by Malcom James
“You too, Lonnie,” Eli said, patting him on the back, and then he took off in a full sprint.
“He’s gonna start a war soon, you watch!” Lonnie yelled, as Eli disappeared over the grassy hill.
***
Eli ran until he was out of breath, then slowed to a trot. As he moved north, he passed multiple checkpoints where armored vehicles and police cars had choked off street access to anyone trying to reach the White House, the Supreme Court, or the Treasury buildings to the west.
When he reached Pennsylvania Avenue, he came upon the heart of the conflict: thousands of protestors, people from all walks of life, were being pushed back from the White House by a slow-moving wall of cops and soldiers in full riot gear, backed by riot police on horses, backed by armored SWAT and National Guard vehicles, some with mounted machine guns.
Eli turned around and went back to Constitution Avenue, then moved east toward the Capitol. He picked up his pace, and after a few blocks he cut north again on 6th ST NW, and found he could cross Pennsylvania Avenue and keep heading north toward Shaw.
***
He waited in a coffee shop across the street for over three hours, watching the building through the window, checking the news on his phone, as the demonstrations grew, and spontaneous riots continued to break out around the country. Each time the government’s security forces would block an area and disperse the protestors, they popped up in new locations.
The clashes were becoming more violent, a series of rolling battles that gave the government cover to begin using more extreme tactics, including tear gas and water cannons against the “terrorists violating the president’s lawful orders,” as Fox News proclaimed.
Two more broadcasters had their licenses revoked and went dark. Local internet “blackouts” were being used to prevent protestors from coordinating on social media.
It was dusk when the nervous barista let everyone know they would close, things were getting too crazy.
Just then, he saw her exit a car and walk briskly up the steps of her brownstone. He bolted out and across the street.
“Natalie!”
She turned, but almost didn’t recognize him.
“Eli? Oh my God…”
He looked over his shoulders.
“Can we go inside? Please?”
“Okay,” she said and quickly pulled out her keys, unlocked her apartment and guided them inside, scanning the street as she locked the deadbolt.
“Where’s Brandon?”
“He’s… not here. He went back to New York,” she said as she set down her bags. “What the fuck is going on with you?”
He spent the next five minutes telling her about Sherry, the story about the taping system, and how she wound up dead — probably killed — the FBI told him so — and they were after him now.
“Who killed her? Who is they?”
“The president. His people. They want me dead, too.”
“Will you be honest with me?”
“Always.”
“Are you on drugs?”
“No.”
“You reek of alcohol and look like shit.”
“My dad died. I got drunk and passed out.”
“Jesus. Sorry.”
There was a moment of silence as they stood in the fading light from her window.
“Did you know about the taping system?” he asked.
“Not until the story came out.”
“I’m the one who built it. And I’m the one who erased the files. She wasn’t supposed to put that in the story.”
She was looking at him, unsure, nervous.
“You don’t believe me?”
“Look at you, what am I supposed to say, Eli?”
“What if I can prove it?”
“Prove what?”
“That I built the system, I deleted the files?” He didn’t want to hurt her, but he needed her to believe him.
“You were alone with him in the Oval. He said you made him hard, the way you dressed. He was going to promote you, but you had to do something for him.”
Her face turned ashen and she looked away, then dropped onto the couch.
“I only have fifteen minutes, I have to change and go back to the White House,” she said.
“For what?”
“He’s throwing a party.”
“The world is on fucking fire right now and he’s throwing a party?”
“Monopoly theme. They printed “Get Out Of Jail Free” invitations. Everyone will be there. I have to go back.”
“He’s sick, Natalie.”
She looked at him. She couldn’t disagree.
“There’s something else I never told you.”
“Fuck Eli, what now?”
And that’s when he told her what he’d seen. She stayed quiet while he explained the random circumstances, how he never knew what to do with it, or how to prove it, but that’s why he stayed, searching for a solution.
She didn’t want to believe it, but he was right about the tape of her, and there was something in the detail, the way it tied everything together, that all made sense: Franks’ deeply flawed personal character, especially as it related to sex; his complete unwillingness to say a bad word against Russia; his constant attempts to limit or remove economic sanctions, despite the fact they had attacked the country; and his frantic efforts to stop the investigation at all costs. It wasn’t just collusion he was trying to hide, it was infinitely worse.
When Eli was done, they sat silently as everything swirled in her head, then finally came into focus. The truth was, she believed him. That’s when he told her what he needed her to do.
23
Dancing on Graves
It was just after 6 p.m. and Natalie was right. Everyone was there. The president had more than one hundred of his closest supporters and donors, conservative media stars, the Speaker of the House, key Republican Senators, his entire Cabinet, all of his immediate family, and all three of his lawyers packed into the East Room. The crowd was in formal attire, enjoying champagne, and an all-white jazz band was on the hastily-erected stage near the Steinway, belting out Bennie Goodman’s “Stompin’ At The Savoy.”
The glittering crowd in the ornate room, with its crystal chandeliers hanging from twenty foot ceilings, and the massive portrait of George Washington, gave it all the glamour of a royal ball. There was more than one guest who felt it was a shocking time to be throwing a party, in the very room where Kennedy and Lincoln once lay in state. But no one dared to say a word.
Franks had set up a receiving line, and every guest came by to have themselves photographed, congratulating him and shaking his hand. Natalie, in a skin tight cocktail dress that she had never intended to wear again after her sister’s bachelorette party, moved along the receiving line until she reached the president. Her outfit immediately caught his eye, and she saw him look her over from head to toe, and as she shook his hand, she leaned forward and whispered in his ear “Congratulations, Mr. President. I’m ready for that promotion now,” then pulled back and gave him her sexiest smile. The First Lady was nearby, but either didn’t catch it, or didn’t care.
“Well, that’s a beautiful, beautiful thing, Natalie. We should take care of that tonight,” Franks said.
“Yes, Mr. President,” she cooed.
***
The party was going full-tilt downstairs when, just before 9 p.m., Natalie found herself in Franks’ bedroom. Ken Miller had found her in the crowd and whispered to her that it was “time” and escorted her upstairs in the Residence, then taken his post outside the president’s bedroom, reading a magazine.
They were alone. Franks stood in his tuxedo, removing his bowtie. Her heart raced, sweat beading on her forehead. She wanted to scream, but steadied herself.
“I’m glad you finally came around, Natalie. I think we can do great things for you,” he said as he tossed his tie on the nightstand and removed his jacket, exposing the massive g
irth of his midsection wrapped in wrinkled white tuxedo shirt. She swallowed hard.
“What about the first lady?” she asked nervously.
“Oh, she encourages me, keeps me from driving her crazy. Boys will be boys, she says,” and he started to unbutton his shirt, and his rotund belly burst free. “You know it’s a proven fact that powerful men have the greatest libidos,” he said.
He reached into the nightstand, pulled out a remote and turned on the news. Fox was discussing the celebration party he was throwing himself, how glamorous it all was, and without a mention of the chaos engulfing the country. “It must be good to be the president tonight,” said the cold blond anchor lady. Franks turned his attention back to Natalie. He began rubbing his crotch.
“I want to watch you get undressed, then get into the bed,” he said in a low voice. Her heart sank.
“Do you want to, I don’t know, maybe take a shower first?” she said, and she tried to make it sound sexy, but mostly she just sounded scared.
“After,” he said. “We can take one together if you want.” She gulped.
“Okay, sure,” she said and she began to take off her heels. He continued to rub himself though his pants while she slowly took off her dress, letting it fall to the floor. She stood before him in her black bra and panties, trembling.
“My goodness, you are a dirty little angel, aren’t you?” he groaned as he rubbed his groin. She wanted to cry.
“Take off your bra, I want to see those titties.”
She unsnapped her bra, guided it off her arms, and let it fall. He stared at her pert breasts like he had never seen a woman before, his eyes focusing on them as he rubbed his pants harder, then looked down at his groin. Nothing was happening.
“Damn it, take off your panties, and get in the bed,” he barked loudly. He kept rubbing himself but nothing was happening.
“Take them off,” he said again, as he watched her and kept rubbing. She took off her panties and stood totally nude before him, and forced herself to smile weakly. She quickly pulled back the comforter and slipped under the sheets and covered herself.
He looked back down at his crotch. Nothing.
“I’ll be right back,” he said and disappeared into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.
In a flash, she rolled over and pulled open the nightstand drawer and rummaged through it — another TV remote control; a jar of vaseline; a book of Hitler’s speeches; and then she found it: the old Samsung.
She heard a snorting noise in the bathroom, and then the faucet running. She took the phone, closed the drawer, and slid the phone under the bed on her side, and returned to her upright spot on the pillow just as he came through the bathroom door in his white robe, with a bit of white pounder around his nose, his eyes glowing with lust.
Her heart wanted to explode as he removed his robe, and she saw his sudden hard-on as he crawled under the sheets and rolled toward her.
“Time to come to Daddy,” he groaned.
He got on top of her, nearly crushing her, and was about to penetrate her, moaning “you’re so beautiful, Natalie, you remind me of Alexa…” when she shoved him off — he rumbled over sideways. “What the fuck?” he yelled as she shot out of bed.
“I’m not ready for this,” she said.
She grabbed her dress and slipped it on as he sat up.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“I need more time,” she said, trying to stall him. He sat up with the sheets over his legs.
“Get back in here or the deal is off, you understand?” he barked. He saw her quickly slip on her shoes, then grab something from under the bed and put it in her purse.
“I have to go,” she said, and she headed for the door, leaving her underwear behind on the carpet.
“Damn it Natalie, get back here!” he yelled, leaping out of bed as she grabbed the door. She flew through it and ran past Ken Miller, who saw her as just one more sex-disheveled young woman leaving Franks’ room in a tizzy.
She ran down the grand staircase, back through the East Room, and cut through the party, while he was pacing, naked and confused, thinking aloud and yelling at the television. She was already crossing Executive Avenue by the time he got suspicious that it was more than just cold feet, thought to rummage through his nightstand, and discovered his trusty old Samsung was missing.
“She stole my fucking phone!” he yelled naked from his doorway, cocaine spilling from his nose.
Ken jumped and ran after her, calling in a Secret Service code to seal the exits, but she had already escaped the complex and disappeared into the night.
***
While Natalie was executing her plan, Eli retrieved his laptop and White House access badge from the bus station locker, and called Jeremy to find out about forensic data recovery software for an old Android phone. Jeremy knew what to use, but it all depended on whether the phone was locked. Eli said he thought it was unlocked, but couldn’t be sure. If it was locked, cracking it could take weeks, but might still be possible.
Eli was sitting in the backseat of an Uber, parked in an alley behind a closed Peet’s Coffee shop a few blocks from the White House. Eli had convinced the nice Korean driver that they would be okay to just sit in the curfew area until his girlfriend arrived from the White House, and then he would drive them somewhere close. The $200 cash helped. They couldn’t get any closer to the White House due to the security perimeter, but she had a White House pass and could exit the area and meet them there, and with her pass and his pass they could drive out of the restricted area, even after the curfew was in effect. The driver didn’t understand half of what he said, but he understood the money.
While Eli waited in the alley, he installed the software over the wi-fi from Peet’s. He was finishing the setup when Natalie knocked on the back window and then jumped into the Honda, barely containing her panic.
“I can’t believe you had me do that,” she said under her breath, and started to cry. He reached over and held her for a moment while she broke down. The driver was watching them in the mirror. Eli didn’t want it to become more of a scene than it already was; he knew they made a strange couple, he the borderline homeless guy with a laptop and lots of cash, and her in a sexy cocktail dress, disheveled bob haircut and slightly-smeared lipstick, meeting him in a dark alley under a curfew. It looked a lot like a human-trafficking situation.
He told her to catch her breath, she was safe. She reached in her purse and took out the Samsung and handed it to him.
“Let’s get off the radar,” he said and he slapped on the back seat. “Okay, let’s go,” he said, and the driver put it into gear, still watching them suspiciously.
A few blocks later they came upon a D.C. National Guard vehicle barricade, and she produced her White House credentials and a big smile.
“Drive directly home, Ms. Roth,” the body-armored sergeant in the street had ordered after reviewing her I.D. She said they would, and he waived them through.
The sergeant had no idea that the president’s private security team was searching for her, because Franks had told Ken he didn’t want it leaking to the media — they had to play it “close to the vest.” So other than a lockdown code in the White House that was quickly lifted when they realized she was gone, even the Secret Service had no idea what had just occurred.
***
Franks was still in his suite, pacing in his robe, fuming and coked up. Ken Miller was trying to remain a steadying force.
“You’re keeping this thing under wraps, right?” he barked at Ken.
“We’ll find it.”
Franks walked in a circle, alternating between staring at the carpet and Fox News, which wasn’t covering any of the ongoing demonstrations or the state of martial law, but rather the glamour of his big White House party still raging downstairs.
“We need something really fucking big, you understand?”
“Absolutely.”
“Get my generals.”
“Which ones, sir?”
“All of them! Tell Hartford I want ‘em all in the Oval in fifteen minutes.”
Ken’s reaction delayed for just a split second.
“Did you hear me?” Franks bellowed.
“Right away, Mr. President.”
***
As the Honda cruised south on 14th Street and cut directly across the National Mall, Eli attached the Samsung to his laptop and fired up the forensic data recovery software. There was a long moment as a simple message displayed “Attempting to connect to device….” They both held their breath as they stared at the monitor on his lap, the lit-up stone obelisk of the Washington Monument visible out the window as they passed.
“Connection successful, scanning device…” appeared, and Eli yelled “Yes!” out loud, startling the driver.
“Sorry, keep going, the address I gave you,” he said, and the driver continued.
As the car moved farther south through the Southwest Waterfront neighborhood, the software reported back “16,456,287 bytes of recoverable data…” and Eli answered the “Recover All?” message with an emphatic click on the “Yes” button.
24
First Strike
President Franks was back in his tuxedo, standing behind the Resolute Desk in the Oval Office. He had fixed his hair and wiped the coke off his nose, but his blood was boiling. Flanked to his sides in front of the gaudy gold curtains were Alexa and her husband Bradley. Across the desk and filling out the room precisely as Franks had ordered were Franks’ Chief of Staff Gen. Hartford, Secretary of Defense Jerry Masters, National Security Advisor Karen VanBergen, and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Gen. Tommy “Tomahawk” Dawkins, along with Vice President Dave Price, Director of National Intelligence Don LaChitte, and CIA Director Mark Testerino.
Everyone in the room was in their formal attire or military uniform, having been been pulled directly from the party by Gen. Hartford and Ken Miller, who stood watch in the corner.
“I have received very top secret intelligence, super top secret, that North Korea plans to use this moment of national division to strike the United States with a nuclear missile,” Franks announced.
