by Ken Fite
“More coffee?” the man asked and topped off our cups.
“You better leave it here,” I said. Our waiter left the hot carafe on our table. I grabbed the menus and set them aside. “What happened? Think it’s related to the call that Chris Reed got a few minutes ago?”
Jami nodded. “I think so.” She looked back down at her laptop and started typing in her login credentials. Before she could tell me more, we heard our waiter talking loudly to someone inside.
I turned around and heard a woman walking quickly across the tile floor.
Our waiter appeared and extended his hand in our direction. Jami and I were the only couple sitting outside, so I knew he was directing the woman to our table. When she got closer, I recognized her and knew exactly who she was. As she approached, she held out her hand to greet me. Jami and I stood.
“Blake Jordan?” she asked and I nodded as our hands clasped. “Emma Ross,” she said. “Glad I found you. I tried your cell, but it didn’t even ring.”
I grabbed my phone from an inside pocket of my blazer and realized I hadn’t turned it on after we landed.
“This is Jami Davis,” I said, nodding in Jami’s direction and watched Ross extend her hand to greet her.
“Mr. Jordan, something’s come up and I need you to come with me right away.”
“What happened?” I asked, but Ross didn’t answer. Her eyes shifted to Jami.
“Does this have anything to do with the bulletin that the FBI issued?” Jami asked, trying to understand if the phone call that she had just received was related.
Ross looked surprised and turned to me. “Department of Domestic Counterterrorism,” I said as I looked back in Jami’s direction, letting Ross know that she could speak freely in front of Jami if she was able to.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not at liberty to speak openly about this. Mr. Jordan, if you will please follow me?”
Jami sat back down and stared back at her laptop and started typing again. “I’ll stay here a little bit longer. Our room should be ready soon. I’ll head over shortly and keep working from there, okay?”
“Okay,” I replied and followed Ross from the patio back inside as we headed for the elevator.
She pressed the button for our floor and waited for the doors to close. “Defense Secretary Gibson asked for an emergency National Security Council meeting at ten,” she continued. “I knew you were attending the staff meeting at noon and thought you might be here in the hotel somewhere. Glad you got here early.”
“What’s going on?” I asked as we arrived at our floor and Ross and I exited the elevator. As we did, a younger man emerged from an adjacent room that I figured he and a few others might have been using as an impromptu office to work from. The door closed before I could see who else he had been meeting with.
“You must be Blake,” the young man said, extending his hand out to me. “Max Donovan, aide to VP-elect Mike Billings. I’ve also been leading the handoff between the two administrations to make sure the transition is seamless.”
“How’s that working out for you?” I asked sarcastically, knowing how secretive the outgoing administration had been over the last several years. What would have been the perfect opportunity to unify the country had instead torn it apart, creating more division between our parties than ever before.
“A lot harder than we thought it would be. Rouse’s team hasn’t been very partnering.”
“You don’t say,” I added for emphasis.
“But it looks like we’re going to be working a lot more closely with the old guard than we thought we would with what’s brewing right now. Did Ms. Ross get a chance to fill you in?”
“I was just getting there,” said Ross as her heels echoed throughout the hallway. “As I was saying, Gibson asked for an emergency meeting of the National Security Council,” she said as I slid my phone back into the inside pocket of my blazer after checking for any urgent emails and noticing I had a voicemail waiting – probably from Emma Ross. “We’re missing a few key players as they’re still making their way into the metro, but this couldn’t wait.”
As we moved, Ross was stopped by a Secret Service agent who whispered something to the chief of staff. “How far out is he?” she asked, keeping her voice down. Donovan and I looked at each other, knowing who she was talking about. “That’s fine,” she said. “We’ll bring him up to speed when he gets here.”
Ross continued leading us down the hallway. We turned another corner as Donovan and I followed closely. At the end of the hallway, I saw another agent standing outside a set of wooden double doors.
I watched the man speak into his throat mike as we got closer and opened one of the doors to let us in.
SEVEN
Seated around a small, rectangular conference table was Defense Secretary Ron Gibson, National Security Advisor Gary Wallace, and VP-elect Mike Billings who stood as soon as I entered the room.
“This is Blake Jordan. Blake will be serving as an advisor to the president on matters of domestic counterterrorism,” Billings said as I took a seat across from him and exchanged greetings with Gibson and Wallace. Max Donovan sat down next to me and Chief of Staff Ross gave Billings a status update.
After Donovan and I got situated, we turned our attention to Billings.
“The president-elect is en route from Blair House. He’s asked us to get started without him,” he began.
I stared out the conference room windows and again saw a perfect view of the White House. Large windows lined the entire wall, providing a panoramic southern view of Washington.
“The FBI got word about an hour ago about a credible threat that they’re looking into,” Billings continued. “Ron, I know we don’t have a lot to go on right now, but can you to fill us in on what we do know so far?”
I thought of Chris Reed again. This time I was sure that this really was the reason why he got called into the office.
The defense secretary cleared his throat and looked at each of us before he began. “I spoke to the director at the FBI half an hour ago. He informed me that they received an anonymous tip about a terror plot being set in motion by four Somali extremists planned for tomorrow’s inauguration.”
“We receive threats every day,” Wallace said, interrupting Gibson. “What makes this one any different?”
“The terror group,” the defense secretary continued, “is said to be acting on behalf of al-Shabaab.”
“The al-Qaeda affiliate in eastern Africa. The mujahedeen youth movement,” I added.
“Correct,” said Gibson. “What makes this threat credible is that this morning, an informant walked into an overseas U.S. embassy, claiming that Canadian disciples of al-Shabaab had crossed the northern border, intending to detonate explosives here in Washington, sometime during tomorrow’s inauguration.”
“Why didn’t the Canadian government stop them at the border? The Somalis weren’t on a watch list?” Billings asked.
“Al-Shabaab is an outlawed terrorist organization in the United States, but not in Canada,” Gibson replied. “There isn’t a lot of intel on this right now, but from what the FBI can tell by working with Canadian officials, everyone is in agreement that the threat is real and is escalating quickly.”
Wallace leaned forward, interlaced his fingers, and set them on the desk before speaking. “You know Ron, something like this seems to come up every four years. It doesn’t seem very credible to me to be honest–”
“Gary,” the defense secretary interrupted, “Canadian officials confirmed for us that four young men disappeared from Toronto last week. The FBI is working with the Canadian Security Intelligence Service to search their databases to understand exactly who these men are, where they may be if they’re in the city, and what kind of threat we’re facing so we can figure out just what we might be able to do about it.”
“Canada hosts one of the largest Somali communities in the world,” I added. “Just a few months ago, six Somali teenagers vanished from Toronto and the C
SIS found them in Somalia as members of al-Shabaab. There’s a gap on their border that they refuse to address. If these men are going to be a problem, then I think we should look into other options for the inaugural address.”
Max Donovan had remained quiet up until now, but when I made that comment, I noticed that he began staring at me. I wasn’t sure why, and I tried to dismiss it, knowing that he was an aide to Billings. “How do they get back into Canada?” Donovan asked, his gaze finally moving away from me.
“They don’t,” replied Billings. “It’s like the handful of Americans who disappear every year and our own intelligence agencies later discover that they’ve defected and joined ISIS. They understand it’s a one-way ticket and once they leave, they’ll have a hell of a time explaining their whereabouts to get back in.”
“A handful?” asked Wallace. “Let me remind you that close to three hundred Americans have disappeared from our shores, only to show up in Iraq or Syria. Canada isn’t the only country with border problems, Mike. And by the way, I don’t know about Canada, but some of these defectors do get back into the U.S.”
“Unless they disappear,” Donovan added and as he spoke, I felt uneasy. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something about the guy just didn’t feel right to me.
“Some of them are intentionally sent over,” said Gibson. “And you’re right, Max, many do disappear. Brave men and women who know the risks of immersing themselves into the Islamic State for covert surveillance on behalf of our nation, knowing full well that they may never return home if their cover is blown. The others,” he said and looked in Wallace’s direction. “We have no idea where they disappear to.”
“Let’s stay on track here,” said Billings. “What is the CSIS doing right now, Ron?”
“Right, what are they doing and how do we get the names of the Somalis?” I asked, thinking about Jami. “If the CSIS and FBI have this information, they need to make sure they’re not operating in silos and share that across all of our intelligence agencies.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I sensed Max Donovan glaring at me. He didn’t seem to like my aggressiveness. That was the feeling I got, anyway. I didn’t acknowledge his glare. But I noticed it.
Maybe he was just trying to get a feel for how I worked.
“My understanding is that the Somali men have been identified,” the defense secretary answered. “Canadian intelligence did provide the FBI with names and both agencies are working closely together, cross referencing international terror databases to find everything they can.”
“And when are they going to share the names and what they find with us?” I pressed.
“Blake, they’re just being very careful right now,” Gibson replied. “You know how this works. The FBI will delay releasing everything they know as long as they can if they think they have a chance at grabbing these people before they figure out that we’re onto them. The moment names are released, the media gets wind, and we lose our advantage to take them by surprise. We have to trust the FBI to see this through.”
“Fine,” I said. Having run the Department of Domestic Counterterrorism, I knew how frustrating it was dealing with the FBI and how they could make things unnecessarily complicated. This was exactly why I hated those guys. But I decided to let it go and leave the battle with the defense secretary for another day.
“What’s the target?” I asked.
Before Gibson could reply, I heard the man stationed outside the door speak.
“Visual on Hawk,” the agent said, his voice muffled by the door. I had a feeling I knew who Hawk was.
EIGHT
I turned and saw Emma Ross walk back into the room, followed by my longtime friend and mentor.
“Mr. President,” I said as I stood and James Keller entered the room and shook my hand.
“You can call me that tomorrow,” said Keller with a brief smile. “It’s good to see you, Blake.” The president-elect walked past me and took a seat at the head of the table. “Catch me up, Ron,” he continued as Chief of Staff Ross handed him a manila envelope which Keller opened to review the contents.
Defense Secretary Ron Gibson cleared his throat again. “We were just going through what we know so far about the attack that we believe will take place sometime tomorrow. No additional information has been learned in the past half hour since we spoke, so we’re all caught up on the situation.”
Keller spread the contents of the manila envelope in front of him, including the FBI bulletin outlining the details that Gibson had just reviewed. He retrieved his reading glasses from inside his jacket and as he read, Keller massaged his temples. “There isn’t much meat to this, Ron.” Now Keller was frustrated, too.
“I was just asking about the target,” I said. “Do we have any idea where the attack could take place?”
“That’s the problem,” replied Billings. “It sounds like nobody knows that yet. Could be anywhere.”
“So, it could be at the National Mall, the parade, the ball–”
“Anywhere, Mr. Jordan,” Billings snapped, visibly upset and catching me off guard. I watched as he shot his aide a look. I turned to watch Donovan’s reaction. That’s when I knew what had bothered me earlier.
Max Donovan was hiding something.
For a man who had barely uttered a word in our meeting so far, I caught what I believed to be a micro expression, a brief facial expression lasting only a fraction of a second. I had been exposed to micro expression training during my SEAL days, though I spent the majority of my time in sniper training.
I continued to study Max Donovan and confirmed that whenever certain members of Keller’s team spoke, his micro expressions would express disgust and anger. I watched as his nose wrinkled and lips narrowed whenever his boss, VP-elect Billings, spoke as well. He seemed to have a problem with all of us in the room.
As Keller continued to speak, Donovan exhibited more micro expressions. I watched as the corner of his mouth tightened on one side of his face, indicating a high level of contempt for the president-elect. What’s going on with this guy? I wondered and turned away before he could notice me analyzing him.
“Until we have more to go on, I don’t want any changes to the itinerary for tomorrow,” Keller said.
“I don’t agree, we should plan for the worst,” said Mike Billings. “We can cancel the ceremony and swear you into office in the East Room of the White House. We can still televise it live. This way–”
“Damn it, Mike, I won’t allow a faceless terrorist, or group of terrorists, or anybody for that matter to hold me hostage. I’m not going to let the American people see their president cower in fear,” said Keller.
National Security Advisor Gary Wallace had had enough. “To answer your question, Blake, I think it’s safe to say that the most likely target for an attack will be at the National Mall,” he said.
“I understand close to a million civilians will be in attendance to watch Keller being sworn in,” I added.
“Updated projections as of this morning have it closer to two, maybe even three million,” said Wallace.
“What are you thinking, Blake?” Keller asked as he turned to me.
“Sir, to play devil’s advocate,” I said, proceeding cautiously, “what is the Secret Service supposed to do if a bomb detonates in the back of the crowd somewhere on the National Mall during the inaugural address?”
I saw Donovan watching me carefully as I turned to Wallace and Gibson.
“What does the president do if that happens? Is the Secret Service going to whisk him off the stage in the middle of his speech? What kind of impression will that make with the entire world watching?” I asked.
Keller removed his glasses and placed them on the table in front of him. “I appreciate the concern, but let me be clear,” he began. “Until we have more information, there will be no changes.”
I watched Billings smile, believing that he knew Keller just as well as I did and knowing how stubborn he could be.
�
��I’ll get the speechwriters to draft something for you to read in case there’s an attack,” said Billings.
“I don’t want to bring anyone else into this,” replied Keller, taking the envelope from his VP. “Emma, can you write something for us?”
Emma Ross nodded. “I’ll get it over to you this afternoon,” she replied.
“And we’ll continue to keep you updated as the FBI learns more,” said Gibson.
“We were supposed to meet at noon. Give me the update then. Thanks for meeting on such short notice,” he said and the staff was dismissed. “Blake, would you and Ron hang back for me, please?” Keller asked.
When the room had cleared, the defense secretary and I moved to the end of the table to get closer to the president-elect to see what he had to say to us.
“Blake, I know we haven’t been able to catch up much over the last several weeks. How are you?”
“Fine, sir, thank you,” I replied. “How is Margaret?”
“About the same, keeping Nurse Cheryl on her toes. She’s at Blair House resting. Tomorrow will be a demanding day for her.” Keller nodded at the defense secretary. “Blake, I want you to meet Ron Gibson.”
“We met earlier,” I said, offering a smile.
“Blake, Ron’s the only member of President Rouse’s administration that will be staying on to join my team. Ron, if you could show Blake the ropes and help him like you’ve been helping me, I’d appreciate it.”
“Of course, happy to,” replied Gibson as he grabbed a pen and wrote his personal cell phone number on the back of a business card and handed it to me.
The president-elect smiled and nodded. “Thanks, Ron. I’ll see you in a little while,” said Keller as he stuffed the documents he had been reviewing back into the manila folder.
Gibson stood and left the room as Keller held up a hand to signal to me that he wanted me to stay.
NINE
Keller waited for the door to close. Once it clicked shut, he interlaced his fingers and set them down on the table. “Blake, I know the last five months have been hard on you. For the record, I didn’t agree with your firing from the Department of Domestic Counterterrorism. But, I’m glad you’re on my team, now.”
