by Marc Cameron
Chavez watched through the FBO’s picture windows as the Gulfstream 550 turned off the taxiway. He couldn’t help imagining the soft leather seat on board that was calling his name. He tossed the rest of the popcorn in the trash and grabbed his soft-sided bag.
Outside in the predawn darkness the airplane came to a stop and the door yawned open. Gavin Biery held on to the rail as he made his way carefully down the jet stairs. The Hendley IT wizard tugged a huge black duffel down behind him, letting it thunk against one step at a time as he descended, like it was a dead body. Still fifty pounds heavier than he wanted to be, Gavin liked to point out that this was a hell of a lot better than the seventy pounds overweight that he used to be. A cool Texas wind tousled what was left of his graying hair. He dropped the duffel at the door and headed straight for the restroom.
Chester “Country” Hicks, the first officer of the Gulfstream, came in to hit the head as well, while Helen Reid, the pilot in command, stayed outside with her airplane to oversee the refueling for a quick turn-and-burn.
Lisanne Robertson came in next, pulling a large black plastic Pelican case that contained Biery’s technical gear. She offered to help load luggage, but everyone refused, so she took care of the fuel bill with the FBO using her Hendley Associates company credit card. As director of transportation, Robertson not only took care of the logistical minutiae but, when the plane landed, transitioned to security. She wore a white uniform blouse—neat and crisp—and a knee-length navy blue skirt. The skirt didn’t appear to be tactical, but it gave the appearance that the jet was staffed by a pretty hostess. As sexist as it might sound, a friendly smile and a pair of nice legs went a long way toward drawing any attention from the airplane’s actual mission.
That said, there was a lot more to Lisanne Robertson than her looks. She was not officially a Campus operator, but Clark believed in a unified-team concept. Because her duties pulling security for the Gulfstream might very well see everyone, including her, going to guns at the same moment, she needed to spend at least some time training with them. In the weeks since she’d been recruited, the former Marine had demonstrated not just her poise but also her skill with a variety of weapons on the range, and her ability to kick some serious ass in the mat room. She even wore the navy blue uniform skirt during defensive tactics drills, drawing a gun or blade from a holster on the spandex shorts underneath. It was good training for the guys as well. Watching an attractive young woman hike up her skirt to do battle—though they knew full well she was wearing shorts underneath—had a tendency to slow them down a fraction of a second too long. Everyone but Adara got “cut” several times by Lisanne’s chalk blade.
The world travel and enhanced training notwithstanding, other former Marines turned cops might blanch at handling all the housekeeping stuff, but Lisanne seemed to realize that she was an integral part of something much bigger than herself. And it didn’t hurt that Adara Sherman, the last person to hold the job of transportation director, was now a full-fledged operator, hopping a plane to Argentina to hunt bad guys.
Clark followed the team out into the crisp air of early morning. He pulled Chavez aside on the tarmac, just before he boarded the Gulfstream.
“Be careful, son,” he said, grabbing Chavez by one hand and pulling him in for a backslapping brotherhood hug.
Ding grinned. “You too, Mr. C.”
This was about as close as John Clark would ever get to an apology.
Jack, Midas, Adara, and Chavez trudged up the air stairs looking like workers arriving at a gulag factory. The Hendley Associates Gulfstream was well appointed, with a reasonably stocked galley, good coffee, and a bar with the team’s favorite beverages—but none of that mattered at this point. Ryan made his way to the back and stowed his bag before collapsing face-first into the leather couch. The others took positions in the plush seats, reclining and closing their eyes before the two pilots and Lisanne Robertson even made it back aboard to secure the door.
Hicks gave the safety briefing to an airplane full of closed eyelids—warning everyone of possible turbulence on their departure from Dallas.
“We’re looking at a fifty-three-hundred-mile flight,” the first officer said. “Depending on winds aloft, we anticipate eleven hours and thirty-six minutes in the air.”
Chavez, who was seated in the front, nearest the cockpit, opened one eye. He was so exhausted his skin felt like it had been buffed with a belt sander, but as team leader, it was his responsibility to pay attention to the details.
“That’s a long-ass trip. Will we have to stop and refuel?”
“Negative,” Hicks said. “We should be good. We’re well under gross with you guys and full fuel. That gives us a range of better than sixty-six hundred miles.”
“Outstanding,” Chavez muttered. He closed his eyes and pondered the eleven wonderful hours to recharge his depleted internal batteries—but the thought of the long flight made him open them again. “What about you guys?” he said. “You’ve just flown three hours to get here. That puts you in the air . . .” Chavez shook his head, lack of sleep robbing him of the ability to do even simple math. After several seconds, he finally said, “Nearly fifteen hours. Don’t you have an eight-hour limit?”
Hicks turned and put a finger to his lips. “Shhh,” he said. “Don’t tell anyone.” He smiled. “Seriously, we’ve thought of that. The autopilot does the heavy lifting, but we’ll take turns napping as needed. We’ve got Provigil up here if it comes down to that.”
Provigil, or modafinil, was a “go pill” medication the Air Force sometimes issued pilots to help them stay alert during critical missions. Hendley Associates pilots rarely used it, but they kept the medication available for times like this.
Chavez started to dream even as he nodded. Unfortunately, he rolled toward his right side and his sidearm dug into his waist. “Well, shit,” he grumbled, pushing the button on his armrest to bring his seat upright.
The Gulfstream rumbled along the taxiway. Lisanne smiled, strapped into the aft-facing seat in front of him.
Chavez coughed, clearing his throat. Sometimes it sucked to be the only working brain in the group. “Heads up!” he said in his best team-leader bark. It came out more like a yawn, but wary eyes flicked open in any case. Jack turned and glared at him, cheek pressed against the leather upholstery of the couch cushion.
“Everybody secure your weapons in the bulkhead storage,” Chavez said. “We’re business folks out for a scouting trip to Argentina. If for some reason we have an unplanned landing in some other country, I don’t want us stumbling around trying to hide our guns at the last minute.” He was about to get to his feet, but Lisanne stood and stopped him.
“I’ll take care of it,” she said, giving a serene but serious look. “Not sure any of you should be handling weapons at this point.”
Chavez passed her his M&P Shield. “Many thanks . . .”
Sidearms were stowed, and Robertson returned to her seat. The Gulfstream began its takeoff roll at five twenty-seven a.m., departing to the southeast and climbing 2,700 feet per minute.
Helen Reid flew the airplane while Hicks worked the radios and tended to other duties on the takeoff checklist.
“Positive rate,” Hicks said, looking at the altimeter just a few moments after they left the tarmac. “Gear coming up.”
The landing gear settled into the airplane’s fuselage with an audible thud, but Ding Chavez didn’t hear a thing.
• • •
It was almost six a.m. by the time Caruso and Clark made it back to the Omni Hotel with Gavin Biery in tow. They helped him get his duffel and the big Pelican case full of computer gear up to his room, which was directly across from Caruso’s. Biery had slept on the flight and promised to get right to work on the USB drive.
Biery ordered breakfast from room service and kicked the others out almost immediately. Dom walked toward his own room, but Clark turne
d at Biery’s door, passing a folded scrap of paper and whispering some sort of instructions. The computer guru listened, rubbing his unshaven face. He mumbled a couple questions and then shut the door, still looking at the paper as he did.
“What was that about, boss?” Caruso asked, keeping his voice low.
“Better you don’t know,” Clark said. “For now, anyway.”
“You say so.” Caruso shrugged. “Okay, what’s the plan?”
“You link back up with Special Agent Callahan,” Clark said. “See what else she found out from Eddie Feng. Maybe his near-death experience has shaken loose something of value.”
“Copy that,” Caruso said, looking at his watch, wishing for—and knowing he wouldn’t get—a few more hours of sleep. “What are you going to do?”
“I think I’ll go for a drive,” Clark said.
Caruso narrowed his eyes. He knew that look. “Need help with anything?”
“Nope,” Clark said.
The elevator chimed and both men turned out of habit to check for threats. Caruso shot a glance at Clark when Kelsey Callahan stepped into the hallway holding two paper cups of coffee. Shoulder-length hair hung loose around her shoulders, still wet and darker red from a morning shower.
“Hey, Dom,” she said, offering him one of the coffees. “You never gave me your cell number, so I decided to drop by and let you know I was getting an early start.” She raised an eyebrow, looking at Clark. “Want to introduce me to your friend?”
Clark extended his hand. “John,” he said.
“John . . . ?” She grinned, trying to coax out the rest of his name.
“That’s right.”
“I have two names,” she said. “Kelsey Callahan, FBI.”
“That sounds like three names,” Clark said, smiling. “Dom’s told me about you.” He turned to Caruso. “Listen, it was good to talk to you. We’ll catch up later.” He turned to go, speaking over his shoulder as he walked away. “Nice to have met you, Kelsey Callahan, FBI.”
Callahan watched Clark disappear into an elevator before turning back to Dom.
“I don’t remember telling you where I’m staying,” Caruso said. The look of surprise was evident on his face. “You must have some friends in pretty high places to find that out.”
Callahan smirked. “Do you even remember who we work for? And anyway, you’re the one with friends in high places, getting dropped on me like this. Is John one of them?”
“He’s a normal low-places friend,” Caruso said.
“Well, your friend looks like he bites the heads off baby birds for lunch.”
“Nah,” Caruso said. “He’s harmless. He’s just got one of those . . . resting bird-eating faces.”
Callahan took a sip of her coffee. “I thought we were past all that.”
“What’s the news on Eddie Feng?” Caruso asked, hoping to steer the subject away from John Clark. “Did he pull through?”
Callahan sighed. “Seems one of the corrections officers gave him a near lethal dose of the same stuff that killed Prince.”
“Fentanyl?” Caruso said.
“Yep. Looks like he put up a fight, but the detention officer still got enough injected to knock him out. Murderous bastard decided to do the rest of the job with a dead-leg hanging. He hog-tied Feng and ran a noose from his neck to his ankle, hoping to let the weight of his own leg cut off the circulation to his brain and kill him. Lucky for Feng, another DSO showed up and cut him loose. Paramedics gave him enough Narcan to revive a horse, but he’s in pretty bad shape from the noose.”
“That’s rough,” Dom said. “So what’s next?”
“Sure you don’t want to tell me anything else about your friend John?”
Caruso shook his head. “Nope.”
“Whatever,” Callahan said. “I told you last night. I don’t care what you counterintelligence guys do so long as we find Magdalena Rojas.” She took another swig of her coffee and then nodded to his door. “Grab your stuff. We have bad guys to catch.”
24
Special Agent in Charge Gary Montgomery relaxed as much as anyone could in the small gym inside the White House residence. He stood in front of a Universal machine, doing wimpy sets of triceps extensions and attempted not to look too creepy while watching to make sure President Ryan didn’t fall off the treadmill and break something. The Secret Service customarily waited in the hallway while the President did his workout. The fact that Montgomery was present in the gym at all complicated things. If the President were to drop a weight on his toe or simply trip over his own two feet, it would be viewed by Montgomery’s superiors as something he should have prevented. So far this morning, President Ryan had been walking on the treadmill while he read from a stack of briefing folders he’d brought with him. He was an athletic guy and this was a task he did all the time, but it drove the agent crazy because of the fall hazard. No doubt the boss was coming up with the questions he posed every morning. So far, Montgomery had gotten him trained to engage in philosophical debates only after they were within the relatively safe walls of the White House.
As the SAIC of President Ryan’s Secret Service detail, Montgomery was supposed to be within arm’s reach—but that close proximity forced him to walk a fine line between close enough and too close.
The President asked good questions, and considered the answers as if they’d come from somebody important—no matter who was giving them. Jack Ryan was a nice guy—the kind of man Montgomery liked to have beer with—and therein was the problem. Both of Montgomery’s predecessors had warned him that this president was impossible not to like. It was, they warned, going to be monumentally difficult not to come off as aloof by constantly saying “I’d rather not, sir.” But the hard truth was that to protect another human being you just couldn’t be their buddy. You could be civil, politely answer questions, but the moment you let your guard down and started to look inward, to sit around and bullshit with your new pal, something important slips by and your new best friend gets assassinated.
Relationship creep was insidious, especially with someone who has an easygoing personality like President Ryan. At some point, Montgomery would have to sit down and give the “Mr. President, we can’t be friends” talk. To have that talk too soon would be presumptuous. Too late could prove disastrous.
Montgomery consoled himself by admitting that this was a good problem to have. Sometimes agents just plain didn’t like who they protected. Montgomery had worked on Kealty’s detail when he was vice president. Now, that guy was a real asshat. But Montgomery had done his job without question. In protecting any President or other dignitary under the purview of the Secret Service, he and hundreds of agents like him were protecting not only the person but the system of governance—and the good name of the Service itself.
Ryan just made it easy—in some respects, anyway.
The President stepped off the treadmill and tossed the briefing folder on the weight bench before climbing aboard a Schwinn Airdyne bicycle. There were two of the machines, presumably so Dr. Ryan could exercise next to her husband.
The boss was circumspect this morning, looking forward, staring a thousand yards away while he moved the upright handlebars back and forth in time with the pedals. The big fan where the front wheel should have been began to whir, gaining speed. Rather than ask a question at first, he gestured at the second bike with a little toss of his head.
Montgomery looped the towel over his shoulders and climbed onto the stationary bike beside the President of the United States. He was by no means a newcomer to this world, but even he had to pinch himself once in a while.
Ryan began to pedal faster now that he had apparent competition. “So,” he said, canting his head slightly as he looked at Montgomery. “I’m not going to read some exposé about how I relied on the Secret Service to tape up my injured foot for plantar fasciitis instead of going to a doctor, am I
?”
Montgomery gave a slight bow. “The code word is ‘Mum,’ Mr. President.”
“Good to hear,” Ryan said. “So, tell me, Gary, how does the security situation look in Tokyo?”
Montgomery didn’t want to upset the boss with the intricacies of protection. It could make a person as conscientious as Jack Ryan overly worrisome if he took the time to sit down and think about all the moving parts that went into protecting him. Two versions of the presidential Cadillac limo known as The Beast, Air Force One, a spare in the event the primary had mechanical problems, the communications aircraft, three Sikorsky Sea King helicopters from HMX-1, three dozen Secret Service vehicles—and the C-17s and C-5s to transport them. That didn’t even touch on all the hundred or so agents, and more firearms than anyone admitted to the Japanese. Trips like the G20 required three separate advances to make certain the routes were checked, hospitals were located and scouted, deconfliction meetings with local police and the protective details of other countries were complete, and at least three floors of hotel—one below and one above the President’s suite—were procured and the staff cleared and credentialed. Equally important, parking for the Secret Service armada had to be arranged well in advance.
President Ryan had enough to think about without burdening him with the monstrosity that was his protective detail. So Montgomery merely smiled at the question and said, “Stellar, Mr. President.”
Ryan gave him a thoughtful nod, then chuckled. “Are you sure that’s not what you say when you have something to hide? You sound like Jack Junior when he was in high school and I asked him about his English classes. A lot of unanswered questions packed into your few words.”
“Seriously, sir,” Montgomery said. “It’s all set up.”
“Very well,” Ryan said, looking forward, unconvinced. He pedaled for a time in silence, then turned, half leaning on the upright handlebars as he spoke. “Tell me your impression of President Zhao.”
The agent thought about that for a minute. Ryan wanted honest answers, but he didn’t want flippancy.
