Deep State Stealth

by Vikki Kestell

  According to Harmon, halfway through his call with Cushing, the woman had “heard a noise” and become agitated. She had insisted that the Keyes woman was inside the SCIF, listening to their call.

  A noise inside the SCIF? Had Cushing been delusional? How could the girl have gained access to a secure facility with no one knowing about it? And how could she have been in the SCIF and Cushing not seen her?

  But Cushing had maintained that the girl was there, listening to her conversation with Harmon.

  “Listening to Cushing’s side of the call,” Harmon had said, “not my side. Nothing to be gained by that.”

  Why had Harmon made the distinction? Unless . . . unless he had spoken of the plot to Cushing? And had failed to disclose his indiscretion to me?

  “Oh, my dear John. Did you break operational security because of your history with that Cushing woman? Did your loose lips ruin our plans?” The more she thought on it, the more she seethed. “If you were not already dead, John, I would dispatch you myself.”

  And yet, how would the woman have overheard Harmon’s side of the call unless . . . unless . . . No. Preposterous!

  Hmm. Is it so unbelievable? Cushing reported that the girl had strange and powerful abilities, but we were focused only on capturing her for the nanomites. We put no credence into Cushing’s wild assertions—and yet Cushing was convinced that the girl could do . . . unbelievable things.

  Was Cushing right? Is it possible that the young woman overheard Harmon? Did she alert Jackson? Did she help him? If Cushing’s testimony regarding the girl’s abilities was true, could the girl have killed Harmon and made his death appear to be from natural causes?

  The woman rose from the bench and paced. Thinking.

  Implausible as it may seem, it is the only answer that satisfies all the facts.

  She crossed Constitution Avenue and walked a block north. A car waited for her.

  What a waste. If we could have turned the girl, by God, what a weapon she would have made! If. If we could have turned her. No doubt we could have. We had leverage on her in the boy and the old man.

  She ground her teeth in frustration. Her death set us back years.

  Her death?

  A troubling question intruded. What certain proof do we have of the girl’s death? Could she . . . No. Doubtful. But still . . . we must be certain.

  The woman arrived at a decision. I shall send a team to Albuquerque to reexamine the evidence. They will ferret out the truth surrounding Gemma Keyes’ “death.”

  Chapter 13

  AFTER CATCHING FOUR hours of sleep, Zander rose at 2 a.m. Tuesday morning and drove into D.C. He arrived at the White House near 4 a.m., making his unauthorized entry through the West Wing’s staff entrance on the west side of the building.

  The cleaning staff were hard at work that time of morning, but Zander moved around them with more ease and confidence than he would have yesterday. He sped through the West Wing’s floors and offices while the nanomites checked for additional unauthorized listening devices. Finding no new devices in the West Wing, he then tackled the East Wing and the remainder of the White House proper.

  He had cleared most of the East Wing before the earliest staff arrived and slowed his speed of progress. By 6:45, the nanomites had declared the East Wing free of threats and unauthorized listening devices—and by that time, the White House cleaning crew were clearing up their work. They switched off the vacuum cleaners, hauled them out of sight, and stowed their cleaning supplies. Then they, too, disappeared, and the daily life of the White House began.

  Zander selected an aide in the White House communications department to transmit the “flu” to, a young woman who assisted in the daily press briefings. Minutes later, as he exited the West Wing to the West Colonnade, a member of the press corps left the White House Press Room on his way into the West Wing. The veteran journalist was not a fan of Robert Jackson and had devised more than one unprofessional “hit” piece on him since taking office.

  Zander pressed himself against the West Colonnade wall as the journalist strode by.

  I probably shouldn’t do this, but . . .

  Zander waited in the Rose Garden until the President’s National Security Briefing was concluded. As the National Security Advisor left through the door leading to the West Wing’s main corridor, Zander slipped inside. He did not make himself visible.

  “Mr. President?”

  Jackson turned toward the sound of Zander’s voice. “Anything to report?”

  “I came in early, swept the house and both wings, and found no devices, sir. For now, at least, the White House is clean.”

  “Thank you—I’m relieved.” Jackson sat down at his desk, picked up a sheet of paper and—with unpresidential snarkiness—said, “Listen to this. ‘From the White House Medical Unit to all White House Personnel. Please be advised that five cases of suspected norovirus have been reported since yesterday. Norovirus presents with nausea, stomach and intestinal distress, low-grade fever, and muscle ache.

  “‘We wish to remind White House personnel that norovirus is highly contagious. The most effective means of preventing the spread of norovirus is through regular washing of hands with an antibacterial soap. In addition, if you are sick, we urge you not to return to work until seventy-two hours following the cessation of all flu-like symptoms.’”

  The President’s chuckle grew into a full-on belly laugh. “Best news I’ve read in weeks. Thank you again.”

  “My pleasure, Mr. President. I’ve ‘infected’ another White House staffer to further the myth and . . . um, you may also hear of someone in the Press Pool coming down with the bug.”

  “Oh? Well, if you’re going to infect a member of the press—only for the valid purpose of distracting our enemies, of course—I hope it’s that pompous windbag from CNN.”

  Zander smiled to himself. “Of course, Mr. President. Now, if you have nothing further for me, I’ll leave for the day. The nanomites are monitoring the ‘sick’ agents’ communications. We’ll let them recover just enough to report in to their handlers—and we’ll be there to listen in.”

  “GOOD MORNING, NORA.”

  “Mr. President.”

  Jackson welcomed the Secretary of Energy, Nora Mellyn, with a light kiss on the cheek. “Maddie sends her love.”

  “Please tell her the same, Mr. President. It has been too long since we spent any time with the both of you.”

  “The genesis of my campaign seems an age ago. So does the precious time to spend with good friends.”

  “Speaking of precious time, thank you for seeing me.”

  “Breakfast awaits us. Shall we talk while we eat?”

  They tucked into the scrambled eggs, toast, and fresh fruit. Jackson waited for his Secretary of Energy to bring up the reason for her visit. She had been superb on the campaign trail, a seasoned politician who left the other party to support Jackson. A friend whose loyalty to him had been proven over two grueling years as they inched toward the White House.

  Those two grueling years had earned her the hatred of her former party when Jackson eked out a win over their candidate.

  “Mr. President, may I ask a personal question?”

  “Of course, Nora.”

  “Have you made your Vice-Presidential selection?”

  “No, and I am very sorry it could not be you.”

  They locked eyes in frank respect.

  “Because of the bad blood on the other side of the aisle over my defection?”

  “Yes, although ‘eternal malignant animus’ might be a more apt description. You have earned yourself a spot on their wall of top public enemies.”

  She laughed softly. “It’s not that I’m unhappy at Energy or ungrateful for the appointment. I truly think I could be the partner you want and need.”

  “I agree and think it’s a shame, Nora, but it’s not to be. At least for now.”

  Mellyn toyed with her fruit. “I understand, Mr. President.”

  A MEMBER OF
THE PRESIDENT’S security detail opened the Oval Office door and allowed the President’s party leaders to enter. Jackson greeted the Party Chairman, the Minority Leader and Minority Whip of the House, and the Minority Leader of the Senate.

  “Please. Be seated. It’s always a pleasure to meet with the party leaders.”

  “Thank you for making time to see us, Mr. President,” said Party Chairman Stover. “We know your time is at a premium, so we’ll get straight to the point: We’re growing a little concerned over the time it is taking to replace Vice President Harmon. The longer Friese is the next in line, the more nervous the party grows, particularly our biggest donors.”

  The Senate Minority Leader stepped in. “Yes, Mr. President. We understand the candidate has to be confirmed by both houses of Congress. However, we have proposed several candidates whom we feel would be confirmed. You have not found any of them to your liking?”

  “No, I have not.”

  “May we ask, sir, what you found objectionable?”

  “I suppose I am looking for a partner who isn’t in the pocket of all those ‘biggest donors.’”

  “Those donors supported your candidacy.”

  “I understand and am grateful, but I don’t work for donors. I work for the American people. My vice-presidential pick needs to share my values.”

  Stover’s mouth tightened. “Surely, the values of our donors and the American people are one and the same.”

  “In some respects, yes. In others, no. I won’t sacrifice what is best for our nation because my party insists that I am beholden to special-interest lobbies or big-name donors.”

  “You are beholden to them, Mr. President. You would not be here without them—and the next Vice President will need our support to be confirmed.”

  “Mr. Stover, I would not be here without the vote and confidence of the American people. I would hope my party would support my choice—for the good of this nation and the advance of my agenda. The agenda you publicly approve.”

  As the air of tension in the Oval Office intensified, the Minority Whip quietly interjected, “Mr. President, since you have found our selections objectionable, can you at least tell us who you are favoring?”

  “No one, at present. I have considered many candidates in the last six months, but I have yet to find the right fit for my administration.”

  Jackson stood, signaling the end of the meeting. “Now, gentlemen, I realize how busy you are and will let you get back to work.”

  The Minority Whip answered, “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  The others were silent as they filed out.

  “CONGRESSWOMAN BALLARD, Mr. President.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Blair. Welcome, Congresswoman. Coffee?”

  Regina Ballard had a warm, genuine smile, one she turned on Jackson. “Thank you, Mr. President. I’ll have a cup if you are.”

  The waiting steward poured two cups, set them on a tray, and placed the tray between them. Jackson nodded, and the steward withdrew.

  “Mmm. Thank you, Mr. President. It’s very good. A nice pick-me-up in the middle of a busy afternoon. Thank you, too, for squeezing me in today.”

  “I was glad I could. I’m sorry we’ve not had the opportunity for a one-on-one before this. Was there something in particular you wished to discuss with me?”

  She put down her cup. “Yes, sir. I know you’ve been pressured by both parties and likely numerous factions within the government to select their candidate as your next Vice President.”

  “I have.” Jackson kept his response even-toned.

  “Well, sir, I am not here today to put myself forward. Rather, I am here on behalf of a colleague and, I wish to make it clear, without her knowledge.”

  “Oh?” Jackson was intrigued.

  “She is the type of legislator who never puts herself forward, Mr. President, one of those rare politicians who puts her constituency above her political aspirations or even reputation.”

  “I’m all ears, Congresswoman.”

  “Kimi White Grass, Mr. President, a member of the Montana Blackfoot Tribe.”

  “A Native American.” Jackson sat back and tried to recall what he knew about the congresswoman from Montana.

  “Her father was Blackfoot; her mother was Hispanic. She would be the first Native or Hispanic to serve in such a high office. Congresswoman White Grass isn’t well known, so I took the liberty of assembling a dossier for you, sir.”

  Jackson took the folder from Ballard. “Thank you. Your suggestion is much appreciated.”

  “I AM SO HUNGRY.”

  “I’m hungrier,” Zander insisted.

  “Well, I’m going to start gnawing the dashboard if we don’t get to the restaurant soon.”

  Our second-favorite buffet was minutes away, and my stomach was bellowing like a love-sick wildebeest.

  My phone chimed, and I glanced at the caller ID. “Oh! It’s Macy.” I put the call on speaker. “Macy?”

  “Jayda, hi! We wanted to let you know that our boys are here, and they are perfect.”

  “Oh, my goodness, Macy. I’m thrilled for you both. Have you named them?”

  “Yup. Denzel and Deshaun Uumbana—to go with my hubby Darius and our boy, Daniel.”

  “I like! They are all good, strong names. And you? How are you doing?”

  “Relishing the ability to turn over without the assistance of a crane.”

  I laughed. “Well, when will you be home from the hospital and when would be a good time to bring some meals for the family?”

  “I go home tomorrow. My mom is here until Friday. How about Sunday afternoon?”

  I glanced at Zander, and he nodded.

  “Perfect. Any likes/dislikes? Food allergies?”

  “I only ask that you avoid spicy foods since I’m nursing the babies. Darius and Daniel will eat whatever you put in front of them. You just have to jerk their plates away before they start chewing on them.”

  “Oh, I totally feel you. My husband is the same way. See you Sunday, Macy—and congratulations again. I’m so happy for you guys.”

  I hung up just as we pulled into the restaurant parking lot. “Boy, I’m so glad we’re here. You know, we should ask restaurant management about frequent flier miles. A punch card? Bonus points? Something.”

  “Right. And, please, be sure to jerk my empty plate away before I sink my teeth into it—because I’m the one who was threatening to gnaw on the dashboard five minutes ago.”

  Laughing and holding hands, we ran to the restaurant doors.

  Chapter 14

  “MR. PRESIDENT, THEY are ready for you.”

  “Thank you, Marcus.”

  Jackson entered the Oval Office. The eight men and women waiting for him, senior members of the Congressional Black Caucus, stood at his entrance.

  “Good morning, everyone.”

  “Good morning, Mr. President.”

  When Jackson had taken his seat and his visitors had done likewise, he nodded to the most senior member of the group. “Congressman, this is your show. What can I do for you today?”

  “Thank you, sir, and thank you for seeing us. Of course, the entire nation is waiting with interest for your vice-presidential selection.”

  Jackson inclined his head, signaling the man to continue.

  “As our caucus members discussed this issue, we all agreed that the Vice President’s unfortunate passing presented us with an unprecedented opportunity.”

  “Us?”

  “Why, yes, sir. You and us as African Americans. It would be a truly historic turn of events for a sitting black President to choose another African American to serve as Vice President. An even greater statement of social equality and progress would be for that Vice President to be an African American woman.”

  Jackson kept his face impassive. “Have you such a candidate to put forward?”

  “Delia Whitney-Butler, Mr. President. She has an impeccable reputation, having served fifteen years at Treasury, four of those as Deputy Secretary
of the Treasury. We’ve polled, and found she has broad support on both the East and West Coasts.”

  At least she isn’t that mad hatter from Florida, Jackson thought.

  “I do not know Ms. Whitney-Butler personally, but she has, as you said, an impeccable reputation.” He left it there and waited for his visitors to move the ball forward.

  The congressman glanced at his companions and then the President. “Can we take it then that you are amenable to our suggestion?”

  Jackson folded his hands. “Yes, of course, and I thank you for bringing your recommendation to me. It would be a proud day, indeed, for America to have its first woman VP as well as its first African American VP.”

  “But?”

  “But I’m discovering that selecting a vice president who can be confirmed by both houses of Congress is more difficult than choosing a running mate for a general election. I wonder . . . have your polls looked at how your fellow lawmakers would vote for an African American VP given the country already has a black President?”

  “You would have the vote of every member of our Caucus, Mr. President.” This came from one of two women in the room, an outspoken black representative from California. “Perhaps it is the optimal time in history to put our candidate forward and dare the whites in Congress to decline her nomination.”

  She ended her delivery on a strident ring that caused a few members of her caucus to shift with discomfort.

  “We could undoubtedly do that. However, you must remember, Congresswoman, that I govern an entire nation—not just the fourteen percent who are African American—and I must work with the whole Congress if I hope to enact any of my agenda while in office.”

  He hesitated, knowing the reaction he was about to elicit. “If we were to strong-arm Congress on this one issue, would we not risk leaving a bitter taste in the mouths of the other eighty-six percent of Americans, including the seventeen percent Hispanic population? Hispanics and Latinos, as you are no doubt aware, make up a significant voting bloc in your own state. I would hate to kiss my reelection chances goodbye based on this one choice.”