The Beltway Assassin (14 page)

Soon.

****

Jefferson felt an electric thrill go through his body as he sat down. Just a few more minutes before Congressman Hawker would make his final public appearance. He debated whether he should charge the podium as soon as Hawker took it or wait until halfway through the speech, when the shock and awe would be the most exquisite.

It was, he realized, the last problem he’d ever have.

Jefferson pulled a trigger from where it was tucked into a sleeve and concealed it in his right hand. He faked a scratch on his collarbone and flipped the safety switch on the vest. His right thumb depressed a trigger with a gratifying click.

The dead-man switch was active. When his thumb came off the button, his world would end in fire.

****

Shelton weaved through traffic; the single flashing dome light on the roof convinced most of the DC traffic to make way, but not all of it submitted.

Ritter shook his cell phone in frustration and tried another number. “No one is answering his phone,” he said.

“Why do you have a congressman’s phone number?” Shelton asked. He slammed on the brakes to avoid an oblivious jogger and managed to splash the jogger with pothole water as they sped past.

“Family friend,” Ritter said.

Convenient
, Shelton thought. Ritter’s plan had finally come together for Shelton when he saw Ritter in Jefferson’s tent. Ritter’s organization had trained Jefferson for some nefarious purpose, and their Frankenstein monster got loose. Ritter wanted Jefferson dead to keep him from exposing his whole organization, and Shelton was along for the ride to be the fall guy if things went south.

Shelton wasn’t surprised or hurt by his conclusion. Ritter’s history was full of obfuscation and deception. He’d lied and used Shelton when they were in Iraq. He was doing the same thing now.

The car went into the underground garage at the Marriott. Shelton parked in a handicapped spot, purposefully close to a Porsche on Ritter’s side. Ritter pushed his door open and dinged the cherry-red paint on the six-figure car.

“Seriously, Greg? How am I supposed to get out?” Ritter asked.

Shelton lurched over Ritter and slammed handcuffs on his wrists and the door handle. Shelton smashed his elbow into Ritter’s face as Ritter pulled back, then grabbed the stunned Ritter’s other wrist and handcuffed it to the steering wheel.

Ritter’s head lolled from side to side before he shook the cobwebs out. Shelton jammed a hand into Ritter’s coat and extracted the sheet of paper he’d seen Ritter take from Jefferson’s tent.

“Greg, what the hell are you doing?” Ritter struggled against the cuffs, to no avail.

“I’m not going to let you finish the job. You’re under arrest for the murder of Aaron Garcia. I’ll be back for you once I get Jefferson into custody,” Shelton said. He got out and slammed his door shut, leaving Ritter to rail against no one.

He snapped off the dome light and ran into the building.

Shelton pulled out his badge and held it in one hand, his sidearm in the other. He spotted the congressman’s podium at the end of a corridor flanked by Doric columns.

“FBI!” he yelled as he ran down the corridor. He held his badge high as he ran, repeating himself.

A pair of plainclothes Secret Service agents materialized at the end of the hallway, each with weapons pointing at Shelton.

Shelton came to a screeching halt, his sidearm held above his head next to his badge.

“I’m FBI! There’s a suicide bomber here targeting the congressman,” Shelton said.

The men and women waiting for the congressman stirred but didn’t move. Crazies tended to show up for any notable speech in Washington, DC. A single heckler was par for the course.

“Sir! Drop your weapon and get on your stomach,” the agent ordered.

“There is a suicide bomber here. He’s got a bomb under his clothes,” Shelton pleaded with the agents as he complied with the orders.

A door on the opposite end of the rotunda opened, and Congressman Hawker came out, waving for the cameras. Camera’s flashed, and shutters clicked with the report of machine guns on a distant battlefield.

An agent kicked Shelton’s gun away and hauled him to his feet.

Hawker was steps away from the podium. Shelton had one idea left.

“Congressman! Eric Ritter sent me! There’s a bomb!” Shelton yelled.

Hawker froze at the sound of Ritter’s name. He looked from the podium to the door from which he’d entered, then turned around and ran back.

The congressman’s sudden retreat sent the crowd into a panic. First one, then another, then a flood of people ran for the exits. Runners swarmed around Ritter and the agents, breaking their hold on him. Shelton scooped up his weapon and fought against the tide of fear to get into the rotunda, where a single man remained seated.

He pushed past the last person to flee and pointed his Glock at the clean-shaven man in a checkered sweater.

“Don’t move. Erasmus Toolidge, also known as Jefferson, you’re under arrest,” Shelton said.

Jefferson stood up, his face red with rage, and lifted his sweater so Shelton could see the bomb strapped to his chest. Of the two LED lights on the rig, one glowed green. Jefferson brandished the switch in his hand.

Shelton’s focus turned to the switch in Jefferson’s hand. He’d thought he left this kind of madness back in Iraq, but there it was—a dead-man switch. Jefferson’s thumb was firm against the button; releasing the button would complete the circuit and set off the bomb. Subduing Jefferson without blowing him up just became exponentially harder. Shelton backed away slowly, his gun still aimed at the bomber.

“Bring him back,” Jefferson said. He spat out the words with venom. “You were supposed to give him to me!”

“Buddy, I think you’ve got me confused with someone else,” Shelton said.

“No! Hawker has to pay. He wrote the bill sending all those men and women to Iraq to die. They died in explosions, ripped apart by fire. He deserves to reap what he’s sown. The Iranian said you wouldn’t stop me—he must have let me in here! He said I could kill the rest when I could, but Hawker must die no matter what. Hawker is the war criminal! I have no choice but to do this!” Jefferson’s arms flailed as his frustration mounted.

Shelton felt what little control he had on the situation evaporate as Jefferson’s lunacy became more and more evident. Negotiating with the mentally unstable was almost always futile. Shelton knew this would end quickly and loudly if he didn’t figure out a way to communicate with Jefferson on some level.

“But you don’t, Specialist Toolidge.” Shelton said, addressing Jefferson by his final army title. “You’re not the criminal. You’re the victim, just like all those soldiers Hawker sent to Iraq. I was there. I saw my men killed by bombs. The Iranian set you on this path, just like Hawker sent the soldiers to Iraq.” He lowered his pistol.

“
You
served?” Jefferson asked. His face went slack as a stable force took hold of his mind.

“Two tours, infantry platoon leader and company commander. Greatest honor of my life was leading men into battle. The only regrets I have are the soldiers I didn’t bring back whole or alive,” Shelton said. “You have the choice our soldiers didn’t. We’ll get you out of that vest. Then you can help me make the men behind all of this pay for what they’ve done. Hawker, the Iranian, Ritter.”

****

Zike watched the standoff through a gap between American and Washington DC flag stands from his perch on the mezzanine. He’d let the conversation go on for too long, his hopes that Jefferson or that FBI agent would set off the suicide vest one way or another weren’t coming to fruition.

Some things he’d have to do himself.

He clicked the pen in his hand and ran for the exit.

****

Beeps came from under Jefferson’s sweater. Jefferson pawed at his clothes, exposing a pair of lit bulbs on his vest, then to the trigger in his hand. His thumb still firmly pressed against the button.

Jefferson’s face fell. He looked at Shelton in shock and fear.

Shelton turned and ran. He made a sliding leap behind a thick column, smashing against the marble floor and skidding to a stop against the wall.

Jefferson’s vest exploded with the snap of a thousand year old redwood tree cracked in half by giant hands. A wave of overpressure swept over Shelton, blasting the air from his chest and knocking pictures from the wall. The glass dome above shattered, and a deluge of shards rained down and flooded the atrium.

Shelton, his head ringing with the force of a clock tower bell, got up on his hands and knees. Most of Jefferson was smeared across the walls. Two bloody lumps of flesh punctured by glass blades were in the jumble of chairs and wood of the dais.

Someone touched his arm. Shelton whirled around, his hand grasping for his missing sidearm.

A uniformed police officer shouted at him, his words lost to the tinnitus roaring in Shelton’s ears.

****

Half an hour later, after a cursory exam by an EMT, the whine in his ears continued. He could understand speech without insisting anyone shout at him. His ears allowed him to wave off the phone calls from the higher-ups in the FBI, who wanted an explanation of how he’d managed to track down the Beltway Bomber.

Shelton, a pair of DC police in tow, went to the car in the parking garage. Jefferson may be lost, but he still had Ritter. Shelton’s stomach dropped to his knees when he saw the driver’s door ajar.

Ritter was gone. The handle Shelton had cuffed him to had been ripped from the door. The steering wheel had been severed by a blade, giving Ritter enough room to pry the other cuff free.

“Damn it,” Shelton said. Bringing Ritter to justice wasn’t going to be that easy after all. He turned to the cops behind him.

“Call Reston PD. There’s a murderer on the loose, and I know where he’s going,” Shelton said in his too-loud voice. He reached into his pocket and took out the paper he’d lifted from Ritter. If this was the only thing Ritter had taken from Jefferson’s tent, it must be vital.

The paper was blank.

Shelton cursed and wadded it up before tossing it over his shoulder.
Well played, Eric. Well played
.

The next morning, Shelton waited outside Assistant Director Cox’s office at the FBI’s headquarters building in Washington, DC. His night had been a whirlwind of depositions, written statements, and horrible coffee.

His head still ached and his right ear rang like a mosquito was trapped in it. He’d had a bad concussion from an improvised flash-bang grenade in Iraq. Ritter had spirited him away from the hospital before any definitive tests for traumatic brain injury were finished. Shelton considered going to Veterans Affairs for an evaluation. He wasn’t getting any younger, and the headaches were…well, headaches.

“Shelton? Come on in,” Cox said. Shelton hadn’t heard the door open; his hearing still had a way to go before he was healed. Cox was one of the few assistant directors in the FBI who didn’t care for a secretary. The office was old leather furniture and pictures of Cox in Vietnam and on the scene of a swath of terrorist attacks against America—Beirut, Nairobi, Oklahoma City, the Twin Towers on two separate occasions.

There was no coffee in the office, but there was a pile of diet soda cans in the trash next to Cox’s desk.

Shelton sat across from Cox, his written statements scattered across the desk between the two of them.

“Greg, you’ve done an incredible service to the Bureau and the country. You have my sincere thanks for a job well done,” Cox said. He looked fresh, with the perfect coif of hair, which looked like it belonged on someone running for president, and a light spray-on tan. Shelton was pretty sure he looked like a stray dog in comparison.

“I’ve read everything you gave us, and I’m concerned,” Cox said. “A false FBI agent. Some shadow agency that has perfect access to government networks. The connection between a data breach at TEDAC and an analyst you say was planted there by this…this Ritter character. And some Iranian with the same level of access that was behind everything Jefferson did.”

“Sir, I’m not making this up. Did Reston PD raid that address I gave them? Everything was there: the computers, Ritter’s accomplices,” Shelton said.

“They did. All they found was an empty storage annex,” Cox said. “Agent Gamil, who you insist is really a former army officer named Eric Ritter. But there’s no record of anyone with the description and name of Eric Ritter who ever served in the army.”

Shelton felt a cold fury building within. He wasn’t going to let Ritter get away with this, not again.

“He…he is real. He must have had something to do with that attack on TEDAC. He is part of a conspiracy within the government—has to be,” Shelton said. There wouldn’t be any deal this time. Shelton vowed to fall on his sword, if need be.

“Officially, the incident at TEDAC is being blamed on improper handling of breaching equipment. That being said…I believe you,” Cox said.

“Wait. What?” Shelton said. Cox could have knocked him over with a feather.

“Since 9/11, the Bureau has come across something…sinister operating within the government. We caught a glimpse of it when a number of al-Qaeda suspects we had in custody were transferred to black sites and we were cut off from any information generated after that transfer. Then records started to go missing. Anyone who looked too closely at the matter ran into tax trouble or worse. This wasn’t the normal CIA stove piping. This was a shadow organization that transcended agencies.” Cox sat back in his seat.

“You’re the first person we know of who’s been up close and personal with them. What makes you so special?” he asked.

Shelton explained his connection to Ritter, the search for the kidnapped soldiers in Iraq, and Shelton’s silence over Ritter’s involvement in the deaths of several Iraqis in exchange for Ritter’s protection and assistance once Shelton left the army. The confession was cathartic; Shelton felt years younger for sharing what he knew.

“Greg, what Ritter and his group are doing is against everything America stands for. Do you agree?” Cox asked.

Shelton nodded.

“I’m part of a…a movement…that’s trying to crush that shadow organization. We have some very high backers within the government, men and women who’ll make sure Ritter can never influence you again. Will you join us?”

Shelton pressed his lips together and looked away. More secrets, more shadows to deal with. “What is it you’re after?” he asked.

“Justice.”

“I’m in,” Shelton said. Pride, absent for so many years, filled him as Cox reached into his desk and pulled out an American flag lapel pin, the gold border glittered in the light.

“You’re one of the president’s men now. President Benson founded our organization once he realized that organization was running rampant through the government and military, and we report directly to him. Wear this with pride,” Cox said. “Now, we need to get the story about Jefferson ready for public consumption. Then, you’re going on vacation.”

****

Shelton had been to rock concerts with less enthusiasm than this press conference. Reporters were packed together so tightly that the room was beginning to fog up; the smell of stale cigarettes and body odor wouldn’t thankfully translate through the TV and print mediums. Assistant Director Cox stood behind a dense thicket of microphones attached to a podium.

Shelton, who felt several years younger after a hot shower and a shave, looked several years younger too, thanks to a quick touch-up by someone from FBI’s public affairs office with foundation and concealer. This would be the only time he’d ever have to explain to his wife why he came home smudged with makeup. He hovered just off camera, waiting for his cue.

“It came down to a great investigative effort from the FBI to track down the Beltway Bomber. While the loss of life prior to last night’s event is a tragedy, no one else is at risk from Erasmus Toolidge, also known as Jefferson,” Cox said. Cameras flashed to capture Cox’s perfect smile.

“Do you think the Occupy movement was involved with the bombings?” came a voice from the crowd.

“There’s no evidence of that. But what we in the Bureau, and other agencies in the government, are looking at is the risk posed by veterans of the armed forces,” Cox said.

Shelton’s head jerked up at the suggestion. This wasn’t part of the official story he and Cox had agreed to hours before.

“Jefferson’s bomb-making skills came from his army training, and while the vast majority of veterans are law-abiding citizens, we saw the impact of what that training can do here in the homeland. On the flip side, the key agent in this investigation was Greg Shelton, a combat veteran and recipient of multiple Purple Hearts. Let me turn it over to him. Greg?”

Shelton walked up to the podium. He felt like a turkey that had finally figured out what Thanksgiving was all about.

“Do you think veterans pose a threat to society?”

“Should the government track individuals who possess deadly skills?”

“Do you think PTSD makes people more violent?”

The questions came fast and furious, and Shelton couldn’t use the tried-and-true deflection technique of referring the reporters to the public affairs office, not in the proverbial and literal spotlight.

Shelton took a sheet of notes from his pocket and read his prepared statement.

****

“Daddy, we saw you on TV!” Shelton’s daughters squealed when he finally made it home. He handled their questions with a good deal more grace and candor than his first foray on the national stage. He had to assure them several times that he wasn’t famous, and no, he couldn’t introduce them to movie stars.

Hours later, when the girls were in bed, Shelton and his wife drank beer in the kitchen.

“What the hell was up with the ‘dangerous veteran’ questions?” Mary asked.

“I don’t know. It was a surprise to me too. The important thing…I don’t owe Ritter a damn thing now. We’re out from under that shadow. The Bureau is going to take him and the rest of them down, and I’m on the task force,” Shelton said. “The key to unraveling their plot is a man called the Iranian. He’s our focus for the time being.”

The cell phone in his pocket buzzed. Hadn’t he turned it off the second he got home? An unlisted number was calling.

“Speak of the devil,” Shelton answered and stepped out onto the porch. The January air leeched heat from him.

“Well, well, well, look who’s the big hero,” Ritter said. “Clever with the handcuffs. Didn’t see that coming. Looks like you and the FBI came up with a decent cover story, which is fine. I can handle the cheap shot and the double cross—par for the course, really. Devious. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“This isn’t over, you understand? Right now, I have enough evidence to burn you for murder. And I’m just getting started,” Shelton said.

Ritter chuckled. “Oh, Greg. You’re adorable—you really are. My knife vanished from the Fairfax County evidence locker yesterday. Such a shame that things like that get misplaced but thanks for finding it for me. For what it’s worth, I didn’t kill Garcia. I was at the little dust up at TEDAC extracting an asset when Garcia got himself perished.

“And this isn’t over. You’re right on that one. Something
is
happening. Something much bigger than you or me. We’re just ants scurrying between the boot heels of giants, and it’s up to us not to get crushed.”

“Is that a threat?”

“A warning. You’re a good soul, Greg. Be careful what you believe and who you trust. Send my love to Mary and the girls.” Ritter hung up.

Shelton stayed in the night air, his spirit growing cold with his body.

****

The private jet was up to Shannon’s high standards. The art deco interior and aged oak furnishings smelled brand new and had nary a scratch on it. Ritter set a highball in front of Shannon and joined her at a table for two. There were no flight attendants for this trip.

“Crazy question, but where are we going?” Ritter asked.

Shannon, a few more gray hairs in her black mane, stirred her drink. The normally inscrutable woman had an air of sadness to her since he’d boarded the plane. Whatever weighed on her must have been something exponentially worse than the terrorists and wet work that encompassed most of their dealings.

“Canada. Then you’re going to the Ukraine to help Cindy and the rest of the team,” she said. “Keep up appearances that all is well.”

“I thought I was too hurt for fieldwork. Not that I’m saying no,” Ritter said. His cracked ribs flared against his will.

“You are, but I need to stick you somewhere safe and around friends. Ukraine is about to turn into a war zone, but that’s a better place than anywhere stateside. Once that situation’s resolved, you will find the Iranian,” she said.

“Or whatever he is.”

“He’s Iranian. That’s for sure. Tony may be a slob, but he knows when to share and when to play something close to the vest. There were two DNA hits on the crush wire that went to TEDAC for analysis. The first for Jefferson, the other for a detainee from Iraq named Javad Lajani, which is certainly fake. The Iranian is Quds force, Iran’s CIA and the main boogeymen of the Middle East. We’ve tangled with him before in Yemen and Oman.”

“What’s a Quds force operative doing in the States…and with that kind of access?”

“I’d like you to ask him yourself,” Shannon said. She took a long sip from her drink and stared out the window at the cityscape below, a glowing grid in the night. From under her bra, she took out the sheet of paper with the list of names Ritter had retrieved from Jefferson’s tent. She unfolded it.

“Bendis, the first victim, was the director who recruited me into the program. That’s how it works. Each director had his or her own team. He was the only director I had the identity of. The rest of the directors…They don’t know who the others are either. I’m going to make an educated guess and assume that the rest of the names on this list are also directors.” She traced her finger under each name as she read them.

“If they don’t know each other, then how did Jefferson get the list?” Ritter asked.

“There’s a higher authority. The first authority formed the program after 9/11 to hunt down those responsible for the attack and safeguard the nation. His replacement has had other priorities,” Shannon said.

Ritter didn’t need to ask who it was. There was only one person on earth who could command the loyalty of a group like the Caliban Program. The President of the United States of America.

“What does this mean?” Ritter asked.

“It means that authority gave Jefferson the means and the targets to start killing us. It means we are at war with our own government. That nuclear warhead you procured in Africa was the catalyst, but I don’t know how it fits into all this,” Shannon said.

“So what now?”

“We’re
ronin
, samurai without masters. I’ll get in touch with the rest of the directors and let them know about the threat. Then get Tony and Irene to find more evidence of what the authority is up to,” she said.

“And what do we do about the authority?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said. “After your mission in the Ukraine…if you and Cindy don’t want to come back, I’ll understand.”

That Shannon knew about his relationship with Cindy wasn’t much of a surprise. She was in the business of knowing. He considered the idea of being free from the life of secrets and lies for a moment, but only for a moment.