He rolled to a sitting position on the motel bed, the soaked sheets twisted around his body. Instinctively he looked to the nightstand for the bottle, but there was none. He had brought none. That reality made him snicker to himself. Was this Step One of the Twelve? he jokingly mused.
There was something on the nightstand, though. George took it in his hand, his half-medicated thoughts from the night before returning. Go there? he wondered, looking at the address on the keytab. They might be..
The fear made him want to drink. Want it really bad. The want was the demon to conquer, not the booze. To conquer it, he would have to get past the fear. Have to face it. To prove that he could. It was his job. It was his life.
It was his last chance.
George stood from the bed on wobbly legs. His head immediately began to spin. Neither malady, though, would deter him. He clutched the key tightly and looked around the room for his clothes. There was no time for a shower. This story couldn’t wait.
Garrity picked the phone up on the first ring. “Hello.”
“Yes.”
The lightly accented voice was unmistakable. “We’ve got trouble.”
The contact noticed the absence of traffic noises in the background. This sounded like… “Where are you?”
Garrity gulped. “Home.”
“What! Are you out of your fucking mind! What the fuck are you thinking!”
“Listen, I had no choice. My car is dead, and I have something that can’t wait.”
A loud breath blew through the phone line. “Goddammit!” There was a pause. “What is so fucking important that you can’t follow procedures?”
“There is a missile still there. There really is.”
There was more silence. He wasn’t supposed to know that. “What do you… Do you mean they think there is one?”
“No. This isn’t like before. This time they have some sort of proof.”
Oh, shit! “Are you sure? Positively?”
“I got it off the director’s desk last night. Some guy in the White House, his name’s DiContino, told the director that they have some sort of evidence.”
“What evidence?”
Garrity looked at the printout of Merriweather’s notes. “It doesn’t say. His scribbles don’t always make sense.”
“Fuck.”
“I figured with what’s going on that you’d want to know this fast.” Garrity listened for some kind of validation, but there was none. This man, these people, were his rainbow that led to the pot of gold. He had to do them right. But… “Is this true? I mean, that guy a while-back wasn’t just making it up?”
“That’s none of your fucking business.”
“Yeah. Okay. But, am I in any danger? I mean, could this lead to me?”
“Not if you keep your fucking mouth shut.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Don’t ever do this again. Never. Do you understand? You follow procedures from now on.”
“Okay.”
Garrity hung up as the line clicked off. A hand came up to his face. It was wet with perspiration, and it was trembling. His contact didn’t sound very sure of the situation, or of his semi-guarantee that this wouldn’t lead to him. To him. My God. That was a thought, a possibility, that Sam Garrity could not comprehend. Discovery. Prison. Prison.
He looked down at the phone and then to the sheets of printout in his hand. This was no fucking game anymore. It wasn’t fun. A missile? A nuclear missile? This was way beyond what he had envisioned.
“What have I done?”
“Got it!” Sanz said jubilantly. “The son of a bitch used his home phone.”
“Where?” Testra pressed.
“Area code two-oh-two. Washington Metro.” Sanz picked up the phone without prompting.
“Run it down,” Testra directed his partner. “Christ! Talk about self-incrimination! ‘Off the director’s desk’ and ‘some guy in the White House.’ Man, this guy is stone-cold gone.”
The phone to the Miami office was still ringing. Sanz knew they needed a trace fast. “We gotta get a warrant before that guy gets too spooked.”
“He sounded pretty far gone already.” Testra thought back to the conversation. “What do you suppose that stuff about a missile was?”
“We’ll know soon enough,” Sanz said, as his call was picked up on the other end. “Yeah, this is Freddy. I need a name-number search pronto.”
Anthony Merriweather drank slowly from the Styrofoam cup. He forced himself not to cringe each time it touched his lips. “President Alvarez, I believe your priorities are quite well-thought-out. Your main distractions, as you say, will most definitely be the loyalists who remain after the defeat.”
“Several dozen processing camps will do nicely,” José-Ramon Alvarez stated. “Your Marines from Guantanamo can have them constructed very quickly.”
“Yes. Yes, you are right.” Merriweather put his half-full cup down on the nondescript end table. They hadn’t been able to provide accommodations with any higher state of acceptability for a future world leader. But, as with many things, it would do. Very soon it would not have to.
“It is very nice of you to wait with us, Señor Merriweather,” Alvarez said hollowly. His guest would not see that. He could not. That such a brainless academic-turned-politician could be chosen to run the CIA was almost beyond belief. But Alvarez could not look a gift horse in the mouth. Least of all this dimwitted old stallion.
Merriweather dipped his head a bit. “It is my pleasure to see you off, Mr. President.”
Your pleasure, indeed. Soon the fool would rue the day he ever came to be associated with them, Alvarez knew. But by then it would be too late to extract himself from the careful web they had spun. The idiot was theirs, literally under their thumb, and he didn’t even know it yet. That pleasure of disclosure would come in due time.
“Mr. President,” Gonzalo Parra said softly as he leaned toward Alvarez from behind. “There is a call you should take.”
Alvarez looked up over his shoulder. “Can you not handle it?”
“You should take it, sir.” Parra’s tone was firm and convincing. It also triggered an alarm in Alvarez.
“Very well. Señor Merriweather, your pardon please.”
“Yes.”
Alvarez lifted his girth from the chair and followed his closest aide into the adjoining room. “What is it?”
Parra ignored the annoyed tone and handed his leader the cell phone. “It is Avaro. There is trouble.”
José-Ramon put the small black phone to his ear. “Avaro.”
“Yes,” the contact replied in Spanish. It was the agreed-upon language of their conversations.
He recognized the distress in the voice. “What is the problem?”
“The missile. They know about the missile!”
Alvarez jerked his head toward Parra. He could see that his aide already knew. “Who knows?”
“The CIA. The White House. Our agent got the information from the director’s notes last night. They have some sort of proof that the missile is there.”
“But how? The fool is here with me, right now, and he is calm. He would not be here if it were so.”
“I don’t know why, but our agent was certain.”
“This cannot be. Could they have found the tape?”
“They must have. How else would they know?”
Dammit! “If it is so, then why is the director here?” He looked to Parra as he spoke. “Why?”
“A trap?” Avaro suggested.
“Or he still does not believe it,” Parra suggested. “As before.”