Worst Case Scenario, page 16
Fourteen
The next day, Bishop got up hours before dawn. He’d explained to Cora the night before that he had to leave for a day or two. He booked himself on the 8:24 AM non-stop to Washington.
She woke as he got out of the shower. “Morning.”
“Morning,” he replied. “What’s the chance Samuel might be awake this early?”
She yawned and stretched. “Probably good. He seems to sleep less and less.”
“Think I might stop and say goodbye.”
“Go ahead; he’ll make you drink some of that wretched piñon nut coffee he loves so much.”
Carrying his bag to the SUV, Bishop marveled how much the weather had changed in the few days since he’d arrived. The sky had cleared and the rain had stopped, but a cold wind blew and chilled him, even wearing his heaviest jacket. He hoped his leaving would take some heat off Cora—McFadden’s people were becoming bolder. Just knowing he’d left might convince them he was no threat. That was the other reason he wanted to stop at Samuel’s. He wanted McFadden’s ranch hands to see him leaving.
When Bishop pulled in front of Samuel’s trailer, the kitchen light was on. Bishop got out of his SUV and walked across the rocks and sand yard toward the trailer. Samuel sat hidden from sight on the dark porch behind chairs and plants. He was bundled in a heavy coat and a thick wool blanket and drinking from a cup.
“Thought that might be you, Mr. Bishop.” Samuel rose and held out his hand.
Bishop shook it.
“You’re up early,” Samuel said, leading him into the trailer. “How about a cup of coffee?”
“Sure.”
“Have a seat.” Samuel poured Bishop a cup and refilled his own.
“I’m leaving for a couple of days,” Bishop said. “Kinda keep an eye on Cora—there have been people sneaking around her house at night.”
Samuel handed Bishop the coffee and sipped his cup while his eyes peeked over the top. “McFadden’s rats.”
“Looks that way,” Bishop said before taking his first sip. He suddenly recalled Cora’s warning—the stuff was nasty. Tasted like dirt brewed to perfection. Bishop related the run-ins he’d had with McFadden’s men. “I need you to do me a favor while I’m gone.”
“What?”
“I guess you know the ranch pretty well, huh?”
A grim smile traced across the old Indian’s face. “Yeah, I helped organize and build it.”
“Then draw me a scale map of the place, showing any areas someone could hide something of value.”
“How big a something?”
“Three feet or four feet long, weighing about three hundred pounds. There are six of them.”
Samuel pursed his lips. “Are they part of the stuff that was stolen off the freeway last week?”
Bishop’s eyebrows rose. “You know about that?”
“News said some cargo thieves hijacked a truck carrying government computers—that’s all I know.”
Bishop nodded. That was the official line put out to cover the big brouhaha surrounding the theft and investigation. “Well, it wasn’t exactly computers.”
“How are you involved?” Samuel asked.
Bishop swirled the coffee in his cup. “I was sent to locate and recover them.”
Samuel grinned. “Knew you were a hunter the first time I laid eyes on you. Don’t know if this is important, but the same night the things were stolen—several of McFadden trucks rolled into the ranch about three in the morning, from up north.”
Bishop snapped to attention. “You saw them?”
“Yup, sitting on my porch with the light off when they came rolling into the entrance across the road. Wondered what was going on that time of the morning.”
“How many?”
“Six or seven of the white one-ton duallies with camper shells.”
Bishop calculated the number of vehicles and number of warheads, plus the time necessary to travel from the ambush site to the ranch—yeah, it worked. He glanced at his watch. “I have to hit the road. Thanks for the coffee.”
“Like a cup to go?”
Bishop held up his hands. “No, thanks—I’m good. Be careful of McFadden’s people while I’m gone.”
Samuel followed him to the door. “Mr. Bishop, my granddaughter and I made a pact. Since we both believe McFadden was involved with her mother and father’s disappearance, we’re going to make McFadden’s life as miserable as possible. The law won’t help, but with Cora watching him from the peak above and me sitting across the road, we hope to catch him dirty on something.”
Bishop turned and stared at the old man. “You may already have.”
Samuel and Cora were either the bravest or most foolish pair Bishop had ever met. They had no idea what the stakes or real dangers were.
When Bishop pulled out of Samuel’s driveway, the eastern sky had just started showing its first light. The rays of the sun outlined the landscape into colorful earth tone shadows. Orange, yellow, and red hues seemed to rise from the ground in patterns that possessed a magical quality. But Bishop didn’t have time to marvel at the scenery—he had a plane to catch. The roads were clear, so he drove fast and got to the Albuquerque airport in record time.
He checked the SUV back in to the rental car agency and had plenty of time to get to the gate before his flight departed. His reservations were for a rear aisle seat—always his preference. Bishop always liked to get to the gate well before boarding. He’d hang back and observe the other people about to board the flight. Each expression, each body movement, every word they spoke told their story. When Bishop found an angry, passive, or overly excited face, he always examined them extra closely. Since 9/11, those were the faces that mattered, those were the faces he needed to remember, those were the faces that could kill you.
There was a long line leading into the plane—everyone in coach was still settling in, moving and storing overhead bags, buckling seat belts, etc. If not for the delay, he might never have noticed Newman Smith lounging in a first-class window seat reading The Wall Street Journal.
Bishop did a second take, but there was no doubt—it was him, weasel face and all. Bishop turned his head away before being recognized and moved past Smith as quickly as the line would allow. When he arrived at his aisle, he dropped his carry-on in the seat and headed for the toilet.
Just before he entered, a flight attendant said, “Sir, you need to take your seat in preparation for takeoff.”
Bishop recognized she was one of the hard-core, no-nonsense female flight attendants who kept the airline industry on time and on budget from her stern expression.
He grimaced and touched his midsection. “A bit of a stomach problem, be right out.”
In a sharp tone, she said, “Go ahead then but don’t be long. We can’t push back until you’re buckled in.”
Bishop shut the toilet door and jerked out his cell. He scrolled down the list and hit Ghostbusters.
The gruff male voice answered, “This is Hal.”
“Bishop here—how goes it?”
“SOS buddy, how about you?”
“Hal, I’ve got a live one on the line and need some help.”
“Where are you?”
“On a plane about to leave Albuquerque en route to Dulles.” Bishop gave Hal all the information about the flight and a good description of Smith.
“You have an authorization number for this op?” Hal asked.
“No, just came up a minute ago. Contact Maxwell. Tell him it’s one of the primaries in the inquiry I’m working.”
“Enjoy your flight, Bishop; we’ll be waiting at Dulles for you guys.”
“Thanks, Hal.”
The knocking on the door was expected. “Sir, you need to take your seat.”
Bishop flushed the toilet, washed his hands, and stepped out. He was confident the purpose of Smith’s Washington trip would soon be revealed. Ghostbusters was P2OG’s special surveillance unit. Recruited from ex-CIA and FBI personnel, they were the best in the world. They got their nickname from the fact they could keep someone under surveillance and never be observed themselves. No intelligence tradecraft or counter-surveillance route could defeat them.
Bishop sat back in his seat and waited for takeoff. He had planned to nap on the flight, but with Smith on board, he didn’t dare. Besides, he had to figure out what Smith was doing on a flight to DC. When the plane touched down at Dulles a little after two, he still hadn’t figured it out. Bishop hung back and was the last one off the plane. He carefully made his way to baggage claim and spotted Smith.
Bishop looked around for someone—anyone he recognized. Where were the Ghostbusters? Had something gone wrong? Was there a mix-up? Smith reached for his suitcase and swung it off the belt. He extended the handle and turned toward the nearest door marked TAXIS.
That’s it. For some reason, Ghostbusters wasn’t there. Bishop would have to do one-person surveillance and hope for the best. Just as he moved from behind the wall in pursuit of Smith, a firm hand fell on his left shoulder.
Hal’s gruff voice said, “Relax, Bishop—we’ve got him.”
With that, the big man passed him in the direction of the exit. He spoke into a sleeve mike. “Showtime, boys, he’s coming out.”
Bishop shook his head. How in the hell had Hal gotten behind him? Bishop took a cab to his townhouse. That evening, he went for a long run and settled in for the night with Chinese takeout. He attempted watching some TV, but he couldn’t concentrate on the movie’s plot. Too many things running through his head. He needed to get back to New Mexico. He gave up and hit the sack a little after one o’clock. He tossed and turned for an hour before dropping off. His last thoughts turned to Cora and Samuel—were they okay?
Newman Smith taxied to the Ritz-Carlton in Foggy Bottom near Georgetown. He made the 3:00 PM check-in and went to his suite. Smith always stayed here when he visited DC—comfortable room, incredible restaurants in the area, and the best bar in the District. A little after six, he strolled into the bar/lounge area, found a quiet corner table, and ordered a Scotch. Moments later, two McFadden Academy graduates joined him. He rose to greet them. “Gentlemen, what will you have?”
The threesome talked for almost half an hour. Smith drained his glass for the second time and asked, “So it’s confirmed? The President will be meeting the Secretary of Defense and the Joint Chiefs at the White House at ten that morning?”
The older of the two men nodded. “That’s what’s on the schedule—I checked before I got off work. If there’s a change, I’ll let you know. As of now, he’s in residence all day.”
Smith looked at the younger one. “And the Vice President will be presiding in the Senate that day?”
The man took a sip of beer and glanced around the room before nodding. In a quiet voice, he said, “Yes, she’ll have to be there during the appropriations bill vote—it’s going to be close. She may have to cast the deciding ballot.”
Smith sat back and let the warmth of the liquor soothe him. He always loved it when a plan gelled together with no drama. “Good, make sure you’re out of the District at ‘H hour.’ Mr. McFadden wants you guys available to step into more important positions after that.”
The men nodded. The younger one stood, finished his beer, and smiled. He leaned closer to Smith and whispered, “Shouldn’t be too hard—everyone else will be dead.”
Cora readied herself for bed. She pulled the quilt off the floor; there in the corner lay one of Bishop’s V-neck tee shirts. She lifted it to her breast and took in his scent. Would he be back? She pulled the shirt over her head and slipped her arms through the openings before turning out the light. He’ll be back.
The following morning, Bishop arrived at General Cook’s office a little before ten. Mary buzzed him in before he could open the door with his code.
“How was New Mexico?” She had that sly grin that meant she knew something.
“Cold.” He sank into one of the leather chairs and allowed his stare to fall on General Cook’s closed office door before looking back at Mary. “What’s going on with me being recalled?”
She lowered her voice and leaned over the desk a little in his direction. “Don’t know, but the General has Fuller in there.”
Bishop frowned. If the National Security Advisor was in Cook’s office, it couldn’t be good. Fuller never went to other people—they were always summoned to him.
Maxwell stuck his head out of the general’s office. “Ah, Bishop, come in.”
As Bishop passed Mary’s desk, she mouthed, “Good luck.”
Cook slumped in a guest chair with a sour expression. Fuller had taken over his seat behind the executive desk. Maxwell started to shut the door just before Fuller spoke.
“Excuse me, colonel Maxwell, but could you give us a moment, please,” Fuller said.
Maxwell glanced at Cook. He gave an almost imperceptible nod.
Bishop froze. Holy shit. Fuller just kicked Cook’s deputy director out.
Maxwell cleared his throat, “Yes, sir.”
As Maxwell closed the door, Fuller greeted Bishop. He didn’t offer his hand, never did.
“Come in, Colonel Bishop,” Fuller motioned to Maxwell’s empty chair. “Happy you could join us.”
Join us? Like Bishop had a choice. Cook kept the sour expression. There was enough tension in the room to fill a domed stadium.
Bishop took his seat. “Good to see you again, Mr. Fuller.”
“We wanted to go over a couple of things about your trip out west,” Cook said.
Bishop started to answer, but Fuller interrupted. “Why don’t you just tell us everything that’s happened since you left DC?”
Cook only nodded in agreement. It was clear his boss, Fuller, was running the show. When you don’t know what your boss or boss’s boss is looking for, it’s hard to gauge what elements of the account should be stressed and what can be brushed over.
Bishop related everything as it happened over the last few days. Fuller leaned back and sipped from a Starbucks cup and only stopped him twice for a couple of clarifications. Fuller’s intelligent eyes hardly blinked as Bishop continued the story. Occasionally Fuller and Cook exchanged knowing glances but didn’t speak.
“So, what are you contending?” Fuller asked, dropping the empty to-go cup in the trash can beside the desk.
“I’m not sure I understand, sir.” Bishop said.
Fuller’s expression hardened. “Are you accusing this McFadden fellow of being involved in the theft of the weapons?”
Bishop glanced at Cook—his expression gave nothing away. Time to stake out my ground, for better or worst. “Yes, sir, I think he’s in up to his neck.”
Fuller’s lips became tight thin lines. “And you say the common denominator appears to be this McFadden Academy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you excuse us for a moment, please?” Fuller said.
Bishop rose and walked back to the reception area. He sat beside Maxwell on the leather couch, both staring at Mary.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Beats me,” Bishop shrugged. “I’m either getting promoted or terminated—no idea.”
His grin signaled he was most likely kidding, but with Fuller, you never really knew—he was a political animal. The best National Security Advisor in years, but still a politician. Maxwell remained silent, probably still seething over being asked to leave. They waited for almost ten minutes before the door opened again. The sound of Cook’s voice echoed from inside.
“Thank you for coming by, sir.”
Fuller buttoned the top button of his suit coat as he passed, stopping to give a nod to Bishop. “Good work.”
“Step back in, Bishop,” Cook’s voice boomed.
Maxwell didn’t move, and Cook ignored him as he closed the door to the office. The General reclaimed his desk chair. Once inside, with the door shut, Bishop asked, “What was that all about?”
Cook readjusted himself in his chair. “It seems Fuller was concerned that we were getting too close to someone with a lot of political juju.”
“McFadden?” Bishop asked.
“No, Speaker of the House, Wilson,” Cook said.
“I don’t get it.”
“The Speaker and McFadden are friends. Vacation together, exchange Christmas cards and visit often. In fact, McFadden is buddies with a lot of politicians around this town—big contributor. The only senator who didn’t like him was Fillmore from Missouri. Before he was murdered, he was about to open hearings on influence peddling and planned to name McFadden as one of the persons under investigation.”
Cook shifted and reached for several pieces of paper off the desk. He studied them for a moment. “Here’s the surveillance report from Ghostbusters on Newman Smith.” Cook’s forehead wrinkled, and he cleared his throat. “Stayed at a Ritz Carlton last night. Two men visited him at the bar before dinner. They talked for a while in a back booth and then left. Ghostbusters tailed them and ran their license numbers. They’re both Secret Service agents. One is assigned to the Presidential Protective Division, and the other is detailed to the Vice Presidential Protective Division.”
Bishop tensed. Cook had assumed his favorite position—leaning back with his fingers laced across his barrel chest and his cheaters perched on his nose.
“And that’s not all,” Cook continued. “Another man joined Smith for dinner. Ghostbusters followed him, also. It turns out he’s an intern at the Supreme Court.”
“This is starting to get interesting.” Bishop crossed his legs and got more comfortable.
“You haven’t heard the best yet. After dinner, Smith went back to his suite. About nine o’clock, General Curtis Shaw showed up and met with him for around twenty minutes.
Bishop knew that name but couldn’t quite place it. “Who is General Shaw?”
“Sorry,” Cook said, “he’s the commander of Fort Belvoir.”
A flutter rushed through Bishop’s gut. Fort Belvoir had twice the number of workers as the Pentagon. It was home to ten different major Army commands, nineteen different agencies of the Department of the Army, Army Reserve and National Guard components, and a host of DOD agencies. Like Raven Rock Mountain Complex and Mount Weather, it was one of the designated relocation centers for the Pentagon should the main building be knocked out.
