Give Us This Day

by Tom Avitabile

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, keep me informed.”

  “Will do.”

  Cass walked back toward the Treasury building. He belched and it burned like fire. He took out his cell. “Sally, call the cafeteria and get me a glass of buttermilk. I’ll be in, in five minutes.” He then patted down his suit pocket for the H2 blocker pills he carried, just in case.

  .G.

  Brooke took out her phone to get her driver to swing around and get her, when she noticed she had a text.

  BROOKE YOUR OFFICE SAYS YOU ARE IN DC. GOT A MINUTE TO STOP BY? “A” PASS WAITING AT THE EAST WING PORTICO.

  She called New York. “Move my flight to 4:30. I’ll be at the White House with Bill Hiccock. Thanks . . . Okay, I’ll deal with that when I get back to my office.”

  Chapter 17

  Call Me Jim

  Secretary of State Charles Pickering was sitting in Bill’s office when Cheryl let Brooke in.

  “Brooke! Perfect timing. You know Charles, right?”

  “Of course, Mr. Secretary. How are you?”

  “Jet lagged, but that goes with the job.”

  “Shame you can’t rack up frequent flyer points.”

  “I’ll mention it next time I testify before congress.”

  Bill smiled then drilled down to the reason for the impromptu meeting. “Brooke, Charles just passed along some disturbing news . . .” he said, extending his hand in an invitation for the secretary to take over and inform Brooke of his discovery.

  “Well, it seems that some ‘students’ with FS-1 visas are missing. After 9/11 we tightened up our monitoring of foreign nationals involved in sensitive areas.”

  “What area are we talking about?”

  “Electrical engineering. But these aren’t students; they are actual engineers, in some cases doctors and PhDs in electrical and electronic systems.”

  “So they weren’t here to work but to study?”

  “Apparently, but they aren’t at the institutions they are supposedly attending.”

  “And you think they’ve gone to ground?”

  “Seems a definite possibility.”

  “Okay, so far it sounds like an INS problem; why are you reading me in on this, Bill?”

  “My network. I ran the names and the specialties past my sources, and this is only preliminary, but something bad could be coming. The touch point of common connection between these men is Prescott. The case you are working right now.”

  The Sec State was surprised. “You are working with Cass, Agent Burrell?”

  She decided not to correct him. She held an SES-6 and was now at a director’s pay grade. “Yes, and his investigation into PCM.”

  He turned to Hiccock. “You are full of surprises, Bill.”

  “Sorry there wasn’t time to fill you in on every detail. And just for the record . . .” Bill stopped talking because the president came through his door.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Bill. Hi, Charles, Brooke . . . don’t get up.”

  Everyone sat back down.

  “I just wanted to ask Brooke to come see me when she’s done here.”

  “Of course, sir,” Brooke said, a little caught off guard by the unprecedented request.

  “Good. Well, carry on.” He closed the door as he left.

  As they all looked at one another, Bill noted, “It’s his house. If he wants to barge in, who in the free world is going to tell him he can’t?”

  “How did he know I was here?”

  “You’re kind of a rock star around here, Brooke. Last time you were in the house, the office buzz lasted for days. A lot of women and men here admire you. I am sure Shirley or Cheryl or Mrs. Gladstone were mentioning it and he overheard,” Bill said.

  “Wow. Okay, let’s get back to bad things coming . . .” Brooke crossed her legs and placed her intertwined fingers on her knee as she listened.

  When the meeting was over, she asked Bill if she could use his phone. She dialed her office. “Better move my flight to 6:30. And have that report in the car picking me up at LaGuardia . . . Will do.” She hung up and turned to Bill. “Any idea why the boss wants to see me?”

  “Haven’t a clue. Did you screw up or something?”

  “I’m sure if I did, I am going to hear about it.”

  “I’ll have Cheryl tell Mrs. Gladstone you are ready to see him.”

  .G.

  That afternoon at two different airports, JFK in New York and Heathrow in London, two women headed down to the Grand Cayman Islands. One of them, Elanna, complete with another new set of sunglasses and sandals was all smiles, as she was again looking forward to another secret rendezvous with Paul or “Mr. Kiss-Kiss Hump-Hump Bye-Bye-Till-Next-Time,” as she liked to think of him.

  From JFK, Cynthia was all tingly with teenage expectations over her upcoming discreet tryst with the new man in her life.

  .G.

  Brooke had to wait until 5:15 to see the president. Because of the shift in time, the meeting was moved from the Oval to the residence. The president had a 7:00 p.m. speech so Mrs. Gladstone suggested he relax up in the residence. It was where he could literally loosen his tie and kick back before the evening’s schedule. She knew out of deference to the office and the power concentrated within, the president always wore a tie and jacket and so did every other male in DC who entered the White House during his administration. His residence, however, was a work-free zone for the most part. She knew he could unwind and be casual up there.

  Brooke was escorted to the East Wing elevator and noticed the first lady’s staff was light today. “Is FLOTUS out of the house?”

  “Yes, she’s in Omaha with her staff.”

  Brooke was a little disappointed. Mrs. Mitchell was a delight and she and Brooke had a “girls” way of letting their hair down and talking about life and not politics.

  Brooke was sitting on the divan in the residence when the president came in with Mr. Jeffries, the White House steward, in tow. “Brooke, want a drink?”

  “Just a Perrier, maybe.”

  “Make that two, Mr. Jeffries.” He turned back to Brooke. “Lime?”

  “Perfect.”

  On cue, the president sat across from Brooke, loosened his tie, sighed, and accepted the drink from the steward after he served Brooke. The president gave Mr. Jeffries a look where his eyes swept towards the door, and the man excused himself and left.

  “I was disappointed that Mrs. Mitchell isn’t in.”

  “You two . . . You seem like you went to college together.”

  “She was very sweet to include me in many of her social functions when I was stationed here.”

  “Can I let you in on a little secret?”

  Brooke felt the choice of words were funny coming from the commander in chief. “Sure.”

  “She looks up to you, Brooke.”

  “Noooo. The first lady is the one to look up to. She has achieved so much and addressed issues long ignored in America.”

  “Nevertheless, she admires you.”

  “I . . . I . . . don’t know what to say, sir. I am humbled by that.”

  “You are a good woman, Brooke, an excellent agent and a fierce patriot. You have achieved much and saved this country, and my administration, more than a few times.”

  “I am part of a great team, sir. We all serve.”

  “Well you are a star on that team . . .”

  “Thank you. Can we talk about anything else, sir?”

  President Mitchell laughed. He took a swig of his drink. “Okay, let’s talk about what I wanted to see you about. Now, I am going to start by saying this is in no way official and I want you to forget that I am the president. Just between us, man to woman, friends . . .”

  Brooke’s head was swelling; her ego had gotten quite a stroking in the last few minutes
. “Sure, go ahead, sir.”

  “Up here, when it’s just us, I think we can dispense with the formality.”

  “Ahhh, sure. What do I call you, sir? I mean . . .”

  “How about Jim; that’s what I used to be called.”

  “You’ve got to give me a minute here, sir . . . Jim. This is a little weird, you know.”

  “I think you are handling it pretty well . . .” He gave her the smile that won him the White House twice.

  “Well, what’s on your mind . . . Jim?” She was still rattled by the breach of protocol, but . . .

  .G.

  It was after midnight when she exited Butler Aviation, the private aviation side of LaGuardia Airport, in New York, and got into the interagency car that had been waiting since 7:45. Her briefing papers were on the backseat and she told the driver she had to stop by her office before heading home. She focused on the papers but found it hard as she kept replaying the evening with . . . Jim.

  Chapter 18

  Sweet Cheeks

  9 days until the attack

  Secretary Cass read the morning report from Brooke. The new revelation that the State Department and, somehow, the president’s man Dr. Hiccock may have linked Prescott Capital Management to student visa violations, and that there may be a darker reason for it all, prompted him to call his counterpart at State. “Charles, I am learning that some potential terrorists may have been flagged by your department.”

  “Yes, and literally by accident; Hiccock over at the White House found a possible connection to that investigation you have going on up in New York.”

  “That’s uncanny. And do you think he’s onto something?”

  “Your gal, Brooke, did.”

  “Wait, you spoke to Brooke Morton?”

  “Of course. She was in the room.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “The White House?”

  “Warren, where else?”

  “Of course. I just thought she flew right back to New York after my meeting with her yesterday.”

  “I think that’s when Hiccock got her to drop by. Good thing too. James stopped in and personally asked to meet with her after our meeting.”

  “Mitchell requested a meeting with her and Hiccock?”

  “No, just her.”

  “Interesting. Well thanks for the heads up on these possible bad guys. You going to the reception for the Saudi Ambassador?”

  “As head of State, it’s unavoidable. Will I see you there?”

  “Yes, I know his father.”

  “Good, then there’ll be someone there to actually talk to.”

  “See you then, Charles.”

  “Look forward to it, Warren.”

  Although not quite paranoia, Warren had an unsettling feeling after he hung up. Brooke went to the White House? She met with Mitchell? Right after she informed me about Cynthia? Inform or warn? Was the whole reason for her trip down here to threaten me? He ruminated on those thoughts for a few seconds then hit the intercom. “Sally, get me Williams.”

  .G.

  The presidential detail of the secret service occupied W16, a remarkably small office under the Oval in the White House. Many times, the head of the detail, Brent Williams, answered the phone himself. “PDS.”

  “Brent, it’s Sally. He wants to speak with you. Hold on.”

  “Brent, I was wondering if you have a minute to come over. I need to discuss something with you.”

  “Yes, sir. The boss is in the house so it’s a little quiet here. I’ll be there in fifteen?”

  “Fine.”

  .G.

  By 10:00 a.m., Brooke had lines of probability on the whereabouts and activities of four of the eight suspects she’d learned about yesterday at the White House. She buzzed George on the intercom. “George, call Wasserman. I want Cynthia in here on the double; maybe she has a memory of these ‘students.’”

  Brooke’s intercom beeped. “There’s a Mr. DeMayo and a Mr. Remo to see you, Director Burrell.”

  Brooke smiled; Jeannine not calling her Brooke meant the men were standing in front of her. Brooke liked that level of respect that Jeannine showed for her position. “Please send them in.”

  Although Brooke had seen Peter Remo the other night, she had not seen DeMayo since last Memorial Day at the Hiccock’s barbeque. Brooklyn born, Vincent DeMayo had been a hacker for the mob when Bill Hiccock got him sprung from prison to help unravel the Eighth Day affair a few years back. Kronos was his preferred handle. She’d have to remember that; Kronos bristled if anyone called him Vincent. She had convinced Dr. Hiccock to assign Kronos to her and her investigation at the meeting that occurred in his office just a few days earlier.

  Together, both men were the top technical brain trust of America. They had figured out and intuitively applied their collective genius to scores of small and large issues that helped Bill’s Quarterback Operations Group stop many threats and thwart more than a few plots to destroy America and its way of life.

  Kronos was thinner than the last time she’d seen him. Peter had a warm smile.

  “Guys, thanks for coming in on such short notice. Let’s move over to the table; it’ll be more comfortable.”

  “Yo, Brooke, I thought you were finished with all this cop stuff,” Kronos said.

  “So did I, but Mush is still deployed and I made them an offer I thought they’d refuse. So I guess the moral here is, be careful what you negotiate for.”

  “Still, this is a pretty sweet gig you got here— and director to boot! Whoohoo,” Kronos said.

  “Thanks.”

  “So what’s on your mind, Brooke?” Peter asked.

  “You have read the briefings; and Kronos, I think you spoke to Bill this morning?”

  “Yeah, he filled me in.”

  “So you know what I’m looking for. I need a plausible scenario that could make the pieces fit.”

  “So you are expanding your investigation?”

  “Actually, Peter, you opened it up. Your ‘put and call’ theory has rung a lot of bells.”

  Kronos snapped his fingers. “Brooke, before I forget, can I get a look-see at those fried machines over at Prescott?”

  “Done. Maybe you can shed some light on how they did it.”

  “Kronos and I were talking downstairs; we think this might be an EMP-based plot.”

  “That’s the thing you warned us about that time in the Indian Ocean.” She turned to Kronos.

  “Yup. Same kind of disruptive impulse.”

  Brooke remembered back to when she’d been on a top-secret mission and a tactical nuke was about to explode underwater. It was Kronos who’d deduced that the US Navy control ship, a fishing trawler from which Brooke had run the deep-sea recovery op, should shut off and disconnect all its electrical equipment rather than be fried when the small-yield nuclear bomb detonated.

  “Are we talking a small-yield nuclear weapon, here?” she asked.

  Peter and Kronos looked at each other. Peter spoke. “Not likely. You wouldn’t need these eight guys, all seemingly specialists in electrical engineering and electronics. You would only need the nuke and maybe some muscle guys to plant it.”

  “The profiles of these dudes here on the watch list, they got a specialty you don’t need if you are going to just fry electronics after a nuke det.”

  Brooke was cautiously relieved; she had been part of the team charged with stopping a suitcase nuke detonation on New York. Luckily, it was a dud and only the first stage lit off. The real yield never exploded. Still, there was a spot on Thirtieth Street, a radioactive hotspot, now encased in a concrete egg that no one was going to crack for fifty thousand years. “That’s a relief. So how do you get an EMP without a nuclear device?”

  Once again, the men looked at each other. Kronos spoke this ti
me. “Beats the shit out of me.”

  Peter hitched his head sideways towards Kronos. “Yeah, like he said . . .”

  .G.

  Lost on most folks was the fact that the secret service was, at one time, actually part of the Treasury Department before it was reassigned to DHS. It was during that time the then Under Secretary of Treasury, Warren Cass, had helped a young secret service officer, Brent Williams, out of a jam that could have derailed his career. For that reason, the now head of the president’s protective detail was reviewing the logs and internal “chessboard” showing where all the “pieces” were at any given moment in the White House.

  This was meticulously done. In the event of a national security emergency or a threat to the executive mansion, where they would have to “crash the house,” it was the secret service’s responsibility to wrangle every top-level admin member and/or all members of the NCA. Those national command authority figures were appointed by the president to carry out war, fighting, or other contingency management issues in the event of an alert.

  This morning, all Secretary Cass cared about was Brooke’s movements. Williams was finishing the report he had assembled within fifteen minutes of Cass telling him what he was looking for. “POTUS was in the Beast at 18:42. Motorcade arrived without incident at Hilton 18:57. Egress through service entrance. POTUS was on the stage 19:05. At 19:55 he was secured back in the Beast. We arrived at the East Wing portico at 20:10. He then retired for the evening in the residence.”

  “Wait. Go back. What time did he meet with Brooke?”

  “The first time was in Quarterback’s office. Sorry that’s SciAd’s office, sir, at 15:30.”

  “No, the second time, in the residence.”

  Williams checked his sheet. “17:18.”

  “And when did she leave?”

  He scanned down . . . checked it again. “21:45”

  “She goes up to the residence at a quarter after five and doesn’t leave until quarter to ten?”

  “Apparently.”

  “And the president leaves and comes back from a speech and she is there?”