by Dirk Patton
“OK?” She asked, the smile on her face immediately changing to concern.
“Fine. Just a little twinge.”
I slipped my good arm around her waist and hugged her against me as we browsed the goods on display. Three weeks had passed since we had stopped the assassination of the President and Speaker of the House. And it had hardly been an uneventful time. Well, not for us, but in the larger world.
I’d arrived back in the first real time with Julie on my shoulder. My arm had been treated and she’d been examined by the medical staff and declared fit, other than a mild concussion. Then it was time to return to real, real time. The whole concept still made my head hurt when I tried to work out the logistics.
After a protracted discussion with Patterson, I’d been allowed to take Julie with me. I guess he’d gotten the message that after all I’d gone through to save her, I wasn’t about to let her out of my sight. Not for a while, at least.
So, we’d made the final jump. Fortunately, this one was a straight line forward and the director was expecting both of us when we arrived. My data chip was downloaded, then Julie and I were sent off to clean up and get some much needed rest. Rest hadn’t been a priority for either of us. Not until we’d worn each other out on my lumpy mattress.
We spent the next couple of weeks getting to know each other. She had been assigned private quarters, but never spent a night in them. We seemed to be attached at the hip. I introduced her to Ray and she gave him a funny look.
“What?” He asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s just that there’s something familiar about you. Can’t put my finger on it.”
After the timeline change as a result of me saving Julie, the events where Ray and I discovered her body didn’t happen. I didn’t even remember them, horrified when they were finally shown to me. But not as horrified as Julie. She didn’t sleep for two nights.
I attended multiple meetings with Patterson, Agent Johnson and Dr. Anholts. A young woman named Forman, Carpenter’s replacement, also attended. Julie was excluded. It was explained to me that the director had not yet decided how to deal with her.
She’d been allowed to call her brother, her only living family, letting him know she was doing well and was involved in a sensitive project which would make her unreachable for a few weeks. I didn’t ask, but from the tone of the call it didn’t sound like this concerned him. It didn’t seem as if they were particularly close.
Nearly three weeks after returning, Julie and I were strolling on the helipad. I was getting some fresh air as she puffed on a cigarette. My nagging was paying off as she was down to less than half a pack a day, and swore she was determined to quit.
There was a warm breeze across the deck, sunlight diffused through her windblown hair. Focused on her, I jumped when Agent Johnson’s voice spoke from right behind me.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Hi,” I grumbled, chagrined that he’d been able to walk right up without me noticing.
“Agent Johnson! Good morning,” Julie said with a bright smile.
They had become instant friends. I didn’t get it. Didn’t make sense to me, but it did to them. And when he was in her presence, a little bit of the façade slipped. I was getting more and more glimpses of the real man under the hardened exterior shell. I guess I wasn’t the only one whose best was brought out by her.
“I’ve been remiss,” he said to me as he lit a cigar. “I haven’t thanked you.”
“Thanked me?”
“For not shooting me in the head the instant I walked into the director’s quarters,” he said.
“Don’t make me regret it,” I grinned.
He gave me a look that could freeze iron, a moment later his face cracking open into a broad smile. Then he laughed. An actual laugh! Seconds later it was gone. I wasn’t sure it had happened.
“I’m actually here to discuss something with Ms. Broussard,” he said. “And the director would like for you to join him in his office.”
“That OK?” I asked Julie.
She leaned forward and kissed me before shooing me on my way. I nodded at Johnson and headed for the door to the interior.
Patterson was sitting at his desk when I walked in after knocking and waiting for him to grant permission to enter. I had dusted off my military manners, learned from when I was in the Army, and had begun interacting with him as if he was a superior officer. Our relationship had improved dramatically.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” I asked, standing in front of his desk.
“Take a seat, Mr. Whitman.”
When I was comfortable, he closed his laptop and leaned back in his chair. Looking at me, he took a deep breath and started talking.
“I believe we have finally unraveled all of the machinations of the conspirators. I thought you might be interested in the details,” he said.
“Very much so, sir.” I sat up a little straighter.
“The conspiracy was more widespread than originally thought. The Vice President and the Deputy Director of the CIA were the two highest ranking officials involved. Beneath them were thirty-two other individuals, ranging from FBI agents to CIA officers and three Secret Service agents.
“This cabal, for lack of a better word, has been plotting for some time. You won’t recall, due to your personal circumstances, but the Vice President ran against the President for their Party’s nomination. And lost. But not by much. That’s how he wound up on the President’s ticket and was elected.
“Apparently, he wasn’t satisfied with waiting for the President to serve out his term. He recruited an old college friend, and convinced the President to appoint the man to the position of Deputy Director of the CIA. Only the Director of the CIA need be approved by Congress. The DD requires no such approval, and is selected at the discretion of the President.
“With a high level, co-conspirator in place, the VP had access to information and intelligence that allowed them to target persons in government service who were susceptible to recruitment. Some did so out of greed for power or money, others were blackmailed. And there were a few, such as FBI Agent Bering whom your features are copied from, who were resentful of how their career had played out. Were ready to jump at any opportunity to prove a mistake had been made in regards to the assessment of their capabilities.”
“He was pissed that he was driving a truck?” I interrupted.
“Basically, yes. He had been an underperforming agent for some time. Repeated reprimands for tardiness, insubordination, sloppy work, things of that sort. This assignment was given to him, against my wishes by the way, as a last opportunity before being dismissed from the Bureau.”
Patterson paused and reached forward, picking up a coffee cup and taking a sip. Leaning back, he held it in front of him as he continued.
“Suffice it to say, without detailing every individuals’ motivations, that the VP and DD did a good job of selecting the right people. Once their network was in place, the plan to eliminate both the Speaker and the President was put into motion.”
“I’ve never understood their thinking, sir,” I interrupted again. “Wouldn’t it have been simpler to have a sniper take them out? It seems that would be much less complicated than what they did.”
“On the surface, I would agree with that assessment. However, the probability of successfully assassinating both the President and the Speaker of the House in this manner is incredibly low. Perhaps one, but not both. They are rarely together in public. In fact, this was the first time in the current President’s time in office that it has happened.
“That removes opportunity. Plus, a successful sniper kill is not as simple as the movies make it appear. Yes, there are men, and women, who can do it. But the margin of error is so slim that the attempt is very high risk. And assume that it is successful. If the President is killed first, the Speaker will immediately be taken to a secure location and his protective detail will be on high alert for months to come, making it exponentially
more difficult to reach him.
“And the inverse of that is also true. If the Speaker is killed, security around the President will be trebled. Public appearances will be very limited, if not eliminated. So, to answer your question, they chose the most viable option to achieve their goal.”
“Which was?” I asked.
“Agent Bering let it slip when he was attempting to convince you that he was you,” Patterson said, taking a sip. “Seizure of power by the VP. Produce evidence of an attempted coup by the military. Arrest every officer above the rank of Lieutenant Colonel, and make an emergency request to the UN for peacekeeper troops. The ultimate goal was to put new senior officers in command. Officers loyal to the new President. Once that was done, he would remove the UN and use the military to fully seize control of the country. Eliminate Congress and the Supreme Court. That would only leave the Executive Branch, and he would have unchecked power. Permanent power, as long as the military remained loyal.”
“Bering had those details?” I asked, surprised.
“Apparently. He was a true believer. He was actually responsible for recruiting nearly a third of the conspirators. With his assignment of driving a truck, he traveled all over the United States. With no one watching or paying attention to what he did while on the road, he would meet with people identified by the VP and DD, in person. Feel them out and report back. Once the VP signed off, he would go back and sit down with the targeted recruit.
“At that point, he’d have an envelope full of cash, or a promise of promotion and expanded power. Or, in a few cases, evidence of the individual’s indiscretions. Indiscretions severe enough to ensure they would cooperate to avoid exposure.”
“What kind of indiscretions?” I was completely caught up in the story.
“In two cases, the men involved preferred their sexual partners to be young. Very young. There were also instances of homosexual activity that the targeted individuals did not want to become public.”
“I don’t need to know more,” I said, holding my hand up and shaking my head.
“Quite,” Patterson said.
“But how did they pull off the assassination? There wasn’t a laser designator anywhere on that street within range of the restaurant. I’m guessing a drone?”
“No, not even the VP and DD could pull that off. They had two Hellfire missiles that had been purchased from an Army Master Sergeant at Fort Hood. One of them was used to destroy the jet you were on. Fired from a CIA operated helicopter. It was intended to be the fallback if something went wrong at the restaurant. But, they panicked as you began to close in and decided to use it to take you out. Fortunately, they failed.
“So they fired from a helicopter? Over Anacostia Park?” I asked, surprised.
“No. That’s what Mr. Carpenter suggested. Trying to divert investigative resources away from how it was really done. Hellfire missiles can also be fired from static, ground based launchers. One was assembled inside a warehouse, three miles from the target. Strike coordinates were programmed in to get it into the immediate area once fired.
“On the ground, in front of the restaurant, a Secret Service vehicle was parked at the curb. Part of the President’s protective detail. A new generation laser designator was hidden in the rear bumper, painting the target. As the missile entered the area, it detected the reflected laser energy and homed in. In the investigation after the assassination, it was not discovered due to the heavy damage sustained by the vehicle.”
I pictured the footage I’d first seen when it happened. Remembered seeing Secret Service Suburbans burned and twisted, lying on the opposite side of the street from where the missile had detonated. I shook my head, impressed, despite myself, with the meticulous planning this must have required.
“You mentioned Carpenter. How was he recruited? And your assistant?”
“Money. Pure greed. Mr. Carpenter was paid nearly two million dollars into an offshore account over the past 18 months. Ms. Silas received just over half a million dollars in the same manner.”
“What happened to the VP and the DD and the rest of the people involved?”
“The VP suffered a massive coronary and died in his sleep last night. The DD was killed in a plane crash in Iraq where he was touring CIA facilities at the same time. Even now, the military is gearing up to go after the insurgents suspected of firing the missile that brought his plane down.
“The others are meeting similar fates. Undercover FBI Agent Bering is currently preparing for a vacation in the Bahamas after his truck was stolen and skidded off the road, bursting into flames. The thief was burned in the fire, which was quite intense as I understand it, and a piece of the wreckage damaged his skull so severely that not even dental records could be used to identify the body. DNA tests were unsuccessful. No record was found on file matching the individual.”
“Something else,” I said. “That flash drive I gave you. The one with Johnson ordering my death. What did you find out?”
“Masterfully faked, as I suspected. When it’s broken down and analyzed, there are some artifacts that give it away, but it was a first rate counterfeit. Mr. Carpenter really outdid himself with that one. Agent Johnson was not amused when he viewed it.”
“I imagine not,” I said. “But I thought you recorded a message to yourself on that drive. How did it get switched?
“It didn’t. Mr. Carpenter at work again. When he put the brief together on the flash drive, at my request, he included the false recording of Agent Johnson ordering your death. He also placed a simple virus on the drive. It was on a timer, so I wouldn’t see it when I recorded my message. It activated when the agent in the safe house inserted the drive into his laptop. It erased everything except the faked video of Agent Johnson.”
“About that agent…”
“He was part of the conspiracy. Even though Mr. Carpenter could have accomplished the same thing with a simple message from himself, he wanted to muddy the waters and implicate Agent Johnson. And it nearly worked.”
I nodded, thinking about how close I’d come to shooting the man.
“There’s something else that’s been bothering me. How did Agent Bering find us in DC? And he knew details of private conversations we had in the hotel room.”
“Through a fellow conspirator in the CIA, he had access to a very specialized tracking and surveillance system. When Ms. Broussard turned on her laptop and connected it to the internet, he was able to find her. I am not well versed in how a specific computer out of billions is detected and located, but the system works very well. It also allows the user to break in to the targeted computer, undetected. When we found Agent Bering’s laptop, it was still connected to Ms. Broussard’s. And the built in camera and microphone had been activated. He was able to see anything within the camera’s field of view and hear every conversation that occurred.”
“That is incredibly frightening,” I said, once again amazed at how far technology had progressed in the decade I was in prison.
“Yes. Yes, it is. Especially in the hands of people with bad intentions.”
I chose to let that one slide. Now wasn’t the time to get into a philosophical discussion about the surveillance tools available to big brother. Then I reminded myself that I was part of big brother now.
“What about Julie’s killer?” I asked. “I thought Bering had done it. But even after I put him down, I still remembered her being murdered.”
“We’ve been unable to identify the suspect,” Patterson said, watching me closely.
“So there’s still someone out there who’s involved in the conspiracy?”
“Possibly,” he acknowledged. “Unfortunately, since that timeline was collapsed when you saved her, there is no way for us to investigate.”
I sat thinking about that for a moment. Worried for Julie’s safety.
“Monica Torres. What was she doing in DC?” I changed the subject.
“Wouldn’t it be best to leave her in the past, where she belongs?” Patterson asked.
“That’s not why I’m asking,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m just trying to understand the freak circumstance that put her and me at the same place and time.”
Patterson stared at me over his coffee cup for nearly a minute before finally answering.
“She is Monica Hernandez, now. Married to a newly elected Representative from Arizona, Miguel Hernandez. He’s in the same political party as the President and was invited to attend the dinner as an inducement to help push through a new piece of legislation that won’t go over well in his home state. I’m not a big believer in coincidences, Mr. Whitman, but that’s exactly what this was.”
I nodded, thinking about that chance encounter. An encounter that had wound up saving my life because Bering had no idea she was in town and I’d seen her. Even if he had, he couldn’t have known the thoughts in my head.
“There was a boy with her. The right age. She called him Roberto. Is he…?”
“Your son?”
Patterson finished the question for me. I met his eyes and nodded.
“Do you really want me to find out?” He asked, eyebrows raised questioningly.
“Let me think about it,” I said after a long pause. “Was anyone else from the project involved?”
“No. With the assistance of the FBI and Secret Service, we have aggressively investigated every member of the project team over the past three weeks. Myself included. No other improprieties were found.”
“Did they investigate me?”
“Not for the same reason,” he said. “With Agent Johnson’s prompting, the investigation that was already underway into the judge, sheriff’s office and prosecutor, where you were convicted, was expanded.”
“And?”
