Executive Order

Nine

When he entered the Oval Office, Joe Reeder found the President in shirtsleeves and tie behind that familiar, formidable desk, looking like his best friend had just died. Chief of Staff Timothy Vinson, certainly not the friend in question, stood to Harrison’s left side, seething, mustache twitching, a boil in a three-piece suit on the verge of bursting.

Jesus, Reeder thought, this guy is in full-blown Yosemite Sam mode.

Harrison motioned to Reeder to join them, and he quickly did, standing opposite, nodding, saying, “Mr. President.”

The commander in chief asked the ex-Secret Service agent, “Are you getting anywhere, Joe? On the direct line, Krakenin is stopping just short of accusing us... of accusing me... of inciting war. And the back-channel chatter is even worse.”

Dubbed “the Kraken” by American media outlets, Boris Mikhailovich Krakenin, President of the Russian Federation, was a notorious saber-rattler. But the Russian incursion into Azbekistan was not just a threat, and the deaths of four CIA agents in the midst of it put both nations at the precipice.

Preferring not to brief the President with Vinson present, Reeder said, “Making progress, sir, yes.”

Vinson began to pace a small area near the big desk, words tumbling out of him. “Boris has taken to referring to the Azbekistani government as a ‘puppet regime,’ accusing us of propping up a handful of insurgents. He doesn’t consider his own country’s actions as an invasion, oh no... just rightfully putting down a rebellion.”

“A rebellion,” Harrison said dryly, “in the form of a freely elected democratic government going back six years.”

“Krakenin,” Reeder said, “makes Putin look like a pushover.”

Harrison cocked his head. “You know the man?”

“‘Know him’ overstates it. I met him once, years ago. Secret Service days, when now-President Krakenin was serving in the FSB under General Bortnikov.”

These three were well aware that the Russian Federal Security Service was home to many a ruthless bastard.

Harrison asked, “Any thoughts on comrade Boris?”

Reeder shrugged. “Only that he considered Putin a weak sister and Stalin the consummate Russian leader. Some men lead with an iron fist. Krakenin heats up that iron fist in a forge till it burns a nice bright orange.”

The President was nodding. “He’s a hard-ass of the first order, little doubt of that. But do you think he really wants war?”

Reeder smiled thinly. “Mr. President, with all due respect, you have access to far more worthy analysts than some lowly security-outfit exec.”

“With all due respect, Joe,” Harrison said, with his own restrained grin, “false modesty doesn’t suit you. For decades you’ve stood at the sides of Presidents, in this very office, and seen and heard so very much. Don’t they call you the People Reader? So based on your observations of Boris Badenov, years ago and in his on-air appearances of more recent times... what do you think he’s up to?”

“Not war.”

Vinson’s laugh was both immediate and bitterly derisive.

Harrison gave his Chief of Staff a quick sharp look, cutting the laugh off, and Vinson looked on in surly silence.

“What makes that your opinion, Joe,” Harrison asked, “considering the man recklessly invaded a sovereign nation, and got four of our agents killed?”

Reeder’s tone could not have been more matter-of-fact. “He doesn’t want war — he wants portillium.”

Vinson frowned and growled, “What the holy hell is portillium?”

Quietly the President said, “The element that lends stability to Senkstone as a plastic explosive.”

They all knew what Senkstone was — the most versatile and dangerous munition of its kind yet developed.

Harrison said, “Boris wants the rich veins of portillium, known only to that region, found underneath the otherwise unimpressive surface of Azbekistan.”

Reeder said, “Taking over that pimple on the face of the planet is the most expedient way to acquire that scarce element in quantity.”

“Science fiction,” Vinson muttered.

“Is it?” the President asked. “All of this came to classified light when the Special Situations Task Force discovered the existence of Senkstone.”

Reeder nodded. “Boris’s people go in, mine as much as they can, until a truly serious United Nations threat comes along... which after all could take decades... and then retreat to the border with all the portillium they can carry, and generously let Azbekistan have its ravaged land back.”

The President, looking rather sick, said, “And with the ability to contrive that much Senkstone, Boris can do...”

“Pretty much anything he wants,” Reeder finished.

Thanks to portillium, Senkstone’s best quality as a plastic explosive was that it was stable enough to use in a 3D printer, and could be molded to mimic anything. Like to match some world leader’s eyeglasses for an assassination. Or, shaped in some manner that disguised its purpose, blow up the White House.

Or the Kremlin.

“So,” Vinson said, squinting in thought, “the Azbekistan invasion is just a cover for... a strip-mining operation?”

“More to it than that, Timothy,” Harrison said. “The Russian hard-liners will be ecstatic to see Boris flexing his muscles, making it a political win at home... and with the Azbekistanis under the Russian boot heel again, maybe, just maybe, the world would let him hold onto that little excuse for a country.”

“Okay,” Reeder said. “Now — do you want to hear the really bad news?”

“For Christ’s sake,” Vinson said, “what could that be?”

Harrison knew. He said, quiet again, “That someone on our side knew the exact time of that invasion and sent four American agents to die in it, in hopes of starting a war with Russia — a war that doesn’t really seem to suit Krakenin’s agenda.”

Rising, the President gestured toward the informal central meeting area of couches and chairs, and the three men repaired there. Reeder and Vinson took the couch and the President an overstuffed chair opposite.

“Mr. President,” Reeder said, “at the risk of impertinence... there’s a question I must ask.”

“Ask it, Joe.”

“Someone on our side knew when the invasion was going down. Agreed?”

“That would appear so.”

“Which means that someone had the ability to send our agents into harm’s way.”

“Yes.”

Reeder locked eyes with the President and asked, as if wondering what time it was, “Was that person you, sir?”

Vinson exploded, turning to Reeder, spittle flying his way. “What in the hell...! You have no right to—”

An upraised hand from the President cut Vinson off.

“Joe is a citizen I called upon for a mission, Tim, which gives him every right to question his president.”

Reeder said, “And the question stands, sir.”

Next to him, Vinson was turning shades of red — suffering succotash...

The dark eyes in the auburn face met Reeder’s unblinkingly. “Isn’t the real question, did I go after the portillium for the benefit of the United States, using those CIA agents as an advance team? And have I been using you to cover my tracks?”

“That’s two questions, Mr. President. But that sums it up.”

Harrison’s smile was a weary one. “If only I were that smart, Joe... but the truth is, I never even saw this coming. Satisfied?”

Reeder worked to detect every micro-expression, every body nuance, but nothing led him to think that the President was lying. Of course, US presidents were among the most skilled liars in history.

Just the same, Reeder said, “Yes, sir, I am. Thank you for your frankness.”

The Chief of Staff next to Reeder on the couch half-turned to him, agape.

“Now it’s my turn for a question,” Harrison said. “Are you any closer to finding our traitor? Director Shaley is either stalling or genuinely flummoxed.”

Reeder let out some air. “I think with Director Shaley, sir, it’s the latter. Of course, he might be taking care of the problem in-house, to protect himself and his domain... but I can’t honestly say I’m really any closer on that front, Mr. President. Not directly.”

Harrison frowned. “Then you haven’t got a thing for me?”

“I know more than I did, when we spoke yesterday... but not the name of the mole. I have learned something that’s... troubling.”

“Which is?”

Reeder had held this back because of Vinson’s presence; but there was clearly nothing not shared between these men.

So Reeder said it: “Secretary Yellich was assassinated.”

In a soundproofed room, silence can be surreal. And the three men breathing was the only sound any of them could discern in the uncomfortable stillness.

“But that... that was an accident,” Vinson said, absent of any of his usual bluster. “A tragic—”

“Murder,” Reeder said. “So was the hit-and-run death yesterday of CIA agent Len Chamberlain. I was there and I saw it.”

Then Reeder handed over everything that Rogers and Hardesy had turned up in their investigation thus far, leading up to and including the murder of Tony Wooten/Evans. He left out only the information Rogers had gleaned from the Wooten family in Pennsylvania — until Miggie Altuve traced the source of the family’s money in the Caymans, reporting that would be premature.

And he also stopped short of outlining the potentially absurd-sounding concept of a shadow government.

When Reeder had finished, President Harrison stared at the floor, shaking his head.

“Five CIA agents down,” he said, “the Secretary of the Interior assassinated, her assassin himself liquidated... and if I put the pieces together correctly, you’re telling me this could all be a plot by the Russians, with help from someone in our government, for a land grab? All to acquire the resources to make an unlimited amount of an undetectable plastic explosive... with World War III in the offing.”

“It’s a genuine possibility, Mr. President,” Reeder said.

Vinson said, “Why on earth would any American help the Russians acquire the key to Senkstone?”

Reeder shrugged. “They may not have figured out that part. The goal of the rogue players in our government may well be a hawkish one toward Krakenin’s Russia. As for Senkstone, very few people in or out of government even know about it, and fewer still are aware that portillium is the element needed to stabilize it.”

Shaking his head, the Chief of Staff said, “I just can’t believe it.”

“Well, there’s an even worse read of the rogue element,” Reeder said.

Vinson grunted. “What in God’s name could be worse?”

But the President answered his Chief of Staff: “They could know about portillium.”

“Know about it?” Vinson blurted.

“Know about it,” Reeder said, “and be in Russia’s pocket — either as foreign agents or, well, capitalists without a conscience.”

Again, silence settled over the sealed room.

Harrison looked hard at Reeder. “Now that the FBI is officially on board, by way of Special Agent Rogers’ task force, I want you to work with them. You have a history of being a consultant there — no red flags will go up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get to the bottom of all this... and Joe — I need it wrapped up before the first of the week.”

Reeder felt as if the leader of the free world had just punched him in the stomach. “Respectfully, sir, that’s less than five days for an investigation that could take, oh months... even years.”

“We don’t have the luxury of time,” Harrison said. “And I’m depending on you to meet my deadline. The cabinet is scheduled for a weekend at Camp David. The only item on the agenda will be whether the United States will issue a declaration of war against Russia.”

And another one to the chin...

The President was saying, “The decision can be put off but there’s a real possibility that the United States will face war with Russia. I’m assuming you’d like to help forestall that.”

With a confidence he wished he felt, Reeder said, “Yes, sir, I would. I will.”

The President stood and so did Vinson and Reeder, who shook hands with Harrison. And he even shook hands with the Chief of Staff, who had the look of a man about to go home and build a fallout shelter.

Walking to his car, the sky an ominous, starless dome, Reeder felt the vibration of his cell phone, and checked it: Bishop. He’d given his homicide detective pal the number last night. Within the car, he answered.

“Evening, Detective Bishop.”

“Some pile of dog shit you stepped in this time around.”

“Getting any on you?”

“Naw. It’s you who stepped in it, not me. Remember Pete Woods? The young buck you helped on the Bryson case?”

“Sure,” Reeder said. “Good detective, even if he does look about twelve years old.”

“Well, Woods drew the Chamberlain hit-and-run, and when I casually asked him what evidence he had, he not so casually told me the feds took everything... and made it clear the matter, which is to say the murder, wasn’t his problem.”

“How did Pete take that?”

“More gracefully than either of us would. He told them nicely that he should get at least a look-see, and the feds told him just as nicely to screw off — that in the case of a federal death, he had no jurisdiction.”

“Which agency got the evidence?”

“Even that’s more than they were willing to tell Woods. What they did tell him was to butt out.”

“And has he?”

“Yup. And normally Woodsie Owl doesn’t back down from anything. Working that case with you last year must have spooked him some. Now he knows just how deep the doo-doo can get.”

“Bish, he’s a smart kid, and did the right thing. Now do me a favor.”

“Any time.”

“Hang up and forget we had this talk.”

“Fine. As long as I’m allowed to remember one thing.”

“Which is?”

“Which is, you owe me big time.”

They clicked off.

The White House’s massive black gates allowed Reeder passage and he headed north, toward Lafayette Square. Soon he turned west, toward home. He drove leisurely, replaying in his mind the conversation with the President and his Chief of Staff; but even before he got to the roundabout at New Hampshire Avenue, he knew he had a tail. It stayed two cars back but in the same lane — that way if Reeder took a quick right, the tail could follow.

It was a simple Ford Explorer, dark green, a few years old — not some black tinted-glass Interceptor utility, and certainly not a hovering helicopter — much too showy, far too obvious. No, this might be a government car, or an ex-police car. Either one meant reinforced bumpers and more horsepower than his Prius, meaning at least a modest advantage for his new best friend.

Getting Rogers on the burner cell would be the fastest way to find out if the Explorer was a chaperone she’d provided. But also the fastest way for the tail to capture the signal of his burner, and hers.

These people would obviously know where Reeder lived, so trying to lose the tail was pointless, unless he was prepared to go underground immediately. Right now the tail was keeping its distance, though the headlights of other vehicles revealed a driver’s silhouette and no passengers.

Reeder took a direct route home. When he pulled up in front of his white-brick, two-story townhouse on Thirty-Fourth Street Northwest, the tail tucked into a spot two houses back, on the other side of the street. Reeder got out, closed his door, and — on the way to the front steps — walked around behind his vehicle, lending him an inconspicuous view of the Explorer. But a streetlight was nearby and shining down on the car reflectively, giving Reeder no look at all of the driver.

Instead of going across the street to confront the tail, Reeder trotted casually up to his red front door, unlocked it, and slipped in. After quickly dealing with the alarm system on the wall just inside, punching in the seven-digit code, he got his SIG Sauer out of the drawer of the little table beneath the security keypad.

He considered going out the back way, cutting through yards, then coming up behind the Explorer to meet his new friend.

But checking the house, even though the alarm had been on, was the priority. He turned on the living room light, moved into the dining room. Everything seemed quiet, appeared undisturbed. Of course if a team had bugged the place, they would have been pros and, like the Boy Scouts in a forest, would’ve left it as they’d found it. SIG Sauer in hand, barrel up, he edged into the kitchen, elbowing a light on.

At the back door, he considered the strong possibility that the rear of the house was covered, too. If he was the one doing surveillance, he’d sure as hell want someone back there.

After checking the two bedrooms and his home office upstairs, and finding no guests, Reeder returned to the front door. He tossed his suit coat on a chair, then went to the front closet and got his black ABC Security hooded sweatshirt, which he got into. He dropped the expandable baton in his right sweatshirt pocket, and tucked the nine millimeter into the back waistband of his slacks. He pulled the sweatshirt down so that it covered the pistol grip.

He went out the front door, in no hurry, just a guy going out for an evening stroll or maybe to a neighborhood 24-hour joint. This seemed better than heading out the back door into the waiting arms of who-the-hell-knew.

He crossed the street at his townhouse and took the sidewalk in the direction of the parked Explorer. Hands in the sweatshirt pockets, the baton in his right, he figured his brazen approach might spook the tail into taking off, or anyway action of some sort... but nothing.

Reeder closed the distance at his evening-stroll pace. As he neared, he couldn’t see past the streetlight reflection on the windshield to get a look at the driver. Since that driver might have a gun aimed at him right now, this was... disconcerting.

But killing Chamberlain by hit-and-run was one thing, and shooting a well-known, government-connected figure like Joe Reeder was something else again. He liked his odds. When he got to the vehicle and could see through the side window, the car was empty.

Damn!

His eyes swiftly scanned the street for any sign of another person — nothing. Where the hell had the guy gone? Nearest place for coffee was several blocks down — should he check that? He scanned the area again, more slowly now — it was as if the world had ended, only an occasional distant honk of a car horn to suggest otherwise.

He walked to the next corner, crossing to his own side of the street, and came cautiously back — where could the tail have gone?

Across the street from the start of his block, Reeder ducked into the shadows of the house there. It wasn’t like you tailed somebody just to park a car, unless...

... a car bomb?

There were car bombs now that could obliterate blocks, and these people were deadly enough for that. But usually they were more surgical — Wooten had taken Yellich out by poison, Wooten himself got liquidated by a sniper’s precise bullet, Chamberlain by hit-and-run. Neat kills, relatively speaking, at least as much as murder is ever “neat.”

So, no — no car bomb.

Had the driver left his vehicle to check in with somebody watching the rear of Reeder’s house?

A possibility. That meant the driver would soon be returning to the Explorer, either to plant himself for surveillance or to vacate the scene. Little attempt, though, had been made to conceal from Reeder that he had been tailed, and would now be subject to surveillance...

Somehow, he needed to get his hands on the driver of that Explorer, and interrogate him. Shake it out of him, or goddamn waterboard him in the townhouse bathtub if that was what it took...

Keeping to the shadows, Reeder crossed to the northwest corner of Thirty-Fourth Street NW and P Street, then turned west on P toward the alley that ran behind the townhouses. Occasionally, as he crept along, he stopped to listen, but heard nothing. Not even a shoe scraping over concrete, not the rustle of clothing nor the rhythm of heavy breathing.

As he turned into the alley, a fist flew from the darkness.

Reeder couldn’t react quite fast enough and it connected high on his cheek, not on his jaw, as he ducked. Even so, the blow turned the inside of his skull into Fourth of July fireworks, and his balance was gone.

The attacker followed up on that advantage, kicking the unsteady Reeder in the ribs, martial arts — style, sending him to the gravel of the alley. His work apparently done, his escape seemingly assured, the attacker headed back toward the sidewalk.

But Reeder withdrew the baton, extended it with a snap, and whapped the guy across the left calf, getting a yelp out of him and sending him face-first onto the sidewalk with a thump.

Reeder rushed the attacker, who flipped onto his back and sent another kick at Reeder, who dodged it — the attacker’s face remaining a smudge in the night, thanks to darkness and movement. A second kick got Reeder in the right forearm and his fingers popped open and the baton jumped out, landing God knew where. Both men scrambled to their feet and Reeder reached behind him for the pistol in his waistband, but the attacker sent out another kick to Reeder’s ribs, doubling him over.

By the time Reeder regained his breath, the man was sprinting away, likely heading back to the Explorer. Reeder gave chase, but his opponent had too big a head start, and Reeder’s ribs were screaming. Reeder caught up only as the Explorer lurched away from the curb and sped off.

A glimpse of the attacker’s face, in the side rearview mirror, didn’t really help much. The license plate had been removed — no help there either.

He caught his breath, rubbed his aching ribs, then looked up and down the block. Not a single porch light had come on, the struggle apparently unnoticed. He went back to the scene of the attack, to retrieve the extending baton. He found it quickly, just down the sidewalk. But he also spotted something else, something small, making a reflective glimmer off a streetlight.

It was a lapel pin of a US flag, a common enough touch on men’s lapels in this town — only this one had a tiny camera. The little high-tech thing had been smashed in the struggle.

But Reeder knew what the lapel-flag camera was. And he knew of only one group of people who wore such a pin.

Agents of the United States Secret Service.