by Marc Cameron
Miller had a doctorate in applied mathematics from Duke and was certainly smart enough to realize that the information she’d found regarding payments made by a Hong Kong investment firm through an Australian mining company to a bank in Central Africa with accounts linked to Boko Haram would eventually garner her a meeting with some muckety-muck in the intelligence community. Gears in D.C. turned slowly, especially after lunch on a Friday, so she didn’t expect to hear anything until Monday at the absolute earliest.
She’d kicked the information up her chain of command via a secure e-mail, then eaten a yogurt and some blueberries at her desk while she continued with her work. She’d just turned off her computer to call it a day when her desk phone rang. Her supervisor, a nervous sort who was always fretting about his career, said she was needed for a briefing and a car would meet her downstairs. She was not to bring any files. A copy of her e-mail had already been sent over. Miller was not one to try to get out of work, but it was five o’clock on a Friday. She mentioned the Shenandoah canoe trip she had planned with her boyfriend, hoping the fact of her casual Friday dress might postpone the meeting until Monday. The supervisor told her not to worry, though it was clear from the audible gulp on the other end of the line that he was worried enough for them both. He hung up before she could ask him just who it was she was supposed to brief.
Miller took the time to scrape the last few spoonfuls of yogurt out of the cup, figuring it would take her ride a few minutes to get there. She was surprised when she saw a black Crown Victoria waiting curbside along Crystal Drive. Must be some super-important muckety-muck, she’d thought. The bigwigs didn’t usually stay this late when a weekend was looming. Just her luck that she got a workaholic to look at her information. Probably an assistant to some assistant team leader at Langley or Liberty Crossing. When the Crown Victoria turned off the Jeff Davis Highway to head east across the 395 bridge toward D.C. proper, Miller asked the driver where they were going.
The answer made her teeth ache.
She’d been ushered in through the East Gate and met by a man she recognized from television as the White House chief of staff. Mr. van Damm saw to it that she was given a visitor’s badge bearing the large letter A signifying that she had an appointment, and then ushered her into the President’s secretaries’ suite, between the Oval and the Cabinet Room.
The situation would have been laughable, really, if it hadn’t been so terrifying as to turn her entire digestive tract into molten lava. She’d never met a mathematician who’d been summoned on short notice to the White House. It was an honor, but Miller only wished she’d taken the time to change into something that made her look a little less like Paul Bunyan’s Mini-Me.
The secretary who was seated nearest the door to the Oval Office must have noted her discomfort because she offered a motherly smile. “Everyone who comes here gets nervous, Dr. Miller,” she said. “Even the generals.”
“Thank you,” Miller said, licking lips that had not been nearly so chapped a half-hour before.
The secretary leaned in, keeping up the perfect smile. “The President really is a kind man,” she said. “You are here because you’re an expert. Tell him what you know—but don’t be afraid to tell him what you think.”
Miller was thinking that she didn’t know if the President was kind or not, but he sure hired kind people—and then the high muckety himself opened the door to the Cabinet Room.
“Thanks for coming, Dr. Miller,” President Ryan said, smiling and motioning her into the room with a wave of his hand. “I understand you’ve found something interesting.”
She couldn’t help but notice that he looked very tired.
• • •
Ryan leaned back in his chair after the mathematician left the room and looked at the four folders on the mahogany table in front of him. The problem with time bombs—political or otherwise—was that they seemed so benign until the moment they blew up in your face.
“And we’re certain LKI Telephone is linked to the Zhongnanhai?”
Mary Pat Foley tapped a closed fountain pen against her legal pad. “The Hong Kong firm Marshall, Phillips, and Symonds is definitely a PRC front. We haven’t linked President Zhao personally, but he would certainly be aware of it. That’s what piqued Dr. Miller’s interest in the first place. CTA—Cromwell Telecom Alliance—appears to be nothing but a shell.”
Ryan reached under his reading glasses to rub his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. His suit jacket hung over the back of his chair. His tie was loose, top button undone, and his sleeves were rolled up to his forearms—signs that he considered this a meeting where everyone would get down in the analytical weeds.
The actual “head” of the table was on the east side, with the President’s back to the Rose Garden windows and the wings of the long oval extending on either side.
The room was virtually empty today, with just six other people in attendance—Ryan preferred to think of it as a strategy session rather than a meeting. The Oval Office would have been more comfortable, but the Cabinet Room gave everyone space to spread out their paperwork—and Ryan knew that the DNI liked to doodle with her fountain pen when she put on her analytical hat. The location also afforded him the opportunity to leave the others to their work rather than disrupt a fruitful discussion by kicking them out of the Oval.
SecState Scott Adler sat in his usual Cabinet Room spot to Ryan’s right. Arnie van Damm occupied the chair to his left. SecDef Bob Burgess and CIA director Jay Canfield sat across the table with Foley.
Supervisory Special Agent Gary Montgomery stood just inside the door by the wall. Customarily, Ryan asked the Secret Service to give him space inside the Oval and the Situation Room, but it was not uncommon for an agent to be within “lunging distance” during other meetings in the White House.
Ryan pondered the information for a moment, tossing it around with what he’d learned from Dr. Miller.
He asked, “How hard was this to find?”
Mary Pat looked up, fountain pen poised above the pad. “Sir?”
“Dr. Miller said she found this connection easily,” Ryan said. “But she’s obviously downplaying her intelligence.”
“True,” Canfield said. “She’s one of our brightest.”
“If it was too easy, I’d worry the information was worthless.” Ryan looked up at the ceiling and groaned. “We need to handle this quietly. Mary Pat, how well do you know the director general of ONA?”
“Rodney Henderson,” Foley said. “He’s new. But our interactions have been positive.”
Australia’s Office of National Assessments was often considered a combination of the ODNI and the Department of State’s Bureau of Intelligence and Research. ONA’s director general could tap into intelligence data from the Australian Secret Intelligence Service, its domestic intelligence counterparts, the Australian Security Intelligence Organisation, other members of the intelligence community, and, to a lesser extent, the Australian Federal Police.
“Very well,” Ryan said. “Reach out to Mr. Henderson and let him know we’re interested in this Cromwell Telecom.”
Burgess’s right hand formed a clenched fist on the table, an outward expression of his desire to hit China hard. “This makes a damn good case that Zhao is responsible for orchestrating the attack in Chad.”
Ryan nodded. “It’s thin,” he said. “But it does look that way at first blush. I’ll be interested to see what Director Foley finds out about that telecom.”
The President turned toward van Damm before Burgess could convince him to kick President Zhao in the nuts the next time they met—which, admittedly, would not take much at the moment.
“Let’s switch gears and talk about the Orion for a minute,” Ryan said. “Any more evidence that there was a bomb on the ship?”
The chief of staff looked at his notes. “Nothing concrete. The ship is setting in six hundred feet of wa
ter. The Navy intends to send a mini-ROV down tomorrow when the seas calm. That should give us a preliminary look at the hull until they get a larger submersible on scene.”
“Update on injuries?” Ryan asked.
“Ten dead,” van Damm said. “The remaining crew members suffering from various injuries, badly shaken, but alive.”
“Butcher’s bill would have been a lot higher but for the response of the Coast Guard,” Ryan said.
Jay Canfield looked up from his copy of the latest Coast Guard situation report. “A Filipino seaman who was in the engine room during the explosions reported an object the size of a car melting through the roof. He describes it as a huge ball of intensely white flame.”
“That makes sense,” Burgess said, also reading. “The poor guy is blind now. A magnesium fire would account for the Welder’s Fever. He’s suffering from chills and gastrointestinal distress.”
Mary Pat whistled low under her breath. “Magnesium would burn hot enough to melt right through the deck of a ship?”
“It would indeed,” Ryan said. “I read just the other day about a firefighter near the eastern shore of Maryland who had half his body burned when he responded to a car fire. The heat of the magnesium breaks up the water molecules and releases hydrogen—not good stuff to have around an open flame. My dad used to warn me about that when he was trying to teach me to hold on to my blue-collar roots.”
“That’s exactly what it sounds like, Mr. President,” Burgess said. “Chinese ship, Chinese oil rig, Chinese money . . . That’s no coincidence, sir.”
“I know what it’s not, Bob,” Ryan said. “So let’s have some theories on what it is.”
Ryan stood and rolled down his shirtsleeves, grabbing his coat but not bothering to put it on. “I know it’s Friday, but I’d like some ideas on my desk by tomorrow morning.”
Special Agent Montgomery opened the door and followed the President out of the Cabinet Room and into the Oval just long enough for Ryan to grab his briefcase. He wasn’t done for the day by a long shot, but things happened fast around here and he didn’t like to be too far from his notes. Montgomery opened the door to the Rose Garden and Ryan stepped out, hanging a left toward the residence. He looked over his shoulder at the hulking form of his lead agent.
“Walk up here beside me so I can talk to you,” Ryan said.
“I’d prefer to stay back a step, Mr. President,” Montgomery said.
“Of course,” Ryan said. He’d been under protection one way or another for decades, first from John Clark and Domingo Chavez in the CIA, and now the Secret Service. Even so, he’d never get completely used to someone following him around like this.
Jim Langford, another agent on the day shift, joined them before they reached the residence elevator. Only then did Montgomery move forward as Ryan had requested.
“What can I do for you, Mr. President?”
“I’d be interested in your opinion.”
Montgomery looked mildly pleased. “On what, sir?”
“On what?” Ryan frowned. “You were there in the meeting. China, the recent events in the news. Whether I should invoke the Ryan Doctrine and . . . You get the picture. Some people under protection may figure the Secret Service is wallpaper, but you hear things. You have ideas. I can see it in your eyes.”
Special Agent Langford stared at the elevator buttons, unwilling to catch the eye of his boss or his boss’s boss.
Montgomery gave a sly smile. “I’m just a knuckle dragger, Mr. President. You have some supremely intelligent people in your cabinet.”
“Cut the shit, Gary,” Ryan said. “You guys are worthy of a lot more than ‘trust and confidence.’ There’s at least one of you in half the meetings I attend. You can’t tell me you agents don’t sit around down there below the Oval Office in W16 and talk about how you would handle things if our roles were reversed.”
Montgomery nodded slowly, exchanging a look with Special Agent Langford as all three men stepped on the elevator.
“What?” Ryan asked. “You’re thinking if the roles were reversed, I couldn’t protect you?”
Montgomery shook his head. “Not at all, Mr. President. I was just thinking that I’ve been doing this job for nineteen years and no one I’ve protected has ever asked my opinion about anything other than their own security.”
Ryan gave him an isn’t-it-obvious shrug. “You’re a smart guy,” he said. “I’m always interested in the opinion of smart people.”
“That’s kind of you, boss,” Montgomery said as the elevator door opened. “But it doesn’t mean I’m going to go easy on you in the gym.”
16
Kelsey Callahan pushed her chair away from the table, if only to put more distance between herself and the slimy little shit on the other side. Unlike the dark concrete-and-steel rooms depicted by Hollywood, the interrogation room at the Dallas federal building was carpeted and well lit. The table was veneer rather than real wood, purchased off a list of approved vendors by the General Services Administration. In this instance, the table and four chairs that surrounded it came from prison industries at the Federal Correctional Institution in Sheridan, Oregon. The taxpayers saved a little money, federal prisoners made a little money, and Callahan’s ass hurt from sitting in a piece-of-crap chair that threw her back into a helpless and uncomfortable knees-up position.
Trooper Sergeant Derrick Bourke sat next to her at the table. If the angle of his chair bothered him, he kept it to himself.
Eddie Feng was handcuffed in front and chained to a steel ring lag-bolted to the concrete floor underneath the institutional carpet. Callahan’s line of questions had seen his ashen pallor go nearly purple. Saliva foamed at the corners of his lips and his left eye twitched as if he were sending messages in Morse code.
“I am telling you,” Feng said for the tenth time. “I didn’t sleep with that girl.”
Callahan rolled her eyes. “But you already admitted that you did.”
Feng threw his head back, rattling his cuffs beneath the table. “How long do you really think anybody spends with one of those kids? Fifteen, twenty minutes, tops. I paid Parrot for two hours, just to keep her away from the other guys at the party.”
“How gentlemanly of you to keep her for yourself.”
“I told you we didn’t do anything!”
Callahan gave a little shrug. She had the upper hand now. “That’s not what Blanca says.”
“Well, she’s lying.” Feng wagged his head. “And anyway, she told me her name was Magdalena.”
Callahan sat up straighter in spite of the chair. “Magdalena?”
“Whatever her name is. She’s just a kid, you know. I felt sorry for her.” Feng’s eyes flicked to the mirrored wall. “Who’s back there? Who’s watching us?”
“Don’t you worry about that,” Bourke said.
Callahan banged on the table to get Feng’s attention. “Tell me about this USB drive.”
“I lost the damn thing . . .” He looked up, coming to a sudden realization. “If you have it, Magdalena . . . or Blanca, must have stolen it. She did, didn’t she? After what I did for her . . .”
Callahan just looked at him.
Feng continued to study the one-way mirror. “Could I get some coffee or something?”
Callahan shot a sideways glance at Bourke. “He makes a lot of demands for a kiddie diddler.”
Feng’s head snapped around. “Stop calling me that!”
“What do you prefer?” Bourke said. “Pedophile?”
“I’d prefer you called me Eddie,” he said. “I’m a reporter for True Word Daily. Just look it up online.” He was pleading now. “Seriously, guys. I’m in the middle of a very important story and had to appear to engage in certain behaviors in order to get them to trust me enough to get access to the right people. It was my legend. You know, a legend, like if you were going undercove
r.”
“I know what a legend is, Eddie,” Callahan said. This guy was convincing. He’d even managed to get the snot flowing, a sign his tears were probably real. But he was looking at some serious jail time, so he was obviously going to be distraught. It didn’t mean he was telling anything close to the truth about his involvement with Blanca Limón. Men who assaulted kids were very often the weepiest sad sacks on the planet.
Callahan pantomimed drinking motions toward the mirror. If it took a little coffee to get this bird to start singing, so be it. More often than not, there was a great deal of smiling and nodding right before she stuck it in and broke it off.
“Okay, Eddie,” she said. “I’ll get you something to drink, but you have to tell us a few things. For starters, I need you to give me the location of the party you were at when you met Blanca. She was with another girl, and that girl is still missing. I’m worried something happened to her.”
“Sure.” Eddie nodded quickly, seemingly eager to help. “I’m not sure of the address, but it’s in South Dallas. Anyway, she’s not there. These parties are transient. They bring the girls in vans and cars and then take them away afterward. Blanca and the others all got carted off by a guy they called Reggie right before I left.”
Callahan shot a look at Bourke. Feng’s description of the guy who had Blanca matched up, anyway.
“I don’t know,” Eddie continued. “If she’s not with Reggie, I’d say Matarife has her.”
Sergeant Bourke looked up from his notebook. “Matarife?”
