Max Collins - Executive Order

Still, this was a chance to make an impression, to demonstrate his value to the movement. Not that he had any illusion that a regular chair at this table might become his — the money and power here were out of his reach. But he would happily serve.

He said, in a firm voice that disguised his unease, “I met with Joe Reeder and Special Agent Patti Rogers after their meeting with the Director at the Secret Service. As instructed, I proffered both carrot and stick.”

“And their response?” the chairman asked.

“As you predicted, sir, they were not receptive to the carrot... but somewhat so to the stick. They did seem to have a sense of the precariousness of their situation — the implications of what further inquiry by them might cost.”

“Reeder has two weaknesses,” came the folksy drawl. “His pride and what we might call his... ‘family.’”

Morris asked, “His ex-wife and his daughter, sir?”

“No. They are out of reach for the moment. Efforts are being made to find them, but Mr. Reeder is not a man without his own resources.”

Morris leaned a hand on the linen-covered tabletop. “Reeder betrayed emotion, sir. I realize his reputation is one of rather... restrained behavior and self-expression. But he laid hands on me — twice .”

The other eyes at the table were moving from the chairman to Morris and back again, as the two men exchanged remarks in a tennis-match fashion.

“Joseph Reeder,” drawled Blount, “is such a self-righteous soul that the very idea of his character bein’ besmirched likely gives him physical pain... but he would sooner endure that than allow anything untoward to happen to those he cares about.”

“Sir, you... you don’t refer to his ex-wife and child?”

“Well, they’re the major part of the mix, of course. But he’s become attached to this agent, this Rogers woman. I don’t believe it’s a sexual relationship. Call it... father-and-daughter, or big-brother-and-little-sister. However you might characterize it, she is important to him. So are those he’s worked with at the FBI, as a consultant — the so-called Special Situations Task Force.”

Morris nodded, understanding the weak spot the chairman intended to penetrate.

Blount asked, “Did our people track the pair after they left the Secret Service buildin’?”

Morris offered an apologetic open-handed gesture. “I’m afraid, sir, within minutes, they went off the grid. If we find them... that is when we find them... what action do we take?”

The chairman leaned back in a chair taller than he was. “For now, nothin’ — we’ll let ’em flail and flounder.”

“Sir.”

“They’re tryin’ to find a way to keep out of harm’s way and yet contin-yuh their investigation at the one-and-the-same time. Eventually they will come to perceive the hopelessness of that goal.”

“Sir, Reeder is a top investigator, and so is that FBI female.”

Holding up a hand, the chairman said, “Keep your powder dry, my friend, and wait. They have not yet grasped the untenable nature of their position. They will contin-yuh to flail around for a time, likely gettin’ nowhere a’tall.” Blount pointed a thick forefinger at Morris. “But if they get close, we will have no choice but to shut them the hell down. Do you follow?”

Morris nodded. He followed, all right.

These men, the patriots on the board, were willing to make such sacrifices to return America to its greatness. A soldier kills in battle, at the direction of generals. The four CIA agents and Secretary Yellich had not been murdered; they were casualties of the cause.

For something as far-reaching as the ongoing operation, individuals would occasionally have to be sacrificed — for the greater good. That was at the core of the American Patriots Alliance.

Patrick Reitz, the trucking magnate — a heavy man with receding dark hair and a lizard’s hooded eyes — shook his head. “Why not eliminate them now? Aren’t they a genuine threat to our current goal?”

The chairman’s glance at Reitz had steel in it. “You are aware, my friend, that six government employees are already fatalities.”

“Nothing wrong with your math, Mr. Chairman. Only... why not two more?”

Blount’s intake of breath seemed to consume half the air in the room; when he let it out, nearby napkins rustled. “You would have us liquidate an FBI agent, a female one at that, who has generated positive publicity for the Justice Department in recent years? Then there’s the national hero who saved one president’s life and now is more popular than another one.”

“Accidents do happen,” Reitz said.

The chairman shook his head; there was a finality about it. “Too many red flags have already gone up for us to risk such behavior. Their deaths would bring more questions, more agents. But, yes, we can and will deal with these two, if necessary. For now, we have control of the situation. Killing that pair would relinquish our control. Doesn’t that make sense, gentlemen?”

Morris found himself nodding. To his surprise, so was Reitz, and the rest of the board, too.

“That’ll be all for you this evenin’,” Blount said to the GAO man pleasantly.

Then no one, not even the chairman himself, spoke a word as Morris rose and left like another member of the club’s staff, just not as well dressed. He slipped out the door, leaving behind the muffled sounds of the meeting continuing without him.

Alone on F Street, Morris felt he’d done well tonight. The chairman appeared impressed, the other board members, too. Big things were in the air, and in his future, and he was too exhilarated to want the night to end.

He didn’t have a significant other in his life right now, and hadn’t for a while — these days, he just didn’t have time. But tonight, as on many nights, he wanted female company.

He would use (as he had so many times) Aphrodite’s, a discreet escort service that could be reached only by text message — 911 for a blonde, 912 for a brunette, 913 redhead, 914 Asian girl, 915 black and so on. No haggling, and no hags — these women were all attractive and bright, fulfilling a man’s desire like delicious items on a fine restaurant’s menu.

Ducking into the recession of a doorway, Morris on his phone sent his message: *911, usual, 30 minutes*.

“Usual” meant the bar within the Hotel Mont Blanc, which happily was just three blocks away. The management knew him and looked the other way; he was a good customer, two or even three nights a week at his most ravenous. And tonight he would be there in plenty of time for his after-dinner delight.

The Mont Blanc, which occupied a former post office, was a reasonably priced hotel by DC standards, rooms in the four-hundred range. Kepler’s, the bar off the lobby, was a plushly appointed, dark-wood-and-red-leather establishment catering for the most part to the hotel’s guests and foreign dignitaries — a good place for Morris to meet his purchased conquest, with little chance of running into anyone he knew.

They would go up to his room after a couple of drinks, have their romp, then Miss 911 would be sent on her way, unless of course he felt he could manage seconds, with room service cocktails tiding them over till he was able. He would chat with them about their lives, though most would lie to him (college girls — right!), and he would spin his own tale of high government service that had nothing to do with his reality at the GAO.

He checked in, got his key, then turned his attention to Kepler’s. Entering the bar, he found it decidedly underpopulated, just as he’d expected. Just as he’d hoped. Three men at a table, their suits worthy of the board members with whom he’d recently dined, were speaking with an apparent Kuwaiti in traditional kandura with a one-button collar and a ghotra worn in cobra style. Oil business, most likely.