Stuart Woods - Mounting Fears

“And that warhead could be anywhere in three weeks,” Will replied.

“Exactly. It’s entirely possible that we are already too late, that the warhead has been moved.”

“Then we’d better find out,” Will said. “Send them in. I know I don’t have to tell you to take every possible precaution for their safety.”

Kate and Halstead stood up. “Thank you, Mr. President,” she said. “The order will go out within minutes.” They shook hands and left.

Will watched them go and tried to reorder his mind for his next meeting, but it didn’t work.

Nelson Pickettanswered the phone in his office at the National Inquisitor.

“Yes?”

“Nelson, it’s Jimmy Pix.” Jimmy Pix (the only name by which Pickett knew him) was a slimy little guy who did dogwork for publications like the Inquisitor, and Nelson had assigned him to follow Martin Stanton’s campaign plane around the Southwest, where Stanton had been assigned to bring in the Hispanic vote.

“Where are you, Jimmy?”

“In Denver. Stanton spoke here yesterday, and he has another appearance today.”

“What have you got for me?”

“I’ve got this: Stanton and his road manager, the lovely Liz Wharton, are in adjoining rooms at the Brown Palace. Stanton has a suite, Liz has the room next door.”

“Are the two connected?”

“They sure are, by a door that needs to be unlocked from both sides.”

“Good start. What else?”

“They both ordered a late dinner last night from room service, and within a minute of each other. The two dinners were delivered to their separate rooms at the same time, and the trays were left in the hallway a couple of hours later.”

“I want photographs of the suite and the other room and the connecting door,” Pickett said.

“Hey, come on, Nelson, we’re talking Secret Service protection here. I can’t get past them and into their rooms, and if I did, I’d end up in a federal prison.”

“All right, then, bribe a room-service waiter or, better yet, a chambermaid to photograph the rooms. Stained sheets would be nice. Tell them to squirt some ketchup on the bedding.”

“That might be possible,” Pix said. “Let me work on it.”

“Do it fast, Jimmy-I’m running out of time.”

“Will do.”

Pickett hung up and phoned a technically oriented man he knew, and gave him an assignment.

Gene Pearce hung up the phone and began checking the gear in the work case he traveled with. It contained an assortment of electronic tools and gear, and half a dozen kinds of pickup devices.

He got into his van, which was disguised as that of a plumber, and drove from his Silver Spring, Maryland, home to the Georgetown neighborhood of Washington, D.C. It was late morning, and he had been told the mark would be at work.

He parked a couple of doors down from the address he had been given, walked to the house, carrying a bag of plumber’s tools and his work case, and rang the bell. He didn’t want to stumble upon the cleaning lady. No answer.

Gene looked carefully around the block. Not much traffic and no one at all on foot. The curtains were drawn on the house directly across the street. He dug out a set of lock picks and went to work on the front door. He was inside in less than a minute.

The first thing he saw inside was an alarm control box. He stared at the thing, waiting for it to start beeping. It did not. The lady had not set her alarm before leaving home. Sweet of her.

He set down the plumbing tools in the entryway, then entered the house. Cute. Two floors, the master bedroom and a guest room upstairs. A cursory glance told him the master had been occupied.

Gene placed three microphones in the bedroom, one by the bedside where the phone was, one by the dressing table, and one high, on top of a picture, that would bridge any gaps between the other two. When he finished there he went downstairs and placed one under the living room phone. As an afterthought, he placed one in the kitchen, as well. You never knew.

He was done and back in his truck in under an hour. He dialed the number and listened on his equipment for it to ring. It worked perfectly. As a final touch, he placed a voice-activated tape recorder in what appeared to be an electrical box, and fixed it to the outside of the house behind some azalea bushes. He would collect the tape every day.

Gene called Nelson Pickett. “Nelson, you’re up and running in Georgetown,” he said.

“Send me your bill,” Pickett said.

“I have to pick up the tape every day,” Gene told him.

“You do that, and be sure you pick it up tomorrow,” Pickett said.

“Something special about tomorrow?”

“You bet your ass,” Pickett replied.

Todd Baconlocked his new office door and took a sandwich and a soda to his desk. He had a couple of more files to read from Owen Masters’s safe before he would be done. The first was a kind of telegraphic diary, documenting Owen’s joining the Agency right out of Yale, his training, and every assignment he had been given during the ensuing thirty years. Interesting, but not very. Owen must have been planning to write an autobiography.

The second file was clearly labeled “Teddy Fay.” That name rang a distant bell for Todd, then the whole thing flashed in his frontal lobe. Teddy Fay was the former Agency employee with liberal political leanings who had vanished after retirement, then emerged as the assassin of several right-wing political figures, among them a blowhard talk show host and the speaker of the House, one Eft Efton, both deceased. Before leaving the Agency, Fay had deleted all his personal records from every computer he had access to, so there were no photographs of Teddy extant. Todd suddenly knew he had what was probably the only one.

He read slowly through the file, which contained a number of newspaper clippings, and he formed the opinion that Teddy, who had been reported dead a number of times, was Owen’s man in Panama, the one he had assigned Todd to find. The last item in the file was a large clipping from the International Herald Tribune, originally printed in The New York Times, about a man named Henry King Johnson, a black preacher from Atlanta who had announced his candidacy for the presidency as an independent and who had become a threat to the reelection of President Will Lee.

Todd had heard Owen make a number of favorable remarks about Lee and his wife, Katharine Lee, who was director of Central Intelligence, and Todd was, himself, favorably disposed to both of them, having joined the Young Democrats organization in college. He noted, too, that all the people Teddy Fay had assassinated were outspoken opponents of President Lee and his moderate Democratic policies.

Todd then asked himself two questions: (1) What had Teddy Fay been doing in Panama? Answer: Hiding, obviously, since if it were known that he was still alive, all sorts of agencies would be hunting him. (2) If Teddy had left Panama, then where had he gone? Answer: Unknown. Lance had said Owen’s assassin would be in South America by now, but Teddy seemed to have a record of going where there were people he wanted to kill.

Todd scanned the article on the Reverend Johnson again. “Teddy would not like this guy,” he said aloud to himself.

Something else in the file reminded him of what Owen had said about the man in his briefing: He flew airplanes. Todd was a pilot, too, having grown up with a father who flew and having earned his private license in the family Beech Bonanza when he was in college and his instrument rating not long afterward.

Todd knew the private-pilot mind-set well enough to know that pilots, when they traveled, much preferred flying themselves to flying the airlines or driving. Teddy Fay had faked his death in an airplane, and it stood to reason that, if he were out there and on the run, a light airplane would be his transport of choice.