Max Collins - Executive Order

Reeder held up a cautionary palm. “Not to tell you how to do your job, but I’d keep in mind that your infiltrator will have valuable knowledge. So you might hold off on terminating this party with the customary extreme prejudice.”

Shaley nodded. “I will keep that in mind. Now, Mr. Reeder — if you don’t mind... as you might imagine... I have things to do.”

Nodding, rising, Reeder said, “I might be able to help you, Director. I have some very good computer techs at ABC, and I also have access to the best computer man at the FBI.”

Shaley gave up a mirthless laugh. “Even if I wanted to, Mr. Reeder, I couldn’t give you access to internal CIA computer records. And if you had a court order, you know I’d only give you so much horseshit.”

“I know,” Reeder said, grinning, “but it never hurts to ask.”

The slightest smile traced Shaley’s lips. “Joe... if I might... I respect you — you’re a genuine American hero. For all I know, you may just be window dressing in Harrison’s effort to make this mess go away... but this is our screwup, the Agency’s... and we’ll fix it.”

“Okay, Dick...” Reeder could be familiar, too. “... but four of your people are dead, and already were before you even knew they were in the field.”

Shaley said nothing. His eyes were tight, and his hands were fists. And here they’d just started getting along...

“I’m just saying, Mr. Director, if you need me, call. Maybe I can do you a favor... like help to see your place in history isn’t how you paved the way for World War III.”

Leonard Chamberlain and Reeder went back a couple of decades. Graying now, soft around the middle, Chamberlain had been called back to Langley and retired to the elephant’s graveyard of desk jobs. Back in the day, Chamberlain had been a top field agent, especially during his stint in Eastern Europe; but a stray bullet in Bosnia had ended that part of Chamberlain’s career and left him with paperwork and a limp.

Back in DC, Reeder pulled into a convenience store parking lot and got out his cell, scrolling down to Chamberlain in his contacts. He’d considered trying to see his friend while at Langley, but thought better of it. If they met, it should be on Reeder’s turf.

The CIA agent picked up on the fourth ring. “Human Resources, Chamberlain.”

“Since when are you human?”

“Hi, Joe.”

“You can guess why I’m calling, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“You know anything?”

“I might.”

“Can you be a little more vague?”

“Given where I am right now, is this something you want to discuss on an open cell signal?”

“Best not. Where and when can we talk then?”

“Remind me. Where was that place Superman used to go to chill out?”

“North Pole.”

“I’ll meet you there in an hour. Dress warm. And keep a sharp lookout for polar bears — the few that escaped climate change.”

His old friend was referring to Arlington National Cemetery, Reeder’s own personal Fortress of Solitude.

“Will do, Len. And touch base where?”

“Main Street,” Chamberlain said.

Main Gate.

“See you there,” Reeder said.

In the convenience store, Reeder got himself a bottle of water and, back in the car, sat and sipped at it. His friend knew something or they wouldn’t be meeting.

Don’t get ahead of yourself, he thought. Might be nothing.

But if so, why the precautions?

He was about to start the car when his cell trilled — ROGERS in the caller ID.

She said, “I’ve got some news on the Yellich thing.”

“Good.”

“Maybe not... but it does indicate you were right.”

A wave of something bordering on nausea swept through him — he was pleased she’d found something, but... had Amanda been murdered? Really murdered?

She filled him in about taking down Glenn Willard, making an accidental major dope bust, and following up with the sandwich shop owner and his daughter.

“So,” Rogers said, “it’s evident that your friend’s death is a homicide. But much more than that, we don’t know. Our delivery boy is still unconscious. Lost a lot of blood. And the substitute delivery boy we have no line on. So — how was your day?”

He told her about it, holding nothing back — he rarely did, with Patti.

“So,” she said, “you’re consulting for the President now.”

“Yeah, I’m big shit. Hey, I may need to borrow Miggie, if you can arrange it.”

“Given who you’re working for, I don’t see a lot of trouble with that.”

“Patti, it can’t be common knowledge who my new boss is.”

“Then maybe we shouldn’t talk about it over an un-secure line. As soon as Hardesy and I are able to interview Willard, I’ll get back to you.”

“That’s a loop I need to be kept in,” he said, thanked her, then clicked off.

As he drove the short distance to Arlington, Reeder couldn’t help but wonder: Who the hell would want Amanda Yellich dead? Secretaries of the Interior didn’t normally make the kind of enemies who wanted them permanently gone. He was still mulling that when he parked in the parking lot near the Arlington Cemetery metro stop.

Chamberlain had been circumspect on the phone and Reeder expected the veteran agent would act the same way in getting here. Taking public transportation, most likely, where you could spot or shake a tail more easily than in a car.

Reeder walked across the street to the main entrance of Arlington National Cemetery. A frequent visitor for years, he had requested and received free access to the cemetery as his only perk for taking that bullet for President Bennett. In the years since, he had spent part of almost every single day here, usually early mornings before the public had entry. When he was after serenity, this is where he came.

Today, the cemetery would provide not only serenity, but security, keeping him and Chamberlain at a good distance from listening devices or prying ears.

Reeder looked back toward the metro station, then checked his watch. He figured Chamberlain should be coming up the stairs any time now.

Then almost as if Reeder had willed it, Chamberlain stepped out of the shadows of the station and onto the sidewalk. The two men made eye contact, but gave no greeting, no indication at all of recognition. Reeder, in fact, stepped back into the shadow of a nearby evergreen.

Chamberlain started across the street, his limp even more pronounced than Reeder remembered — time hadn’t been a friend to the man, who also looked heavier since their last get-together. The CIA agent was about halfway across the street when a black GMC crossover sped east on Memorial Avenue, gaining momentum, engine roaring, the vehicle bearing down like a big ebony bullet.

Chamberlain saw it, too, and tried to get out of the way...

“ Len! ”

... but his bad leg wasn’t having any.

Reeder came running out onto the sidewalk by the main entrance, his hand instinctively slapping his hip where the gun he no longer carried used to be.

The car hit Chamberlain hard on the left side and propelled him like a man shot from a cannon, the already broken body smacking off the roof of the car as it flew by; bouncing off, the agent landed on the pavement with a sickening squish, and it would have hurt like hell if he’d still been alive.

In the middle of the street now, Reeder tried to catch the license plate number, as the vehicle squealed off toward George Washington Memorial Parkway; but the GMC had no plates — not surprising. He’d seen a driver and a passenger as the killing car blurred by, but he got a good look at neither, though they appeared to be male.