Authors: Don Tompkins
He wondered again about
Vladimir. He was
sure
he hit him, but didn’t know how serious it was. That .40
caliber slug would make a huge hole and would almost certainly
require a doctor’s care. Wonder what he’d do about it? Now that the
guy knew he was being stalked, Garcia knew he would be even more
dangerous. Clearly he had to be careful; the bastard had already
tried to kill him once. It would have been perfect if he had been
able to kill Vladimir last night. Next time. On the positive side,
though, he was certain that neither Thurmond nor Sam had a clue
that he was tailing them. He took another puff.
Back in their room, seated on the couch,
Grant and Sam began planning their next steps.
Granted said, “Sam, we gotta get this guy
before he gets us. He’s obviously on the offensive and sees us as a
threat. He’s killed nearly everyone in the whole network and my
guess is that he’ll continue to stalk the rest until they’re gone.
I think I’m on that list and now I think you are too. And, don’t
forget the ‘big-guy’ back home.”
“But, at this point, what can we do about
it?” Sam asked, her concern obvious.
Grant, sounding confident, said, “First,
we’re going to place the ads in the paper. Then we’re going to sit
and wait, hoping someone shows up.”
“And if they don’t?”
Grant shrugged. “Well, I’m hoping that the
analysts can find something about Vladimir in the files. If we can
find out where he worked, we can go there, talk to people he might
have worked with and see if we can identify him. At least get a
real name. I know it’s a needle in a haystack, but it’s all we’ve
got.”
“We know he uses Vladimir. Maybe they’ll
recognize it.”
“Not likely. I’ve never known any informant
to use his code name at his cover location. It’s too dangerous and
they’re all told when they’re recruited to only use the code name
with their control officer.”
Sam sighed. “Okay, better call the paper and
place the ads,” she said.
I minus 30
“Well, we have a month before we move into
the White House. How’re you feeling now about being First Lady?”
The President-elect and his wife were having breakfast in the
dining room of the Blair House. They had been there about a week
now and could see the White House from the dining room window. It
was unusual for the President-elect to move into Blair House, but
given the circumstances the Secret Service thought it would be the
best place to keep him safe.
“I’m really nervous, Teddy. I never dreamed
I’d be in the spotlight this much. There are photographers
everywhere I go. It’s almost like being a movie star. And I’m still
not comfortable with the Secret Service surrounding me all the
time.” Mason’s wife, Becky, was 38, a few years younger than he.
She was a slender, beautiful woman with blond hair and brilliant
blue eyes. They had met in Ann Arbor when he was in law school and
she was a junior at University of Michigan. While not exactly love
at first sight, their relationship developed quickly, with Becky
moving into Mason’s apartment only three months after they met. By
the time he finished law school, Becky had finished her
undergraduate work, graduating with honors, earning a BA in
Political Science. They were married that June. Mason was elected
to the state senate that November. Although both wanted children,
Becky was unable to conceive and, after much soul-searching and
heart-felt conversation, they decided not to adopt.
“Better get used to it. It’s gonna be that
way for at least four years,” Mason laughed.
“Teddy, I’m really worried about this
possible assassination attempt at your inauguration. How real do
you think it is?” Becky was clearly nervous.
“Well, I think it’s a pretty slim chance
that anyone could slip through the massive security procedures that
are being set up. However, both DIA and CIA are taking it very
seriously, as is the Secret Service. We have agents in Eastern
Europe right now searching for clues to the identity of the guy
who’s killing our informants, and we have some evidence that shows
it’s the same person who’s threatening me.”
“But what if it’s more than one person? What
if it’s a large group of terrorists using the other killings just
to focus attention elsewhere—as a diversion? How could we ever find
all of them?”
Mason reached out and took
her hand. “Hey babe, that’s a lot of what ifs. First of all, we
have no intelligence that indicates a terrorist country or
organization is involved in any way. The best guess is that it’s a
rogue agent with a grudge against America. What we don’t know is
whose agent he is—ours or someone else’s. It doesn’t really matter
though; the process for rooting him out is the same.” He took her
other hand and continued quietly, “Look sweetheart, there’s nothing
more that can be done and I have a lot of other things to deal
with. This one I just have to leave to the pros. And besides, we
don’t even know if I’m targeted. The best we can say is that
I
might
be and
it
might
happen
at my inauguration.”
Becky looked unconvinced and released his
hands. “I know you’re right, Teddy, but I do worry about it. It
just always seems to be on my mind.”
Mason took a sip of coffee, then, changing
the subject, asked, “How are the interviews going for your new
staff?”
Becky opened her eyes wide and replied, “I
didn’t realize how many people work for the First Lady. I’m amazed
that I have my own press secretary, even. I think I’m going to keep
several of the people who are already in place. They’re experienced
and not political. Several of them have worked for two or more
First Ladies.”
“Glad you’re making progress,” Mason said
and then stood up, leaned over and gave his wife a quick kiss.
“Well, I’ve got to run. I have a full day and won’t be back until
around dinner time. Remember, we have a formal dinner to go to
tonight. The limo will pick us up here around seven. Dinner’ll
probably run late—you might want to think about a nap this
afternoon.”
She laughed. “Just go. I can take care of
myself. Have a wonderful day, and . . . please be careful.”
After Mason left, Becky sat at the table
enjoying another leisurely cup of coffee thinking about all that
was in front of them. She sure hoped the next four years would be
free from terror attacks and wars. She knew that sending Americans
to die in war would weigh heavily on her husband. He was a strong
man, and even though he was a staunch conservative and supported a
strong America, hearing about casualties in Iraq and Afghanistan
really got to him. She couldn’t imagine how he’d feel if he were
the one who had ordered these soldiers to war, to their deaths. An
involuntary shudder shook her as she sat at the table looking
across the street to the White House. It was at times like these
when she questioned whether being President was really worth it.
Well, a little late for that now.
I minus 28
Two days had passed since he placed the
latest ads with no one showing up at any of the meeting places.
Thurmond was beginning to think he’d have to go back to the States
with no leads and no motive. He knew the guys at HQ had been poring
through the files and had identified a lot of material that was
attributed to Vladimir, but, so far, none of it gave any clue to
his identity. They’d continue to sift through the files and General
Wheeler had told Grant he’d be notified if they found anything
worth reporting.
Grant, with his hands in his pant pockets,
was pacing again. “Sam, we’d better keep thinking about next steps.
If the guys back home don’t come up with anything in the next
couple of days, we’re gonna have to go back empty handed. Other
than continuing to review every piece of information we have in our
files, I really don’t know where to turn after that.” He stopped
pacing and looked out the hotel window at the brick building next
door, then he turned towards Sam and continued, “Seems like I’ve
been saying that a lot lately, but I’m not used to failure . . .
and this is one mission that can’t be allowed to fail.”
Sam, who’d been watching him pace, shrugged
and said, “Grant, I’m sure you’ll think of something. You know, if
we do go back, maybe you can convince the President-elect to move
the ceremony to a safer place.”
Grant shook his head, “Not likely. The DNI
has been pushing really hard, but the President-elect is standing
firm and has now completely taken it off the table. No further
discussion.” He continued to stand, hands in pockets with his back
to the window.
“That doesn’t seem reasonable,” Sam
said.
With another shrug, “He doesn’t have to be
reasonable—he’s going to be President. What he says goes.”
“Hmm, yeah, I suppose you’re right. On
another note, what do you want to do today? I’m getting tired of
just sitting around this hotel room.”
“Yeah, me too. Want to go shopping?” Grant
asked.
Sam smiled. “A man wanting to go shopping?
Wow, never thought I’d hear that from you.”
“I don’t
want
to go shopping, but
I thought
you
might. I’ll just tag along for safety reasons. Also, I’d
really like to see if Vladimir is still watching us. I have to
assume he is and if he is, I might be able to spot him. If we stick
to busy streets he won’t try anything. Also, if we walk, he’ll have
to be on foot also and that will make him easier to
spot.”
Sam continued smiling. “My own personal
bodyguard. I feel like a movie star. Okay, sounds good to me, let’s
do it. I’m normally not much of a window shopper, but I’m really
restless. Let’s go.” She stood up and grabbed her purse. “I just
have to comb my hair.”
They left the hotel and walked down the
street and without either of them seeing him, Garcia followed at a
discreet distance. He stayed on the other side of the street where
he could easily keep them in sight. Being across the busy street
meant that they might give him the slip, but it would also make him
less obvious and more difficult to spot. The street was filled with
traffic, both cars and trucks, and was lined on both sides with
parked cars. He didn’t believe there was any chance they could spot
him through all that. He could tell that Thurmond was being
cautious and checking surreptitiously to see if he was being
followed. Garcia was sure Thurmond hadn’t gotten a good look at
this Vladimir character so he knew he’d only be looking for obvious
signs rather than a face. He knew Thurmond would never suspect he
was in the area so he wouldn’t expect to see him. Whenever Thurmond
stopped to look in a shop window, Garcia would keep shuffling
slowly forward without turning his head in Thurmond’s direction. He
knew that an easy way to keep an eye on what’s going on around you
was to watch reflections in glass windows . . . and there were a
lot of them on this street. You could see other people while they
thought you were just looking at items in the shop. It usually
worked pretty well and he was reasonably sure Thurmond was using
that to check everybody out.
The day passed uneventfully. Sam went into
several shops but all she bought was a scarf as a present for her
mother. They had lunch at a cozy restaurant just off the main
street. The restaurant was gaily decorated for Christmas with
lights, candles and greenery adorning every table. Garcia stayed
outside across the street, buying a sausage and sauerkraut in a bun
from a street vendor. He sat at a bus stop bench eating his sausage
and watching the restaurant door. It was gray and overcast and was
easily the coldest day since he’d been in Poland. Even bundled up
as he was, Garcia was beginning to get cold. With a shudder he
thought, why don’t these people just go home?
After a long leisurely lunch, Sam and Grant
chatted as they strolled along the boulevard. They went into a few
more shops, but didn’t buy anything else. It began to snow lightly
so Grant suggested they return to the hotel and have something warm
to drink at the bar.
When he saw them turn around and walk back
to the hotel, Garcia was relieved. He was freezing by that time and
just wanted to get to his hotel and warm up. If Thurmond was crazy
enough to go out later tonight, he was on his own. The weather
forecast was for snow, a lot of snow, and very cold temperatures,
which meant that just sitting outside at the bus stop would be
intolerable. He’d stay in tonight, enjoy a nice dinner in the
little hotel restaurant and be back at his post tomorrow morning. A
little less than a block from Sam and Grant’s hotel, Garcia turned
into a side street and walked the half block to his hotel.
Just as Sam and Grant were going through the
revolving doors into the Hilton, Grant’s cell phone rang. It was
General Wheeler.
“Thurmond,” Grant said answering the
phone.
“Thurmond, Wheeler, how long will it take
you to get to a secure phone?”
“The embassy is about twenty minutes away,
General. I’ll call you as soon as I get there.”
“Good. This is important.” Wheeler hung up
without saying goodbye.
Grant folded his phone and put it into his
coat pocket. When he looked at Sam she asked, “General
Wheeler?”
“Yeah, I have to get to the embassy right
away. Wanna come?”
“Sure,” Sam answered. “I don’t want to sit
alone in a hotel room.”
Grant and Sam went back through the
revolving doors out into the snow. They waved to the first taxi in
the queue just up the street and told the driver their destination.
Since Garcia was warming up and nursing a scotch in the little
lobby bar of his hotel, he didn’t see them leave. Twenty minutes
later when they reached the embassy, Grant took Sam to the third
floor secure area, signed them both in and called General
Wheeler.