yes, sir."

The president stopped at the stairs and glanced over his shoulder. The two Secret Service agents hung back at a discrete distance, although he was positive they listened to everything said around them, and he often wondered whose side they were on. Some of the more unflattering things he had read in the press about himself and his family could only have come from his so-called protectors. The president tried to put the agents out of his mind and looked at Finch. "Any chance we can take back the House?"

The deputy chief of staff shook his head. "We'll be lucky to hold the Senate."

"I can't run the country wearing a pair of Congressional handcuffs."

"You've done some good things with executive orders."

"I want Congress to get out of my way."

"I think we'll hold the Senate, Mr. President."

President Omar shook his head. There were just so many frustrations with this job. People called him the most powerful man in the world. If they only knew how limited that power actually was. "What time is the speech tomorrow?"

"Noon."

"What's the weather going to be like?"

"A little chilly but clear."

"Time to get in a round?"

"Of course."

The president led them down the stairs. "Good. Make sure my clubs are packed."

"Yes, sir."

At the first-floor landing, the president turned to Finch. "What about the speech tomorrow? Why haven't I seen a draft yet?"

"Michael's still working out the kinks," Finch said. "I'll make sure you have it on the plane."

"There are a whole lot of people in Texas who don't like me."

"The speech will be fine, sir." Finch tried a smile. "Besides, you're very popular in Austin."

The president didn't return the smile. "See that I have it." He turned away, stopped, and turned back. "And make sure we're not having shellfish tonight. Mona's allergic." For a few seconds Richard Finch seemed truly surprised, a rarity for the deputy chief of staff, who prided himself on his unflappability. "Richard?" the president said.

Finch shook his head, like he was trying to clear his ears. "I'm sorry, Mr. President. I was already shifting gears."

"But you heard me, right? No shellfish tonight at the...whatever-it-is dinner."

Nodding, Finch said, "Yes, sir. The Petroleum Club."

"What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Nothing, sir," Finch said. "It's just that...I didn't know the first lady was coming with us."

"Richard, are you kidding?" The president let that hang for a moment. Then he said, "You've seen those old newsreels, all the coverage Jackie got. It's the fiftieth anniversary. You think Mona would miss this?"

Finch didn't say anything. He seemed lost again.