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Washington, D.C. (Nov. 15, 2012) — The man behind the desk continued to read a document, ignoring the aide who had just entered the room. Howard Parker at 59 was successful, powerful. You didn’t get—or keep—that kind of power or success by being friendly. Power kept was power used. He believed it firmly, practiced on small occasions like this, wasn’t afraid to use it when it needed to be used on larger occasions either.
The aide cleared his throat. He was used to the treatment and started in without waiting for acknowledgment. “We’ve received the report from the security firm,” he began. The man showed no interest. “The report shows no blemishes. Your background checks out as clean as they’ve ever seen.”
The man looked up at that point. “They did a thorough job?”
The aide shrugged. “They vet corporate bigwigs for companies all the time. Background checks are their main income. My guess is that if they say you’re clean, the FBI won’t find a thing either.”
“It isn’t your guess I want to hear,” the man said, stressing the word guess.
“No, sir.” The aide cleared his throat again. “There is one thing, however. An aide to Senator Murray from Chicago has been asking questions.”
The man frowned. “What kind of questions?”
The aide shook his head. “Just asking about you, whether your name was coming up for anything in the next cabinet. The questions got back to us.”
“Chicago? Murray? She’s not a player. Why would an aide of hers being nosing around? Who is he?”
“Some young guy named Troy Maxim.” The aide shrugged. “Could be a supporter of yours. Although working for Murray...” His thoughts trailed off. Murray was as liberal as they came, not likely to be a fan of his boss. “But he was in the Marines, I believe—he may know you.”
The man frowned, tapping his fingers on the edge of his desk. He turned to his computer, typed in a name in a search prompt, and punched in the number that appeared into the phone. He asked the person on the other end a question and waited impatiently for an answer. When it came, he grunted, then jotted down four names and handed it to his aide.
The aide looked at the list. Troy Maxim was at the top.
“Check these four out. Start with the Marines, see if the others are still in. I want to know where they are now, what they’re doing. Top priority, you understand?”
The aide nodded his head. “Yes, sir.” He didn’t ask questions. He was pretty sure he didn’t want to know what his boss was doing.
Howard Parker leaned back in his chair and stared out the window. “I want that nomination,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” the aide said.
The preliminary report on the four was alarming, Parker thought. How the hell could one person be in the wrong place at the wrong time so frequently?
He dismissed John Blankenship as a potential problem. He was still in the Marines, doing embassy duty in Saudi. Danny Brown was a wildcatter on an oilrig off the coast of Louisiana. Not a real threat, although Parker ordered a profile to be developed on him just in case.
But the other two. God Almighty.
Troy Maxim, son of well-to-do doctors in Chicago, graduate of Northwestern, aide to the notoriously liberal, anti-military Senator Abigail Murray.
“I want to know all about him,” Parker said to his former protégé, now at the FBI, who had brought the report in. “Who are his friends, where he lives, who he sleeps with. I want to know any dirt, any possible ways of getting a handle on this kid.”
“He’s nearly 30,” the FBI agent said mildly. “Not a kid.”
Parker ignored the comment; he was looking at the summary of the fourth person on his list. He shook his head in disbelief.
“And this one. A goddam reporter? For the Seattle Examiner? In my own back yard!” Parker stabbed the preliminary report with his finger at each damning detail. He turned to his computer Rolodex, searching for a name. “Donnelly. There’s a police detective out there in Seattle who owes me a favor or two. I’ll get with him. Have him dig. We have to be prepared to bury this guy. A damn reporter!”
The FBI agent frowned. “Aren’t you over-reacting? I can see tracking this Maxim guy but profiling a reporter can come back and bite you in the ass.”
“You don’t understand,” Parker said. “And I can’t tell you the details. Trust me. This isn’t just a matter of my political future, but also of national security. We have to be ready to move quickly to contain any problem here.”
The FBI agent stood up. “I’ll get it going,” he said.
“Get 24-hour surveillance on Maxim ASAP.”
“Got it.”
Parker nodded. He waited until the agent had closed the door behind him, then leaned back and closed his eyes for a brief moment. He opened them, looking around his office as if for the first time.
The office was spacious, a fourth-floor corner window office of an anonymous government building in Foggy Bottom. One wall had photos of important people, awards and commendations and medals. The other wall was filled with shelves of books. Nothing personal. No pictures of his wife or son. No sports trophies. Or vacation souvenirs. He snorted.
His title was as bland as the building, a national security analyst for the Department of Defense, although his office was actually part of the State Department complex. The title did nothing to reveal the power he pulled. He looked out the window. Lights were coming on over the city.
Parker shut down his computer, carefully locked his desk. He shrugged into his wool overcoat, and went to the outer office, locking his door behind him. His aide had already left for the night. Parker locked the outer door as well, then took the stairs to the ground floor.
On impulse he took the Metro to the Mall, walked to the Lincoln Memorial. It never failed to move him. In spite of all his personal problems, Abraham Lincoln had taken care of his country. Parker approved of that.
He turned toward the Capitol walking briskly in the early evening. The Washington Monument loomed over the Reflecting Pool. A few people were out, but not many. It was cold, in a brisk way, but no snow. None of D.C.’s ugly winter yet. All the years he’d been here, he still hated the winters. At least in Seattle the snow had the decency to stay in the mountains where it could be admired and occasionally visited.
He smiled at his own whimsy. For all the horrible winters and the sweltering, humid summers, there was no place to be but here. This was the most powerful city in the most powerful country of the world.
I have served this country all my life, he thought wonderingly. Politics and the military had always swirled around him; his family had been involved in both for generations—that and dairy farming. Back in those days military and politics were pretty much the same in the Washington state, thanks to Scoop Jackson and men like him. Men like himself, he thought.
Then ROTC at University of Washington. Then the Marines. A command in SE Asia. Back to the states. Various posts, but here was home. D.C. was where he belonged. He retired from the Marines at the end of his 20, went to work for the CIA, then back over to the DOD.
Nominated for Secretary of Homeland Security. He smiled. He wanted the power, he could taste it, but more than that, he wanted to accomplish the things he could do with that power. For the country. Patriotism might have gone out of favor, he thought, but he was a patriot and proud to be so.
All the things he had done, those he could talk about and those he never would, he’d done for the country. Including the operation that had gone so tits up. He shook his head, pulled out his cell phone.
“Yo.”
“Make sure you’ve got a watch on Maxim 24/seven. He’s got to be watched. His phone tapped. If he starts to go public, we need to know immediately. No delays.”
“Got it.”
Parker continued on his walk, faster now, headed toward the next Metro station, and home to Fairfax. His wife would have dinner waiting. Or the cook would. He couldn’t remember if Sarah was here or in Seattle. It didn’t matter. He walked on.
Someone was watching him — he was sure of it. Troy Maxim tried not to walk too fast, to not look over his shoulder. A mugger? A police officer wondering what a black guy was doing in this part of Georgetown?
I live here, damn it, he thought angrily. He might be better off in Adams Morgan or some part of town where blacks were more common. But he liked the nightlife of Georgetown. He’d only been questioned by an officer once. It just freaked him out, that was all. He loitered in front of a store window to let whoever was back there catch up. No one did. He looked back, casually, he hoped. No one. Troy didn’t find that reassuring. He was being followed, he was sure of it. If the person was staying out of sight, it meant.... Troy stiffened a bit.
Am I paranoid? he wondered. There had been odd looks among other Senate aides and staff members. People asking for him at his apartment complex but not leaving names. He walked faster, his hands in his pockets. He wished for a weapon. Senate aides were not supposed to be armed, weren’t supposed to need a weapon.
He let himself into the foyer of his apartment complex. The security guard nodded to him. “Cold tonight,” he said. “Snow maybe?”
Troy smiled. “Maybe, but I don’t think so. It’s not that cold.”
The guard shrugged. “We had someone try to get in again, earlier,” he said. “Seems like if they’re thieves, they’d find easier pickings.”
Troy hesitated. “Tried how?”
“Tried to come in through the parking garage. Pretty good at it, actually. Avoided the cameras, all the way to the elevator. But they didn’t have a key there, so the alarm went off.” The guard shrugged again. “They were gone before we got down there. Almost professional.”
“Not as good as you guys,” Troy tried to joke. His voice seemed to clog in his throat.
The guard smiled. “We hope.”
Troy took the elevator to his fourth-floor, one-bedroom apartment. He liked the space, plenty for one man. Especially for a man who had gone from Marines to dorm room to here.
Another attempt to get in the building. Troy shook his head. It didn’t have to have anything to do with him; there were probably a hundred people in this building. He felt a chill along the back of his neck just the same.
He flipped on the lights; the light on his answering machine was blinking. He hit replay.
The first was from his mom. He would call her back a bit later. The second from a woman he’d been seeing—she hoped she’d see him sometime this week? He hesitated, not sure he wanted to continue seeing her. Or was the paranoia eating at him? Making him a hermit.
The third message was from a voice he didn’t recognize. There was no name given. “Listen. You’ve been asking questions you don’t need to ask, about a man who doesn’t need you asking questions. Stop. We will be watching you. If we have to be more convincing, your family lives in Chicago. Your grandmother lives outside Atlanta. We can get them. We can get you.”
Troy swallowed. He hit replay, listened to the message again. Listened to it a third time. It wasn’t a prank, he thought. It was real. Someone wanted him to stop asking questions. The only questions he’d asked lately—beyond do you want three copies of this or four—were about Howard Parker’s name being mentioned for the Department of Homeland Security.
The phone rang. He jumped. Hesitated, then answered it.
“Hello?”
“Troy Maxim?” a man’s hesitant voice said.
“This is he.”
“You’ve been asking questions about Howard Parker.”
“So?” Maxim said cautiously.
“I have some information you might want.”
“What information?”
“No way. I have to give it to you in person, not over the phone.”
Troy hesitated; the earlier threat scared him. It wouldn’t hurt to be wary. “How do I know you aren’t trying to set me up for something?”
“What?” They were both silent, then the voice continued. “I heard you were asking questions about Parker and his possible nomination. I think... I think the nomination is a really bad idea. You can’t know. Parker... he’s ruthless, mean.”
Troy interrupted. “Lot of men are ruthless, especially here. Is he corrupt?”
“Decide for yourself.”
With some reservations, Troy agreed to meet.
“I don’t want to see you, be seen by you. Just give you some stuff.”
“Sure,” Troy told the source, soothing him. Chances were the stuff wasn’t worth much, but what the hell. If someone was willing to threaten him, maybe there was more to it.
“Meet me at Rich’s tomorrow night. Sit at the bar.”
Troy followed the instructions. The next night he was seated at the bar in Rich’s, a quiet, drinkers’ bar not far from his apartment. Unexpectedly, the bartender carded him.
“Hey,” Troy protested. “I’m 30 for God’s sake.”
The bartender shrugged. “So what, let’s see some ID.”
Troy dug out his wallet; handed over his driver’s license. The bartender wanted another piece. Furiously, Troy handed over several more pieces.
The bartender apologized. Gave Troy a drink on the house. Hardly mollified, Troy looked around. Where was the little jerk that set this up, anyway?
Troy waited a half-hour. No one showed. Feeling put upon, he slid off the bar stool and started to leave.
“Sir!” the bartender called. “You forgot your briefcase.”
Troy started to deny it was his, then met the bartender’s eyes. “Damn,” he said. “Thanks.”
He picked up the briefcase—which he’d never seen before—and left the bar.
He waited until he got home to look in the briefcase. A couple of sheets of paper, and a computer disk. He read the sheets, then swallowed hard when he realized that Parker had ordered an investigation of him. The computer disk wouldn’t work in his PC. Troy frowned. A Mac disk? He’d have to find one and try it.
He was looking for a safe place to hide the disk in his apartment when he heard light scratches at the door. He stopped in the doorway to the kitchen, barely breathing. He took a deep breath. “Who’s there?” he called. The noise stopped. Barely audible at all, steps moved away from the door.
Troy sagged against the doorframe. Shit, he thought. Shit. Shit. Shit.
He looked at the disk in his hands. It had to be all related, he thought. Coincidence? He snorted. He didn’t believe in that kind of coincidence. He went to his desk, pulled out a couple of other files. No time to make copies, but he knew what his files said. The disk? How could they know about the disk? He just got it tonight. Unless it was a set up. Plant something on him. The papers had seemed valid, however.
What now? He made a couple of calls. Then called the airlines, booked a flight. Thank God for American Express. It was Friday night. He could get this stored away and still back at work on Monday.
He threw some things into a backpack, and left his apartment, carefully locking up. Some instinct deep inside his brain said to move fast and he did.
The FBI agent made his report in person to Parker, at Parker’s house in Virginia. The house was gracious and inviting, the work of Parker’s wife more than anything. Parker didn’t care much. His natural environment was his office. But you had to have the trappings of success. It meant things to some people. Gave you credibility. Parker never complained about Sarah’s expenditures. She made him look good.
“So, you lost him,” Parker said, looking at the man in front of him. Steve Addison was a solid man, about six feet tall, with light brown hair and brown eyes. He gave little away, even now. Ten years ago, he’d been a Marine lieutenant, whose assignment had put him under Parker’s scrutiny. Parker had liked what he saw. He was able to give Addison’s military career a boost; they’d stayed in touch over the years. Parker could count on him, to a point, to be loyal.
“Yeah,” Addison admitted. “Tailed him to a bar, thought he was out for the evening. So we decided to try getting into his apartment to plant that bug in his phone. Damned difficult apartment complex to get into—had to flash a badge, finally. Turns out he beat us home. Scared 10 years off our lives, hearing him call out to us.”
Parker frowned. “So you didn’t get the wiretap installed.”
“No.”
“And you scared him, and he ran.”
“Looks like it,” Addison said. “We beat it out of there. He must have come out while we were trying to figure out what next. Didn’t see anything of him this morning. He doesn’t answer his phone. He’s gone.” Addison shrugged. “I called a source at the telephone company, got his phone calls. Don’t know what he said, so not as good as a bug, but....” He handed the list over to Parker.
Parker scanned it. The Seattle area code jumped out at him. “Hell,” he said.
“Yeah. He made a call there, and one to Brown in Shreveport, Louisiana. I pulled his phone calls for the last few weeks—he’s called Brown before. First time he’s called Seattle.”
“Check the airlines?”
Addison nodded. “Found a ticket for Maxim to Chicago. Except he didn’t get there. We had someone waiting at the airport for his flight. He apparently got off at a stop along the way—he chose a goddamn puddle jumper flight—we’re looking.”
Parker tapped the phone records. “Chances are he’s in Shreveport or Seattle.”
“We’re looking,” Addison said. “We’ll find him.”
“You got his apartment staked out?”
“Sort of.” At Parker’s frown, he said defensively, “This is all off the books, you know? I don’t have unlimited resources. There is a limit to how wide a net I can cast. Unless you want to make it official?”
Parker shook his head. Hell no, I don’t want it official, he thought. Dumb ass. “No, I’d like to keep it on the QT for a bit longer. It may get to that, however.”
“What about Shreveport?”
“Easier. Brown lives with his sister who’s a second-grade teacher. Pretty girl. He works for Arco out in the Gulf, one week on, one week off. Works hard, parties hard. Never had a complicated thought in his life.”
Parker thought about it. “If Maxim has any brains he’ll go to Seattle.”
“Yeah. That’s what I’m betting on. But,” he paused as his cell phone went off. “Yo.”
“We found the ticket. He went to Seattle. Plane got in there about an hour ago, before we could get an agent to meet him. We’ve lost him.”
“Thanks.” Addison hung up, turned to Parker. “You heard?”
Parker took a deep breath. “Start the containment plan we talked about. We are on minus time.”
“Are you sure?”
Parker knew Addison wasn’t comfortable with the containment plan. Sometimes Fibbies didn’t have what it took. They always want to color between the lines. Addison had been more flexible 10 years ago.
“It’s going to take a week to get it in place,” Addison said. When Parker started to say something, Addison went on, “Unless you make it official.”
Parker glared at him. Addison didn’t flinch. “Do it,” Parker said finally. “Unofficially.”
Addison called the office Monday morning. “He’s back,” he said with no preamble.
“Maxim?”
“Yeah. He showed up for work this morning.”
Parker paused, thinking how much if any this changed things. “Roust him.”
“For what?” Addison asked. “Don’t ask me to put my job on the line here, Howard. I’m in your corner, but I like being an FBI agent. Gathering information is one thing. Rousting a congressional aide is another.”
“Did you check out all those phone calls that he’d made?” Parker said.
“No,” Addison said warily.
“Several were to the FBI.”
“To who?”
“Don’t know,” Parker lied. He knew good and well who Maxim called. “But your neck is on the line right along with mine, here. You’re in too deep to start quibbling.”
Silence. “I need some kind of reason,” Addison said plaintively.
“Suspected violation of the National Security Act,” Parker suggested.
“What?”
“Maxim is about to spill national secrets.”
“Yeah, but to the FBI!”
“And may have already shared them with a reporter.”
“One who apparently already knew.”
Parker sighed. “Look you’re asking me for a pretense. Here it is. You pull him in for questioning. Then you let me take it from there.”
“And I’m off the hook?” Addison said with relief in his voice.
Parker smiled. “I’ll have someone ready to take Maxim off your hands immediately. You’ll be turning him over to the Marines. What more could you ask for?”
“Well why didn’t you say so?”
Three FBI agents were waiting for him outside Senator Murray’s office when he left at 6 p.m. Addison had chosen the location deliberately. Destroy Maxim’s credibility. He wanted it so that even if Maxim talked, no one would listen. Two of the agents who were picking him up knew nothing. The third agent, a Parker loyalist, could handle things. He knew what to do. He detailed the third agent to report the results directly to Parker. Addison stayed in his FBI office, hoping to stay out of the loop for good.
“Troy Maxim?” one agent said, flashing his badge.
“Yes,” Maxim said warily.
“We want you to come with us for questioning.”
“What about?”
“That will be explained at the other end,” the agent said.
Other members of Murray’s staff were in the doorway watching. Maxim hesitated.
“Do you have a warrant?”
“Do we need one?” the second agent asked. Amazing how FBI agents look alike, Maxim thought. He would have a hard time telling these apart if he ever saw them again—well two of them. The silent one was a bit older, looked more like a city cop, or ex-military. The other two, however, were the tall, lean, early 30s types in suits.
“Or tell me what you’re wanting to know.”
“Violation of the National Security Act,” the first agent said.
“What?” Troy asked, confused.
“You’re just being asked to accompany us for questioning,” the first agent repeated.
“He doesn’t have to go,” someone said from the doorway. There was a mutter of agreement. “Make them come back with a warrant, Troy.”
“Is that what you want? We want your assistance in an investigation. But we can get a warrant.”
Troy hesitated again. It could be in relationship to his call to the FBI, he tried to reassure himself. The badges were real. But this seemed awfully public. He thought the FBI guy he’d talked to wanted it to stay discreet.
The older agent took his arm. “Come on,” he said. His voice was that of a long-time smoker, low and rough. Troy started to shake him off, found he couldn’t. The other two agents fell in alongside him, and he was muscled along. He doubted that his coworkers even realized he was going without a choice.
He started to protest.
“You want to make a scene?” said Gravel Voice. “We can take you out in handcuffs.”
“I thought you just wanted my participation in an investigation,” Troy protested. They went out of the building, past the security guard. A car was waiting in front in a no-park zone.
“Right.” Gravel Voice shoved him in the back seat, got in beside him. “You know the reality, asshole.”
Shit, Troy thought. This does not sound like the good guys.