Fires of Autumn (5 page)

You
certainly look girly to me.

CHAPTER TWO

Across the
street from the Marriott Hotel adjacent to the Washington National Airport sat
a dingy government building that was used for storage and miscellaneous office
space. Once the building had housed the Maintenance and Operations Division for
the State Department, but because of the constant noise coming out of the
airport, the main body of the division had been moved in the mid-70's.

Pigeons
nested on the window ledges, splattering the walls with white feces. The
parking lot on the side of the building was unmaintained. The snow from the
previous day had turned to a nasty rain, pelting the old building and staining
the facade a dark, uneven gray, adding to the derelict ambience.

Cars
passed to and fro, horns blaring as they traversed the Washington Bridge, when
a black Audi suddenly turned into the old parking lot and made its way around
the side of the building. There was an old rusty chain linked between concrete
parking barriers that prevented the car from going any further, so it pulled to
a slow stop and sat for a moment in the rain. Finally, the door opened.

A figure
in an expensive black raincoat emerged, heading for the old building. There was
a huge loading bay, covered by a slide-down panel that had been spray painted
with graffiti. It
was dirty and worn, and the Masterlock that bolted it down
looked as if it was several years old. The figure in the coat pulled out a key,
unlocked the lock, and lifted the old panel. On well-oiled bearings, the door
raised noiselessly and easily.

The man in
the raincoat disappeared into the loading bay, closing the panel behind him and
locking it from the inside. The interior of the building was dusty and unused
as the man's expensive Kenneth Cole shoes crossed the concrete floor of the
loading bay, weaving his way through a clutter of old boxes and equipment. He
entered a loading elevator on the far side of the dock and shifted the old
lever to the third floor. For the ramshackle appearance of the elevator, it
moved silently and effortlessly and the man stepped off on the third level.

It was
quiet up here, the noise of the street blocked out by thick walls of cement and
steel. The man moved through a service corridor and into the main hall, tall
and wide and empty. There were a few lights, illuminating his way as he walked
down the hall. His steps were even, unhurried, as he reached a large polished
door at the very end of the corridor. Without breaking his stride, he opened
the door and stepped inside.

Suddenly,
there was smoke. Thick, putrid cigar smoke from illegal Cuban cigars. It
wouldn't have been so bad if everyone smoked the same brand, but there were
varying tastes and preferences that created a halo of blue fog as thick as the
air in Los Angeles on a smoggy summer day. The figure fought off the urge to
cough, slowing his pace as he came into the room of cigar-smoking men.

The man in
the coat didn't say a word. Eight men in expensive suits, nearly all the same
color, sat in various positions around the room. The blinds on the long windows
were drawn, streams of weak daylight filtering in through the smoke. There were
banks of phones against the wall, a couple of state-of-the-art computers, but
little else. Nothing else but old men smoking cigars and one with a bottle of
Crown Royale that he apparently had no intention of sharing.

"Colt?"
The selfish man with the half-empty bottle spoke, his voice old and brittle.

"You're
late."

Sheridan
held an even expression. "You realize that my schedule is very
unpredictable. I came as soon as I could."

The old
man took a sip of his Crown Royale as he mulled over the reply. "So,"
he decided not to make an issue out of the man's tardiness, "how was your
first day with Russell Talbot?"

"Uneventful,"
Sheridan replied. "What did you expect?"

The man
stopped sipping. Setting his
drink
down, he turned to the figure
shrouded by milky blue tobacco smoke. "I expect you to do your job."

"My
job is to protect the President."

"Remember
who you're talking to, Colt."

Sheridan
paused, shifted. "I'm well aware of my directive, Mr. Meade. And if you
really believed that I would have a report to make to you after spending only
twelve hours in Talbot's office
,
then you were mistaken. What you
want will take a good deal of time to achieve."

Mr.
Meade's gaze moved over the large figure, his eyes cold and calculating. He
resumed his
drink
while his colleagues continued to smoke and listen. "We
don't have much time, Colt.  We've known for years that Russell Talbot was
using his position as governor of New Mexico to conceal illegal drug smuggling.
You're the closest agent we've managed to move in and it is imperative that you
complete your mission."

Sheridan
sighed. "I am fully aware of my mission,” he stated. “But what Russ Talbot
did was years ago, taking money from the Norte del Valle Cartel so that their
planes could land in the deserts of Southern New Mexico. And from what I
understand, the money wasn't for Talbot's personal gain- he had two kids with
Cystic Fibrosis and all of the money went for either their treatment or as
donations to the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation. For Christ's sake, the man had two
dying children and couldn't afford the medical treatment. And now you want me
to…."

"What
he did was illegal, Mr. Sheridan." A man near the partially-covered
windows spoke. He was in his mid-fifties, thin, and spoke with a heavy Boston
accent. His entire manner reeked of arrogance, breeding. "The fact of the
matter is that Russ Talbot took money from drug lords and used his position as
governor of the state of New Mexico to allow drug shipments to come in and out
of his state. For the fiscal years 1987 through 1999, we've traced over
$900,000 in payments through banks in the Bahamas that are then placed in Swiss
accounts, and the trail ends there."

The man
moved away from the windows, the sickly glow of the yellow bulbs illuminating
his
grim
face. "Sheridan, we've got a crook sitting in the White
House. Doesn't that concern you?"

Sheridan's
expression was steady. "He's no different from any other politician."

"Except
now that he's in the oval office, the Norte del Valle cartel is attempting to
blackmail
him
into opening our southern border." Mr. Meade's voice was
quiet, yet his words instantly silenced the room. "Colt, if we weren't
positive that Talbot was in contact with these drug smugglers again, there
wouldn't be a problem. For three years the man allowed foreign drug traffickers
to use his state as their own personal landing strip, but after 1999, the
contact ends. If the ties remained severed, we wouldn't worry. A man has a
right to a few secrets, even if he is the President of the United States. But
the fact that he's renewed his ties with the Norte del Valle cartel has us ...
concerned."

Sheridan's
expression was serious. "You think Talbot's going to succumb to their
blackmail?"

Mr. Meade
shrugged, smashing his cigar into the ashtray by his elbow. "If the most
powerful drug organization in the world was threatening to reveal a
relationship better left buried, wouldn't you do everything you could to stop
them? Of course Talbot is back in contact with them, purely to prevent them
from revealing his dealings with them. And in order to prevent them from
squealing, he may have to give in to their demands."

"Open
the border?"

"Exactly."

Sheridan
sighed, slowly. "And you want me to track down any hint of a communication
between Talbot and the Cartel?"

"You're
our best agent, Colt. Your family’s heritage and work record speak for
themselves.  Your ancestor fought to preserve the United States of America and
you’re doing the same. We're depending on you."

Sheridan
was silent a moment. Outside, the rain was coming down in sheets, pounding
against the dirty windows. He listened to the rain, thinking.

"You
sent me on basically the same mission with Clinton and Whitewater,” he said
quietly. “The man covered his tracks too damn good for me to discover anything.
It was four years wasted - Clinton had people thwarting me at every turn. For
every move I made, they countered me. They knew there was a plant close to
Clinton, but they never discovered it was me. If I
try
the same
route with Talbot, the CIA is going to put two and two together. They'll
eventually figure out that I'm the plant."

Mr. Meade
smiled faintly. "You worry too much, my boy. We've another agent in the
President's office at your disposal, someone who's been there for years.
In
fact, he's
a double agent for both us and the CIA. If the Agency gets too close, he'll
send them on a wild goose chase like he did before. When your investigation of
Clinton got too close to the truth and the Agency was frantic to find out who
the mole was, Peter was excellent in foiling their efforts."

Sheridan
nodded. "Harrios is a good man."

"Good
and well-paid. His directive is to merely hinder any and all investigations
that threaten your mission. When the heat turns on, it's his job to cool
it." Mr. Meade refilled his shot glass. "He doesn't know that you're
the agent he's covering for, does he?"

"The
E-mails I send him are encrypted. He doesn't have a clue."

"Good
.
" Mr.
Meade took a sip of his alcohol. Then he snorted softly, shaking his head as if
suddenly finding humor in the situation. "It's insane, really. The CIA has
agents in every corner of the White House, frantically running about like
little ants, spying and counter-spying and making fools of themselves. They've
so many turncoats that they don't even trust each other. And the other branches
of the government, the State Department and the Department of Justice have
their own agents, though they pretend otherwise. If I had to guess, I'd say one
out of every three Secret Service agents was a double agent for someone else.
And then ... then there's us."

Sheridan
shifted on his muscular legs; the Kenneth Cole shoes looked good but were
beginning to pinch. "The branch of the government that no one will admit
exists, yet we are stronger than the others could ever hope to be
.
" He
shifted again and began buttoning his raincoat. ''No one will admit there is
such a thing as the Core."

Mr. Meade
cast him a long, beady glance. "Because we know more and do more than they
could possibly imagine," he said softly. "They're afraid of us, Colt.
We're like the fabled Minotaur, or the Loch Ness Monster. Elusive,
omnipotent... and terrifying. We've access to files and laboratories and
information that are beyond their realm of comprehension. We are, in fact
the
government's worst nightmare because they have created something they can no
longer control."

Sheridan
didn't have a reply. He stood silently, his coat buttoned, listening to the
driving rain pound the exterior of the old building. This meeting had gone the
path of a thousand others, full of threats and arrogance and subterfuge.
Sheridan had been a part of it for more years than he cared to admit, a tool
for old men who controlled the country like a parasite controls a host. When he
had been young, the spy business had been exciting and patriotic. But now, more
often than not, it was a burden.

Finally,
Mr. Meade set his glass down. "Don't contact us, Colt, we'll contact
you," he said. Sheridan immediately turned for the door. "And
Colt?"

Sheridan
paused, his hand on the doorknob. Mr. Meade glanced at a couple of his
colleagues before continuing, a sort of knowing glance passing between them.
Sheridan didn't understand their expressions until finally Meade spoke.

"The
secretary," he said. "She has access to all of Talbot's records. She
might be a good place to start."

Sheridan's
hand came away from the latch. Odd how a cold chill suddenly ran through him,
like anger and defiance and, strangely, self-protection. "How did you know
about her?"

"Harrios
reports back to us on everything that happens in the President's office,"
Mr. Meade replied. "He said that Talbot's personal assistant and the new
special agent-in-charge met each other with a bang."

For the
first time since his arrival, Sheridan showed some expression. Slowly, his e
yebrows
lifted. The urge to downplay the situation was overwhelming, though he could
not understand why. "Bang? I’d say so. Hell, she made
fun
of
me."

Mr. Meade
looked at him, pointedly. "I would suggest you change her mind. She'd be a
tremendous asset to your mission."

"Take
advantage of her?"

"Use
and abuse, Mr. Sheridan." Mr. Meade turned back to his drink. "Milk
her for everything she's worth and move on."