by Barry Lancet
When I turned to peer through the window, I saw the Japanese police less than three feet away, disappointment on their faces. They’d been ordered to sweep us up but Noda had been faster. The three of us were sealed in the booth. The police settled for a containment maneuver. Time was on their side.
The ambassador was nowhere in sight.
I frowned at Noda. “We’re going to pay for this later, aren’t we?”
His scar flaring, the head detective grunted.
Too late I recalled my first impression of Gerald Thornton-Cummings at the airport. Young, eager, well connected, prep school polish, diplomatic fast track. Soft skin. Manicured hands. A desk man. No field savvy.
And I remember also thinking he could get a person killed.
It might still happen.
* * *
The Marine took a stool in the corner, teeth clamped, jawline tight. From five feet away, Noda trained the gun on our captive. The name tag pinned above the soldier’s shirt pocket said J. PEREZ.
“Sorry about this, Perez,” I said. “We’ve just screwed you, haven’t we?”
Hard gray-green eyes spewed hatred. He balanced on the edge of the stool, ready to launch a counterattack if he spied an opening. Even with the captured weapon pointed at his chest from an impossible distance.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” I said.
My comment did not dim his desire for a counterstrike. There was pride in the rigidity of his spine. Perez just might take the risk.
“Is that on?” I asked with a nod over my shoulder at the camera in an upper corner of the booth behind me.
His nod was reluctant.
“So they can see us up at the house?” I asked.
“Yeah.” His face reddened.
“Sound?”
“No, but don’t matter no more.”
“Had to be done. Sorry.”
“Enemies shouldn’t apologize.”
“Enemies we’re not.”
“You’re mistaken only in number, sir. You just made an enemy of me and every single Marine in the country.”
I considered him for a minute. He had no accent, so he was at least second-generation Latino. His features suggested Central Mexico. Intelligence lay lightly on his brow. His eyes were alert. They still sought a way out of his predicament. I saw all kinds of smarts. Street, survival, and fighting smarts. He was also a thinker. A planner. Not just an enraged bullheaded fighter. An impressive skill set—and a potentially volatile combination unless . . .
“You plan to take on more than guard duty when you muster out, Perez?” I said.
He shot me a spiteful look. “Until tonight, yeah. I was going to reenlist on the officer track.”
“Good to hear,” I said. “You wait this out, you still might.”
Perez rolled his eyes. “That bridge is burned.”
His glance returned to his lost weapon. I followed it, then added in a low, menacing tone he could not misinterpret, “Whatever you do, don’t rile my ornery friend here. He will shoot you.”
* * *
I called the White House and the first lady’s assistant, Margaret Cutler, picked up before the initial ring died down.
“Hi, Brodie. Do you have news for Joan?”
“What I have is trouble.”
“You got that right,” Perez said. “There’s only two ways out of this for you guys. Painful and more painful.”
Noda snapped at him in Japanese. “Urusai!” Shut up!
Whether Perez understood the language or not, the tone left no doubt as to the translation.
“Who was that?” Margaret asked.
“Don’t worry about it. I need to talk to Joan.”
“I can’t go in empty-handed.”
“I’ve got a line on the daughter,” I said.
“Oh my god. Even Homeland doesn’t have that yet. Is she still alive? Have you talked to her? Did you—”
“Keep it together, Margaret. I believe she’s still alive. For now. Get the first lady out of whatever she’s in. Every second counts.”
At the words first lady Perez sat up a little straighter.
“You always call at the wrong time, Brodie. She’s at a—”
I glanced at the police guard outside. “I don’t care if she’s in with an entire contingent of angels. No offense. It’s do-or-die time, Margaret. I need her. Or, better yet, get the president if you can. He’s the endgame.”
“I can’t get anywhere near the president.”
“Well, get someone now. They’re coming for us.”
“Who? What? Never mind. I believe you. I’ll do what I can.”
I heard the rattling of a receiver snatched from the cradle of a desk phone. “Samantha? Margaret. Put me through to Joan . . . No, no, put me through now . . . I know, I know, but I got Brodie from Tokyo and he’s— What? . . . Well, I’m sorry, drag her out. Make apologies . . . What do you mean you can’t? You must—What? No, seriously? . . . Oh, crap. Cupcakes. Crap, crap, crap.”
Even filtered through the gentile swearing of the East Wing, I could tell the problem was unusual. Bordering on insurmountable.
Margaret came back on the line, frustrated. “Brodie, could you stall whoever you’re dealing with over there? Maybe forty-five minutes? An hour tops?”
I surveyed the roadway. The number of policemen had risen to ten. They’d unhooked their truncheons from their duty belts. For the moment their guns remained holstered. Their leader squinted down the road, as if expecting more men or a new arrival with orders in hand. Or maybe equipment. The glass in the booth was bulletproof.
“Not workable, Margaret. I have minutes, if not seconds, before they cart us away in handcuffs.”
“What have you done?”
“Only what needed doing. You’ve got to get her. Now. Or the president.”
“He’s impossible. She’s signaled no interruptions. The only time she restricts access is when she’s entertaining international visitors of the highest order. I have nothing on my calendar, so it’s a sudden appointment, probably at the behest of the president. My guess is that she’s in with her husband and the president of France and his wife. There must be a break from the ongoing work session about the latest Middle East crisis. I’ll have to run across to the West Wing to get to her. I need to ask again, in the context I just outlined—Is what you’re involved in that vital?”
Outside, the lead officer barked an order. The rank and file unholstered their firearms and held them unobtrusively at their sides.
“Yes,” I said.
“Okay, stay with me, then.”
I’m not going anywhere, I thought, except into a dark cell if this falls apart.
I heard her slam down the desk phone. Then something clattered to the floor. “It’s off with the heels. I’ve got to make a mad dash to the West Wing. This is going to cost me a pair of high-priced nylons.”
I sucked in a deep breath. “Margaret, there are ten armed policemen directly outside the shoe box I’m holed up in, and Homeland is on the way. None of them are on my side. You get the first lady, I’ll spring for a dozen pair.”
“Oh, crap. Cupcakes. You weren’t joking about the do-or-die. Everyone in DC exaggerates, you know, to get their way. I thought—”
“Just hurry, Margaret.”
“Sorry, I babble when I get nervous, but I’m on my way. I’ll talk and run. I’m switching to stealth conference mode, so you can listen in, but don’t say a word unless I signal you, okay?”
“Got it.”
“We’re off.”
I heard a series of beeps on the line, then Margaret shouted, “I’m heading to you, Samantha. You’re going to let me in.”
“Impossible,” Samantha said.
Margaret flung the office door open with extreme violence. It bounced off a wall or doorstop with a loud crack. Next I heard panting sounds.
“Samantha,” Margaret said to the beat of nylon-sheathed heels pounding over carpeting, then an unpadded surface. “Can you get her
a message . . . No? . . . Oh, come on, Samantha, work with me. This is urgent. Top priority for Joan. . . . What? . . . Oh, shit . . . I mean crap . . . cupcakes . . .”
Another door slammed.
In the distance I heard Margaret say, “Sorry! Sorry! I’ll explain later,” then her voice was loud in my ear again, breathing heavily: “Hold on, Brodie. I’m almost there. I’ll get to Samantha if it kills me. I knew I should have gone on that diet last month. I’m carrying too much weight. I’m here! Just through that door and . . .”
I heard a large rattling sound.
“Crapola. It’s locked. Somebody open this friggin’ door.”
I heard a fist banging on wood.
At the foot of the road, a slick black sedan with tinted windows rolled up with an unearthly silence. On top, flashing blue lights spewed blinding barbs of light in all directions. Swelley stepped from the back.
An agent hiding behind a massive wall of the compound stepped into the open and nodded at Swelley. The two went into a huddle. When had the watchdog arrived? The unnamed agent was no doubt bringing Swelley up to date. As Swelley continued to listen, his head jerked up once from the street-side conference and swiveled in my direction until he found me behind the bulletproof glass of the guard booth.
Time was up.
CHAPTER 51
PEREZ had absorbed it all.
He’d listened to my ongoing conversation with Margaret with skepticism, given me an odd look when I mentioned the president, then—as soon as he saw the black sedan pull up—smiled, knowing the cavalry had arrived. Now, with Swelley set to breach the guardhouse, the Marine was looking smug.
“You’re toast, man,” he said. “I’ve seen these face-offs plenty of times. They never turn out well. Why don’t you restore me my weapon and I’ll ask them to go easy on you?”
“I’ll pass,” I said.
He raised his palms. “I’m cool with it, man. I got big dreams too but no way am I delusional. You pretending to call the White House while playing terrorist is over-the-top, man. If they don’t shoot you dead in the next couple of minutes, an insanity plea is a no-brainer. You got a good witness in me.”
Noda told him to shut up again. This time in English.
“Brodie? You still there?”
It was Margaret, her breath blasting from my phone in ragged, irregular bursts. Without effort, I could imagine her in stocking feet, her black pageboy in disarray, bangs bouncing, face flushed.
“I’m here, Margaret. Is the news good or bad?”
“I’ve got FLOTUS. Or nearly have her. She should be here any second.” Loud panting powered through the speaker. Margaret could squeeze out no more than four or five syllables before the need for air halted her speech.
A cold grin spread across Perez’s face as a black, discreetly armored SUV pulled up. Four doors opened simultaneously and the DC crew that had braced me on the National Mall stepped out as one.
“The sooner the better, Margaret,” I said.
“I’m doing the best I can.”
“Above and beyond, if your sound bites are anything to go by.”
“You are such a sweetie. Oh, here she is! It’s Brodie. He’s got news and he’s in trouble.”
I heard some fumbling as the phone exchanged hands, then FLOTUS was on the line. “I’m here, Jim. What do you have for me?”
“We’ve got a line on Anna Tanaka, Joan,” I said.
I mentioned the first lady’s given name for Perez’s benefit. His skepticism remained unchanged. The Marine was a hard sell.
“Thank god,” she said. “Is Anna okay?”
“We don’t have her yet, but we know where she’s going to be in about twelve hours, give or take.”
“Where?”
I told her and Joan Slater gasped. Perez listened with growing interest. When I wound up, the president’s wife said, “Oh my god. If they spirit her away to North Korea, she’s gone forever. We can’t allow that.”
“My thoughts as well.”
“What do you need?”
“I need you to bring Stewart Tattersill around to our way of thinking. I’m outside the residence now.”
The number of Japanese officers had reached an uncountable level, but my eyes fixated on Swelley and his crew. Overwhelming numbers of Japanese police was standard operating procedure. When in doubt, the authorities smother the scene with roving uniforms. What worried me more was the rising head count among the Homeland Security agents. Most of them wore black. Swelley, his head bobbing agreeably, listened to a briefing from a senior Japanese police official. Possibly the Tokyo PD suggesting a course of action.
“In front of Tattersill’s place? Isn’t he helping you?”
“He refused.”
“Stewart turned you down? He was advised of the situation beforehand. Someone must have got to him.”
“If you need a clue, let me know. He’s amassing an army outside as we speak.”
“Swelley?”
“Yep. And he’s getting set to move. We could use the president right about now.”
Joan Slater sighed loudly. “Oh, Brodie, Joe’s locked away with the French president. Something about a new attack, or the drone policy. I don’t know. Can you get the ambassador back on the line?”
I’d seen Perez do it once. I picked up the secure phone and hit redial. I heard it ringing. Redial was not an ideal function for a so-called secure line, but who was I to argue?
The ambassador picked up immediately. “Perez, is the situation under control yet?”
“It always has been,” I said.
“Brodie, you need to surrender before you get hurt or . . . worse.”
“Thanks for the advice, Tattersill, but I’m going to try a different tact. There’s a call for you and I suggest you take it.” I flipped my cell phone around so the two could hear and speak to each other. “Joan, he’s ready.”
“Stu? Joan Slater. How are you?”
I was rewarded with a long pause before the ambassador said, “Uh, fine, Joan. Just fine. How’s Joe?”
“Doing well, Stu, but juggling enough for a dozen people, as usual. Which is why I am calling. I need you to get Mr. Brodie to Seoul as fast as our resources allow. Mr. Brodie and anyone else he deems necessary to accompany him.”
“With all due respect, Joan, you are not part of the chain of command. We have all been informed of the kidnapping. I understand Sharon Tanaka was a college friend and am sorry for your loss. Your concern for her daughter is also quite natural, but when all is said and done, she is a Japanese national.”
“Her name is Anna Tanaka, Stu, and she’s married to an American citizen, has American citizenship, is a highly placed software expert with a top secret security clearance, and is working on an NSA-funded project out of Fort Meade. So much so, she and her husband have been required to live on the base for the past two years, under the tightest security, until her project is complete. She goes off base only with bodyguards.”
My heart nearly jumped from my chest.
There it was. The missing link.
Living on base and traveling outside with protection. Those two facts spoke as loudly as the kidnapping itself. We were another step closer to what was inside Anna Tanaka’s head. Something computer related and top secret and important enough for the all-powerful National Security Agency to assign her bodyguards when she went out in public. Something apparently the North Korean regime coveted, as did the Chinese. What was it Zhou had said? Killing the mother flushed out the daughter.
Another lie camouflaged in a half-truth. Anna wasn’t “receiving treatment for depression,” as the master spy had claimed. She was sequestered behind a sky-high fence and razor wire surrounding one of the most secure places on the planet.
Which is what must have triggered the whole series of events.
The North Koreans killed Sharon Tanaka to draw Anna out from behind the wall and the mandatory security detail. To get their hands on the NSA stash. And Mikey had been an unlucky byst
ander in the operation. My anger surged at the realization. Then all over again I was shamed at having arranged the meeting. No matter what it took, the North Koreans were not going to walk off with Anna Tanaka. Not on my watch. Not after this.
It was all coming together. It hadn’t occurred to me to ask the first lady about any of the details regarding Anna’s work, because, like Tattersill, I assumed she didn’t have clearance for such matters. If what Joan said was true—and I had no reason to doubt it—then she’d only just learned of it from her husband, probably after the kidnapping the night before. What’s more, the NSA would not have allowed Anna out of their sight. They had probably put her on the plane and had people meet her at the other end. Someone had probably watched her back while she was in Japan, and we knew Homeland had sent two men to the funeral.
“I do not mean to be disrespectful, Joan, but you just confirmed what I have been saying. This is a matter of national security, and you are not cleared for that level of operation. And, worse, your personal . . . representative . . . has been nothing but disruptive.”
“He’s been briefed by the president and myself . . .”
“Careful, Joan. Are you telling me Brodie is acting under direct orders from the president? Because if you are, and that turns out to be inaccurate, well, we will be in uncharted territory. It could be problematic for the president when it comes time for reelection. And if Brodie is acting under a presidential mandate, that creates a whole new set of problems and protocol to deal with. For one—”
“He’s acting on my behalf, Stu, and you damn well know it. And if you ever threaten me or the president again—”
“I did not threaten either of you, Joan. I merely took the opportunity to—”
“Stu, I may not be an elected official but I know a threat when I hear one.”
“There’s no need to get huffy, Joan.”
“I’ll get huffy if I want to, Stu, and I can get a damn sight worse.”
“Joan, listen to me. I am truly, truly sorry, but you are not cleared for the reports I have seen and I am afraid I have no choice. Homeland is on standby at the gate. Brodie and his friend have taken a hostage, so they leave me no choice.”
