Mr. Justice Hopper lived in a two-story red-brick house whose number had been removed. Like most Georgetown homes the front door opened directly onto the sidewalk making security especially difficult. To make matters worse only a seven-foot high red-brick wall separated the public sidewalk from the home’s small, tree-shaded backyard. If the Secret Service could have had its way it would have moved Hopper to some fortified estate in Virginia surrounded by a barbed-wire topped wall with motion sensors installed every ten feet. But it couldn’t so it had to make-do. Over Hopper’s objections they built a twelve foot tall electrified fence around the inside of the patio guaranteeing, at least, that no one was going to crash into the house from the back yard.
A uniformed Secret Service guard was stationed next to the front door with a two-person team across the street in a windowless van. TV cameras fed the monitors inside with views up and down both sides of the narrow, tree-lined block. People were supposed to see the guard out front. They weren’t supposed to know about the two armed agents in the van across the street. The neighbors figured it out pretty fast, of course, but the Service wasn’t worried about the neighbors. They had all been vetted years ago when Hopper first bought the house and any new faces were checked out before they moved in.
On this particular evening, while Kane was home pounding on his electric keyboard and Danny was watching a new cable cop show called Blue Heat, SS Agent Craig Spangler was scanning the monitor fed by the north-facing camera and thinking about turning up the temperature on his electric socks. February nights in Washington were chilly and the agents couldn’t use the van’s engine to keep warm. “Get yourself some hunter’s socks,” his supervisor had warned him when he was assigned to the Justice’s protection detail.
Already the shift had settled into a familiar pattern. By now Spangler and his partner, Agent Carol Hallstead, had learned the neighborhood’s routine – the DOJ lawyer up the street who jogged obsessively, the young couple on bloated incomes from some tech company who practically lived in the brasserie at the south end of the block, and all the rest of the people who had a reason for being near Hopper’s home. A plate reader at each end of the street identified all cars before they got close to the Justice’s front door. Any vehicles that were stolen or had no business being in the neighborhood were immediately flagged.
“Pizza Boy at twelve o’clock,” Carol called out. Twice a week an FCC Bureau Chief who lived around the corner had a pizza delivered and the kid from Sal’s Sicilian Pies always followed a route that took him past Hopper’s home. Carol switched to night-vision and confirmed the driver’s identity. “It’s Myron,” she called out a moment later.
Something flickered on Craig’s screen and he turned up the zoom.
“I’ve got a female with a large dog heading for us, east side of the street.” Spangler played with the controls. “Black jacket, black pants, dark running shoes. Caucasian, about five-six, black baseball cap. No gloves. She’s about fifty yards out.” Spangler clicked his mike. “Voss, female and a large dog coming your way from the south. I don’t recognize her. Stay sharp.”
The uniformed guard bent forward and peered into the darkness. The woman was just a gray shape. The dog was clearer. Tim Voss loved dogs, not the little ones, rat dogs he called them. No, he liked big dogs, shepherds, labs, retrievers, but what the heck was that? Voss watched the pair approach. The animal had a rusty brown coat, short hair, and big, meaty shoulders. Voss squinted when they passed beneath the street lamp. What the hell was some strange woman doing walking a dog like that past Hopper’s house? Voss clicked his mike.
“Craig, this doesn’t feel right. That’s a Rhodesian Ridgeback. Back in Africa they’ve been known to take on lions.”
Spangler turned up the gain on the camera and zoomed in. He definitely had never seen that woman before and something about her coat seemed wrong.
“Carol, what’s the temperature outside right now?”
Hallstead checked the readout on her panel. “Forty-six.”
“That coat she’s wearing looks thick enough for the arctic. . . . Voss, she could be wearing a vest.”
The woman was now about forty feet away. Carol softly unlocked the van’s sliding door and Tim Voss removed his Glock and held it out of sight against his side. As she neared his post the woman turned as if surprised, then gave Voss a friendly wave.
“Hello,” she said smiling then dropped her leash. “Angriff!” she shouted and pulled an automatic from her pocket. The dog raced toward Voss who jumped back against the front door and started firing. The first two shots ricocheted off the sidewalk but the third one caught the dog in mid-leap. The woman was firing too and a bullet splintered the door a foot from Voss’s head just before the dog’s body crashed into him and he went down.
The woman ran forward and Voss struggled to raise his weapon but his hand was trapped beneath the dog’s body. With a look of determined anger the woman aimed down at him but before she could pull the trigger Voss heard three quick shots and her head exploded. He looked past her to see Hallstead and Spangler running toward him. Voss pulled himself free of the eighty-five pound dead animal and scrambled to his feet. Hallstead kicked the woman’s gun away even though one look was enough to confirm that she was irretrievably dead. Spangler unzipped her nylon coat.
“She was wearing a vest,” he called out, then, “Oh, shit! – I’ve got grenades!” He pointed to two hand grenades clipped to her belt. “We’ll have to get bomb disposal down here.”
“I’ll call the boss,” Carol offered. “You OK, Tim?”
Voss stared down at the crumpled body and the hand grenades and muttered to no one in particular, “This is some really crazy shit.”
* * *
It took two hours for news of the attack to reach Senator Arthur Denning. He had sponsored five different automatic-weapons bills, none of which had made it to a vote, and he had contributed $25,000 of his own money to the “Yes On Lyla’s Law” initiative campaign. It was no secret where Denning’s sympathies lay and friends in the law-enforcement community kept him up to date on any developments related to the “Gun Case.”
Denning put down the phone and stared blankly at the wall. An armed woman with hand grenades had made it to Hopper’s front door? This was insanity. This had to stop. Denning opened his cell’s address book and selected a number.
“Roger, it’s Arthur Denning,” he said when the phone was picked up.
“Senator, what can I do for you?”
“Have you heard about the attack on Justice Hopper?”
“What? Was he hurt?”
“The Secret Service stopped it, but just barely. The woman got to his front door, Roger, with hand grenades, hand grenades! We cannot have these kinds of things in this country!”
“Absolutely not. What would you like me to do?”
“I need to be sure that Hopper is safe, that he’s getting all the protection he needs.”
“I’ll set up a meeting with the Secret Service agent in charge of his security. He can give you–”
“No, I want my own man checking things out, someone I trust.”
“That’s going to be difficult. Secret Service isn’t going to like that one bit.”
“Jurisdictional pissing matches aren’t my primary concern right now. The Secret Service is part of Homeland and you’re the Principal Deputy Undersecretary. I don’t think they’re going to tell you ‘No.’“
“I understand your concern, Senator, but I don’t have the training for something like that. Let me see if I can find an experienced Secret Service agent in another division who could give you a more professional evaluation.”
“Don’t bother. You’ve got an agent in Homeland, a Gregory Kane. My niece knows him. It seems that he’s made quite an impression on her. I’d like him to check out Hopper’s security and give me a report.”
“Kane? I’ve never heard of him. What division is he in?”
“I don’t know but according to my niece he’s got good skills, besides Kane’s partner was killed running some kind of surveillance on Hopper’s daughter so Kane’s motivated to get into this.”
Motivated? Roger Dawson thought. This sounds like a shit-storm in the making.
“First I’ll need to find out if he’s available. Let me pull up his file and see what other cases he’s working on.”
“I can tell you that. He’s looking into the disappearance of some administrator at HHS.” Denning waited but Dawson said nothing. “I’m sure his missing person’s case can go on hold for a few days. . . . Roger?”
“Umm, sorry Senator. You know to get approval for this I’m going to have to call the Director.”
“Call whoever you need to. Use my name if you have to. I’m counting on you, Roger, to make this happen.”
“All right,” Dawson said after a long pause. “I’ll get this Gregory Kane authorized to review Hopper’s protection arrangements and then give me a report which I’ll forward to you. I’ll brief him tomorrow as soon as I get the Director’s approval.”
“No, I want to tell him personally what I expect of him. You just get Kane clearance from the Secret Service and have him in my office tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”
“All right,” Dawson said, defeated. “It’s too late tonight but I’ll call the Director and Kane’s supervisor first thing in the morning.”
“Good. Thanks, Roger. I knew that I could count on you. I won’t forget your help.”
Shit! Shit! Shit! Dawson thought as he hung up the phone.