.G.
“Are you saying what I think you are saying?”
“You’re the reporter. I’m just telling you what I heard.”
Cass watched Diane Price roll the ice cube from her mojito around her mouth, confident that she was rolling the fantastic allegation that he had just revealed to her around in her mind.
She bit down on the cube and asked, “Why are you telling me this? He is your boss, you know.”
“No, actually the American people are my boss. He and I both work for them. And they have a right to know.”
“Know what? Where’s the smoking gun? What is the ramification of this?” the TV reporter asked.
“C’mon, are you kidding me?” the Secretary of the Treasury said, then lowering his voice, aware that even the high-back booth they were sitting in wasn’t soundproof.
“Look, I know it’s a ratings grabber. I know it will be the story for months but, in the end, it’s a personal failing, but does it go deeper?”
“Like you and your network wouldn’t consider anything short of assassination to get Mitchell out of office.”
“You are talking about assassinating his character.”
“Maybe I misjudged you. Maybe you don’t have the gravitas to bring this sordid story to the mainstream.”
“Look, attacking me doesn’t change the facts. I’m just saying, as sensational as it is, if I have something with criminality to it, then the story is bulletproof.”
“Do your job and look into her. See how maybe she is getting certain perks and opportunities and, let’s say, preferential promotions and sweetheart deals.” He quickly checked off the list in his head and agreed with his own statement, what with the high salary she was getting and the SES-6 power she was given.
“Okay, okay, now you are giving me something Peabody Prize worthy. What’s her name?”
.G.
“Unless he’s got Cynthia with him, tell him to pound sand.” Brooke was too busy to deal with Josh Wasserman, the inept lawyer who’d let Cynthia slip out of New York’s jurisdiction.
“There is a woman with him,” Jeannine said over the intercom.
“Then send them in.”
Brooke finished up the report she was editing and hit the save button as Jeannine knocked and entered.
“Who’s this? Where’s Cynthia Davidson?” Brooke said, referring to the twenty-something girl who entered with Josh.
“Director Burrell, this is Amanda Davidson, Cynthia’s niece. She contacted me out of concern for her aunt. I think this is something you should hear.”
“Sit down, Amanda, and tell me what you told Mr. Wasserman,” Brooke said, gesturing to the chair with her hand.
“Yesterday was my twenty-first birthday. Aunt Cindy and I have been planning it for years. She was going to take me for a day at Elizabeth Arden then shopping for a new wardrobe at Bergdorf’s; then we had tickets to see Phantom again. She took me to see it when I was Bat Mitzvahed. She said she wouldn’t miss this for the world. She even planned her trip to see her boyfriend around it. She should have been back yester—”
“Hold it. You said, she went to visit her boyfriend?” Brooke said with her hand up.
“Yes, there was a new man in her life. She was so excited. She made me promise not to tell anyone.”
“Did she mention his name?”
“Only once . . . Paul . . . I think. Oh, I just know something has happened to her. I called the hotel and they haven’t seen her but then a policeman from the Cayman Islands left a message on my phone . . . I freaked and that’s when I called Mr. Wasserman.”
Brooke picked up her phone. “George, get in here.”
“Ms. Davidson, I want you to go over everything one more time with the agent who is looking for your aunt as we speak. And don’t leave out any detail, no matter how small or insignificant. You did a good thing coming here to tell us about this.”
An hour after George debriefed Amanda, he’d reached the same conclusion Brooke had feared.
“So this Paul guy is our Sheik of Araby.”
“According to Amanda, he’s George Clooney, Clark Gable, and Hugh Jackman all rolled up into one killer package . . .”
“No pun intended, I’m sure. Okay, so this guy makes women swoon then kills them? Why? Who’s he working for?” Brooke said.
“Got to be the same people who are behind Prescott.”
Ten minutes later, Brooke was on the phone to the Secretary of Treasury. “Sir, we now believe that it’s possible that your friend, Cynthia Davidson, may have come to a bad end. Intel shows a man with the alias Paul Grundig, who we now know was also the planner of my assassination and responsible for the murder of the MI6 agent, entered the Cayman Islands shortly before Cynthia went missing . . .”
Brooke examined the picture of Paul in her hand one more time as she listened to his question.
“No, sir. No sign of him yet. But a charter boat operator gave a positive ID of a photo of Grundig as having rented a few boats over these last months, and always with a woman. A woman dressed in the same manner as Cynthia was the last time we captured her on the hotel’s surveillance . . .
“Yes sir, that’s what I thought at first, but the woman always returned with him . . .
“No, sir, there is no body as yet. She has disappeared . . .
“Yes, sir. We are now backtracking everywhere this Paul Grundig has been . . .
“As it relates to the whereabouts of Prescott, sir, would you trust me if I said, if you don’t ask, then I won’t have to tell you something that might be better left unknown . . . in terms of congressional committees, sir? . . .
“Thank you, sir. Thank you for your faith in me. I will personally keep you informed of any developments . . . Thank you.”
Brooke took a deep breath; not having to reveal her adding Bridgestone to the mix was a big hurdle she’d dreaded clearing all day.
.G.
Cass hung up with Brooke and sat thinking about Cindy. Specifically the way she’d made sex, “deliciously dirty.” Even after he’d started to lose interest, she’d kept upping the ante. She’d gotten more seductive and more daring the more he pushed her away. That she went down to the Caribbean with another man didn’t surprise him. To him, she was the most exciting combination: the meek, mousey administrator by day and a raunchy lioness at night. She just loved sex. Then he remembered the time in the back of the limo . . .
“Mr. Secretary, Diane Price.”
Snapped out of his reverie, he sighed. “Put her through, Sally.”
“No, sir, she is here. She wants to see you.”
“Very well, hold my 3:30. Send her in.”
Warren Cass got up, straightened his jacket, adjusted his tie, and stood in front of his desk.
Sally escorted Price into his office. “Would you like anything? Water, juice, coffee, or soda?”
“Nothing for me, thank you,” the reporter said.
She looked over to Cass, but he waved her off.
When they were alone, the secretary said, “This is a surprise.”
“It’s a day for surprises all around . . . Why didn’t you tell me she was working for you?”
“Is that relevant?”
“Duh . . . it goes to motive.”
“Whose?”
“Yours!”
“It’s irrelevant.”
“I beg to differ. Look, if you have some personal beef with her, up to and including that she turned down your own advances to have an affair with the big dog, then you are just using me, my network, and the whole fourth estate to settle the question of your fragile male pride or pissing contest you’re in with POTUS.”
“I see your point. But there is no there there, Diane.”
“Okay, if it’s not sexual, maybe you hate the fact that she is working for you and knocking
boots with your boss!”
“You are getting warmer.” Cass sat back in his chair. He didn’t expect and didn’t like the allegation. He never considered that this would blow back on him as some kind of spurned lover or sexual revenge triangle. He decided to take an extraordinary step to eradicate even the hint of impropriety from this reporter’s mind. “Can I ask for you to take an oath of secrecy?”
“I am a member of the press. I can’t keep secrets from the American people.”
“That’s bull. We get cloaks of silence on most everything we do militarily.”
“That’s national security; that’s different.”
“This is also national security.”
Diane let that sink in. “Wait . . . what? You really meant an oath of secrecy, as in Top Secret?”
“Yes. If you saw the whole picture then you’d know why this is so troubling.”
Cass had seen the look on her face before. She could no sooner walk away from this story than a junkie from a needle.
“What happens now? Do you swear me in?”
He reached into his desk and fished through some papers and retrieved an Oath of Secrecy form and handed it to her.
She grabbed it and read it. “Serious enough. Does this cover everything or just what you want to tell me?”
“Once you sign that and take the oath, I’ll clear you for what I have to share.”
She signed it.
He reached around to his bookcase and pulled out his St. James Bible, a gift from Reverend Jesse Jackson, back in the day. “Okay, raise your right hand.”
“You’re serious?”
The look on his face was her answer. “I, state your name . . .”
Ten minutes later, Diane was in shock and not because of the alleged presidential affair. “I can’t believe I am now sitting on the biggest story since 9/11 and I just signed away my first amendment right to tell it. A terror cell, operating here, having already attacked and planning to do more . . . It’s hard to believe.”
“What about the affair?” the secretary said.
“You are certainly focused, I’ll give you that much. I will see what I can find out without revealing sources.”
“It wouldn’t be revealing sources now, Diane, it would be treason!”
“Wow. You really walked me right into this.”
“You’ve been around Washington long enough. I didn’t lead you anywhere you didn’t want to go. But here’s a little gift.” He tossed a clipped booklet of twenty pages across his desk. “You can’t copy or leave with this, but feel free to make all the notes you want.”
“Wow. White House visitor logs . . . secret service White House visitor logs, at that!”
.G.
To Bridge, it was PFM, Pure Freakin’ Magic, the way these Internet kids could dig up anything. In the old days it would have taken three weeks to pull together a tick-tock of a suspect. Today it took a little more than three hours. Hell, he even knew what the bastard had to eat in his limo on the way to Teterboro. He sat in the conference room alone reading the sheet on Prescott’s activities.
Maybe it was because he was a sergeant or maybe he was just polite but Bridge stood when Brooke entered. Harrelson, the FBI agent, and FinCEN agent George Stover and a few others followed her.
Brooke waited for everyone to be seated. “We are very fortunate to have a new member of the team. For a whole lot of reasons we are all just going to call him Bridge. Bridge’s MOS is need to know. Is that clear?”
Everyone around the room knew that if a person’s Military Occupational Specialty was classified, he was one heavy asset. They all chimed in with nods and a few welcomes.
“I have asked Bridge to find Prescott. No one outside this room will be read in on his mission, or his real identity. He’s most effective when he is invisible, and I intend to keep him that way.”
George raised a question. “Bridge, will you be working alone?”
“Next question . . .”
“I’m good.” George smiled; this guy was stone.
“Does he have a FEID number?” asked the operations manager, whose job it was to make sure everyone got paid.
Brooke jumped in. “Good you asked that. My salary will increase by his pay grade; I will hold his pay until he returns.”
“Right. Need to know . . .” she said.
“You got it . . . Now are there any other questions?”
“Confirmation code?”
Bridge took this one. “In the unlikely event I need to contact the team, the all-clear challenge code is, ‘Bling.’ I start talking without that, just come in guns blazing.”
.G.
Everyone around the room could see that the capable man at the end of the table was skilled and exuded situational toughness. Their minds wandered through the myriad of things he might have done for his country. Some just concluded that Prescott was as good as caught.
.G.
“Bridge, would you like to fill us in on Prescott’s movements?” Brooke said.
“At 11:50 on the day of the raid, Prescott took the freight elevator down to the loading dock on the Twenty-Seventh Street side of the building. From the security camera on the dock, which was not erased because it was on its own system at the back end of the building, he is seen getting into a Maybach.” Bridge pressed the remote in his hand.
The grainy video on the monitor rolled. “The E-Z pass registered to that plate was scanned on the New Jersey Turnpike western extension. Then the car was recorded pulling into the main terminal at Teterboro Airport. This is an airport right outside the city that serves business jets and private planes.”
He hit the remote again and the airport flight log appeared. “Within an hour of that time, nine planes took off. Only one had filed an international flight plan; nonstop to the Czech Republic. It was a charter and the company and crew come up as just for hire. The payment leads to a dead end, but . . . Kronos and the boys are trying to crack that through other means.”
“Thanks, Bridge,” Brooke said. “Okay, people. We believe the Czech Republic is a jump off point for a below-the-radar hop into Moscow. I want all your best thoughts and contacts. Cash in any favors you may have to try and find Morgan Prescott in Russia. State already said they have no trail. And MI6 and the CIA are trying to get a line on him. But we are running out of time. Let’s meet again at fourteen hundred and see what we have at that time.”
She turned to Bridge. “Let’s continue in my office.”
.G.
The ringing of an encrypted phone that was rarely used drew Kitman from his secret prayer room. He answered, “Yes, Sheik.”
“I bring you fortunate news.”
“That is good.”
“We have just taken over the refineries in Syria. We will be able to send you an additional fifty million a day. Invest it wisely.”
“This is an act of a great and merciful God, Sheik. It will make our endowment even grander and longer lasting.”
“Blessings upon you,” said the man known to the world, but not as the leader of ISIS.
“And upon you, Sheik.”
.G.
Julio Rodriquez and Darryl Gibson had washed the east facing windows down to Thirty-Second. They had started at 7:30 in the morning. Julio looked up at the hot sun baking him from both sides, with the reflection off the mirror-like Plexiglas of the building he was washing at Thirtieth and Lex. He looked down at the nearly empty buckets of water and turned to Darryl and said, “Time for lunch.”
Darryl put down the squeegee and took a position at the end of the scaffold as Julio did the same on the other end. They released the safety straps and the window-washing scaffold swung a few inches away from the shear face of the sky scrapper. He steadied it with his hand on the mullion between the large windowpanes. Once it stopped swaying, Julio hit the lever and the winch
at the top of the building started hoisting the rig up to the roof.
Six minutes later, they approached the edge of the roof. As the rig leveled off, they once again refit the safety hold straps and the rig was now flush with a platform from which they could step onto the roof and then take the elevator down to the street to get a sandwich. They’d take the buckets with them and fill them up and return to the roof in an hour or so.
As they entered the roof access door, Julio saw him first. A man stood there with a gun. The last thing Julio saw was the gun pointing at his head and a muzzle flash. Darryl didn’t have a chance to react before he too was dead on the floor.
.G.
Paul and Ali bin Ali stripped both dead men of their overalls and slipped them on. They walked back out onto the roof, lugging a large green case.
They hefted the heavy load onto the scaffold, stepped on, and then assumed their positions at each end. Paul hit the lever but the scaffold tilted, the far edge dropping lower. Ali dove for the case to stop it from sliding. He almost went over the side with it. Then Paul saw it: the safety strap. He tried to unhitch the seatbelt-like latch, but there was too much pressure on the buckle. He reversed the lever and the far edge of the scaffold rose. Once he saw the slack in the strap, he stopped the winch, and simply un-clicked the strap. He nodded to Ali and hit the lever down again.
The thirty-eighth floor on this side of the building was relegated to the machine room. There were no windows just louvers for air-conditioning ventilation. Free from eyes inside the building, they stopped the scaffold there. They opened their crate. Inside was a Javelin, FGM-148 shoulder-fired missile.
Chapter 24
On The Edge
Brooke and Bridge were in her office. “Do you foresee any issues with the extraction?”
“I got two good men inside the GUVD.”
“The local Moscow cops?”
“Former minister of interior types who took a pay cut when the old regime went out of fashion. They know all the ins and outs of getting someone in and out.”
“Fast work, Bridge.”
Give Us This Day Page 19
