Stansfield paused to read Garret’s reaction and then said, “He’s dead.”
Garret looked like a murderer who had just received a not-guilty verdict from a jury.
He exhaled deeply and asked, “Where?”
“At your house.” The look of panic and fear returned to Garret’s face instantly.
“What?”
“The media is at your house right now broadcasting the entire story.”
“At my house?”
“Yes.” Stansfield studied the frazzled Garret and asked, “Why would someone dump
Arthur’s body on your lawn?” While Garret stumbled for an answer, the President grabbed the master remote and turned on the entire bank of television sets. Garret responded to Stansfield’s question with wide eyes. “I have no idea … absolutely no idea.”
Cocking his head in a doubtful manner, Stansfield said, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to do better than that.” Garret shook his head emphatically. “I don’t know. I really don’t even know the guy.”
Stansfield looked at him pensively. There was no doubt Garret was hiding something.
Stansfield brought the phone back to his mouth.
“Charlie, I’ll be there in about thirty minutes. I want a complete update as soon as I
land.” Stansfield hung up the phone and checked his watch. He thought about asking
Garret to come with him so his people could debrief him but knew Garret would never go for it.
Besides, he needed to do some checking first. Stansfield looked over at the President, who was staring aghast at the TVS. “Sir, this is a potentially embarrassing situation for you, but all in all we are very lucky. Whoever took Arthur didn’t have enough time to interrogate him, so it looks hopeful that we haven’t been compromised in any way. I have to get back to Langley and start working on damage control. Our allies are going to want some answers. I will call you as soon as I find anything out, otherwise I think we should plan on meeting in the morning.”
“That sounds like a good plan,” responded a confused President Stevens.
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Stansfield gave Garret one more questioning look and left. As soon as he was out the door, Stevens pulled Garret aside and said, “Stu, what in the hell is going on?”
Garret shook his head sideways and asked himself where in the hell Mike Nance was.
COLEMAN FOUND A POORLY LIT PARKING LOT DOWNTOWN AND LEFT
THE Beamer unlocked with the keys in the ignition. From there he walked the two miles to Adams Morgan. It was a good night for clear thinking. The cool air helped sharpen his senses. He was out of the game and knew it.
The FBI would be waiting for him, it was only a question of where and how many agents. If he really had to, he could lose them and go underground, but that would only make him look guilty. For now the game plan would be to act normal. As Coleman neared his apartment, he became more aware of his surroundings, looking for things he hadn’t seen before. The call from Admiral Devoe had raised his level of paranoia significantly. By measuring his difficulty in detecting the surveillance Coleman would be able to tell how interested the FBI was.
If he passed a van with dark-tinted windows, or a four-door sedan with a driver slouched behind the wheel, he would know the FBI thought him no more important than the other hundred or so former commandos they were investigating. Coleman walked like a predator, his eyes taking inventory of everything around him. He was loose physically but tight mentally.
Turning onto his street, he scanned the row of cars from beginning to end. Nothing:
no vans, no trucks. They might be parked on one of the other streets. He would have to check them in the morning when he went for a jog. Turning up the steps to his apartment building, he opened the first door and then used his key to get through the second one. He climbed to the second floor and stopped in front of his door. Bending over, he checked the lock for any signs of its being picked. There were none, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t been done. There were professionals who could do it without leaving a mark. Coleman opened the door and entered. After turning on the lights, he grabbed the remote control off the coffee table and turned on the TV. With the remote control in hand, he closed the shades and turned up the volume.
Coleman set the remote down and grabbed a small black sensor about the size of a garage-door opener out of his pocket. Starting by the TV, he worked his way around the room, running the box over and under every piece of furniture. The sensor didn’t detect a single listening device in the room. Without turning any lights on, Coleman checked the kitchen, bathroom, and his bedroom. Again, he found nothing. Instead of becoming less tense he grew more nervous. Not finding any bugs didn’t mean he wasn’t under surveillance; it could also mean that whoever was watching him was good.
Coleman grabbed a small flashlight out of the top drawer of his dresser and crawled under his bed, where he kept a box of interesting but legal items. The box was always lined up the same way, the front edge directly under the center bar of his bed frame. He turned on the flashlight and eyeballed the edge of the box. It was off center.
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Someone had been in his apartment. Coleman crawled back out and brought the box with him.
Staying on the floor, he put the flashlight in his teeth and opened the box. Inside was a legally registered Glock semiautomatic pistol, three clips, a box of ammo, a knife, a pair of night-vision goggles, and a variety of other things that wouldn’t be that unusual for a former Navy SEAL to own. Coleman grabbed the night-vision goggles, and went into the bathroom, where he whistled out loud and turned on the shower.
Sitting on the toilet, he took off his boots and then walked to the front door.
