High Alert

CHAPTER 19

Brigadier General Randolph Sanford, the man who had betrayed a hundred and sixty submariners to their death, came out of the toilet and saw two grim faced men in civilian dress going into his Pentagon office. They were accompanied by the colonel in charge of internal security. A panic surge of adrenaline stopped him in his tracks.

They know. They know it was me.

In a way, it was a relief. Without thinking, Randolph turned in the other direction and headed for the elevators. It was lucky he'd seen them. He had no doubt that if he returned to his office, he'd be arrested.

He stepped into the elevator and rode to the ground floor. His coat and hat were still in the office. The guard at the exit gave him an odd look but said nothing as he went through the security checkpoint and outside into a cold, December day. He tried not to run as he walked to his car. He got in, started it up and drove away. His exit would have been noted by the computers. It wouldn't take long for them to realize he'd left the building. There wasn't much time to do what needed to be done.

Randolph lived in a pleasant suburb of Alexandria, a setting of upscale homes and carefully tended lawns, although the lawns were currently under several inches of snow. The roads were icy. Randolph drove carefully. It would be ironic if he were killed in a stupid car accident.

They'll lock me up in maximum security and throw away the key. The best I can hope for is one hour of exercise a day in some courtyard without any sun and an eight by twelve cell without a window.

He reached his home, triggered the garage door with the remote and parked. He went into the house, remembering to shut the garage door. It felt as if he were moving in a dream. Everything looked normal, just as it had this morning when he'd left for work. The kitchen was clean. The house was a comfortable temperature. The living room rug felt the same under his feet as he walked to his study.

Somehow that didn't seem right.

His wife was not home, as he'd known she wouldn't be. He was sorry for the pain he would cause her. Worse would be the effect on his children when they learned of his treachery.

Randolph went into his study and sat down at his desk. He opened a drawer and took out the Colt .45 he'd carried before the Army switched to the Beretta. The heavy pistol was a familiar weight in his hand. It smelled of gun oil.

He'd always prided himself on keeping his weapons clean. He took out his cleaning kit, opened it and laid a bore brush, rod and patches on a cloth he spread on the desk. He screwed the brush onto the end of the rod, opened a bottle of Hoppe's No. 9 and dipped the brush in it, then dropped the brush and rod on the floor next to his chair.

He ejected the magazine, pulled the slide part way back and made sure a round was in the chamber. He set the pistol and loaded magazine on the desktop and picked up a picture of his wife and two children.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Sorry for everything. I wish I hadn't given that bastard what he asked for. I'm a fool. If I expose him, he'll make those pictures public. He's trapped me.

With luck, it would appear to be an accident, as if the gun had gone off when he was cleaning it. That way his insurance might pay out. The government would keep his treason quiet. They'd find the money he'd hidden offshore, but they might not go after the joint IRA and the money in his wife's bank accounts. It was the best he could do for his family.

He cocked the pistol, placed it against the roof of his mouth, and pulled the trigger.