The Traitor's Mistress

By David Grace

Secretary of State Randall Tanner was shocked to discover that the President was a traitor.

After three agonizing days he decided that the only possible course of action was that President had to die. Tanner initiated a plot to have President assassinated in a way that would make his death look like an accident. Because Hoskins' mistress, Sarah, knew too much she had to die as well.

Five years later Sarah's alcoholic husband finds her diary which eventually falls into the hands of Sarah's daughter, Allison, and ex-CIA analyst, Steve Grant. Now the plotters are in full clean-up mode.

Barely one step ahead of the killers, Steve and Allison desperately search for Sarah's last hidden file, the one that contains the whole story about the President, a file they have to find before the killers find them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Grace
• Release date: Jun 2, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452399423

David Grace

David Grace is an internationally acclaimed speaker, coach, and trainer. He is the founder of Kingdom International Embassy, a church organization that empowers individuals to be agents of peace, joy, and prosperity, and Destiny Club, a personal development training program for university students. He is also the managing director of Results Driven International, a training, motivational, and coaching company that mentors private, parastatal, and government agencies throughout Botswana.

Book preview

Chapter One

Secretary of State Randall Tanner stared uneasily at the Top-Secret file cradled in his lap. It had been delivered three days earlier by armed courier and had haunted his days and nights ever since. Tanner closed the file and numbly leaned against the window behind his desk. Below him tourist-strewn Washington spread out in a shimmer of summer heat. For a moment Tanner gazed at the peak of the Washington Monument then, horrified by what he knew he had to do, turned away. With a sick, hollow feeling Tanner realized that there was no alternative, no way out. The President had to die.

He slipped the file into a large manila envelope then dialed an unlisted number on the prepaid cell phone he kept in his bottom desk drawer. He knew he would have to destroy the phone utterly by the end of the day.

It’s me, he said when the line was answered. We have to meet, alone, completely alone.

I’ll pick you up behind the tartar at nine, the voice said after a long pause. Tanner clicked off the phone then removed the battery. By long-standing arrangement, Tanner and his contact used the codeword tartar, as in ‘steak tartar,’ for one of Tanner’s favorite restaurants, Le Bistro Elan. Tanner’s wife had died six months before after a long bout with cancer and now, except for official functions, he usually dined alone, if you didn’t count the two armed State Department security officers who accompanied him everywhere.

At five minutes to nine Tanner approached his bodyguards’ table and whispered, My stomach’s acting up again. I’m going to be in the john for a few minutes.

Yes, sir, said the slender, African-American agent, Harry Bliss. Tonight he had lost the toss for bathroom duty. I’ll check it out. Tanner nodded and took a step back, letting Bliss lead the way. The second guard, a pale man with thinning brown hair, swapped chairs so that he could keep watch on the front door.

Bliss gave the bathroom a quick walk-through, pausing only long enough to check all the stalls.

It’s clear, sir, he said.

Please go back to your table, Mr. Bliss.

Sir, you know procedure is that I wait outside.

The public doesn’t know I’m here and I’d prefer not to have an armed guard commandeering the men’s room every time I have to take a crap. Bliss glanced down and shuffled his feet. Please, Harry, just for tonight. The way I’m feeling I’m going to be in here for quite awhile and I don’t want to shut down the restaurant’s entire bathroom for the next fifteen minutes. That’s not the image I want to take into my old age. . . . Please.

Sir, if my boss finds out—

No one’s going to find out. Please.

All right, but just this once.

Thanks.

Tanner let out a long sigh and ducked into one of the stalls. He waited three minutes then emerged and peeked down the hall. In five seconds he was out the back door and into the black Chevy Tahoe parked in the alley. The heavily tinted windows totally obscured the occupants. A fleshy, silver-haired white man slouched behind the wheel.

Are we secure, Robert? Tanner asked.

Totally. What’s happened? Robert Matheson’s voice was mellow and in spite of his Social-Security-qualifying age, it still held an edge of command, the voice of a man who had led other men into harm’s way and had usually gotten them back out again. Wordlessly, Tanner unbuttoned his shirt and pulled the envelope away from the small of his back. The driver frowned, then donned a pair of latex gloves before removing the contents. He clipped a tiny LED light to the steering wheel and began to read. When he reached the bottom of the first page he paused and gave Tanner a questioning look.

It’s all true. We can’t let this get out, Robert. The world can never know that the President of the United State was a traitor. No one would ever trust us again. It would destroy us for generations."

The big man gave Tanner a slight nod and flipped to the next sheet. A minute later he put the pages back and returned the envelope.

We could force him to resign as the price for hushing this up.

And have the American people pay him a cushy pension for the rest of his life? Let the bastard get away with treason? He needs to pay for what he’s done.

You know what the penalty for treason is, don’t you, Randall?

We both know it’s death.

Are you sure you’re up for that? Robert asked, studying Tanner’s face.

I love this country. The traitor has to pay. That’s why I called you. Are you with me or not?

Of course, I am.

Do we kill him now or after the election?

Time is our enemy. The sooner the better.

Can we make it look like an accident?

We’ll have to.

Any idea on how it . . . we—?

Are you sure you’re ready for this, Randall? Once it starts there’ll be no turning back.

It has to be done. Ted Hoskins has to die, and soon.

All right. I just needed to be sure you’re committed to this.

I don’t see that we have any choice, Tanner snapped. How will it be — how will we do it?

I’ll give it some thought.

We have to keep this close. We can’t assemble a team for something like this.

I know. No more than two others, max. Only one if I can figure out a way to make it work.

Tanner glanced at his watch and stuffed the envelope back under his shirt.

Matheson’s eyes followed the envelope. What are you going to do with that?

We may need it to recruit your third person. Once the job is done, I’ll destroy it.

That would be a good idea.

Tanner nodded and opened the door, wiping his prints off the handle as soon as he reached the street. An instant later the Tahoe disappeared into the night. Tanner crept back into the bathroom, washed his hands, re-tucked his shirt and, head high, returned to the dining room. He saw Bliss anxiously watching the hallway and gave him a little nod before returning to his empty table. A few seconds later the waiter was standing across from him with a professional smile glued to his face.

Some dessert for you tonight, Mr. Secretary? Perhaps a cognac?

No, Francois, not tonight. I’m afraid something has disagreed with me.

I’m sorry, sir. I hope you’ll feel better soon.

So do I, Francois, so do I.

Tanner dropped a hundred dollar bill on the table, waved to Harry Bliss, and headed for the door.

Chapter Two

Lane McKinley waited outside the Oval Office until the light went out on the President’s phone, then knocked twice and entered without waiting for a response. Ted Hoskins gave his Chief of Staff an irritated look then waited for the inevitable bad news.

Mr. President, we’ve got a problem, McKinley began and hurried to the concealed TV next to the President’s desk. In a moment he had flipped the channel to CNN.

Recapping our lead story, a new video on YouTube may cause more problems for President Hoskins’ already troubled re-election campaign. The picture dissolved to a grainy cell-phone video of the tuxedo-clad President and the Secretary of State at a banquet table. The image degraded as it zoomed in. The sound came on with Tanner in mid-sentence.

As I was just saying, Mr. President, the massacre in Kansas City is destroying our image around the world. Every time I complain to foreign leaders about terrorist atrocities, they tell me to get my own house in order. We’ve got to get these assault rifles out of the hands of every psycho with a grudge and a credit card.

Randall, I don’t know what you expect me to do.

Can’t we at least get Congress to close the gun-show loophole?

You know as well as I do that the NRA nut-jobs would have a heart attack if I tried to take their machine guns away from them.

Mr. President, no private citizen needs a fully automatic AK-47. Couldn’t you get the Democrats to add an amendment to the Shrike Missile appropriation? That should give our guys some cover.

I’ll tell you what. Once the election is over I’ll see what we can do. If Congress can get an assault rifle ban to my desk, I’ll sign it.

Thank you, Mr.—- Suddenly, the image wobbled and dissolved, replaced by the CNN talking head.

Clarence Woodley, Executive Vice President of the National Rifle Association, has released this statement: ‘We are appalled that the President would contemplate conspiring to infringe the rights of American citizens under the Second Amendment. We are asking our members to let the President know that his supposedly secret plan to take our guns away is not acceptable to the American people.’

For additional reaction, our Jim Patrick contacted House Majority Leader—

McKinley killed the picture.

Jesus, how did they get that? the President demanded.

I don’t know. They keep adding stuff to those cell phones. Maybe somebody equipped one with a directional mike. It doesn’t matter how they got it. We have to figure out what to do about it.

That fucking Randall Tanner! I was just trying to shut him up. Who was the moron who put him next to me anyway?

We’ve got to do some damage control, Mr. President.

What do you suggest?

Give me an hour to put something together. I’ll have my staff draft a statement for Terry to give to the press.

Better make it good. This election will be close enough as it is without the gun nuts staying home. I need their votes.

Yes, sir. McKinley hurried back to his office, his brain ticking through half a dozen strategies for neutralizing the damage.

I’ve got Congressman Blaine on two, McKinley’s secretary announced as soon as he came through the door.

Tell him—

He says he saw the clip on YouTube and he’s got a way to solve your problem.

Ralph Blaine had been the Montana Congressman-at-large for thirty years, the last six as either the Chairman or the ranking minority member of the House Defense Appropriations Committee. Six months ago he had been diagnosed with brain cancer and wasn’t expected to live long enough to vote for the President’s re-election in November.

OK, put him through.

Hey, Lane. It looks like your boss has got his tit in the wringer, Blaine said with a twinkle in his voice. ‘NRA nut-jobs?’ What was he thinking?

He was thinking that he needed to say something to get Randall Tanner off his back and that nobody else could hear him. Sally said you think you have a solution?

Sure, Blaine said, the laughter still clear in his voice. Look, all those gun people know me. They know that I wouldn’t stand for any anti-gun hanky-panky.

You’re going to issue a statement?

Like that’ll fix your mess! No, Lane, this has gone too far for a press release. Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll invite Woodley and the President up to my ranch in Wilson for a little hunting trip. The President will get himself a buck, I guarantee it, and the three of us will stand around the trophy with our 30-30’s and big smiles while the press takes a couple of thousand pictures. Woodley’s all right. I’ll talk to him. The President will talk to him. He’ll put the President’s picture on the front page of the newsletter and everybody will be happy. Problem solved. Of course, the President’s going to have to give them an iron-clad promise that he’ll veto any anti-Second Amendment bills that get to his desk.

That won’t be a problem. He was just saying that stuff to shut Tanner up anyway.

Okay, then. Have your guys call me back later today with the date. I figure he flies in for dinner. We take out our little safari early in the morning and he’s on his way home by lunch. Does that sound right to you?

That’ll work. My staff will be back at you in fifteen. McKinley hung up and shouted out his open door: Sally, put me through to the President’s secretary. We’ve got to slip something into his schedule.

Chapter Three

I feel like an idiot, Hoskins said. The President and Ralph Blaine were alone in Blaine’s mud room, each dressed in heavy boots, khaki pants, red flannel shirts, and pocket-encrusted hunter’s vests. Hoskins raised his 30-30 rifle uneasily. You’re sure this isn’t loaded?

The Secret Service won’t let us have any bullets until we’re in the woods and they’ve checked everything out.

Yeah, this is giving my guys fits. I thought Herb Nash was going to have a heart attack when I told him you and Woodley were going be wandering around me with loaded guns.

Relax, Mr. President. You don’t look anything like a deer. Blaine’s smile contorted as a shiver passed through his body.

Are you all right?

Just a few side-effects from the cancer meds.

Are you sure you can do this? If Herb Nash thinks you’re hopped up on pain pills he won’t let you within a mile of me.

It’s fifteen minutes out. Bang-bang. Fifteen minutes sitting on our butts eating a sandwich to make it look good, then we come right back. I can hold it together for half an hour. Look, I’ve got a big buck staked out less than a mile down the trail where no one can see. My vet has fed him so much PCP it’s a miracle he can still stand up. We walk in; you shoot him; Woodley and I take a couple of shots to make it sound good for the press and we’re done. My guys come in with the four-wheeler to haul him out. Unless they do a drug test on the carcass, nobody will know a thing. All you have to do is pose next to your trophy with a goofy smile on your face and we’re done.

Blaine smiled and patted the President on the shoulder. Hoskins gave him a hard look then nodded. He didn’t like the way Blaine looked. He was sweating and his skin was gray and tight, but it was too late now to call off the show.

OK, Hoskins said finally. Blaine opened the door to the chatter of a dozen cameras. A minute later they set off into the woods, two Secret Service agents in the lead, then Woodley, the President and Blaine, followed by two more agents at the back. Eight other agents were positioned along both sides of the trail with a helicopter circling a thousand feet overhead. Blaine called a halt a hundred yards from the clearing where he had staked out the President’s buck.

Time to load up, the Congressman said. The head of the President’s security detail gave Blaine a sour look then, reluctantly, passed two cartridges to each of the three men and, like a nervous parent, watched them load their guns.

Relax, Mr. Nash, Blaine told him. Woodley and I have been hunting all our lives. Nash didn’t seem reassured but he backed out of the way. CC, you go about ten yards to the left. Ted, you stay in the center and I’ll be ten yards to your right. Since you’re the tenderfoot, Mr. President, we’ll stay a couple of yards behind you. We don’t want you to pull a Dick Cheney on us, Blaine laughed, referring to the time that then Vice President Cheney accidently shot one of his hunting companions in the face.

When you’re ready, Ted, you take your shot. If he doesn’t go down in a clean kill, I’ll finish him off. We’ll wait a minute and then CC and I will take a couple of more shots to make it sound good for the press, then we walk back out. Ready?

CC Woodley gave Blaine a nod. The President fiddled with his gun and Woodley stepped over and showed him how to release the safety.

OK, let’s get this over with, Hoskins snapped, heading for the clearing.

Woodley and Blaine held back until the President was a few feet in the lead, then each set off at an angle to give the President plenty of room. Hoskins reached the edge of the meadow and walked about ten yards into the grass. A huge buck at the far side slowly lifted his head. A white nylon rope was evident around his neck. Behind him to his left and right the President could hear Woodley and Blaine nearing the edge of the clearing.

The President raised the rifle, the damn thing was heavier than it looked in the movies, and tried to hold the sight steady on the spot on the buck’s torso that they told him contained its heart.

Blaine emerged from the tree line about thirty feet away, his gun crosswise to his chest. The Congressman tilted forward, stuck out his right foot to steady himself, and raised his weapon. The barrel swung slowly to the right then paused when the muzzle lined up on the President’s head. Two shots rang out almost as one. By a fraction of a second the President’s gun fired first, his shot missing the deer by six inches. Blaine’s bullet, however, flew true. It hit the President just above and forward of his right ear, barely slowing down as it passed through his brain before exploding out the far side of his skull. Hoskins was dead before his body hit the ground.

Blaine leaned forward and flopped onto the grass, spasming in some kind of an attack. Two Secret Service agents roughly threw Woodley down while Nash screamed orders for the chopper to land in the clearing. Untouched, the buck stared across the meadow, its drugged brain trying to understand what had just happened.

* * *

Though not a particularly popular one-term President, Theodore Hoskins nevertheless had died in office, even if it was in a stupid accident, and his body lay in state in the Capitol Rotunda for a full day to allow the citizens to pay their respects. Attendance was steady but the turnout was not overwhelming, not the sort of weeping crowds you saw for a fallen Kennedy or Reagan. Official Washington appeared between ten and noon to make their formal farewells. Congressman Ralph Blaine was not on the list. His health had taken a massive turn for the worse, the effect of staggering grief and horror over what he had done, most people believed, and he wasn’t expected to survive the week. Since being airlifted from his ranch Blaine had managed only a few lucid moments before sinking to into a drugged stupor.

The new President, former Vice President Alan Greer, waited near the end of the official line. Only two people were behind him, Secretary of the Interior, Sarah Brewster and Secretary of State Randall Tanner.

Tanner paused and looked down at the closed mahogany coffin. A confused welter of thoughts whirled through his head, not the least of which was, No one can ever know what we did.

Chapter Four

FIVE YEARS LATER

Steve Grant twisted his head until his he was able to pinpoint the buzzing sound at the edge of his consciousness, then grabbed the vibrating cell phone an instant before it slid off his desk.

Hello.

Steven, I’m in town for the day, and the night. How about dinner and a little fooling around?

Mattie?

How many ex-wives with benefits do you have?

Uhhh, sorry, the phone was on vibrate and I grabbed it before I could check the caller ID.

A phone after my own heart. So, sevenish? I’m at the Sheraton. Room 806.

Gee, Mattie. I’m in the middle of researching this new book on President Hoskins . . . .

A book on Ted Hoskins? The man was one step below Millard Fillmore.

I’ve turned up some papers he wrote in college that indicate that might have had deeper plans than most people gave him credit for. I’ve been thinking that a book about what he might have done with his military and foreign policy if he had gotten a second term could be interesting.

Trust me, Steven, a book about what a politician might have done is never interesting, especially a me-first schemer like Ted Hoskins. Come on, I’ll even buy dinner. I’m on an expense account. Steve took a long breath and vainly tried to come up with a semi-decent excuse.

Okay, that should work. I just have to check one thing. Let me call you back in half an hour.

I’m not an airplane reservation, Steven. If you’re upset with me just say so.

I’m not upset with you, Mattie. This just caught me by surprise and I have the feeling I’m forgetting something. Just give me a few minutes to clear the decks.

You’re the most frustrating ex-husband I’ve ever had, but all right.

Grant found himself staring at the words Call Ended.

How did I let myself get trapped in the world of Let’s be friends? Steve wondered. She doesn’t get it, he thought, then added, and maybe I don’t get it either. He had loved that woman, had thought their being married meant that they had something special, them against the world, but apparently for her it had been more like a business alliance, good until changing market conditions made continuing the partnership unprofitable. Once that happened she figured they were free to part ways, no harm, no foul, still friends, call me for a fuck the next time you’re in town.

He had loved that woman. Jeez, that sounded weak. Suddenly, the phone buzzed again. Maybe she was calling back to let him off the hook. The unit gave a soft ding and a text message appeared.

I am a friend of Jerry Shapiro’s. I understand that you’re writing a book about President Hoskins. I have highly secret and extremely shocking information concerning him. Please meet me at ten o’clock tonight just inside the entrance to the Union Band Cemetery in Rock Creek Park. Tell no one.

Now I’m getting anonymous calls from conspiracy nuts? Steve muttered. Except Jerry Shapiro had been Steve’s boss during Steve’s last year at the CIA. He paused a moment then dialed Jerry’s number.

9731, a woman answered.

Jerry Shapiro please.

I’m sorry. I don’t know who that is. If you will leave your name and number I’ll ask someone to call you back.

Thank you. Typical CIA bullshit. Steve left his contact information and hung up. A couple of minutes later his phone rang.

Mr. Grant?

Yes.

Mr. Shapiro is not available. I have no further information.

Can you ask him to give me a call?

I’m sorry. I have no way to contact Mr. Shapiro. The line went dead. What the hell? Either Jerry was really was off the grid and they couldn’t verify Steve’s claim that Jerry knew him. Or, Jerry had stepped into some bad shit.

Grant’s last book, a study of Colin Powell’s and Condoleezza Rice’s differing international strategies during their respective terms as Secretaries of State, had sold a whopping sixteen thousand copies. Maybe some secret and shocking revelations about Ted Hoskins were just what he needed.

Steve scrolled up to Mattie’s cell number and pressed the call button. At least the conspiracy nut had given him an excuse to miss a meaningless night with the woman he once had loved.

Chapter Five

The Stanton Foundation’s official headquarters were on N Street on the upper two floors of an old Victorian wedged in between a building full of lobbyists serving the oil industry and one stuffed with agents for a trade association representing plumbing, pipe and electrical conduit manufacturers. The office of the Foundation’s Executive Director, Franklin Waites, was on the top floor and sported a view of the upper half of the Washington Monument. Waites visited the office three mornings a week, from nine to ten, to review administrative reports, sign checks, and make a few official phone calls. The library across from his office was filled with studies, position papers and scholarly opinions commissioned by the foundation on various aspects of the public-private government interface and the effects of government action on private initiative in a modern, information-age society. The creation of these materials represented the vast majority of the Foundation’s official activities. Their preparation was, in fact, far less than a third of its actual work. The Foundation’s real purpose was anything but scholarly research.

In 1946 twenty-two year old Bogdan Stankowitz worked as a translator for the U.S. army in what was left of Warsaw. Something of a polymath with a talent for languages, mathematics, music, and survival Stankowitz made himself invaluable to the Army teams trying to restore a working government to the area. In 1948 Stankowitz’s Army contacts helped him get into the United States and set him up with a job at Dupont as an executive trainee. He immediately changed his name to Bob Stanton. Within a year Stankowitz, now Stanton, had left Dupont and established a trading company selling food and other bulk commodities to those decimated by the war, using government contacts for legitimate sales, and for deals with America’s former enemies such as Japan, employing front men and shell companies.

By the mid-fifties Stanton’s personal fortune exceeded fifty million dollars, a huge amount at a time when a middle class worker’s salary was about ten thousand dollars a year. But Bob Stanton wasn’t your standard Republican plutocrat. He had lived through the horrors of what a government and its secret police could and would do to a civilian population and he was determined that a military-oriented, secret-police mentality would not be given a chance to thrive in his adopted homeland.

In 1957 he created the Stanton Foundation and endowed it with an initial grant of ten million dollars. Its stated mission was to study, research and publish information on maintaining individual liberty against encroachment by governmental authorities. Well aware that proponents of a secret police-type state usually operate in secret and often by less than legal means, Stanton created his foundation with the specific purpose of itself acting directly, creatively, and secretly to fight any governmental power grab.

By the time Franklin Waites was appointed Executive Director the Foundation’s endowment had grown to $305 million and Waites’ principal duties extended far beyond signing rent checks and approving scholarly research projects. The Foundation’s unpublicized activities were conducted from a utilitarian storage building in Maclean, Virginia. Officially, the light-industrial site housed printing presses, a shipping facility and warehouse. A thorough search of the building would have revealed an additional complex of offices, computer servers, database and communications equipment and sophisticated security devices.

A knock sounded on Frank Waites’ Maclean office door at just about the time Steve Grant received his mysterious text message. Waites toggled the RF noise generator then pushed the button that unlocked his door. A moment later Deborah Ryan entered. About forty and average in every physical dimension she cocked her head slightly to one side.

We’re clear, Waites said. Unlike his office on N Street, this room had no windows and was shielded against electromagnetic intrusion. What’s up?

I’ve been told that Alfred Brewster has been asking some peculiar questions.

Such as?

Had his wife been murdered? What was Ted Hoskins involved in just before he died?

There are probably hundreds of web sites out there spouting conspiracy theories.

Deborah gave her head a little shake. The problem is the way he’s phrasing the questions, more like statements. The impression he’s giving people is that his wife knew something about Hoskins that got her killed and now he wants to find out who was behind it. He’s intimated that that he’ll go public with whatever he’s got on Hoskins if someone doesn’t tell him who was behind her death.

Do we know what he claims to have discovered?

Another shake. He’s not saying anything specific.

Waites frowned. If this is some alcoholic fantasy, everyone will ignore it. Waites shrugged. But if he’s really on to something he could very easily end up dead.

It’s not Brewster I’m concerned about, Deborah said in a flat voice.

There’s never been any reliable information that Sarah Brewster’s death was other than a suicide.

But what if it wasn’t? There aren’t many people who would have had the resources and the guts to assassinate a cabinet secretary. And if any of them has gotten away with that they’ll think they’re invincible. If some black-ops types or government insiders murdered the Secretary of the Interior and got away with it, they may feel free to try it again. That’s the kind of problem we were created to solve. The country is at risk with people like that running loose.

Waites paused, then frowned. This is all speculation.

I think we should have someone talk with Brewster, see if we can find out what he thinks he’s got.

That could be risky.

Not as risky as what he’s doing already.

Who’s he been talking to? Waites asked.

Randall Tanner, Deborah said, her lips twisting down.

Waites stood and paced the room. All right, have one of Phil’s people, one of the women, see if she can get Brewster to cooperate.

What’s her cover?

Up front, an investigative reporter for a German news magazine. Work with Docs to pick the right one and do up an ID card. She can hint at a possible connection with an unnamed foreign intelligence service.

Do you want to have someone keep an eye on him?

That’s too dangerous. We can’t afford to have anything lead back to us. Let’s just get the facts, then we can consider a more direct involvement if necessary.

OK, Deborah said, getting up to leave.

Deborah, Waites called just as she reached the door. Have Com set up a short-interval trace for any hits on his name, just in case.

Deborah nodded and then was gone.

Waites sank back into his chair and wondered if someone in the government could possibly have had anything to do with Sarah Brewster’s death, and prayed they hadn’t.

Chapter Six

The complete name for the rendezvous site was the Mt. Zion Female Union Band Cemetery with its main entrance on the north side of Q Street. Historically an African-American cemetery, its graves dated back to just after the Civil War. It hadn’t had a new occupant since the Great Depression. Heavily wooded, the weathered tombstones were scattered in little plots amongst groves of trees. Though technically it closed at sunset, the cemetery was part of Rock Creek Park and was too big to be effectively sealed off. On balmy summer evenings it often served as a meeting place for people seeking secluded love, sex or recreational drugs.

Steve Grant had dressed in jeans, Nikes, and a black t-shirt. Given the uncertainty of what he might run into, he had dropped a can of pepper spray and a four-inch folding knife into his pocket. Once off the street, he slipped from shadow to shadow slowly working his way deeper into the cemetery. Weathered gravestones, some legible, many too worn to read, tilted at odd angles. Here and there plots the size of a jail cell were surrounded by little fences of rusted croquet hoops. Many of the graves had disappeared entirely save for the cracked stones themselves.

Steve carefully worked his way deeper into woods. After a few minutes he felt as if he was back on one of his jobs for the CIA, before an IED had destroyed 60% of the hearing in his left ear and demoted him to desk-duty back at Langley. Off to his right he heard a rustle and, peeking around a huge, big-leaf sycamore, he spotted two men fumbling with each other’s clothes. Steve hurried off in the opposite direction. Where the hell was this guy? Steve could understand his contact lurking in the shadows near the entrance until he was sure that Steve hadn’t been followed, like that was going to happen, but making him wander aimlessly through the dark was too much. Well, when you deal with nut-jobs . . . .

A huge red oak, it must have been at least a hundred feet tall, loomed to Steve’s right. It’s trunk was so thick that it was pressed tight against one of the gravestones. Steve could just make out the person’s name in a single beam from the full moon: Sarah Pryor, June 4, 1920. Okay, that’s it for me, Steve thought and turned back toward the city’s lights. Three paces later he encountered the body.

Jesus! Steve gasped. The man was face-down, pudgy, wearing gray slacks and a black windbreaker. The words drug overdose leapt into Steve’s mind. He knelt and illuminated the corpse with an LED penlight. Caucasian with thinning gray hair, the skin on the man’s neck was still warm but Steve couldn’t find a pulse. He rolled the body over and tried again with the wrist. Nothing. The windbreaker was unzipped almost to the man’s waist. Underneath it was a white shirt smeared with lines of blood. The deceased had apparently fallen on a bronze plate embedded flat in the earth. Steve swept it with his light. The lettering had been worn smooth decades ago and the surface dully reflected blood smears similar to the marks on the victim’s shirt. Not a drug overdose, that was for sure.

Steve swung the light back to the man’s face. There was something familiar about it but he couldn’t place it. Steve gave his head a little shake and pulled out his phone. The cell made a beep but wouldn’t connect. This was D.C., Cell Phone Central. There had to be a signal. Steve turned it off, then back on, and again tried 911. Nothing. Crap! He’d probably have to hike back to Q Street to get a call through. Steve gave the body one final glance, then, more out of his old CIA training than anything else, snapped a flash picture of the corpse followed by close-ups of the shirt, the bronze plate and the victim’s face. He paused and, partly thinking that you couldn’t trust the cops not to screw things up, and partly because silicon was free, he took three more shots from different angles, just to be sure.

With adrenalin leaking into his veins, Steve jogged toward the entrance. Before going fifty feet he tripped over a tree root and barely missed braining himself on a crumbling tombstone. Crap!

He struggled back to his feet. OK, nothing broken, he decided and used his penlight to pick his way at a fast walk. Just as he reached the asphalt path he heard a scream. By some acoustical trick the words Oh, my God, is he dead? reached him.

Call 911! Call 911! a woman shouted.

Steve jogged to the entrance and pulled out his cell. He was about to hit 911 when he started thinking about what he was going to say. They would want to know what he was doing in the cemetery at this time of night. Was he there to buy drugs? Was he there for sex, and if so, gay or straight? Was he there to meet an anonymous conspiracy nut with secret information about a dead president? Was that really what he wanted to tell the police? Either he was lying and he was there to deal drugs or have anonymous gay sex or he was a nut case or there really was some secret information about a dead president floating around out there. None of those were very good alternatives. Besides, he still hadn’t met his anonymous caller. The guy had probably been scared off by the commotion, if he wasn’t the dead body, though Steve knew he had no reason to assume the victim was his contact.

Behind him Steve heard footsteps hurrying down the path.

Try it again! the woman snapped.

The footsteps slowed and Steve heard a man say: 911, yes, we found a body in the Zion Cemetery in Rock Creek Park. . . . Yes, the one on Q Street.

Steve paused for a moment longer, then turned toward his car.

Chapter Seven

Martin Fletcher dropped back another car length and focused on Steve Grant’s taillights. It looked like they had gotten to Alfred Brewster in time to plug the leak. There had been nothing incriminating on the body, at least nothing that Grant could have found in the few seconds he’d spent with the corpse, and now the writer was heading back home. They still had some clean-up to do. They had to find out where Brewster had spent the last three days and toss the place. The guy was no genius, too much alcohol, too few brain cells. He had foolishly asked too many dangerous questions and then he was dumb enough to buy a pre-paid cell phone on his credit card.

Fletcher slowed and mirrored Grant’s right turn. In another few minutes Grant should be safely home without a clue as to how close he had come to having a fatal accident.

* * *

Something was gnawing at Steve Grant like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch. The dead man’s face kept flickering past his mind’s eye. He knew it from someplace but he couldn’t figure out where. Steve pulled to the curb and turned on his phone, flipping through the pictures one by one. He tried zooming the image but it didn’t help. He blanked the pictures and closed his eyes but no answers came to him. To Steve’s right the neon words 24 Hours flashed beneath a white and blue Fed Ex-Kinko’s sign. Steve paused, glanced again at the sign, then slipped out of the car.

Do you have a computer with PhotoShop on it? he asked the Asian kid behind the counter. And I’ll need a USB cable to download some images from my phone.

A credit-card