Gracefully, Senator Doyle pivoted to me: “Mr. Phillips, I am very much interested in what you and Mr. Smith think is going on here.”
Her face was all business, but I caught the wink. She was on the team, signaling me to relax and speak from experience.
“Yes, Senator Doyle—thank you, ma’am. At the moment, the Russians are our only lead, but it doesn’t make sense that they’d try something so brazen as to kidnap, torture, and execute a sitting US senator. That’s begging for retaliation on anunfathomable scale. A nation-state gives us an easy target. Al-Qaeda makes more sense to me, but as far as we can tell, there has been no claim from them, not even following the video broadcast. Anybody with a mask and a black flag could have done that. It seems almost more of a staged play than a planned operation.”
“Mr. Phillips, what makes you say that?” Congressman Dempsey asked. My girl Tabitha gave him a look but nodded in my direction for me to continue.
“The assault and kidnapping were professional. These guys sank a fucking ferry. They coordinated a spectacular diversion while killing ninety-nine percent of a Secret Service detail who do this shit for a living. Add in the calls to France and the fact that the dead sniper was a Latino, and we’re facing a kaleidoscope of fragmented explanations.”
Pencils scribbled across notebooks as I continued.
“Nothing is obvious about any of this, especially when the personal aspects are factored in. It was known that Harrison was cheating on his wife, who was living apart from him on another part of the island. We’ve also uncovered fishy behavior among Harrison’s staff leading up to the night of the attack. There’s a drug piece related to the mistress, but it makes no sense—obviously a sloppy frame job. Best scenario points to a group that put a lot of balls in the air—maybe one too many.”
“Another cell or organization?” Jennings speculated. “Maybe one we haven’t yet heard of?”
The courtly Senator Schaffer spoke up for the first time, sounding skeptical: “It seems to me that it would be a very tall order for a brand-new terrorist cell to execute such a complexoperation with seemingly no mistakes … no fog of war … no Murphy’s Law effects.”
“Well, John, I agree with you on almost every point. But we also have to consider the possibility that these people had access to inside information.”
Jennings looked at his watch, then made eye contact with Doyle. “Why don’t we take a quick break to stretch our legs—perhaps get a drink from the bar—before we continue?”
An agreement was reached.
“When we reconvene, Tabitha will close us out with an update from her position and some guidance for us all to move forward.”
CHAPTER 77
Palm Beach, Florida
The Wilson home on South Ocean Boulevard was receiving a delivery on a hefty pallet draped with a giant tarp.
In the driveway, a woman in aviator glasses, coveralls, and a ball cap directed two muscled deliverymen to maneuver the large pallet off the truck and into the Wilsons’ four-car garage.
Passersby might imagine the delivery was a sculpture or some artwork or some crazy piece of exotic furniture the Wilsons wanted to shield from prying eyes. That sort of secrecy was pretty typical behavior for the families who lived on Palm Beach Island.
Once the pallet was securely settled in one bay of the garage, the stout men closed the garage door, retrieved the clipboard with the signed receipt from the son of the property owner, and pulled away in the big box truck markedFlorida Moving and Storage.
While Meg and Si unpacked and inventoried the contents ofthe large pallet, Jimmy T. and Rudy headed due west to exchange thebig box of fun, as Meg called the truck, for an old 5 series BMW. Ordinarily a nondescript Chrysler or even a minivan would work for a recon and surveillance operation, but in a place like Palm Beach, a bland American model would draw more attention than a sporty European sedan.
The Russians had never seen Rudy or Jimmy T., so it was decided that the two of them would operate wherever they could get clear “eyes on” either of the objectives. After they got the BMW, they’d drive around the island for a cursory look at the Egorov place and the yachtOryolin the boat basin, then link up with Meg and Si after sunset.
Si Wilson’s house provided a slight hiding-in-plain-sight advantage, but even with Meg and Si operating as a buddy team focused on video and electronic surveillance of the Egorov house, the weak link was still Meg: Pavel Egorov certainly wouldn’t have forgotten the woman who had rappelled onto his yacht from a helicopter in the middle of the ocean and kicked him in the nuts. But the decision was made that as the chief intelligence officer for Team Rhino, Meg needed to be there for the inaugural reconnaissance mission of an official Rocket’s Red Glare operation.
“Okay, Si, time for us to make some money,” Meg said. “You know how to throw a paper airplane?”
Si gave her a slight scowl. “Just how pampered a life do you think I’ve led? Believe it or not, Meg, I once even played in a mud puddle.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Meg said. “I am asking so you’ll understand the motion I need you to replicate so you can launch our drone.”
“Okay, okay,” Si chuckled. “When the time comes, I’ll show you what I’ve got.”
The tall hedges around the Wilson property gave them plenty of free space to play sneaky Pete, but they waited until Meg determined that it was dark enough to fly the drone without any interference from neighbors.
With perfect form, Si launched the drone, then sat next to Meg as she remotely controlled the aircraft.
“Look at the clarity of that camera feed!” Si exclaimed as the small TV screen came alive in bright green.
Meg maneuvered the aircraft out to sea, then had it make an easy 180-degree turn back toward the house. She gently nudged the toggle guiding the nose of the plane to the south and watched as it slowly traced the breaking waves along the beach.
