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FIFTEEN
GREAT FALLS
History is an omelet. The eggs are already broken.
On the way down US 15 to Leesburg with two Secret Service agents in the back seat, Cole and Rube debated about where they should stay. Neither Rube’s house nor Cole’s apartment seemed like a good idea, given that there were people who thought it was quite important to get them out of the picture.
The Secret Service guys voted strongly for a single hotel room. “We patrol the hall in shifts all night.”
“That’s not subtle,” said Rube.
“If we meant to be subtle,” said the agent, “would we dress like this and openly scan the crowds?”
“So the ‘secret’ part of your agency’s name—”
“A holdover from the old days,” said the agent. “We’d rather scare amateur assassins away. And make life very hard for any pros that might give it a try.”
“You’d really take a bullet on purpose?” asked Cole.
“For the President,” the agent said. “For you, I’ll just subdue the guy who shot you so we can try him for the crime, and then call an ambulance.”
“I wouldn’t think to ask for more.”
In the end, Rube and Cole shared one hotel room and the agents shared an adjoining one. Cole had argued for the Ritz-Carlton but they settled for the Tyson’s Corner Marriott. It was expensive enough.
As soon as they were safely installed in the room and the agents had swept for bugs and other surveillance devices, Rube called DeeNee’s home phone on his cell. Cole only heard Rube’s side of the conversation, but it was clear enough. Rube ascertained that DeeNee still had access to all the files and that none of the office locks had been changed. Then he asked DeeNee to come to work at 0500 so they’d have less chance of being interfered with. “I don’t want confrontations.” She resisted, but finally agreed.
Then Rube called the other members of his team and set up a rendezvous for 0730 at the same Borders where they had met before. “But be up early,” he said to each one of them. “Because if something goes wrong at the Pentagon, our rendezvous may change, time and place.” Every one of them volunteered to come along to the Pentagon with them, but he turned them down. “If something goes wrong, if I get arrested and Cole, too, I don’t want you guys caught up in it. I don’t want them to know your faces. Besides, we have Secret Service protection.”
Every single one of them commented that so had the President on Friday the Thirteenth. Every single time, Rube gave the same little smile.
They both showered before they went to bed, so there’d be no delays in the morning. By the time they were done with their showers, the agents showed up with the uniforms Rube and Cole s
hould wear to work, and several other changes of clothes. They apparently had sent some flunky from the office to both their homes to pack for them.
So when they got to the Pentagon, they were crisply dressed in the right kind of uniform. Cole would rather have been wearing fatigues and body armor, but the idea this morning was to be relatively unobtrusive.
There was a discussion with the guards about the pistols the Secret Service agents were carrying. The Secret Service won, partly because of Rube’s letter from the President. Orders from the President superseded the standing policy. The guards pointed out that Rube and Cole weren’t the President. The Secret Service agents said to shut up and let them through.
Cole noticed that Rube didn’t lead them on the same route through the building that Cole had always taken. There were about nineteen different ways to get from point A to point B in the Pentagon, none of them convenient. Cole memorized this one as an alternative route.
When they got to the office, DeeNee was already there, with files stacked in boxes. How early did she arrive, Cole wondered. He was happy to see that she had the same cold and sarcastic attitude toward Rube that she had toward him. It wasn’t just that he was new—she talked to everybody that way.
“You know that everything in here has already been photocopied about three times. If they removed anything, I don’t know. And I’m not helping you carry this out to your car.”
“I never expected you to,” said Rube as he picked up one of the two boxes.
Cole looked at the Secret Service agent nearest him and gestured for him to feel free to pick up the other file box. The agent looked at him coldly. Apparently protecting somebody did not allow for carrying boxes. Cole stepped forward to pick up the other.
“So you’re on assignment from LaMonte Nielson?” asked DeeNee.
“We’re going to prove that these Progressives planned and carried out Friday the Thirteenth,” said Rube.
DeeNee bent over and opened a desk drawer. “Well, I can tell you right now who copied your assassination plans and kept the one with your fingerprints to use as evidence against you.” There was a .22 pistol in her desk drawer. She pulled it out. Why was she showing them a weapon? Did she feel that some threat was imminent?
“I did it,” said DeeNee. Then she stepped toward Rube and aimed straight at his left eye and shot him with the barrel no more than two inches away.
First Rube dropped the box of files. Then he followed them to the floor. He never made a sound. He was dead the instant the bullet entered his skull. It did not come out. There was no functioning brain inside.
