The Sentinel (10 page)

She nodded toward the door. They walked out of the office and down the hallway to a conference room that was strewn with schematic diagrams of the Kennedy Center. Breckinridge assumed that agents had been using the room in preparing a security plan for the President's upcoming visit to the Kennedy Center. They sat at a table. Garrison told her about his case.

"Let me get this straight, Pete. The reason you were asking about the wiretaps was to see if anyone was talking about your informant."

"He refused to tell me which Disciples members he is dealing with. I thought I might be able to pick up some information at JC."

"I am up to date on the current Aryan Disciples wiretaps. None of the Disciples members we are monitoring are talking to any Frank Hightower. But his information sounds promising. This could be the first break in the Meriweather case. What else did he say about the Secret Service insider?"

"That's about it. He didn't tell me enough to identify him."

"Do you think he knows and is just trying to piece out the information out to you?"

"I don't think so. But I can't be sure. And Hightower isn't above doing something that would build up his reward in the case."

"I want to talk to him."

"He won't meet with anyone but me."

"Bullshit."

"If I was going to lie to you I wouldn't have told you anything about him. Martha, I have no objection to you interviewing Hightower, but at this point he's spooked. He says he's worried about a comeback from the Secret Service insider. Look, I'm not trying to steal your ease. Hightower came to me out of the blue. I hadn't spoken to him since I worked at PRD two years ago and so help me, I'm not trying to parlay this case or any other one into a promotion."

She stared into his eyes. "Where is Hightower now?"

"I don't know."

"So if he disappeared you wouldn't know where to look for him?"

"I'm giving it to you straight."

"Did Hightower play hard to get like this when you worked with him previously?"

"No. In fact, he gave me his home phone number. That's how I used to reach him."

She nodded. "What do you think he is up to?"

"I'm not sure. He's either building a tremendous scam, or he's telling the truth and is scared that the agent he believes is working for the Aryan Disciples might find out his role and kill him. But, as of this moment, I have no other choice but to accept his information as kosher."

Breckinridge wanted to say something else, to try to drag more information out of Garrison about Hightower, but she believed him. Garrison wasn't trying to build up Hightower's reliability as she'd seen pushy agents do when it came to their own informants. She sensed that he was as skeptical as she was about Hightower's information. Garrison didn't know any more than he had told her.

"Let me give it to you straight, Pete. I know of few terrorist cases where an informant who wasn't a principal player in the conspiracy had such detailed information."

Garrison ran a hand through his hair. "That has been bothering me too."

Garrison's cell phone rang. He answered it. His eyebrows raised. Meeting Breckinridge's eyes, he mouthed the name Hightower.

"Let's get together. I'll see you there in a half hour."

He pressed OFF.

"Hightower?"

"He says he has something new."

****

CHAPTER 7

GARRISON PARKED AT the Smithsonian Natural History Museum and went inside. The lobby was filled with school-age children and a few schoolteachers trying to herd them here and there. Hightower was standing in the corner, looking anxious and out of place.

"We have to stop meeting like this," Hightower said.

He never was any good at making small talk.

"What's the new scoop?" he went on. "Did you get authorization to pay my reward?"

"I was waiting for authorization right when you called."

"Is there a problem?"

"Not as long as your information is on the up and up."

"Your people should be digging this case. One of your own and all that. A prize like this doesn't come along every day-"

"A prize. That's a good word for it. What's up, Frank?"

"Is there any chance they would refuse to pay my price? Do you see even a remote possibility that they would back away from me?"

"Not if the situation is what you say it is, Frank. How many times do I have to say it?"

"No need to get pissed."

"Lay the info on me, Frank."

Hightower lifted his baseball hat and ran a hand through his hair.

"It's like this. The dude who the Disciples hired to do the President is registered in Room 21 at the Plantation Motel in Laurel, Maryland. He checked in yesterday. And get this: He's not an Aryan Disciples member. In fact, he has no connection with them whatsoever. He is a hit man. Like I said, from Europe. Supposedly, he is military-trained and once was a cop or a private eye or some shit like that. Supposedly, he's done this before."

"Political murder?"

"That's the word. Supposedly, he whacked some guy who ran an island. Fiji or some shit like that. And he blew someone up in Spain. He's been around. He knows what he is doing. He used phony ID to register at the motel. And he is doing some recon; casing out the area where he is going to do the hit. A source I just talked to says that he has been taking a lot of pictures. He likes to plan everything down to the last nut and bolt. He is a major professional. A Jackal type."

"I need a number where I can reach you."

"I'll have one for you tomorrow," Hightower said glancing at his wristwatch. "But I have to get back now. I'm expecting some calls."

"Where are you staying?"

"With a friend."

"You don't trust me, Frank?"

"Nothing like that. But I have a right to protect myself. I have a right to my own security procedures. How do I know what fucking reports you have to write? Like someone reads it and pins me down."

"Frank, you and I have always been up front with one another about cases. Haven't we?"

Hightower had a quizzical expression. "Yeah?"

"You started the ball rolling, Frank. This case is bigger than the both of us. You're going to have to come through."

"That's what I am doing. Goddamn it. But I'm not going to put myself in the bull's-eye. And I don't like these face-to-face meetings."

"Why?"

"How do I know someone isn't following you? Like maybe the Secret Service guy who is in on this caper?"

As Garrison studied him, he got a strange feeling. There was something about the way the words had been coming out of his mouth. And he'd been rolling his eye now and then, as if trying to recall a script. Garrison thought back to previous meetings, to other cases. Something was different this time. He couldn't put his finger on it exactly, but something was different.

"Frank, tap-dancing isn't going to get you that big, fat reward you're looking for."

"I'm not playing hard to get. I'm just being cautious. You can't blame a man for looking out for his own ass."

"No, I guess you can't."

"What's wrong, Pete?"

"Who said anything was wrong?"

"I'm getting some weird vibes from you."

"You're reading me wrong. If you're referring to my insisting on a face-to-face, that's just the way we've always done business. Besides, for a million bucks, you shouldn't mind risking a meet."

"Look, I'm not nuts. I'm not going to pitch you a phony Presidential assassination story. I know what would happen. I know you could convict me of lying to a federal officer. You and I go back a ways. I just want everything to be cool between us."

Garrison elevated his eyebrows. "We're cool."

"I'll be in touch."

Garrison watched as Hightower turned and walked to the escalator. As he descended out of sight, Garrison looked about to see if anyone might be watching, then raised his hand to his chin and pressed his wrist microphone.

"He's coming your way, Martha."

Breckinridge pressed the transmitter button on the dashboard microphone.

"Roger, Pete. I see him."

She focused on the museum doors with binoculars. Earlier, she'd walked past Garrison and Hightower as they were talking so she could get a look at Hightower. She was sitting behind the wheel of an unmarked Secret Service sedan that was parked across the street from the Natural History Museum. The motor was running and she had a good five feet separating her sedan from the car in front so she could steer into traffic with one turn of the steering wheel.

Hightower moved briskly down the steps and then crossed the street to a late-model blue Chevrolet Malibu.

Breckinridge put the binoculars on the seat beside her and wrote down the Malibu's license number in her daily log. She was alone and she wished she had some help in the surveillance. Most Secret Service mobile surveillance operations involved ten or more cars driven by agents monitoring every direction taken by the person being followed. But she and Garrison were the only agents involved in the case. She would have to handle the surveillance without help.

After looking about furtively for a few moments, Hightower opened the driver's-side door of the Malibu and got in. He started the engine and pulled out from the curb.

Breckinridge followed him along Constitution Avenue, keeping at least one car between them as cover, praying that she didn't lose him in the traffic. With little else to go on, maybe Hightower was the key to the case. It wouldn't be the first time an informant was more involved in something than he'd let on.

Hightower turned left at Louisiana Avenue. He drove a few blocks to the Trailways bus station, where he pulled his car to the curb and parked.

Breckinridge drove by the Malibu, stopping at the end of the block to watch Hightower in her rearview mirror. She broke out in a cold sweat. Bus stations made her uncomfortable. During Aryan Disciples surveillance in Cleveland, Ohio, a year earlier, she'd followed a suspected terrorist to a bus terminal. As she'd watched him place a package in a rental locker, the package had unexpectedly
detonated. Tje
blast propelled pieces of his body and clothing all over the terminal. Luckily, only a few people had been injured, including Breckinridge, who'd had human bone fragments removed from her right buttock.

Hightower got out of his car and jogged across the street to the bus station. Breckinridge parked quickly and hurried after him. There were lots of tourists around. Hightower entered the terminal, meshing into the crowd of travelers. Was he going to meet someone? What would she do if he got on a bus?

A group of children got in her way and she almost tripped. When she looked up, he was out of sight. Cursing silently, she hurried from one end of the terminal to the other, scanning faces. Had she lost him? She moved briskly through the station, hunting for him. Passing a bank of rental lockers, she almost bumped into him. He was inserting coins into a rental locker coin slot. Her heart raced as he pulled open the locker and reached inside. He took out a thick, business-sized envelope and shoved it into this jacket. He looked about suspiciously.