FBI DIRECTOR MARLENE LOUDOUN, is a woman of short stature, but her ram-rod straight posture and three inch heels made people perceive her as being taller than she was. She had a delicate heart shaped face that spoke well of her African heritage and a lithe sinewy body that she kept in perfect condition with daily six a.m. strenuous workouts. And as Demyan Zakharov had noted, she had a brown sugar colored skin tone that complimented her flashing brown eyes. An although she’d been called a bitch, to her face, on many occasions during her meteoric career, she envisioned herself more as a lioness protecting her cub; the Republic of the United States of America.
She walked briskly out of Dr. Ken’s autopsy room that had smelled strongly of disinfectant and death. She had waited until the doors had closed behind her before pressing the number five button on her phone. While it rang, she paced up and down the cold gray hallway that Ken – she smiled at the thought of his silly and harmless flirtatious antics – made sure were kept in pristine condition.
“Hello,” responded the man on the other end.
“It’s Loudoun. I’m guessing you know by now why I’m calling.”
“Director. I thought I had both of them. And then things took an unexpected turn.”
“To the point that the man’s dead. And we don’t have a clue where the woman is. You call that an unexpected turn? I call it a botched mission!”
“Now, tell me what the hell happened.”
“The old guy …”
“Excuse me ma’am. I meant, Former President Daniels.
“As you know, ma’am we got a hit on the facial recognition software installed on the traffic lights on Pennsylvania Avenue near the White House.
“You’d think the man would know better.”
“He probably thought, that after two years, we’d stopped looking for them.”
“Never,” quipped Loudoun. “Where did he go after paying a visit to his old residence?”
“The city’s CCTVs have him driving into a Days Inn on Connecticut Avenue. By the time I made it there, he was getting into a cab and heading northwest.”
“Where did he go?”
“A small house out in Brookmont. Maryland.”
“Brookmont, Maryland. Near Bethesda?”
“What could he possibly have been up to in Brookmont,” Marlene asked more to herself than to the man on the other end of the phone. “There’s nothing but woods and houses out there.” And then the light came on in her head. Brookmont is close to the Potomac. “Continue,” she barked.
“The house he visited, is registered in Tom Lennox’s name. We think the Former President was after cash that he’d hidden there. It was a perfect place to hide an emergency stash of cash, ma’am. It’s close by, where he could get his hands on it without getting noticed. That is, if he hadn’t taken a sentimental drive up Pennsylvania Avenue.”
“Well then agent, I have only one questions for you and you’d better tell me the truth. How did Former President Noah Daniels end up shot in the back of the head and floating face down in the Potomac under your watch,” Marlene snapped into the phone.
Eliza D. Ankum
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