King and Maxwell

CHAPTER 27

THE MAN HAD A PROBLEM, a large one, but not unsolvable.

Forty-eight hundred pounds was a big part of it, but not all. At least it had gone where he had planned for it to go. But Sam Wingo was still out there. And then there was the son, Tyler Wingo. And on top of that he had lost three men at a mall.

He had assets but they weren’t infinite, and it wasn’t like he could hire the replacements he needed quickly and quietly. It all took time. That was the thing he didn’t have much of: time. He had a lot left to do and the minutes were ticking fast. The window of opportunity was just that, a window. It closed at some point and would not come back. All elements of his plan had to come together at the exact right time.

At this moment he had the two faces imprinted on his brain: Sean King and Michelle Maxwell. Former Secret Service, now private investigators. They had royally screwed up his plans and cost him valuable assets on the ground.

Problems all around. He didn’t like problems. He liked solutions.

He would figure out the solution to each of these problems, including King and Maxwell, and get this mission back on track. He had every incentive to do so. He had been planning this for a long time, assembling the pieces he needed. But soon, if things went as they should, he could finally let it go.

He took a cab to the airport and shortly was on a jet climbing into the sky. He arrived at his final destination and took a moment to slip on the lanyard with his ID badge and his creds settled against his chest. They marked him as a government contractor full of security clearances. He had once served his country in uniform. Now he was really serving only himself.

He picked up his car at the airport garage and drove to the “big house,” as he always had referred to it. He passed through security. His creds would get him into many places here. All the ones he needed to get into, anyway. He walked down one long corridor, turned left, and kept going, passing military personnel all along the way.

Since he was no longer in uniform he never had to stop and salute. But there were so many enlisted personnel and officers here that there were designated “No Salute Zones.” Otherwise, personnel would be spending all their time doing that.

He nodded to a few he knew but said nothing. Everyone was bustling to get somewhere else. It was just that sort of place. No time for much chitchat.

He knocked before entering the office that was situated on the last corridor he had turned onto.

“Enter,” said the voice.

He opened the door and looked around.

This was the outer office of the Army’s assistant secretary for acquisition, logistics, and technology. The assistant secretary was a civilian now, a retired two-star who ran a program that decided how billions in defense money would be spent in the Middle East. There had been scandals and fraud and waste in this sector during the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Investigations and commissions had ensued and folks had lost their jobs and their careers; some had gone to prison. The current assistant secretary, Dan Marshall, was in his sixties and had a sterling reputation as a scrupulously honest administrator. He had come in and cleaned house, and things were running a lot more smoothly by most accounts.

The woman behind the desk looked up at the man, smiled, and greeted him. He asked for Marshall. She picked up her phone and buzzed the interior office.

A few moments later Marshall came out of his office. He smiled and came forward, not with an extended hand to shake but with both arms out for a hug.

“Alan, my favorite son-in-law, welcome back. How was your trip?” he said.

Alan Grant smiled, hugged his father-in-law back, and said, “Interesting, Dan. Interesting but productive.”

“Come in and tell me all about it,” said Marshall.

Grant followed him into his office and shut the door.

He would tell his father-in-law some, but of course not all.

He looked over at the shelf that housed an array of photos. His gaze locked on one – it always did.

Marshall followed his look and smiled sadly.

“I still miss your father greatly even though it’s been so many years now. I was friends with your father long before you and my little girl were even born. He was the sharpest cadet in our West Point class.”

Grant walked over to the photo and picked it up. His father was in his dress greens, his fresh oak clusters on his broad shoulders. He looked happy. That didn’t last. Not after he became a civilian and had gone to work in D.C.

Grant put the photo back and turned to Marshall.

“Yeah, I still miss him too. Maybe more than ever.”

“At some point, Alan, you have to let it go. Leslie’s been telling me you’ve been on edge lately. Everything okay?”

“Your daughter is a great wife, Dan. But she worries too much about me. I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”

“Well, you came back from Iraq alive. No one is questioning your toughness.”

“Lots of very tough soldiers died over there. I was just one of the lucky ones.”

“I thank the almighty you were. Don’t know what I’d do without you. And Leslie would be lost.”

“She’s a strong woman. She’d be okay.”

“Let’s get off this morbid talk, Alan. But you really do need to move on from what happened to your parents. It’s been over twenty years.”

“Twenty-five,” said Grant quickly. In a calmer tone he added, “And I am getting over it, Dan. In fact, before long I think I’ll be completely over it.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Yes it is, thought Grant.