Bend, Oregon
April 18
When Richard Nyden finally regained consciousness, his first sensation was intense throbbing in his face. He’d experienced that before and quickly surmised that his nose was broken. His chest ached too, and he felt a tightness of breath.
He began to stand, but stopped when his head pulsed in pain. He waited a minute and when the pounding ache subsided, he crawled to the sofa and eased into a sitting position. He punched a number on his phone.
“That was fast,” Angela Meyers said. “You have good news, I assume.” It was late in Washington, and Meyers was still at her office adjoining the Speaker’s office. It was not at all unusual for Meyers to work late, or even all night, taking short naps on the sofa.
“Not good news. Savage got the jump on me. They got away, and he has my weapon.”
“You idiot!” The screaming voice caused a flash of pain and Nyden pulled the phone further from his ear. The line was silent for a half minute.
Having quickly thought through the implications, Meyers issued new orders. “Stay there, but do not pursue Savage or the woman. Not yet. They are obviously on to you, and if you eliminate Savage the police may take the woman into protective custody. We can’t risk that. I’ll have my contact at the FBI issue a new arrest warrant—assault of a federal officer and kidnapping. That should get Peter Savage behind bars without bail.”
“Should I look for Kate Simpson?”
“No, let the police find her. I’m going to call in another operator from Washington State. I believe you know her—Jana Cooke.”
“That psycho? Yeah, I know her. Did a job together a couple years ago.”
“Once Peter Savage is locked up, a woman’s touch should be all that’s needed to convince Kate Simpson to drop her guard. When that happens, terminate her. Oh, and make certain nothing—not a trace—is found.”
Angela Meyers was fuming. It simply should not be this complicated. Her operators were all trained killers, physically fit, and with the best equipment and intelligence. How could it be that an ordinary man was causing so many problems?
Meyers placed the call to Jana Cooke. She was somewhere in the Seattle area, having completed the assignment in Friday Harbor. She was instructed to take the first available commercial flight to Redmond, Oregon. At the airport she would rent a car for two weeks, drive the short distance to Bend, and book a hotel room. While masquerading as a tourist, she would surveil Peter Savage from a safe distance. If there were any other persons involved, they needed to know and tie up the loose ends.
Now Meyers had to address a more delicate issue. She debated waking Cliff Ellison or waiting until the morning. She decided to text him—if he was asleep, he’d get the message in the morning.
Surprisingly, a few minutes later her phone rang. “What’s the problem?” he said. He sounded alert.
“I think we should talk… in person.”
“It’s after eleven. I assume this can’t wait until morning?”
The pause was answer enough.
“Okay. Meet me at the Mayflower Hotel. Shouldn’t take me more than an hour to get there. Look for me at the bar.”
Angela Meyers slipped on some comfortable sneakers and then a light jacket. She pocketed her cell phone and left, locking her office door. A short distance from the Longworth House Office Building she boarded the metro, catching the last train of the evening. The trip was short and there were few other passengers at this late hour. She exited at Farragut North and walked the block and a half to the Mayflower.
She entered the lobby and then strolled into the Town and Country Bar. The lighting was dim, adding to the cozy atmosphere. Four men in dark suits were at the bar, talking loudly. Probably staffers. From the occasional slurred word, she suspected they had been drinking for a couple of hours. Meyers scanned the tables and booths tucked against the walls. Cliff Ellison hadn’t arrived yet. She slid into a booth along the back wall. From her vantage point she would spot Ellison right away when he entered.
The cocktail waiter took her order: two whiskey sours. Meyers checked her watch and then her phone—no messages. The drinks arrived, and the waiter placed a bowl of mixed nuts on the table as well. The Mayflower was a favorite meeting place for celebrities, and the wait staff knew to be discrete. It was a favored meeting place for Ellison, too, a location he had frequented many times before as a lobbyist and sales executive for United Armaments.
When he strode into the bar, Meyers nodded and Ellison walked over to the booth. He was dressed casually in jeans, leather loafers, and a bulky knit sweater. Like many defense lobbyists, Cliff Ellison had served 20 years in the military—Army Rangers—before starting his second career, eventually advancing to Executive Vice President for United Armaments. He stood just under six feet tall and maintained a fit, muscular build through a religious regimen of physical exercise. His sandy blond hair was cut short, and his trim beard gave him a roguishly handsome look.
He casually looked around the room as he sat down—no one seemed to pay any attention, which suited Ellison just fine.
He took a sip of his drink, and then looked to Meyers for an explanation. “The problem has escalated,” she said. “Peter Savage and Kate Simpson have been talking. It appears that they know more than I had thought possible.”
Ellison remained silent, his teeth clenched.
“My operator placed several bugs in Simpson’s rental house and has been monitoring for any useful information. It turns out that Mr. Savage managed to gain access to the electronic file from the email account of Emma Jones.”
Ellison leaned forward, barely able to temper his mounting anger. “How is that possible? You know as well as I do what’s at stake here. If that information is leaked to the press, they’ll have a field day. The attention could easily turn public opinion against an override of Taylor’s veto of the Israeli Security Act. It could give Taylor the boost he needs to win a second term!”
“Keep your voice down.” Angela paused while Ellison regained his composure. She continued, “Besides, you think I don’t know that?”
“You assured me those email files were deleted.”
“They were deleted.”
“But?”
“It seems that Peter Savage is a resourceful man.” She leaned back in the booth. “I can’t tell you how he did it, but somehow he managed to gain access to those deleted emails. Based on a conversation he had with Kate Simpson a few hours ago, I’m convinced he read some, or all, of the file.”
“You have to stop him before he figures out what he found and goes public,” Ellison said, his voice rising again.
Angela held her hand out, palm down. “You’re going to attract attention,” she said. Angela Meyers was adept at managing others. As an only child, her parents—both career military—had fawned over her, eventually sending her to Howard University. She majored in psychology and minored in political science, graduating top of her class.
She found that politics offered every challenge she ever wanted. It was an exceedingly competitive environment, and the intra-office politics were in a league of their own. Very quickly Angela learned that as an attractive female with a keen intellect, she had an edge on her male colleagues, and she was happy to exploit that advantage.
“If this information comes out,” Ellison said, “we won’t be able to contain it. The media will dig until they have enough truth or conjecture—it doesn’t matter as long as they have a story to tell. It will be the scandal of the decade.”
“I won’t let that happen,” Angela said in a soothing voice, a voice that conveyed confidence and control. “Have I ever let you down?”
He took a long sip from his glass, the whisky helping to take the edge off his anxiety. “We’ve come too far to fail. You have a plan, I assume?”
Angela glanced around the bar. The other patrons were paying them no attention. The four men at the bar were becoming more boisterous, a good distraction.
“Yes. I need you to contact David Feldman. Can you do that?”
“He’ll take my call. We have history.”
“Good. Set up a conference call and make sure it’s a secure line. We need his help.”
Ellison pushed his cuff back and read the time. “David is seven hours ahead of us. He’ll be up now.” He swallowed the last of his drink. “Why don’t you pay the tab. I’ll meet you outside and call him from a quiet spot along the street.”