Call to Treason

FIFTY

Inevitably, out of chaos comes order. The only two questions are when and at what cost?

Chaos evolved quickly in the hotel lobby, as it always does. One convention-goer carried it to three who carried it to nine. When chaos spreads, Mike Rodgers knew that the most important thing was not to try to contain it. Security had called the police, and reinforcements were on the way. Their presence would emphasize what was already an extraordinary situation and remove whatever remained of normalcy. That would merely put the same amount of tumult in a more confined space. And chaos tended to leap whatever firebreaks were placed around it. The task at hand was to eliminate the cause, not to contain the result.

The cause was shock about the apparent abduction of Admiral Kenneth Link and uncertainty about who did it or why. Mike Rodgers wanted to get on the problem right away. And not just to help eliminate the panic. Apparently, this was related to whatever the hell had started in Washington just four days ago.

Rodgers walked over to a relatively quiet corner near the magazine stand. He called the office of General Jack Breen at Pendleton. Breen said it was good to hear from his old friend.

“Where are you?” the marine general asked.

“San Diego,” Rodgers replied.

“San Diego? I hear there’s noise in that area. Yours?”

“Indirectly,” Rodgers said. “Jack, I need air recon ASAP. Something with eyes and teeth. We believe Admiral Kenneth Link has been kidnapped from the hotel here.”

“Details?”

“He was in a limo, that’s all I know. I don’t know what kind. I wouldn’t trust anyone to give me the right information anyway,” Rodgers said.

“I’m requisitioning an Apache on the e-command link as we speak,” Breen said. “Do you think there will be a ransom request or is this a GAT?”

GAT was grab and terminate. It was a military adaptation of the Mafia acronym SAW, snatch and whack.

“I don’t know, which is why we need to try to find the limo,” Rodgers said. “Can they pick me up somewhere around here?”

“Roof of the convention center, ten minutes,” Breen said. “What kind of manpower do you need?”

“Full suit?”

That was thirteen men. Breen said he would provide that.

“Perfect,” Rodgers said. “I’ll be there.”

“We’ll plan to cover the routes east,” Breen said. “The police will have plenty of resources deployed north along 405 headed up to Los Angeles and south to Mexico,” Breen said. “I doubt kidnappers would want to get into the traffic or border check along that corridor anyway.”

“Agreed,” Rodgers said as his phone beeped. That meant there was an incoming call. “General, I’ll see your boys in ten.” Rodgers jogged from the lobby as he switched to the other call. “Yes?”

“Mike, it’s Darrell.”

“Have you got something?” Rodgers asked.

“Yes. It sounds like you’re running.”

“I am,” Rodgers told him. “I’m organizing recon. It seems Admiral Link was just kidnapped.”

“He was? That’s surprising.”

“Why?”

“Because we just busted Lucy O’Connor,” McCaskey told him. “She confessed to giving those men the injections. Within a half hour of the first, she received a call from Admiral Link’s office phone.”

“Who did Lucy talk to?”

“She doesn’t know,” McCaskey said. “Only that it was a woman.”

“I’m not sure if that means anything,” Rodgers said. “Anyone could have used his phone.”

“Not without his authorization code,” McCaskey said. “We checked. No one in the office has that except Link.”

“Were there calls after the second incident?” Rodgers asked.

“No, they were being very careful then,” McCaskey said. “The criminal nature of the first action had already been uncovered. The perps would have been much more cautious the next day.”

“Would they really have been that cavalier about murder?” Rodgers asked.

“Yeah,” McCaskey said. “They had plausible deniability. Lucy could have gone up there and done it for a story.”

“Okay. But why do it at all? Does Lucy have any idea?”

“Lucy appears to be suffering from a mild form of narcosis, probably due to something in the barbiturate family,” McCaskey said. “I used to see the same speech and slowed reactions in the street.”

“Could someone on Orr’s staff have been providing her with drugs?” Rodgers asked. “That might have provided them with leverage.”

“We checked. She scored those on her own, an old connection. We found the guy through his parole officer.”

“What’s your guess, then?” Rodgers asked.

“You mean a unified theory?” McCaskey asked.

“As unified as you can be over an open line,” Rodgers said.

“Mike, I wish I knew. Someone in the senator’s office wanted the first victim dead. Then they killed some random tourist to make it look like the first murder was not related to the big man or his party. Our reporter friend was in it for perks and as a patsy, if necessary. If I said anything beyond that, I would be making pretty big assumptions.”

“Make them,” Rodgers said as he ran along Harbor Drive. The wide road bordered the bay. The convention center was just ahead. In the distance he heard the unmistakable bass thumping of an incoming helicopter.

“Mike, what is homicide or abduction always about? Power. Revenge. Jealousy. Money,” McCaskey said. “At the Bureau we used to assign a team to each of those and follow it back to a source.”

“I don’t have a team,” Rodgers said. “Hell, when this is over, I may not even have a job.”

“I know.”

“Darrell — a hunch. Give me something.”

McCaskey sighed. “We’re talking about a politician who is already wealthy, who has never had a scandal attached to his marriage, who has the respect of his colleagues. If he is behind it, I am guessing it is for power.”

“And the admiral?”

“You know him better than I do, Mike,” McCaskey replied. “But think about it. He has had control over intelligence. That is real power. He knows what it tastes like.”

The sounds of the chopper and his own hard breathing made it difficult for Rodgers to hear. Since McCaskey had access to the national news and the FBI pipeline, Rodgers asked him to call at once if he heard anything about a ransom demand. Barring that, Rodgers said he would call as soon as he had a lead or even a new idea. The general vowed he would get one if he had to dangle Eric Stone from the open hatch of the Apache.

Which is not the worst idea you have had today, he told himself. Assuming he could find the bastard. Stone had vanished within moments of the report.

Rodgers could hear the higher-pitched whir of the police helicopters moving along the San Diego Freeway. Two hovered above Lindbergh Field in case the limousine had gone there, and two more from the Harbor Patrol were moving out to sea. Perhaps the kidnappers intended to fly Admiral Link from the area. There were sirens on the Pacific Coast Highway, which paralleled Harbor Drive. Convention security personnel were running here and there, shouting into walkie-talkies and trying to keep order around the convention center itself. They were apparently being told to keep people in the area. Having another four or five thousand attendees in the streets would only complicate rescue efforts.

Rodgers reached the eastern entrance of the convention center as the Marine helicopter landed. He showed one of the security guards his USF ID as well as his Op-Center ID. He was allowed inside. A wide, sunlit, concrete-heavy gallery circled the massive convention area. It was thick with refreshment stands, media booths, and USF vendors. People were standing around, just as they were in the hotel lobby, trying to pick up information and voicing theories as to who might be behind this. “Damn foreigners” was the expression Rodgers seemed to hear most.

It would be ironic if that were the case. International enemies of the USF Party were something Mike Rodgers had not even considered. Or someone seeking revenge for William Wilson, perhaps?

No, Rodgers decided. Something like this would have been planned for some time. The abductors would have had to know Link’s schedule, been able to get to the limousine driver and take him out, and had a hideout or escape route ready. The kidnappers would have made dry runs.

Rodgers started up the concrete stairs that led to the top of the convention center. He was tired, but years of training with Striker had kept him in top physical condition. The door to the roof was a fire exit. It was unlocked. Rodgers stepped out. The chopper was about fifty yards away. Rodgers waved to the pilot, who acknowledged with a salute. The general ran toward the Apache, ducking into the heavy prop wash.

Suddenly, Rodgers stopped.

The abduction needed a plan, he thought.

Was the answer right in front of him? He looked out at the city from the top of the convention center. Red and blue police lights spotted the main roads and highways. Helicopters were being swallowed in the smoggy inland skies. A great security machine was in motion.

But would it be enough?

With renewed urgency, Rodgers resumed his sprint toward the chopper.