stand in Smallsreed's office, sipping a cup of coffee and chatting with the senior members of Smallsreed's staff, with a good fifteen minutes to spare.
Plenty of time.
Accordingly, when Simon Whatley removed the three thinnest drop-box message envelopes from his briefcase and carefully placed them in his jacket pocket, he didn't think anything at all about handing his overcoat, suit bag, and briefcase — containing his wallet, keys, airline tickets, Congressional Office Building pass, and the thick envelope with the hunter-killer recon team's surveillance photos of their intended targets — to the taxicab driver, who placed them all in the trunk of the vehicle before shutting Whatley's door.
It was ironic, then, as the cab approached the Dulles Access Road junction with the Washington Beltway in the drizzling rain fifteen minutes later, that just as the finally relaxed congressional district office manager started to reach into his jacket pocket for the messages from Lt. Colonel John Rustman's hunter-killer recon team, a daydreaming commuter suddenly realized where he was, slammed on his brakes, and swerved sharply to the right in a desperate attempt to make his exit… thereby initiating a chain reaction that sent Whatley's cab spinning out of control into the off-ramp divider.
The highly professional and experienced paramedics who responded to the multiple-car accident at the intersection of the Dulles Access Road and the Washington Beltway, wasted no precious time worrying about the individual identities of the bodies lying or hanging in the twisted wreckage that comprised three distinctly separate cars and a cab.
They quickly and methodically extracted all of the survivors from their vehicles before any of the spilled gasoline ignited; provided immediate first-aid treatment for airway obstruction, bleeding and shock; transported the victims to the nearest hospital as quickly as possible; and then got back on the air to take the next priority call.
On rainy days, that last task ranked almost as highly as the other three. At last count, and according to the harried dispatchers who repeatedly put calls out for any available emergency-response team, nine accident calls awaited response, four of which involved serious injuries.
All in all, a typical rainy day in metropolitan Washington, D.C.
Accordingly — and very much unlike the Jasper County, Oregon, paramedics who actually took time to try to identify Wilbur Boggs — the team that transported Simon Whatley and the cab driver to nearby Fairfax County Hospital in northern Virginia simply rolled the two unconscious victims out of the back of the ambulance and into the waiting hands of the emergency-room medical team; tossed a pair of plastic bags — one of which contained Whatley's shoes, coat, jacket, tie, and the three drop- box messages — on the curb; secured two freshly made-up gurneys into the back of the ambulance; signed a clipboard-mounted form; then vanished into the dreary, rainy morning with lights flashing and sirens wailing.
Simon Whatley's briefcase, containing, among many other things, his wallet, keys, airline tickets, Congressional Office Building pass, and an envelope bearing the surveillance photos taken by First Sergeant Aran Wintersole's hunter-killer team, remained in the trunk of the demolished cab which, at that very moment, was being towed to a local storage yard several miles from the crash site.
Like Wilbur Boggs before him, Simon Whatley quickly disappeared into the bowels of an overwhelmed emergency-medical-treatment system.
Chapter Forty-five
At precisely 0600 hours on a fairly typically cold and drizzly Monday morning in southern Oregon, Special Agent Henry Lightstone (AKA Henry Randolph Lee) stepped out from under the protective overhang of the Dogsfire Inn, quickly levered his motorcycle into the back of a dark green-painted pickup truck, secured the tailgate, and got into the passenger side of the vehicle driven by a decidedly determined-looking young man wearing a cast on his wrist.
The two men greeted each other in a carefully neutral manner, each fully aware that they must set aside any lingering personal matters for another day.
Moments later, the truck backed out of the driveway and disappeared into the surrounding mist-enshrouded trees.
As it did, an equally determined-looking young woman whose goldflecked green eyes clearly mirrored the conflicting emotions running through her mind, slowly closed the blinds and retreated into the dimly lighted bedroom with the ever-faithful panther close at her side.
Two hours later, at 0800 hours Pacific standard time, in an open-sided barn with leaky gutters that served as a training facility for the Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal, First Sergeant Aran Wintersole stepped onto an array of surplus wrestling mats and introduced martial-arts instructor Henry Randolph Lee to his first four students.
At that precise moment, three time zones and twenty-six hundred miles away, on an equally cold and drizzly Monday morning in Washington, DC, Regis J. Smallsreed impatiently buzzed his chief of staff and demanded to know why the hell Simon Whatley wasn't in his office, where he was supposed to be.
Approximately two dozen increasingly frantic phone calls later, the staff chief informed Smallsreed via the intercom (with some degree of apprehension, because every member of Smallsreed's staff knew to stay the hell out of the congressman's luxuriously appointed private office between the hours of ten and noon unless the President and Congress had declared war on some country actually capable of putting up a decent fight), and cautiously advised his mercurial boss that Whatley had apparently vanished.
Yes sir, the staff chief confirmed, according to Whatley's people, Whatley got on the plane in Medford last night; but no sir, according to the hotel manager, he had not checked into his reserved room yet. Perhaps, sir, given the tight scheduling of the flights, Whatley got held over in either Portland or San Francisco; but no sir, he hadn't called or left a message to that effect, as far as anyone knew.
Already in a foul humor because a lucrative piece of legislation seemed almost certain to lose by a single goddamned vote he couldn't scare up anywhere in this new, godforsaken Congress, Smallsreed was in no mood to hear such a report from anyone, let alone his obsequious chief of staff, whom he often compared, unfavorably, to a drooling bird dog who couldn't find his way back to the blind if harbor buoys marked the path.
Accordingly, the now thoroughly irritated congressman repeated his order.
'Find Whatley — wherever he is, and whatever he's doing — and get him here, now.'
At precisely 12:01 that Monday afternoon, Smallsreed's understandably nervous chief of staff asked the man catering the luncheon to hand Smallsreed a sealed note which basically said, in standard bureaucratic weasel words: We have no idea where Whatley is, but we're working on it.
At 12:55, Smallsreed's extremely apprehensive chief of staff bribed the same man (who came to pick up the remains of the luncheon) to deliver a second sealed note which basically said, in that same tail-covering verbiage: Nobody has any idea where Whatley is, but everyone in the entire office is working on it.
Regis J. Smallsreed waited impatiently until the white-uniformed attendant cleaned up the catered lunch and departed, closing the door to the private office behind him.
'The son of a bitch crapped out on us,' he announced to his two companions.
'What is that supposed to mean?' Aldridge Hammond, the powerful chairman of the ICER committee, and the only man in the world that Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed truly feared, demanded from his shadowy corner of the room.
Apart from the psychological impact of having a deep and cultured but ever-so-threatening voice coming out of the darkness, there was a more practical reason for the ICER chairman's partiality for darkened corners. He was one of those genetic human rarities: a black albino whose melanin appeared in small and irregular light-to-dark brown patches over his entire skin surface… which made him extremely susceptible to the damaging effects of any source of UV light. That, in addition to his incredibly pale brown eyes and yellowish brown hair, and the gracefully fluid movements that belied his sixty-four years, gave Aldridge Hammond the chilling appearance and demeanor of a very dangerous feline creature.
It was an image that more closely approached the truth than a far-less-powerful man like Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed cared to think about.
Smallsreed's power lay in his ability to compromise and reach consensus with the 434 other Democratic and
