what happened. These spotters had moved through the bush, crossed the creek a hundred yards or so north of where Clark crossed, and the man in the soaked camo had slipped on the flat rocks, dunked himself and his.308 rifle. Gun oil from his weapon would keep it from rusting, but that gun oil had given away the presence of the team to their target.
Clark thought he could backtrack over to his neighbor’s house. It would take at least a half-hour, but there he could call the authorities, get some Frederick County Sheriff’s Department deputies here to deal with the two snipers. But that would draw way too much attention to John Clark himself, inviting questions as to why a pair of military-trained men with a high-power rifle were on his property.
Or he could take care of this himself. Yes, it was the only way. He planned his route back into the trees, then south, behind the knoll, and then he planned his attack on the two men from behind.
But he didn’t get very far. In the distance he saw big black vehicles, five of them, heading up the road toward his house. They moved fast, without announcing their presence with their headlights, and Clark just lay there and watched them with fascination.
From a hundred yards away he watched the big SUVs park around his property, front and back. Only then were they close enough for him to see that men in black body armor stood on the running boards, held on to railings on the roofs, and clutched M4 assault rifles with their other hands.
He couldn’t actually read the white writing on the back of their uniforms and body armor, but he recognized the equipment and the tactics of the men using that equipment.
Clark closed his eyes and put his forehead down in the cool leaves. He knew who was smashing the front and back doors of his farmhouse.
This was an FBI SWAT team.
John lay there motionless and watched the FBI shatter his back door with a battering ram, then charge inside in a tactical train of men.
Within seconds their team leader announced they were clear, and men stepped back outside.
“Son of a bitch,” John said softly as he backed up, returning to the concealment of the woods. Here he shed his waders and tucked them under a collectio?r a colln of leaves and pine needles. He didn’t bother to take too much time on this project; he’d made no attempt to hide his tracks as he walked here through the woods, and he was about to make tracks in the other direction. When the FBI made it over here to the tree line, they’d see evidence that someone had wandered up on their raid, and then left the area.
After hiding the waders, Clark turned, stood, and began running back up the trail, looking to create some distance between himself and the men after him. He needed to find out what this was all about before he decided what the hell he would do about it.
As he ran, more than just about anything, he wished his mobile phone worked right now. He had a sinking suspicion he’d missed an important call or two while out fishing.
41
The press conference was hastily called for the end of the workday at the Robert F. Kennedy Department of Justice Building on Pennsylvania Avenue, just off the mall in D.C. There weren’t many journalists around the DOJ building at that late hour, but when the news services learned the attorney general himself would be making an announcement, reporters shot over from the nearby Capitol building and assembled in a conference room not far from AG Michael Brannigan’s office.
At five thirty-five, more than a half-hour late, Brannigan and a pair of his senior staff shuffled into the room. The journalists waited with growing interest in what he had to say.
The first indication that something remarkable was going on was when the attorney general stood at the lectern without speaking for a moment. He looked off to his subordinates a couple of times. Reporters following his eyes saw men on mobile phones in the corner, speaking softly and hurriedly into them. After several seconds of this, of Brannigan watching his men, obviously hoping for something from them, one of the assistant AGs looked up at his boss and shook his head no.
Brannigan nodded, showed no outward disappointment, and finally addressed the reporters in attendance. “Thank you for coming. This afternoon I am announcing that a federal arrest warrant has been issued for one John A. Clark, an American and former employee of the Central Intelligence Agency. Mr. Clark is wanted for questioning for a series of cold-case murders spanning several decades, as well as implication in ongoing criminal activity.” The journalists jotted down the name and looked at one another. Brannigan’s office had been making threats about going after CIA officers for actions in the field, but nothing much had happened. Was this the beginning, here at the end of Kealty’s first term, of the pogrom against the CIA that many had said was long overdue?
None of them knew anything about Clark or any case about a CIA spook named Clark, so there were not even any questions as the AG paused.
Brannigan had been warned about this, and instructed by the White House to let slip the next line. “Mr. Clark, you may know, is a longtime friend, a confidant, and a former bodyguard of President Jack Ryan, both during Mr. Ryan’s tenure in the CIA as well as after. We understand this is a politically charged case, but it is a case we cannot overlook due to the serious allegations against Mr. Clark.” Now the press began to scramble. Websites were opened on smart phones, questions of clarification were shouted out. A woman from NBC asked when the next update on the case would be given, presumably so she could have time to figure out just what the hell was?o going on.
Brannigan said, “I expect we’ll have something for you within a few hours. As of this moment Clark is a fugitive from justice, but our dragnet should bring him in shortly.” Brannigan left the conference room, and the reporters followed him out with their phones to their ears. The TV media would have something on the case by the six-o’clock news. Print had a little more time to get some facts together.
Jack Junior arrived at Melanie’s house at six o’clock. They had planned on a more formal evening in D.C., but both were tired after a long day at work, so they decided to just get together for a quick and casual dinner instead. When Melanie opened the door to her place, she looked beautiful, but she apologized to Ryan, asked for just a couple more minutes to get ready.
Ryan sat on a love seat, looking around the room to occupy himself. He noticed a collection of books and papers stacked on the little desk in the corner next to Melanie’s laptop. Books on Pakistan, on Egypt, printouts full of maps, pictures, and text.
“Still bringing your work home with you, I see?” Jack asked with a smile.
“No. That’s just some research I’m doing on my own.” “Mary Pat isn’t giving you enough to do?” Melanie laughed. “That’s not it at all. I just like poking around in open source in my free time. There’s nothing there that is in any way classified. Just out there for anyone.” “If it’s not classified, can I take a look at it?” “Why? Are you interested in terrorism?” “I’m interested in you.” Melanie laughed, grabbed her coat, and said, “I’m ready when you are.” Jack cocked his head slightly, wondered what she had cooking over there by her laptop, but he climbed off the couch and followed the beautiful brunette out the door.
Fifteen minutes later, Jack and Melanie sat at the bar at Murphy’s, an Irish pub on King Street, not far from her place. They were halfway into their first beer, and a big basket of Old Bay wings had just been delivered, when the bartender switched to a news channel. The two twenty-somethings ignored it for the most part while they chatted, but Ryan glanced up occasionally. He was hoping to see some new poll numbers for his dad that would allow his parents to breathe a little more easily, so he looked over Melanie’s shoulder at the
