Flynn slumped into his seat but not before surveying his surroundings and eyeing the fellow passengers. He surmised that at least two other passengers were CIA and expected them to disappear to the archives’ back entrance once they arrived. The rest looked harmless enough: an elderly lady and her husband; a school teacher; a few doctoral students, undoubtedly heading out to do research. Flynn couldn’t place the last man, but concluded he was a novelist. Five minutes into the trip, Flynn’s assessments proved to be spot-on, based off their conversations with one another. The two CIA agents said nothing, all but confirming Flynn’s hunch.
He settled in for the ride, thumbing through his phone. Emails. Voicemails. News. Flynn had been so consumed with the events of the past 24 hours that he was way behind on responding to emails and phone calls. Once he responded to the urgent ones, he went straight for the news.
“More Russian Saber Rattling?” read the headline. The report detailed how the Russians were erecting new missile silos in Siberia, causing great angst in Washington. U.S. diplomats voiced concern over this move, while the Russians said it was necessary to deter any threats against their soil. Flynn rolled his eyes. It never ends, does it?
He decided he’d had enough world politics for today and sought out his favorite sports app to catch up on the latest NFL happenings. It was enough to occupy his time until the shuttle arrived at its destination. He watched everyone unload and head for the front entrance—except for the two men he suspected as CIA agents. They turned a corner, disappearing from view.
Once inside, Flynn put away his belongings in the lockers downstairs, taking only his burner phone with him upstairs. He went to the microfilm archive floor and called Natalie. Five minutes later, she appeared. Her piercing blue eyes and long shapely legs gave Flynn an eyeful. She tossed her thick brown hair over her shoulder as she walked toward him.
“If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve thought you were gawking at me,” Natalie said.
She gave him a friendly side hug before Flynn could even speak.
“It’s good to see you, Natalie,” he stammered.
“You, too.”
“So, we can make small talk tonight over dinner. Whatcha got for me?”
In a hushed tone, Flynn started to divulge his protocol for passing sensitive documents over email before Natalie stopped him.
“Just air drop me the file and I’ll look at it, OK?”
Flynn then relaxed and smiled. He had almost forgotten Natalie’s genius idea to air drop sensitive information since it couldn’t be traced back to him. He quickly uploaded the documents to her phone.
“Be back in a few minutes.”
A few minutes turned into a half an hour before Natalie appeared again, this time without the bounce in her step or a smile on her face. Her face expressed a look of consternation.
“Where did you get this?” Natalie demanded.
“I told you someone gave it to me.” He paused. “Is it real?”
“As far as I can tell, it is. But I’m very confused. I oversaw the JFK collection for a few years and I remember seeing that same polygraph test—with different results. Now I want to know why we have two conflicting documents.”
Flynn smiled. “Good. It’s always fun to have a partner in these investigations.”
Natalie shook her head. “I still can’t believe we have a fake document in our collection.”
CHAPTER 6
SANDFORD USUALLY LOOKED FORWARD to cabinet meetings. It was his chance to give President Briggs his input, input that was normally valued. But not today. He suspected that boxing gloves—or a shiv—might be more appropriate to bring to the cabinet meeting set to begin in five minutes. Hawks on the right, doves on the left. The room would be divided along ideological party lines. President Briggs wanted to create a sense of unity by inviting leaders from both sides of the political aisle to advise him on various issues. It was one of his strengths. But when divisive issues were on the table like today, it made for a contentious meeting.
Staring at the meeting schedule on his desk, Sandford couldn’t help but wonder who sent him that note. Was it a test? Was it talking about some day in the future? At first, he thought that was the case, but as he mulled it over, the message was too cryptic for such a nuanced question. It had to mean now . But why? The questions pinged around Sandford’s brain but left him no closer to an answer. He still hadn’t told a soul.
As expected, tension ruled the room during the cabinet meeting—and for good reason. The Russians had built twelve missile silos in Siberia like they were fast food chains. A once rather barren area was now being dotted by launch pads. The recent oil boom in Siberia invigorated the region known mostly for its frozen tundra, fishing industry, and prison camps. According to the Russian government, it needed to protect its precious new assets—rich oil fields. Many foreign affairs experts opined how Russia appeared to be making a play to regain its position as a world super power. Now independent from the Middle East for oil, Russia began rebuilding its army—not for protection as it claimed—but to prepare for attack. Other pundits refused to believe that Russia was stable enough to start a war with the United States. The Middle East had become a powder keg, ready to explode into war across the region. Yet defense experts never saw any of those countries as a serious threat to the United States. But Russia? The Cold War may have ended a couple of decades ago, but it wasn’t a Cold War that many in the defense department now feared. They feared a real war with Russia, one looking more imminent as the country regained her footing as a global power player behind some no-nonsense leadership.
On the table in today’s meeting was a proposal to build a new defense system that could handle a large volley of Russian missiles. The views of those in attendance were split evenly.
General Marshall Matthews outlined the Department of Defense’s proposed missile system. The presentation included holographic images of how the system would be able to eliminate a large number of incoming missiles aimed at U.S. soil. It was quite a show and appeared to be a no-brainer to Sandford. Just find the money in the budget and build the stupid thing. Why are we even talking about this like we might do it? What made sense in his head apparently didn’t make so much sense to everyone in the room.
Once Gen. Matthews sat down, the room erupted in furious debate. Some cabinet members were concerned about where the money would come from to build the $2-trillion system. Others posed questions about how this would look to the international community. Then there were others who thought like Sandford. The Secretary of Homeland Defense wanted it built yesterday—and he carried a significant amount of weight with the President. Despite the furor, Sandford thought there was no way President Briggs wouldn’t sign off on the project.
But he didn’t.
“Thank you for the presentation, General Matthews, but based on the wide variety of opinion in this room, I don’t think we can go wrong either way,” President Briggs said. “For now, let’s table this idea and possibly revisit it if things get more heated with Russia.”
Sandford perfected the art of holding his tongue in these meetings. He was the ultimate “yes man,” which was likely why he was here. But there was a time to cast off all restraint—and that time was now.
“With all due respect, Mr. President, I think that would be a mistake,” Sandford said.
President Briggs cocked his head and furrowed his brow. Such dissent wasn’t welcomed at this point in the meeting, particularly when everyone had a turn to speak. But Sandford didn’t care, refusing to stop with a polite interruption.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but Russia isn’t building missile silos to protect their oil fields—they’re building them so they can bomb us,” Sandford said. “While we’ve sent our troops—and our money—all over the Middle East to secure oil, they’ve been building an oil reserve that surpasses anything we’ve ever done. We’ve got a few weeks of oil reserves. They’ve got a few years . They are poised to attack and we�
��ve got to make the gutsy call to do whatever it takes to make sure this never happens. We need a leader who has the guts to protect his people, politics be damned!”
The rare flare of emotion out of Sandford caught the entire room off guard. His impassioned plea forced several cabinet members to nod in agreement. One dissenter even muttered, “Maybe he’s right.”
President Briggs just glared at Sandford before restoring order to the murmuring about the room.
“I think we’ve heard enough from you for today. Why don’t you have a seat?” President Briggs said. Nothing in his tone suggested he was about to take Sandford’s advice.
And with that, the meeting moved along to the next agenda item: President Briggs’ speech at the U.N. later in the week to address the hunger crisis in Central Africa.
Sandford slumped in his chair, seething over the public dressing down—and the way his advice was ignored. Why couldn’t the President see things his way? It’s plain as day what is going on here. Doesn’t he care about the American people? Sandford couldn’t care less about the President’s speech being discussed at the moment. They can feed all the people in Africa, but it won’t matter much to the American people once missiles start flying.
The cabinet members bantered back and forth about different ideas, but Sandford ignored them all. He started wondering—and hoping—that the note he received in his office earlier that day was prophetic for sooner rather than later. America needed his leadership at this moment, not in a few years.
CHAPTER 7
AS MUCH AS FLYNN HATED how technology ruled his life, he appreciated how much it saved him time. But it was days like today that he loathed it. He grumbled to no one but himself that the hassle of getting a new personal phone almost wasn’t worth it. Maybe next time I won’t place the phone next to the sink on the counter while I’m shaving. It was a thought that should have occurred before he knocked it into the plugged sink. The process of getting a new one dominated his entire afternoon. He wasn’t even sure it was set up right until his phone blinged with a new message.
Flynn stared at the text message on his phone and pondered his response. He hated to turn down live interviews on cable news shows, especially during prime time. His publicist would go ballistic if he found out that he opted out over dinner with a woman. But it wasn’t just any woman. It was Natalie, a woman Flynn often thought would be worth laying down his demanding career for in exchange for a more normal life. No use dreaming about the future when all I can grab is today . He texted Natalie and asked if they could push their dinner back to 8 p.m. since he had a short interview on live television from 7:15 to 7:30. He added a frowny face on the text just to let her know he wasn’t happy about the change. Seconds later she wrote back:No problem .
Maybe I can have the best of both worlds . He called back the Newsmakers show producer and agreed to go on the show. The truth is Flynn loved his job, and while snagging a catch like Natalie might be worth giving up what he got to do every day, he’d rather not. He stopped dreaming when he realized what he was doing. He hated getting ahead of himself. Got to actually start dating first.
As much as Flynn detested going on live television, those appearances enabled him to pursue big stories without running out of favor with his editor. Other reporters were insanely jealous of him, but he didn’t care. He’d endured more than his share of snide comments while working at the agency. When fellow agents learned that Flynn’s uncle worked for the agency, he became a constant subject of ridicule. All the other agents believed their hard work earned them a spot at the agency while Flynn exercised nepotism. Perhaps they were right. It was impossible to separate the two now. But sneers and snubs from co-workers were nothing new to Flynn. It only motivated him more to be better than them.
By 6 p.m., Flynn made his way to the studio to get prepped by wardrobe and makeup before getting briefed by the show’s producers. The topic Newsmakers’ producers wanted to discuss with Flynn was that of a claim from an elderly woman living in Florida. In her new book, The Secrets That We Keep: A memoir of a Cold War house cleaning spy , Petra Pfeiffer divulged that she worked with the CIA in a secret program named “Catomic” to spy on what U.S. officials believed were KGB operatives working out of the Russian embassy in Bonn, Germany in the 1960s. She earned $600 per month cleaning houses—and $1,500 per month by making herself available to the CIA. As the house cleaner for several KGB operatives, Pfeiffer claimed to take pictures of official documents, plant bugs, and participate in operations that granted U.S. agents access to Russian homes.
While the story gained plenty of traction in the U.S., Newsmakers wanted to debunk the idea that her story could be true since the CIA denied any kind of operations in Bonn during the time when Pfeiffer was supposedly an agency asset. Oddly enough to Flynn, Newsmakers had put Pfeiffer on the show the night before, launching her book into the top ten of bestselling books on Amazon overnight. Now, Newsmakers wanted to set the record straight. It’s what the show did best: build up a story and then tear it down. It was the journalist equivalent of digging a ditch only to refill it. His sound bytes were sure to fill the cable news cycle for the next twenty-four hours once he outed Pfeiffer as a fraud.
Flynn told the producers that she was lying since he had firsthand knowledge that Catomic didn’t start until the early 1970s. It was exactly what they wanted to hear and immediately wrote teasers for the hosts of Page One —the show that aired before Newsmakers —to read before commercial breaks in the final thirty minutes of the program.
Standing in the shadows off camera as Newsmakers began, Flynn looked satisfied. He detested lying, but sometimes it was necessary. And right now was one of those times. He knew all about Catomic and how the operation involved scores of civilians, both German and Americans working in Germany. Agents studied it to learn how to turn opposing agents and how to vet civilians uniquely placed to gain access to vital information. The operation qualified as espionage art form, something Flynn marveled at. And despite being expelled from the agency, he wasn’t about to let Pfeiffer’s loose lips hasten her demise. If he told America she was an old kook just looking for a buck after her IRA imploded, people would leave her alone. If he verified her story, she might not even live long enough to collect a royalty check.
***
AT PRECISELY 8 P.M., Flynn found a parking spot near McPherson Square and hustled across the street to his favorite restaurant, Georgia Brown’s on 15th Street. As he drew nearer, the savory smells of Low Country cuisine enraptured Flynn’s senses. It reminded him of home. Brunswick stew, slow-cooked pulled pork, and mustard-based barbecue sauce. The flavors nearly whisked Flynn off his feet. He hadn’t lived in Charleston for a long time, but he had never forgotten the rich culture of his childhood in a place where time stood still.
As soon as Flynn opened the door, he noticed Natalie sitting in the waiting area. Draped in a stunning silvery dress, Natalie immediately gave off the impression that this was more than dinner between two friends. Her hair swirled up in a bun and her ears sporting diamond earrings, her vibe emboldened Flynn.
“Wow! Don’t you look nice!” Flynn said.
Natalie feigned embarrassment before saying, “Thank you, Flynn. You don’t look so bad yourself.”
Flynn didn’t near to hear that, but it was nice—especially as he was overly conscious of the television makeup still smeared all over his face.
The hostess seated the couple and retreated back to her post.
“You did a great job on Newsmakers tonight,” Natalie said.
“Oh, thanks. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“So, tell me the truth: Was she really a spy?”
Flynn furrowed his brow and cocked his head. “Aren’t you the curious one tonight?”
“Oh, stop it, James. You know I’m always curious. But I think you were lying tonight.”
“How could you tell?”
“So you were lying? I knew it!” Natalie pumped her fist in excitement.
“I didn
’t say I was lying.”
“You didn’t have to. It was all over your face.”
“How could you tell?”
“I may not be a trained CIA operative, but I’m trained at reading men. It lets me know if I’m an object of their affection or just an object.”
“How cleverly insightful. Now I’m scared to speak.”
“You’ve got nothing to be scared of—as long as you tell the truth.”
Natalie gave Flynn a coy smile as Flynn shifted in his chair. He picked up the menu and began inspecting it closely.
“Am I making you nervous?” Natalie asked, cutting through the awkward silence.
“No. Why?”
“Don’t lie to me, James,” she said, giggling.
“OK, maybe a little nervous. Why do you ask?”
“Because you never need to look at the Georgia Brown’s menu. You know it by heart as much as you come here. I bet you’ve already been here since you arrived in Washington.”
He actually hadn’t, but only because he was forced to go talk with detectives about Emma Taylor’s death. Otherwise, lunch would have been eaten here earlier in the day.
Then Flynn’s phone began buzzing. He glanced at the unknown number appearing on the screen as the phone began vibrating across the table.
“Saved by the phone.” Natalie smiled. “Go ahead, answer it. I still need a minute to decide what I want to eat.”
Flynn picked up his phone and answered it.
“Hello?”
“Is this James Flynn?”
“Yes, it is. May I ask who’s calling?”
“My name is Sam Golden, sir. I live in Dallas, Texas, and I’ve got something you need to see.”
“If I had a dollar for every time somebody said that to me ...” Flynn’s voice trailed off, but his cynical comment didn’t deter the caller.
“Look, I’m sure you get plenty of whackos calling you, but what I’ve got is something that warrants a trip out here.”
The Warren Omissions Page 4
