Final Finesse

by Karna Small Bodman

  “You mean the guys we arrested for that plot to blow up the fuel lines going into Kennedy Airport years ago?” Greg asked. “I can’t imagine that crowd is still operating.”

  “Well, there are people who think they may be trying to do something like that again. Only this time, hitting the heartland. So there’s another candidate. And then there are others who think it’s some type of environmental freakos. What we want to know is what you know so far about this crisis? And believe me, it is a crisis.”

  Greg shifted in his chair and exuded a serious look. “You are absolutely right. I’ve been concerned from the beginning. My deputy in charge of energy and nuclear threats has convened a Crisis Action Team. Actually, I had her set it up after the very first explosion. Never hurts to be on top of the situation.”

  “Good thinking,” Ken said.

  “And she has people from Energy, Transportation, CIA, FBI, and a few others on board. They’ve all been on it since day one, checking sources, working with local law enforcement. I don’t believe she asked a member of your staff to sit in on those initial meetings. We know you have a full plate of international issues you’re dealing with now, with the Icelanders in town and all.”

  “Forget Iceland. We’re talking about Americans here. The very first job of the president is to protect the country. That’s the turkey on the platter. All the rest of it is parsley as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Yes. Of course, you’re right,” Greg said, again adopting his most earnest expression.

  “So, as head of our Homeland Security operation, I want to know what specific steps you’re taking. The Crisis Action Team is a good first effort, but obviously, we’ve got to get on top of this, find out who’s attacking our lines and causing death and destruction in our heartland.”

  “Right. Absolutely right,” Greg said, leaning forward. “As you know, we’ve been working on a whole host of issues. The mall threat, the Metro bomber, the possible dirty bomb off Charleston, the nuclear components on the West Coast. Our people are working with all the agencies on all of these problems.”

  “Yes, we know. And we have to keep working to pre-empt future threats. But the gas lines are being blown up now. People are dying now. The elderly are freezing now. And since nobody in the entire government seems to have a line on who is responsible, we’ve got to ratchet this up to the highest levels.”

  “Of course. Of course,” Greg said. “Actually, I do have an idea of something we could do in terms of our investigations and surveillance.”

  “What is it?” Ken asked.

  “I was just thinking that we could request MASINT from our domestic satellites. What I mean is, we could get measurement signature intelligence, and if we pick up any suspicious activity, we overlay that on a map of the country’s pipeline locations. With that type of intel, we might be able to identify the perpetrators. It may not forestall another attack, but it would certainly give us a leg up.”

  “Excellent idea!” Ken said. “I’ll put through that request immediately. Meanwhile, as for your deputy’s action team, that would be Samantha Reid, right?”

  “Yes. Samantha.”

  “Bright lady that one,” the NSC advisor said.

  “She certainly is. I brought her here from my staff at Energy.”

  “Yes. I seem to remember that. Have her include my deputy in her next meeting. I want to be kept totally up to speed on this issue.”

  “Will do.”

  “Oh, and send me a summary of Samantha’s efforts to date. I’ll be briefing the president first thing tomorrow.” He pushed his chair back, effectively ending the meeting.

  As Greg walked to the door, Ken added, “Let’s just pray there are no more explosions.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA–FRIDAY EVENING

  Samantha drove her jeep out of the garage and headed down K Street. She was going to pick up some dinner items at the deli, take them to Tripp’s place, see where he lived, and then discuss the disastrous developments of the last few days.

  After three explosions, she was scared that some new breed of terrorist was roaming around the country, she was frustrated with the bureaucracy and worried sick that more Americans could be killed.

  She had worked on national security issues for quite some time now, but they had always seemed somewhat remote, more general, almost amorphous. This time the threats and the deaths were very real, and the whole issue was right there in her own White House directorate.

  Even though several agencies were now investigating the gas lines, she felt a personal responsibility to the president, to her colleagues, to the people they were all trying to protect. It was a huge weight. One that kept her up at night analyzing data, searching for answers, reviewing strategies. She hadn’t slept well in days. Not since the first attack when she saw the video of a nurse carrying tiny babies out of that hospital in Oklahoma. She had prayed that they all survived.

  She had talked to her dad about the situation and told him how she felt. He had reminded her that she had a real opportunity to make a difference here, that most people never had that chance. He also told her to hang tough when dealing with the various levels of government. “You can do this, Samantha. I know you can,” he had said. But could she?

  Tripp had been a great help, a sounding board, a kind of partner in this race to find the bad guys. But now he was leaving, and she’d be very much alone … again.

  She checked her watch. Seven o’clock. With so much going on she felt guilty slipping out of the office when she often stayed until at least eight. But with Tripp leaving tonight, she desperately wanted to see him, and she made a mental note to go in an hour earlier tomorrow.

  Now she’d better get a move on if she was going to get the food, drive across Key Bridge, find his apartment building and spend much time at all before Tripp had to head out to Dulles Airport.

  She was lucky to find a parking place near the deli. She jumped out of the car, locked the doors and rushed in to pick up her order. The store specialized in Italian take-out, and she thought some veal parmesan with a side of pasta might be a good bet. She gave the clerk her name, reached for a bottle of Valpolicella from a shelf, and fished out her personal credit card. For this dinner, she decided she shouldn’t use her government credit card, even though she might have argued that it was a business dinner. No chance.

  She remembered all the scandals about government employees being caught using their government cards for things like internet dating, lingerie and vacations, and knew she had to be purer than Caesar’s wife in this job.

  Back in the jeep, she slowly maneuvered through the Georgetown traffic, crossed Key Bridge, drove through two stop lights and turned right on North Nash Street. There on the right side was Turnberry Tower with its sleek steel and blue glass façade and balconies off every one of the floors.

  Craning her neck, she guessed it had at least two dozen stories. Quite a contrast to buildings in Washington, where the legal height limit originally dictated that no building be higher than the Capitol. Then it was amended slightly, but still. There was nothing in D.C. higher than the Old Post Office, except for the Washington Monument, which doesn’t count as a building.

  There were lots of tall buildings in Virginia, but, My God, this is huge, she thought as she drove up to the Porte Cochere and saw a uniformed valet. A valet and doorman? This is better than the Ritz Carlton.

  Samantha grabbed her purse along with the take-out bag and slipped out of the car, with the valet taking her arm. “Welcome to Turnberry Tower,” he said in a slightly British accent. Where do they find these people? The manager of my building barely speaks English.

  She walked through the two story lobby, past the concierge and gave her name to the desk attendant, who pointed to a bank of elevators. She rode up to the eighteenth floor. As soon as the doors opened, she saw Tripp, standing there in grey slacks and a black sweater. His hair was slightly damp. Must have just gotten out of the shower. He swept
her into his arms, and she almost dropped the bag.

  The kiss was hot, deep and urgent. “Could hardly wait to see you again, Sam,” he said, gently touching her cheek. He looked down at the bag, “Here, let me take that. And give me your coat.”

  She followed him down the hall and into a European style kitchen with modern cabinets, Miele stainless steel ovens, cooktop, microwave and sub-zero refrigerator. It even had a stainless steel sink. “Wow. You could be a professional chef in this place,” she said, running her hand over the gleaming white granite countertops.

  “I guess. Except that I’m a lousy cook. All the units have this stuff. I only use the fridge and microwave it seems.” He opened the bag. “So what have we got here?”

  “I was thinking about trussing a squab,” she said, trying to sound light hearted in spite of her mood, “but I brought veal parmesan and pasta instead. Is this okay?”

  “Okay? It’s perfect. I’ll just warm it up a bit.” He shoved the container into the microwave, opened a cabinet and pulled out two plates.

  She stared at the appliance. “This morning I was so rattled about the explosions that when I went to heat up my coffee, I punched my security code into the microwave. Sometimes I think I’m really losing it.”

  Tripp chuckled. “Believe me, I know what you mean.” He pulled a bottle out of the bag. “Oh, great, you brought wine too. Lady after my own heart,” he said.

  When the microwave dinged, he scooped the veal and pasta onto the plates and took some silverware from a top drawer. “Let’s eat in the living room. I don’t have a dining room table yet. Why don’t you bring the wine? I’ve got glasses in there by the bar.”

  They walked into a cavernous space with ten-foot-high ceilings, black leather couches, a collection of Eames chairs and sliding glass doors out to a massive terrace with expansive views over to Georgetown, downtown D.C., and the Capitol.

  “This place is incredible,” Samantha said, scanning the room.

  “I moved in a few months ago. I don’t have enough stuff yet. I mean, the walls are pretty bare and with all the space in here, I’m not sure how to fill it up. Any ideas?”

  She did a three-sixty and looked up at the ceiling. “Guess you could hang a mobile.”

  He grinned at her. “C’mon, let’s sit down. I don’t really want to waste time with you talking about decorating.” He put the plates on a glass coffee table in front of the couch.

  “I know,” Samantha said. “I hate to spoil the mood here, but we’ve got a real disaster on our hands. The White House is going nuts over this last attack. Well, they’re going nuts over all of them now, and so am I.”

  “You should see our headquarters,” Tripp said. “We’ve got every conceivable engineer, security force, control room, supervisor, everyone down to the janitors working on this thing. This latest blow up was like the Hindenburg effect.”

  “What about the inventory?”

  “You want the good news or the bad news?”

  “Both, I guess,” she said as she took a bite of her veal.

  “They scoured every warehouse and facility in the country and figured out that there are some pigs missing, along with a bunch of maps showing our lines and pig insertion points.”

  “My God! They really used the pigs?” she exclaimed.

  “Looks like your theory was right on the money.”

  “Is that the good news or the bad news?”

  “Well, at least it tells us the how. We still don’t know the who or the why.”

  “What about the number?” she asked.

  “That’s the bad news. There are seven missing.”

  “Seven! Oh no!” She dropped her fork and faced him. “You’ve had three attacks, so that means …”

  “Four more? Maybe. Who the hell knows?” He opened the wine and poured several ounces into her goblet. “This is the biggest nightmare we’ve faced since I’ve been with the company. I mean, sure, I saw a lot of action in the Navy and then at Greyfield. Guys got killed. Countries got invaded. What I mean is that companies like GeoGlobal haven’t had actual sabotage on their facilities. Not in this country. We’ve got problems around the world. But here? Attacks on our own lines? Killing innocent people?”

  He ran his fingers through his hair. “And the worst of it is that we still don’t have a clue how to protect ourselves. Our lines run all over the country. Those insertion points are all over the place too. We can’t police them all. We can’t even police one. Not the whole line, I mean.”

  She put her hand on his arm and felt the tension in his muscles. “I know. Believe me, I know. When the first one exploded, I tried to get Greg to focus on it. He said it was probably just some maintenance issue.”

  “I thought he was in charge of threats to the country. Well, not him alone, but isn’t that his job? To worry about things like this, get agency support and all of that?” Tripp asked.

  “Supposedly. Trouble is, Greg is usually just thinking about his next TV interview. I mean, even after the second attack, I kept talking about it, but I ended up feeling like the canary in the coal mine, except that Greg was topside and nobody was listening.”

  “What a jerk,” Tripp said.

  “I do have one thing to report though. Just between you and me.”

  He nodded as she went on. “We’re going to be focusing some of our domestic satellites on areas closest to the most recent attacks along with places in nearby states. I’ve been screaming about using every surveillance tool we’ve got, and suddenly this afternoon Greg comes waltzing in and says that he got it all okayed.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Can you do that? I mean with privacy lawsuits and all that crap?” he asked, twirling some of the pasta onto his fork.

  “Sure we can. Better to apologize later than ask permission, as they say,” she responded.

  “Right on! But even if they can photograph things going on out in the middle of nowhere on one of our lines, how will that help us to prevent the next attack? Doesn’t it take time to analyze that stuff? Can it really help?”

  “I don’t know if it will, unless whoever is doing this makes a dry run or something. Then again, if there is another explosion, the satellites will obviously pick that up along with activity in the area. So hopefully they can track vehicles, bad guys, whatever. It may take a while to get it all set up, but at least we’re on it.”

  “That’s the first good news I’ve had all day,” Tripp said, taking a sip of his wine.

  “Right. There’s been so much going on at the White House today, I’m amazed he even got that ball rolling.”

  “Yeah, I caught the news when I got home and saw that arrival ceremony for the Icelandic crowd. He reached for the wine bottle, “Here, have some more. Maybe it’ll settle our nerves.”

  Settle her nerves? She was beginning to feel a bit of a buzz. Was it just the wine? Or was it the proximity of this man sitting so close to her that she could smell the soap he must have just used. It made her want to grab his shoulders with both hands and pull him to her so she could taste his mouth on hers, feel his arms around her, and make her forget about pipelines, explosions, satellites, and surveillance. But no, she knew she needed to put her emotions on cruise control. They had too many other things to talk about.

  Samantha picked up her wineglass and said, “So tell me about this trip to Venezuela tonight.”

  Tripp leaned back against the soft leather and sighed. “I feel like I’m heading into the People’s Republic of Caracas. That damn dictator has put more qualifications on this deal, if you could even call it a deal. They’re taking our property right when we’ve been exploring and gearing up to drill in what we think will be the most productive area in South America.”

  “The Orinoco Basin?”

  “Yep. That one. So now they want to take our assets, our equipment, our transportation facilities and pay us pennies on the dollar for our investment. And I hear they’d rather bring in the Russians to drill it. Not us.”

  “But if it�
��s a done deal, so to speak, why do you have to go?” she asked in a plaintive tone.

  He set down his glass, took both of her hands in his and gazed into her eyes. “The last thing I want to do is go down there. No, what I mean is, the last thing I want to do is to leave you. But the powers-that-be seem to think I might be able to eke out a few more concessions, especially if we offer to keep some of our experts down there as special contractors. The thing is, every time they nationalize an industry, production falls through the floor. They don’t have a clue how to run our businesses. They just put some of their political hacks in charge and sure, production continues for a while, but then they just skim off any profits and el presidente either uses them to buy off the peasants or stashes it in some offshore account for future reference.”

  “Even though we’ve frozen some of their bank accounts, I wish our government had more sway with that guy,” he said.

  “So do I. We can protest all we want to the International Courts, ask for arbitration and all that bullshit, but it just costs all of us a bundle of legal fees while his people move in and take over anyway.”

  She thought for a moment. “So you’ve got meetings set up?”

  “The head of our South American operations, Victor Aguilar is a good guy, but headquarters thinks he doesn’t have enough heft to really make a difference. So I drew the short straw for a meeting with Diosdado Rossi.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “The power behind the president. Everybody calls him the enabler or fixer or something like that. He’s the kind of guy who seems to pull a lot of strings. Think Machiavelli with a Spanish accent.”

  “I don’t exactly see their president as some sort of puppet,” she said as she finished her veal.

  “No, I don’t mean that. I think the president gives orders and Rossi carries them out. But he’s probably responsible for putting a lot of that garbage in the president’s head in the first place. He’s smart. He’s calculating, and he’s gonna be a tough son of a bitch to deal with.”

  “With the travel and all, did you ever have a chance to get things ready for the hearings?”