Executive Order

Ten

Rogers said, “The pin could belong to someone who wants you to believe they’re with the Secret Service.”

Reeder, seated next to her, gave Rogers a blank look that somehow conveyed his contempt for that notion.

They were in the outer office of the Director of the United States Secret Service on the ninth floor of its H Street HQ. According to Reeder, he and Jonathon Briar, the first African American to hold the directorship, had been field agents around the same time.

That didn’t seem to be helping as half an hour of waiting turned into an hour. Of course, Reeder hadn’t left the Secret Service under the best of circumstances.

“I’m just saying,” she said, “that some unknown Secret Service agent jumping you isn’t the only possible explanation.”

“You saw the ID number on the back. He might as well have signed it Secret Service.”

Rogers took air in, let it out, then rose and went to the desk, where a brunette guardian of the gates was giving her computer the attention they weren’t getting, and said, “Excuse me?”

The woman looked up, narrow-faced if attractive with scant makeup, her dark gray suit and midnight blouse nice enough for Rogers to wonder how much better the SS must pay than the FBI. The guardian’s eyes, a lighter gray than her apparel, met Rogers’ without a word. That was apparently all the response an FBI agent merited.

“We had an appointment,” Rogers said. “It’s been over an hour.”

“The appointment was made only this morning.”

“You do know who Mr. Reeder is?”

The guardian nodded, about as impressed as a maître d’ at a really expensive restaurant. “Yes, and I told Mr. Reeder earlier, on the phone, that I would do my best to squeeze him in.”

“There’s no one else out here.”

“The Director is in conference.”

Getting that principal’s office feeling again, Rogers nodded and dragged back to her seat.

Five more minutes passed and the Director’s office door opened and a tall male figure emerged — that same GAO drone in wire-frames and a Men’s Wearhouse suit who she’d seen at Fisk’s office. This time Rogers didn’t rate the stranger’s nod of admission that she was a human being. Even the famous Joe Reeder got ignored.

Rogers whispered, “Conference must be over. We have to be next.”

Reeder didn’t give her a nod, either.

But fifteen minutes later he got up and strode to the Director’s door.

The assistant said, “Mr. Reeder — you can’t simply—”

But he did, with Rogers following right after, pausing only to give the guardian a condescending smile before shutting herself and Reeder inside.

Fiftyish Director Jonathon Briar, broad-faced on a muscular mid-range frame, his navy suit with red-and-white tie blatantly patriotic, actually started a bit when they came in. To the right as they entered, Briar was seated behind a black slab that was more table than desk, two modern beige visitor’s chairs opposite, a looming framed portrait of President Harrison on the wall behind him. The large, stark office seemed to be keeping as many secrets as the Service itself. To the left was a meeting area with a low-slung black slab table and various modern but comfortable-looking chairs.

“Jesus, Peep,” Briar blustered. “You know better than this!”

Reeder stood at the edge of the desk-thing and stared down at Director Briar.

“You’re right, Jon,” Reeder said. “I should have barged in here the moment your last guest left. I’m getting complacent.”

Reeder was standing between the two visitor’s chairs and Rogers was just behind the one to Reeder’s left. Briar’s eyes met hers and narrowed.

Rogers held up her credentials, but Briar said, “I know who you are, Agent Rogers. Do you mind, Peep, telling me what this is about? Make it quick — I have another meeting in ten minutes.”

“Let them wait an hour,” Reeder said, and tossed a small plastic evidence bag with the smashed pin in it onto Briar’s desk. Briar was wearing his own, somewhat smaller lapel flag pin — did it come equipped with a camera, too?

Then Reeder lowered himself into one of the visitor’s chairs and waved Rogers into the other.

Briar stared at the smashed pin in the bag. “Where did you get that?”

“It fell off someone who attacked me last night, not far from my home. I can show you the bruises on my ribs if you’re interested. You’ll note that that’s an American flag camera pin, a mangled one I grant you.”

“Homeland uses these,” Briar said, with a shrug. “Agent Rogers will tell you they’re not unknown to the Bureau, as well, and several other agencies.”

Reeder reached over and flipped the evidence bag. “Do I have to remind you, Jon, that the SS is the only one who uses that form of ID number?”

“That’s not one of ours,” Briar said without looking at it.

“It’s one of yours, all right. And I want to know who this one belongs to.”

Briar smirked mirthlessly. “Has procedure changed, Peep, since you worked here? You know damn well that if an agent loses one of these, he or she is required to report it immediately. No one has.”

“Why, do you check the reports yourself?”

“Actually, yes. Every day. Are we done here?”

Rogers asked, “Director Briar, who was it that left this office before we came in? In the wire-framed glasses?”

The Director said, “He’s with the GAO. Nothing that concerns you.”

“Would he have a name, sir?”

Briar said, “That’s not information I’m prepared to share with you, Agent Rogers. You seem to have the Secret Service confused with the Smithsonian.”

Reeder gave the Director a long, hard look, then said, “Jon, we were never friends — we never shared duty together. But we were friendly enough, and I’ve always respected you. When I tell you that I was attacked by someone, last night, who lost a Secret Service pin in the process, doesn’t that raise any level of interest?”

Briar gave the evidence bag the barest look. “That’s not our pin. What you’re reporting is not a Secret Service matter. You might try the DC police, or because that pin probably originated with some government agency, you could discuss it with your FBI colleague, Agent Rogers, here.”

Reeder rose. “Thanks for the advice, Jon. It’s nice to know that all my years with the Service earned me so much support.”

Briar looked up coldly at the former agent. “Sarcasm doesn’t really suit you, Peep. But let me suggest something. If that pin did belong to a Secret Service agent... and if you were attacked by him... someone above my pay grade would have to have put it in motion.”

Reeder’s gaze was unblinking. “Would have had to put you in motion, you mean.”

“Assume what you like. But I would suggest you’re treading on some important toes. As you say, we weren’t friends, Peep, but we were friendly enough for me to suggest that whatever you’re up to... you may want to find a new hobby.”

“Noted,” Reeder said, and reached for the bag with the pin, but Briar laid a hand on it.

“I’ll hold onto that for you,” the Director said.

Reeder gave Briar an awful smile. “That’s not yours, remember?”

Rogers stood and said, “But it is evidence in an ongoing federal investigation, Director. With all due respect, please remove your hand.”

Briar thought about that for a good ten seconds, then nodded, and let Reeder take the bag.

In the corridor, Rogers asked, “What the hell was that?”

“Briar’s a decent enough director,” Reeder said. “Anyway, he was a good agent. There’s a reason he didn’t cooperate with us.”

“Because he’s covering his own ass?”

“That may be part of it. Mostly, he’s scared.”

Rogers studied that unreadable face and then asked, “What does it take to scare the Director of the Secret Service?”

“Generally not something as small as that pin.”

“That GAO guy is who I saw coming out of Fisk’s office the other day. She said he was there on budgetary matters.”

Reeder raised an eyebrow. “So?”

“Joe, when I got to the AD’s office yesterday, he was there. Already there! What’s he doing... tailing us?”

Reeder thought for a moment, then said, “Worse.”

“How do you mean, worse?”

“He’s out ahead of us.”

Rogers was mulling that as they headed for the elevators, passing various agents and office workers. The older agents sometimes exchanged nods with Reeder, and younger ones all seemed to be whispering to companions, Is that Joe Reeder? Really Joe Reeder?

She was about to push the DOWN button when a male hand butted in from behind them and pushed it for her. She turned to look and there he was — the GAO drone.

The drone politely gestured for Rogers to get on first, and then did the same with Reeder, who was giving the man a blank look that disguised alarm bells going off.

The nearly handsome man with the dark hair and wire-frame glasses said to her lightly, “We have to stop meeting like this.”

Reeder pushed the first-floor button as Rogers said, “I was just telling my friend here that no matter where we go, it seems you’re already there.”

The doors whispered shut.

Unperturbed, the drone said, “Life’s just full of odd coincidences, isn’t it, Agent Rogers?”

Reeder hit the STOP button and the elevator did a little shake and braked. A real alarm bell began to ring now, muffled.

Rogers said, “You seem to know me. Who the hell are you?”

The drone shrugged; his smile couldn’t have been more pleasant. “For now, my name’s unimportant. I’m sure, Agent Rogers, that with a little effort, you’ll soon know.”

Reeder came over and grabbed the drone by the arm, crowding him in the small space. “She asked you a question. Who the hell are you?”

The drone, not at all intimidated, said, “Violence won’t do you any good in this situation, Mr. Reeder.”

The alarm bell rang on.

Reeder let go of the man’s sleeve. “Who are you working for?”

“The American people, of course.”

Reeder grabbed the drone’s arm again. “Listen to me, you son of a bitch...”

With surprising ease, the drone plucked Reeder’s hand off and flipped it away. His voice came back with a new, menacing edge: “No, Mr. Reeder. You listen to me.”

On and on, it rang.

“... I’m listening.”

“Walk away from your investigation, if you want your life back. That is, if you want that life to be a safe one for you and yours.”

Reeder backhanded him.

Briefly, something vile flickered on the drone’s face, then his pleasant expression returned as he dug a handkerchief out to touch the blood at one corner of his mouth.

The alarm bell did not let up.

The drone’s eyes were on Reeder but he was speaking to her now: “Agent Rogers, I believe I have good news for you. I have it on good authority that an Assistant Directorship will be opening up soon. Could well be yours... if you and your friend here can find something constructive to do... such as: nothing.”

The drone punched the button that released the elevator and they started down again.

The alarm bell ceased.

“Not interested,” Rogers said, soft but firm.

“Sorry to hear that,” the drone said. “A wrong decision can get a person into trouble. The wrong outlook can even get a person killed.”

Reeder grabbed the drone’s Men’s Wearhouse jacket by its lapels, and shoved him against an elevator wall.

Though he was clearly rattled, the drone said calmly, “Agent Rogers is the one at real risk here. You, Mr. Reeder, are a public figure. An American hero, and eliminating you would draw an unfortunate amount of attention. That would be less a concern for, say, your wife and daughter. They can’t stay in hiding forever, unless you three are prepared to live in exile.”

Letting go of the drone, Reeder backed away, visibly shaken in a way Rogers had never observed in him before.

The doors swished open and the drone knifed through a group waiting for an elevator that had taken a terribly long time to arrive.

Soon Rogers and Reeder were outside in the sunshine, but gloom nonetheless shrouded them.

“Did that really just happen?” she asked.

“That was a very real and serious threat, Patti, made by someone not afraid to carry it out, if need be.”

They tucked themselves against the outer wall of the building; the sidewalk butted almost up to the building here.

She asked, “Is he who we’re after, do you think?”

Reeder shook his head. “We’re looking for more than one rogue player, and your GAO pal seems more a messenger.”

She was flushed. “I don’t care if Briar is the Director of the Secret Service, I’ll put him in custody and haul his ass to the Hoover Building into an interview room and—”

“No.”

“... No?”

“We take a frontal approach like that, we’ll be lucky to be alive tomorrow. And if that prick knows my wife and daughter are in hiding, he just might learn where.”

“You’re not suggesting we walk away?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Then...?”

“We go to ground.”

Rogers frowned. “But I need my task force to get anywhere on this thing, and access to my resources at the Bureau, and—”

“Where did you first see our GAO friend?”

“At Fisk’s office.” She looked at him agape. “Oh, come on, Joe — you’re not saying Fisk may be compromised!”

“The Director of the Secret Service seems to be. And Fisk is just an Assistant Director.”

“She gave me full support on this investigation!”

He just sent her one of those frustratingly bland looks. “How better to keep an eye on you and your people?”

Government employees trouped by on the sidewalk in either direction. Employees of a government that Rogers could no longer trust...

She said, her voice sounding as small as a child’s, “What do we do?”

His response seemed a non sequitur. “You care about Kevin.”

“What? Yes! Of course.”

“Then we need to get him somewhere safe. You make him vulnerable, and he makes you the same.”

She willed herself to say calm. “Okay, so we get Kevin somewhere safe. What about us?”

“The same. Off the grid. Way off. We’ll pull Miggie in, too, so he can work his computer magic and help us get the identity of our GAO buddy. That son of a bitch is our way inside to whoever’s behind all this.”

“What about the rest of the team?”

“For now, they stay on the job. We’ll pull them off at some point, and get them to ground, too... but for now they make a show of continuing the Yellich investigation, only they won’t get anywhere that they share. Otherwise, anything they come up with, anything they accomplish, could be known by the rogue group.”

Soon, with Reeder at the wheel of his Prius, Rogers kept an eye out for a tail. After last night, the agent who lost his flag pin would not likely still be on the job, but someone else obviously could be. Right now they were going south on Ninth Street NW.

“We need somewhere to work from,” Reeder said, “a shadow HQ for an investigation of a shadow government. And we have to stay in the city, because that’s where the enemy is.”

“We need a safe house,” she said.

“Yes. And that’s where we’re going.”

He drove up the ramp for I-395 and headed east. They rode in silence for a while — she would let him think, even as her own mind was spinning. When he merged onto I-695, she finally asked, “Not the Navy Yard?”

“Not the Navy Yard. Too many security cameras. Someplace better.”

He parked on Ninth Street SE, with greenery to their right as he got out of the car and so did she.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Near where we’re going. But it’s best we walk.”

They skirted Virginia Avenue Park, then turned back down Tenth toward the Navy Yard and into a sketchy area where they passed a vacant lot between two brick buildings. The one on the corner of M Street, a tailor and pawnshop below, had a fire escape up to the floor above.

Reeder took the ’scape, surprising her a little, and she followed him to a landing where awaited a steel door with an overhead security camera... and a doorbell. As if the bell weren’t there, Reeder pounded on the steel.

In a moment, a voice came over a speaker: “Closed for bidness.”

“I got after-hours money, DeMarcus.”

“Who that with you?”

She said, “Special Agent Rogers.”

The voice said, “You shittin’ me, Reeder? You bring Five Oh to my door?”

“Five Oh is city, DeMarcus. My friend here is federal, but she isn’t DEA or ATF, so don’t sweat it.”

“Go away, man. I don’t know you no more.”

“Ten thousand dollars.”

The speaker fell silent.

Then: “Fifteen.”

“DeMarcus, you don’t even know what I’m buying yet.”

“I know you brung a fed around.”

“I need two minutes. We come to terms and I got ten K for you.”

“Like you got that much on you.”

Rogers goggled at Reeder as he withdrew a major wad of cash from his pocket like Bugs Bunny producing an anvil from somewhere. He held up the wad with one hand and the fingers of the other riffled through bills.

The door opened. Half-opened, anyway.

The skinny African American guy who peered suspiciously out at them looked to be in his early twenties; he wore Georgetown University gear, though she doubted somehow that he was enrolled.

“Patti,” Reeder said, “this is my friend DeMarcus. DeMarcus, this is my friend Patti. You can call her Agent Rogers. Be nice. She’s armed.”

He grunted an unimpressed laugh. “What you wanna buy?” he asked.

“Oh,” Reeder said innocently, “did you want to deal right out here in the open? On your doorstep?”

Their host scowled and waved them inside, stepping aside for them.

The place was a loft, with an office area just inside, a metal desk with computer off to the right and a warehouse of goods to the left — three tall rows of shelves arranged by product: bags of weed, handguns, and cell phones. Beyond was a modern kitchen, like something from a Home Depot showroom, and to the left a spacious home theater area with overstuffed black-leather chairs and a couch facing a massive flat-screen, below which a low-riding doorless cabinet held electronics gear, two massive black speakers bookending the big screen. Down on the M Street end was an elaborate wall mural of classic rap and hip hop, interrupted by two doors — bathroom and bedroom, probably.

The place reeked of weed. A door in the mural opened and a beautiful young naked black girl with a retro ’fro leaned there and called out sleepily, “Come back to bed, Markie — your baby’s lonely.”

DeMarcus shrugged at them. “Don’t mind Sheila.”

Reeder was looking in Sheila’s direction; he didn’t seem to mind one bit.

“Bidness!” DeMarcus called back, and Sheila’s sigh could be heard all through the loft before she shut herself poutily back in.

They remained near the door in the office area as DeMarcus asked, “So, Joe. What you wanna buy?”

“Nothing.”

“Nada?”

“Not a thing. I want to rent something.”

“What the hell you wanna rent?”

“This loft.”

And Reeder handed the wad of bills toward DeMarcus.

“Like hell,” their host said, his brow wrinkled. Maybe he was closer to thirty, she thought. “I got a bidness to run.”

“That’s why this fistful of money isn’t really ten grand.”

“If it ain’t ten grand, then get you white asses outa my crib.”

“It’s fifty.”

“Say what?”

“It’s fifty K, DeMarcus. You old enough to remember when somebody won something, and a guy showed up with a giant damn check for them? Well, nobody uses checks anymore. You’ll just have to settle for cash. Here. Count it.”

DeMarcus, looking a little dazed, took the wad and counted. It was hundred dollar bills. Presumably five hundred of them.

Reeder waited until DeMarcus’s nod indicated the tally was right.

Reeder said, “There’s a string attached.”

Their host scowled again. “Would be.”

“You have to use that to take little Sheila someplace exotic for a week. Belize maybe. Nassau’s nice. When you come back, I’ll have another fifty for you.”

DeMarcus thumbed through the bills; he looked stunned. “A hundred K to rent the place for a week.”

“That’s right.”

“What for?”

“Why, are you afraid we might do something illegal? DeMarcus, the green rents the place and comes with no explanations. You have a passport?”

“Yeah, but, uh...”

“How about Sheila baby? She have a passport?”

“Yeah, we did Cancun last year.”

“Long-term relationship, huh? That’s good, DeMarcus. That’s healthy.”

“Reeder, I gotta know—”

“That’s not healthy. One week, the out-of-country dream spot of your choice.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Now?”

“Well... soon as you’ve packed, and broken it to Sheila. She’s not going to mind.”

“But I... man, I got a damn bidness to run.”

“Why, do you generally pull down a hundred K in a week? You send out word to your customer base, e-mail or text or whatever, that you’ll be away for a week. Anybody comes around, we won’t answer the door.”

“Maybe... maybe I should go pack now.”

“No maybe about it.”

DeMarcus started off, then turned and said, “I don’t really wanna know any more than this?”

“That’s right, you don’t.”

DeMarcus headed for Sheila’s door at the other end of the loft, but Reeder’s voice stopped him. “Consider part of that hundred K payment for any burner phones I might need. If I take any weapons, we can settle up later.”

“You can have up to five nines,” DeMarcus called back, “on the house,” and then slipped in the bedroom.

Their host and his lady friend had flown in an hour, but the weed smell remained. Rogers found some Febreze under the kitchen sink and got rid of it as best she could.

Using a burner phone from DeMarcus’s seemingly endless supply, Reeder rented a car to be delivered to a restaurant on L Street a couple of blocks north.

“We’ll walk over there together,” he said to her.

They were each in an overstuffed black-leather chair.

Rogers shook her head. “No need. Hey, you may have forgotten, but I’m a trained FBI agent. Me with your famous face is way too conspicuous.”

He reluctantly agreed.

“When the car gets there,” he said, “you drop the driver off at the rental agency, then go to Miggie’s, pick him up, and have him bring as much gear as he can carry.”

“Mig’ll work from here?”

Reeder nodded. “No one’s going to look for him at this address. We’ll keep the rest of the task force out on the street while we get things done here.”

“Mig should bring some clothes, too, I assume.”

“Unless he’s into Redskins and Georgetown threads, ’cause probably that’s all DeMarcus has. We’ll get some of your things when we pick Kevin up. I can cover my needs from some neighborhood bodega and the tailor downstairs.”

“You can wash what you have on, too. This place has everything. It’s the damn Batcave with burner phones.”

Reeder gave her half a smile. “DeMarcus is a smart cookie, as we ancient types say. He stays under the radar, and in the ten years I’ve known him, never served a day inside.”

“Why d’you never bust him?”

“His crimes aren’t federal. Anyway, he’s a resource. Like the CIA guys say, an asset... You better get going, Patti. That rental’s due in fifteen minutes. Oh, and grab one of those nine millimeters of Marcus’s on your way out.”

“Come on, Joe — I already have my service weapon.”

“Yeah. And it can be traced.”