In the end, Montgomery reminded the director that there was a fourth scenario. The Service could refuse the request, Chadwick would be murdered, and the trust and confidence of POTUS would be lost.
Director Howe said that the phone call was only a way to get everyone on the same page, and there’d never been any question that they would do what the President asked, so long as it was not illegal, immoral, or unethical. Hiding in the shadows to safeguard a hateful woman from potential assassination was uncomfortable, but it was none of those things.
The call ended with the lawyer urging Howe to reconsider — a perfectly safe option, since his words would be forgotten if all went well or he would be vindicated if things went sour. Montgomery found his own position more precarious. No one said it out loud, but if this operation went bad, he’d be the one to take the blame. Even President Ryan couldn’t protect him if he was fighting for his own job.
Where virtually everyone else in law enforcement was trained to seek cover during a gun battle, men and women of the United States Secret Service trained to make themselves the larger target, to stand up and fight while others in the team hustled their protectee away from danger. Shitty position or not, Gary Montgomery knew nothing else. The President had asked him personally to stand up and fight, and that was all there was to it.
Several members of the administration, including the chief of staff, were afforded Secret Service protection. These details were relatively small, just a handful of agents, and stealing even one could jeopardize coverage. Montgomery raided his own team first, as well as drawing from VPOTUS, the secretary of the treasury, the Washington Field Office, and USSS Headquarters. In the end he had a small group of five female and seven male agents. Most of them looked young enough to be Montgomery’s children but came with glowing recommendations from their superiors.
Three would work night shift — a basically static post that did little but watch the condominium — while the other nine agents would work days, shadowing the senator wherever she went.
He’d chosen agents who lived near or inside the Beltway. Some of them lived within a few miles of one another, though their schedules made it so they hardly ever crossed paths. The Secret Service was a small agency, and most knew one another, or at the very least had friends in common. There was a certain amount of “smoking and joking” as the detail came together and people caught up on one another’s lives.
Montgomery held the first briefing at the nondescript orange brick building on H Street that was Secret Service Headquarters. He’d been honest with everyone, including the lawyer who sat at the end of the long conference table.
“There has been no articulated threat,” he said.
“Yeah,” Mike Ayers said. “Not to be indelicate, but have you listened to the senator? I’m sure she’s got a million people who hate her ever-lovin’ guts. Sorry boss, just saying what everyone is already thinking. It’s the ones who don’t make a loud fuss who we have to worry about.”
The whip-smart supervisory agent from WFO was a natural choice as Montgomery’s second-in-command.
“I hear you, Mike,” Montgomery said. “But let’s not say it outside these walls.”
“Copy that, boss,” Ayers said.
“One more thing,” Montgomery said before everyone deployed to their various assignments. “Normally, we protect from harm or embarrassment. I don’t give a shit about embarrassment, but the senator must not be harmed. If you see something brewing, shut it down immediately. If you can do it without her making you, so much the better — but I don’t want you to get caught up in that.”
The evening turned out comfortably warm, considering what Elizaveta Bobkova had in mind. A low sun behind the hotels and office buildings of Arlington threw Crystal Drive and much of the fountain park across the street into shadow. Bobkova settled back in the park with a half-dozen other people sitting on benches. Most of them probably lived in one of the many nearby apartments adjacent to Reagan National Airport. Some looked like they’d just finished running on the Mount Vernon Trail, others were just out to soak up a pleasant evening. If they stayed around long enough, it would prove to be an evening they would never forget. If Chadwick stayed an hour and a half, she’d be out at about sunset, which Bobkova thought would be just about perfect.
Morton’s was directly across the Potomac from D.C. proper via the Fourteenth Street Bridge, so she wouldn’t have been surprised to see any number of Washington glitterati. The eateries around Crystal City were favorite places to lobby, be lobbied, solicit funds, or request favors for funds that had already been solicited. It was a dirty business, politics. Dirtier even than espionage, Bobkova thought, so one might as well conduct it over a nice meal.
She’d not been surprised when Chadwick showed up with someone other than her callow aide. Fite was there, but as a driver, not a date. He dropped the senator and her dining partner off in front of the restaurant, and then sped away in her black BMW X5, heading south, presumably to wait until he was called to pick them up again. A happy convenience. The routine would almost surely be repeated in reverse, with Fite pulling up to the curb in front of the restaurant, and Chadwick slowing for just a moment as she got in the waiting vehicle, allowing Gorev the chance to strike.
Tonight the senator was meeting with a strapping lumberjack of a lobbyist for a large pharmaceutical company. Bobkova could not remember his name, but she recognized his bearded face from more than one of the many Washington cocktail parties that everyone loved to whine about but no one wanted to miss.
Both Chadwick and the lobbyist had checked their watches between the BMW and the restaurant, making it a good bet that each had another commitment after dinner.
“Any minute now,” Bobkova spoke softly into the tiny microphone clipped inside the lapel of her blouse. Chatting quietly to one’s self on a park bench did not see seem quite as bizarre as it had been before the advent of mobile phones.
Both men acknowledged. Pugin from a bench inside the underground mall across from the small post office. His post gave him a vantage point to make certain Chadwick and the lobbyist didn’t decide to take the interior exit and go for a walk in the underground without anyone knowing it. The double glass doors gave him a clear view of the street as well and he was close enough to render assistance if Gorev needed it.
Gorev had the trigger job. His youthful face didn’t look it, but deep down, he was much more ruthless than Pugin, and Bobkova needed ruthless. Gorev would loiter on Crystal Drive, outside the security camera’s field of view, as if waiting for a ride. Bobkova, who could see the front door, would let him know when Chadwick made her exit. At this point, he would walk up and shoot her in the face. Pugin would exit the mall then, acting the good witness and yelling at some imagined assailant up on a rooftop. It took the human mind a few seconds to process surprises, especially violent ones. Most bystanders would follow Pugin’s gesture to the vacant rooftop, struggling to make sense of the situation; some of them would have clearly even seen Gorev pull the trigger. Some would stand with pocketed hands while they stared in shock at the broken skull and brain matter that were nothing at all like they appear on television. Overwhelmed senses would be unable to process the input of gore, and blood, and gunpowder. Oh, some Good Samaritan might try and tackle Gorev, but he was strong and quick. Pugin would move in as well, as if to grab the attacker, all the while clumsily blocking anyone else.
This was a good plan. With any luck, it would all be over soon.