The air was close and hot in the little room. Nico sat with his orange jumpsuit unzipped to the waist as he pounded multi-colored code onto a black computer screen. O’Keefe watched over his shoulder and pulled at the ends of her long strawberry-blonde hair to stay awake.
“This is spooky ironic,” Nico said. The speed of his rapid-fire typing didn’t suffer as he spoke.
“You mean hacking into government records for the very same person who put you in the slammer for hacking into government records?”
“Not only that,” Nico said. “I’m hacking into government records in a police station. The cops are actually helping me commit a crime. Twisted, right?”
O’Keefe took off her Kevlar-lined jacket for the first time today, revealing a gray t-shirt with the NSA emblem across the chest. “Too bad you’ll never be allowed to put this in your memoirs.”
The computer emitted a shrill buzz. Nico stood and kicked a trash can across the floor. “What?”
“CENTAF cyber sheriff booted me out. This is too much pressure. I can’t believe Eva’s doing this to me. Double-crossing beotch.”
“Watch it,” O’Keefe warned. “That’s the future Veep you’re talking about. Be nice to her. She’s got half a mind to hand you over to the Saudis.”
Nico went pale. “She really said that?”
“You know what the Saudis do to hackers, right?” She held up her arm and made a slicing motion across her wrist.
He returned to the machine and began again. His heart wasn’t in it. It was a futile exercise. Neither O’Keefe nor Eva understood that anyone with clearance to work on CENTAF’s systems could have rigged Marine One’s flight plan without leaving obvious digital fingerprints. Forensic IT work was difficult and labor intensive. It would take days or weeks to find anything conclusive.
O’Keefe walked to the other side of the table and stretched her arms high above her head and yawned. She yawned again. And a terrible idea popped into Nico’s head.
“At least switch off the lights,” he told her. “Screen glare’s killing my eyes.”
She did. Nico typed with a bit more force now. His cuffs knocked loudly against the keyboard. He kept this up for several minutes. Then, exasperated, he turned and held his wrists toward her. He rattled his cuffs for good measure. “I can’t work in these.”
“C’mon. Don’t put me in that kind of position.”
“You’re torturing me.”
“Melodramatic.”
“I’m in serious pain. Have a look if you don’t believe me.”
She took a peek at the skin of his wrists. It was indeed red from the cuff’s constant chafing.
O’Keefe pulled the key from her belt and freed Nico’s wrists. “Just get back to work.”
Nico turned back around and began pounding the keyboard again. Shortly, a site with Cyrillic alphabet displayed on the screen.
O’Keefe sat up. “That’s not one of our sites. What’re you doing?”
“Easy, spook. This is just a Hungarian site for coding geeks. I gotta download some spyware. And stop looking over my shoulder. It’s makin’ me all edgy.”
“How much longer?”
“Couple hours at least. Might as well get comfortable.”
O’Keefe sat in a wooden chair against the wall. She put her loafers up on the desk, looking sleepy. Nico began working again. He typed in a deliberate, rhythmic canter. Slow. But steady. Like a resting heartbeat.
Gangplank Marina,
Washington D.C.
8:11 a.m.
Rios was still asleep when his phone jarred him from a dream. A good dream. He was sailing down in the Florida Keys with nothing but blue ocean and sunshine ahead of him. Plenty of beer in the ice chest and nothing but chips, guacamole, homemade salsa and fried shrimp to eat. Samba played loud – too loud – over the stereo. His knees didn’t even hurt.
His Blackberry rang. The reality of a city under martial law came flooding back to him. He opened his eyes on the second ring and gazed at his right hand, remembering that he had used it to kill two men the day before. He sat up and saw the row of boats out the porthole, realizing that he was safe aboard the Little Santa Maria, at slip #74, just like always.
Except when he was traveling with the President. The President. He had not heard from First Team since Sunday. He grabbed the phone and answered as fast as he could.
“It’s Rios,” he said.
The man on the other end identified himself as the CSO from Homeland Security. Rios had met him once, maybe twice. While he technically reported to HS, they didn’t bother him too much. The President had always insisted that Rios run the show.
“You’re needed at the Willard,” the CSO said.
The Willard was one of the oldest and most prestigious hotels in Washington. It was near the White House. “Okay. What’s up?”
“VIPs will be taking occupancy tonight. Your team has already been notified and will meet you at the hotel. Instructions will be disseminated at that time.”
“Wait. You mean First Team?” Rios said. “First Team will meet me there?”
“Just show up,” the CSO said. The line went dead.
Rios was left looking at the receiver as the sailboat gently rocked beneath him.
“Who was that?” said the voice behind him.
Rios shot out of bed and spun around, fully naked, his heart sputtering. He found himself looking at Haley Ellis, naked under the sheets of his queen-size bed.
She looked hurt. “You actually forgot I was here, didn’t you? Last night was that memorable?”
Rios shook his head and looked for his pants. “It’s just…I’m not used to having company. It’s been a long time.”
“You usually kick them out before dawn?”
“It’s not like that.”
She groped the floor for her clothes. “This isn’t exactly business as usual for me. I was brought up a good girl and I am a good girl. Iraq didn’t even ruin me. I just want you to know that.”
“Don’t worry about it. I guess martial law makes you do crazy things.” Rios got his pants on and watched as she did the same. “Call it what you want,” he added, “but I had a good time last night.”
She turned and made eye contact. Goosebumps went up her arms. “Me too.”
He sat back down on the bed. They shared a slow kiss. He had to force himself to break away. His head hurt. They had drunk a lot of wine last night. And he was late. And a little scared.
8th Precinct, Baltimore
10:21 a.m.
O’Keefe awakened from deep REM sleep and tried to focus. A man looked down on her. He was shaking her shoulder gently. “Oh jeeze,” she said as her vision slowly came into view. It was Nico. He was standing over her, breathing through his mouth. His breath was heinous.
“How long have I —”
“Two hours.”
“Oh God.” She groaned as she righted herself in the chair. Holy Mary Mother of God. She had fallen asleep while supervising a federal prisoner. She could lose her job for this. “I’m impressed you didn’t try to escape.”
He blushed, looking somehow guilty. “Actually, I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.”
She instinctively reached for her weapon. It wasn’t there. She looked down and saw her agency-issued cuffs looped around her right ankle. The other cuff was tightened around a support beam underneath the table. Nico held the key in his hand.
O’Keefe let out a long, sustained scream at the top of her lungs. Nico put his fingers in his ears, sat back and waited patiently for her to stop. Half a minute later, O’Keefe stopped the noise long enough to catch her breath. “I don’t get it,” she huffed. “How come nobody’s coming to help me?”
“They used this room to question suspects. It’s completely soundproof.”
“How’d you know that?”
“They’ve got old floor plans and office assignments on the precinct wiki. There used to be an observation window on that wall, but they bricked it up.�
�
Fear welled up in her. She hadn’t had a chance to look at Nico’s intel file. She hoped he didn’t have any latent mental health issues.
He saw it. “Hey now, don’t be scared. I’m a pacifist. Robin Hood criminal.”
“So why are you still here?”
“I just had to tell you how sorry I am. I couldn’t do it.”
“Couldn’t do what? Bring yourself to help Eva?”
“No, no, no. I mean I literally couldn’t do it. I’m not a forensic IT expert. It’s a completely different specialty.”
“Maybe if you explained it in those words. I could talk to Eva for you.”
He shook his head. “We both know that if she actually gets to go back to the White House, she’ll hand me over to the Saudis the first chance she gets.”
O’Keefe folded her arms across her chest. “You think you’re in trouble. Just wait until the agency finds out that I lost an international cyber criminal. My career’s ruined.”
Nico nodded sympathetically. “I thought of that. Which is why I’m giving you a consolation prize.”
Nico handed O’Keefe a freshly printed stack of records. “Hector Joaquin Sanchez and Damien Griffith LaSalle.”
“Who?”
“The guys that tried to kill Eva up in Martha’s Vineyard. I decided to hack into Veteran’s Affairs and see if I could find something from there. They’ve got these ancient legacy systems that are virtually held together with paper clips, so it was pretty easy.”
“Are they extremists?”
“As far as I can tell, they’re just mercenaries. They began their career as part of an elite Army sniper unit called the 1-501. After a tour of duty in Iraq, they both left to join the USOC unit. Pay was way better, I can tell you that. They were put under the command of a man named Chris Abrams, who was an unspecified consultant.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Back to Abrams in a moment, but moving on, please turn to page twelve of your handout.” O’Keefe flipped to page twelve as Nico resumed his story. “For kicks, I looked up our favorite Baltimore resident, Elvir Divac. Lo and behold, the name Chris Abrams pops up again. I looked up his partner in crime, Ali Lahari. Also listed as assigned to—”
“Chris Abrams?”
“Cha-ching. But strangely, there is no VA file for Chris Abrams, which I thought was odd for a Ulysses consultant, since they tend to hire veterans as a rule. So I looked him up on the Social Security database, and there was no man by that name within his age group.”
O’Keefe wriggled in her seat. “I know I’m a captive audience, but you’re boring me. Cut to the chase.”
“On page eighteen of your program, you’ll find what I discovered in the log files of a site called PrivateMilitaryNews.com.”
O’Keefe turned to the printout. It was a photo of General Wainewright with Chris Abrams. The article caption: General Wainewright with Chris Abrams, one of Ulysses’ top guns in Indonesia.
“This is the guy?”
“It is. But what’s interesting is that nobody knows this page still exists. It never made it to the live site. It was held in an editor’s queue in the Web site’s content management system, but it still lives on through the wonders of Web dev versioning software.”
“Just tell me what it means!”
“The article’s a smear piece, showing that Wainewright owned millions in Ulysses stock options and was thus violating anti-trust laws by pitching them DOD-financed contracts. Abrams’ inclusion as a Ulysses employee in the pic was just a happy accident.”
“Proves nothing,” O’Keefe said. “General Wainewright is very open about how pleased he is with Ulysses’ performance.”
“With one crucial exception. The General’s photo with Chris Abrams. I found myself wondering why someone went to such lengths to make sure it didn’t get published.”
“What lengths?”
“Double homicide.”
“You lost me.”
“Turn to page twenty-six.” O’Keefe did. “I looked up the name of the journalist to see if there were any follow-up pieces that saw the light of day. Instead, I found what you’re holding on page thirty-two.”
O’Keefe flipped to the page. It was an obituary. “Go on.”
“The writer was stabbed in a supermarket parking lot the day before the article was due to be published. That night, his editor was killed by a hit and run driver.”
Had she not been cuffed to the table, O’Keefe could have kissed him. Nico had found a direct link between Eva’s would-be assassins and Ulysses, and it even had a name – Chris Abrams. Even if Abrams was just a blunt instrument, O’Keefe figured if they dug deeper, there would be a connection to their own investigation of Ulysses as well. She shuffled anxiously through the rest of the files Nico had printed up.
Static hum erupted over the room speaker. Then the Desk Sergeant’s voice cut in: “Riots in 8th Precinct. All hands reports.”
Right on time. Nico himself had hacked into the precinct messaging account moments before waking O’Keefe and issued the emergency broadcast.
He stood. “So I guess this is goodbye.”
O’Keefe nodded. “Thanks, Nico. This was nice of you. All things considered, I mean.”
He slipped out of the soundproof room and switched off the light on his way out. Around the corner, he found the open cabinet with a half dozen riot helmets, Kevlar vests, and shields. He put a helmet on first. Then, as police ran past him, he calmly dressed in full riot gear and made his way toward the building’s entrance, where similarly costumed police officers were making their way to the street. Walk with purpose, he told himself. Stay with the pack. You are a cop in riot gear. Be the riot gear.
He continued following the other officers until he saw a public phone in front of a library. He went to it and lifted the shield on his riot helmet and picked up the receiver. When the operator came on, Nico said “Collect call to Burlington, North Carolina, please. Margaret Howland. H-O-W-L-A-N-D. You’ll have to look up the number.
Rapture Run
10:49 a.m.
General Farrell felt his intestines tighten as he entered Wainewright’s quarters. He was accustomed to being the calming influence in Wainewright’s life. But he didn’t feel calm now. Wainewright looked up and saw the rage in Farrell’s face. “Shut the door,” he said as he pressed a button on his desk to frost the door glass.
“Why wasn’t I told about Angie Jackson?” Farrell demanded.
Wainewright leaned back in his chair. “Your plate’s full. You didn’t need any more distractions.”
“Abrams’ crew failed, and now Eva Hudson’s people have Angie. I think we can count on Eva going public with this.”
“We can’t let that happen.”
Farrell’s voice turned wobbly. “We’ve already played our hand. We’ve got to tell Dex his wife is alive. What choice do we have? Better that he hears it from us first.”
“Calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down. Eva’s alive, and that means she’s next in line. Maybe before we could’ve forced Dex into office, but not now. We’re going to have to make some kind of deal with Eva. Maybe tell her we’ll support her presidency in exchange for immunity. We could maybe give her Jeff Taylor. Or Abrams.”
Wainwright peered up at Farrell with red eyes. “You’ve completely lost it.”
“Don’t you see how this is going to look? The plan was to blame this on the Allied Jihad. That’s falling apart now. It looks bad. We look bad.”
The Chairman remained calm. “Get a grip. We look golden. Besides, if we give up now, the country would be right back where we started. Bogged down in the Middle East for a generation. Vilified by the world. Buying our water from Canada or going to war with Mexico to get it.” He stood, walked around the circumference of his desk and spoke mere inches from Farrell’s face. “The most patriotic men in America are standing right in this room. I really believe that. And I’m not afraid to put my reputation, and my very life, o
n the line for the good of our country. Are you?” He poked his index finger into the middle of Farrell’s chest. “Are you? Because it sounds to me like you’re only concerned about saving your ass.”
Farrell stepped back. He took an unfiltered cigarette out of his pocket and lit up. Thick ropes of smoke roiled throughout his esophagus and lungs.
TEN MONTHS EARLIER
Northern Colorado
The Chairman’s private hunting cabin was nestled within sixty private acres of golden windswept plains and dense aspen forests. It was not accessible by road. Being an avid hunter, General Farrell had been angling for an invitation for more than a year. With armies in three war zones, a single weekend off for any of the Pentagon brass was a rarity.
Wainewright finally relented in early October, just in time for deer season. They had come in on a Wednesday morning by private helicopter. The 110-year-old outpost had been a remote ranger station until the late 2000s when the State of Colorado, its tax revenue crippled by the housing bubble collapse, had been forced to sell off chunks of prime public land. Wainewright snapped the place up for just over a million in cash.
The Pentagon’s most powerful duo spent the afternoon in an aspen grove overlooking a busy game trail. They saw deer by the dozen and elk by the truckload. By dusk they had both bagged big bucks. They butchered the animals themselves, hauling the prime cuts out on their backs and leaving the rest for the coyotes.
They spent the evening eating venison, drinking 12-year-old cognac and smoking Dominican cigars by firelight. As always, the conversation eventually turned to politics. Wainewright was candid about his feelings about the President’s policies. That was no surprise. He waited until Farrell’s third glass of cognac to veer into the unexpected.
“Ed,” he said, using Farrell’s first name for the first time in ages, “There’s a movement among certain members of congress to remove the President.”
Farrell shook his head. “There’s not enough votes for impeachment. Trust me, I’m following it too.”
Line of Succession: A Thriller Page 20
