The White House: A Flynn Carroll Thriller by Whitley Strieber Page A

shaken, he hoped, they would expect him to come up in his vehicle, but maybe not.
    â€œYou see me?” he asked Diana.
    â€œI have your position, you’re too close.”
    â€œI have eyes on them. There’s movement. They’re pulling out the body.”
    â€œBack off, they’re going to see you.”
    He could hear birds settling in for the night, beetles moving through the leafy forest floor, a squirrel scratching its way up a tree.
    â€œFlynn,” came Diana’s voice from the earpiece.
    He took it out and turned it off. He needed both his ears. He hardly breathed. He needed to see and hear these people. If they had something to do with Aeon, this strange behavior might be explained. If not, then what in the world was Iran up to? Why had they stolen the detail’s file, or even known that such a file existed?
    Aeon and Iran?
    There were now more sounds ahead. The crunch of tires. No engine noise, though. A huge splash, followed by gurgling. What in hell were they doing?
    He reinserted the earpiece.
    â€œFlynn! Flynn!” She was hoarse. She’d been screaming at him.
    He popped the mike to indicate that he could hear her.
    â€œHe rolled the ambulance into the Potomac!”
    â€œHe?”
    â€œThe other two are in it—they have to be.”
    As it sank, the old ambulance began making louder splashing and gurgling noises. A truck going into a river is a loud business.
    The idea of trying to help the people in it was out; it was too late for them. He would concentrate on just one thing now: the identity of the last man standing.
    He popped the mike again. She reported, “Nobody got out of the meatwagon, so the two other kids are indeed still in there. The body’s in it, too.”
    â€œThe head?”
    â€œNot clear. He may have it.”
    He pulled the earpiece out again, and at once heard a stealthy sound, cloth slipping softly against the trunk of a tree. With it came footsteps on damp leaves. He could stop him right here, but that would freeze the trail.
    Now he could hear breathing, unsteady, afraid. The kid passed close, then the sound of his movement faded. Flynn returned his earbud to his ear. “See him?”
    â€œHe’s emerging onto the road. There’s a car coming.”
    Flynn took off after him, angling toward the road, keeping well out of sight.
    â€œHe’s getting in the vehicle. It’s a late-model Mercedes. It’s pulling out. Tracking.”
    He didn’t care where it went; that was no longer important. “Get the river dredged. See what can be found. And do you have any good face shots of the perp?”
    â€œWorking on it. Gotta reconstruct off the infrared.”
    He reached his car. “Where are they now?”
    â€œIn heavy traffic, moving north. I’m still tight, though.”
    The police would locate the truck, perhaps the bodies, or parts of them. If he was lucky, the head. The river was swift and deep, and finding things in murky, tricky water like that was likely to be much a matter of chance. Flynn did not like chance.
    As he drove, he analyzed the situation, but his thoughts led in no definite direction.
    â€œI’ve got the kid,” Diana said. “Misery op, definite ID.”
    â€œOK.” Now he had something useful. “The Iranians possess a weapon from Aeon and they’re interested in our unit. And in the White House.” Dots were connecting. He broke off the chase. This was a sideshow, nothing more. Aeon had created this garish mystery as a distraction. “I’m heading for the White House,” he said.
    â€œYou’re breaking off the pursuit?”
    â€œDoesn’t matter.”
    â€œI don’t get it, but OK. Be careful.”
    â€œIf I can.”

 
    CHAPTER SIX
    THE WHITE House is divided into three sections: the West Wing, the East Wing, and the familiar old mansion that stands between them, the Residence. It is the Residence that tourists