by Roland Smith
“Are there other passages?”
J.R. nodded. “But I’m not going to tell you where they are. Ty used one of them this morning to get in and out of the Oval Office, but I had to clear the way so he wasn’t caught coming or going. Norton made sure no one would see him.”
“Agent Norton has a Seamaster,” I said.
J.R. nodded. “Just like yours, Angela’s, Ty’s, and a couple of other people.”
“Pat Callaghan,” Boone said.
“Yep, Pat has one.”
“I talked to him early this morning.”
“You’re kidding,” J.R. said. “How is he?”
“You don’t know?” Boone asked.
“Know what?”
“He’s across the street, working the park.”
J.R. looked shocked. “How long?”
“Thirteen months.”
“Good God! They told me he’d been transferred. I figured he was sent to one of the field offices.”
“What happened?” Boone asked.
“I don’t know all of the details. We were overseas, and he got into a brouhaha with some big-shot diplomat. Punched him in the nose in front of a few members of the press. Todd sent him packing to keep it out of the newspapers. But you know Pat as well as I do—if he punched someone in the nose, that nose deserved to be punched. I think Charlie Norton had something to do with it too, but Pat took the fall because he doesn’t have kids still in college like Charlie. Thirteen months! That has to be a record. Why didn’t Pat just call me?”
Boone didn’t answer.
“Yeah, I know,” J.R. said. “The code. If it wouldn’t cause a minor riot, I’d walk across the street right now and drag him back over to the White House.”
Boone looked at his Seamaster. “He might not be there.”
“As I understand the assignment,” J.R. said, “they virtually live in the park. There’s no other way for them to infiltrate and tease out possible threats.”
“He might be getting cleaned up,” Boone said.
“For what?”
Boone looked at me.
“Agent Norton asked us for an invitation for Pat Callaghan,” I said.
J.R. laughed. “That’s beautiful! But if Todd gets wind of it, he’ll stop it from happening.” He pulled out his cell phone and hit a button. “This is President…” He winked at us. “Right… My son passed out some invitations to the concert tonight. Oh, good… So everybody checks out? No threats? Good… good… I want everyone on that list admitted. No exceptions unless I personally tell you otherwise. Is that clear?… Great… Thank you.” He closed the phone.
“The list has already been run through the security and criminal databases, and everyone’s been cleared,” J.R. said. “I was thinking about skipping the concert tonight, but now I’ll definitely be there. In fact, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He looked at his watch. “And speaking of going, I’d better get back to work.” He stood. “I’ve been slacking. I’ll be lucky to get done everything I need to get done before the concert.”
“One more thing,” Boone said. “When I talked to Pat this morning he asked me about the SOS team.”
J.R. sat back down, with a concerned expression. “Tell me exactly what he said.”
Boone recounted the conversation.
“So he was fishing,” J.R. said.
“I think he knew more than he was saying.”
“Any idea where he heard the rumors?”
Boone shook his head.
“You could do worse than having Pat join your team,” J.R. said. “He’s a pro and frustrated about what’s going on, and what should be going on. You’re going to need help with this. Pat can help you.” He stood again, started toward the door, then turned. “You know, I have about sixteen months left in my final term. All the talking heads blather on about my so-called legacy. What they don’t understand is that the accomplishments I’m most proud of are the ones no one will ever know about. If you recall, Ty, you were involved in several of those when we were at the agency.”
Boone nodded.
“I cannot think of a better legacy than to destroy the ghost cell before they destroy us.”
The president stepped through the door and closed it behind him.
Boone sat silently for a full minute, staring at the door, then said, “Let’s take Croc for a walk.”
He didn’t have to ask twice.
Angela stepped through the door. “I wondered where you were,” she said. “I just ran into the president. What’s going on?”
“We’re going for a walk,” Boone said.
It felt great to get outside, away from all the eyes. I told Angela about the conversation we had with J.R. We exited through the northwest gate, onto Pennsylvania Avenue.
Lafayette Park was across the street. The sidewalk was lined with people who looked more like parade goers than protesters. They had signs, but they weren’t holding them up. The signs were propped up next to the lawn chairs or on sleeping bags the people were sitting on. They weren’t shouting slogans. They were talking on cell phones to each other or to themselves.
“Which one is Pat Callaghan?” Angela asked.
“Three-quarters of the way down. The guy with the brown sock cap and matching beard.”
“It’s more black than brown,” Angela pointed out.
“Not when it’s clean,” Boone said.
“Are we going to talk to him?” I asked.
“Not in the park,” Boone said.
We crossed the street and walked past the passive protesters. Ten feet before we got to Pat, Boone took a stick of gum out of his pocket and unwrapped it. I’d never seen Boone chew a stick of gum.
Pat stared straight ahead with deep-set blue-gray eyes and ignored us. He had three faded hand-lettered posters behind him.
C.I.A. = CENTRAL IDIOT AGENCY
SECRET SERVICE = NAZI SS (SCHUTZSTAFFEL)
IT TAKES A VILLAGE TO RAISE A CHILD?
HA!
IT TAKES ANARCHY!!!
I wondered if Pat had made the posters himself or inherited them from the previous agent who had the dreaded park duty. As we passed him Croc lay down in front of Callaghan and Boone tossed the gum wrapper at his feet.
“Litterbugs!” Pat shouted.
“Don’t look,” Boone said, and kept walking.
We took a left at the end of the park and started toward downtown.
“Did you pass him a message in that gum wrapper?” Angela asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“What did it say?” I asked.
“Follow the dog.”
Moving quickly now, Boone got his BlackBerry out, checked his messages, then started thumbing in e-mails or text messages. There must have been a lot of them because it took him four blocks to finish. He finally pocketed the BlackBerry, and we followed him across the street to a hotel. He didn’t stop at the front desk. Instead, he strolled across the lobby to the elevators and hit the button for the eighth floor.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“We were too exposed at Blair House,” he said. “Too many curious Secret Service agents sniffing around. So we moved our primary operation here.”
The elevator door opened.
“Are you sure we weren’t followed?”
“Of course we were followed. This is Washington, D.C.,” Boone said. “But after what happened in Philly we’re running countersurveillance. Felix intercepted our tail—a Secret Service woman probably sent by your friend Mr. Todd. Felix stumbled and spilled a large iced Frappuccino down her blouse, then tried to clean her up. She nearly pulled her service revolver and shot him. By the time she untangled herself from the clumsy Felix, we were out of sight. She turned the corner just after we slipped into the hotel. She’s probably down in the lobby right now, flipping her badge open, asking if anyone fitting our description came into the hotel. The clerk is going to say no because Vanessa gave her a wad of money to keep her eyes and mouth closed. The agent is going to be tick
ed at losing two kids and an old man, and so is Mr. Todd, or whoever sent her after us.”
He swiped the card to room 816.
The gang was all there. Well, most of them.
Vanessa was watching a NASCAR race. X-Ray was doing what he was always doing—staring at a computer screen. Everett and Eben Lavi (the rogue Mossad agent who had stuck a knifepoint in my throat twenty-four hours earlier) were cleaning their handguns. Uly, who was only slightly smaller than the gigantic Felix, was playing solitaire. I had yet to hear him utter a word.
“I am sorry about the nick,” Eben said, nodding toward the bandage on my neck. “For what it’s worth, I would not have killed you.”
“That’s good to know,” I said, although I wondered if he was telling the truth.
“Did the agent come into the hotel?” Boone asked.
“Yep,” X-Ray said. He waved us over to his computer and hit a series of keys. We saw us walking across the lobby in fast motion, and then he slowed it down. A woman came in with a brown stain on her white blouse. Just as Boone predicted, she flipped out her badge and showed it to the desk clerk. They spoke for a couple of seconds, and the agent left.
“And our visitor?” Boone asked.
“You mean recruit,” X-Ray said.
“We’ll see,” Boone said.
“He’s on his way. Felix is still running countersurveillance, but so far he hasn’t spotted anyone following him.”
“Is the room set up?”
“Ready to go.” X-Ray glanced at his computer. “Speak of the devil.”
Pat Callaghan was walking across the lobby with a garment bag slung over his shoulder and Croc at his heels. The desk clerk stared at them but didn’t say anything. This was no doubt prearranged because no hotel clerk on earth would let a guy looking like Callaghan and a dog looking like Croc into the hotel without asking what they were doing there.
“Vanessa?” Boone said.
Vanessa clicked off the television. “Wringer time,” she said. “If he fails, what do you want me to do?”
“Kick him out,” Boone answered. “Tell him to forget about what happened. We’ll pack and move to the secondary location before he can tell anyone we’re here.”
“What are you talking about?” Angela asked.
“Pat Callaghan wants to become a member of SOS,” Boone said. “He’s passed his background check, which is a little different from the government’s background check. All that’s left is the final interview. We’re going to hook him up to a lie detector. If he gets through it, he’s in. If he doesn’t, we’re out of here. Can’t have the Feds raiding our little party.”
Vanessa crossed the room and opened the door to an adjoining room. It was completely blacked out except for a bright light shining on a chair across from a desk. On the desk was a complicated-looking machine with leads coming out of it and what looked like a pair of goggles. No sooner had she entered when there was knock.
Boone closed the door to the adjoining room, and we gathered around a flat-screen monitor connected to a surveillance camera in the black room.
The Black Room
“Come in,” Vanessa said from the dark side of the desk.
Pat stepped into the room. “What is this?”
“Sit down.”
“What’s going on?”
“Do you want to join SOS?”
“Yes.”
“Sit down.”
Pat sat down.
Vanessa’s old but sure hands reached into the circle of light and attached the leads to Pat’s wrists and hands.
“Put the goggles on.”
“Is this a lie detector test?” Pat asked. “I’ve never seen a setup like this.”
Vanessa did not answer.
Pat took his sock cap off. Underneath was brown hair cut very short. The long dirty brown hair was sewn around the rim of the cap. He peeled off the scraggly beard and tossed it on the table. Underneath was a pretty good-looking guy. He slipped the goggles on.
“Is your name Patrick James Callaghan?”
“Yes.”
“You are currently working for the Secret Service.”
“Yes.”
“You were formerly employed by the Central Intelligence Agency?”
“Yes.”
Simple questions like this went on for about twenty minutes. In the upper right-hand corner of the monitor was a graph, which X-Ray was paying close attention to.
“CIA operatives are trained to beat lie detector machines,” X-Ray told us. “But no one can beat this one.” He glanced at Eben. “Not even our Israeli Mossad friend was able to trick it.”
Eben smiled and nodded. He looked less predatory than normal. His jaw was still a little swollen and bruised where Angela had kicked him in the face two days earlier.
“It tracks pulse, eye movement, and pupil dilation,” X-Ray said. “You can control your pulse, but you can’t control your eyes. They have a mind of their own, and they always tell the truth.”
“Speaking of truth,” Boone said. “How’s he doing?”
“Primed and loaded,” X-Ray said.
Boone looked over at Uly. “You ready?”
Uly put down the deck of cards and stood. He was even bigger than I remembered.
“If Pat starts to go south, I want him disarmed, cuffed, and gagged,” Boone said.
Uly nodded.
“Remember, though, he’s on our side. Don’t hurt him.”
Uly shrugged as if he couldn’t guarantee that and stationed himself outside the connecting door.
“So, you went through this?” Angela asked Eben.
“Right after they took me to the dentist to fix the tooth you cracked.”
“Sorry about that.”
“I deserved it,” Eben said. “And it was a good kick.”
Angela had surprised us all with her tae kwon do.
Boone punched a button on his BlackBerry. “Start the real questions,” he said into the Bluetooth stuck in his ear.
There was a short pause in the interview.
“Why is Vanessa conducting the interview?” Angela asked.
“It’s about to turn into an interrogation,” Eben interjected.
“We picked Vanessa,” Boone said, “because she’s never crossed paths with Pat. If he doesn’t pass we want as little exposure as possible. Pat already knows I’m involved in something. We’re about to find out how much he knows, and more important—at least to us—where he found out.”
Vanessa’s questioning resumed, but the yes and no questions were over.
“How did you learn about us?”
“Charlie Norton…well…from him I got at least the notion that you might exist. It was purely conjecture on Charlie’s part. He mentioned that he suspected President Culpepper was working with a small group of ex-spooks who had gone freelance.”
“In what capacity?”
“I don’t know. Neither did Charlie. All he knew was that President Culpepper often seemed to know more about the current terrorist situation than the CIA and FBI chiefs briefing him. You can bet both organizations are actively trying to figure out who’s feeding him this information.”
“Why is Agent Norton interested in this?”
“His job—my job—is to protect the president’s life, with our own lives if necessary. And like all presidents before him, he and his staff sometimes make this difficult.”
“In what way?”
“By not telling his detail ahead of time what he’s going to do. By changing plans at the last minute, like he did today half a dozen times, so they’re unable to get the advance and countersniper teams in place. J.R. trusts Charlie and me, but only to a point. He plays his cards very close to his vest. He has a very private, secure cell phone. If it buzzes, he answers it. The only times he hasn’t answered it was when he was in the middle of giving a speech or a press conference. As soon as he’s finished he asks for a secure room, walks in, shuts the door, and presumably returns the call.”
�
��You and Agent Norton both have that private number.”
“Yes we do, but neither of us has ever called it.”
“Why?”
“I can’t answer for Charlie. As for myself, I’ve never had a reason to call it.”
“Even when you were stationed for radical homeless duty in the park?”
“Absolutely not. At least in my mind. The number’s not used to curry favor with the president of the United States.”
“Why did the president give you the watch?”
“Nice try. I’ll never tell you why I got the Seamaster.”
“What about Agent Norton’s watch?”
“I never asked him why he got one, and he’s never asked me. That’s the way it works. And if he had told me, I wouldn’t tell you or anyone else.”
“Why were you kicked out of the White House?”
“I punched a diplomat in the face in South Korea.”
“That’s his first lie,” X-Ray said.
Boone passed the information on to Vanessa.
“Why were you kicked out of the White House?” Vanessa asked again.
Pat laughed. “This thing works pretty well.”
“Answer the question.”
“We were in South Korea at a summit meeting with the president. On the second night there Charlie and I had elevator duty. A guy comes up and says that he has a dispatch to give to J.R. We tell him politely that we’ll deliver it. He insists that he wants to give it to the president personally. It’s three in the morning. The president is upstairs asleep. Even if he hadn’t been, we wouldn’t have let him through. He starts yelling at us, then shoves me. Before I can recover he reaches into his pocket and Charlie coldcocks him. At that moment the elevator opens and COS Todd steps out, sees the diplomat splayed on floor, and goes ballistic. Apparently, he knew the guy was coming and failed to mention it to us. The guy comes to and can’t remember who slugged him. I told Todd that I did it before Charlie could step up to the plate. He has two kids in college. Next thing I know, I’m across the street. Todd and the Service figured I’d last a month in the park…get a job with another agency. I fooled them.”
