The Eighth Day

by Tom Avitabile

  “See? And you thought you were finished with school, son.” The man actually tousled Bill’s hair.

  “Boys, the coffee’s getting cold,” his mother called out.

  “Coming, Ma,” Hiccock said as if he were sixteen again. When you go home, you are always sixteen again. He touched his father’s shoulder. “You wouldn’t have a copy of that NTSB report, would ya?”

  “As a matter of fact …”

  ∞§∞

  The follow-up from Bufford’s farm and the investigating agents across the country was aggravating Director Tate’s ulcer this morning. They were all having trouble making hard connects on anything but the Long Island and New Jersey truck bombings. There were a few isolated connections but no more than there would have been by opening any phone book and making a circumstantial case against any person you randomly picked. To his chagrin, Tate had heard that some of the agents had started calling the operation “Homegroan” amongst themselves. Director Tate’s peptic level was not about to get any lower when he answered his phone.

  “NTSB 20-4-64-00234,” Reynolds called out over the phone.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s the NTSB report you left out of your premature Hiccock obituary. It’s real boring reading on how it was not an act of sabotage. You should read it soon.”

  “Is that all you called for?”

  “The daily briefing’s been moved up because of the stock market crash. I’m going in to the boss in thirty minutes. Should I slot you in so you can fill him in on the bust?”

  “Ray, I’m still getting a handle on just what we have. Maybe in the afternoon.”

  “What do I tell him when he asks?”

  “That the investigation is proceeding and the FBI is …”

  “Hold it. Every enemy of this country can read that in the Times. What do we tell the President of the United States of America, Tate?”

  “It’s slow going. They’re deeper and more covert than we thought. I’ll have more once the West Coast reports in.”

  “Okay, duly noted. If anything changes in the half hour, call me.”

  Hanging up the phone, the director’s conscience started nagging him. Holding back information from the administration was technically a violation of the law. Countering that was the guideline that afforded him, as the head of the FBI, the sole discretion as to what was conjecture and what was fact. There were no regulations mandating that he convey speculation. Tate chose to regard the negative reports he’d received from his trusted underlings in the field as opinion and not fact. At least until their written reports were on his desk.

  All that logic aside, for the first time in his long public career he felt vulnerable. He opened his desk drawer and fished out the business card of a New York attorney he met at a cocktail party a few years ago. He fingered the edge of the card. Unfortunately, the current political situation had placed more emphasis on this operation than he would have liked, forcing him to operate more out in the open. The terrorist attacks were so high profile, and the assault on the farm so massive, that it now could not be contained or explained as an expeditionary tactic to gather information.

  Furthermore, that Hiccock creep hadn’t helped matters any by undermining his authority and limiting his more reasonable response options. Looking back down at the gold-leafed engraved card, he decided to call the Park Avenue lawyer and cash in the chit the man owed him. What he couldn’t decide was if he was going to ask the lawyer to represent him in the congressional probe that would surely follow, or ask him for a cushy, private-sector job.

  Two hours after Tate left a message for the lawyer to get back to him, he found himself in the Oval Office.

  “Mr. President, we always operated with the understanding that Hiccock’s investigation and our own was one and the same. Different methodologies working toward the same end and sharing the same resources.”

  The president cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Forty-eight hours ago, you depicted Hiccock as a mole planted in my administration in order to disinform and misdirect me away from your investigative path. I fired the man and ruined his career because of that. Now all of the sudden, Bill’s the guy who uncovered the missing part of your theory—the online recruitment of the homegrown terrorist. Can you see why I’m getting so agitated over this, Tate?”

  Tate took a deep breath, the color draining from his salon-tanned face. “Sir, we may have been premature on the tie-in with Hiccock’s father.”

  The president just stared. It didn’t take much imagination to envision what was going on in his head.

  Reynolds broke the uneasy silence. “Sir, actually Hiccock is on a leave of absence.”

  “We grant leaves of absence?”

  “Not usually, Sir, but this is an unusual situation and it was his idea.”

  “What was Bill’s reasoning in asking for a leave when we agreed to fire him, Ray?”

  “In case this sort of thing happened, Sir. To save you the embarrassment if you needed him back.”

  This was almost more than Tate could handle. Hiccock was out-pointing him at every turn.

  “Ray, get Hiccock back in the house.”

  “He cleaned out his desk yesterday and went back to New York. His father’s place, I think.”

  Mitchell swiveled in his chair to Reynolds. It was as though he’d forgotten that Tate was in the room, though Tate knew he couldn’t be that lucky. “Do you think we can convince him that his leave just ended?”

  ∞§∞

  “It’s the tension on the line and the tension in your body that scare away the fish. Just ease it in, keep it lax, and wait … wait … ’til your opponent there feels relaxed enough and decides to have a leisurely snack.” Harry Hiccock’s soft tones skimmed over the water as he stood fifteen feet into the stream in wading boots, the very poster boy for “relaxed.” His son, Billy, was trying, but was still broadcasting enough tension to keep the fish at bay.

  Bill could sense his biorhythms changing with the next deep breath he took. It was like on the first days of spring when he was a kid in the Bronx and it felt so good it hurt as your lungs expanded. He knew it was his imagination, but the colors became more vivid and the air smelled sweeter. This wouldn’t be such a bad lifestyle.

  The deep chopping sound filtering through the trees drew him out of his reverie. Although this sound was not uncommon in a spot where weekend warriors and reservists in the National Guard ferried back and forth from Stuart AFB, Hiccock immediately identified the distinctive sound of a Sikorsky, as would anyone from D.C. Turbo fans and heavy rotors broke over the forest canopy, and Bill knew enough to get his dad and himself back up to the house.

  Reynolds was already on the porch, standing next to his mom who stood gaping at the huge green-and-white hulk of Marine One, the president’s personal helicopter. Hiccock introduced the COS to his father then asked, “Catching up on some fishing, Ray?”

  “Actually we’re here to catch the one that got away.” Ray nodded to the copter as the president descended the stairs.

  Alice Hiccock let out a small gasp. “I better make a fresh pot.” She primped her hair and went inside.

  The president, with two agents flanking him, strode up to the porch, taking in the lush green foliage all around.

  “Sorry to interrupt your ‘leave of absence,’ Hiccock, but I need to talk to you.” He turned and held out his hand to the senior Hiccock. “Hello. You must be William’s father.”

  “Yes, Sir. Harry Hiccock, Sir. Welcome to our home.”

  “Thank you. It’s a beautiful spot. It has to be a great place to fish. I was admiring the streams and inlets from the air.”

  “Do you fly cast, Sir? Because this is the best place on the planet for that.”

  “As the not-so-favorite son of the Great State of Ohio, forgive me if I don’t give you the presidential endorsement on that statement. But I will say you might have the second best.”

  “You two always get together like this just to talk fishin
g?” Bill said, thinking he could get away with a little sarcasm in front of the two most important authority figures in his life.

  “Billy!” his father admonished, almost as if to tell him to go play out back.

  “Your son’s right, Harry. You and I will have to trade fish stories another time.” He nodded toward the tree line. “Take a walk, Bill?”

  With the two Secret Service agents in tow, they made their way to a small clearing.

  “I’m afraid Tate’s got nothing, Bill. I am in a real pressure cooker here.”

  “It wasn’t the Sabot Society?”

  “Hell, we don’t even know if they’re responsible for anything other than the Long Island bombing. Just a bunch of copycat, misdirected wackos if you ask me.”

  “Sorry it’s not over, Sir.”

  “I need you back on the team.”

  “Team?”

  “I’ve had one of those long father-son talks with Tate. I told him I’d have his father and his son shot at dawn if he interfered with you again.”

  “I don’t know … he’s a powerful enemy, Sir.”

  “I’m pretty powerful myself if you get on my shit side, son.” The president handed Bill a redlined folder. “Here, we drew this up. Take a minute and read it. I’m going to have a cup of your mom’s coffee.”

  Five minutes later, the screen door slammed behind Hiccock as he squeezed his eyes shut, hoping he didn’t see what he just saw. There at the kitchen table was the Commander in Chief of the most powerful nation on earth, held prisoner by Alice Hiccock and her “alblum”—the photographic history of the Hiccock clan lovingly preserved in hermetically sealed plastic pages. It used to make William cringe when she opened it for new girlfriends. But this!

  “And here’s William on his second, or was it his third?”

  The president glanced up from the book with a look that begged “Shoot me now.” Hiccock came to the rescue.

  “Mom, you know this could be considered cruel and unusual punishment of a head of state.”

  “Oh, nonsense, he’s a family man. I am sure he’s proud of his family, too.”

  “I didn’t bring any pictures, but I’ll get my library to send some.”

  “Mom?” Hiccock gestured for her to take the book away. She did.

  “Would you like some more nuts or some dried fruit?” she said to her guest.

  “Yeah, take some back to Washington with you, we keep getting tons of the stuff,” the senior Hiccock offered.

  Bill pinched the bridge of his nose. How did the grateful Mario and Shelly ever find out his parents’ address?

  “No thank you, Alice.” His eyes zeroed in on Bill. “Well?”

  Hiccock grinned and tapped the redlined folder. “Catchy name.”

  ∞§∞

  Air Force One lifted off from the old Stuart AFB heading back to Washington, ending its unannounced “little field trip.” In the front, right behind the president’s cabin, Hiccock had dozed off. On his lap was the document folder the president had handed him, the contents of which set new ground rules for Hiccock and his team. Included as well were the president’s executive orders completely relinquishing all FBI resources regarding the current domestic terrorism over to Hiccock. A passing Air Force sergeant cabin attendant collected the papers, which were perilously close to sliding off Hiccock’s lap, and placed them on his side table. She noticed the code name on the redlined cover and thought it odd: OPERATION QUARTERBACK.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Greed

  BACK IN THE WHITE HOUSE office, Hiccock and Janice were settling in again. Janice toyed with a hair clip that was a new gift from Bill’s mother.

  “Your mom always had great taste for estate jewelry. How’s her sciatica?”

  “She didn’t mention it and I didn’t ask.”

  “Did she ask about me?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  “Which words did she use?”

  “She saw in the news that you and I were working together.”

  “And …”

  Bill sighed. “And she said it was good to see the two of us back together again.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Janice, my folks love you. They made that very clear after our divorce. So naturally …”

  “Naturally.”

  Bill started to unpack some files.

  Janice tried the clip in her hair. “What do you think?” she said when she was finished.

  “I think working together has been good for us,” Bill said without looking up, not sure he could look up.

  “I meant the hair clip, but do go on.”

  Bill closed his eyes and then turned to Janice. “There’s nothing more to say.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  Bill could feel his skin warming. He’d stumbled around women before … but this was Janice. “What exactly is going on here?”

  Janice opened her mouth to speak just as the phone rang. Bill reached for it quickly.

  “Let me call you back,” he said a few moments later to the falling away mouthpiece as he abruptly hung up the phone. The sound of someone yelling was cut off by the receiver hitting the cradle.

  “What was that all about?”

  “The FBI interviewed Martha Krummel about the Sabot Society. She said what my dad said: she thought it was a Jewish group. They grilled her pretty good and she is totally not connected to any Sabot, Bernard Keyes, or anyone else in that organization. Now they want to embrace the ‘B’ part of our theory. Your ‘bi-stable concurrent schizo ditzo’ stuff and my ‘the computer made me do it’ hypothesis. They’d like us to prove that she is a part of Sabot but can’t remember anything about it.”

  “I see. So now our whole investigation has been relegated to little more than an argument of convenience for the FBI. Was that Joey?”

  “No, Tate.” Hiccock didn’t let his satisfaction show—too much.

  “Okay, quarterback, what’s the play?”

  “I’m getting ready for the Cabinet briefing in one hour. Then we are going to get you, me, and Kronos back to the Admiral’s. I’ll worry about the FBI later. Janice, do me a favor and check if Cheryl got that MoneyTime videotape for me?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Bill turned back to his files. There was suddenly a lot more to do before the Cabinet meeting.

  “Bill?”

  He looked up at Janice. She seemed a little confused. He knew instinctively it wasn’t about what Tate just told him. “Yeah?”

  Janice seemed transfixed for a moment. Then she said, “Never mind. I’ll go get that video.”

  ∞§∞

  “Her or his only request is that you send ten dollars to a charity of your choice. Brian Hopkins has more.”

  The picture froze. Hiccock put down the remote on the mirrorlike finish of a Louisiana oak table that once served a tour of duty at Fort McHenry in the officer’s mess. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the painstakingly varnished veneer and proceeded to address the president, Reynolds, and the members of the cabinet in the Situation Room of the White House. “That piece ran two days ago. Since then, over 700,000 people have downloaded this software from the net.”

  “This is that day-trading program? The one that watches your portfolio and guards it against any sudden changes?” the president asked.

  “Yes, Sir. It reacts like a fighter plane being chased by a missile, making counter moves. It makes minor or major buy and sell orders instantaneously and protects the investor by keeping the value of the portfolio growing.”

  “It’s like having a full-time broker/trader instantly reacting to every market, everywhere in the world,” the Secretary of the Treasury said.

  “So I should get this?” the press secretary said, half-jokingly.

  Hiccock supplied more background. “Leading brokerage houses have spent millions trying to develop a program like this.”

  “And some yahoo is giving it away free?” Reynolds could not believe it.

&nbs
p; “And now, Mr. President, the markets are virtually frozen. No one can make a move without some hundred thousand computers instantly countering it,” the Secretary of the Treasury grimly reported.

  “They plug in their computer warriors and the whole damn thing works so fast and so accurately that to the outside world it appears frozen,” the president said.

  “The panic has started, and I fear we are on the verge of something that will make the Crash of ’29 look like a mere glitch,” the Secretary of Commerce said.

  The president turned to Bill. “Is this now part of your Operation Quarterback investigation?”

  “I think it is, Sir. There is more than one way to attack a country. I’d like to ask Vincent DeMayo, my leading computer expert, to explain.” Hiccock gestured for Kronos to come to the head of the table.

  “It’s a friggin’ beautiful idea! Give away the hack code! Make every greedy day-trading son-of-a-bitch out there a hacker. Make them unwitting accomplices. Imagine locking up the entire friggin’ stock market. I wish I’d a thought of that shit!”

  Hiccock snapped to the side of Kronos. “That’ll be all, Mr. DeMayo.”

  “My time is your time, Hick,” Kronos said with a grin.

  “Your time is federal time, Vincent.”

  The president broke in. “How is it that the FBI and NSA, hell, the SEC haven’t come to this conclusion?”

  “They don’t think the same way as Mr. Hiccock, Sir,” Reynolds said.

  “Or as fast,” the president added. “So why don’t we just unplug the computers?”

  “There’s about five trillion in wealth directly controlled by the computers and now frozen,” the Secretary of the Treasury said. “Most or all of it would be lost instantly. Some of that might come back in a few weeks or months but the impact to the economy would be disastrous. I am afraid, Mr. President, that in this instance, a frozen market is better than complete financial chaos.”

  “The genius of the attack, from a purely scientific angle,” Hiccock said, “is that the lock on the system is the individual investor. Once he or she uses the program to protect their assets, they can’t stop using it, because the instant they do, the other investors’ programs will snap up the slack and they’ll lose everything.”