The Silent Places (8 page)

They don’t understand, Anders thought. He was no more a threat to the United States than UPS was to the U.S. Postal Service. His venture was capitalist, not imperialist. And he believed he would be the last person ever to betray his country.

Now he sat behind his desk in his house at his Tennessee compound and regarded his number two.

Anders said, “I just saw A. Lloyd two days ago.”

“I know,” Troy said. “But it’s been confirmed.”

“What happened?”

“According to the police, he went to see his girlfriend at an apartment. Before he got there, a man broke in and tied her up and locked her in the bathroom. Gelmers showed up about a half hour later. They had words. Gelmers went to the bathroom, ostensibly to check on the girl. She said he went back out and she heard a scuffle, then a shot. A muffled shot.”

“Which means the killer was probably using a silencer.”

“Yeah.”

“You think it was Reese?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

Kyle Anders sighed. He didn’t like to be called “sir.” He requested that Troy call him Kyle. He was funny about things like that. Anders didn’t like the word
sir
or the use of military ranks or even harsh language. He had no reservations about having lobbyists like A. Lloyd line up prostitutes for men as gifts of persuasion. Yet he personally disapproved of adultery and what he considered to be the coarsening of American culture.

“Don’t call me ‘sir,’” Anders said, “please. I think it was Reese, too. I wonder what A. Lloyd told him.”

“We can only guess. Kyle, I think this is my fault.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s the fault of the men who let him escape. They obviously underestimated him.”

“Do you blame them?” Troy said, “The man is fifty years old. We’ve got men in their mid-thirties trying to pass our physical-endurance tests and failing. And these are former Green Berets, not rent-a-cops.”

“You’re talking about physical endurance. But there are more important factors. Like the ability to read a situation. Adaptability. Resourcefulness.”

“You’re saying you’d take him on here?”

“No. I’m saying we underestimated our quarry. That’s why it’s more important than ever that he be eliminated.”

Troy said, “He doesn’t know about you. You weren’t on the screen when he went in.”

Anders was briefly taken aback. He was always sensitive to any suggestion that he had not been in combat, or a soldier of consequence. After a moment, he decided no offense had been intended and that the remark had been inadvertently directed to his youth.

Anders said, “But he will know about me in time. He’ll find out about our ties to Gelmers. And to Preston. So we’re presented with a difficult situation. We have to find him before he finds us.”

Troy said, “Maybe he won’t even try. Maybe he’s left the country by now.”

“No,” Anders said. “He’ll go after Preston. And when he does, we’ll be waiting for him.”

Later that evening, Anders placed a call to one of his contacts in the CIA. Over the past few years, Anders had paid this contact almost $200,000 for his loyalty. After the preliminary affable falsehoods were exchanged, Anders asked the contact about John Reese. The contact told Anders that Reese had no family left. His wife had died of cancer while he was in prison. The contact said that Reese had never made close friends with anyone outside the Agency and very few inside.

Anders said, “I understand he did some E and E work. Smuggled some dissidents into the United States.”

The contact said he understood that, too.

“Start with that,” Anders said. “I want to hear from you tomorrow. Is that clear?”

The contact said it was.

Senator Preston’s St. Louis home was in a leafy neighborhood between Ladue and Clayton. The neighborhood subdivision was in a hilly area, surrounded by woods and twisty roads. There was a gate at the entrance to the subdivision.

It was Captain Anthony who introduced Hastings to Senator Preston and his chief of staff, whose name was Martin Keough.

Martin Keough was in his late twenties, thin, dark haired, and small of stature. He was a graduate of Harvard Law School and he did not make eye contact with Hastings when they met.

Senator Preston shook hands and led them into a small office.

There were photos in Preston’s office, mostly of him with famous, powerful guys. One of them was of Preston and President Bush. Another one was of Preston and Vernon Jordan, both of them laughing at something Bill Clinton had said. They appeared to be on a golf course somewhere. Preston photographed well.

Also on the office wall was a framed clipping of an op-ed piece from the
New York Times
. The headline read why we cannot let al qaeda prevail in iraq, and it was written by Alan Preston, junior senator from the state of Missouri.

Senator Preston took a seat behind his desk and gestured for the police officers to take seats. Martin Keough remained standing.

Dan Anthony told them that Hastings would be leading the team of officers that would be watching the Preston home and local senatorial offices.

Keough gave them a rough outline of the senator’s schedule for the next few days. Keough said, “Now, we want you around, but we don’t want you too close. Do you understand that?”

Keough had been looking at Captain Anthony when he spoke. But it was Hastings who responded.

“No,” Hastings said, “I’m not sure I do.”

Keough looked at Hastings, as if noticing his existence for the first time.

“Sorry?” Keough said, his tone patronizing.

Hastings said, “I understand you wanting us to be discreet, but are you requesting that we stay a certain distance away?”

“Yes.”

The senator said, “Is there a problem, Lieutenant?”

“No, sir,” Hastings said. “I’m just not sure what you want us to do.”

Keough said, “Protect the senator. Hasn’t that been clear?”

“To a point,” Hastings said, “yes. But are you actually expecting, for lack of a better term, an assassination attempt?”

Keough sighed, muttered, “Christ.”

Senator Preston said, “‘Assassination attempt’ is a little strong. But if you’re asking if this man may be a danger to me and to my family, the answer is yes.”

“Of course,” Captain Anthony said, giving Hastings a look of warning.

Hastings ignored the look and said, “I understand that, sort of. But if there’s a bona fide threat, why not call in federal officers?”

Keough spoke as if to a child. “What is the problem?”

Senator Preston raised a hand to his aide and said, “Hold on, Martin. Let the lieutenant have his say.”

Hastings said, “Thank you. I just want you to understand, Senator, that me and my men, we’re homicide detectives. We’re not trained for security work. A Secret Service agent is trained to look through crowds and spot a possible assassin. But I’m not trained for that. Nor are my men.”

“You’re a police officer,” Keough said. “Aren’t you?”

Hastings kept his attention on the senator. “Of course,” Hastings said. “But, with respect, that’s not the point.”

Senator Preston said, “I know what I’m getting. I’ve discussed this with your chief. As you’ve probably been told, it’s very important that this thing be handled discreetly. Very discreetly. Lieutenant Hastings, this may surprise you, but, like most politicians, I have enemies in Washington. People who would like to embarrass me. To see me compromised. They would like nothing better than to see me make a fool of myself by requesting federal security I don’t need. I don’t care to be accused of seeking special privileges or of being paranoid.”

Hastings said, “But this John Reese
is
dangerous. The file says the military trained him as a sniper. Given that, I don’t think there should be any shame in taking official measures to protect yourself against him. If it were me he was after, I’d call in the Secret Service.”

“But it’s not you,” Keough said. “Is it?”

Preston said, “Your point is perhaps valid. But I’ve given this some thought. It’s my personal belief that John Reese is either dead or has fled the country. If he’s alive, he’s not going to risk getting caught by coming after me.”

Hastings saw that Preston had just contradicted himself. Reese was a threat. Then he wasn’t. Hastings said, “You say he won’t risk coming after you. Why not?”

“Because he’s a loser. John Reese cares about the well-being of John Reese, nothing else. However, my wife isn’t as dispassionate about this as I am. She worries about me more than I do myself. Besides me, she worries about our daughter, who’s a college student here. So. This is the solution I’ve come up with. A political solution for a family issue. Can you understand the position I’m in?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ll return to Washington in a few days. And then this task, which you seem to find distasteful, will be over for you.”

Hastings mentally sighed to himself but otherwise did not respond.

Captain Anthony said, “We’re glad to be of service to you, Senator.”

Hastings stomached that and then saw Martin Keough raise his eyes as another person came into the room.

“Hello,” the senator said, and Hastings turned around to see a regal blond woman in the doorway. She was in her forties. Slim and narrow at the waist, she was wearing a black-and-white dress with a belt in the middle. Hastings stood up.

“My wife, Sylvia Preston.”

She came forward and extended a hand to Hastings, perhaps because he was the one standing closest to her.

Hastings introduced himself and the senator told her that these were the policemen who would be watching him.

Mrs. Preston looked into Hastings’s eyes as she said, “Oh?”

Hastings said, “Yes, ma’am.”

She said, “And do you think you’ll be able to catch this man, Lieutenant?”

“I don’t know,” Hastings said.

She dropped her hand to her side, as if taken aback by his frankness. She kept her focus on Hastings, openly appraising him, as she said, “Don’t you?” Her voice a little dry.

She’s being tough, Hastings thought. Maybe she sensed something in him. A toughness to match her own. Or maybe she wanted to make him uncomfortable. Hastings debated answering her.

But Captain Anthony said, “We’ve got our best people working on it, Mrs. Preston.”

Mrs. Preston said, “And I suppose that would include you two.”

Anthony gave a sort of uncomfortable laugh.

Hastings said, “If he appears, Mrs. Preston. We don’t know that he will.”

“I see,” Mrs. Preston said. “Well, at least you’re honest.”

This elicited more nervous laughter, from both Captain Anthony and Martin Keough. Hastings noticed, though, that the senator did not join in.

Klosterman said, “He said he’s requesting police protection because of his wife?”

“Yeah,” Hastings said.

“What do you think?”

“I think he’s lying.”

Hastings and Klosterman were in Hastings’s Jaguar, heading west on the Forest Park Parkway, downtown fading behind them as the car dipped down the incline underneath Grand Boulevard and came up and out on the other side.

Hastings said, “Not about everything. I mean, I met the wife and, yeah, she’s concerned. But I don’t buy it when Preston says he’s not worried. I could see that he
is
worried. So this notion about he’s only doing this because his wife wants him to, that’s a lot of shit.”

“Maybe,” Klosterman said, “but he’s not going to admit that.”

Hastings said, “Did I tell you about why he said he didn’t want feds involved?”

“Yeah, you told me.”

“That’s fishy, too. If it were me and my family, I’d call in every man possible to guard me. I wouldn’t care what anyone said.”

“No,” Klosterman said, “but you’re not a politician. And you don’t have anything to prove, either.”

“What’s he got to prove?”

“I don’t know. He said something about enemies wanting to embarrass him?”

“Yeah. He said if he had federal agents guarding him, he would be ‘compromised,’ or some nonsense.”

“Didn’t Anthony tell you he might run for president?”

“Yeah, that’s what Anthony says. I don’t know. Maybe he will. If that’s the case, he’s probably more concerned about his political livelihood than anything else.”

“You met the wife?”

“Yeah.”

“What about her?”

“She’s all right,” Hastings said.

Hastings slowed the Jaguar for a light, coming to a stop behind an SUV. He thought of the cool blonde in her upscale dress, wondering if she had been a model when she was younger. Looking directly in his eyes, trying to push him around …

“I think she’s all right,” Hastings said again. “She was the first person in that house who didn’t talk to me like I was there to cut the lawn.”

Klosterman said, “You remember Bill Malone?”

“Yeah.”

“He got on with the Secret Service a few years ago. He guarded that little guy who ran for president.”

“Edwards?”

“No, the little guy with that good-looking young wife.”

“Kucinich.”

“Yeah. Bill said that the old hands talked about the best presidents to guard. Apparently, Ford was a real nice guy. Used to bring coffee to the agents when they had to stand out in the cold. Reagan liked to tan himself at his ranch, using one of those reflector thingies. Nixon was weird but okay. They said Carter was one of the worst.”

“How so?”

“You know, looked down his nose at them. Treated them like they didn’t exist.”

“That right?”

“Yeah. Funny, don’t you think? Him being a Democrat and all.”

“Why should that be unusual?”

“Well, don’t you remember? When Carter ran, he said he was a simple peanut farmer and all that crap. He used to wear those sweaters and he carried his own suitcases into the White House.”

“Shit,” Hastings said. “That was all show. I put more stock in what the people say who had to work with him.”

“You ever think about something like that? Secret Service?”

“God no. I’d die of boredom.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Bill said it was boring but pretty stressful, too. I mean, a lot of doing nothing, and then when you’re in crowds with the president or whoever, you’re anxious as hell. Looking out there to see if there’s a Hinckley or a Travis Bickle.”