High Treason (18 page)

“Who’s the leader?”

Pyotr shook his head. “I do not know.”

“Then who is your boss? Who do you take orders from?”

He said a phrase in Russian that Jonathan didn’t understand. When pressed, he said, “I do not know the English. Perhaps drop dead?”

Boxers bristled. “Easy there, pal.”

“I think he meant dead drop,” Jonathan said, a term of art in the espionage trade that meant a pre-established location to leave and retrieve messages. It remained one of the most reliable means by which clandestine people communicated with each other. “Explain to me how it worked.”

Pyotr hesitated, but Jonathan sensed that it was mainly for show. The thing about breaking somebody was once the information started to trickle, a flow was generally close behind. As much as Scorpion hated to admit it, watching Vasily be tortured to death had loosened Pyotr’s tongue. People in pain may or may not give reliable information; but people in fear of pain would give up anyone and anything.

“My phone would ring at a precise hour. If it rang, then I would go to the drop dead. Dead drop. The instructions would be there.”

“Who called you?”

“I do not know.”

“Well, who was on the other end of the line when you answered?”

“I did not answer it,” Pyotr said. “The phone would ring at only one of two times per day if it was going to ring at all. At four fifty-seven exactly. Same time, morning or afternoon. Not a minute sooner or later. If it rang, I would go.”

“He’s lying,” Arc Flash said. He hadn’t yet dared to stand from where Boxers had planted him.

“Shut up,” Big Guy said.

Jonathan said, “You mean to tell me that you were never curious?”

“Of course I was curious. But I have orders, and the orders were not to answer when phone rang at four fifty-seven.”

Soldiers the world over suppressed all manner of emotions and foibles when their orders told them to. The story made sense to Jonathan.

“What sorts of things would you be instructed to do?”

“Mostly, I would be deliveryman. Pick up a package at one place and drop it at another. And before you ask, I never saw the people on either end of the delivery. I would pick up at a place and drop off at a place.”

“Always the same pick-up location?” Jonathan asked.

“No. Always same dead drop. It would then give location for pick-up. At pick-up, I get instruction for drop-off.”

It was a good way to control the flow of information, Jonathan thought. You never wanted human assets to know more than they needed to. Even now, under the heat of a coerced confession of sorts, Pyotr’s betrayal of his superiors could only go so far.

“Where is the dead drop?”

“In a restroom in Fairfax, Virginia. In hotel.”

“Which hotel?”

“Hilton Garden Inn on Route Fifty. Instructions would be taped behind toilet in men’s room off of the lobby. No one could see it if they were not looking for it.”

“And these packages. What would be in them?”

“Always orders not to look.”

“How often did you and Vasily work together?”

“Never before now. Never before this mission.”

“This mission to kill,” Jonathan clarified.

“
Da
. This mission to kill. But I do not know why. The dead drop told me to go to the park outside of the Foggy Bottom Metro Station wearing New England Patriots knit cap with blue Levis and white tennis shoes. I would meet a man wearing brown shoes, tan pants, and a blue ski parka. I would say to him, ‘sure is cold,’ and he would say, ‘I am ready for vacation in Saint Kitts.’ That person was Vasily.”

“This isn’t the first time you’ve seen him,” Jonathan said.

“Was first time in years. Since we arrive in America. He had orders for killing. I only assisted.”

“Who did his orders come from?”

“Should have asked him,” Pyotr said. It was his first jab back at his captors.

Jonathan shot a look to Horne. “Would have been nice to have a chance to. In fact—”

His earpiece popped to life. “Scorpion, Mother Hen.”

He pressed the transmit button on his vest. “Go ahead.”

“Two bits of news. First: Our recent houseguests have left. I have no idea where they went.”

“Idiots,” Boxers said to Jonathan. He was plugged into the same net and heard everything.

“I just received a message from Wolverine. She needs to see you ASAP. No details. And she said it has to be here.”

“Where’s here?”

“In the Cave.” While they spoke on encrypted radio channels, Jonathan was keenly aware that there was nothing that couldn’t be listened to or jammed by someone who knew what they were doing. The Cave meant the office. And it was an extraordinarily odd place to meet.

“That’s crossing the worlds a little too closely, don’t you think?” Boxers asked on the air.

“No argument from me,” Venice said. “I’m just reporting the request.”

“What’s her ETA?” Jonathan asked.

“You are to notify me when you’re an hour out, and then I will notify her.”

Jonathan looked to Boxers, gave his signature shrug. “I don’t like it,” Big Guy said off the air.

Jonathan pressed the transmit button. “Make the call. We’ll be there in thirty.”

“Stand up, Arc Flash,” Jonathan commanded.

The little man did as he was told. He might have been beaten, but he hadn’t been cowed. “More problems afoot?” he asked.

Jonathan took a step forward, and Horne responded with a concomitant step backward. “Listen to me, Torture Boy,” he said, leveling a finger at the man. “What’s done here is done, and by that I mean that you leave both of these men alone. I’ll get some of Wolverine’s people out here to take care of them. You just lock the door. Are we clear on this?”

Horne recovered his lost ground with a step forward. “I hear you, Scorpion, but never forget who I am, and where you are. I do my job, and you do yours, and if we both do them right, the world becomes a safer place. But don’t think for a moment that you scare me.”

“How about me?” Boxers said, stepping forward. “I figure I’ve got to make you at least a little nervous.”

He stood close enough that Horne had to crane his neck to see Big Guy’s face. He showed wisdom in not replying.

“Just don’t hurt them any more than you already have,” Jonathan said.

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

I
t was as if Billy Zanger had investigative reporters in mind when he selected his home. Out here in Prince William County, Virginia, the primary industries were support services for the midgrade military officers who comprised the main demographic. Neighbors might be impressed with Zanger’s title of deputy press secretary, but they wouldn’t obsess over it. Awareness of national politics decreased exponentially with every mile outside the Beltway. In Prince William County, the chances of being seen and reported by a curious blogger were pretty slim.

Becky and David had been sitting in their rental car in the parking lot of the little townhouse cluster for over an hour, awaiting Zanger’s return from his late shift at the news desk in the West Wing.

“He should be getting home anytime now,” David said. “He was supposed to get off at midnight. Even if he stays to work late, he should be here soon.”

“How sure are you that he’s going to cooperate?” Becky asked from the driver’s seat. “What’s his incentive?”

“I told you. He either speaks with us, or we out him.”

“Would you really do that?”

David forced a laugh. “You bet I’d really do that. Journalistic integrity is important to me, but I’m more concerned about my ass.”

He felt the chill radiating from Becky, and as much as he wanted to ignore it, he couldn’t. “Look,” he said. “I’m sorry about all of this. You have every right to be pissed at me, and I have no business asking you to participate as deeply as you are. You did a good deed letting me into your place, and now, true to the saying, you’re not going unpunished.”

“That was a double negative,” she said without dropping a beat. “You’re better than that.”

She seemed to enjoy his confusion.

“I’m not pissed at you,” she said. “I’m not pissed at anybody.” She reached across the center console and gripped David’s arm. “What I am is scared. Shitlessly.”

“I get that,” David said. “And as adverbs go, ‘shitlessly’ is a pretty good one.”

“But really, David. This thing has the White House involved. That’s huge.”

“We don’t know that the White House is
involved
,” David said. “Correlation and causation are different things.”

“Oh, good,” Becky mocked with a smile. “Freshman logic. That’s what we need. Where I grew up, if it walked like a duck and quacked like a duck, we drew conclusions and lived with the margin of error.”

David watched her as she spoke. In the deflected silver light of the street lamp, he saw cheekbones that stayed hidden most of the time. When she smiled, her teeth actually flashed.

Becky pointed through the windshield. “That’s him,” she said. “Drives a Fusion, right?”

David followed where she was pointing. They knew he drove a black Ford Fusion, and in the darkness, the one they saw parking in front of Billy Zanger’s townhouse could just as easily have been brown or navy blue.

“Okay,” David said. “Let’s try not to get killed.”

They opened their doors in unison and stepped out into the frigid night. David noted that the dome light didn’t come on as the door opened, and he realized that Becky had already thought of that. Damned impressive.

When the door on the Fusion opened up ahead, that dome light did work, and its glare revealed exactly the person they were hoping to see. Billy Zanger was far too absorbed in whatever was playing through his head to notice the two approaching strangers.

Zanger climbed out of his car, slung his European man-bag over his shoulder, and pressed the button on his key fob to make the Fusion chirp as its locks set. He was in no hurry as he dragged himself across the sidewalk and up the three concrete steps that led to his front door.

The whole time, David and Becky closed the distance that separated them. The timing worked out perfectly, with them arriving at the steps the moment that Zanger turned the lock and opened the door.

“Hi, Billy,” David said, causing the other man to yelp and spin around.

“Who are you?”

“I’m a friend of Grayson Cantrell. Ring any bells?”

Zanger said, “Shit.”

“Clearly, you know him,” Becky said.

“What are you doing here?” Zanger said.

“Invite us in, Billy,” David said.

Zanger looked past David and craned his neck to scan the street in both directions. “You can’t do this,” he said. “You can’t come here. Not to my
house
. Suppose someone sees?”

“If they saw us, they’d think nothing. If they saw you looking like you’ve just been caught in a drug bust, they might start e-mailing each other.” David gave him a second to make sense of his words. “Now, let us in, please.”

His cheeks red, Zanger stepped through the door and then stepped aside to make room for his unwanted houseguests. “My family is sleeping,” he said.

“We’ll be quiet,” David said. The Zanger townhouse looked like every other suburban Virginia townhouse of its era. A narrow center hallway stretched from the front door to a sliding glass door in the rear. A stairway with a wrought-iron railing rose parallel to the hallway on the right, and on the left, a small living area led to a small dining area, which dead-ended at the linoleum-tiled kitchen that appeared to span the entire width of the house in the rear. While not especially cramped, you could see nearly every inch of the main floor in a single glance.

“I don’t like you being here,” Zanger said. “This is twenty levels of inappropriate.”

“I have no idea what that means,” David said. He walked past his host and helped himself to a red-patterned sofa in the living room, where none of the furniture matched. “We’ll only be here for as long as it takes.”

“As it takes to do what?” Despite the suit—David pegged it as off-the-rack from Jos. A. Bank—Zanger looked more like a college student than a White House adviser.

“Please sit down, Billy.”

Zanger sat on the edge of the coffee table, of all places, ignoring the inviting brown La-Z-Boy that David wished he had chosen for himself. Becky took it instead.

“Who did you say you’re a friend of?” Zanger asked.

David smiled. “Promise me that you’ll never play poker,” he said. “Grayson Cantrell. And before you deny knowing him, may I remind you that you just let two strangers into your house on the power of his name?”

Zanger’s eyes flashed surrender. “Ask your question and get out.” He didn’t pull off tough guy very well, either.

“Okay, I’ll get right to it,” David said. “What did you think of
Kirk Nation
today?”

Zanger looked way too confused by the question. “Kirk what?”

David smiled. “
Kirk Nation
. The blog. What did you think of it today?”

Zanger stood. “I really have no idea what you’re talking about. You need to leave.”

David looked to Becky, who winked. “I’m not going anywhere, Billy. Not until we have this conversation.”

“You really think that you can just barge into my home and speak to me—”

“Billy, it’s your schedule,” David said. “I have all night. I have all the nights and days I need.” He made a show of checking his watch. “I believe that you, on the other hand, must be awfully tired.”

Zanger tried blustering again. “Who do you think you—”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Billy. Be righteously indignant if you must, but you’re wasting time. I’m not buying it.
Kirk Nation
. What are your thoughts?”

Zanger’s eyes narrowed as he connected some important dots. “I know you,” he said.

David arched his eyebrows. He knew where they were going, but they hadn’t gotten there yet. “Not personally, you don’t,” he said.

You could almost see the Rolodex cards spinning in Zanger’s head. “You’re him,” he said. “You’re David Kirk.”

David smiled with only his mouth, making a conscious effort to keep any inkling of humor out of his eyes.

“You wrote that shit about the First Lady. You had no proof about any of that.”

David smiled.

“What’s the grin for?” Billy still had not sat back down.

“What you said,” David explained. “You just confirmed a lot of my story.”

“I did no such thing.” He seemed to grow taller. He most definitely grew redder.

“There’s no podium here, Billy. No microphones. Because it’s just you and me talking, there’s not even a record to stay off of. Yet, you just told me that I leveled accusations that I couldn’t prove.”

“That’s exactly right.”

“Yet you didn’t say that they were false.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Don’t parse words with me.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Billy, that’s what we both do for a living. Answer me this: Did you have anything to do with getting my site taken down?”

Zanger put both hands on the top of his head, his fingers disappearing in the tangled mop of brown hair. He started to speak, but then his filters kicked in, silencing him.

“If you’ve got something to say, say it,” David said.

Another aborted attempt. “Who’s she?” he nodded toward Becky.

“She’s my last remaining friend,” David said. “She’s my witness.”

“Are you armed?” Zanger asked.

It was a weird question, and David recoiled from it. “Maybe,” he said. “But if you’re thinking of starting some kind of fight, forget about it. I haven’t been in a fight since eighth grade, but I guaran-damn-tee that I could kick your ass.”

Zanger seemed to do the math in his head, and the results ended with a nervous smirk. “Okay,” he said. “You want the truth?”

“It’s as good a place to start as any,” David said.

Zanger took a few seconds to screw up his courage. “You’re a murderer, Kirk. You killed a cop last night. Now you’re concocting some kind of bullshit conspiracy. It’s nuts.”

“Then why did you deny knowing about my blog when I first asked you?”

The question hit Zanger like a slap. He clearly was trying to formulate an answer, but it wouldn’t come.

“Come on, Billy. You’re busted and you know it. There’s something huge going down on Pennsylvania Avenue, isn’t there? Something bad is going down, and you’re a part of it.” David watched Zanger’s face as his words hit home. “I’m not a murderer, Billy. And looking at you—looking at the absence of panic when you realized who I was—I’m guessing you already knew that. I’m guessing that you want to put a stop to whatever shit is going down. God knows I want to. So what do you say?”

Zanger went to a place in his mind that brought tears to his eyelids. “It’s not supposed to be like this,” he said. When he looked to Becky, they spilled in single tracks down both cheeks.

“I could go to jail for this,” he said.

“You’re too young for that,” Becky said. “You look like a clean-cut nice guy. Whatever this secret is, you shouldn’t have to pay the price for it.”

Zanger swiped at the tears with the heels of his hands. “I got into this for all the right reasons,” he said. “Nobody gets into government to kill people.”

David’s heart jumped, but he worked hard not to show it. “I know,” he said. “Nobody goes into anything to do harm.” He had no idea if that was true, but it sounded like the words he should say.

Zanger looked at David for a long time without saying anything. His smooth jaw—he was one of those twentysomethings who looked as if he hadn’t yet shaved for the first time—flexed the whole time. David didn’t know if the stories on the Internet about prison rapes were true, but it occurred to him that Zanger had a femininity about him that would make incarceration particularly difficult.

“It started out seeming like the right thing to do,” Zanger said. “You know, it started out as protecting people. This first time you think it might be spinning out of control, you sort of look the other way and figure that you just have to tweak a few things, you know what I mean?”

“I think so,” David said. Clearly, Zanger thought that David had more concrete knowledge than he really did, but David didn’t want to interrupt the confession. Oftentimes, if you just kept listening, the lost details would line themselves up into a logical order. If they didn’t, you could always catch up when the monologue was over.

“Then you realize that the fixes you tried to do caused more problems. And then you try to fix those problems and five more things break.” He looked directly at Becky when he said, “I never in a million years thought that people would die. Would be killed.”

“Who was killed, Billy?” Becky asked. She leaned forward in her lounge chair and reached for his hand. “Tell me.”

“Surely you know,” he said.

“Tell me,” Becky repeated.

“Those poor people at the Wild Times Bar the other night,” he said. “I read the brief on that—I wasn’t supposed to, but I did, you know, because it was lying there on a desk.”

Becky continued to nod, devoting all of her energy and attention to Zanger, except for the flash from her eyes that told David to shut up when he took a breath to interrupt.

Zanger continued, “Nobody was supposed to die. In retrospect, I guess that the shooting was inevitable, but you don’t think that way during the planning stages, you know? Not when your boss is telling you that everything is going to be fine.”

“So the president is involved with this?” Becky asked. She tried to remain cool when she asked the question, but the fact was she should probably stay away from the poker tables, too.

Zanger showed confusion for a few seconds. “Oh, I get it,” he said. “It’s the job title. Deputy White House press secretary. Okay. Well, they don’t let me touch any of the high-profile stuff. I work for Doug Winters, the chief of staff. I’m sort of, nominally, his spokesperson.” He looked away. “Only really, I’m more of his personal assistant. He and my family go way, way back. He trusts me.”

“Ah,” Becky said. “So the guy telling you that everything’s going to be fine is just the president’s chief of staff.”