The Second Shooter Page 9

  The FBI agent was soft, a pencil pusher, totally out of his depth. He probably came up through financial crimes or public corruption, maybe the Civil Rights Division. Some type of assignment that carried little risk and required minimal physical action. Garcia doubted the man had set foot in the field in years.

  Blackstone was a different sort. Physically tough and possessed of a certain air of command. Garcia knew the type, a hard charger, rigid, disciplined, self-styled super patriot. Blackstone's haircut said ex-Army, not jarhead, and his demeanor said company-grade officer, probably a captain. Got his ticket punched at the right schools and assignments. Probably a tour in the Rangers. Maybe some time with Special Forces. But he didn't quite have the cold steel look that was the trademark of Delta operators. Somehow his career had jumped the tracks or else he'd still be in the Army. Got in trouble or just been passed over for promotion. One pass was all it took. Officers either moved up or moved out.

  Maybe Blackstone had a temper. Maybe he drank too much. Maybe he beat his wife. Or he got caught screwing somebody else's wife. Whatever happened that torpedoed his Army career, Blackstone had ended up working for one of several contract security firms the Agency kept on retainer and kept busy.

  Of the two, Blackstone merited the closest scrutiny. His survival instincts and combat skills would be much more finely honed than Donahue's. And those skills would also make him much more useful than Donahue. The FBI man was pretty much dead weight.

  "How did your agent get involved with Favreau?" Garcia asked Donahue.

  The FBI supervisor stabbed a finger at Blackstone. "I already told him."

  "Tell me," Garcia said.

  Donahue let out a dramatic sigh before he answered. "Your alleged French terrorist called the after-hours number and asked to speak to the duty agent. The Comm Center forwarded the call to—"

  "Tell me exactly how that works."

  "How what works?"

  "The thing you were just talking about," Garcia said. "The duty agent."

  "I assume it works here pretty much the same way it works at your..."

  "Don't assume anything," Garcia said. "It makes you look stupid. Just tell me how it works at the FBI."

  Donahue opened his mouth, probably to protest, but he must have decided against it, Garcia thought, because after an awkward pause with his mouth hanging open, all he said was, "All right."

  Garcia made an impatient wave for Donahue to continue.

  "The Bureau is, of course, a twenty-four hour a day operation," Donahue said. "But generally our duty hours are Monday through Friday, eight to four-thirty. Nights and weekends we roll the phones over to the Communications Center at Bureau Headquarters. We have a duty agent during those hours to handle any calls that require an immediate response. All non-supervisory agents serve as duty agent on a rotational basis for a week at a time. This week was Special Agent Miller's turn. I believe it was his first time."

  "First time as duty agent?"

  "Yes," Donahue said. "He just completed his field training. New agents are exempt from duty-agent status while they have an FTA."

  "What's an FTA?"

  "Field training agent. For the first six months after they graduate from the Academy, new agents are assigned a senior agent as a mentor to guide their transition from the training environment at the Academy to real field work."

  "And Favreau just happened to call in during Miller's first time as duty agent?" Garcia asked, not liking the sound of that at all. He had found during his long career that true coincidences were rare, and that even when two occurrences seemed truly coincidental, if you just dug deep enough you usually found out they weren't.

  "We get dozens of after-hours calls a week," Donahue said. "Most of them are routine and the Comm Center can simply take a message."

  "But sometimes they're not routine."

  "Correct," Donahue said. "And when that's the case the Comm Center calls the duty agent."

  "And this week that was Miller."

  Donahue nodded.

  "So what did Favreau want?" Garcia asked.

  "He wouldn't say. But he insisted on speaking to the duty agent. So our communications people did what they were supposed to do and passed the information on to Agent Miller. When Miller called back, Mr. Favreau insisted on a face-to-face meeting."

  "Is that unusual?"

  "Generally speaking, yes, it is," Donahue said. "Bureau policy is that any after-hours meetings with callers must be attended by two agents. For security reasons."

  "And Miller didn't follow that policy?"

  "No, he did not," Donahue said. "Agent Miller met Mr. Favreau at a diner about six blocks from the White House. From what I understand, Miller was en route to meet some friends at a football game. To save time, he decided to violate Bureau policy and attend the meeting alone." Donahue pointed to Blackstone. "His men apparently had Mr. Favreau under surveillance and monitored the meeting. When they moved in to take the fugitive into custody, Miller reacted poorly. He's a young, inexperienced agent, but I think what happened was at least partially due to the extremely heavy-handed approach of Mr. Blackstone's agents. I honestly don't think Miller had any idea what was going on." Donahue paused, then said, "I think his involvement was random chance."

  "Favreau is a meticulous planner," Garcia said. "Nothing he does is random. He has some connection to your agent."

  "That's not possible."

  "Who's the female?"

  "Stacy Chapman," Donahue said. "One of our intelligence analysts. She and Miller seem to have a...thing."

  "You keep up with office romances?"

  "We don't condone relationships among employees, but we don't expressly forbid them either," Donahue said with a note of defensiveness in his tone. "Frontline supervisors are asked to monitor, on an unofficial basis, any fraternization among personnel. It's not written policy. More like a suggestion, for the good of the Bureau."

  "It sounds exactly like J. Edgar Hoover policy."

  "Director Hoover died when I was in eighth grade," Donahue said. "So I never had the pleasure of meeting him."

  "I did," Garcia said. "Several times. And let me assure you, meeting J. Edgar was never a pleasure."

  Donahue looked like he was about to get snippy, but he swallowed whatever response he was going to make.

  "Where would Miller run if he got into trouble?" Garcia asked.

  "I have no idea," Donahue said.

  "His father is retired FBI, right?"

  Donahue nodded.

  "Where does he live?"

  "Bethesda," Donahue said.

  "Do you know him?"

  "We play golf a couple times a year."

  Garcia checked his watch. It was 6:30 a.m. "Let's pay him a visit."

  Chapter 22

  President Noah Omar stepped out of the second-floor residence at the White House at seven o'clock and quietly closed the door behind him, more out of habit than necessity. There was no real need to be quiet. His wife had her own bedroom, as did their two teenage daughters. They were probably all up anyway, the girls getting ready for school and Mona getting ready for whatever it was she had scheduled this morning.

  A pair Secret Service agents were waiting for the president in the hallway outside his bedroom, as was Richard Finch, his deputy chief of staff. Finch held an open leather portfolio with several printed pages crammed on top of a yellow legal pad.

  "Anything happen last night?" the president asked.

  Finch walked beside the president toward the stairs with the Secret Service agents trailing them. "Pretty quiet," Finch said. "Nothing that needs immediate attention."

  "What about today?"

  Finch scanned the first of his printed pages, the summary of the president's daily agenda. "This morning is fairly light. After the intelligence briefing, you have three meetings, one hour each with a ten minute break between. Lunch with the Saudi ambassador at 11:45. Then we leave for Dallas at two o'clock."

  "Why so early?" the president said.<
br />
  "You have the Petroleum Club dinner tonight."

  The president shook his head. "I forgot about that."

  "I can promise you they haven't."

  "Fat-cat oil executives are not exactly my favorite dinner companions."

  "Three hundred guests at ten thousand a plate."

  "I doubt even an extra three million will make the DNC happy," the president said. "But for that kind of money, I can break bread with Texas oilmen."

  "The midterms are going to be brutal, so every dollar helps."

  "Million here, million there, next thing you know you're talking about real money."

  "Yes, sir."

  The president stopped at the stairs and glanced over his shoulder. The two Secret Service agents hung back at a discrete distance, although he was positive they listened to everything said around them, and he often wondered whose side they were on. Some of the more unflattering things he had read in the press about himself and his family could only have come from his so-called protectors. The president tried to put the agents out of his mind and looked at Finch. "Any chance we can take back the House?"

  The deputy chief of staff shook his head. "We'll be lucky to hold the Senate."

  "I can't run the country wearing a pair of Congressional handcuffs."

  "You've done some good things with executive orders."

  "I want Congress to get out of my way."

  "I think we'll hold the Senate, Mr. President."

  President Omar shook his head. There were just so many frustrations with this job. People called him the most powerful man in the world. If they only knew how limited that power actually was. "What time is the speech tomorrow?"

  "Noon."

  "What's the weather going to be like?"

  "A little chilly but clear."

  "Time to get in a round?"

  "Of course."

  The president led them down the stairs. "Good. Make sure my clubs are packed."

  "Yes, sir."

  At the first-floor landing, the president turned to Finch. "What about the speech tomorrow? Why haven't I seen a draft yet?"

  "Michael's still working out the kinks," Finch said. "I'll make sure you have it on the plane."

  "There are a whole lot of people in Texas who don't like me."

  "The speech will be fine, sir." Finch tried a smile. "Besides, you're very popular in Austin."

  The president didn't return the smile. "See that I have it." He turned away, stopped, and turned back. "And make sure we're not having shellfish tonight. Mona's allergic." For a few seconds Richard Finch seemed truly surprised, a rarity for the deputy chief of staff, who prided himself on his unflappability. "Richard?" the president said.

  Finch shook his head, like he was trying to clear his ears. "I'm sorry, Mr. President. I was already shifting gears."

  "But you heard me, right? No shellfish tonight at the...whatever-it-is dinner."

  Nodding, Finch said, "Yes, sir. The Petroleum Club."

  "What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

  "Nothing, sir," Finch said. "It's just that...I didn't know the first lady was coming with us."

  "Richard, are you kidding?" The president let that hang for a moment. Then he said, "You've seen those old newsreels, all the coverage Jackie got. It's the fiftieth anniversary. You think Mona would miss this?"

  Finch didn't say anything. He seemed lost again.

  The president walked toward the Oval Office. He had his morning intelligence briefing to get to. The Secret Service agents followed him.

  Chapter 23

  Wendell Donahue stopped the Ford Crown Victoria in front of an older two-story house on a quiet residential street in Bethesda, Maryland. Bill Blackstone rode shotgun. Max Garcia sat in back with his Samsonite briefcase beside him. It was 7:15 a.m.

  A pair of sensible midsized sedans, a Chevrolet and a Dodge, sat in the driveway in front of the closed garage. To Garcia, neither looked like the kind of car a young, single FBI agent would drive. Maybe the kid's car was stashed in the garage, but he doubted it. More likely, the Millers, like most Americans, had so much stuff they had to use their garage for storage, and parked their cars in the driveway. "What kind of car does Miller drive?" Garcia asked.

  "The son or the father?" Donahue said.

  "The son."

  "I don't know."

  "You know who he dates but not what he drives?"

  "I think I was pretty clear," Donahue said, turning to look back at Garcia. "What I was saying earlier, about monitoring interoffice relationships, isn't official Bureau policy. It's just a way to be proactive in—"

  "I get it," Garcia said. "You don't want a domestic fight blowing up in the squad room between two people who carry guns for a living."

  "Exactly."

  "Do you know if Miller has a government car?" Garcia pointed to the two cars in the driveway. "Could one of those be an FBI car?"

  "Junior agents don't get take-home cars," Donahue said.

  "How long has his father been retired?"

  Donahue shifted the Ford into park. "Three, maybe four years."

  "I don't figure Miller as the kind to have gone running home to mommy and daddy," Blackstone said. "Especially not with Favreau tagging along."

  "I agree," Garcia said. "Still, we might find out something useful by talking to the parents. Maybe he has another girlfriend, one the FBI doesn't know about." Donahue shot him a dirty look but didn't say anything.

  They all climbed out of the Ford and walked to the front door. Donahue pushed the bell. They waited in awkward silence, Garcia very aware that retired FBI Special Agent Lee Miller would check them out through a window or the peephole in the door before he opened it. What would he think of three stern-looking men, only one of whom he knew, calling on him at home at just past seven o'clock in the morning?

  Lee Miller opened the door. He was in his late fifties, tall and balding, with a hastily swept combover that only partially covered his pale scalp. He wore pajama pants and a T-shirt. Concern clouded his face as his eyes swept the three men on his doorstep. He focused on Donahue, but before he could articulate a question, a woman's voice called from inside the house, "Lee, who is it?"

  Miller ignored the question and kept his eyes on Donahue. "What is it, Wendell?"

  Donahue cleared his throat. "I'm sorry to barge in on you so early, Lee, but we, uh, have a bit of a situation."

  Miller's wife appeared behind him. She was a striking woman in her early fifties. She looked directly at Donahue and ignored the other two. "Something's happened to Jake, hasn't it?"

  Donahue shook his head. "No, Caroline. I mean, he's not hurt or anything." He looked at Miller. "But this is about Jake."

  Lee Miller stepped aside and the three of them entered.

  They all went into the kitchen. The breakfast table was set for two. Donahue sat down at the table with the Millers. Garcia and Blackstone remained standing. Caroline Miller made a nervous offer of coffee, but she seemed relieved when everyone declined.

  "Has anyone called you?" Donahue asked.

  The Millers answered at the same time. He said, "No." She said, "Called about what?"

  Mr. Miller eyed Blackstone. Then focused on Garcia. "I don't believe we've met."

  "So you haven't heard from Jake?" Donahue persisted.

  "Is he all right?" Caroline Miller pleaded.

  "He's not hurt," Donahue said. "If that's what you mean."

  "Then where is he?" Mrs. Miller said.

  Donahue hesitated before saying, "He's missing."

  Caroline Miller's hands leapt to cover her mouth. "Oh, my God."

  "Missing?" Lee Miller said. "What do you mean missing? He's an FBI agent. How can he be missing?"

  "He disappeared," Donahue said. Then he glanced at Garcia as if asking if it was all right to say more. Garcia nodded and Donahue continued, "He disappeared with a terrorist."

  "A terrorist," Caroline Miller nearly shrieked.

  "Are you saying Jake
has been kidnapped?" Mr. Miller said.

  Again, Donahue, the ever-cautious bureaucrat, glanced at Garcia. This time Garcia answered. "Your son wasn't kidnapped, Mr. Miller. He helped a man escape from the FBI. A Frenchman named Andre Favreau. Does that name mean anything to you?"

  Lee Miller stared at Garcia. "Who are you?"

  Donahue cleared his throat. "He works for a government agency...with an interest in this case." He nodded at Blackstone. "They both do."

  "What case?" Caroline Miller said. "My son isn't a case. He's an FBI agent. Just like you. Just like my husband. And what do you mean, Wendell, that they work for a government agency? What government agency?"

  But Lee Miller got it. He nodded at Donahue and laid a hand on his wife's arm. Then he turned to Garcia. "That name you mentioned, I've never heard it before. Who is he?"

  "Andre Favreau is an international fugitive," Garcia said. "Wanted for the attempted assassination of French President Charles de Gaulle."

  "Charles de Gaulle!" Lee Miller blurted. He turned from Garcia back to Donahue. "Wendell, if this is some kind of retirement prank, I've got to say it's in pretty poor taste."

  "It's not a prank, Lee," Donahue said.

  "That doesn't make any sense," Caroline Miller said. "Charles de Gaulle has been dead for...Well, I don't know exactly how long, but I do know that he's been dead for a long time."

  "He died in 1970," Garcia said. "Favreau is wanted for the assassination attempt that targeted Charles de Gaulle and his wife on August 22, 1962."

  "Nineteen sixty-two!" Caroline Miller screeched. "But that's absurd." She glanced at her husband for support. "Jake was born in 1988." She looked from Garcia to Blackstone. "I don't know who you people are, but you've certainly got your facts wrong."

  "Obviously, we're not saying Jake was involved in the attempted assassination," Donahue blurted idiotically.

  "But Andre Favreau was involved," Garcia said. "He sprayed de Gaulle's car with machine gun fire and gunned down two policemen in cold blood. All of the other conspirators were caught and executed by firing squad. Only Favreau escaped."