Smooth Operator (Teddy Fay) (12 page)

M
argo closed up her office and headed home. She lived within walking distance of the White House, a nice perk once she got the job. Margo had no car and hated public transportation. The buses were too slow, the Metro never let you off close enough to where you were going. A leisurely twenty-minute walk took about the same time as it would to be jostled in rush-hour traffic on the train.

It happened fast. Margo was just starting over the viaduct near her apartment. The gray van appeared out of nowhere and cruised beside her, mirroring her speed.

The side door slid open. Two masked men dressed in black hopped out, and before Margo could scream, a hand slid over her mouth, an arm wrapped around her shoulders, and her body, still in a firm embrace, was flung unceremoniously into the back of the van.

Struggling to free herself, Margo twisted her head.

There was a third man in the van. His face was not masked, and Margo recognized him. It was the man with Arab features, the phony CIA agent who’d talked to her before.

Then Margo felt a prick in her shoulder and everything faded to black, just as the side door of the van slid shut.

M
argo Sappington was late for work, a strange enough occurrence to merit concern. A bright young lawyer in the White House counsel’s office, Margo Sappington was never late. The event was unusual enough to attract the attention of Susan Granger, the secretary on the office switchboard. By ten o’clock she was worried enough to call Margo at home. There was no answer.

Susan frowned. She thought for a moment, picked up the phone, and dialed Holly Barker. “Holly, it’s Susan Granger, over in legal. Did you talk to Margo Sappington yesterday?”

In the national security advisor’s office, Holly shot a look at Teddy and clicked the phone on speaker. “I spoke to Margo, why?”

“She didn’t come in this morning. I wondered if you might
have given her some assignment that would have kept her out of the office.”

“No, I didn’t. She probably just overslept.”

“She’s not answering her phone.”

“Her cell phone?”

“That’s right.”

“She probably forgot to turn it on. I’m sure she’ll be in any minute.”

“Well, let me know if you hear anything.”

“Will do.”

Holly clicked the button off. “Do you think something happened to her?”

“Let’s not speculate,” Teddy said. “She didn’t come in, so we’re going to check it out. Where does she live?”

“Hang on. Let me see.” Holly called up the internal directory and scrolled through addresses of White House employees. “Other side of the viaduct.”

“Is that walking distance?”

“Yes.”

Teddy looked over Holly’s shoulder, memorized the address at a glance. “Okay, carry on as usual. I’ll be back.”

“Carry on as usual?”

“You might check in with the President. Isn’t that your job?”

Holly shook her head, chuckled. “It almost seems incidental.”

Teddy left the White House. He checked his gun from habit. Not that he’d need it. No terrorist was holding Margo Sappington hostage in her apartment waiting for him to come in the
door. It was a simple situation. Margo Sappington had either overslept or not.

Teddy stepped along briskly, doing the twenty-minute walk in fifteen. The downstairs door was locked. It was a laughable affair, would have taken your average burglar sixty seconds. Teddy had it open in five. He climbed the stairs to the third floor.

The upstairs lock was more formidable. With his tools he’d have had no problem. Without them was a little harder. He was also trying not to leave scratches on the lock. If it came to that, the police would get the wrong impression.

Margo’s apartment was a small one-bedroom affair, but in an exclusive locale. When Teddy opened the door he saw it was tastefully appointed, the few furnishings antique but exquisitely maintained and clearly chosen to make the most of the limited space. But the atmosphere was tainted by the overwhelming odor of stale whiskey.

The liquor was in the bedroom. The open bottle lay tipped over in the bed. There was a half-filled tumbler on the nightstand. A plastic pill bottle lay on its side. The cap was off, and gel-capped pills had spilled out. Seconal from the look of them.

And from the look of her.

Margo Sappington lay on her back in bed. She was dressed for work, but clearly from the day before. Her clothes were rumpled. Her makeup was smeared, and her head lolled to one side. Her eyes were open and staring.

A pill lay near her head, as if she’d tried to put it in her mouth and missed. Another gel-capped pill was in her left hand.

A cop would have no problem labeling Margo a suicide. She’d be just what he expected to find.

There was no reason to stick around. There was nothing Teddy could do for Margo Sappington, and nothing Margo Sappington could do for him. She had told him all he needed to know just by being dead.

Careful as ever not to leave fingerprints, Teddy eased himself out of the apartment and closed the door. He went back down the stairs and walked back to the White House. It was time to waste another burner phone. He was running through them like water.

Teddy whipped out the phone, called 911. “I’d like to report a dead woman.”

“Who is this?”

“She appears to have overdosed on whiskey and pills.” Teddy gave them the address. “There’s nothing to be done for her, but you better get her out of there because she’s going to start to stink.”

“Who is this?”

Teddy hung up the phone. On his way over the viaduct, he threw it in the river.

T
he phone rang and Congressman Blaine jumped. But it wasn’t his cell phone. It was the front desk. Though Congressman Blaine’s primary residence was in his home state of Ohio, he kept an apartment in D.C. for when Congress was in session.

He scooped it up. “Yes?”

“You have a package.”

“Oh?”

“Just arrived by messenger. Do you want to come down and get it, or should I lock it up?”

“I’ll come down.”

It was a bubble-wrap envelope. He didn’t inquire who’d brought it, or whether the doorman had to sign for it, or any of the things he’d normally ask. He took it upstairs and fumbled in his pocket for his keys. He had a moment of panic that he’d
forgotten them, that he’d left them in the apartment and he’d have to suffer the humiliation of having to get the super to let him in. But no, his keys were there. He opened the door and let himself into his apartment.

The bubble-wrap envelope was sealed tight. It was the self-sealing type, and they usually held pretty well. He was in no mood to deal with it. He found a pair of scissors in a kitchen drawer and snipped the end of the envelope off.

He shook the contents out on the kitchen table and recoiled in horror.

It was a bloody fingertip.

A
Secret Service agent picked Stone up at his hotel, smuggled him into the White House through a back entrance, and ushered him into the Oval Office.

Kate rose to meet him.

“What’s happened?” Stone said.

“The Speaker was just here. I sent him home so I could talk to you alone, and because I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“What happened?”

“He got a phone call from the kidnappers.”

“Did he demand proof of life?”

“He never got a chance. They cut him off, said he wasn’t cooperating. They demanded he go on TV and declare his support of the veterans aid bill. He said he couldn’t do that, and they hung up.”

“Did they call back?”

“No.” Kate picked up the bubble-wrap envelope. “This morning this came by messenger.”

“What is it?”

“Take a look.”

Stone took the envelope, slid the bloody fingertip out onto the table.

“It’s got to be his daughter’s,” Kate said. “That was why they sent him the copy of her rap sheet. So he’d have her fingerprints to compare it against.”

“Good God! The poor man. It’s a wonder he’s holding it together.”

“I don’t think he will for long.”

“What’s he going to do?”

“I don’t know, but I think he’s going on TV.”

“Aw, hell.”

“Yes. I figure that when the kidnappers get what they want, they’ll kill the girl.”

“Probably right.”

“I’m hoping they wait until the bill’s passed.”

“When is that?”

“The vote takes place at the end of the week.”

“So what do you want to do?”

“It’s hard to say when I don’t know what the score is.” Kate pointed to the bubble-wrap envelope. “Can you handle this?”

Stone nodded. “I’ll verify it’s the girl.”

“I’ll try to calm the Speaker down. That may not work. If someone hurt my child, I don’t know what I’d do.”

“When’s he going on TV?”

“I think as soon as his nerves are steady enough, he’s going to do it. I’ll try to talk him out of it if he gives me a chance, but I don’t think he will. Can you help me?”

Stone nodded. “Let me see what I can do.”

S
tone met Teddy in the bar. “You look rested,” Stone said.

“I got some sleep. I shouldn’t have. Margo Sappington? The lawyer who bugged your phone?”

“What about her?”

“She’s dead.”

“What?”

“Of an apparent suicide.”

“Why do you say
apparent
?”

“Give me a break. Did that girl strike you as someone with suicidal tendencies?”

“Certainly not.”

“She didn’t strike me that way, either. But Holly and I talked to her, and the next thing you know she’s gobbling barbiturates.”

“That’s not her.”

“That may not fit her personality profile, but she’s certainly dead.”

“What do the police think?”

“I couldn’t say. They should be getting there about now.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“It’s probably better that way.”

“What about the photo on the news of the Middle Eastern suspect?”

“He’s the shooter.”

“Is that confirmed?”

“It is for me. He’s traveling with a phony driver’s license.”

“Why didn’t they release the name?”

“They don’t have it.”

“Do you?”

Teddy smiled.

“Shouldn’t you tell airport security?”

“No need. They have his photo. He’s on a no-fly watch list. He’s not going anywhere. Putting out his name would only tell the kidnappers we know, and get an old friend of mine killed.”

“Well, you know best,” Stone said. “Listen. I’ve got news, and it’s not good.”

“Oh?”

Stone set the padded envelope on the table.

“What’s this?”

“A bloody fingertip. It was delivered to the Speaker this morning. Probably his daughter’s.”

“Shit.”

“Here’s her rap sheet. You can compare the print and make sure.”

“It’s hers. These guys don’t bluff.”

“The Speaker’s a basket case. They’re asking him to go on TV and denounce his own party. I think he’s going to do it.”

“And God knows what they’ll ask him then.” Teddy exhaled. “All right. This is a wake-up call. We’ve got to speed things along.”

M
illie pulled the back off the cell phone, popped in the microchip, and slid the back into place.

Teddy clicked the stopwatch. “Two-point-seven.”

“I can do better.”

“I’m sure you can. What about your lift?”

“You want me to pick your pocket?”

“I’m a bad subject to practice on.”

“Why?”

“I tend to react.”

“You won’t if you don’t feel anything.”

“I will, and it will wreck your confidence. You’ll have to try someone else.”

Teddy was teaching Millie how to lift a cell phone and place a bug. He was pretty sure she could do it, just not to him.

“Tell me about your hacker friend.”

“He’s good.”

“I’m sure he is. Is he trustworthy?”

“Absolutely.”

“You don’t sound sure.”

“If I tell him not to talk, he won’t talk.”

“I don’t have time to vet him. This is all on you.”

“I understand. I lose my job if he can’t cut it. Do you think I want that to happen?”

“We all lose a lot more than that. All right, I’m taking him at your word. Give him a call.”

“That won’t work.”

“Why not?”

Holly Barker smiled. “Young people don’t call anymore. They text each other.”

“Okay, text him, then.”

“That won’t work, either,” Millie said. “Some days he doesn’t even look at his texts.”

“This is the dependable guy you vouch for?”

“He’s fine in the areas you want. But I’ll have to go see him in person.”

“Why?”

“He’s a little . . . eccentric.”

K
evin Cushman, screen handle Warplord924, was twenty-eight years old, lived with his mother, and dressed for success in pajama bottoms, T-shirts, and bare feet. He spent the day in front of an entire wall of computer screens, hardwired together in a virtual spiderweb of cables. But he was no pathetic loser. He pulled down six figures a year solving people’s computer problems. A high six figures. He was able to work mostly from home, which allowed him time for more important computer activities.

When Millie came in Kevin was killing horrible poison-dripping scorpion-centaurs in some far-off galaxy. Millie waited patiently for one of them to get him. Finally a poisoned tooth sank into the hero’s arm and Kevin’s champion died in the dust.

Kevin looked over his shoulder, said petulantly, “Now see what you made me do?”

“Sorry,” Millie said. She knew from experience any other response would be worse.

His dead hero was somehow reconstituting himself, but Kevin put the game on pause so he could swing around in his chair to confront her. “That’s what you always say. And you know what
I
always say. Sorry does not take back the hit or extract the poison. I can’t power up until Level Twelve. I can only reboot at half-charge.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Millie said. “Listen, Kevin, I have a job for you.”

“I’ve got all the jobs I need.”

“Yeah, well, you
want
this job.”

“Huh?”

“This is a covert op. It’s classified, something big. They need a man of your talents. You’ll get clearance.”

“That is way cool. What’s the catch?”

“There’s no catch.”

“Come on, there’s always a catch.”

Millie considered. “Well, sort of.”

“What?”

“You’ll have to get dressed.”

—

KEVIN LOOKED DECIDEDLY
uncomfortable in a jacket and tie when Millie presented him to Holly Barker forty-five minutes later.

“Here he is,” Millie said. “Holly, this is Kevin, aka Warplord924. Kevin, this is Holly Barker.”

Holly didn’t get up. “Hi, Kevin. Do you know who I am?”

“I googled you.”

“Of course. Then you realize anything you may hear will be highly classified.”

“Does this have anything to do with the assassination?”

Holly ignored the question. “Here’s the deal. You’re on the team. You’ll have highest priority clearance. Except for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“There
is
no team. This is a covert operation. So covert it doesn’t exist.”

Holly got up, opened the door to the adjoining office. “You can set up in here. You’re going to be monitoring a wiretap.”

“Is it legal?”

“Very good question. Try to forget you asked it.”

Kevin blinked.

Teddy, who’d been sitting unobtrusively off to the side, got to his feet. “Don’t worry about it, Kevin. We’re the good guys. We take care of our own.” He walked Kevin into the next room where a swivel chair commanded a wall of computer equipment. “You monitor the tap from here. When a call comes in, trace it, and tell me where it came from.”

“I’m not sure I can do that.”

“Sure you can. Millie says you’re the best.”

In the other room Holly said, “Shit!”

“What’s the matter?”

“He’s on TV.”

Teddy clapped his hands together. “Showtime.”