by J. L. Brown
That favored people like Kyle.
“How would you know how much I’m worth?”
Jade glanced away briefly and back at her. “What?”
Kyle stepped back. “Have you been looking into my background?”
Jade remained silent.
“Why?” Kyle asked. “Am I a suspect?”
Jade hesitated. She’d ruled Kyle out, but something prevented her from revealing that to her now.
Kyle’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think I stole the money from myself? To what end?” She backed away, and then hurried to the front door of her building.
Jade made no attempt to stop her. She watched Kyle enter, and then turned and headed south down Fourth Avenue toward her hotel, her heart heavy and troubled.
She wasn’t thinking about Kyle. She couldn’t stop thinking about that homeless woman and her river of tears.
She had cried like that once. In middle school, after she was bullied for the last time. Even when she received the phone call in her Stanford dorm room from Max, when he told her that her parents had been killed by a drunk driver, she hadn’t shed a tear.
It wasn’t until she had lost an agent during the TSK case that she had learned how to cry again.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
Air Force One
“What is it now?”
She peered at Sasha over her recently prescribed “progressive” glasses. The term “progressive” had replaced trifocals. All Whitney knew was that her eyesight was getting progressively worse.
“It’s Xavi again. There’s a situation.”
“There always seems to be a situation with Xavi.” Whitney glanced at how far she had cycled: 1.2 miles. “Not much of a workout.”
She climbed off the stationary bike and followed Sasha back to her office.
They were headed home. The trip had surpassed expectations. Not wildly enthusiastic crowds, but they had listened.
Still in her workout tights, she sat behind her desk. “What is it?”
Sasha remained standing. “A satellite picked up troop movements into Iran. Speculation is that they’re Russian. Xavi and the JCs are in the Situation Room waiting for your call.”
“Xavi and the JCs. Sounds like a singing group.”
“Not one I’d want to hear.”
“Me, neither. I guess I don’t need to ask what this is about.”
“What else? Oil.”
“Put me through.”
While Sasha placed the call, Whitney thought about her vice president. Three days. She had only been gone three days and now faced a global crisis.
Over the last several years, Russia had been quietly building a significant military presence in Europe and the Middle East. A Russian strategic document surfaced last year purporting the United States’ role in NATO threatened Russian national security. US-Russia relations had been deteriorating ever since. The Pentagon hadn’t worried much about Russia since the Cold War ended in 1991, but had begun to develop a contingency plan if Russia decided to turn back the clock.
Her vice president came on the line. “Madam President, I understand you’ve been apprised of the situation.”
“I have.”
“I recommend that we prepare a military response,” Xavi said.
“Frances,” Whitney said, into the phone, “what do you recommend?”
General Frances Wilkerson, chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and the first woman to hold the title, possessed a high standard of integrity and guided the US military with restraint. Wilkerson despised partisan politics and believed it had no place in governance. Whitney trusted her implicitly.
The general hesitated. “Madam President, I would wait until we receive better intel to assess the situation. Confirm that those are, in fact, troop movements.”
Xavi’s frustration was evident through the phone. “What else could they be? Cows? No, we need to be prepared in case the situation on the ground escalates.”
Whitney considered. “I’m with Frances on this one. Let’s stand down and see what happens.”
“Madam President, I respectfully disagree with your decision.”
“Mr. Vice President, my decision respectfully stands.”
She disconnected.
“Boom!” Sasha said and laughed. Whitney broke out into a smile as well. Sasha extended her fist. They fist bumped.
Whitney spoke into the speakerphone. “Sarah, get Andrei on the phone.” Sean had stayed behind in DC.
She stared at Sasha as the call went through to the president of the Russian Federation.
Sarah’s voice came over the line. “Madam President, I have President Andrei Tamirov.”
She picked up the handset. “Andrei, what the hell are you doing in Iran?”
CHAPTER EIGHTY
Seattle, Washington
In the conference room she had been using as an office at the local FBI field office, Jade logged onto her laptop and opened the spreadsheet she had created in DC. She tapped into the Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC) database and brought up the 10-K for Capstone Energy Partners, the Oklahoma City victim of cybertheft.
She navigated through the company’s annual report until she came to the financial statements. The company had earned $150 million in revenue last year on assets of $356 million. She typed those numbers into her spreadsheet. The San Antonio firm, BMR Aviation, had earned $125 million on $274 million. TVX Corporation, the Anaheim firm, $1 billion in revenue. Third Data Corp., $112.5 million in revenue.
It didn’t take long for her to see a pattern. Under the column Amount Stolen, Jade had entered $1.5 million for Capstone Energy Partners, $1.25 million for BMR Aviation, $10 million for TVX, and $1.125 million for Third Data.
She added a column to the far right, titling it % of Revenue. She divided the data in the Amount Stolen column by the Total Revenue figure. The number in the % of Revenue column was the same for every company.
One percent.
One percent of last year’s revenues had been stolen from the bank account of each firm.
She and McClaine still believed the rash of cybercrimes had started in Seattle. Those firms were all private, their financial information not available in the SEC database. How would the perpetrators find out the organizations’ revenues? It wasn’t impossible. A lot of private and confidential information could be found on the Internet.
Maybe I should ask Zoe. Or there’s always the old-fashioned way.
She went online to find the phone number of AMB International.
“Noah Blakeley, please,” she said, when the receptionist answered.
“May I ask who’s calling?”
Jade told her and waited. And waited.
After a long silence, the receptionist returned. “Mr. Blakeley is not available. May I take a message?”
“Please tell him I called.” She gave the receptionist her cell phone number and the number of the Seattle FBI field office.
She held the phone in her lap. She navigated to the Recent Calls screen and hesitated, her thumb poised. She pressed on the name.
The number rang and rang. Jade started to think she wouldn’t answer. Then, “I don’t want to talk to you.”
“This is business.”
Kyle’s voice was cool. “What can I do for you, Agent Harrington?”
“How much in revenue did your firm earn last year?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Actually, it is. I can subpoena the information.”
Kyle exhaled, irritated. “About a hundred million.”
The perpetrator had stolen one million dollars.
One percent.
“That’s all I needed. Thank you.”
Before she pressed End—
“Wait a minute,” Kyle said.
She brought the phone back to her ear, but Kyle didn’t say anything.
“Kyle, I was just doing my job.”
“I know. I just felt . . . invaded. You don’t need to check me out. Or
run a background check on me. Just ask me what you want to know.”
“Okay.”
The silence lingered. Jade said, “Well, I should go.”
“What are you doing later?”
“I have a meeting.”
“After your meeting.”
“Getting ready for my flight back.”
“I want to take you somewhere.”
“Where?”
“Volunteer Park. There’s a Tai Chi class there this evening.”
Jade did not bother to hide her disappointment. “Tai Chi.”
“It’ll be good for you. Relaxing. You’ll stretch your mind and your body.”
Zoe had tried and failed numerous times to get her hooked on meditation. “Don’t you have a dojang around here?”
“A what?”
“A dojang. A Tae Kwon Do school. I’d rather spar with someone. Work out. Hit people. Work on protecting myself.”
“You don’t need to protect yourself from me.”
Au contraire.
Even so, she was tempted. “I can’t. I have a lot of work to do. Rain check?”
“As you wish, Agent Harrington.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
Casper, Wyoming
Air Force One landed.
She scanned the near-empty tarmac. There was no crowd. No local officials to welcome her. No band. No cheerleaders. No banners. Good. It’s what she wanted. No one knew about this last-minute, unscheduled visit.
The seven-car motorcade left Casper-Natrona County International Airport and drove east on US 26 before exiting south on a one-lane road. The landscape was dotted for miles with occasional cottonwood trees, ranches, and farms. The press and her staff, including Sasha, had been shuttled onto buses and taken into Casper, the nearest town, for lunch and an afternoon off.
Whitney didn’t want an audience for this visit.
Twenty minutes after leaving the airport, the limousine pulled into a gravel driveway, which stretched a hundred yards to the ranch house in the distance.
A slender man dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and cowboy boots stood on the front porch.
“Madam President,” the former president of the United States, Richard Ellison, called out to her. “Welcome to Wyoming.” He opened the screen door. “Come on in.”
*
The Presidents Club started with the 34th president, Dwight D. Eisenhower, and solidified under his successor, John F. Kennedy. Ever since, the former living presidents of the United States had formed the most exclusive club in the world. It currently had three members. This was the first time she had called on one of them.
The club had an unspoken rule of not badmouthing the sitting president. During Whitney’s first six months in office—despite the beating she had endured from the press, by the other party, and on social media—Ellison had remained mute.
Maybe he’d felt he didn’t need to speak out. He had plenty of others to do it for him.
Ellison handed her a glass of iced tea, and sat next to her in the matching rocking chair on the back porch. He pointed. “That’s Casper Mountain over there.”
“Are you sure your wife doesn’t mind?”
He laughed. “She’s grateful for your visit. Now that my term’s over, we spend a lot more time together. Too much, if you ask her. She’s fine.”
“It’s peaceful here,” she said. “No wonder you love this place. How’s private life treating you?”
“I can sleep at night. And sleep through the whole night.”
She took a sip of her drink. “Do you ever think about the decisions that you made? The ones you were unsure of?”
“Sure. But not much. Presidents need to take the long view.”
She surveyed his property. There was land as far as she could see. “How so?”
“The pundits and the American people all have an opinion about you and your decisions. None of them are in the arena with you. The future will be the best judge.”
She stared down at her glass, thinking about what he said.
Ellison leaned back to start the motion of his rocking chair. “Whitney, what’s bothering you?”
She looked up at him. “The New New Deal. My legacy legislation. It would help so many people and move this country forward. I can’t let it fail.”
“Then, don’t.” He inclined his head. “Do you know what our state’s nickname is?”
She smiled. “I’m going to go out on a limb here . . . the Cowboy State?”
“That’s one of them. But the one I’m thinking of is The Equality State.”
She gave him a questioning look.
“Our motto is ‘Equal Rights.’ Wyoming was the first state in the nation to give women the right to vote, to serve on juries, and to hold public office. In 1924, Mrs. Nellie Tayloe Ross was the first woman to be elected governor of a US state.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“She was a Democrat, by the way.”
“Even better.”
“We haven’t voted for a Democratic president since 1964. Our state was somewhat supportive of your work on women’s rights, but this New New Deal.” He shook his head. “Our unemployment rate is four percent. We don’t need it.”
“It’s about more than creating jobs. It’s about rebuilding America. Aspiring for something greater than ourselves. Making us respected around the world again.” She glanced at him. “No offense.”
“None taken.”
The global reputation of the United States had plummeted during the Ellison Administration. His neoconservative foreign policies, resurrected from the George W. Bush era, had become passé for the times.
“Sometimes . . . I feel all alone. Did you ever feel that way?”
“The loneliness of being president can kill you, if you let it. The buck really does stop with you.” He stood. “I’ll be right back.”
The screen door slammed shut, as he went inside.
Just talking to Richard helped. He understood. There was strength in the club, and she wouldn’t be afraid to rely on it in the future. The members were the only people in the world who had walked in her shoes.
He returned and handed her a glass. “I thought we could use something stronger.”
The first sip of whiskey burned Whitney’s throat.
“How did you feel when the first revelations about your past came out?”
He shook his head. “It was a dumb, youthful mistake. Whoever said, ‘Youth is wasted on the young’ had it right. I should’ve come forward, but I’d forgotten all about it.”
Numerous scandals—about them both—had surfaced during the campaign. Although Whitney trusted Richard to a certain extent, she knew it would be political suicide to tell him her teenage secret. It had not come up last year, and she would do everything in her power to prevent it from coming out now. FOX be damned. She did not plan to tell him about her problems with Xavi either. She could handle Xavier Fernandez.
Richard left again and brought out a pitcher of beer, a shot of whiskey for each of them, and two bowls of chili.
“This should warm you up. Sorry, no wine. Not any that I could give you in good conscience anyway. Be right back.”
He returned with a Native American blanket for her, and a light jacket for him, to ward off the encroaching evening chill.
After they ate, she and Richard spent another two hours on the back porch. The former president and his successor rocked in their chairs, as the sun set on the land of the free, drinking beer and talking about everything and nothing.
Finally, Whitney said, “Enough about me. What have you been up to?”
“Fly fishing. Walking around my property. Writing my memoirs. Planning my library.” He leaned over putting his forearm on his leg propped up on a wooden box. “I have an idea. Will you come to the library opening next year? Perhaps, make the opening remarks?”
Whitney smiled at him. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
Fairfax, Virginia
; The following day, Jade pulled into the Kamp Washington Shopping Center parking lot on Fairfax Boulevard. “I’m hungry.”
Christian smiled as he exited the car. “Multitasking. I love it.”
The heavenly aroma of freshly baked bread enveloped them as they entered the Jimmy John’s.
They ordered, but instead of moving away from the counter, she moved to stand in front of one of the employees making sandwiches.
It took a moment for the boy to raise his head from his work.
“What are you doing here?”
“We want to have a chat with you.”
He glanced over his shoulder and back at her. “I’m working.”
She pointed at a table. “You have until the time we finish eating to take a break. Ten minutes.” She looked at Christian and back to the young man. “Maybe five. He eats fast.”
Andrew Huffman nodded and turned his attention back to making her late lunch.
She’d been spending the last couple of weeks on the cybertheft case, not so much on the bullying case. She had decided to follow up with the players individually. Starting with Andrew.
She had just finished her sandwich when Andrew stood at the empty chair at their table. He hesitated, then sat.
She balled up the paper the sandwich had been wrapped in. “How do you like working here?”
“It’s a job. I get a discount on food.”
“It must be tough going to school, playing sports, and working.”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t be a sandwich maker, if I didn’t have to be. I don’t have a choice. We’re not rich like some of my classmates.”
“Like William?”
He lowered his eyes and stared at the table.
“What were you going to tell me? At Joshua’s funeral?”
He shrugged his big shoulders. “That was a month ago. I don’t remember.”
“What happened to Tyler, Andrew? Did William have something to do with his death? Did you?”
He lifted his head. “Do you ever feel a part of something and not a part of it at the same time?”
She thought about it. “Sure.”
