by Alex Ander
Once the wheels of the jet had come to a halt, the flight attendant lowered the stairs and waited for her passengers to disembark. Halfway down the stairs, Cruz was met by two Secret Service agents. One took her hand and helped her down the stairs, while the second relieved Hardy of the suitcases he was carrying. When the luggage was secured in the back of the vehicle and the passengers had their seatbelts fastened, the black SUV quickly accelerated, making its way toward the White House.
Both Hardy and Cruz asked the agents if they had any information about Abigail. The agents shook their heads. Either they did not know anything or they were told not to disclose any details. Since conversation was off the table, Hardy and Cruz leaned back in their seats for the forty-five minute drive. The atmosphere was somber. All of them knew of the situation and they were feeling the tension that came with the knowledge.
…………………………
After arriving at the White House and being waved through the security protocols, the SUV stopped at its destination. A dark-haired Secret Service agent met Hardy and Cruz.
The driver of the SUV got out and hailed the agent. “Agent Holland, these are agents Hardy and Cruz. They’re here to see the President.” The man opened the door for Hardy.
Agent Holland nodded his head and opened the Cruz’s door. He gestured toward Hardy before ushering them into the building and leading them to the ground floor lobby of the West Wing.
Cruz spoke to their escort. “Agent Holland, do you have any information on Abigail’s whereabouts?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m not at liberty to divulge any details.” He extended his arm. “Right this way, ma’am.”
Facing them, Director Jameson was standing in the middle of the lobby, staring at his cell phone. He put away the phone and nodded to the agent. “I’ll take it from here, Agent Holland.” Jameson acknowledged Hardy and Cruz before whirling around and summoning them. “Follow me. We’re meeting in the Situation Room.”
Phillip Jameson was fifty-years-old and physically fit. He was five-feet, eleven inches tall, weighing one hundred and ninety pounds. He maintained a regular exercise regimen of lifting weights and jogging. He was bald and wore rounded, rectangular eyeglasses with thick black frames. Jameson’s clothing matched Hardy’s—black suit with a white shirt and red tie. Jameson’s long strides carried him swiftly through the first set of doors that led to the Situation Room.
Hardy crossed the first set of doors. “Have there been any new developments?”
“Plenty,” replied Jameson. “You’ll have to wait for my briefing to find out more.” He grabbed the door handle. “The President has been delaying the start of this meeting, waiting for the two of you to get here. I don’t want to delay it any further.” Opening the door, Jameson entered the room, followed by Hardy and Cruz.
Chapter 4: Situation Room
The White House Situation Room consisted of a long conference table with one executive-style chair at the head (for the President) and six similar chairs on either side. Straight-back chairs ran along the walls to the President’s left and right. Most of the wall that faced the President was taken up by a large monitor. Smaller monitors were on the walls above the straight-back chairs. The 5,525-square-foot room was renovated in 2006-2007. The most important changes included updating the monitors (which were still cathode ray tubes), installing more secure and more advanced communication equipment and adding sensors in the ceilings to detect cellular signals, preventing unauthorized communications.
Having never been in the Situation Room, Hardy scanned the room, including the high-ranking officials seated at the table. The President was sitting at the head of the table at the far end of the room, facing Hardy. To the President’s right were the Vice President, the Secretary of Homeland Security and the Director of the Secret Service. On the President’s left were his Chief of Staff and the Director of National Intelligence. Everyone at the table eyed the newcomers, while Director Jameson sat next to his boss, the Director of National Intelligence.
President Jack Conklin was fifty-five-years-old and in great physical condition. He had a full head of gray hair. He was dressed in black pants and a white shirt. The top button was undone and he wore no tie. His jacket was behind him, resting on the back of his chair. He gestured toward Hardy and Special Agent Cruz. “For those who don’t know them, meet Special Agents Aaron Hardy and Raychel Cruz. They’re here at my request.” After informal acknowledgements were made, Hardy and Cruz took their places to Jameson’s left. The President motioned to the Secretary of Homeland Security, Frank Gillespie.
“Thank you, Mr. President. Before I give the floor to Janet,” —Janet Burroughs was the Director of the Secret Service and reported to Gillespie— “I’d like to say how sorry I am. We will be doing everything possible to get your daughter back safely, sir.”
Everyone echoed Gillespie’s sentiment and the President expressed his gratitude. All eyes turned toward Burroughs, who distributed manila folders to everyone at the table.
Janet Burroughs was fifty-years-old and had short, black hair, parted in the middle, the ends curling inward at the collar of her black blazer. Oversized dark blue plastic eyeglasses rested on her small nose. Behind the lenses of the eyeglasses were light blue eyes with extremely long eyelashes, rising upward and outward. Barely noticeable makeup had been applied to her eyelids, cheeks and lips. She had never married and appeared ten years younger than her age.
“At 5:30 p.m. Mountain Time at Slopes Resort in Colorado, Secret Service agents found the bodies of the two agents assigned to protect Red Rose.” —Red Rose was the Secret Service’s code name for Abigail. She was given the name because of her red hair. In addition, all of the Secret Service agents cherished her like the flower— “I’m sorry…the President’s daughter, Abigail.” Burroughs glanced at the President.
The President smiled. “It’s all right.” He loved the code name and hearing it brought a brief moment of happiness to his heavy heart. “Please, continue.”
“An immediate search of the entire area began. Snowmobile tracks were discovered a short ways down the hill from where the agents were found. The tracks led further down the mountain to a little-used service road. Two tandem snowmobiles had been left behind. Tracks from a vehicle, possibly a large commercial van, led to County Highway 7. Agents were able to determine the vehicle turned north toward Highway 40. From there, the trail went cold.”
Henry Overton, the Director of National Intelligence, interjected. “What about Abigail’s cell phone? Did you get a location?”
“When the agents protecting Abigail failed to respond to repeated calls, we immediately began tracking her cell phone; however, it must have been turned off, and not broken, because an hour later the signal was discovered on Highway 40, moving north.”
Overton’s eyes widened. “What?”
“The phone was found secured to a truck. Agents questioned the driver of the vehicle. It was obvious the man had no idea the phone was attached to his vehicle.”
Hardy joined the conversation. “So, it was a decoy. The kidnappers wanted your people to go north, while they most likely took Abby—Abigail—south or in some other direction.”
Burroughs nodded her head.
“Were you able to find out who owned the snowmobiles?” asked Overton.
“They were reported stolen a week ago.”
“Director Burroughs,” Hardy pushed a sheet of paper aside, “can you go back to the mountain where the agents were found? On which ski run were their bodies discovered?” He scanned the last page in the folder. “I don’t see that in the report.”
Burroughs shuffled through some papers. Picking up one, she skimmed it. “There’s no name listed, but it was to the west of Peak’s Valley, near the base of the Valero Territory.”
Hardy searched his mind, trying to picture the area. He had visited Colorado and skied at Slopes Resort when he was in high school. “Are you sure? I’ve skied Valero, and Peak’s Valley is t
he last run; the boundary line of the mountain runs alongside it. Skiers are not allowed to go any further west of Peak’s Valley.”
Burroughs searched her paperwork again. “I’m positive...There were boundary signs posted…But, there was no fence in that area, because resort personnel had been working on the trails.”
Gillespie raised his hands, “What difference does it make?” and glared at Hardy. “My agents have searched every inch of that mountain and come up with nothing.”
Hardy faced the Secretary. “With all due respect, sir, it makes a big difference. Disregarding signs and skiing in a restricted area doesn’t sound the like Abigail I know. Maybe she felt like someone was chasing her and she was trying to get away.” He shrugged. “Maybe—”
Gillespie interrupted Hardy. “So, you’re a behavior expert, Mr. Hardy? Is that your contribution to this meeting?”
Hardy leaned back, noticing the Secretary’s condescending tone of voice. He shot a quick look at the President, while he formulated his answer. He could not disclose his real job title to Gillespie, since his job did not exist.
Officially, Aaron Hardy’s job title was Special Agent Consultant to the Director and he worked for Director Jameson. Unofficially, Hardy had been working for the President in a top-secret capacity, hunting down terrorists and either killing them or capturing them, if they were deemed to be more valuable alive than dead. He had access to state-of-the-art technology and resources and was free from the normal rules of engagement in the pursuit of his objective. His existence was unknown even among the President’s most trusted advisors. If Hardy was to succeed on the battlefield, he had to conduct his missions unrestrained by politicians and their ideas of political correctness.
Hardy readied his answer, speaking in a deeper-than-usual voice. “Secretary Gillespie—”
“Take it easy, Frank.” The President waved his hand toward the man. “We’re all on the same side here. Agent Hardy has counter-terrorism skills that I felt would be useful if this ends up being terror-related.” Coming back to Hardy, the President added, “And, he’s right. That does not sound like something my daughter would do.” He shifted his attention toward Burroughs. “Find out more about that area of the mountain. I want agents to go over it again.”
“I’ll get right on it, Mr. President.” Burroughs produced a pad of paper and scribbled on it.
The President leaned back. “Is there anything else, Janet?”
She paused to review her notes. “No, sir, that’s all.”
The President motioned toward Jameson, who had the most important information. “You’re up, Director Jameson.”
“Thank you, sir.” Jameson picked up a remote control and clicked a button. All the monitors switched from displaying the Presidential Seal to a close-up image of a brown box. “At 6:13 p.m. Mountain Time, this package was delivered by courier to the FBI office in Denver.” Clicking the remote again, the next image showed a lock of red hair and a folded piece of paper. “Inside was this lock of red hair and a note from the kidnappers.” Jameson plucked a piece of paper from the table. “The note reads: You have until the end of the day, December 23rd, to release Anderson Cole. For every hour after that, more body parts will be removed from the President’s daughter.” Jameson handed out copies of the note.
Gillespie was the first to comment. “Have you been able to verify it’s Abigail’s hair?”
“We’re conducting DNA testing as we speak; however, we are operating under the assumption the test will come back positive.”
Burroughs got Jameson’s attention. “Who delivered the package?”
Jameson clicked the remote and a picture of a shabbily dressed man with a long beard appeared on the monitors. “Video cameras at the courier service show this man delivering the package to a woman behind the counter. Agents arrived and questioned all of the employees. One courier recognized the man and said he was homeless, living on the streets near the back door of the courier service.”
Gillespie grunted. “Have you found him, yet?”
Jameson nodded his head. “He told agents that a man dressed in black clothing approached him and offered five hundred dollars to take the package to the courier.”
Hardy swung his head around toward his boss. “Are there any more details about the man who gave him the money?”
“No, but we’re pouring over video footage of the area around the courier’s building. It’s possible the man wanted to make sure the package was delivered, and was somewhere nearby, watching.”
“Why does the name Anderson Cole sound familiar?” Hardy was scanning his memory for the answer.
Cruz joined the conversation. “Anderson Cole was the mastermind behind the mall massacre in Minnesota last year.” She shook her head. “It was the worst terrorist attack on American soil, since nine-eleven.” She leaned forward to look at Jameson. “If I’m not mistaken, that shooting took place on December 23rd, didn’t it?”
Jameson nodded. “Yes, the one year anniversary of that event is the same day they want Cole to be released.”
“Where’s Cole now?” asked Hardy.
“He’s being transferred to a secure location in D.C., in case we need him.”
Hardy gestured toward the paperwork in his hands. “We need to question him and see what he knows about this kidnapping.”
Overton spoke. “He’s been questioned about the mall shooting for months and has never given up any information on the people he was working with...We know he couldn’t have pulled off that attack without help. He lawyered up and has never said anything.” Overton shook his head. “I highly doubt he’ll give us anything on this.”
Jameson agreed. “Our agents have been grilling him, since we read the note from the package. So far, he’s been silent, only asking for his lawyer.”
Staring at the middle of the conference table, Hardy stated what he had been thinking. “Maybe it’s time to try a different approach with Mr. Cole.”
The President leaned forward. “What are you proposing, Agent Hardy?”
Chapter 5: Football
The President’s Chief of Staff had been quiet during the meeting. His silence matched his personality. Peter Whittaker had a calm and mild-mannered disposition, speaking when it was necessary. Having grown up in Massachusetts, he had an Ivy League accent. Normally, his words were carefully chosen. The plan Hardy had put forth made Whittaker almost leap out of his chair. “This is ludicrous, Mr. President. If you agree to this, and the press gets wind of it, you’ll be committing political suicide, not to mention opening yourself up to a potential criminal indictment.” Whittaker locked eyes with Hardy. “What the hell are you thinking, suggesting something like that?”
Hardy had had several meetings with the President that included Whittaker. Hardy had never been able to ascertain Whittaker’s feelings toward him. The man was extremely difficult to read; however, his outburst left no doubts about his feelings for the plan.
Gillespie gave his opinion. “I agree. While I’m not so sure you could be criminally indicted, a sitting President involved in this would be detrimental to your future as the leader of this country.”
As the Vice President weighed in on the matter, siding with Whittaker and Gillespie, Hardy leaned back in his chair, listening to the debate. He felt his pulse quickening and the muscles in his chest and arms tighten. The more he heard, the angrier he became, until he could listen no more.
Gillespie began another round of advising the President. “Mr. President, we need to—”
“What we need,” said Hardy, his voice rising, while he stood, “is to stop playing this damn game of politics. Abby is no football to be tossed around for political reasons. She’s a scared teenager and the daughter of the President of the United States…and has no idea where she is or what has happened to her.” Fixing his gaze on Gillespie, Hardy continued his rant. “While you people want to sit around and strategize about the President’s future, that little girl is living in God only knows what kind of
hell hole, wondering if she’ll ever see her family again.” He pivoted toward the President, anger in his voice. “I’m sorry, Mr. President, but you cannot just sit here and do nothing.”
Jameson knew Hardy was about to cross a line with the President. He jumped in to save his agent from making a big mistake. Raising his voice, he scolded his agent. “That’s enough, Agent Hardy. Sit down, now.”
Either he did not hear Jameson or he did not care. Hardy addressed the Commander-in-Chief. “Abby’s life is on the line. That means all options to get her back home are on the table. Your political ambitions need to come second to your responsibilities as a father.”
“Agent Hardy,” shouted Jameson.
“You had a reason for wanting me to be at this meeting, sir.” Hardy pointed at the table. “Maybe that reason is to counter the advice of those who are only thinking of Abby as another victim, and not your daughter.
Jameson was about to stand and physical restrain Hardy when the President spoke.
“Thank you for your opinion, Agent Hardy.” He motioned toward the door. “I’d like you and Agent Cruz to excuse yourselves.”
Special Agent Cruz stood, but Hardy protested.
“Sir, did you—”
Cruz grabbed Hardy’s left upper arm and squeezed as hard as she could, trying to get his attention. “Yes, Mr. President.” She tugged and pinched Hardy’s arm, while she headed toward the door.
Hardy whipped his head toward the source of pain before lifting his eyes to see her. He whirled his head back toward the President. He had more to say, but he realized, perhaps a little too late, he had said too much.
