"And look who they're standing behind," Adriana added.
Dawkins lifted the image a little closer so his eyes could focus. It looked like the image had been taken somewhere in Europe. The buildings in the background looked familiar. Moscow, perhaps? The two men were standing in a group of security personnel, slightly in front of the rest. They were clearly protecting the man at the front of the picture as he gave a speech behind a podium.
The speaker was Kent Foster.
The president's face turned pale. "Get me the head of the Secret Service. And call Langley. Someone's going to have some explaining to do."
"We've already made the calls, sir," Emily said. "Porter and Pinkton are missing. They've gone rogue."
Chapter 32
"How did this happen?" Foster raged.
"I'm not sure, sir," Porter answered. "I told him to hang back, to keep his distance from Wyatt. He insisted on trying to apprehend the two marks."
"Those were not his orders."
"Yes, sir. I know. I have no idea why he decided to go against what you wanted. Now he's dead, and Wyatt and Schultz are on the run."
Foster wiped his cold nose with a finger. He glanced out the car window and saw the airport fast approaching.
"What happened to the body? The last thing I need is someone finding a dead CIA agent lying around. If anyone at Langley were to find out, there would be an inquisition like the world hasn't seen since the actual inquisition."
Porter knew the ramifications. He didn't care if the CIA investigated the murder. He wouldn't be touched by it. No one would even think to ask if he was involved. Foster — on the other hand — had plenty of reasons to worry. The secretary of state had been cautious with Porter and his men, always meeting in secret, paying in cash for each assignment, and never using the same burner phone from month to month. That didn't mean there was no evidence that could link him to Steve's murder — or to the president's for that matter.
Porter didn't want to pull that particular string. He knew that if he threw Foster under the bus, the man would retaliate and take down everyone else who worked for him.
Spending the rest of his life in prison — or worse, being executed — didn't sound appealing to Porter. He'd worked too hard, come too far to turn back now.
So, he kept Foster on the line like a striped bass nibbling at a rubber worm.
"No one is going to find the body, sir," Porter said. "And if they do, we'll put it on Wyatt. He's a loose cannon. Every airport and border agency in the country is on the lookout for him. Now we have one more reason to put his face on those wanted posters."
Foster's silence told Porter the man had liked the idea — and the assessment of the situation.
"I'm curious," Foster said, "how did you escape? Were you or your men injured?"
"No, sir. We're okay. I guess Steve was in a hurry to make a name for himself. He rushed Wyatt and Schultz. Tried to ambush them as they sat next to the river a few miles outside of Clinton. He approached the two men, kept his weapon on Schultz, and then Wyatt shot him in the side of the head."
Foster didn't care about Steve on a personal level. He was an asset, an expendable resource. Types like those were easy enough to find. What he did care about was whether or not Porter was telling the truth. He'd already shown he wasn't dependable. The fact that Wyatt was still alive was a testament to that. There was also no question that Porter was not to be trusted. Any person who was willing to sell out their position for a chance at money and power was a snake. Snakes had to be handled with care.
There was no way to know Porter's true ambitions. The man always kept things close to the vest, which incited a small amount of admiration in Foster. It reminded him of his own way of handling things.
Now, however, Foster was in a tight spot. He didn't have time to call in more help. He was on his way to the airport. A plane waited to take him to Alaska. Interruptions and distractions could wait. This, however, was different. He needed Wyatt and his friend dealt with immediately.
"What did Wyatt find?" Foster asked.
"We're not sure, sir. He went into the old Surratt Museum. When they came out, neither he nor Schultz was carrying anything that we could tell."
"That you could tell?"
"No, sir."
"What is that supposed to mean?" Foster boomed. "You should have taken them down right there."
"Have you ever been to the Surratt Museum?"
Foster didn't answer, so Porter continued. "I take that as a no. That place is surrounded by busy roads, gas stations, shopping plazas, you name it. I've been operating under the assumption you'd prefer us not draw any undue attention. Perhaps I was wrong about that."
Foster fumed, but he couldn't argue the point. He'd never been to Clinton. Based on what Porter was telling him, it sounded like his men made the right decision — well, right up to the point Steve was killed.
"No. You did right," Foster said.
He didn't trust Porter. For the time being, though, he had to — until he could eliminate the asset.
"What's your status now?" Foster asked.
"We're tailing Wyatt and Schultz. Looks like they're heading to an airport."
Foster let a "ha" escape his mouth. "Are they stupid? They'll be taken into custody on sight."
"Not at a smaller airport, sir. There's one not far from here. Best we can figure, they've made arrangements for a plane to fly out of here."
"To where?"
"That part we don't know."
"Then you better find out."
"Actually, sir, the plan is to take them down before they board. If they took something from the Surratt House, we'll find it. The question is, what do you want us to do with it if we find something?"
Foster didn't have to think long. "Destroy it. Everything. Burn it all. I don't care how you do it. Just make sure there is no evidence of whatever it is those two have."
"Oh. I thought you would want us to bring it to you. I guess that means we don't have to be careful if things get messy."
Foster considered the last statement. Perhaps he could kill two birds with one stone.
"No need to be cautious anymore," Foster said. "Use any means necessary to take out Wyatt and Schultz. Same goes for whatever they might have discovered. I don't care if you have to burn their plane. Get rid of them and the evidence."
"Yes, sir."
He ended the call and slid the phone back into his suit pocket. His driver pulled through a side entrance to the airport and steered the car toward a row of private hangars to the right.
Directly ahead, a shiny white Gulfstream G650 sat on the tarmac. A few men in black peacoats and matching pants stood at the foot of the steps leading onto the plane. To protect their ears from the cold, they wore matching beanies.
Foster's driver brought the car to a stop fifty feet away from the plane. As soon as he shifted it into park he hurried to get out and open the back door for his employer. Foster stepped out onto the runway and looked around the airport, taking in the smell of jet fuel exhaust, the tarmac, and the chilly city air.
The man to the right of the plane's steps approached the car's parking spot before it stopped so that he was there and ready to greet Foster the moment he left the vehicle.
"Sir, the plane is fueled and ready to go." He spoke in a near-shout due to the engines whining as they warmed up.
"Thank you. We are to take off immediately. Notify the pilot."
"Yes, sir," the man said and took off toward the plane.
Foster strode across the asphalt. When he reached the steps, he took a look around, surveying the airfield. Off in the distance, the lights of the Capitol shone bright in the night. The Washington Monument's red warning lights radiated atop the illuminated obelisk.