James Acton 01 - The Protocol (12 page)

“Well, sir, Mr. Guthrie had started here Monday, and within his first week he is killed in what looks like a professional manner. We believe that’s too much of a coincidence,” said Wheeler. “Was he exposed to anything here that maybe he shouldn’t have seen?”

“No, he’s just an intern, he wouldn’t have clearance to see anything.”

“Well, just the same we’re going to need to talk to everyone. We’ll conduct the interviews here to make things easier for you,” said Wheeler.

Darbinger nodded. “Of course, I’ll see you get full cooperation.”

RAF Lakenheath, USAF 48
^th
Fighter Wing

“Welcome to Lakenheath, sir. I’m Sergeant Berkin. The Base Commander has ordered me to take care of all your needs while you are here.”

Dawson nodded at the sergeant who greeted him at the bottom of the G-V’s steps. Since Dawson was dressed in civvies, he forgave the “sir” and surveyed their surroundings. They had taxied to the far end of the tarmac, separate from the other air traffic and prying eyes. “Status, Sergeant?”

Berkin pointed to three Humvees waiting nearby. “These are yours to use while you are here. In the hangar behind us are the civilian vehicles you requested, a civilian chopper, and we’ve freed up this building over here for your men to stay in.” He pointed at a beat-up building several hundred yards away. “It’s unoccupied, but includes a rec room, comm room, and small infirmary. I’ve had it fully stocked. Should accommodate any of your needs.”

“Very good, Sergeant,” said Dawson. “Notify me when my C17 arrives.” He grabbed a handful of the gear the team had unloaded and headed to one of the Humvees. The sergeant ran after him.

“A C17, sir?”

“Yes, a couple of hours out. Make sure you have enough men available to unload it as well as assemble and arm an Apache.” Dawson was impressed. Only a brief moment of shock registered on the sergeant's face. He would have been told to follow orders, no questions asked, then to forget they were ever there.
He's probably wondering what the hell black ops are doing in England.

Dawson threw the equipment in the back of one Humvee then returned to the plane for another load. Red approached him, carrying the satellite communications gear. “When we’re done have Stucco and Casey take one of the civilian vehicles in that hangar and set up surveillance,” said Dawson.

“We’ll be up and running in fifteen minutes.”

The sergeant watched as the men unloaded the plane. One man walked by with a case of grenades. “Christ, are we invading?” he muttered.

“Sergeant!”

The sergeant spun toward the voice.

“Are you just going to stand there or are you going to use those two God-given hands to help us?” asked Dawson.

The sergeant gulped. “Right away, sir!” he yelped as he ran toward the pile of off-loaded equipment.

Heathrow Airport, London, England

The delay seemed interminable as Acton waited for the doors to open so the passengers, who were already jostling for position, could disembark. He sat quietly in his seat, waiting for the mass to flow forward. Eventually the door opened and the passengers shuffled toward it.
Like cattle. No wonder it’s called steerage.

Acton eventually exited the aircraft and headed to baggage claim. After another eternity, his hockey bag emerged. He battled through a senior’s tour to get to the carousel, grabbed his bag, tossed it over his shoulder and headed toward a bathroom without looking around. He wanted to give the impression he didn’t think he was being followed.

Once inside he locked himself in a handicapped stall and unzipped the bag. He quickly changed his clothes, donned a hat and sunglasses, then took out several large shopping bags from the hockey bag, which he folded as small as he could and placed inside one of them. Stuffing his old clothes into the remaining bags, he exited the stall, went to the sink and washed his hands. Then he waited.

It didn’t take long for someone to leave one of the other stalls and approach the sink. The well-dressed, slender man stood in front of the mirror adjusting his tie.

“Excuse me,” said Acton. “Would you happen to know how to get to Buckingham Palace?”

The man looked at him, surprised the universal etiquette of never talking in a men’s washroom had been violated.

In a heavy French accent he said, “Sorree, but aye am a touriste ici as well.”

“Really? Where ya from?” Acton walked out of the bathroom with the man who he noticed hadn’t washed his hands. He tried to make it look as if they were old friends to anyone who may be watching.

“Aye am from Neece,” replied the man, not making much effort to hide his displeasure at the situation.

“Really?” said Acton, uncharacteristically animated. “I’ve never been to France, myself. Don’t speak the language you see.” As they walked out of the terminal together, the Frenchman approached a cab. The cabbie popped the trunk and helped him load his luggage, then looked at Acton.

“Are you traveling together, sir?”

The Frenchman looked horrified.

“Sure, why not?” said Acton, handing over his bags. Before the Frenchman could protest, Acton climbed into the backseat. “Come on,
mawn amy
! Let’s get a move on!”

“The Dorchester, s’il vous plaît,” the Frenchman ordered with a scowl.

Much to the Frenchman’s further horror, Acton looked at him with an astonished expression. “Dorchester? You’re kiddin’ me! I’m stayin’ there as well!”

The cabbie pulled out into the early afternoon traffic, trying to stifle a smile. The Frenchman buried his face in the glass. Acton had a big, childlike grin on his face. “This is gonna be great!”

Inside the terminal, a man in a business suit entered the bathroom he had seen Acton disappear into several minutes before. He searched the opened stalls then looked over the tops of the closed ones, much to the annoyance of those inside. Not finding who he was looking for, he ran out of the bathroom, raised his wrist to his mouth and activated his comm. “He’s gone! The subject is not in the bathroom!”

The White House, Washington, DC

Rachel sobbed when Wheeler told her about Billy’s death.

“Did you know him well?” asked a tired Wheeler. They had been interviewing staff and interns all morning and he was exhausted from being up all night. The drab, windowless room provided was not helping.

“N-no,” she sniffed, “I didn’t. Actually, I feel terrible about this, but the last time I saw him I called him a loser.”

“A loser? Why?” asked an equally tired Schultz.

“He had bumped into me in the hallway and spilled my coffee.”

“How’d that happen?” Schultz was now thoroughly bored.
Spilt coffee? How much more of this crap do we need to listen to?

“He came running around the corner with a file and ran right into me,” explained Rachel. “I yelled at him and went to the bathroom to clean up.”

Wheeler stifled a yawn. “Why was he running?”

“I don’t know. He had a priority file in his hands, so I guess he was making a delivery.”

“Do you know what was in the file?”

“No, but I do know it was covered in coffee when I last saw it.” Rachel blew her nose. “I think he changed the folder though because when I came out of the bathroom I saw him leaving the supply room.”

“Do you know who the file was addressed to?” asked Wheeler, suddenly waking up.

“No, but that hallway leads directly to the President’s office.”

Control slammed his fist on the desk.
This is getting out of hand.
He watched on the screen as the two detectives excitedly talked to each other about what they had just discovered.
This needs to be stopped now.
He radioed Bravo One.

The Dorchester, Park Lane, London

As they pulled up in front of The Dorchester hotel, a porter in a crisp white uniform opened the door and the Frenchman, whom Acton had learned was named Serge, jumped out of the cab as if freed from a cage. Acton was still talking and the cabbie was still trying to keep a straight face as he climbed out to help with the luggage.

“Do you have dinner plans tonight,
Surge
?” asked Acton.

“Non, I mean, yes, I do. I am sorree, but I already have ze plans!” yelped Serge, wincing at the massacred pronunciation of his name.

“That’s too bad.” Acton was enjoying himself thoroughly. “Perhaps tomorrow?”

“Per-aps,” answered the Frenchman who followed the porter into the hotel lobby with his luggage. Carrying his three shopping bags, Acton entered the hotel behind him.
No way I can afford this place!
He gaped at the intricate woodwork and marble that ran throughout, everything in immaculate condition. Only its 1930’s architecture revealed the true age of the hotel.

He walked up to the check-in counter with Serge and interrupted him talking to the concierge. “Excuse me, where are your bathrooms?”

“Over there, to your right, sir,” replied the concierge, pointing.

“See you in a few minutes
Surge
, nature’s callin’ again!” Acton flashed Serge a grin then raced off toward the bathroom.

“You said you have a reservation, Monsieur Savard?” asked the concierge. “One moment while I look that up for you.”

Serge looked after the departing American, then turned to the concierge. “I’m sorree, but there ’as been a terrible mistake. I am at dee wrong ’otel!” He motioned to the porter to bring his luggage and walked toward the exit as fast as he could, muttering, “Je
déteste
les Americains!”

Atlas had just handed over his boarding pass for a flight to London when his cell phone vibrated. He snapped it off his belt, flipped it open and put it to his ear while nodding to the attendant who had just returned his pass.

“Where are you?”

“Just heading for our rendezvous.”

“Change of plans, we have two more problems that need to be taken care of. Details have been sent to your phone.”

With that the conversation ended. Atlas turned around and walked out of the jet-way he had just entered. He tossed his boarding pass to the surprised attendant and said, “Sorry, I just remembered I hate England.”

Acton entered the washroom and laughed for the first time in almost a week.
Now that was fun. I can’t stand the French, bunch of cheese-eating surrender monkeys.
He checked himself in the mirror then reached for his Blackberry. Turning it on, he looked up the number for the British Museum. As he scrolled through the list it vibrated in his hand. A text message. He pressed the button to read it.

they got me tell wife daughter i love them bye old frnd

Acton’s chest tightened as he collapsed backward against the wall and fell to his knees in shock. The Blackberry slid from his hand and onto the floor as he put his head in his hands and cried. His best friend was dead, and it was his fault.
I never should have brought him into this.

He remembered meeting Corky for the first time in college. Corky had been working on his PhD when they met at a cross-country meet. Even with Corky settling down, getting married, and having a kid, and Acton gallivanting around the world on one archaeological dig after another, they had always remained close. He had even been named godfather of their daughter.
Those bastards. They have to pay!

His sorrow soon turned to anger. He was now determined to find out what was going on. With nothing left to lose, except his life, which at the moment didn’t feel much worth living, he picked himself up off the floor, retrieved his Blackberry, then washed the tears from his face.

The White House, Washington, DC

“Glad I caught you gentlemen before you left.”

Wheeler and Schultz had just signed out and were still filling their pockets and holsters with the various accoutrements of their trade they had been forced to check upon their arrival, when Darbinger trotted up to them.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Darbinger?” asked Wheeler.

“Just wondering if you found out anything? Any leads as to who may have killed our Billy?”

Schultz nodded and opened his mouth to speak when Wheeler cut him off.

“No, dead end for now, I’m afraid. But we’ll keep looking.”

Darbinger frowned. “That’s too bad. Well, I’m sure it couldn’t be anyone from here that did it,” he said as he opened the door for them. “You gentlemen have yourselves a great day!”

Schultz watched Darbinger head toward his office then turned to Wheeler. “What do you think?”

“I think,” said Wheeler as they headed to the visitor’s parking lot, “that he knows more than he’s telling.”

Schultz nodded. “But, how the hell do we accuse the Chief of Staff of the President of the United States of holding out on us?”

Wheeler shook his head. “I don’t know, but I do know who to call next.”

“Guthrie?”

Wheeler nodded as he reached for his phone.

Triarii Headquarters, London, England

Over the intercom system the collection of members sitting around the table listened intently.

“The subject was identified leaving his flight, but was lost when he went into the toilet,” related the voice on the other end of the line. “Review of the security tapes show that he left the bathroom in disguise with another man, then got into a taxi with him.”

“So, he has a contact here already?” asked one of those around the table.

“It would appear so, sir,” agreed the voice. “We’re trying to track the cab to see where they went. We’ll also backtrack the contact to see what flight he came off and get his name. We should have that information shortly.”

“Contact us when you do.”

“Roger, out.”

The room fell silent. Everyone looked to the man at the head of the table.

“This is the first time that two skulls have been in the same city since that BBC cock-up,” he said.