“I don’t know. If it were up to me she walks free.”
“It’s not up to you,” pointed out Blue Man.
“Like the president said, we maintain the status quo until conditions on the ground dictate otherwise.”
“And you really think the conditions on the ground are going to change?”
“Actually, they always do.”
“But not here.”
“Especially here,” said Robie.
Robie caught up to Tucker as he was about to climb into his SUV outside the White House.
“Give us a minute,” Tucker said to his aide as he glanced questioningly at Robie. The two men strolled a few feet away.
“Interesting meeting,” said Robie.
“Why did I think I was being ganged up on?” Tucker said accusingly.
“What did you expect? Your agency is in the middle of this whole thing.”
“You’re really close to getting your ass canned.”
“I don’t think so.”
Tucker snarled, “You work for me, Robie.”
“I work for the guy in the White House. And if you want to get really technical, the American people are actually my boss.”
“That’s not how it works, and you know it.”
“What I know is that people are dead. And not just the bad guys.”
“Who are you talking about, exactly?”
“A woman named Gwen. And a guy named Joe. And a guy named Mike.”
“I don’t know who they are.”
“They were good people.”
“So you knew them?”
“Not really, no. But someone I respect vouched for them. So watch your back, Director.”
Robie turned to walk away.
“Who do you respect, Robie? Would that be Jessica Reel? The person who murdered two of my people?”
Robie turned back. “They might have been people, Director. But they weren’t your people.”
Robie walked off.
Tucker stared after him for a few moments and then stalked to his vehicle.
Through the gates of the White House watching all of this was Jessica Reel.
She and Robie exchanged a glance and she turned and strode off.
CHAPTER
80
ROBIE WAITED ON THE BENCH at Roosevelt Island, right across from the Kennedy Center in the Potomac River. In the middle of a million people the small island was heavily wooded, isolated, and private. It was not open to the public today, which made it even more private. There was a good reason for this.
It was a fine day, bright, sunny, and warmer than normal.
Robie looked up at some birds soaring by and then his attention turned to the man coming down the path toward him. He was walking slowly. He saw Robie and gave a small wave before taking his time heading over.
He sat, unbuttoned his jacket, and leaned back.
“Nice day,” said Robie.
“It will be nicer when we nail the bastard,” said Whitcomb.
“I’m looking forward to that too.”
“You spooked Tucker after our meeting.”
“He was definitely on the defensive.”
“As he should be. Tucker is a disgrace, but difficult as it is to admit, I don’t see how we do it, Robie. The proof just isn’t there. No matter how hard we want it to be.”
“The shooters had been with the agency.”
“His motive?”
“With the world gone to hell the CIA would skyrocket right to the top in budget dollars and turf. The twin holy grails of the intelligence sector.”
Whitcomb shook his head. “Circumstantial only. His lawyers would tear that to pieces. Not one of the shooters had anything useful?”
“They were out of the loop. Hired guns only. Kent is dead. Gelder, Decker, Jacobs. All loose ends tied up.”
“He was efficient, I’ll give him that.”
“One mistake, though.”
“What’s that?”
“We have one loose end that was forgotten.”
“What?” asked Whitcomb eagerly.
“A who, sir. A woman. Karin Meenan. She worked at the CIA as a physician. She was the one who put the tracker device on me. She knew Roy West. And she knew about the white paper.”
“White paper?”
“We called it the apocalypse paper. It diagrammed in meticulous detail an attack on the G8, country by country, assassination by assassination, executed by Islamic terrorists. Then it outlined what would be done after the killings to maximize the global chaos.”
“But the attack in Canada centered on Arab leaders, not the G8.”
“Right. They took West’s document and reversed it. An attack on Muslim leaders by—” Here Robie fell silent.
“Not by factions in the Middle East,” said Whitcomb. “As we told the president. But by Tucker and those idiots at CIA who can’t seem to get this nation-building crap out of their system.”
“I’m afraid new evidence cuts against that conclusion, sir.”
“New evidence?”
Robie waved his hand, motioning over the person who had just appeared on the entrance path. Whitcomb saw the woman coming forward, her steps hesitant.
“I had her locked up in a little hideaway,” said Robie. “I was fearful for her safety.”
Karin Meenan stopped in front of them. Robie said, “I’d introduce you, but you two already know each other.”
Whitcomb stared up into the woman’s frightened features. Then he turned to Robie. “I’m not sure what’s going on here.”
“A friend of mine did some research on you and had an epiphany. Did you enjoy playing football at the Naval Academy with Roger Staubach? He was a couple of years ahead of you and you played on the D-line and he was the QB. But it still must’ve been a thrill for you. Heisman Trophy winner, Navy’s last one. Hall of famer. Super Bowl winner and MVP. Pretty awesome.”
“It was, actually, but I think we need to get back to the matter at hand.”
“He had a nickname too when he played. Quite the scrambler. The running quarterback. What was that nickname again?”
Meenan said in a small voice, “Roger the Dodger.”
“That’s it,” said Robie. “Roger the Dodger. Same handle that the person gave Roy West. West sent him the apocalypse paper. That’s where this all started. Now, I don’t think it was Staubach.” He pointed at Whitcomb. “I think it was you.”
“I am very confused here, Robie. You and I have already discussed this. We put the blame squarely on Evan Tucker. You grilled him after the meeting with the president with my full blessing.”