by Tom Abrahams
Family: Father (living), Mother (deceased)
Associates: None
Allergies: N/A
Surgeries: Wisdom teeth removed.
Medical: Addiction to anxiety medication.
Hobbies: YouTube, Sudoku, Jogging
Clearance: SECRET (formerly TOP SECRET)
The assassin skimmed the rest of the summary. She resolved Harrold was smart, resourceful, and troubled. Her mother’s death had left an indelible mark on her psyche. It plagued her professionally and personally. She’d have made a good asset for the Brethren.
Ice broke between her teeth, and the assassin scrolled through documents and diagrams, maps and schematics. According to the official schedule, she knew where Matti Harrold would be in Barcelona, and she knew when she’d be there. This would be easy.
The assassin pushed the recline button on the side of her seat and leaned back. She closed her eyes and sucked on the chips of ice melting into her throat.
It was a long flight. She could afford to sleep for a couple of hours to recharge, to dream of the fun that lay ahead.
She’d been struggling with the last-second abortion of her previous mark. It was as if someone stopped her short of a climax, frustrating her with the loss of something she could feel building within her before a primal, satisfying release.
With an image of Matti Harrold floating behind her eyes, the assassin’s frustration gave way to anticipation. She was eager to get on the ground. She was eager to hunt.
CHAPTER 27
WORLD TRADE CENTER
BARCELONA, SPAIN
The French-Canadian flight attendant was inconsolable. Sitting in the shift manager’s office behind the reception desk, she couldn’t catch her breath.
“Try this.” The manager handed her a brown paper bag. “Breathe into it. Maybe it will help you.”
She took the bag, thanked the manager, pulled the bag to her face, and vomited into it. The color leached from her face, aside from the black mascara staining her cheeks.
A tall man in a brown suit walked into the office. His collar was turned up on one side, and there was a yellow stain on one lapel. His shirt was loose around his neck, as was the mustard-colored necktie. His gut hung over his waistband, stretching the pants beyond their comfort and hiding the cracked brown leather belt he’d hand punched with an extra hole for the buckle.
The flight attendant gagged and then whimpered as the man found a chair in the corner and spun it around backwards. He straddled the seat and offered a weak smile as he sat.
“I’m here to talk to you about your friend,” he said, his English accented with Spanish. “She was your friend, yes?”
The flight attendant nodded and crumpled the top of the bag. She held it in her lap, not sure where to put it.
“I’m involved with finding out what happened to your friend.” He scratched the top of his balding head. What few strands he had left were combed from front to back. “I’m hopeful that you help me. Is it best I ask you in English?”
“Or French,” she mumbled.
“We’ll speak in English,” he conceded with a smile that revealed poor dental habits. He was missing three teeth on the bottom and two on the top.
“C’est bien.”
“Tell me about your friend,” he said, pressing his chest against the back of the chair. “Did you know her outside of your jobs?”
“A little. If we crewed a flight together, we’d eat together or maybe go to a nightclub.”
“Did you meet men at these discos?”
“Sometimes.”
“Did you take the men to your hotels?”
“I’m not…” She hesitated. “I don’t—”
“I know the question is…indelicate,” the man said. “I think it’s important.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, sometimes we would bring men back to our rooms.”
“Was it ever a problem?”
She shook her head.
“How about last night?”
“I didn’t see her last night,” she said. “She told me she’d call me this morning.”
“She had other plans?”
Her eyes searched the room for the answer until they widened with recognition.
“There was a man on the flight,” she said. “She thought he was attractive. I told her I thought he looked like Vin Diesel.”
“Vin Diesel?”
“The movie star. You know. He was in Fast & Furious.”
“I know the movie. Yes. The bald one?”
“Yes.”
“What else can you tell me about this man?”
“I think she gave him her number,” she offered. “I’m not sure.”
“Can you give me a better description of him?”
“He was tan and muscular. His shoulders were huge. He looked like he worked out a lot.”
“Tanned, muscular, and bald.”
“And his eyes were black.”
“Dark brown, you mean to say?”
“No. They were black.”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“Yes. I think so.”
The inquisitor pushed himself from the chair and left the room. Less than a minute later, he returned with a laptop computer under his arm. He plopped back down into his seat and balanced the laptop on the back of the chair. He opened it and spun it around so the flight attendant could see the screen. A looped video was repeating itself on the display.
The video showed the hallway outside of room 3669. It was at a distance, but the flight attendant could clearly see two people emerge from one side of the hallway and walk toward the camera. The pair was talking to each other and holding hands as they walked. The man was much taller than the woman.
The flight attendant watched the video until she couldn’t. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed. Once she’d composed herself, she looked up at the investigator with red, swollen eyes and nodded. Her lower lip quivered, threatening another emotional outburst.
“That’s him.”
CHAPTER 28
ABOARD AIR FORCE ONE
President Felicia Jackson stood with her arms folded across her chest. She was in the press cabin, her least favorite section of the Boeing 747 VC-25A. It was at the rear of the aircraft, and although it was configured like a commercial aircraft’s first-class cabins, she found it cramped.
It didn’t help it was occupied by journalists, who were, in her opinion, less respectable than lawyers.
She glanced at the dozen reporters as they readied their recorders and notepads, and then glared at the television photographer operating the pool camera. He would later share his video with all of the television networks.
“Are we ready?” she huffed. “I’d like to get this gaggle over with pretty quickly.”
The reporters looked at each other and nodded their heads. The president imagined they’d like to finish this and get some sleep before landing in Spain.
“I’ll start by saying I’m excited about the possibility of what we can achieve during these meetings. If we can, as a coalition, come to agreement regarding surveillance and security, it will usher in a new era of cooperation and intelligence gathering. It will make the world a safer place.”
The president gauged the reporters as they scribbled and reflexively nodded. She knew they weren’t really listening. They were too anxious to pepper her with questions.
“If our partner nations can agree with us, and if they can ratify similar language in their own legislatures, we’ll be in a fantastic position to root out evil before it strikes. This is critical to the economic and cultural well-being of all civilized nations. With that, I’ll take some questions.”
“Madam President,” said Bob, the dean of the correspondents, “I’d like to ask about the likelihood that Congress approves the Surveillance of Electronic Correspondence Under Regulated Intelligence and Telecommunication Act as it’s currently written. Even if these other Western nation
s agree to submit similar legislation, enter into an agreement to share data and intelligence, and they pass it in their own parliaments, isn’t it a moot point if you can’t cobble together the votes in the House and the Senate?”
“I’m not sure I agree with the word cobble, Bob,” the president said with pursed lips. “I think what we’re trying to do here is difficult. We’re presenting legislation to the people’s elected representatives at home while trying to facilitate similar legislation overseas. And in the middle of that, reach a multilateral agreement that provides for an unprecedented sharing of critical, life-saving information. All the pieces will fall into place. I’m confident of that.”
“You don’t have the votes right now,” countered Bob. “And there is a buzz in the intelligence community that you’d be emasculating the FBI, the CIA, and the NSA. Your Director of National Intelligence has publicly questioned the sanity of this approach.”
“Is there a question there, Bob, or just a sweeping judgment?”
“The question, Madam President”—Bob shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but the skepticism remained in his tone—“is whether you’re in over your head.”
The cabin fell silent aside from the muted roar of the aircraft’s four General Electric turbofan engines. Every eye in the cabin was on Bob.
President Jackson inhaled and smiled, flashing the grin she usually saved for her attorney general. She swallowed and waited a beat, letting the discomfort of the moment swell for effect.
“Bob,” she said softly enough that the reporters had to lean forward to hear her, “I’ll excuse the tone but not the sexist implication—”
“Madam Pre—” Bob started to defend himself, but stopped at the direction of the president’s finger pressed against her lips.
“It’s my turn, Bob.”
He nodded and shrank a little in his seat. Bob swallowed hard enough the president could see his Adam’s apple quiver.
“Your sexist implications, as they were, included the word emasculate and questioned if I, a woman president, was in over her head. I don’t see you asking the same question of Dexter Foreman, Barack Obama, or George Bush. I don’t even think Hillary Clinton would be so attacked.”
The president unfolded her arms and stepped forward, dragging her hand along the seat backs as she moved closer to Bob. She was keenly aware of the camera following her, and she knew this would make for good television.
“My DNI is fully supportive of our efforts. He is my DNI, after all. If he weren’t on board with the plan, he wouldn’t be on board, so to speak. Congress will be a challenge. We have some convincing to do, as do our partner nations when they return home from the summit. However, the timing is such that, if we have to put the horse before the proverbial cart, it’s worth doing. The SECURITY Act, in all its forms, and the associated agreements will save lives.”
Bob nodded. He looked away from the president, backing down as would a dog not able to win a staring contest with its master.
“Any other questions, Bob?” President Jackson asked. “As a woman, I’m more than happy to explain the finer points of things to any man.”
Bob shook his head. His face reddened.
“Huffington Post?” asked the president. “You have a question?”
“Yes, Madam President,” the reporter replied, glancing at Bob. “Why not insure passage in Congress first? Especially since there are reports the other countries are hesitant to back you without the SECURITY Act having become law here.”
“This is how the calendar fell,” explained the President. “Of course I would have loved for the Speaker and the Majority Leader to have already voted and passed the SECURITY Act. Yes, that would have been preferable. To me, the sooner we move on this, the better. Every day without the latitude afforded us by the Act is another day we, as Americans, are vulnerable.”
“What kind of indication are you getting from the other heads of state?” asked Anne from the Times.
“Thanks for that question, Anne. The president put her hands on her hips. “We’re still in the middle of a dialogue with the teams from all of the partner nations. They have their concerns, as they should in any deliberative debate, about the implementation of certain aspects of the plan. We’ll do what we can to help alleviate any of those concerns. That’s what this summit is about, ultimately. So we have time to tweak what needs tweaking and strengthen what needs strengthening. Ultimately I am confident all four of our partners will ratify the agreement and present their legislation to their respective elected bodies.”
The president considered ending the gaggle there, but there were three hands still raised. She pointed at the young woman from The Washington Post.
“Madam President, could you please comment on the reports that Sir Spencer Thomas is still alive?”
Felicia Jackson pursed her lips again and folded her arms. She rocked back and forth on her heels. “I’m not going to comment on tabloid speculation.”
“But—”
“But nothing. I’m going to rely on the credible information I receive in briefings, not on wild stories about missing bodies. It’s ludicrous. And quite frankly, I’m disappointed you would bring it up. I’m finished here. Enjoy the rest of the flight.” She spun on her heels and ignored the peppering questions behind her. She nodded at her press secretary as she passed him, and he handled the remainder of the “no comment” session.
*
President Jackson marched from the press cabin and into a hallway that ran along the left side of the aircraft. She passed a pair of Secret Service agents, nodded, and turned right into a large conference room. Previously a situation room, it had long ago been converted into a staff meeting area.
The president exploded into the room and scanned the faces at the table and those along the long white sofa occupying an interior wall of the room. In the corner, next to a lamp, she caught Matti Harrold’s eyes. She glared at her aide and then motioned to her. Matti popped up and followed the president out of the conference room and into her private quarters at the front of the main deck.
President Jackson sat on the long sofa bed on the left side of the cabin and offered Matti a seat on the matching sofa opposite her. She crossed her legs and adjusted the drape of her twenty-five-thousand-dollar black Chanel skirt.
Matti sat with her legs pressed together, her hand in her lap. She ran her right hand through her hair.
“You really should dress better,” the president said, her eyes trailing from Matti’s flats, up her legs, and from shoulder to shoulder. “You work in the White House, for Lord’s sake.”
“I’m dressed for comfort, Madam President,” Matti explained, looking down at her tan chinos. “I have nicer clothes in my suitcase.”
“Dressed for comfort,” the president sneered. “You know, I’m not sure right now why I put you on my staff. I don’t know why I’ve put so much trust in you after so little time. Most of my aides, who I trust half as much, have been with me ten times as long.”
“I appreciate your trust,” Matti said. “I know that—”
“You know what, Matti? You know what it’s like for a woman in politics? You know what it took for me to get here? You know how I’m castigated regardless of my actions? Too harsh, I’m any host of misogynistic pejoratives. Too weak and it’s the same.”
The president’s jaw tensed and she again gave Matti the once-over. She leaned forward at her waist.
“What is your game?”
“Excuse me?”
“What is your game, Matti? I can’t figure you out.”
“Madam President, I’m not sure I—”
“You work for the NSA, which is such a trustworthy organization, right? You’re a code breaker who suddenly graduates to field agent. You almost, but don’t quite, stop a terrorist attack. You come to work for me. I give you important work. You become a self-loathing drug addict. Now you’re doubting the veracity of what I tell you?”
“I don’t doubt—”
“Sur
e you do. I saw it in your eyes at Camp David. Now there’s some tabloid making up some farcical nonsense about him, and I’ve got reporters asking me about it on board my plane.”
“I didn’t say anything to any reporter.” Matti’s eyes narrowed as she spoke. The president couldn’t tell if it was from confusion or fear.
“I’m not suggesting you did,” President Jackson said, though she was. “I need to know you’re on my side. I need to know you’re focused. I need to believe you when you tell me you’re ready for the summit. Otherwise, you might as well not get off the plane when we land.”
Matti sank back into the sofa. The look on her face hadn’t changed.
“There’s a lot at stake here. We don’t need distractions. And I don’t need to be worried about whether or not you’re on board.”
“I’m on board,” Matti said as someone knocked on the cabin door.
“What?” the president said without taking her glare off Matti.
“It’s Goodman,” said the chief of staff.
“Come in, Brandon,” the president huffed.
Goodman opened the door and walked into the suite, taking a step before realizing he’d entered what looked like a cross between an intervention and the principal’s office.
The president turned to look at Goodman.
“We’ve had a security situation.”
“Be more specific.”
Goodman took another step into the room but didn’t sit. He glanced at Matti before looking again at the commander-in-chief.
“It’s fine,” the president assured him. “Right, Matti? We can trust you?”
Matti nodded. “Yes, Madam President.”
“Go on then.”
“Our advance team is reporting a homicide investigation at the hotel where you’re scheduled to stay and at which we’ll be holding the summit. A woman, a flight attendant, was murdered in her room.”
“Who is handling it?”
“Local police and private security hired to handle G12 logistics. Secret Service is assisting.”
“What happened?” Matti asked, leaning forward in her seat.
