Brian Haig - The Presidents Assassin

Also by Brian Haig

Secret Sanction

Mortal Allies

The Kingmaker

Private Sector

With love to:

Lisa

Brian, Patrick, Donnie, and Annie

A lot of exceptional people had a hand in this novel. Luke Janklow, the worlds greatest agent and truly a friend to treasure. Everybody at Janklow, Nesbit who labors every day to make their writers lives rewarding and fulfilling. Rick Horgan, my editor, my friend, and the bane of my existence because of his unmatched eye, because of his bothersome integrity, and because he just wont allow an unresolved plot point or flawed personification to linger. Mari Okuda and Roland Ottewell, copy editors and friendsor perhaps alchemistswho magically turn a pigs ear into a purse. And to everybody at Warner Books, from Larry and Jamie and Jimmy down, who treat publishing not as a business, but as a wonderfully fun way to make a living.

A few special observances: Chuck Wardell and Pete Kinney, who not only loaned me pieces of themselves to construct Sean Drummond, but also, in this book, loaned me their names; and Mike Grollman, a friend, a talented writer whose day will come, and a great sounding board.

S ETTLING INTO THE BACKSEAT OF THE CAR, I MENTIONED TO THE ATTRACtive young lady seated beside me, Thats a lovely pistol youre carrying.

No reply.

The accessorized holsters nice, too.

Well...theyre FBI issue.

No kidding. Ever shoot anybody with it?

Not yet. She gave me a brief glance. You might be my first.

From her accent she was from the Midwest, Ohio, someplace like that. From her tone and demeanor, she meant it. Neither she nor the gentlemen in the front smiled, offered hands, or appeared in any way pleased to have me as a passenger.

So to break the ice, I said, Im Sean Drummond.

She said, Keep quiet.

Nice morning, isnt it?

She gave me an annoyed look and stared out the window.

Where are we going? I asked her.

Im trying to think. Shut up.

Thats not what I asked.

Well...youre not paying attention to the answer youre getting.

We were in the backseat of an unmarked black sedan with two plainclothes types in front. I said, You guys know where were going?

The one in the passenger seat glanced sideways at his partner. Yeah.

As I mentioned, Im Sean Drummond, an Army major and a JAG attorney, and for all I knew these three were goombahs and we were on our way to the nearest marsh for a quick whack. Well, probably notthough I think the lady was tempted. We had just departed the front gate of CIA headquarters and turned right onto Dolley Madison, headed west toward McLean. No lights or sirens were turned on, but the driver kicked it up to about seventy, which I regarded as interesting fact number one.

I knew the ladys name was Jennifer Margold; I knew she was a special agent from the D.C. Metro Field Office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and probably she wouldnt be in the backseat of this car were she not good at something. Early to mid-thirties, shoulder-length coppery hair, slender, and as I mentioned, attractivenot beautiful, more like pretty in an interesting way.

She looked bright, and wore a dark pantsuit with practical pumps, light on the makeup, and heavy on the bitchiness, if you ask me. Also, for fieldwork Fibbies prefer what she was not wearing: bulletproof vests, blue windbreakers, and baseball caps. I regarded this as interesting fact number two. Her eyes, incidentally, were a sort of frosted blue, like chilled cobalt.

I should also mention that I wasnt attired in a uniform or anything, but a blue serge suit, which was both stylish and appropriate, as my current assignment had nothing to do with the Army or law. Actually, I was new to this job. In fact, I wasnt really sure what my job was. I said to the driver, Id really appreciate it if youd pull over at the nearest Starbucks.

He laughed.

I said, Come on, guy. Ill buy. You all look like mocha latte types.

Agent Margold replied, I told you, shut up.

Anyway, I was on loanor maybe banishedto something innocuously titled the Office of Special Projects, part of the Central Intelligence Agency, though I wasnt working at the Langley headquarters but somewhere called an offsitea nondescript large red-brick warehouse in Crystal City with a sign over the entrance that read Ferguson Home Security Electronics.

Youd think that would be enough of a front, but the Agency has a classified budget, which is an invitation for extravagant idiocy. Three or four red delivery vans were parked out front, and there were actually a few guys whose job it was to drive them around all day, and even more guys who were supposed to pop in and out and pose like customers. There was even a receptionist out front named Lila to handle the occasional rube who dropped in looking for a home alarm or something. But shes okay. Shes very friendly. Also, shes really pretty.

The CIA is really into this smoke-and-mirrors stuff. I mean, how much simpler would it be to just slap up a sign that read VD Clinic? No more vans and no more phony customers, and for sure thered be no casual foot traffic. I actually submitted this recommendation on my second day on the job. But I already knew the response. These people have big-time image issues. For an agency charged with national security, theyre really insecure.

Anyway, after only a mile or so we turned left onto a street called Ballantrae Farm Drive, a sort of suburban block filled with Pepsident monstrosities. McLean, if youre interested, is one of Washingtons more elite suburbs, with no shortage of posh enclaves for the rich and privileged. Still, I could picture a Realtor taking a prospective couple to this block saying something like, But since you said money is no object, I wanted to be sure you saw this lovely neighborhood.

We continued our drive down the street and eventually we reached a cul-de-sac, and it wasnt hard to guess that the big shack with the three Crown Vics at the curb was our destination. Two guys in suits stood guard at the front entrance, and they werent holding welcome signs.

You saw that house and you knewall red brick with tall, thick Corinthian stone columns in front, slate-roofed, and if I had to estimate, about fifteen thousand square feet of interior grandiosity and pomposity, pool out back, cabana, and all that.

We climbed out of the backseat, and one of the guys in suits promptly approached. He seemed to know Special Agent Margold, because he said, Everybodys inside, Jennie. Its ugly. Directors still ten minutes out. He handed her a clipboard and she signed in, name, time, date, whatever.

Presumably he was referring to Mark Townsend, the head of the Federal Bureau, which told you these clowns were also Fibbies. Not that I have anything against the FBI. I actually admire what they do and how well they do it. Its how they do it. A lot of FBI types are lawyers and accountants, and when you turn them into law enforcement agents you get this weird culture and this sort of hybrid personality, or maybe a hyphenated personality. Theyre so insufferable, they better be good.

Also, jurisdictions always a touchy issue with law enforcement types. Aside from the aforementioned government sedans and federal agents, I saw no ambulances, no ME wagon, no forensics van, nor had anybody strung up any yellow crime scene tape. This was interesting fact number three.

Interesting fact number four was the absence of uniformed or local cops, the usual first responders. So whatever occurred inside that house was being kept strictly federal, a synonym for serious, and was being handled low-key, which often rhymes with messy, or, more often, embarrassing.

Margold handed the clipboard back to the guy, who asked me, Whore you?

Building inspector.