by Tim LaHaye
“Well, I’m not here to debate the finer points of the law …”
Hardcastle paused, but Abigail didn’t fill in the blanks for her, so the U.S. attorney continued, “I’m here to offer you complete immunity from prosecution if you simply give me some facts.”
A brief flash of shock registered on Abigail’s face before she returned to a neutral glare. “Such as?”
“Who gave you your fake BIDTag. It’s pretty impressive. It passed all our scanners.”
“Does it matter? I’ve been BIDTagged one way or the other.”
“Oh, I think we both know you haven’t. Not legally. The point is that we know someone out there is minting this counterfeit version. Just tell us who, and we’ll grant you immunity.”
Abigail had suspected that Chiro’s forgery would be of interest to the feds, but she didn’t expect they’d offer her immunity in return. Surely, they’d lock her up anyway and try to force the information out of her. But something wasn’t right. Abigail thought back to the eccentric Chiro Hashimoto and her pledge to him before leaving his compound that she would keep his identity and his location confidential. “You’re asking me questions that are covered by the Fifth Amendment of the Constitution,” Abigail replied. “And I recall being given my Miranda rights earlier today,” she added.
Hardcastle bristled. “Go ahead and try to play tough with me. But remember — all I have to do is make just one call and guys with guns show up here and lock you in a metal cage.”
“Sounds unpleasant.”
“Jail cells generally are.”
Abigail could smell a rat. Tanya was trying to sneak something past Abigail. Her best guess, and greatest hope, was that Hardcastle had already heard some inside information about the court’s ruling in her case. Abigail was banking on that. And she was now also banking on the fact that Hardcastle knew that the government’s case against Joshua may have just gone down in flames. “I’ll have to respectfully decline your offer,” Abigail said.
The U.S. attorney fluttered her eyes. “The thing about smart people,” Hardcastle said, this time not trying to hide the edge in her voice, “is that they can sometimes outsmart themselves.” Then she got up and headed to the door, but halfway there she halted, as if tempted to try again to manipulate Abigail into yielding information, but then she thought better of it. To cover her abrupt stop, she bent down and scooped up the teacup and saucer off the table. Abigail had to stifle a laugh. She’d made the right call.
“Thanks for the tea,” Abigail said brightly.
“Don’t move,” Hardcastle said, irritation all over her face.
Outside the room, Hardcastle shoved the teacup and saucer into the hands of an assistant and then stormed into her office. She snatched off her desk the hard copy of the Per Curiam Order of the D.C. Circuit Court of Appeals that she had printed out from her email just before talking to Abigail. Now she read its infuriating contents again. One more time. Just to make sure.
Judges Lillegaard, Turkofsky, Preston.
ORDERED: That the Material Witness Order entered against Abigail Jordan by the U.S. District Court, requiring her to remain within the territorial boundaries of the United States during the pendency of the criminal action titled United States v. Jordan, is hereby reversed and vacated, on the grounds of the Due Process Clauses of the 5th and 14th Amendments to the U.S. Constitution.
This Court further Orders the government to show cause to the U.S. District Court, within seventy-two hours, as to why the criminal action against Joshua Jordan should not be dismissed on its merits in light of the affidavit evidence of prosecutorial misconduct submitted by defendant’s counsel, Abigail Jordan.
Still in the conference room, as Abigail wondered whether she would be spending the night on a metal cot, an agent entered the room and asked her to follow him. Five minutes later, she was outside on the public sidewalk, unaccompanied and smelling the welcoming though automobile-congested air of Washington, D.C. Her only guess was that Hardcastle, having suffered a humiliating defeat in the case against Joshua, was not going to risk charging Abigail with her apparent failure to get a timely BIDTag, especially since she now appeared to have one that inexplicably passed through the federal scanners.
But Abigail was struck with the question she did not have a chance to ask Hardcastle. For Abigail, it was the most important question of all. Where is Cal?
But that thought was interrupted by her Allfone. She opened her email and noticed a message from the D.C. Circuit Court of Appeals. The Per Curiam Order was attached.
She took a deep breath and read it with a trembling hand. For good measure, she read it again. That is when, there on the sidewalk, Abigail burst into tears. She continued to cry and laugh amidst the busy pedestrian traffic, murmuring a prayer of thanks about the goodness of God and His love of justice. She didn’t care about the passersby who gawked at her. She was finally able to vent the emotions she had carefully managed for so long while she had waited for God’s vindicating hand.
Abigail spoke out to no one in particular, “Josh, I miss you.” She had been out of contact with him for a while. She knew it was necessary — avoiding phone calls and even encrypted emails while she was dodging the government surveillance — but soon the waiting would be over. “Josh, I can’t wait to fly to Israel to see you, darling …”
A voice behind her broke in. “How about your trusty legal intern?” It was Cal. Abigail jumped and even more tears started trickling down.
“Mom,” Cal said, “you look surprised. I told you there was no way I could be charged. Victoria McHenry was released too. Man, she’s one cool and collected customer. But then, considering her spy background, I shouldn’t have been surprised.”
“I need to thank that dear woman for sticking her neck out for me,” Abigail said, wiping a tear away and not worrying about her messed-up eyeliner. “And yes, you’ll join me as soon as we can get our jet ready — and Deborah too.”
“I called her,” Cal said, “as soon as I was released and gave her a status on what’s happening here, left it on her voicemail. I got a short text message back. She said she’s in orientation meetings with the convention team in Denver. Doesn’t sound promising.”
“Give her time. She’s the right person for that assignment. We need to keep praying for her too. This could be dangerous.”
Cal nodded and then glanced at his Allfone. “I got a message from Phil Rankowitz. Didn’t tell me much, just that he needed to talk to us. It’s about the two stories he’s working on for AmeriNews, both of them shockers — the Alexander Coliquin exposé and the investigation on the possible poisoning of President Corland. Phil reminded me that I need to get Corland to sign an authorization so we can get testing done on that blood sample his family doctor took. His wife had suspicions and ordered the blood draw taken right after that last near-fatal attack he had.”
“When was your last contact with Corland or his wife?”
“Last week.”
“You may want to double-back with President Corland,” she said, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. “I’m sure getting his medical consent is no problem, but we need to prepare him. If the tests show he was poisoned, the story will set off a firestorm.”
“Right,” Cal said, “but first, I’m starving. Let’s grab something to eat. Backpacking in the Northwest, escaping SIA agents, and facing federal arrest has given me a monster appetite.”
FIFTY-FOUR
Fair Haven Convalescent Center, Bethesda, Maryland
Winnie Corland was sobbing. She stood over the body of her deceased husband, but her knees weakened and she fell against the bed, reaching out and touching his cold face. This was not just a former president she was embracing. It was her husband of fifty years. A nurse came up next to her and helped her into a chair.
“He just passed in the night,” she explained to Winnie. “I’m sure it was peaceful. I am sorry about your loss.”
She knew his health had been fragile, especially when he
collapsed in the Oval Office after one of his worst transient ischemic attacks. But after the succession of power to Jessica Tulrude, and Virgil’s transfer to the convalescent center, he seemed to be doing better. Slowly, to be sure, but improving.
The nurse stepped out as Winnie tried to catch her breath in a short, gasping effort. She dabbed the tears from her face and took a deep breath. The Allfone in her purse on the floor started humming. But she ignored it.
She thought back to her time with Virgil the night before. She had spent the evening with him, just talking quietly. She was grateful for that. They had laughed at memories of their life together, like their honeymoon. Being nature-lovers, they had gone rustic, camping in a state park in Maine. They had pitched their tent on the low ground, and when a nasty rainstorm broke in the middle of the night, the waters rushed through their tent, nearly floating them away. Her eyes filled with tears again, but a smile started to break in the corner of her mouth as she remembered that.
She recalled how last night, one more time, Virgil shared with her the story of his devoted Secret Service agent, a Christian man, who had such an influence on him, and how Virgil had made the decision, in his words, to “personally trust his soul into the hands of Christ.” It was the day that Virgil had been alone in the Oval Office, shouldering the usual, ever-present burdens of the presidency. But he said that something that day actually outweighed all of that: the burden of his heart, the “empty hole there, and my longing for a touch from God, to repair me, forgive me, and to bring me some peace.” So, as Corland related it to his wife, he slowly eased down on his knees, behind the famous nineteenth-century Resolute Desk, and began to pray, pouring out his heart of repentance and faith in Jesus, trusting his soul and his life to Christ, God’s “Divine Commander-in-Chief,” as he put it in his prayer, “My Savior. My King.”
Despite his pleas, Winnie had never been able to make that decision for herself. What was it that had kept it all so distant — at arm’s length? Virgil was always such an external person. She, on the other hand, was the private one. She would ponder what Virgil said, but then would silently push it back into the closet and close the door.
Virgil often took her hand gently and asked her, in a voice that, for him, was unusual in its pathos, to “please, please, consider where you stand with the Son of God.”
But now he was gone, and there was nothing that would change that. And she was alone.
She slowly fished her hand into her purse, pulled out the Allfone, and hit the voicemail function. The voice message was from Cal Jordan, the young man that Virgil had so enjoyed. He was asking to talk to Virgil or Winnie as soon as possible, and Cal added, “I sure hope you both are doing well. I really appreciated my talks with President Corland. Good-bye.”
She clicked off her Allfone so she wouldn’t be bothered again and dropped it into her purse. All she wanted to do now was to sit in the room and stay close to the last physical likeness of her late husband. Nothing else seemed to matter.
Pepsi Center, Denver
In the middle of the frenzied political theater unfolding around her, Deborah was obsessing over a question — a very politically incorrect one: How do I trap our candidate’s advisor and slam the cage shut before she bites?
The volunteers, having paraded to the middle of the cavernous arena, were now seated while the roadies and tech guys finished erecting the sets on the stage. On either side of the presenting area, where a Plexiglas podium had been installed, tall panes of red-white-and-blue-colored glass rose fifty feet into the air. Sparkling banners and a mammoth American flag made of shimmering lights formed the backdrop.
The manager of volunteer services was on his feet at the front with a sports-mic headset. He was looking at his e-pad, getting ready to address the one hundred and seventy volunteers for the Hewbright campaign. Deborah was one of them. A few seats away, Rick was joking with a group of friends. His face brightened when he noticed Deborah.
Oh boy, she thought, as Rick got up from his seat and tripped over knees and feet to approach her. He bent down to the girl next to Deborah and said, “Would you mind switching seats with me? This is a long-lost friend of mine. Gotta do some catching up.”
The girl tossed him an exasperated look but changed seats. Rick sat down and stretched out his long legs, pretending nothing had happened.
“Long-lost friend?” Deborah said with a smirk.
“Oh, that? Naw, listen, this is strictly platonic. You don’t think I’m trying to hit on you, do you?” Rick’s cocky smirk gave that one away.
“Okay,” Deborah said, “then hit me with some platonics.”
“Right. How about this … just heard that the Tucker troops are ramping up their smear campaign.”
At the front, the volunteer manager was being approached by another Hewbright staffer carrying a digital clipboard.
“Tell me,” Deborah whispered.
“They’re saying Hewbright’s a womanizer. One-night-stands in motels with admirers. That kind of thing.”
“That’s crazy. Hewbright? Who’s going to believe that?”
“Look, his wife’s been dead a couple of years. Nobody expects the guy never to go out with women again. He’s not a monk. But this stuff they’re saying is so vile and false it’s incredible. I heard Hewbright’s going to haul Tucker before the rules committee, to either prove this stuff — which he obviously can’t — or make a public apology in front of the delegates. You wonder where these rumors start anyway.”
As Deborah was trying to process that, wondering if it had anything to do with Zeta Milla, the staffer at the front with the e-clipboard broke into a wide grin and waved to someone around the corner. Senator Hewbright came into view, waving to the volunteers, who stood to their feet, clapping and whistling.
After the hall grew quiet again, the senator began his remarks. “You young people who have given so much and asked for so little in return, you are the essence of my campaign. You’re here not just for me, although I thank you for that from the bottom of my heart, but you’re also here for America. You sense, as I do, that our nation is on a precipice, tottering this way and that — on the brink of an unknown and turbulent future. Possibly catastrophic. But I see, at the same time, another direction — that we can be on the brink of a great restoration, a recovery of something lost, a revival of the American vision. That there can be greatness still in this nation, and we can say that without apology, without embarrassment for who we are, and what we stand for. Leading the world, rather than asking the world’s permission. Standing tall, rather than bowing low to international powers, refusing to be financial beggars at the economic table of global masters, but rather choosing to be the brokers of freedom that we were destined to be.”
Hewbright stopped and smiled. “All right, enough of my acceptance speech …” The crowd laughed and burst into more applause. “But,” he added, “I do thank you all. Truly. And let me share something I just found out. The first televised debate will be in ten days. I’m hoping and planning to be the candidate on the other side of the podium from Tulrude.” More wild applause. “That first debate will be on foreign policy.” With that he turned to someone standing just around the corner, blocked by an entryway. “Come on up here, Zeta.”
Zeta Milla stepped into view and strode up next to Hewbright with a modest smile. She was carrying a chic black handbag. Deborah, who had inherited her mother’s taste for style, recognized the Dolce and Gabbana bag immediately.
The senator looked relaxed and energized. “My chief internationalaffairs advisor, Winston Garvey, isn’t here right now — otherwise I’d introduce him to you. He’s up in the war room, as we call it, putting together my briefing books on global issues. But this is Zeta Milla, and she is on our foreign-relations team. She briefs me on Central and South American issues. And she’s even smarter than she is attractive …” There was a burst of applause.
Deborah had her eyes on Zeta Milla. As Hewbright waved good-bye to the volunteers, Milla
slipped her hand around Hewbright’s arm. He moved away from her so slightly that it was nearly imperceptible.
Rick’s face lit up. “He’s going to make a great president.” He turned to Deborah. “So, what’s your assignment?”
“Tell me yours.”
“I just found out. You’re never going to believe it.”
“Try me.”
“I’m the go-for guy in the war room! Is that the bomb or what?”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not at all. That Zeta Milla babe we just saw … I met her up in the war-room suite. Met that Winston Garvy dude too. I’m right there, in the middle of the action, even though I’m just a fetch-and-carry guy, but still …”
Deborah tried not to dive in too eagerly. So she waited a few minutes. Then, she looked at Rick and spoke quietly. “Okay, Rick, you can buy me that cup of coffee.”
“Hey, sounds great.”
“But you have to do something first.”
Rick threw her a hesitant grin, “What’s that?”
“Can you get me on your team? I’d love to work in the war room. The heart of the action is right where I want to be.”
Paris, France
It was 2:00 a.m. in Paris. In his apartment just off Place de la Republique, Pack McHenry was working. The former American intelligence officer had just finished reviewing several surveillance reports on terror cells in the European Union on his encrypted email system. He approved them and sent them electronically — and encrypted — over to the Paris post of the CIA, one of his contract clients. He glanced at his Allfone watch — the one with ten time zones. It was early evening in Cuba.
So he made his call to Marianao, Cuba, which was in the Old Havana section. Carlos picked up.
“Hello, my friend.”
“Greetings, amigo. Where are you calling from today?”
