“Absolutely. How do you think the two of them initially met? It wasn’t over drinks at a bar, that’s for sure.” Blunt folded his arms and pursed his lips before continuing. “There’s no way Dr. Ngozi is going to turn down the kind of money we’ll be offering him.”
“Sounds like you’ve thought through everything,” Hawk said. “When do we get to meet him.”
Blunt produced a pair of tickets from his pocket. “Your plane for Cairo leaves at 10:00 a.m. tomorrow morning.”
CHAPTER 10
Washington, D.C.
PRESIDENT MICHAELS GRABBED the lectern with both hands, his knuckles whitening as he tightened his grip after each question. Facing the press corps ranked near the top of his list of things he hated about leading the free world. While he attempted to answer each question truthfully, he knew that no matter how careful he was with his words, they would be twisted and misconstrued. Instead of letting his words speak for themselves, the deceitful media members would parse everything he said, presenting his quotes sometimes without context or couching them in terms that would prejudice the viewer or reader. Michaels often felt it might be a better tact to ignore the press corps altogether since they never treated him fairly. But according to his chief advisor, the optics of such a move would result in more harm than simply letting the press push their own version of the truth that would surely prejudice the public against Michaels.
However, not everyone drew Michaels’s ire during the press conferences at the White House. Angela Brentwood stood in stark contrast to her counterparts who’d spent most of their lives clawing their way to the top of the heap in the nation’s capital. At a spry twenty-seven, Brentwood was a fresh—and beautiful—face in a sea of snarling dissenters frothing over the chance to ask a question and misconstrue the president’s words on social media. Brentwood never behaved in such a manner, though she didn’t shy away from critiquing Michaels. But she was always fair, an attribute that Michaels appreciated. Such decorum had become rare among the Washington press corps, making Brentwood stand out so much that her pretty face was hardly worth mentioning.
Brentwood stood and cleared her throat before asking her question. “Mr. President, you have always talked tough on terror, but in recent months it appears that your administration has been unable to deliver on your promise to keep the American people safe from the terrorist siege against our country. Last-second thwarts aside, how problematic do you perceive the Department of Homeland Security’s inability to secure our borders?”
Michaels’s eyes widened as he tried to digest Brentwood’s question. He’d let his guard down, assuming he’d get a solid question but one he could answer. Instead, she zipped him a question fraught with landmines. And unfortunately, he had to come up with an intelligent answer to assuage her concerns—or else the internet would be saturated with memes and snarky reinterpretations of his words before the hour was up.
“That’s a great question,” Michaels began. “I see it as problematic as I do complicated in this increasingly global world we live in. It is my duty to help protect American citizens from outside threats. Thank God we haven’t lost any lives on American soil due to attacks from Islamic extremists—or any other type of terrorist group for that matter.”
Brentwood raised her hand tentatively. “I appreciate you affirming your sworn duty to uphold the constitution and keep our sovereign nation safe, but what do you intend to do to stop this troubling trend of near misses and prevent future plans to do great harm?”
Michaels glanced around the room and felt as if the walls were closing around him. For a half second, he wondered if she knew the truth, that he’d all but invited those attacks in order to gain a tighter stranglehold on what the American people would allow him to do without much objections. But he dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. There was no way she knew. He took a deep breath and decided to double down on his assertion that they were keeping Americans safe. In a beat, he went from outrage over Brentwood’s perceived attack against him to gratitude over her serving up a question that allowed him to do what he wanted to do all along.
“We’re going to keep Americans safe by aggressively targeting some of the world’s most renowned terrorists,” Michaels said. “And just to be clear so you don’t misinterpret what I’m saying—we are taking the war to the terrorists. There’s no cave deep enough, no rock big enough, no mountain high enough, no desert vast enough that we won’t have our soldiers, the most well-trained corps on the planet, hunting terrorists down and bringing them to justice.”
An audible buzz spread throughout the room.
Michaels resisted the urge to smile, confident that he’d shifted the focus of the press conference away from his abysmal favorability ratings and back toward his plan forward for the country. Even if the war on terror was all staged, Michaels didn’t care. All he wanted was power . . . and more of it. If he couldn’t get it through extreme measures taken to convince the American people that they needed him to have more power in order to secure the country, he’d flip the script. If he captured Karif Fazil, he was all but assured the U.S. equivalency of sainthood.
Then the next reporter questioned him.
“James Perry, CNN,” the reporter stated before launching into his question. “Your approval ratings hit historic lows with the public last week, both at home and abroad. What areas do you feel are necessary to address first in order to regain the trust of the American people?”
Michaels narrowed his eyes and clutched the podium.
So much for gaining control of the conversation.
“Any trust the American people have lost with me and this administration is due to the media’s distortion of facts coupled with outright lies about what we’ve been doing,” Michaels said. “During my first term, we’ve created more jobs than any other administration in the past forty years, we’ve lowered the deficit and trimmed two trillion dollars off the national debt, and we’ve implemented education initiatives that have led to the highest test scores ever seen in our public school system. So, why don’t you explain to me why people have lost faith in the best administration this country has quite likely ever seen?”
“But Mr. President, with all due respect, your statement doesn’t line up with—”
“With what? Your agenda?” Michaels said, pounding his fist on the lectern. “I’m done with your stupid questions. Why don’t you report what’s really going on in Washington so Americans can find out for themselves just how good they’ve really got it.”
Michaels glanced at the clock. The press conference was scheduled to continue for another fifteen minutes, but he’d had enough. He released his grip from the podium and turned and stormed off the stage amid clicks from photographers and shouted questions from the press corps.
Michaels was already storming down the hall when he heard his spokesperson addressing the restless audience. His words reverberated off the corridor walls from all the television sets tuned to the event in various offices along the west wing.
“That’s all for today. Thank you,” the spokesperson said.
Michaels told his secretary to hold his calls and slammed the door to his office. He stared at the painting of Thomas Jefferson he’d requested to be hung to the left of his desk the day he assumed his role as President. His favorite quote from Jefferson rang in his ears.
The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.
“And sometimes the scepter of power must be refreshed with that same blood,” Michaels said aloud.
He’d determined when he took office that he was going to become one of the greatest U.S. Presidents in history. Michaels told his advisors privately that he expected to rise above the rancor of partisanship eating away at Washington’s soul. Despite springing into action and delivering on his many campaign promises that served as a bridge to both sides of the political aisle during the election, it only took three years for him to garner approval ratings lower than congress. And
the recent assault from the media only made matters worse.
It was Michaels’ disillusionment and disappointment that made the offer from The Chamber so intriguing. Delivered to him in person by Harry Bozeman, The Chamber’s offer was one of untold wealth if Michaels could assist them with their plan. Michaels resigned himself to the fact that he wasn’t going to join the list of America’s greatest presidents, and his inclusion among the country’s worst was still a likely possibility.
Might as well get rich.
The only problem was The Chamber had to delay their plan, pushing it back into what would be Michaels’s second term. And while another four years was once a sure thing, that possibility had dwindled to little more than a pipe dream. Michaels’s desperation was real. If he couldn’t find a way to turn his drooping approval ratings, he’d exit with nothing. No power. No glory. No wealth. And one hell of a secret about The Chamber that spelled the likelihood of an early demise if he ever breathed a word of it to anyone.
I’m screwed.
The knock on his door snapped him out of his mental doldrums for a moment, which quickly led to rage. He stood and stormed across the room.
“I can’t even get my damn secretary to obey my commands. How the hell am I gonna get a country to listen to me?” He yanked the door open.
“What?” he growled.
A pair of secret service agents stood stiff in the doorway.
“Sir, I’m sorry to bother you, but you have an urgent request from a visitor,” one of the agents said.
Michaels furrowed his brow. “Visitor? Anyone can just walk in and see me now?”
“Come with us, sir.”
One agent took the lead, while the other fell in behind Michaels, sandwiching him in the middle. They strode through the offices before slipping into an office that contained an entrance to the secret passageway in the bowels of the White House.
After another minute of weaving through the maze of tunnels and corridors, they arrived at Michaels’s private secure office. One of the agents opened the door, revealing President Michaels’s guest. It was Harry Bozeman.
Michaels entered the room and closed the door behind.
“What is the meaning of this, Harry?” Michaels asked. “You know this is going to attract unwanted attention? Every time we meet like this, we’re taking a serious risk.”
“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important,” Bozeman said. “But relax. I take all the necessary precautions. As long as you can trust your secret service detail, no one will know about this meeting.”
“Make it quick.”
“I think we need to consider a backup plan, just in case things go south in Saudi Arabia.”
Michaels clenched his fists and narrowed his eyes. “You called me here for a meeting about a backup plan? Why do we even need a backup plan? You assured me that your plan was foolproof. Is there something going on that you haven’t told me about?”
Bozeman stroked his chin with one hand and looked up before answering. “I’ve kept you apprised of everything going on thus far. I have no reason to believe that we’re going to have any trouble. However, The Chamber doesn’t take to failure too lightly. And like it or not, our success—or lack thereof—is connected.”
Michaels let out a long slow breath and shook his head. “I should’ve never gotten involved with them in the first place. And it’s all your fault.”
“You had no choice,” Bozeman countered. “I had no choice. The Chamber gets what they want. It’s far better to join their cabal than to try and fight it. Besides, I’m sure you won’t care one wit about all this once you win re-election.”
“At this point, I’m not counting on anything.”
“Well, you better hope it happens because you can count on The Chamber following through on their promise if you fail to get elected.”
Michaels waved off Bozeman. “They’ll probably just co-opt the next President into complying with their wishes.”
“But isn’t it better to be on the right side of history . . . at least as it pertains to them?”
Michaels shrugged. “I’m not sure any of it will matter when it’s all said and done. And if anyone ever finds out the truth and discovers I was complicit with The Chamber’s plans, I’ll go down in history like Benedict Arnold. Then people will start using my name as a euphemism for traitor.”
“No one’s going to know because we’re going to succeed.”
Michaels leaned back, interlocking his fingers behind his head. “Yet you still feel the need to concoct a secondary plan?”
“Just trying to be cautious.”
“Fine. What do you need?”
“I need you to sign off on this,” Bozeman said as he handed a dossier to Michaels.
Michaels took it and opened it, reading the first few paragraphs in silence. “This makes me really uncomfortable.”
“It’s just a fail-safe.”
“I know, but—”
“It’s unpleasant to think about, but that’s why it’s our second option and not our first. The Chamber won’t spare you just because you still have a conscience.”
Michaels sighed before signing the order. He handed the document to Bozeman.
“Don’t let it come to this,” Michaels said as he stood.
Bozeman stuffed the paper into his coat jacket. “I’ll do my best, though these situations can be unpredictable.”
“I’m holding you responsible if you fail.”
“With all due respect, Mr. President, if this plan isn’t successful, it won’t matter if you hold me responsible or not.”
Michaels watched Bozeman slip out of the room.
Returning to his seat, Michaels slumped in the chair. He waited a few moments before checking his watch. A knock on the door from his secret service detail let him know it was safe to come out.
But Michaels preferred to remain in the room, indefinitely if he could. But responsibility awaited him—and he dreaded the day when he’d have to own up to the decision he just made. It wouldn’t be pleasant.
CHAPTER 11
Cairo, Egypt
HAWK AND ALEX KNOCKED on the door of Dr. Tarek Ngozi’s office. It was situated on the fifth floor at the northeastern corner of the Cairo University archeology department building. After a few seconds, the door swung open and a man holding a gold pocket watch greeted them cautiously.
“May I help you?” he asked, his gaze bouncing between the time piece and the two visitors.
Hawk offered his hand. “Gerald McMurtry, and this is Ava Dawson. We’re graduate students from Stanford University, and we were interested in joining you on your current dig.”
Ngozi chuckled. “You could have sent me an email first. I hope you didn’t come all this way just to try and get on one of my digs because I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed.”
“Dr. Ngozi, I have admired your work for quite some time,” Alex said. “It would be an honor just to talk with you about your current dig.”
Ngozi shrugged and gestured for them to enter his office. “If you’ve come all this way, I surely wouldn’t be so rude as to turn you away for a short conversation.”
“Thank you,” Alex said as she went into the room first with Hawk right on her heels.
“Please, have a seat,” Ngozi said. “Would either of you like a cup of tea?”
“Absolutely,” Alex said.
“Might as well,” Hawk added.
Ngozi smiled. “Excellent. I had just started heating up a pot. It will be ready shortly.”
He lowered himself into the chair behind his desk, while Hawk and Alex sat in the pair of chairs opposite Ngozi. Behind Ngozi, Hawk paused to study how the Cairo skyline provided a picturesque backdrop for the Nile River, which snaked its way southward just a block away.
Ngozi clasped his hands together and rested them on the surface in front of him. “So, Mrs. Dawson, how familiar are you with my current dig?”
“Familiar enough to know that it’s of great interest
to me and my PhD research.”
“So I presume you want to become the next expert on early biblical texts?”
She nodded. “And the buzz on one of the archaeological chat rooms I frequent says you might have already discovered the Severus Scroll.”
Ngozi wagged his index finger and clucked his tongue. “Big mistake, Mrs. Dawson. You can’t believe everything you hear on those websites. After all, it’s the Internet where—”
Alex slammed a picture of Dr. Ngozi with the Severus Scroll on his desk. “Spare me the lecture, Doc. I know the rumors are true.”
Ngozi picked up the picture, his face transforming from a pleasant smile to a scowl. “Where did you get this?”
“That’s not important,” Hawk said.
Ngozi set his jaw and stood. “Who are you people really?”
Hawk ignored his question. “We need you to help us set up a meeting with Malik Bashir.”
“Who?” Ngozi said with a knit brow.
“Don’t play coy with us, Dr. Ngozi,” Hawk said. “We know you’re quite familiar with this man.”
“I’m afraid you’ve confused me with someone else. I have no idea who—”
“The Missile Man,” Hawk said. “You sold him a Dead Sea scroll under the table.”
“I think it’s time for you to leave,” Ngozi said.
Neither Hawk nor Alex moved. From across the room, Ngozi’s mini electric kettle beeped, signifying the water was ready.
Hawk pulled the right side of his jacket out a few inches, revealing his gun. “But we haven’t even had our tea.”
Ngozi took a deep breath and shuffled across the room toward the kettle before pouring out three cups. He returned with Hawk’s and Alex’s mugs along with a small wooden box of tea bags that included an assortment of flavors.
The trio all selected a tea bag and dropped it into their mugs to let it steep. Ngozi settled into his chair and leaned back.
“You don’t know what you’re asking me to do,” Ngozi said. “That man is dangerous, and he’s going to kill me if he ever finds out we even had a discussion.”
Brady Hawk 07 - State of Play Page 4
