nothing I can do about that. If you know me, you also know I'm second tier anchor at a local TV affiliate, not a network sleuth or a Bernstein-Woodward who's about to be tapped on the shoulder by an all-knowing insider."
The man on the line sighed. "You used to be a damned good investigative reporter, but I guess you've lost your fire. Sorry I bothered you."
With the disconnect, Keri replaced the receiver and leaned back in the chair to think. He's got to be someone in the president's inner circle. There was both fear and anger in his voice. She replayed his words in her mind and began to sense something more than just the protection of Samual Underwood's popularity. He was fearful about what might happen to this country. What if the president and vice president disappeared, too? Lord, this government could be in real trouble. Suddenly she felt a chill of her own apprehension. She wanted to talk to Phillip.
Phillip Lansing, mid-forties, tall and lean with a craggy face and brown hair and eyes, was different than most men Keri had dated. He was sensitive and strong, intellectual but with an earthy quality. She knew she was falling in love with him and could tell he felt something for her, but his divorce a year ago had set him free from what he called a terribly possessive woman. She guessed he wasn't ready for a permanent relationship. That would change if Keri had her way.
She checked her answering machine to see if he had called. Nothing but hangups. Phillip would have left a message. She wished she knew where he was staying in New York.
Thinking of Phillip had settled her nerves. She smiled. Maybe the two of them could get to the bottom of this disappearance act. With that thought, she took off her coat and went into the kitchen to fix something to eat, her mind flipping through names that could possibly shed some light on the mysterious vanishings. Only Phillip Lansing stayed with her through the evening.
Chapter 8
Wallace Brent felt his wife pressing against his back as she pulled up the blanket, the warmth of body and breath dispelling the chill he had felt from tossing the covers in his sleep. It had been a fitful night. He looked at the red numbers on the digital clock: 4:03. The automatic timer on the coffee pot was set for four-fifteen, the alarm for fifteen minutes later. He was wide awake now, but would let Millie snuggle and doze until the music came on and the coffee aroma wafted into the bedroom.
He thought about the day ahead and hoped it would be more productive than the previous one. Another early morning meeting with the president had been scheduled; a top echelon conference at FBI headquarters later in the day.
Millie rubbed his shoulder. "You're tensing," she whispered, "I can feel it."
He turned over and took her in his arms. "What would we do today if I was retired?"
"Oh, I don't know," she said softly, "maybe take off for the Bahamas, sip exotic drinks and build sandcastles, take a sailboat ride at sunset."
"I'd rather fly to London, shop for some new tweeds, stay at the Connaught and dress formerly for dinner. We could take in a play and--"
"My de bon aire husband." She pulled him closer. "To be honest, darling, just being at home with you and with the telephone unplugged would be fine with me."
Millicent Brent was in her late fifties with dark brown hair and eyes and a trim figure maintained in a daily aerobics class. She and Wallace had been married more than thirty years. Their son Jeffrey, with his chiseled features and large frame in the image of his father, worked for an oil company in Houston. His semi-annual visits were too infrequent for her. "Or we could go see Jeff and Sharon. The baby's nearly a year old now and we could start learning how to play grandparents."
He raised his head and looked at her with a grin. "On second thought, I don't think I'm ready to retire, particularly if it involves baby sitting. I'll wait until young Wally grows a bit and stops squalling. Might even teach him how to fish."
Millie leaned up and kissed him on the nose. "You've never fished in your life."
"I like the picture. Old man and boy sitting in a boat with poles in hand and talking philosophically about life. It would feel good."
She gave him a loving smile. "So would a vacation, and London's fine with me. It's been so long since we spent any time outside the Beltway. Slipping away for a few days would be good for both of us."
He let her go and swung his legs to the floor, the reverie broken, reality returning. "That's what too many people have been doing lately, slipping away.” He rubbed his eyes. "And I can't keep a lid on it much longer. The whole thing is going to break open soon, and it's going to be panicsville on the Potomac. And we still haven't found Craddock, Walsh and Patino."
"You’re missing agents."
He nodded. "I don't know what to think, Federal agents don't just disappear.”
She touched his arm. "You want to talk about it?"
"Nothing else to say. Stay here. I'll go turn up the heat and get us a cup of coffee. Should be ready by now."
He was in the kitchen when the telephone rang. Millie sunk back on the pillow. She wished she and Wallace could disappear, too.
***
FBI Agent Norman Rigler picked up the car telephone, dialed a residence in Bethesda. The voice on the other end of the line sounded half awake. "Yeah, what is it?"
"This is Rigler. I'm parked on the street near Senator Obrey's house. I believe he and his wife are in there."
The agent in Bethesda was more alert now. "What makes you think so?"
"His car's in the driveway, and I saw a light upstairs. It was on and off pretty fast, might have been a flashlight. Appears they came back looking for something and don't want to attract any attention. Do you want me to follow the original plan?"
"Absolutely. I think I remember a hedge on the side of the driveway."
"I see it," Rigler said.
"Get out of your car and wait for them there. When they leave the house, pop them. And I'm assuming you've chosen the proper weapon."
"Yes sir, untraceable, ballistics meaningless, and I'm using a silencer."
"I'll be waiting for your report."
Agent Rigler slipped quietly out of the car, gun in hand. He was almost to the driveway when he heard two car doors closing. He crouched down behind the hedge, and when the engine started he rose and fired twice through the driver's side window. The street lamp provided sufficient light to see the driver slump over on the steering wheel. He then turned his gun to the passenger trying frantically to open the door on the other side, ample time for the agent to aim and spit lead through glass.
Rigler looked around at the neighboring homes. No lights. All quiet. His boss would be pleased.
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