When Brad’s voice said Linda’s name, Billy’s eyes jerked toward the woman he knew as Sue Little. Linda nodded.

  Billy cupped his hands around his crossed knee. “I wouldn’t do that. No way. I mean, come on. Okay, so I had a thing with the first lady. I sure as hell wasn’t the first. That’s no reason to kill me.”

  Linda stepped toward Billy. “We’re not here to kill you.”

  Without taking his eyes off Billy, Ryan held his free hand, palm open, toward Linda. “Not unless you make it necessary. Clearly, there are people who want you dead. People with a history of getting what they want. You’re facing not only the prospect that I may kill you here, now, but also the prospect that if I don’t someone else will, even if it’s not this woman.”

  Billy’s face distorted. His eyes widened. He licked his lips. “What the hell? I don’t understand. Tell me, are you this Linda Darby person or are you Sue Little.”

  Linda glanced at Ryan before saying, “Not important.”

  Despite the tension of what was going on, Ryan smiled at her use of his phrase. “To be clear, Mr. Knight, we don’t give a damn whether or not you write an exposé. Our demand is simple. Forget this woman.” Ryan motioned toward Linda. “You’ve never seen her. Have no idea who she is, what her name is, what hotel she stayed in. For you, Sue or Linda, however you choose to remember her, doesn’t exist. Never did.”

  “Sure. No problem. I’ve only seen her once. We talked for maybe a half an hour, and a few short phone calls. I still don’t understand.”

  “You don’t have to. Just do it. If you do not, you die. Tonight. Tomorrow. Next year. Whenever. As for the tell-all, write it, for all we care. We’re not here for a political agenda. Sure, they can come after you. Hell, they’re already after you. That has nothing to do with us.”

  Linda stepped closer to Billy. “You know, maybe their reason for wanting you dead would largely go away once you’ve told what it is they’re trying to prevent you from telling.”

  Ryan moved to stand beside Linda. He put his hand on her shoulder. “Frankly, there’s risk either way. What Sue said was true, absolutely. Once they failed to shut you up, well, their reason for killing you is over, other than revenge which tends to motivate thugs and gangbangers more than the guys who were threatening her into killing you. Here’s the bottom line: it’s your choice. If you decide to come out with it, I’d recommend a few talk show call ins as soon as possible. As a former Secret Service agent, you shouldn’t have any trouble getting on political commentary shows at election time. Letters to the editor can become interview articles in the Journal or any of the major city newspapers. That’ll put them in damage control which is different than trying to shut you up before you talk. But that’s your business. Do it or not. Just forget this woman was ever in your life. If you don’t, you’ve got me on your trail and I’m an animal of revenge.”

  Ryan had considered killing Billy Knight. Dead, he couldn’t say Linda’s name, he only knew her first name from hearing it on the tape. He could refer to her as Sue Little, but she wasn’t that woman. On the other side of the decision was that Billy had not threatened Linda or Stephanie. Those were the reasons why Darrow, Martin, and Sander had been killed.

  After warning Billy he’d be watched, Ryan and Linda left Billy sitting on his black, leather couch and walked outside and into the storm.

  36

  Ryan drove past the townhouse owned by Carlson Bickersley, his elbow on the ledge of the window, his open hand resting on the temple area of his face. Any picture of him would be unrecognizable. The car was a rental under one of the many aliases for which Ryan had documentation.

  Bickersley’s townhouse was old, but well kept, rather routine for this part of Washington, D.C., and befitting a high government official keeping local residence without his family. The real estate records of its last sale indicated it to be four bedrooms, four baths, and just over 2,600 square feet. The front door was a casual coin toss from the road. An old eucalyptus tree was wedged into the ground patch just inside the curb without, as yet, puckering up the touching concrete sidewalk. Past articles disclosed that Bickersley’s family came to stay part of each summer. Other than those times, Bickersley lived alone in the nation’s capital. His wife and two children stayed in Texas during the school year.

  The night was cold, with the biting gusts that cause people to tuck in their chins and, those without gloves, to fist their hands deep in their pockets. Ryan located a park area. He stopped along its curb to observe Bickersley’s townhouse. He didn’t loiter.

  Bickersley wasn’t dangerous, not in the direct way that Brad Sander was dangerous. Individually, not even as dangerous as Charles Darrow or Ralph Martin who had surveilled Linda’s ten-year-old daughter. Bickersley was dangerous because he had security provided by the United States government. That made approaching Bickersley highly dangerous. There would be first rate electronic devices blanketing the property, and capable men inside the house.

  The backside of the townhouse had a walled patio with a brick courtyard. Plants in pots or wall sconces provided some greenery, but no flowers this time of year. More surveillance devices would cover the related outside areas. All in all, an unworkable entrance for Ryan’s purposes, particularly without substantial time to prepare. Time he didn’t have.

  Reaching people at work is often a good idea, but he couldn’t get near this man without offering up identification and being filmed from the time he entered the grounds of the White House. With sufficient time, any of these approaches could be made to work, but time was not on his side. He considered a straight assassination. As a result of having threatened Linda and her daughter, Bickersley deserved to die. Killing the president’s chief of staff, however, would stir up a nest of national law enforcement. Ryan’s objective was to move this matter out of Linda’s life, not sending out the federal locusts to swarm over every inch of everything involving Bickersley.

  He drove a few miles and pulled to the curb where he used Brad Sander’s cell phone to call Bickersley.

  “What the hell do you want now?”

  “The wheels are off your trolley, Mr. Chief of Staff.”

  “Who the hell is this?”

  “The man who will kill you unless you do what I say. This call is a courtesy to let you hear what will be delivered to the media tomorrow. You won’t want anyone to hear what I am about to play for you, so I suggest you not solicit a trace on this call or have any of your people listen in.”

  “Give me a minute.”

  Ryan waited.

  “Okay. Go ahead.”

  “I take it you’ve shut off any record of this call. If you haven’t, speak now or it’ll be too late for you.” Ryan then held the recording device near the phone so Bickersley could hear himself ordering Brad Sander to murder Linda Darby after she murdered Billy Knight.

  When the recording ended Ryan again spoke live to Bickersley. “There’s more, sir. Lots more. If you’d like I can play your instructions to Brad Sander about killing the woman’s child if the woman doesn’t follow your order and murder William Knight. And other conversations involving Sander, Knight and the two numbnuts who Sander, under your orders, employed to surveil a child at her school. Do you care to hear them, sir?”

  “That won’t be necessary. Are you in this with Brad Sander?”

  “No way. I know what you didn’t know, Brad Sander is loyal only to Brad Sander. However, I have Mr. Sander under wraps, so to speak, in case I need more from him. Maybe a press conference.”

  “What do you want?”

  “That’s the easy part. Resign your office. It’s time to accept that honorary chair from your alma mater, and take up finger-painting or go back to the saxophone you played in college. Or, you could write another of those political claptrap books, Lord knows America needs more of that rubbish. I expect to see a public announcement. I’ll wait only until the end of day, six o’clock, eastern time, day after tomorrow. After that this recording and several others go to the media. I have corroborating recordings from Sander’s two stooges who took the pictures of the little girl. Quit your job or go to jail. The alternative, I assassinate you. I would prefer not to. I assume we agree on that. You have my deadline, six p.m. day after tomorrow.”

  “That’s it? Nothing else? You aren’t demanding money?”

  “No, sir. On this, I’m not motivated by money. That is what makes me really dangerous. Don’t fuck with me, … sir. Oh, yes, there is one other thing.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “If you ever mention the woman’s name or the name of her child, you die. No phone call. No demands of any kind. I’ll just kill you, like I did your former colleague, Webster. I’m sure you remember him. In fact, I still have various documents I took from his desk the night I killed him. You’re mentioned in some of them. Rather prominently several times. That’s what made me able to connect you to Webster. Six o’clock, the day after tomorrow.”

  Ryan hung up, then he called Linda who would, by now, be back in her hotel room. “It’s all cool. I’m on my way.”

  #

  Before Linda woke the next morning, Ryan went out to a shipping location and sent a traceable package. For sender, he used the alias he always used when sending things to his long-retired mentor in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. The package contained the disks and films he had taken while with Charles Darrow, Ralph Martin, Brad Sander, and Billy Knight. And a copy of his telephone conversation with Carlson Bickersley, the president’s chief of staff.

  Two hours later, with Linda driving, she and Ryan headed back to her Sea Crest condo. On the way, Ryan’s cell phone rang. He recognized the number of the man who had positioned the surveillance equipment in Billy Knight’s Portland condominium.

  “Cap’n, whatdaya know about the background of this Billy Knight? Where he comes from, like that?”

  “Not much. What are you getting at?”

  “I’m over at his place now, removing my equipment. He took two suitcases and finally left a little over an hour ago. That’s when I came in.”

  “And?”

  “Do you know anything about his parents? That kinda thing.”

  “No. Didn’t have time. I did figure if there was anything ugly in his background he wouldn’t have gotten into White House Secret Service duty. As you recall, we were a little short on time when we jumped into this mission. What’s this about?”

  “Like I said, I’m here in his place. I should’ve seen it when I was here putting this stuff in place. Somehow I didn’t, or didn’t focus on it.”

  “What?”

  “In his bedroom is a picture of his mother. Not his parents. Just his mother. Unless I miss my guess, she’s an Arab or a Persian. From the time we spent over there, I’m thinking a Persian, you know, Iranian. She’s got the nose. The dorsal fin hump.”

  “Some other nationalities also have dorsal hump noses.”

  “Sure. But, you know, I was surveilling him for a while. He doesn’t have that nose. High cheekbones, yeah, but not the telltale nose. I’m not professing to be an expert on facial styles of every part of the Middle East, but, hey, this woman, yeah. I’m pretty sure she’s Persian. That’s what I’m thinking.”

  Ryan glanced at his watch. “Let me call you back. Maybe ten minutes, no longer.”

  Ryan turned to Linda. “Pull over. Find a spot.”

  Linda took the next exit off I-5 South, and pulled into a combination gas station and convenience market. “What the hell was that all about?”

  “Tell me what you know about Billy Knight’s background. About his parents.”

  “He was born here soon after his parents arrived. Mother is Iranian. She met Billy’s father while he was working for a few years in Iran. Some U.S. company under contract. Mom was an interpreter for dad. They fell in love. She came back with him. They got married. Billy was born a year or so later.”

  “You’ve seen her, right?” Linda nodded. “Tell me about her appearance.” Linda did. “What about her nose?”

  “She has a prominent nose. Somewhat broad, with a peak, a bump, sort of, on top.”

  “But Billy didn’t have that nose.”

  “He told me that just before he started high school, his mother had his nose cosmetically fixed to get rid of the hump.”

  “Do you know their religion?”

  “He told me when we were talking at his parents’ party. I think he said his dad was Catholic, his mother’s Muslim.”

  “What about Billy himself?”

  “He said he goes to the mosque with his mother, but not all that often. She never misses. That’s all I know. We talked only about an hour. The party was his parents sixtieth wedding anniversary so we talked about them mostly, him some. What’s this about?”

  This could tie in with the rumors the Mossad talked about.

  “Not important. No time. Not right now.” Ryan called his man back. “You got the phone tape still?”

  “Sure.”

  “Have you listened to the last batch?”

  “Didn’t bother. I gathered this was over. So, why bother? Should I have?”

  “Hook it up. Play it now. Keep it near the phone so we can both hear.”

  Ryan listened. Linda sat still. She appeared to be staring at the bright neon beer sign in the store window.

  “Skip that one.” … “Move to the next one.” … “No. Next.” Then he lowered his head and listened with his eyes closed. The caller was an older female voice.

  “It’s time, Son. This could have been so easy if you’d kept your pants on and not lost your job in the White House. But you’ve been given another chance. Allahu Akbar. With success, your foolish transgression will be forgiven. This is your duty, son. Your destiny. What you and I were put on this earth for.” Billy’s mother went on to remind him of a particular location where he should take up a position at a particular time. Her last words. “I’m proud of you, son. Your achievement will be remembered always. Do not fail. I am with you in spirit and in faith.”

  “Man, that’s weird shit, Cap’n. What’s that about?”

  “No time. Get all that shit outta there. Clean that place up. No wire trim, nothing left. No fingerprints. I was there with the woman. We touched only the door on the way in and out. Wipe it down completely. Then get out. If I’m wrong nothing will come of it. If I’m right, you’ll get your answers on the news. Gotta go. Thanks, pal. You done good. Great catch.”

  Ryan turned to Linda. “I need to make a call. You can’t say a word or utter a sound. Nothing can suggest I’m not alone.”

  Ryan called the deputy director of covert ops for the Central Intelligence Agency. A man he knew well. The man he would meet with after he got the schedule of illicit money transfers from the French banker, Henri Benoit.

  37

  The attempt to assassinate U. S. President Ronald Walker was splashed across the headline of the small newspaper of Sea Crest, Oregon as well as the Portland Oregonian and the national newspapers. The story absorbed all the television news channels, even the non-news channels.

  The assassination attempt had failed. The Secret Service killed the assailant, William Knight, former discredited member of the U.S. Secret Service, former head of the detail that guarded First Lady, Carolyn Walker.

  The major story was by a nationally syndicated columnist, Eric Dunn, whose column is titled Dunn in D.C. In it, he referenced the assassin’s mother’s connection to extremists in Iran. His column touched on the rumors that First Lady Carolyn Walker was engaged in a long running affair with the assassin, William Knight. He stated that the story first came to him anonymously, and that he obtained corroboration before printing it. He promised more details would follow in the coming days.

  Ryan immediately dialed the private number for Chief of Staff Carlson Bickersley. The phone number he had obtained from Brad Sander.

  “This is your worst nightmare, calling.”

  “What do you want? Christ, I’m too busy right now.”

  “Nothing has changed. You have until six o’clock. Not one minute longer.”

  “Not now. I can’t now. It’ll look like I’m deserting the president at a critical time.”

  “Horseshit. The assassin is dead. The president is safe. So is the first lady. You aren’t leading the investigative team. The president has the FBI and the CIA taking care of those matters. You’re superfluous. Six o’clock or you die.”

  “I’ll look like a coward.”

  “If you prefer to have the media learn that you threatened a little girl to force the mother to murder the man who died in an attempt to assassinate President Walker, then don’t resign. The press will spin it that Knight may have tried to assassinate the president because you ordered that he be killed. That’ll make you the man who indirectly caused the attempt on the president’s life. Oh, yeah, and then there’s this: I’ll have to kill you myself to prevent you from eventually spilling the story and identities of the woman and her daughter. Your choice. Six o’clock. Resign or die.”

  #

  That evening, after hearing the announcement of the resignation of Carlson Bickersley, chief of staff to President Walker, Ryan and Linda left her beach house for a walk in the sand. They took off their shoes and headed north.

  “When did you kill for the first time?”

  “Well, isn’t that a romantic interlude in our walk?”

  “Seriously. I’m trying to understand. You’re a good man, but you’ve done things that fall outside the definition of good. At least as most people would define the term. … I care about you.”

  “I don’t deal in good. I deal in necessary. Expedient. The removal of the greater evil. The prevention of evil. Had someone murdered Adolph Hitler in 1939, would that have been evil or, in the end, good? Even if his death prevented the events that let the world know how evil he would have become?”

  “Please, I want to understand.”

  “All right. … During war, killing is seen as good in that the enemy is dying. That moves the nation, the world, closer to victory, peace, and safety for others. I killed my first man during Operation Desert Shield, early in 1991, on January 12th to be exact. I felt patriotic. I helped defend my country, although I’m not sure exactly how my individual act fit into that bigger picture. I was devastated by what I’d done. I was just as sure of the need for doing it. During war, the normal perspective on killing is set aside and things Americans see as crimes become acts of heroism. What most people don’t realize today is that war is always with us, it just isn’t neatly declared with clear identity of the enemy. Those days are gone, but the need to eliminate evil is not.”