A Dark Perfection

by James, Mark

  They rounded a corner and O’Neill recognized Jordan Swift, the White House Chief of Staff.

  “Hey, Mac,” Swift said, reading a folder and obviously rushed. O’Neill noted the darting eyes of the White House higher-level staff, contrasting against the self-imposed quiet of the place.

  The hallway wound around and they found themselves in front of the Oval Office.

  “In here,” Osborne motioned. “That office. Yeah, sharp right.”

  An older lady in a prim green dress sat behind an antique rosewood desk. She stood as they entered, “Morning, Mac.”

  She extended her hand. “Welcome to the White House, Mr. O’Neill. By the way, loved your book.”

  “Jack, this is Margaret Spencer, the president’s executive secretary and, most would correctly argue, the glue around here.”

  Jack took her hand. “Pleasure, Ms. Spencer.”

  “Call me Margaret,” she smiled. “Anyone who’s a good friend of Mac, well, you know.”

  She turned to Osborne. “We have to stick together around here, eh, Mac?”

  He laughed, “Yeah, that’s one way of putting it.”

  The phone on her desk blinked red. She reached for it. “Yes, sir.”

  “Gentlemen, he’s ready for you.”

  She opened the door to the Oval Office as the president removed his glasses and moved around the desk, extending his hand.

  “Thanks for coming, Jack. Jack is good, right? Actually, I feel we already know each other, having heard all those great stories from Mac all of these years. I guess you’ve heard a few about me too.”

  They firmly shook hands. “A few, Mr. President. Jack is fine.”

  “Please, grab a seat,” the president said, motioning to the chairs and couch. “And thanks for catching that early flight.”

  O’Neill noted what the campaign reporters and biographers had observed through the years – namely, the president’s subtle and masterful way of allowing each person to feel as if they were the only one in the room, that he heard their story. Not coincidentally, this was also a skill of the best trial attorneys – remaining calm while fully in control of the moment. Juries and voters only listened when they believed in you, when they thought you were real.

  They talked about the Cubs’ heartbreaking collapse in the World Series, the capture of the Diamond Lake killer and how young Jack had been, and then ventured into their relative golf games. They stayed clear of politics. The president never mentioned Aisha.

  President Walker paused, “Jack, this assignment we have for you. I know that Mac has given you a rough outline, but the bottom line is that we don’t know what the girl possesses, in information, that is. And, as a trial attorney, you’re aware that not knowing what you don’t know is not the best place to be. Who sent her? Who were her handlers? Is another event approaching? These are some of our questions. Unfortunately, time is also an enemy.”

  “You’ll get my best, Mr. President.”

  “No doubts there, Jack. I simply want you to know that we have your back on this. I have your back. You need something, tell Mac and it’s done.”

  “Understood.”

  “Well, enough of that, then,” the president said, smiling. “Let’s get back to those Cubs and the never-ending need for quality mid-inning relief pitching, right?”

  The door opened and Spencer poked her head in. “I’m sorry, Mr. President. Your noon lunch party is here.”

  “Say, again?”

  “Well, it’s actually the First Lady’s congressional wives luncheon. You wanted to pop in and make an appearance. They’re sitting down. The First Lady just gave me a quick ring.”

  “Oh yeah, forgot. Margaret, please inform the First Lady that I’ve been summoned.”

  Laughing, the president rose. “You see, Jack, everyone has a boss, somewhere.”

  They shook hands and moved towards the door.

  “I know it’s a tired cliché, Jack,” the president said, shaking hands as they turned at the door, “but the country needs you on this one. And, again, thanks for breaking off from your trial.”

  “No problem, Mr. President.”

  “Jack,” the president called after him, “really though, apart from the circumstances, it’s great to finally meet you.”

  He said it like just another guy.

  O’Neill turned back, “Same here, sir.”

  Turning towards Osborne, the president said, “Mac, when you’re done, come on back so we can go over that matter from last night. I talked to Hightower.”

  “We’ll be down at the SID room for about an hour. Does that work?”

  “Sounds good.” He turned and Spencer closed the door behind him.

  Osborne and O’Neill started down the corridor towards the SID room. “So, how did that go for you?”

  “Nice guy. As you said, too bad we couldn’t have all gotten together sooner. And before you two became so busy.”

  “Yeah, that’s the tough part. I see him all day, yet I can’t call up and say, Hey, let’s blow off and hit that ballgame! It’s a strange world.”

  “I see it in you both. How many grey hairs?”

  “Yeah, Jacquie always kids me. But, you know, not half as many as he has. Do you remember, six years ago when he first ran, I don’t think Bob – the president – had a grey hair on his head. Not sure I ever told you this, but party insiders approached me last year hunting around for a congressional candidate to run in New York. Please, Jack, if I ever talk about running for office, take me out back and just shoot me.”

  They rounded a corner, the portrait of JFK going by – gazing down, contemplating.

  “Do you ever think of giving it up, heading back to New York?” Jack asked. “You know, I heard rumors that Calahan is finally thinking of calling it in. You could head up the Bureau.”

  Elrod Calahan was the long-time Director of the FBI, their former boss and on the far side of two heart attacks.

  “Hell,” Osborne laughed, “that old buzzard is going to die in that chair! I mean, what else does he have to do? Actually, I’m not interested anymore. On the other hand, it might be worth it just to see Jensen’s face when I turned up one day as his boss. One thing I’ve learned, though, you can never go home.”

  Osborne caught himself, remembering that Jack had gone back to Chicago after Maura’s death. He smiled, “Except for you, old friend. Is it different?”

  Jack thought for a moment. “Not really. You can go back to some towns and everything has changed. Chicago likes to stay what it is. It must be a Midwest thing. Here’s an example, happened last week: The Cubs’ new owners refloated the idea of tearing down the ivy at Wrigley Field – to put up more advertising, trying to tell everyone that it would mimic the billboards from the 1920’s stadiums. When I left, the north side was on the verge of mob action. In Chicago, we like our ivy and our eroding EL and knowing that things will generally be the same tomorrow.”

  “Hey, after that World Series debacle,” Mac laughed, “those fancy owners might be wishing right about now that they weren’t in Chicago.”

  “Spoken like a true, jaded New Yorker. In Chicago, we enshrine our ballplayers – Billy Williams, sweet-swinging number 26, has his own pennant down third base line. Stop anyone on a New York street and they won’t know his name. Sure, the curse endures, but we’re grateful that we even made it into the series. The president was right about that mid-inning relief, though. Maybe next year.”

  “The hope of the hopeless; the eternally oblivious Cubs fan,” Osborne said, shaking his head.

  They turned to face a nondescript wood door that looked as if it had been there since Dolly Madison.

  Jack looked over, “That’s it?”

  “Actually, it’s the elevator. Don’t let it fool you – underneath, it’s titanium and panzerholz.”

  Osborne put his finger on the pad and felt the prick. “You’d think that if we could build an invisible, floating room, we could come up with a sensor that doesn’t take a chunk out
of you. They tell me it’s still the most secure way, so there you have it.”

  The elevator descended without any sensation of movement. They exited and Mac motioned to a conference room off to the right. “You need a security clearance slightly above God to even get in here – yours being a special dispensation from the president – but you still can’t go into the big room. Sorry, it’s the outer conference room today. I’ll be down the hall in the main room checking on a few things. The guards will stay here – just let them know when you’re done. File is on the table.”

  O’Neill entered the conference room and sat down at a long rosewood table. A blue file folder was its only object. Its thinness surprised him.

  He opened the cover and a photo stared back, unflinching, her eyes straight into the camera.

  It looked like the face of Nefertiti.

  †

  “Christ, Jack, sorry I’m late. Man, these long days are like a living death. Don’t let anyone ever tell you that the perpetual motion machine hasn’t been invented – I’m in it.”

  Osborne threw his trench coat on top of Jack’s on the spare chair.

  “Well,” he said, looking around, “how do you like my place?”

  “Cozy.”

  “Yeah, a bit remote. The upside is that I don’t run into any politicos this far out, or media types – a big plus.”

  The bar owner, Charlie Benson, came over. “Hey Mac, what it’ll be?”

  “Hey Charlie. The same. Yeah, I know – a broken record.”

  “No problem,” Charlie smiled and turned towards Jack, “And you’re still alright?”

  “I’m good.”

  Jack nodded towards a dark corner. “I hate to break your win streak, but not as private as you think.”

  Osborne looked over his shoulder at the small table in the corner, to the two men in dark suits each with a full tumbler of scotch. Their water chasers were almost empty.

  He turned back to Jack, “Excuse me.”

  Mac walked over and stood over the men. “What’s the matter guys, not allowed to drink on the job? Identifications please.”

  The two men stared at each other.

  He leaned over, “Let’s be clear, gentlemen. I see that you recognize me, but let’s say it out loud: I’m the head of the NSA and you’re required to show me your identifications. Not two seconds ago – now.”

  The men looked at each other again, considering their options. Deflated, they reached into their breast pockets and presented their GMA badges.

  “So,” Osborne said, “who are you here for – me or him? And don’t tell me you ducked in to get out of the rain, or it’ll get worse.”

  The swarthy GMA Agent spoke for them both. “Him.”

  “Why?”

  “O’Neill was observed exiting the White House and he wasn’t on any visitor logs.”

  Osborne rested his hands on the table, dropping his voice. “Well, maybe that’s because it’s none of your God damn business. On whose authority? Let’s have it, names.”

  The GMA Agents froze. “The protocols…”

  “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen: first, you two are going to scamper on out of here. Next, you’re going to hightail it over to Bobby and inform him that I’ve set up a nice little appointment – for him, myself, and the president – at 7:45 tomorrow morning, sharp. Or, if he’s got the balls, the GMA Director can show up. Their call. Understood?”

  Mac didn’t wait for an answer. “Now, get going.”

  The agents grabbed their coats and headed for the door. Osborne returned to his chair and watched them leave.

  Just outside, the smaller agent turned, “Shit, I told you we should have left as soon as Osborne showed. What’s he doing here anyway? Talk about crap luck.”

  The swarthy agent smiled, “Yeah, but won’t Bobby be interested.” They piled into their nondescript GOV with ghost plates and drove away.

  Jack looked over, “And?”

  “Ah,” Mac sighed, adopting the Irish brogue of his ancestors, “another lonely sign of the impending apocalypse.”

  He took a long sip of his scotch, “Here, Jack, I’m finally gonna say it: maybe that notion of heading back to New York – the Yankees, the Knicks, great music, great food – might not be such a bad idea…”

  Jack considered, “Here for you or me?”

  “You, old pal. Someone would have to have a death wish to put a tail on an NSA Director. They followed you coming out of the White House and got nosy, too nosy. They should know better by now. Do you remember Bobby Jessup?”

  “Name sounds familiar. Long time ago – DEA, undercover maybe.”

  “That’s him. Now, fast-forward to the present and old Bobby has somehow secured himself a nice little spot sitting right below the Director of the GMA. And, can you hear the inverted butt licking all the way over at the White House. Big pain-in-the-ass is basically what he is. Tomorrow morning, though, I’m going to roll up a newspaper and whack someone’s nose with it. We’ll see who has the guts to show up.”

  “GMA – never heard of it.”

  Mac took a long sip of water, considering.

  “Well, I guess since you have that super-duper, end-of-the-world clearance granted directly from the president, and access to our most valuable prisoner, what’s the harm, right? Christ, where to start? The GMA…”

  Osborne explained the GMA’s creation and its secret and recent rise within the intelligence community.

  “Let’s see if I have this right,” Jack said. “We prohibit the CIA from all domestic operations – for good reason – yet we’re letting this posse of idiots run rogue? Dangerous, Mac.”

  “Don’t tell me, I damn well know. The Yucca Mountain attacks made everyone go bats. Back then, they just pushed through the legislation without ever thinking it through. Now, poof! – it’s smack-dab on our plate. The GMA thinks we’re not paying attention, but the eyes are wide open over at the Oval Office. Basically, someone needs to get their proverbial wings clipped. The president thinks so too.”

  “So, do it.”

  “Well, unfortunately – and like everything else in D.C. – it’s more complicated than it initially appears. The GMA was created by legislative fiat and that’s the congressional route you’d have to take to kill it – legally, that is. And you may have heard that the folks on the other side of the aisle aren’t exactly our pals these days. No answers there. Hell, those crazy congressmen would just start screaming that we’re weakening ‘Fortress America,’ or some other sort of crap. As a temporary stopgap, the president has elected not to authorize select GMA missions and our Senate allies have been throwing up roadblocks. But the GMA also has event-triggered, automated protocols. It needs to be done carefully and, frankly, we haven’t seen the right opening.”

  “Set up a dead fall,” Jack said.

  “A what?”

  “A bear trap. You dig a pit, bury stakes in the bottom and cover it over. Bait it and wait.”

  “What kind of bait?” Mac asked, intrigued.

  “You.”

  “Hey!”

  “They don’t like you, right? So, make them like you less, have some fun with it. Then, wave a red flag and they’ll charge. It’s their nature.”

  “What kind of flag?” Mac asked, not sure he wanted to know.

  “Taunt them, ignore them, whatever it takes. The stronger they become, the more they’ll want to come at you. Then, float something about yourself, something damning, but at the same time something that isn’t actually true – say, an affair with an intern, a bribe, a juicy campaign illegality, pick one. The key is that the lure has to look real. And it has to be placed strategically so that the information arises away from you. Remember, hyenas always circle until they think you’ve been weakened enough. Ergo, wait for the higher ups to join in and set the spike hard.”

  Osborne laughed, “Man, Jack, sometimes you scare me. Just when I think you’re barely paying attention you come up with some spooky shit like that! No wonder
why you’ve never lost a trial.”

  Jack smiled, “Anything for America…”

  “Careful, old friend, you’re letting that dark side through. Take it from me, one slippery slope.”

  “Anyway, enough spook talk,” Jack said. “Let’s talk about the girl. I read in the file about her eyes. Anything new?”

  “Yeah, Takamura says that the contacts were actually made of…”

  At the other end of the bar, a young bartender was struggling with the TV remote, skipping channels back and forth. He hit the volume by mistake and a talk show blared out. Two academics were facing each other as the show returned from commercial.

  “Alright people!” the show host called out as the crowd cheered wildly. “We’re back! Now, let me introduce Doctors Henderson and Albright, Harvard and Oxford, respectively. Each has a view on what’s been happening, or not happening, as the case may be. We’ve all heard the reports – the Dalai Lama’s warnings, the Antarctic ice quakes. But are the so-called End of Days really approaching?”

  The host asked the professors her questions, expertly bouncing them off until, like a top, they spun after each other on their own. They’d been adversaries for years and the venom was never far below.

  Professor Henderson glared. “You don’t know what you are talking about! I am not saying that the Anti-Christ must know who he is. Not at all! In simplest form, the Anti-Christ is the most lethal serial killer the world has ever known. It’s simply that his prey, ultimately, is all of mankind. As such, the Anti-Christ doesn’t need to know that he, himself, is actually the Anti-Christ. To fulfill his destiny, he only needs to be the Anti-Christ!”

  Professor Albright leaned over, his eyes bulging.

  The young bartender looked exasperated and Charlie Benson moved over. They both jabbed at the ancient remote.

  Osborne called down, “Charlie, I hereby renew my vote for ESPN.”

  Professor Albright’s mouth was beginning to gape open as the channel suddenly flipped to a rerun of the Saints/Giants football game and Charlie found the mute.

  Osborne smiled, shaking his head. “Thank God.”