The Reflecting Pool
The National Mall
Washington, DC
Novak stood at the edge of the metallic plates surrounding the pool watching the water being rippled by the balmy September breeze. The area was virtually deserted except for a few early-morning joggers who were doing their circling of the grassy expanse and a couple of the homeless sleeping on the park benches. They were useless human trash, serving no useful purpose. They weren’t even fit to be pawns in a chess game.
Society’s dregs, he thought as he silently longed for the presence of some sort of roving extermination squads sponsored by the state to round up and incinerate those deplorables, but knew that would never happen. For all the overtures to Orwellian concepts that were bantered about, none of the good ones would ever be put into effect.
He took another look around taking in the view of the Capitol Dome with Lady Justice perched on top. What crock. As if any real justice was accomplished inside those hallowed halls. Two figures moved into his line of vision, and Novak saw them approaching from about one hundred feet away. Oliver Burke and Irwin Kaufmann, the large-framed gravedigger and the mouthpiece. One digging up shit on people, and the other shoveling it in a courtroom. As long as each kept doing his respective job, and doing it well, Novak knew he had a good chance of weathering this latest storm, at least until it was time to go off grid.
The two of them were only about twenty feet away now, and Novak saw that Kaufmann was perspiring heavily, his bald head glistening in the rising sunlight. Novak ran his palm over his own shaved head and felt the bristling edge of the stubble. The top of his head was dry. He and Kaufmann were a study in contrasts: one an outwardly cool, tall and rangy man with a full head of shaved hair, the other short, sweaty, overweight and naturally bald.
But internally Novak felt anything but calm and collected. Still, it was like his father had always stressed to him when teaching him the game of chess: never let your opponent anticipate your next move.
“Why couldn’t we meet someplace that’s air-conditioned?” Kaufmann asked as they stepped up next to Novak. “I’m about to sweat right through my jacket.”
“I already told you why. I don’t trust your office, and meeting in a restaurant has no expectation of privacy. At least here we can see who’s around us.”
Kaufmann rolled his eyes and blew out a breath.
“It’s going to be equally disastrous if we walk in there looking like we’re wringing wet.”
Novak glanced at Burke. “Did you tell him?”
Burke nodded.
“Tell me what?” Kaufmann asked. “That Franklin Rhome’s been subpoenaed to testify after us?”
Us? How the hell did this little bastard figure his ass was on the line?
Novak glared at the other man.
“All right,” Kaufmann said, obviously trying to keep his voice calm. “I told you how this whole thing was going to go down, didn’t I? Oglethorpe’s just grandstanding. He wants as much time in front of the cameras as he can get, even if it’s only fifteen seconds on the evening news. He’s going to call a bunch of people, ask a lot of questions, and it’ll all amount to nothing today. If he does have something, he’s going to time any announcements to right before the midterms.”
Novak knew Kaufmann was probably right, but it still niggled at him.
“But how did he find out about the connection between Eddie and Franklin Rhome? The timing of this is going to ruin us. We’ve put everything we have into these new prototypes.”
Kaufmann removed a white handkerchief from his pocket and began mopping his forehead and cheeks. The man’s glasses were even steaming up.
“Franklin likes to drink too much,” Kaufmann said. “And, he likes the ladies. It’s a good bet that he said the wrong thing to someone working for Oglethorpe’s camp. Maybe it was that damn bitch reporter who’s been such a pain in the ass.”
Novak thought about Franklin Delano Rhome and his lobbying efforts that had ostensibly landed the defense contract for Baron & Allan to develop and produce the next generation of unmanned aircraft predator drones. So what if they’d purposely underbid and overspent a little. Well, maybe more than just a little. The idea of a corporation was to make money. And how much the company had poured into the development... You had to expect cost overruns when you were breaking new ground. And what was the option? Buying substandard pieces of crap from China, like the damn Saudis were doing? Sure, the Aries cost a bit more, but it was like driving a Cadillac as opposed to a damn Volkswagen. The goddamn Chinese with their slave labor advantage... Now the solvency of B&A was hanging in the balance along with the full-scale production plans for the Athena and Aries, and it all could be tipped over the side by a few unfortunate sets of circumstances and a grandstanding congressman who wanted to be the first gay president.
Novak felt like lashing out, like punching somebody, but there was only his attorney and Burke. Punching either one would be foolhardy. Kaufmann would look like too much of a curious entity going before the Budget Oversight Committee with a fat lip, and Burke was not the kind of man who would turn the other cheek, even to the guy who was paying him.
His satellite phone chimed again and he took it out of his pocket. The text from McMahon made him smile.
Mission accomplished. Our boy did well.
Novak smiled. The first part of the Hail Mary was complete. Speaking of gratification, this would give them a bit of a respite. Some breaking news, if it could be timed right, would interrupt the committee and also supplant any coverage on the evening news channels. It would also serve to whet the appetite of their potential customers in the lucrative private sector.
“Good news?” Kaufmann asked, trying to edge forward to see the screen.
“The best,” Novak said. “One of our prototypical drones just saved the day by rescuing some reporters and UN aid workers in Syria. It took out a bunch of Russian tanks like they were ducks in a shooting gallery.”
Kaufmann finished wiping his face and replaced the handkerchief. “That is good news. More fuel to help obfuscate the other stuff.”
Novak was busy typing a reply text.
Email photos to Eddie. ASAP.
Roger that. Also, LD is okay.
Novak was confused. LD?
About ten seconds later the reply came: Rescued reporter Leza Dean.
Novak’s smile grew broader. This was fortuitous. Their number-one reporter pain in the ass rescued by the very product she’d been disparaging as too costly and highly unnecessary. Perhaps there was a silver lining to this cloud after all. He typed another text: And the other transaction?
In the works.
“Come on,” Novak said, typing one more text into the phone as he started walking.
Good. Close it. No loose ends.
McMahon read the texts and then deleted them one by one.
No loose ends. He’d figured as much. The only question was what, or more importantly, who, did Novak consider a loose end?
The hostages were gone and that black ops team, wherever they’d come from, were in the wind, too. That one guy, Striker, had turned out to be a one-man wrecking crew. And that fancy Beretta 93R of his... McMahon regretted he hadn’t had time to try to buy it off the guy, if he’d part with it. But after all, he still had his Creed. All things considered, the way it had unfolded had gone fortuitously enough.
Saved some time and a lot of money, McMahon thought. And some ammo.
As the saying went, into every life a bit of collateral damage had to fall.
“Start breaking things down,” he announced. “We’re closing up shop and getting out of here.”
Redmond eyed him, the kid’s mouth twisting like a nervous rabbit’s.
McMahon winked at him. His sat phone chimed again, and he took it out and answered it.
“Where are you?” Mustapha asked.
“At base,” McMahon said. “Want me to meet you somewhere?”
“I will come to you.”
The call ended. The Syrian had sounded a bit terse.
Mustapha was no doubt coming to collect his payoff, McMahon thought.
“I’ll be back shortly,” he announced. Grabbing two black nylon rucksacks from pile of boxes near the door, McMahon headed for the stairs. When he got to the bottom, he stopped and started to remove the MP5 from one of the sacks, but then decided against it.
That would look too antagonistic. Mustapha wasn’t happy, and carrying a submachine gun was too provocative.
He rezipped the rucksack and set it inside on the dash of the farthest pickup truck, making sure it was completely visible. He checked his sidearm, a 9 mm Walther Creed with a sound suppressor affixed. The long attachment made a fast draw problematic, but he left it holstered. Appearing adversarial was the last thing on his mind. For now, anyway.
He pulled open the door and moved into the hollowed-out section by the pickups, placing the other rucksack on the hood on the closer truck. The two doors were still closed, concealing the vehicles from view. McMahon moved to the center and peered through the crack. The street looked mostly deserted, probably as a result of the explosions an hour or so ago, but a few people were beginning to stir and circulate. Things would be back to normal soon.
He saw a white Toyota approaching. The vehicle had a crumpled left front fender, and McMahon recognized it as the one he’d purchased for Mustapha. He was then able to discern the Syrian’s face through the windshield.
As the Toyota pulled up, McMahon noticed that the man wasn’t alone. Another rough-looking Arab was in the passenger seat, and he was holding a Kalashnikov with a folding stock. McMahon moved back to the hood of the truck, unzipped the second rucksack and pulled some of the bundles of cash to the front, making them more visible.
Good old American greenbacks with Ben Franklin’s picture on them.
The hinges on the heavy door squealed as Mustapha pulled it open just enough to slip inside. The second Syrian followed. He was a lot bigger than Mustapha, and had a mean-looking scowl on his face.
McMahon nodded a greeting.
Mustapha’s eyes were dark and centered on McMahon’s face. The three men stood in silence for several seconds, and then the Syrian spoke.
“What happened back there? You did not act according to the plan.”
McMahon canted his head and offered what he hoped would appear to be an apologetic smile. “Best laid plans of mice and men.”
Mustapha’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about? You speak in riddles.”
“Look, I wasn’t counting on them sending that special ops team in so fast. We had to make adjustments.”
The big guy said something in Arabic. McMahon couldn’t understand it, but he figured it wasn’t something good.
“This is Omar,” Mustapha said in English, his accented words heavily laced with derision. “His brother was in the building. He was killed by your American special ops team.”
McMahon dropped the smile. “Please give him my sincerest condolences. But also tell him that I had nothing to do with that.”
The two Arabs spoke in their native language. Omar’s words grew heated, and McMahon watched the big man’s fingers whitening around the handgrip of the Kalashnikov.
Mustapha turned back to McMahon. “You lied to us. You assured us that all you wanted to do was hold the Westerners and then release them to you before sent your missile to blow up the tanks and the building.”
McMahon held out his open hands in a supplicating gesture.
“Look, I already told you it wasn’t me. It was that other team. I figured we’d be able to warn them, or something.”
The big Syrian said something. Mustapha replied in Arabic, then turned back to McMahon. “Where is the money that you promised?”
“Right over there.” McMahon gestured toward the rucksack on the hood of the truck. “I put some more in there for all your trouble.”
Mustapha brushed past him, saying something else to his big Syrian companion.
McMahon watched Omar carefully. He didn’t move, and still clutched the Kalashnikov. And he’d slipped his index finger inside the trigger guard.
“How much is this?” Mustapha asked.
“Pull it out and count it.” McMahon brought his left arm up and pointed. “I’ve got more in the other truck. You’re welcome to that, too.”
The big man’s eyes drifted toward Mustapha, who was removing the rubber-banded bundles of cash. McMahon figured this was as good a chance as he was going to get. Keeping his left arm elevated, he reached down with his right and gripped the handle of the Walther, bringing the Creed upward and squeezing the trigger as soon as the muzzle was level with the big Syrian’s face.
The man’s head jerked back as if he’d been punched, and a swirl of reddish mist hung in the air like a crimson tinctured halo. McMahon rotated his body and aimed the pistol at Mustapha, who was digging into the front of his beltline trying to pull out his own gun, and fired.
A neat, round hole appeared on Mustapha’s left temple, and he dropped in front of the truck. McMahon stepped over to the supine body of the big Syrian. His dark eyes stared sightlessly upward. The man was dead, but McMahon stepped on the barrel of the Kalashnikov and put another round into the big man’s forehead. Then he did the same to Mustapha, who’d ended up partially on his side. One of the bundles of cash had fallen on top of his chest and was splattered with red droplets. McMahon used the Syrian’s shirtsleeve to wipe the blood off, then replaced the bundles of money in the rucksack and zipped it up. He squatted again and patted Mustapha’s pockets until he located the sat phone.
He straightened up and went to the big doors again and did a quick peek.
No one lingered outside.
Apparently, all of Mustapha’s friends, as well as Omar’s brother, had perished in the raid. It was a slight variance from McMahon’s original plan, which was to get rid of Mustapha at the scene once they’d moved the hostages out. Striker’s team, or rather the man himself, had merely saved a couple of Howlers and now they had a surplus even after taking out those Russian T-90s.
The art of wet work was flexibility, he told himself as he pressed the release button and inserted a fresh mag into the Creed and started back upstairs. He still had some rounds left, but it was always good to make sure you had a full magazine.
Capitol Hill
Washington, DC
Warren Novak watched the feeding frenzy of the press through the opaque rear window of the limo as he waited for Franklin Rhome to push his way through the crowd being escorted by a contingent of Metro Police. Novak was doubtful his features could be discerned inside the spacious car, especially with the heavily tinted rear windows, but this was no time to take a chance.
“Sweet Jesus, what a motherfucking mess,” Eddie Meeks said.
“That’s hardly a word I’d expect a US congressman to be using,” Oliver Burke said from his position behind the wheel of the limousine.
Novak repositioned himself behind the driver’s seat so he’d be harder to see from outside and told Burke to raise the screen just in case any overzealous cameramen tried to get in front of the vehicle with a camcorder. Filming the three of them together was something to be avoided at all costs.
The screen rose from its slot of the metal barrier behind the front seats.
“Eddie, you’d do well to move to the back, just in case,” Novak said. “And remember, don’t touch the booze.”
Meeks frowned and nodded, shifting his large frame to the rearmost seat with a series of grunting sounds.
Every eventuality had to be covered, he told himself, and pressed a few keys on his laptop to open a streaming news channel.
The outside scene came to life on the computer’s screen in miniature, accompanied by a voice-over.
“Former California Congressman Franklin Delano Rhome was expelled from the congressional committee’s hearing room today after he refused to answer any questions from the committee chairperson, Congressman William Oglethorpe of Illinois,” the announcer’s voice said as the previously shot footage of the committee hearing was broadcast. “The questioning related to Rhome’s recent work as a lobbyist for the Baron & Allan Corporation and a series of government grants in connection with a defense contract.”
Novak recalled his own appearance there two days prior. The crowds, the cameras, the swelter of the room despite the air-conditioning as he sat at the table, his throat drying up even before he’d been asked one question. Oglethorpe had peppered him with softball questions trying to soften him up, like a player offering up several sacrificial pawns in order to lure his opponent into risking a significant piece. Kaufmann had been right. It was all just a setup laying the groundwork for what was yet to come. The questions merely verified the acceptance of the Aries development project and the accompanying grants. Oglethorpe had been laying the groundwork for his eventual coup de grâce when they got Rhome and possibly Meeks before the committee. The session ended with the Oglethorpe advising Novak that he was through for the day, but still under subpoena and subject to recall.
Recall... That was where Rhome came in—the lobbyist. Establish the link between him and Baron & Allan, and then the link between the company’s defense contract and Meeks, who was on the Defense Appropriations Committee and the recipient of numerous cloaked campaign contributions from B&A, especially dealing with the Aries Project’s supposed grants. Even though Rhome had been instructed to take the Fifth, no matter what he was asked, the damage to the company and the reputation of those associated with it was severe.
The resignations and indictments would soon follow, just like spring rains, allowing Oglethorpe to bask in the limelight as the vigilant watchdog of the new guard, and then subsequently announce his run for the presidency.
“The first openly gay presidential candidate,” Novak said.
“Huh?” Meeks said.
Novak shook his head and kept surfing through the news channels, occasionally checking Rhome’s progress toward the limo. Finally, Novak settled on the image of a very pretty blonde woman sitting across from a nondescript newsman. Novak turned up the volume.
“It all happened so quickly,” Leza Dean said in her clipped British tone. “One man literally swept in and wiped out the terrorists before anyone knew what was happening.”
“And who was this man?” the other reporter asked.
They were both in one of those nondescript set rooms, designed to look like a comfortable conference room somewhere, but probably an extension of a sound stage behind a news desk somewhere.
Leza Dean laughed. “Oh, he wouldn’t say. He wouldn’t even let me take his picture.” She vamped for the camera, holding her fingers to her face to mimic a mask. “Just like the Lone Ranger in those old TV shows that run on the nostalgia channel.” She smiled, showing flawless teeth. “And, true to the legend, I never even got a chance to thank him.”
The other reporter emitted a forced chuckle, then his voice grew serious. “And what about that new drone we’ve heard so much about lately. The Aries?”
“Actually, I think the one doing most of the intelligence gathering was the female version called the Athena. They gave us a quick briefing and a press release afterward when we were being taken to the American base for evacuation.” She paused and got a serious expression on her face. “But make no mistake, the real heroes were those men, not the machines.”
Meeks snorted in obvious disgust. “That damn bitch is ruining all the good press the Aries shoulda got. How we ever gonna get the damn Saudis to stop buying that Chinese crap and start buying our drones?”
“Relax, Eddie, it could be worse. Besides, she also knocked our buddy’s committee off the lead news cycle, which was what we wanted in the first place. And I’m working on the Saudi angle.”
“I sure as hell hope so. That would be a real cash cow for us.”
If he only knew, Novak thought. He glanced out the window and saw that Rhome was almost to the car. One of the Metro cops pushed the crowd back a bit, and Rhome opened the door and slid in with the aplomb of a Texas sidewinder.
His wide face stretched into a relieved simper.
“Whooie. Glad that’s over with,” he said.
“Over with?” Meeks said. “What the hell are you talking about? He just set things up to recall you and grill you harder. And you gotta answer or face incarceration.”
Rhome grinned. “He’ll end up offering me immunity before he does that.”
“Immunity don’t mean shit if there’s politics involved,” Meeks said. “And I can’t afford to have this thing lead back to me.”
Rhome snorted. “At this point, all roads lead to Rome.”
“Thinking of selling your soul for thirty pieces of silver?” Novak said, shutting down the volume on the Leza Dean interview.
“Does it matter?” Rhome ran his tongue over his teeth and made a sucking sound. “We’re all about to go private anyway, aren’t we? We’ll be on a beach somewhere with an icy drink watching the babes stroll by in their bikinis, right?”
Novak pressed the intercom button on the seat handle, alerting Burke to drive off. The big limo crept forward as it moved away from the curb, the sea of reporters and camera operators gradually giving way as the vehicle pulled onto the street. The idiot was right. It was time go private, take the money and get ready to run. Of course, it would require a gambit of sorts. He looked at Rhome, then at Meeks.
“Where can we drop you?” Novak asked Meeks.
“Over on J Street’s fine. I’ll go in a restaurant and take a cab back to my office.”
“What about me?” Rhome asked.
“First we debrief,” Novak said. “Then we figure our next move.”
“All right,” Rhome said. “But I could use a drink first.”
“Certainly,” Novak said as he pushed another button on the console. A section of the seat next to him opened with electronic ease, displaying a bottle of amber liquid and two glasses.
“Help yourself, okay?” Novak held up his laptop with both hands and cocked his head toward the open compartment.
Rhome grunted and reached across to remove the bottle and glasses.
“I don’t want one,” Novak said.
The lobbyist nodded and looked at Meeks, who shook his head.
“How would it look if I showed up back on the Hill smelling like booze?”
“Suit yourself,” Rhome said. “More for me.” He poured himself a generous glassful and replaced the bottle in its compartment.
Perfect, Novak thought. Nobody’s prints on that bottle but yours, asshole.