Brink of Chaos (22 page)

Special Agent Ben Boling was in his office, finishing up reports at his desk. He was summarizing his investigation into the possible threat against Senator Hewbright. He had been walking a razor-thin line with John Gallagher, collecting tips and dropping hints himself, but just short of violating Bureau rules.

When Boling was in Wichita, he scoured the records of the Better Body Health and Fitness Club where Perry Tedrich was a member and had worked out the day of his disappearance. Boling learned something intriguing. On the day that Tedrich had been there, a woman member said that, after her workout, her membership card went missing, apparently when she was in the shower. At first she thought she had misplaced it but realized it had probably been stolen. While the locker rooms were open to the public, a card was required to get into the gym itself. For some reason the owner had set up a system where the membership cards had RFID chips and ID numbers in them but no other identifying data — no picture, no name. According to the fitness center, that was to protect the privacy of their members.

When the manager of the center found out about the possible theft, he made a general announcement over the PA, warning the people in the gym to make sure their cards were secure. Boling figured that Tedrich must have heard that and placed his card in his shoe for safekeeping.

Boling asked the owner to check the computer registration log. It showed that the woman whose card was stolen entered the gym at 12:30 p.m. that day. She left at 1:20 p.m. when she had finished her
workout. But someone, using the same card, went back to the gym at 1:28 p.m., about three minutes after Perry Tedrich had arrived.

One thing that had not been made public was the fact that Perry Tedrich wasn’t just the head of Hewbright’s Wichita campaign. He had also been an integral part of Hewbright’s Washington senate staff for several years, before returning to his hometown of Wichita to run that city’s campaign headquarters. He knew Hewbright as well as anyone in the capital, including a lot of personal contact with Hewbright’s late wife, who had died of cancer two years earlier. Did Tedrich have some personal or political information about Hewbright that his enemies wanted to learn?

That was when Boling put in a city-wide request for hotels, restaurants, bars, and movie theaters — all of which now were using RFID scanners as well as BIDTag scanners — to see if the computer chip in the membership card registered a hit at any one of them that day. He received one result. The card carrier had entered the Red Steer Bar and Grill at 3:00 p.m. At the exact same time, the RFID chip in Tedrich’s membership card also registered a hit as he also walked into the restaurant. At 4:50 p.m., Perry Tedrich’s credit card was hit for a lunch for a party of two. No one at the Red Steer remembered Tedrich or the mystery woman, but the cards showed that they left together.

Boling felt he was closing in. He was about to put it in writing when a flag showed up in the corner of his computer screen. It read: “Assignment Status Report.”

He read it over, groaned, and shot back an insta-memo to the sender. “Is this true?”

The reply showed up on his screen five minutes later. “Yes. Effective immediately.”

Boling sat at his desk, staring out the window for nearly half an hour. Then he called his wife. “Hey, it’s me. Okay, honey, how about dinner out tonight? Your choice of restaurant.”

“Sure, but I’ve already thawed some pork chops.”

“Feed ‘em to the dogs.”

“Something wrong?”

“I just need to get out and get my mind off my job.”

That same day, John Gallagher had managed to persuade the manager of the Better Body Health and Fitness Center to let him roam among the clients in the gym. Gallagher had simply explained that he was “working the case with FBI Special Agent Ben Boling.” Technically true, he mused. Sort of.

He arrived on the same day of the week — at the same time — as when Perry Tedrich had last been there. Gallagher interviewed every woman in the gym, but none of them could remember a thing about that day. He strolled over to a man on the elliptical machine. He flashed a picture of Perry Tedrich, and the man stopped his routine and took a look. “Yeah, he looks familiar. I’ve seen him here.”

Then Gallagher asked whether he recalled the day of the incident and gave the date and added, “The desk records say you came in that day.”

The guy became a little ill at ease, but Gallagher assured him he wasn’t the focus of any investigation and had nothing to worry about. So he started opening up. He said he vaguely remembered Tedrich being there that day.

“Do you remember any new faces that day?”

The man smiled. “Oh, yeah. A real looker. A really fine-looking woman working one of the ellipticals down the row there.”

Gallagher asked for a description, after which he pulled out pictures of some of the women on Hewbright’s staff, together with a few wildcards thrown in for good measure. He showed them to the man and told him to take his time.

“This one,” he said, pointing to one of the photos. He picked that photo out in an instant, and Gallagher knew why. He thanked the man, trotted out of the fitness center, and immediately speed-dialed Ben Boling.

When the FBI agent answered, Gallagher skipped the pleasantries. “Ben, hot off the press. I know you don’t want any official help from us Roundtable types, but I also know the politics of the new FBI since Tulrude took over — and how you guys have your hands tied behind
your back. So I’m about to give you some really sweet unofficial help on this Hewbright case. You can thank me later. I’ve just made a positive ID on one of Hewbright’s national advisors — Zeta Milla — as the woman Perry Tedrich was with on the day he vanished.”

Boling was in the lunchroom of the FBI field office where several other agents were milling around. He asked Gallagher to hold on as he went back to his desk.

When Boling got back he said, “Okay. That fits with what I’ve got. I found out that our victim was with the same person both at the gym and then at a restaurant later that day.”

There was silence on the other end. Finally Gallagher replied, “Awfully nice of you to share some information with me, Ben. Really appreciate that.”

Now Boling was the silent one, as he was figuring things out.

“So, listen,” Gallagher continued, “I’ve also found out something else. Zeta Milla’s got this cover story about being a heroic survivor who escaped Cuba as a little girl, but I believe she stole the identity of that Cuban girl.”

When he didn’t get a reply, Gallagher added, “Still there, Ben?”

“Yeah …”

“Anyway, I know the really rotten-to-the-core politics in the Bureau. One of the reasons I left. But Ben, I’m telling you, watch your backside. You don’t know where this will lead. One thing, though — if you get the pink slip telling you you’re off this case — you can pretty well guess that something is really rotten in Denmark, so to speak — and in Washington too.”

“Thanks for the tip, John.”

“So — where do we go from here?”

“Nowhere in particular.”

“What?”

“Yeah, look,” Ben said, “I gotta go. Good talking to you.”

After clicking off, Ben Boling scrolled his screen up to the Assignment Status Report he had just received and read the notice again:

Outside the barbecue joint, the parking lot had been rigged up with a platform that had “Hewbright for President” banners everywhere and was filled with long tables heaped with food. Deborah Jordan was waiting patiently off to the side. She had been standing there for two hours, first listening to Hewbright’s stump speech, then watching him shake hands under the watchful eye of his Secret Service agent. A parade of well-wishers lined up to fill their paper plates with barbecued chicken, baked beans, and cornbread.

Finally, she spotted Katrena Amid with her staff credentials swinging around her neck. Deb strode up to her. “Sorry to bother you, Ms. Amid, but I’m Deborah, and I spoke to you earlier today about working as a volunteer on the national staff, remember? I came recommended from Abigail Jordan. She’s a personal friend and supporter of Senator Hewbright. I’ve got Pentagon experience in information services, and I graduated from West Point.”

“Yes,” Amid said, “I remember. You’re Deborah Shelly. We were waiting for our security folks to clear you. I haven’t heard back. Sorry.”

Deb persisted. “I’ve got my own car. I’ll pay my own expenses —”

“That’s nice, but we’ve got a lot of folks who want to work in the campaign, and we can’t fit all of them in. Perhaps you can work for us in your local precinct — that would be a great help to the senator.”

Just then, Deborah noticed that Senator Hewbright had worked his way down the end of the food tables and was shaking hands with
a couple. He was just twenty feet away. Deborah excused herself and hurried off in his direction before Amid could protest. The Secret Service agent stepped in front of her when she was about ten feet from Senator Hewbright.

Deborah stopped, smiled cordially, and called out to the senator. “Senator Hewbright — Abigail Jordan says hello!”

Hewbright turned and squinted in her direction. He started moving toward Deborah as Katrena Amid stepped quickly in her direction to play interference. But Deborah beat her to the punch. Hewbright was next to Deborah and tossed a relaxed nod to his security guard. Deborah explained, “Abigail Jordan recommended me as a volunteer on your staff.”

“Oh? So, how is Abigail these days?” the senator said as he shook Deborah’s hand.

“Doing well, Senator. Working on her husband’s case, I believe, trying to reverse the nonsense caused by the Tulrude administration.”

Deborah pulled a letter out of her pocket and handed it to Hewbright. “Here’s Mrs. Jordan’s letter of recommendation.”

Hewbright scanned it while Katrena Amid grimaced.

“This young lady is Deborah Shelly,” Senator Hewbright said, holding up the letter and handing it to his staffer. “It says here you graduated with honors from West Point and work at the Pentagon.”

“Yes, sir. I applied for an extended leave with the hopes of being able to help with your campaign.”

“Of course, security is getting tighter these days. They’ll have to screen you.”

“Ms. Amid has already put my name in several hours ago. I filled out your security form. We’re just waiting now.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Hewbright added. “I have great admiration for Abigail and Joshua Jordan. If they say you should be on my national team, and you get clearance from security, then I say come onboard.” He turned to his assistant campaign chief of staff. “Katrena?”

She smiled tightly. “Yes, Senator, we could use her, absolutely.”

“Well, this is the last whistle-stop for me before our national convention, which starts tomorrow in Denver. I’m flying there tonight.”

“And you have the sufficient delegate count from your primary victories,” Deborah said brightly, “to sweep the convention.” She was silently thankful she had done her homework.

“On the other hand,” Hewbright said, “anything can happen at a political convention.” He waved to her and started to step away as his national campaign director beckoned to him. Hewbright stopped and took a step back toward Deborah. “I’m sure you know I’m an old military guy myself and a member of the armed services committee for more years than I can count. I’m really happy to have someone like you onboard.”

After stopping for a moment to say something to George Caulfield, Hank Hewbright headed to the big campaign bus to get some down time.

In the campaign bus Zeta Milla was pouring a cup of coffee for Senator Hewbright. She mixed in some creamer and a packet of Sweet’N Low. “Hank, here’s your coffee, just the way you like it.”

“Wow, that’s real service. Thanks, Zeta.”

He dropped into a soft swivel chair and loosened his tie. “I know your focus is South and Central America and the island nations, but that briefing book you put together on the Russian Republics and China for my future debates with President Tulrude was exceptional.”

“Glad it was helpful. I’ve told you a million times, I’ll do whatever I can to help. You’re very special.”

He nodded humbly. “It’s been a long primary season,” he said, rubbing his eyes, “but now the convention. Then the debates, and then the home stretch to the election.”

Milla sat next to him in the other swivel chair. “If you allow me to say so, Hank, I know that Ginny, from what I knew of her, would have loved to have been here to see this. She would have been so proud of what you’ve accomplished — and all that you will accomplish as the leader of the Free World. This is your time, Hank. Relish it.”

“Funny you should mention Ginny. I haven’t said this to many
people — but she’s been on my mind because of what she said shortly before she died, about her wanting to see me run.”

Zeta reached over and rubbed his hand. He squeezed back. He looked her in the eyes, then broke the gaze and slowly released her hand. “We have to be careful, Zeta. About mixing the personal with the political. Sometimes the lines get blurred. It’s not about Ginny either. She told me pointblank that I would need a woman in my life when she was gone.”

Zeta smiled and nodded, but she wasn’t surprised to hear Hank’s confession. She replied, “Whoever that woman is, she’ll be very lucky. I’ve never met a man like you, Hank.” Then she pulled his hand to her lips and kissed it. Standing up to leave, she said, “You need time. Today was a long day. I’ll be around … anything you need … anything. Just ask.”

As she walked out of the bus, she ran into George Caulfield who asked where Hewbright was.

“In the bus,” Zeta answered. “We were having some private time together.”

The campaign director stopped in his tracks and gave her a withering look. Then he mounted the steps into the bus.

Zeta continued on. There was a lot of work to do.

An hour later, Katrena Amid, holding her Allfone, strode up to Deborah. “Right. Just heard. Got an expedited approval from the security people. Looks like we’ll be seeing you in Denver. You’ll have to get your own transportation though. We’ll have your credentials by the time you arrive.”

Deborah breathed easier and thanked Katrena. In her peripheral vision Deborah caught Zeta Milla. As Katrena hurried off, Deborah casually jogged over to Milla, who was putting some papers into a briefcase. “Excuse me, but aren’t you Zeta Milla?”

The Cuban woman smiled politely. “Yes, I am.”

“I’m Deborah. New campaign worker. Volunteer. I know you’re one
of the shining lights among the senator’s foreign relations advisors, and I just wanted to introduce myself.”

“Kind of you to say so,” Milla said, going back to her papers.

“I’m a West Point grad with a strong interest in foreign relations. So I’m thrilled I might be able to work with you.”

Zeta Milla turned quickly to face her. “I’m afraid not. Campaign staff — especially volunteers — don’t consort with professional policy advisors. Now, if you’ll excuse me …”

Milla gathered up her reports, stuffed them in her briefcase, and walked quickly away.