“It’s a genuine possibility, Mr. President,” Reeder said.
Vinson said, “Why on earth would any American help the Russians acquire the key to Senkstone?”
Reeder shrugged. “They may not have figured out that part. The goal of the rogue players in our government may well be a hawkish one toward Krakenin’s Russia. As for Senkstone, very few people in or out of government even know about it, and fewer still are aware that portillium is the element needed to stabilize it.”
Shaking his head, the Chief of Staff said, “I just can’t believe it.”
“Well, there’s an even worse read of the rogue element,” Reeder said.
Vinson grunted. “What in God’s name could be worse?”
But the President answered his Chief of Staff: “They could know about portillium.”
“Know about it?” Vinson blurted.
“Know about it,” Reeder said, “and be in Russia’s pocket — either as foreign agents or, well, capitalists without a conscience.”
Again, silence settled over the sealed room.
Harrison looked hard at Reeder. “Now that the FBI is officially on board, by way of Special Agent Rogers’ task force, I want you to work with them. You have a history of being a consultant there — no red flags will go up.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get to the bottom of all this... and Joe — I need it wrapped up before the first of the week.”
Reeder felt as if the leader of the free world had just punched him in the stomach. “Respectfully, sir, that’s less than five days for an investigation that could take, oh months... even years.”
“We don’t have the luxury of time,” Harrison said. “And I’m depending on you to meet my deadline. The cabinet is scheduled for a weekend at Camp David. The only item on the agenda will be whether the United States will issue a declaration of war against Russia.”
And another one to the chin...
The President was saying, “The decision can be put off but there’s a real possibility that the United States will face war with Russia. I’m assuming you’d like to help forestall that.”
With a confidence he wished he felt, Reeder said, “Yes, sir, I would. I will.”
The President stood and so did Vinson and Reeder, who shook hands with Harrison. And he even shook hands with the Chief of Staff, who had the look of a man about to go home and build a fallout shelter.
Walking to his car, the sky an ominous, starless dome, Reeder felt the vibration of his cell phone, and checked it: Bishop. He’d given his homicide detective pal the number last night. Within the car, he answered.
“Evening, Detective Bishop.”
“Some pile of dog shit you stepped in this time around.”
“Getting any on you?”
“Naw. It’s you who stepped in it, not me. Remember Pete Woods? The young buck you helped on the Bryson case?”
“Sure,” Reeder said. “Good detective, even if he does look about twelve years old.”
“Well, Woods drew the Chamberlain hit-and-run, and when I casually asked him what evidence he had, he not so casually told me the feds took everything... and made it clear the matter, which is to say the murder, wasn’t his problem.”
“How did Pete take that?”
“More gracefully than either of us would. He told them nicely that he should get at least a look-see, and the feds told him just as nicely to screw off — that in the case of a federal death, he had no jurisdiction.”
“Which agency got the evidence?”
“Even that’s more than they were willing to tell Woods. What they did tell him was to butt out.”
“And has he?”
“Yup. And normally Woodsie Owl doesn’t back down from anything. Working that case with you last year must have spooked him some. Now he knows just how deep the doo-doo can get.”
“Bish, he’s a smart kid, and did the right thing. Now do me a favor.”
“Any time.”
“Hang up and forget we had this talk.”
“Fine. As long as I’m allowed to remember one thing.”
“Which is?”
“Which is, you owe me big time.”
They clicked off.
The White House’s massive black gates allowed Reeder passage and he headed north, toward Lafayette Square. Soon he turned west, toward home. He drove leisurely, replaying in his mind the conversation with the President and his Chief of Staff; but even before he got to the roundabout at New Hampshire Avenue, he knew he had a tail. It stayed two cars back but in the same lane — that way if Reeder took a quick right, the tail could follow.
It was a simple Ford Explorer, dark green, a few years old — not some black tinted-glass Interceptor utility, and certainly not a hovering helicopter — much too showy, far too obvious. No, this might be a government car, or an ex-police car. Either one meant reinforced bumpers and more horsepower than his Prius, meaning at least a modest advantage for his new best friend.
Getting Rogers on the burner cell would be the fastest way to find out if the Explorer was a chaperone she’d provided. But also the fastest way for the tail to capture the signal of his burner, and hers.
These people would obviously know where Reeder lived, so trying to lose the tail was pointless, unless he was prepared to go underground immediately. Right now the tail was keeping its distance, though the headlights of other vehicles revealed a driver’s silhouette and no passengers.
Reeder took a direct route home. When he pulled up in front of his white-brick, two-story townhouse on Thirty-Fourth Street Northwest, the tail tucked into a spot two houses back, on the other side of the street. Reeder got out, closed his door, and — on the way to the front steps — walked around behind his vehicle, lending him an inconspicuous view of the Explorer. But a streetlight was nearby and shining down on the car reflectively, giving Reeder no look at all of the driver.
Instead of going across the street to confront the tail, Reeder trotted casually up to his red front door, unlocked it, and slipped in. After quickly dealing with the alarm system on the wall just inside, punching in the seven-digit code, he got his SIG Sauer out of the drawer of the little table beneath the security keypad.
He considered going out the back way, cutting through yards, then coming up behind the Explorer to meet his new friend.
But checking the house, even though the alarm had been on, was the priority. He turned on the living room light, moved into the dining room. Everything seemed quiet, appeared undisturbed. Of course if a team had bugged the place, they would have been pros and, like the Boy Scouts in a forest, would’ve left it as they’d found it. SIG Sauer in hand, barrel up, he edged into the kitchen, elbowing a light on.
At the back door, he considered the strong possibility that the rear of the house was covered, too. If he was the one doing surveillance, he’d sure as hell want someone back there.
After checking the two bedrooms and his home office upstairs, and finding no guests, Reeder returned to the front door. He tossed his suit coat on a chair, then went to the front closet and got his black ABC Security hooded sweatshirt, which he got into. He dropped the expandable baton in his right sweatshirt pocket, and tucked the nine millimeter into the back waistband of his slacks. He pulled the sweatshirt down so that it covered the pistol grip.
He went out the front door, in no hurry, just a guy going out for an evening stroll or maybe to a neighborhood 24-hour joint. This seemed better than heading out the back door into the waiting arms of who-the-hell-knew.
He crossed the street at his townhouse and took the sidewalk in the direction of the parked Explorer. Hands in the sweatshirt pockets, the baton in his right, he figured his brazen approach might spook the tail into taking off, or anyway action of some sort... but nothing.