Max Collins - Executive Order

Or the Kremlin.

“So,” Vinson said, squinting in thought, “the Azbekistan invasion is just a cover for... a strip-mining operation?”

“More to it than that, Timothy,” Harrison said. “The Russian hard-liners will be ecstatic to see Boris flexing his muscles, making it a political win at home... and with the Azbekistanis under the Russian boot heel again, maybe, just maybe, the world would let him hold onto that little excuse for a country.”

“Okay,” Reeder said. “Now — do you want to hear the really bad news?”

“For Christ’s sake,” Vinson said, “what could that be?”

Harrison knew. He said, quiet again, “That someone on our side knew the exact time of that invasion and sent four American agents to die in it, in hopes of starting a war with Russia — a war that doesn’t really seem to suit Krakenin’s agenda.”

Rising, the President gestured toward the informal central meeting area of couches and chairs, and the three men repaired there. Reeder and Vinson took the couch and the President an overstuffed chair opposite.

“Mr. President,” Reeder said, “at the risk of impertinence... there’s a question I must ask.”

“Ask it, Joe.”

“Someone on our side knew when the invasion was going down. Agreed?”

“That would appear so.”

“Which means that someone had the ability to send our agents into harm’s way.”

“Yes.”

Reeder locked eyes with the President and asked, as if wondering what time it was, “Was that person you, sir?”

Vinson exploded, turning to Reeder, spittle flying his way. “What in the hell...! You have no right to—”

An upraised hand from the President cut Vinson off.

“Joe is a citizen I called upon for a mission, Tim, which gives him every right to question his president.”

Reeder said, “And the question stands, sir.”

Next to him, Vinson was turning shades of red — suffering succotash...

The dark eyes in the auburn face met Reeder’s unblinkingly. “Isn’t the real question, did I go after the portillium for the benefit of the United States, using those CIA agents as an advance team? And have I been using you to cover my tracks?”

“That’s two questions, Mr. President. But that sums it up.”

Harrison’s smile was a weary one. “If only I were that smart, Joe... but the truth is, I never even saw this coming. Satisfied?”

Reeder worked to detect every micro-expression, every body nuance, but nothing led him to think that the President was lying. Of course, US presidents were among the most skilled liars in history.

Just the same, Reeder said, “Yes, sir, I am. Thank you for your frankness.”

The Chief of Staff next to Reeder on the couch half-turned to him, agape.

“Now it’s my turn for a question,” Harrison said. “Are you any closer to finding our traitor? Director Shaley is either stalling or genuinely flummoxed.”

Reeder let out some air. “I think with Director Shaley, sir, it’s the latter. Of course, he might be taking care of the problem in-house, to protect himself and his domain... but I can’t honestly say I’m really any closer on that front, Mr. President. Not directly.”

Harrison frowned. “Then you haven’t got a thing for me?”

“I know more than I did, when we spoke yesterday... but not the name of the mole. I have learned something that’s... troubling.”

“Which is?”

Reeder had held this back because of Vinson’s presence; but there was clearly nothing not shared between these men.

So Reeder said it: “Secretary Yellich was assassinated.”

In a soundproofed room, silence can be surreal. And the three men breathing was the only sound any of them could discern in the uncomfortable stillness.

“But that... that was an accident,” Vinson said, absent of any of his usual bluster. “A tragic—”

“Murder,” Reeder said. “So was the hit-and-run death yesterday of CIA agent Len Chamberlain. I was there and I saw it.”

Then Reeder handed over everything that Rogers and Hardesy had turned up in their investigation thus far, leading up to and including the murder of Tony Wooten/Evans. He left out only the information Rogers had gleaned from the Wooten family in Pennsylvania — until Miggie Altuve traced the source of the family’s money in the Caymans, reporting that would be premature.

And he also stopped short of outlining the potentially absurd-sounding concept of a shadow government.

When Reeder had finished, President Harrison stared at the floor, shaking his head.

“Five CIA agents down,” he said, “the Secretary of the Interior assassinated, her assassin himself liquidated... and if I put the pieces together correctly, you’re telling me this could all be a plot by the Russians, with help from someone in our government, for a land grab? All to acquire the resources to make an unlimited amount of an undetectable plastic explosive... with World War III in the offing.”

“It’s a genuine possibility, Mr. President,” Reeder said.

Vinson said, “Why on earth would any American help the Russians acquire the key to Senkstone?”

Reeder shrugged. “They may not have figured out that part. The goal of the rogue players in our government may well be a hawkish one toward Krakenin’s Russia. As for Senkstone, very few people in or out of government even know about it, and fewer still are aware that portillium is the element needed to stabilize it.”

Shaking his head, the Chief of Staff said, “I just can’t believe it.”

“Well, there’s an even worse read of the rogue element,” Reeder said.

Vinson grunted. “What in God’s name could be worse?”

But the President answered his Chief of Staff: “They could know about portillium.”

“Know about it?” Vinson blurted.

“Know about it,” Reeder said, “and be in Russia’s pocket — either as foreign agents or, well, capitalists without a conscience.”

Again, silence settled over the sealed room.

Harrison looked hard at Reeder. “Now that the FBI is officially on board, by way of Special Agent Rogers’ task force, I want you to work with them. You have a history of being a consultant there — no red flags will go up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get to the bottom of all this... and Joe — I need it wrapped up before the first of the week.”

Reeder felt as if the leader of the free world had just punched him in the stomach. “Respectfully, sir, that’s less than five days for an investigation that could take, oh months... even years.”

“We don’t have the luxury of time,” Harrison said. “And I’m depending on you to meet my deadline. The cabinet is scheduled for a weekend at Camp David. The only item on the agenda will be whether the United States will issue a declaration of war against Russia.”

And another one to the chin...

The President was saying, “The decision can be put off but there’s a real possibility that the United States will face war with Russia. I’m assuming you’d like to help forestall that.”

With a confidence he wished he felt, Reeder said, “Yes, sir, I would. I will.”

The President stood and so did Vinson and Reeder, who shook hands with Harrison. And he even shook hands with the Chief of Staff, who had the look of a man about to go home and build a fallout shelter.

Walking to his car, the sky an ominous, starless dome, Reeder felt the vibration of his cell phone, and checked it: Bishop. He’d given his homicide detective pal the number last night. Within the car, he answered.

“Evening, Detective Bishop.”

“Some pile of dog shit you stepped in this time around.”

“Getting any on you?”

“Naw. It’s you who stepped in it, not me. Remember Pete Woods? The young buck you helped on the Bryson case?”