Mike Lawson - House Divided

And he had to do one other thing: he had to make sure he didn’t get killed like Paul.

Dillon walked into the operations room Claire was using. Three of her technicians were now back in the room, sitting in front of computer monitors, earphones on their heads. DeMarco was still visible on the plasma screen, still sitting in his car on the banks of the Potomac, pondering what he’d just heard. Alice, Claire’s favorite field agent, was the one filming DeMarco and transmitting the picture.

“How many people do you have on him?” Dillon asked Claire.

“Four,” she said. “More than enough to follow a guy like him. And I’ve got a tracking device on his car and we can use his cell phone to track him, too. If I need to, I can cover him with a satellite.”

“I certainly hope it doesn’t come to that, Claire.”

“Me too.”

“So what do you think he’s going to do next?” Dillon said.

“How would I know?” Claire said. “We can record his voice, not his thoughts.”

“Well, not yet,” Dillon said, smiling slightly.

DeMarco had no idea whom to call at The Washington Post. At one time, he’d known a Post reporter, an old alcoholic named Reggie Harmon. But Reggie got married for the fourth time last year-to another reporter, also an alcoholic-and moved to Houston where his new bride worked. The only other reporters at the Post whose names he knew wrote for the sports page. Yeah, he knew all the sports guys, especially that one pessimistic son of a bitch who started off every football season by saying how bad the Redskins were gonna be that year. Unfortunately, most of the time, he was right.

Then he thought: Woodward and Bernstein-although he wasn’t sure Bernstein even worked there anymore. But this thing he was holding, this recording, it was right up Woodward’s alley: an army general admitting he’d killed a bunch of people because some guy named Charles told him to. Oh, yeah. Woodward would drool like a rabid dog when he heard the recording.

The problem with Woodward, DeMarco figured, was he probably had a thousand conspiracy nuts calling him every day of the week. There was no way he’d take a call from DeMarco even if he worked for Congress. No, wait a minute. The Post had lost a reporter. Woodward might take a call from somebody who said he had information related to the disappearance of a brother scribbler. Yeah, that would work.

Dillon and Claire watched as DeMarco opened his cell phone.

“Are you ready, Claire?” Dillon asked.

“Gilbert?” Claire said.

“Yeah, I’m ready,” Gilbert said.

Claire listened as DeMarco punched a number into his cell phone.

“Who’s he calling?” Claire asked.

Gilbert and Dillon both said at the same time, “ The Washington Post.”

Gilbert could tell DeMarco was calling the Post because as soon as DeMarco dialed the Post’s number, the number showed up on his screen and the software he used automatically gave him the identity of the party being called. That’s how Gilbert knew who DeMarco was calling. But how had Dillon known? Answer: because he was Dillon.

Dillon put on a headset, one which had earpieces covering his ears and a microphone on a wand in front of his lips. Then Dillon, Claire, and Gilbert all listened as DeMarco navigated the Post’s voice mail system until he finally reached an operator.

DeMarco said, “I need to speak to Bob Woodward. I have information relating to the disappearance of-”

At that moment, Dillon made a slashing motion across his throat and Gilbert cut off the call to the Post.

DeMarco heard his cell phone make a funny click and cursed, figuring the operator at the Post had accidentally disconnected him. But then he heard: “You don’t really want to talk to Bob Woodward, Mr. DeMarco.”

“What?” DeMarco said, and then looked at his cell phone like it had turned into a snake. “Who the hell’s this? How the… how the fuck did you get on my phone?”

“Magic, sir. The same magic I used to determine that you’re in possession of a recording made by the late General Breed.”

“You got me bugged?” DeMarco said.

“Three ways from Sunday, my friend,” Dillon said.

“Who the hell is this? FBI? Is this you, Hopper?”

It didn’t sound like Hopper, though.

“No, Mr. DeMarco. As I think you know, Special Agent Hopper is not your friend. I, on the other hand, am the man who can keep you alive.”

“Keep me alive? Who the hell is this?”

“Mr. DeMarco, you are now in possession of the same information that got your cousin killed. And since I know this, and if I was the person who killed Paul Russo, you’d be dead right now, right there where you’re parked on the banks of the Potomac.”

“What? How the hell do you-”

“Turn around and look behind you. No, turn the other way. Do you see the SUV, the black one with the tinted windows? The driver’s a nice young lady named Alice. I want you to join Alice. She’s going to drive around for a while to make sure she’s not being followed, and then she’s going to bring you to me.”

“Hey, screw you, whoever you are. I’m not going anywhere with your people.”

DeMarco heard the guy laugh. “DeMarco, I can see you. I can hear you. I can cut in on your cell phone conversations. Think about that. So, please, just calm down and do what I say. I want to help you. There are some other people out there, however-the kind of people General Breed speaks about on that recording-who want to kill you. And maybe they’ll kill your girlfriend as well. Killing someone in Afghanistan isn’t all that hard to do.”

Jesus, they knew about Angela and where she was. Who the hell was this guy?

“Please join Alice in her car, Mr. DeMarco.”

Alice was an athletic-looking young woman in her early thirties, wearing a black blazer over a white blouse, jeans, and running shoes. She had a cell phone gizmo in her ear. She was kind of cute, DeMarco thought: long black hair, brown eyes, a long straight nose, and a red-bronze complexion. Because of the nose and her coloring, DeMarco thought she might have some Native American in her, but the main impression he had of Alice was: serious.

Alice was as serious as a heart attack.

“Kneel on the seat,” Alice said. “I need to frisk you to see if you’re carrying a weapon.”

“I’m not carrying one,” DeMarco said. “I still need to pat you down.”

“Bite me,” DeMarco said.

Before Alice could respond to DeMarco’s childish comment, the man who had spoken to him previously, said, “It’s okay, Alice. I doubt Mr. DeMarco is armed. I’m sure I’ll be safe from him.” The man’s voice came from a speaker in Alice’s vehicle which was directly behind DeMarco’s head and he jumped in his seat when he heard the voice.

Alice stared at DeMarco for a few seconds-letting him know she wasn’t pleased that he’d interfered with her job-then said, “Buckle your seat belt.” She didn’t speak to him again for thirty minutes.

Alice drove onto the Memorial Parkway, crossed the Fourteenth Street Bridge into the District of Columbia, and then got on 395. She stayed on 395 until she came to the Capitol South exit, took the exit, and then made a tour of Capitol Hill, turning frequently, backtracking occasionally. A couple of times she spoke to someone, saying, “Am I clear?” Apparently whoever she was talking to said she was. From Capitol Hill she took surface streets to reach the D.C. Beltway and then took the beltway exit to Silver Spring, Maryland, where she once again began driving through residential areas, this time dodging down the occasional alley, blowing through stop signs as if they didn’t exist, scaring the shit out of DeMarco. Finally, she stopped in front of a small house whose lawn was badly in need of cutting. There was a kid’s big-wheeled tricycle sitting on the grass near the front door.