The Sentinel (34 page)

"What we need is a statement from Flanagan," she said. "A nice, long, written confession."

"I'd like to have a heart-to-heart with him-"

"Pete, I'm going to confront him."

"Too dangerous."

"Not if I do it in a public place. He's not going to kill me unless he thinks he can get away with it. Look at the way the rest of this case has played out."

"I feel like I should go with you-"

"Won't work. You're wanted. And we can't be letting the other side know what we're up to."

"Then you should take Rachel Kallenstien with you."

Breckinridge shook her head. She'd already gone over it in her mind. "No."

"Why not?"

"If I have any chance of getting Flanagan to either cooperate or say anything that would incriminate him, I'm going to have to be alone with him. He's not going to talk when I have an independent witness there who he knows could corroborate everything he tells me."

"That is if he says anything at all."

She sipped coffee and it warmed her throat. "I have to take the chance. If the roles were reversed, you would do the same and you know it."

"Look, you know as well as I do that once you question him, you're going to be in danger."

"Pete, if I can get him to swing, we can wrap up this case. We can take him straight to the President."

But even hearing her own words, she got the feeling that it wasn't going to be that easy. She could tell by Garrison's expression that he was concerned.

"I wish there was some other way," he said.

"But there isn't. Leave here and you'll end up dead. Then I'll be carrying this weight alone.... Did anyone ever tell you that you make great coffee?"

"Thanks."

Breckinridge thought he had a nice smile. They spent the next two hours going over possible ways that she could approach Flanagan. She knew that getting any suspect to talk against his own interests was an art. And dealing with a trained Secret Service agent, she would need some luck as well as skill, but there was a chance. Flanagan was a yes-man. Everything he'd accomplished in the Secret Service was a direct result of his connection with Wintergreen. Flanagan wasn't a man of great inner strength. They came to the determination that she would have to play the interview by ear.

Finally, she could barely keep her eyes open. Garrison showed her to a well-furnished guest bedroom, where she caught a few hours sleep. When she awoke, Garrison had prepared her a big breakfast of eggs, toast, and sausage. They went over the interrogation plan again before she before departed.

"Pete, I know how you feel about having to sit here while I am out working the case. But there is no other way."

"Promise me you'll call me the moment you finish the interview."

"I promise."

Breckinridge sped along Highway I north from D.C., passing through College Park, Maryland, the car radio tuned to a jazz station featuring a series of cabaret singers. Breckinridge liked melancholy songs, those that had a sense of rueful destiny and failed opportunities. One tune was called "Lament," about the pain of a woman who married a man she'd met at an elegant party who romanced her, then told her he had a sweetheart.

I remembered him in the sun

Because my eyes couldn't see

A dream in tears

When I savored love's destiny

Destiny, she thought. Was it destiny that she had ended up with the Charlie Meriwether case?

At a sign that read NATIONAL AGRICULTURAL RESEARCH CENTER, she turned left and drove down a short road to a security booth at a compound surrounded by a tall chain-link fence topped with razor wire. After displaying her credentials to a uniformed guard, she drove along a one-way road that led into a wooded forest, spotted with cleared areas. Hidden from view of the highway, the U.S. Secret Service Training Center was in a large cleared area dotted with modern-looking prefabricated government buildings that contrasted with the wooded surroundings.

She parked her car in a gravel-covered parking lot, and walked past a block-long replica of a city street where Secret Service recruits practiced live fire at mechanical assassins who popped up in windows and doors. From the range areas beyond the buildings, she heard the sound of submachine-gun fire. She continued along the trail, passing a special fifing range where a utility van raced along a line of targets as agents inside fired submachine guns out of its windows and open door. Three trainees walked by her dressed in orange T-shirts, Levi's, and hiking boots. Two of them were holding Uzi submachine guns, the U.S. Secret Service weapon of choice, chosen for its firepower, simplicity, reliability of operation, and the fact that it was small enough to fit inside a briefcase.

At the corner of the cleared area was a one-story building with tinted windows, the headquarters of OFCO, the Secret Service's special counterthreat unit headed by Flanagan. The sign on the door read: SPECIAL TRAINING UNIT - RESTRICTED ACCESS. She straightened her blouse and suit jacket, then knocked on the door. Moments later, Agent Beatty opened it.

"Breckinridge. What are you doing here?"

"Looking for Gil Flanagan."

"What do you want to talk to him about?"

"What, are you his secretary?"

"He's busy at the moment. We're running a priority internal investigation at the request of the Director."

"Just tell him I want to see him."

He shrugged, left her at the door, and walked down the hall. Breckinridge glanced into the squad room. There were three radio consoles. On the wall was a large map of Washington, D.C., that was crisscrossed with lines that divided it into squares of equal size-the type of map used for surveillances. There was a stack of photographs of Garrison spread about on a desk - copies of his official photo, the one that was on his identification card and passport. Seeing them gave her an eerie feeling.

Flanagan came down the hall. "What's up?"

Breckinridge told him she had to speak with him privately. He looked puzzled.

"I'm kind of busy-"

"This won't take long. I was running out some leads on the Charlie Meriweather case."

He led her outside, and she thought it strange that he hadn't invited her into his office.

"What about the Meriweather case?"

"Your name came up."

"In what regard?"

"Have you ever heard of Operation Blue Velvet?"

"No."

Breckinridge felt her spine tingle. "Are you sure?"

"What's this about?"

"I just told you. Have you ever had any dealings with an informant named Frank Hightower?"

He cleared his throat. "Who sent you here?"

"No one. You didn't answer my question."

"We'll have to do this later. I'm in the middle of a manhunt."

"I'm investigating Charlie Meriweather's murder."

He cleared his throat. "Catch me tomorrow." He walked toward the door.

"I'm not afraid to follow you inside and to ask you the same questions in front of everyone in there."

He stopped. "Look, I don't know anything about the operation you mentioned," he said angrily.

"Blue velvet. Operation Blue Velvet. An illegal weapons caper."

"Never heard of it."

"It took place on the Canadian border."

"Do you want me to say it again? I know nothing about it or the fucking Canadian border."

"The informant was Frank Hightower."

He swallowed. "Never heard of him."

"Are you sure, Gil?"

"One-hundred-percent positive. Jesus. What do I have to say to get you to understand'?"

"I have a copy of the arrest videotape, Gil. You're on it."

He stared at her and all the color left his face, leaving his lips slightly bluish. He stood there a moment, and she imagined his mind racing at a hundred miles an hour and ending up in a cul-de-sac. A look crossed his face that told her that he was furious at himself for having spoken to her. He cleared his throat.

"I don't remember every case I've ever worked on-"

"It shows you and Hightower together. You were using him as an informant. And there is something else. There was a telephone number on the Aryan Disciples threat letter - the latent impression developed in the crime lab - that registers to someone indirectly connected to you - your housekeeper's sister. It looks like she may have written the number down on a stack of typing paper that was in your house, leaving an impression on the sheet of paper that had been under it. Then someone happened to type the threat letter on that same piece of paper. What do you think about that, Gil?" He turned away from her. She moved in front of him and looked him in the eye. "Allow me to translate that for you. When I finally put the pieces of this case together, you may end up as one of the major players. You might be in some real deep shit."

He glared at her. "Be careful that you don't get involved in something that you can't handle, Martha. Something way over your head."

"That sounds like a threat, Gil. Is that a threat?"

"It's just you and I standing here. You have nothing. I strongly suggest that before you go any further with this, you head straight back to headquarters and talk to the Director. You need to talk to him."

"What is he going to tell me?"

"I'll phone him. He'll see you the moment you get back into the District. Go straight to his office. He will explain everything."

"Why don't you save me the trip? What's going on?"

"I'm ... uh ... under orders."

"On this Hightower thing?"

"He'll brief you on what you need to know. But if you go off half-cocked before you speak with him, you might find yourself in a real bind. That's all I can say at the moment. It's a classified matter."

She wasn't sure what to do. She needed time to think. But letting him think that she was going to talk to Wintergreen before telling anyone else wasn't going to harm her position. She nodded.

"Okay, Gil. You make that call. I'll head back."

He turned and walked away.

Striding briskly along the walkway toward the parking lot, Breckinridge anxiously went over in her mind every word Flanagan had said. She unlocked her car and climbed behind the wheel. She realized that she was breathing hard. She looked about. There was no one else in the parking lot. She unbuttoned her blouse and unclipped a miniature microphone from her brassiere. Reaching her right hand to the small of her back, she pulled a miniature Nagra tape recorder from inside her panties, along with the wire and mike. She pressed R, and then waited. The tape began to play. Both her and Flanagan's voices were clear. She turned it off and shoved it in her purse. Finally, she had something concrete. She knew it was no smoking gun, but it was evidence. It was more than she had expected to gather. Flanagan had been foolish to speak with her. Breckinridge dropped the tape in her purse and started the engine.

At the security booth at the main gate, the guard was holding the phone to his ear. His eyes were on her. She beeped the horn. He set the receiver down.