Executive Order (Reeder and Rogers Thriller) Read online

  “You made that clear in private. You were to fact-find. You’ve had several hours. Do you know who did?”

  “Not for sure yet, Mr. President.”

  The President drew in a deep breath and said, “The media knows that four Americans have disappeared, and the commentators are speculating CIA, and even raising the possibility that our people are dead. But the CIA itself doesn’t know who sent its own people into harm’s way? Not acceptable.”

  Shaley appeared calm. Maybe he was, Reeder thought. You did not hold a position as powerful as Shaley’s, for as long as he had, by getting rattled during questioning—even if the interrogator was the most powerful man in the free world. And even if those seated around him were among the most powerful figures in government.

  All the Director said was, “We’re looking into it, Mr. President.”

  “Look faster, look harder. I want an answer by the end of the day—understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Harrison nodded toward the looming screen. “Well, at least tell me this, Dick. Can we identify any of those bodies as ours?”

  Shaley said, “No. But we believe the civilian vehicle barely visible at the edge of those trees . . . near where we have a glimpse of highway? . . . was theirs. There were several bodies nearby . . . specifically, four . . . that the Russians cleared out with their own minimal casualties. We believe those four to be ours, yes.”

  “Then the Russians killed our people?”

  “Our best guess is yes, Mr. President.”

  Reeder had to give Shaley credit—he wasn’t ducking responsibility.

  The President’s expression was placid but his eyes were hard as he again trained his gaze on the CIA CEO. “You’re saying we don’t know that either?”

  “Not for certain, Mr. President. There were two factions firing on each other. It’s an active war zone, after all.”

  Admiral Canby, leaning forward, said, “Mr. President—it’s painfully clear the Russians killed our people. Director Shaley is correct in his assessment that this was a combat situation, but aside from friendly fire, there was no reason for the Azbekistanis to kill our people. They’re our allies! No, this was an act of war, Mr. President, and should be treated as such.”

  Harrison regarded the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “Then you would suggest we go to war, Admiral, before we have all the facts?”

  “Sir, how many more facts do we need? Our people, almost certainly dead, were carted off a battlefield by members of an invading army.”

  The President’s voice remained calm, resolute. “I want to know why our people were there when they shouldn’t have been, who pulled the trigger on them, and who sent them into an active war zone. When I know those three things, then we’ll act. Not before. In the meantime, we do not attack, we make no definitive statement to the media, and we do whatever it takes not to escalate the situation. Am I clear?”

  Nods all around, including—finally—Canby.

  Harrison said, pointedly, “Director Shaley, get me the information I need. ASAP.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Anyone else care to add anything?”

  Senator Blount lifted a hand, a shy student seeking to make a point in class. His blond hair going silver lent him a boyish quality despite his age, though his tortoiseshell-framed bifocals and sagging neck told a clearer story of his sixty-seven years.

  The Senator said, “The eyes of the nation, of the world, are upon us, Mr. President. All due respect, sir—spinning our wheels is not enough . . . you have to do something.”

  “I am, Senator—I’m gathering facts. Only then will I make a decision.”

  The President rose and so did they all. He said, “Get to your posts and we’ll convene here again this evening. Tim will text you with the time.”

  As the senior official in the room, Vice President Mitchell was the one to say, “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  Turning to Reeder, the President said, “Joe? With me, please.”

  Reeder followed Harrison out of the room, Vinson and the Vice President right behind them, leaving the others standing there a little dumbstruck, staring at the screen with its image of a battlefield that seemed more field than battle.

  The elevator doors slid shut and, as they went up, Vinson said, “Jesus, are the hawks getting hard!”

  “They have a reason for once,” President Harrison said. “Four Americans are dead.”

  “You’re right, sir,” Vinson said, quietly.

  The elevator door opened and the Vice President made her nodding exit while the Chief of Staff fell in step with the President and Reeder. Harrison paused.

  “Tim, you’ll be in your office, if I need you?”

  The sideways dismissal froze Vinson momentarily. “. . . Certainly, Mr. President.”

  Vinson headed off to his hidey-hole.

  The two men remaining walked in silence until they were inside the Oval Office. As he moved around behind his desk, Harrison waved Reeder to a chair on the opposite side. In previous meetings, they had used the couches and comfortable chairs in the informal central meeting area. The formidable desk said the words to come would be important, official.

  “So, Joe—maybe you can use your fabled people-reading skills to tell me if Director Shaley is lying about not knowing who sent our agents into Azbekistan.”

  Reeder didn’t hesitate. “He’s lying.”

  Harrison’s eyebrows went up. “You can tell?”

  Reeder nodded. “He had his mouth open.”

  The President offered up a weak smile. “I was being serious.”

  “So was I,” Reeder said. “The man is a professional spy, buttoned-down and hard as hell to read, even by a kinesics expert. That said, he lies for a living, Mr. President. It’s a habit with him.”

  “What does your gut say—is he the one who sent our agents over there?”

  Reeder considered that. “If you’re asking me if he signed the actual order, I have no idea. If you mean do I think he was aware of it? Damn likely. Shaley has been Director of the CIA since I headed up the presidential detail. In my experience, no one passes wind at Langley without Shaley knowing.”

  “But what the hell is the motivation here, for Shaley or anyone else, to kill four Americans?”

  Reeder shrugged a shoulder. “War is big business. We both know, even if it’s not general knowledge, that Azbekistan has some very valuable, as yet unexploited mineral rights.” He shrugged the other shoulder. “And, then, Russia always makes a good bad guy.”

  The President nodded, but said nothing, thinking.

  Finally, Reeder said, “With all due respect, Mr. President, surely you didn’t bring me in this morning to read Director Shaley—you already knew he was a liar.”

  Harrison smiled a little. “You’re right—he’s so opaque he’s transparent. I called you in because I know—hell, everyone in this building knows—the Russians killed our agents.”

  “So the hawks are right.”

  “They’re right. But they’re also wrong.” Harrison slid a thumb drive across the desk to Reeder. “This is the information we have. Or I should say, that I have. You’ll have to find out the rest yourself, Joe. Because it’s not the Russians we’re after here.”

  Reeder took the thumb drive. Tucked it away in a coat pocket, then said, “It wouldn’t seem to be. Someone on our end sent those four to die.”

  The President swallowed thickly, then he waved a hand. “Hell, given the situation, I’d have done the same thing the Russians did—what would we do if four Russians showed up in the middle of our war?”

  “Our people never even identified themselves as Americans. They may have been taken for resistance.”

  “Either way, it just doesn’t matter. The thing is, Joe, as you heard in the Sit Room, I had ordered that no one be sent to Azbekistan . . . yet someone deliberately disobeyed. I want to know who that someone was—who that someone is—before I take any action. Can you do that, Joe? Can you find t
hat person?”

  “I can try, Mr. President. But I’m just one man.”

  “One man will have to be enough. And do it fast, Joe—that sound you hear is the clock ticking. And it may be attached to a bomb.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Reeder rose, but the President said, “Just one more thing.”

  “Sir?”

  President Harrison slid a cell phone across the desk. “This is encrypted, safe, and programmed with my personal number.”

  Reeder picked up the phone, slipped it into his coat pocket with the thumb drive.

  “Report any time, day or night.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  “Don’t thank me yet—this is an unenviable assignment and inherently dangerous. Try not to be the fifth American killed in this thing.”

  Reeder nodded.

  “The hawks want war and I’m trying to prevent one. No bullshit, Joe—we’re talking World War III if Canby and his cronies get their way. Someone inside this government put this thing in motion. Find him.”

  “I will, Mr. President.”

  Reeder turned, walked confidently out the door of the Oval Office, shut it behind him, then let out a long breath. He looked at his right hand and it was shaking.

  Emily Curtis, the President’s secretary, eyed him with concern.

  “Are you all right, Joe?” she asked.

  He nodded, forced a smile. “Never better, Emily.”

  But he knew that she could read people, too, and recognized a lie when she heard it. Still, she just nodded and bestowed a maiden-aunt smile upon him.

  As he left the White House, its picture-postcard perfection looming behind him, Reeder was struck by one overriding thought.

  Things were bad when the President felt the only person he could trust was an ex-Secret Service agent, no longer in government, name of Joe Reeder.

  “America is the land of the second chance—and when the gates of the prison open, the path ahead should lead to a better life.”

  George W. Bush, forty-third President of the United States of America. Served 2001–2009.

  FOUR

  At the wheel of her government Ford, Patti Rogers sensed she was embarking upon a wild goose chase; but when Joe Reeder gave her a lead, she followed it up, no questions asked—particularly when she and her task force were so desperately in need of a significant case.

  She did not share her misgivings with Special Agent Lucas Hardesy, her ride-along on this trip. The senior agent, with whom Rogers was enjoying an uneasy truce, wore shoes as shiny as his shaved head, and an immaculate off-the-rack suit—a good agent who shouted ex-military even at his most quiet.

  Not that his “most quiet” happened very often.

  “What’s this asshole’s name?” Hardesy asked from the rider’s seat.

  “Let’s not assume he’s an asshole, Lucas,” she said, keeping her tone easy, not wanting to restart anything. She always called him Lucas, never Luke; no one on Special Situations did. “We’re just looking at the guy who delivered Secretary Yellich’s lunch every day—a citizen named Glenn Willard.”

  “So, then, Reeder knew the woman, huh? Probably in the Biblical sense. And now we’re doing this as a favor to him, ’cause he’s such a suspicious bastard?”

  “You’re doing it because I’m buying your lunch today. I’m doing it because Joe has better instincts than both of us put together.”

  Hardesy didn’t dispute that. She was driving southeast on Branch Avenue in Hillcrest Heights, Maryland, getting ready to take the right onto Curtis Drive.

  Hardesy asked, “What do we know about this Willard who isn’t necessarily an asshole?”

  “Not much. Miggie called the restaurant Secretary Yellich ordered her sandwich from every day. The owner, Dev Avninder, says Glenn is the deliveryman in question.”

  “Okay, but who made the sandwich?”

  “Avninder himself. He always made it himself. He knew sesame was a big no-no in Yellich’s diet, and made sure she got exactly what she ordered.”

  He gave her a grunt of acknowledgment, then: “What kind of name is Avninder?”

  “East Indian, I think.”

  Another grunt. “Phone’s not enough. We should talk to him.”

  “We will. But first, Willard.” She made the right onto Curtis, Hilltop Apartments in sight. “Avninder says Willard is a decent employee and a good enough guy.”

  “You had Miggie run him?”

  “Of course.”

  “And, nothing?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  “Well, we know one thing, boss.”

  “Which is?”

  “How much I’ll put up with for a free lunch.”

  The buildings of the Hilltop Apartments, set at the corners of a huge parking lot, might have been four six-story college dorms. Nondescript white brick weathered to light beige gave the place a worn-out, even weary look. Rogers parked the car and they got out. She was in a cream-color silk blouse and navy trousers, the day cool but not enough so to require the matching jacket.

  “Which building?” Hardesy asked.

  “Number two,” Rogers said, nodding to the one in front of them.

  “Security building?”

  She nodded again as they strode across the parking lot.

  He was reaching in his pocket for his jimmy tool. “One thing I never miss? The Fourth Amendment.”

  “Don’t let Reeder hear you say that,” she said.

  The Patriot Act, expanded over a decade ago, had pretty much gutted the Fourth Amendment, and the conservative-dominated Supreme Court had upheld the decision. But old-time liberals like Reeder still pissed and moaned about “unreasonable search and seizure.” For her part, Rogers—a self-identified middle-of-the-road Republican—liked not having to deal with all the bullshit warrants and assorted other crap that might keep her from saving a life or hauling in a bad guy.

  “I’ll keep my opinion to myself,” Hardesy said, jimmy in hand.

  Then, like a jump cut in a film, the door to Building Two flew open and a youngish guy in a business suit popped out. Her hand moved to her sidearm.

  The guy’s eyes grew wide and his arms went up at the sight of Rogers’ palm resting on the butt of the pistol at her hip. In his twenties, his dark hair short, his retro-hipster beard the same, he looked like he might pass out. As the door banged closed behind him, he flinched.

  Rogers said, “Glenn Willard?”

  Confusion clenched his forehead. “What? No . . . no! Basement flat, in back, on the right.” His voice was a shaky tenor. “Cops?”

  “Federal agents,” Rogers said, her hand drifting away from her pistol.

  The guy shook his head, lowering his hands slowly. “Not a surprise . . . DEA?”

  “FBI,” Hardesy said. “What’s that mean, ‘not a surprise’?”

  “When you get to his front door, just take a whiff. It’s not springtime.”

  “Blowin’ smoke, is he?”

  “Considering how many ‘friends’ he has, going in and out of there? I’m guessing he’s not just blowing it . . . but you didn’t hear that from me.”

  “Who exactly,” Rogers asked, “are we not hearing this from?”

  “Joe Boyer.”

  “You live here, Mr. Boyer?”

  “For two years now.”

  “Willard been here that whole time?”

  Boyer nodded.

  Hardesy asked, “All that time, dude’s been flyin’ the Mexican airlines, and doing a lot of entertaining, too?”

  With a shrug, Boyer said, “When I first moved in, it was real steady—you’d have to push past ’em sometimes, and they reeked of the stuff. Fewer now.”

  By 2031, only ten states had not passed legislation allowing recreational use of marijuana; but Maryland was one of them, and selling the stuff illegally remained frowned upon.

  Realizing he wasn’t the target here, Boyer said, “All right if I go? I’m already late.”

  Rogers nodded,
but Hardesy had another question: “Do you know if your neighbor’s home now?”

  Boyer shrugged. “I wouldn’t say he’s a neighbor. I’m a floor above him, but we usually go to work about the same time. Not unusual we go out the door one after the other. Haven’t seen him today.”

  Rogers sent her colleague a look that said this interview was over. But Hardesy wasn’t quite finished.

  “How would you like to get in solid with Uncle Sam?” he asked the guy. “And open the security door for us?”

  Boyer looked around to see if anyone was watching. “Why not?”

  He slid his key card into the door and opened it for them.

  “You have the gratitude of your federal government,” Hardesy said, happy not to have to jimmy his way in; but Boyer was already walking toward the Naylor Street metro stop.

  Hardesy held the door open for Rogers.

  “You want to cover the back?” she asked.

  “Other than weed, this guy is clean, right?”

  Rogers shrugged. “He’s got no record, anyway.”

  “Probably no need then. Let’s stick together.”

  That made sense to her.

  The pair headed down to the lower floor. As they emerged from the stairwell, a young man was locking his door—short dark hair, medium build, polo shirt, decent jeans, Reeboks. The kind of guy who might pass for invisible in a busy office building, say, delivering something.

  “Glenn Willard?” she called, her hand not at her hip but hovering.

  The young man’s eyes flew to her, then widened with fear.

  “Federal agents,” she said. “We’d like to ask you—”

  But then Willard was sprinting down the corridor to a door that led to stairs that no doubt rose to a rear exit.

  Just behind her, Hardesy said, “Shit!”

  Rogers was only two steps into her pursuit when she heard her partner bellow, “Maybe I should take the back after all, huh?”

  He said this while heading up the stairs to go around and cut the guy off.

  Racing down the hall, she passed Willard’s door—was their man running because of his drug dealing? Or something else?

  Rogers went up the rear stairs and out the door, looking straight ahead, at more apartment houses, then to her left. Turning right she glimpsed Willard slipping around the far corner of the building. She took off like a sprinter at the starting gun.