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Gould was on his second cup of coffee when the omelet arrived. Not long after that the receptionist came over and handed him a small envelope containing his room number and cardkey. She informed him that his luggage would be sent up momentarily. Gould thanked her and she went back behind the reception desk. Midway through the meal he moved onto the sports page. He quickly found out that Washington was at home this weekend. Gould wondered if Rapp was a Redskins fan. If he was, it might present an opportunity. He’d finished the omelet and was picking at his fruit when the FedEx man entered the lobby with a two-wheeler. Gould immediately recognized his box sitting on the bottom with a stack of smaller boxes and air letters balanced on top of it. This was all a good sign. The box was to be delivered by 10:00 a.m. With such a tight schedule there was very little time for customs to screen the package and set up any type of a sting. The more likely scenario was that they would have seized the box at the airport.
The FedEx man stopped at the concierge desk and wiggled the two-wheeler out from underneath the stack. The concierge signed for packages and the FedEx man left in a hurry. Everything appeared to be business as usual. Gould kept his eyes on the concierge as he pecked away at a keyboard behind his station. The waitress brought his bill and he signed for his breakfast. Gould continued to appear as if he was reading the paper when in fact he was keeping an eye on the front of the hotel watching for any unusual activity.
Satisfied thus far, he proceeded to the next phase and retrieved a mobile phone from his pocket. He’d purchased it this morning with a dummy credit card upon landing in Montreal. The phone was disposable and had 250 minutes of air time. He punched in the number for the hotel and held the folded newspaper in front of his face. A woman answered in French and then English and asked how to direct the call.
In English, Gould said, “I’m going to be checking into the hotel this morning, and I want to make sure a package has arrived for me.”
“Just one moment, sir. I will transfer you to the concierge.”
Gould peeked over the top of the newspaper and listened as the line began ringing. He watched the concierge reach for the phone and heard him say, “Good morning. How may I help you?”
“Hello,” Gould said with an American accent. “I’m checking into the hotel this morning and I’m expecting an important FedEx package to be delivered. Could you tell me if it has arrived?”
“Certainly, sir. What is the name?”
“Johnson…Mike Johnson. It should be a big cardboard box.”
“One moment.”
Gould watched him set the phone down and lift the other boxes off the large one on the bottom. The man bent over to read the air bill and then returned to the phone. “I have it right here, sir.”
“Wonderful. Would you please have that sent up to my room, and give yourself a ten-dollar tip. Put it on my bill.”
“Absolutely, sir…thank you. I’ll have it taken care of right away.”
“Thanks.” Gould pressed the end button on the phone and watched the concierge walk over to the reception desk. From where he was sitting he could on
ly hear pieces of the conversation. He heard the woman say something about not having checked in yet, then she went to work checking her computer. After a few seconds she gave the concierge a room number. He wrote it down on a sheet of paper and went back to his station.
Gould put his newspaper back in order and stood. He strode casually across the lobby and approached the concierge. In French he said, “Excuse me. Do you have a forecast for the rest of the week?”
“Absolutely, sir.” The concierge grabbed his computer mouse and clicked it several times. The whir of a printer was heard somewhere beneath his station. As he reached under the work surface to grab the freshly printed sheet, Gould looked down and noted the room number written on the sheet of paper.
The concierge handed him the sheet. “Here you are, sir.”
“Thank you.” Gould turned for the elevator bank and heard the concierge call for a bellman. He took the elevator to the sixth floor and noted Mr. Johnson’s room as he walked past it to reach his. What may have seemed like luck, actually wasn’t. Early check-ins at hotels were dictated by what rooms were cleaned first, and since the staff usually cleaned in teams, one entire floor was usually cleaned before they moved on to the next.
Gould entered his room. His suitcase was waiting for him at the foot of the king-size bed. He opened his briefcase and pulled out a Palm Pilot, a short ribbon cable, and a magnetic card. He pieced the three together and waited by the door to hear the bellman come and go. He heard the man enter and then leave only a few seconds later. Gould opened his room door and watched the hotel employee walk down the hall and turn for the elevators. When he heard the chime of the elevator arriving he darted across the hall and down a few doors. He slid the magnetized card into its slot and waited a second for the light to turn green. He grabbed the box and brought it back to his room.
With his pen pressed down hard, he ran it across the seam on the packing tape. He yanked the top open and reached into the sea of packing peanuts until he found the duffel bag. As he pulled it out, quite a few of the peanuts spilled onto the floor. Gould unzipped the duffel bag and gave it a quick check to make sure everything was in order. He then grabbed a garbage bag from his suitcase and put all the Styrofoam peanuts in it. After that he broke down the box, tore off the air bill, and brought both the box and the garbage bag down to the service room and placed them where the other bags of garbage were.
Back in his room, Gould took a shower, shaved, and laid everything out on the bed. His old identity was on the left, his new identity was on the right, and twenty-five thousand dollars in cash was in the middle. He double checked to make sure he’d accounted for everything that said he was Moliere and placed it all in a brown bag. His first order of business was to burn the bag before he reached the border. Gould methodically repacked his belongings and put everything by the door. After messing the bed up to make it look like it had been slept in, he left his room key on the dresser and left the hotel through the side door. Unless he ran into some unforeseen problem, he would be in America by mid-afternoon.
24
WASHINGTON, DC
T he offices for the director of National Intelligence were temporary for a variety of reasons. Like any new department in Washington, it was evolving. Which in Beltway speak meant it was growing. The original plan called for a staff of approximately twenty-five to help support the new director. The idea was that the organization would act as a clearinghouse. A filter between the various intelligence assets and the president, designed to both coordinate and streamline the process. Within six months the organization doubled in size, then tripled, and then doubled again. At last count it had shot past the two-hundred-person mark, and had no sign of slowing. It was a fledgling little bureaucracy, growing in size and scope and each day becoming a little less efficient. It was quickly becoming exactly what its detractors had feared.
Until the new organization was on its feet the Secret Service had been given the job of protecting the director. This was good for Rapp. He had friends at the Secret Service who were more than willing to do him a favor. Rapp called Jack Warch, the Special Agent in Charge of the Presidential Protective Detail, and asked him if he knew the guy running Ross’s detail. Warch did. The Secret Service was a tight group. Rapp told Warch what he needed, and the man in charge of guarding the president’s life knew Rapp well enough to not ask any questions.
Rapp had to park on a ramp a half block away and across the street. The place was only a stone’s throw from the White House. Rapp entered the main door of the building and flashed his credentials to the uniformed Secret Service officer manning the desk. He asked for Agent Travis Small and then walked over to the corner of the lobby to wait. He stood near a large potted plant with his back to the wall, hoping to remain as inconspicuous as possible. He didn’t want Ross to know he was in the building. He wanted to return last week’s favor.
Rapp didn’t have to wait long. Travis Small was anything but. He looked like a power forward for the Washington Wizards. Rapp liked the team better when they were named the Bullets. It was more honest that way. More representative of the murder capital of America.
Small half-walked, half-shuffled across the terrazzo floor of the sunny lobby. He was six foot six and had to go at least 250. He had probably played basketball or football or both. His knees were undoubtedly less than perfect. He had short black hair and skin the shade of burnished walnut. Rapp guessed he was in his early forties. His eyes swept the lobby as he approached. He was an imposing man. All business. You’d have to be one spectacular badass to want to take this guy on. Either that, or crazy. Small was just the type of guy the Secret Service liked. Surround the president with a half dozen guys like Travis Small and he’d be pretty damn safe.
The big man drew close and extended his hand.
