A very long day had become an eternity
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Eventually the preparation phase ended and we shifted into phase two, titled, I think, "Don't Let the Idiot Think About It."
Somebody wheeled a television into the conference room, and we sipped coffee, shared a tray of stale tuna sandwiches, observed the news coverage, and tried to act cool and relaxed.
Jennie informed us she had calls to make and Important coordination to accomplish, and she stepped out, leaving me with Rita, who for the next thirty minutes tried to thread that fine line between impressing me with her sharpness and keeping my head in the clouds. Eventually, Jennie returned.
It did not escape my attention that Jennie and Rita were isolating me from the preparations occurring outside this room. Occasionally, agents poked their heads into the room, and either Rita or Jennie stepped outside to confer for a few moments.
At one point, Jennie informed Rita, "Did you know Sean was a former infantry officer? Special Forces, in fact. He survived some really tough scrapes." Rita looked suitably impressed and commented, "Great. Barnes and his pals won't give a certified badass like him the slightest problem."
I was sure this routine came straight from the Bureau manual chapter called "Preparing the Happy Lamb for the Slaughter."
Nor did it escape my notice that Jennifer Margold, with whom I had nearly played a round of hide-the-willie, had suddenly cooled considerably toward yours truly. She had become distanced, and almost clinical, bordering on manipulative. I was sure she was legitimately concerned for me. Still, I found it annoying to go from being the object of her sweaty obsession to Sean the idiot.
In a way, I was delighted she had her head in the game. In a larger way, I really wasn't.
Eventually I asked Rita, "Why do they want cash?"
"It's why bad guys do the things they do."
"I mean-"
"I know what you mean. You thought crooks all had numbered accounts in some overseas bank they want you to wire money to."
"Don't they?"
"Lots do want it done electronically. These days, the more sophisticated ones don't."
"Why not?"
"We now have the ability to put electronic tracers on it. Don't matter how many times they move it, we'll still be waiting at the end, when they try to get it out of the bank."
Intermittingly George appeared on the tube creating what I thought was a splendid illusion of professional confidence, ballooning into optimism. A few pesky reporters weren't buying this act and kept trying to worm embarrassing or insightful information from him, which George parried with wonderfully vague responses and his perpetual I-know-something-you-don't smirk. I usually found that expression annoying. This was the exception. The public would be scared shitless if it knew the amount of vacuous space behind that smirk.
Eventually Jennie went to the fax machine and retrieved the files CID had zipped over regarding our newest suspect, Mr. Clyde Wizner. She tried to struggle through them, but they made little sense to her, and she slid them across the table at me. "Tell me about this guy."
In one way or another, Clyde Wizner might soon be enjoying a very big role in my life, so this was the first useful diversion. Anyway, military files tend to be somewhat one-dimensional and impersonal. They tell you things like where a soldier's from, where he/she has been assigned, how he/she's been trained, and what to do with him/her after they're dead. In short, a great deal about the person and nothing about the personality.
So here's the deal. Clyde Wizner was forty-nine years old, originally from Killeen, the town outside Fort Hood. He had entered the Army at the age of twenty-two in the year 1977, a high school graduate, no college, and had a GT score-roughly comparable to an IQ-of 135. So Clyde was bright and was selected to become an Army engineer, with a subspecialty in EOD, or Explosive Ordnance Disposal-an expertise that takes nerves of steel, a wonderful memory for tiny details and textbook procedures, and a large reliable life insurance policy.
After basic training and a few specialty training courses, Clyde spent three years at Fort Hood, followed by three years in Germany, a year in Korea, three more years at Hood, and then out. Interspersed between those assignments, he attended plenty of additional training, a few leadership courses and a few bombs and mines things to keep him current on the latest battlefield nasties. He remained single and presumably unattached.
He made it to the rank of staff sergeant, and I guess his service was honorable, because I saw no evidence of blemishes, and he was immediately accepted for civilian employment at Fort Hood.
The interesting fact was that Clyde Wizner spent almost seventeen years performing civilian service before he mysteriously walked into his boss's office and quit. He was only three short years from grabbing the golden ring of lifetime monthly checks and half-assed medical benefits. A cynical mind might suspect Clyde had found a better deal. I'm good at cynical.
I glanced inside his thick civilian personnel file and saw exactly what drew Mr. Eric Tanner to this guy. At Fort Hood, Mr. Wizner had worked in the Office of Post Operations, the nerve center of all that did and did not happen across the sprawling base. As long as he cloaked his nosiness, Clyde could access everything from range operations data to weapons shipments, to military police training activities.
I summarized this for Jennie, who commented, "Do you think it was Wizner who made the call?"
"Texan accent… right age… same crappy civilian employee attitude all soldiers know and love. Possibly."
She and Rita exchanged glances again. Rita looked at me and commented, "Whatever you do, do not let on that you know or even suspect his identity. Understand?"
Jennie said, "She's right, Sean. It would be like putting a gun to your own head."
I drew a zipper across my lips.
"I'm serious. He'll Ml you." Jennie added, "But, if the chance comes up, try to get a confirmation. Look and listen for hints or clues to his background and identity."
"Don't worry. Subtlety is my forte."
Nobody seemed to buy that for some reason. Jennie explained, "This could be a huge break, Sean. Even if they somehow get away, it would give us a valuable trail to follow."
"I understand."
The phone rang.
It didn't matter that we were expecting, even anticipating it. Literally, we all three ended up on our feet, staring down at the little cell phone lying on the long shiny conference table like a poisoned chalice. Rita smiled at me and said, "Last chance. You sure you wanta put your head in the lion's mouth?"
I was not at all sure. The phone rang again. I lifted it up, cleared my throat, and said, "Drummond."
"You got my money? All of it?" It was the same raspy bass voice, the same in-your-face tone.
"Fifteen suitcases full. But it's not yours yet, pal."
"Used and unmarked, right, boy?"
I looked at Jennie, who nodded. "I'm assured the money's clean and untraceable."
"Yer friends better be playin' you straight. If not, somebody's gonna be dead."
"Hey, they're federal employees. You can trust them."
He laughed. "Okay… what're you drivin'?"
"A big blue Suburban."
"Got it. Now, here's the way this goes down. There's a parking garage on 13th and L Street. Third deck down. Fifteen minutes. Not a second later. Comprendo? Say it back to me."
I repeated it, and he hung up.
I shoved back my chair and sprinted for the exit, and Jennie and Rita trotted alongside me. Rita gave me a big cotton-candy smile and assured me, "We'll have five units inside that garage long before you get there. They'll never get out."