MARSHA GRAY MOVES back about three meters, wanting to remain concealed from the burly and fast-moving Homeland Security fellas, who are fanning out along the riverbed and the tree line, looking for the First Lady. The lead Secret Service agent had a bit of a serious discussion with a hunky guy in a gray jumpsuit who seemed to be in charge of the helicopter crews and those arriving in the Humvees.
From her coat she takes out an earpiece and slips it in, and her fingers maneuver over the iPhone at her side. She puts the iPhone down on a nearby rock so she can whisper into it without being overheard, then slides a few fingers over the screen.
The phone rings only once. “Hoyt.”
“You know who this is,” she says.
“What do you have?”
She whispers, “What I have looks like a reunion of a Homeland Security training class.”
Hoyt swears. “How many?”
“Scores,” she whispers again, “with more arriving every minute. They’re setting up a search, both sides of the river, sweeping downstream and upstream. We also have three Black Hawk helicopters overhead, and about a half-dozen Humvees. All that’s missing now is a keg.”
Another foul obscenity. “Where’s Agent Grissom?”
“About twenty meters away, running the show. I can see her from here.”
“Have they…found anything else yet? Besides that piece of paper and the piece of jewelry?”
“Nope,” she says. “And it’s going to get dark soon. What do you want?”
A pause. “Grissom is key. She’s the one. Follow her, no matter where she goes.”
“All right,” Marsha says. “What kind of cover story have you got? Eventually somebody’s gonna wonder why Homeland Security and Secret Service are going up and down the river.”
“The story is that they’re assisting the Virginia State Police and the Virginia Conservation Police in looking for a lost canoeist.”
“Good cover story,” Marsha says. “Do either of those agencies know that yet?”
“They will.”
She shifts again, keeping an eye on Grissom, the lead agent. For some reason—even at this distance—the woman is bugging her. She reminds Marsha of the various female Marine officers she had met in her career, the bulk of them being bossy, kiss-ass broads who’d do anything and betray anybody to advance their career. The way Grissom is pacing around, talking, ordering, and looking…well, she’s fitting the pattern.
Marsha focuses the crosshairs of her sniper’s scope on the base of Grissom’s neck. “Hoyt?”
“Make it snappy,” he says. “I’m expecting a bunch of congressional staffers who need cheering up.”
“I could do it now,” she says. “One shot, one kill. Drop Grissom and really throw things into confusion. What do you think?”
“Hell, no!” Parker snaps back, his voice loud and sharp in the sole earpiece. “For now, just observe. All right? And if there’s any hint that the First Lady has been found, you contact me, right away.”
“You don’t have to yell,” Marsha says. “Ever.”
He hangs up without another word.
Marsha tracks the agent again, the bossy broad with the black wool coat and lumpy red scarf, strolling up and down, talking sometimes to that handsome Homeland Security guy, and other times to the three Secret Service agents.
More engines. She looks to the left, where there are Humvees and the original Suburban parked. Trucks arrive with trailers, the trailers carrying large portable light systems.
Looks like it’s going to be a long night. Marsha doesn’t mind. She has passed long nights in places where starving dogs roamed after dark, with open sewers sliding through broken neighborhoods, the horizon lit up by the explosions of IEDs.
Spending the night here would be a nice change of pace.
But now Marsha sees that Grissom looks to be leaving. She gets into the Suburban with another agent and the taillights flicker on, and seeing that, she starts breaking down her rifle, opening up her rucksack.
On the move.
Part of the job.
Still…part of her was always thinking about that classic dorm-room poster, showing two vultures sitting on a tree branch, one saying to the other, “Patience my ass. I wanna kill something.”
Words to live by.
Her gear packed, she’s ready to move into the darkness.
But one more thing.
Her earpiece is still in, and with a few swipes of her fingers on her iPhone, a recording from earlier pops up:
Her: “Just to be clear…just her or do what’s necessary?”
Him: “Pretend you’re out in the field, no way to contact anybody else. Do what has to be done.”
Marsha removes the earpiece, puts the iPhone away, thinking she hasn’t gotten this far and made so much money by ever trusting men.
Parker Hoyt has a few minutes to spare before the first of the congressional staffers arrives, and he stares at his special phone on his desk. This is going longer and darker than he had anticipated. The First Lady…all right, he figured she’d be one angry wife, that was to be expected.
But this?
Disappeared?
And what he has learned from Agent Grissom…some sort of note and the woman’s panic button, untriggered.
Not good.
So what now?
He wants this settled, nailed down, completed…so he can focus on what’s really important―getting that talented man in the office next door reelected.
Parker picks up the phone, dials the second number, the one he hadn’t wanted to touch earlier.
But that was then.
No more time.
The phone rings.
Rings.
Rings.
It’s answered, and from the ambient noise, Parker knows the person on the other end is outside.
“Yes?” comes the quick, impatient reply.
“It’s Hoyt,” he says.
“Can’t talk.”
“I know you’re busy…but…”
“Make it quick.”
Parker says, “I need to know exactly what Grissom is doing, what she’s thinking, what she’s planning, second by second.”
“She’s planning right now to go home to her kid.”
“But—”
The voice says, “I know our deal. I know what you’ve promised. But don’t ever call me again. I’ll be the one making the contact.”
The phone is disconnected.
Parker hangs up on his end, leans back in his chair. It’s now dark, the lights of DC visible.
That call…just checking on his insurance policy.
Someone connected out there, working for him.
Highly illegal, highly unethical, and in the end—considering how much he’s been paid—highly effective.
And that’s all he cares about.