special model with a nitrous oxide-charged 450-horsepower engine, it's bulletproof, and nearly bombproof. Curb weight's four tons, enough to bash aside anything that gets in your path. So if this goes to shit, push the nitrous oxide button, hit the pedal, and scoot.'
'I'd rather have the gun, thank you.'
She smiled at me, turned to one of her assistants, and said, 'Get the suppository.'
The agent opened a small briefcase, peeked inside, and then withdrew a tiny metal cylinder, which he held up for me to examine.
'Wait a minute-You're not sticking that up my butt.'
Rita thought this was very funny. She said, 'We used to do that. But I got tired of looking up people's asses, so I begged the Bureau to find something else. This is the ingestible form.' I'm sure the relief on my face was palpable as she held it in front of my eyes to inspect. 'As you probably guessed, it's a tracking device. In this case, developed by our friends at the Agency Spooks tend to be real cautious, and they use wands to detect transmitting devices. These days anyone can buy those wands on eBay, so this little baby stays inactive till we signal it to transmit. We turn it on and off intermittently Range of fifty miles, and it stays in your tummy till your next bowel movement. We'll activate it only if you become a hostage.'
And more of the same. Basically, the plan was that I would go wherever Jason sent me, would rise to unexplored heights of courteousness and civility, and would deliver the package, which turned out to be not one package but fifteen oversized Samsonite suitcases stuffed with fifty million in used cash.
Option A was to unload the suitcases at the location of their choice and then depart, Sean's ass intact. Under option B, Sean would end up escorting the money containers a little longer than anticipated.
Nobody wanted to dwell much on option B. This was not a particularly good sign.
About twenty minutes into this, Jennie took a call from Mrs. Hooper, who informed her the President said it was a go and personally wished me luck and Godspeed.
Great-my final chance for a reprieve just flew out the window. But if this thing worked out okay, maybe I could ask him for a job. Of course, if it didn't work out, I wouldn't have a job problem and his would just be starting.
Rita and Jennie reassured me three dozen times that everything was going to work out fine. A tribe of agents would be following my every move. A fleet of helicopters would darken the skies. The District of Columbia police commissioner had been brought into the act, and at that moment was maneuvering blocking units into position to close every major and even insignificant artery out of the city
But it would never come to that, Rita assured me. In the unlikely event I became a hostage, and the completely unlikely event the bad guys gave them the slip, Rita would flip on the little transmitter and I'd be in broadcast mode. Once I made face-to-face contact with the perps, their minutes were numbered.
The Army has a saying: Prior planning prevents piss-poor execution. I knew Agent Rita Sanchez and her crew had been through this drill before, they sounded like they understood the odds and possibilities, they appeared confident, and they were making the proper preparations. Yet it did not escape my attention that we weren't the only ones planning. The opposition probably had schemed and prepared for this moment for months.
A very long day had become an eternity
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Eventually the preparation phase ended and we shifted into phase two, titled, I think, 'Don't Let the Idiot Think About It.'
Somebody wheeled a television into the conference room, and we sipped coffee, shared a tray of stale tuna sandwiches, observed the news coverage, and tried to act cool and relaxed.
Jennie informed us she had calls to make and Important coordination to accomplish, and she stepped out, leaving me with Rita, who for the next thirty minutes tried to thread that fine line between impressing me with her sharpness and keeping my head in the clouds. Eventually, Jennie returned.
It did not escape my attention that Jennie and Rita were isolating me from the preparations occurring outside this room. Occasionally, agents poked their heads into the room, and either Rita or Jennie stepped outside to confer for a few moments.
At one point, Jennie informed Rita, 'Did you know Sean was a former infantry officer? Special Forces, in fact. He survived some really tough scrapes.' Rita looked suitably impressed and commented, 'Great. Barnes and his pals won't give a certified badass like him the slightest problem.'
I was sure this routine came straight from the Bureau manual chapter called 'Preparing the Happy Lamb for the Slaughter.'
Nor did it escape my notice that Jennifer Margold, with whom I had nearly played a round of hide-the-willie, had suddenly cooled considerably toward yours truly. She had become distanced, and almost clinical, bordering on manipulative. I was sure she was legitimately concerned for me. Still, I found it annoying to go from being the object of her sweaty obsession to Sean the idiot.
In a way, I was delighted she had her head in the game. In a larger way, I really wasn't.
Eventually I asked Rita, 'Why do they want cash?'
'It's why bad guys do the things they do.'
'I mean-'
'I know what you mean. You thought crooks all had numbered accounts in some overseas bank they want you to wire money to.'
'Don't they?'
'Lots do want it done electronically. These days, the more sophisticated ones don't.'
'Why not?'
'We now have the ability to put electronic tracers on it. Don't matter how many times they move it, we'll still be waiting at the end, when they try to get it out of the bank.'
Intermittingly George appeared on the tube creating what I thought was a splendid illusion of professional confidence, ballooning into optimism. A few pesky reporters weren't buying this act and kept trying to worm embarrassing or insightful information from him, which George parried with wonderfully vague responses and his perpetual I-know-something-you-don't smirk. I usually found that expression annoying. This was the exception. The public would be scared shitless if it knew the amount of vacuous space behind that smirk.
Eventually Jennie went to the fax machine and retrieved the files CID had zipped over regarding our newest suspect, Mr. Clyde Wizner. She tried to struggle through them, but they made little sense to her, and she slid them across the table at me. 'Tell me about this guy.'
In one way or another, Clyde Wizner might soon be enjoying a very big role in my life, so this was the first useful diversion. Anyway, military files tend to be somewhat one-dimensional and impersonal. They tell you things like where a soldier's from, where he/she has been assigned, how he/she's been trained, and what to do with him/her after they're dead. In short, a great deal about the person and nothing about the personality.
So here's the deal. Clyde Wizner was forty-nine years old, originally from Killeen, the town outside Fort Hood. He had entered the Army at the age of twenty-two in the year 1977, a high school graduate, no college, and had a GT score-roughly comparable to an IQ-of 135. So Clyde was bright and was selected to become an Army engineer, with a subspecialty in EOD, or Explosive Ordnance Disposal-an expertise that takes nerves of steel, a wonderful memory for tiny details and textbook procedures, and a large reliable life insurance policy.
After basic training and a few specialty training courses, Clyde spent three years at Fort Hood, followed by three years in Germany, a year in Korea, three more years at Hood, and then out. Interspersed between those assignments, he attended plenty of additional training, a few leadership courses and a few bombs and mines things to keep him current on the latest battlefield nasties. He remained single and presumably unattached.
He made it to the rank of staff sergeant, and I guess his service was honorable, because I saw no evidence of blemishes, and he was immediately accepted for civilian employment at Fort Hood.
The interesting fact was that Clyde Wizner spent almost seventeen years performing civilian service before he mysteriously walked into his boss's office and quit. He was only three short years from grabbing the golden ring of lifetime monthly checks and half-assed medical benefits. A cynical mind might suspect Clyde had found a better
