by Tom Abrahams
“Not certain,” said Goodman. “We know the killer tried to make the room appear empty, except that he left a body in a suitcase in the closet.”
“Big suitcase,” the president surmised.
“No.” Goodman shook his head. “It was a small suitcase. Gruesome.”
“So what’s the threat assessment?” asked the president. “I would guess, from the suspect description, they have someone in custody.”
“Not yet. The folks on the ground don’t seem to think it bears concern. There is, however, a media blackout on the death. It’s being kept quiet.”
“Part of the protest?” Matti asked.
“They’re not sure. They have video of the suspect on their CCTV. Our folks are helping with facial recognition software of the suspect against the surveillance video of the protestors outside the trade center.”
“So the other delegations know?”
“I can’t be sure,” said Goodman. “Again, they don’t think there’s a threat. The initial guess is a domestic between a flight attendant and somebody she met.”
“Thank you, Brandon.”
“Yes, Madam President.” Goodman stopped short of genuflecting as he backed up a step and left the room.
“Matti—” the president stood and extended her arms “—come here.”
Matti rocked forward and stood, taking two steps toward her boss. Her arms hung at her sides.
“Give me a hug.” The president motioned with her fingers. “I want to hug this out. I want to press the reset button.”
Matti stepped into the president’s embrace and wrapped one arm around her back. President Jackson pulled Matti closer and squeezed.
“I’m sorry for my tone,” she said. “I just need to know we’re on the same team. I worry about you.” She clenched Matti’s shoulders and pulled away as she held her.
“I am,” Matti said. “On your side, that is. And I understand. I’ve given you reason to worry. It’s under control.”
“Good to hear. Now go get some rest. We’ll be in Barcelona before we know it.”
*
Matti couldn’t help but wonder about the president’s schizophrenia. She was alone in one of the staff quarters toward the front of the aircraft. The door was closed and she opened her laptop. Her fingers poised above the keys, she considered Jackson’s Jekyll and Hyde performance.
“She’s not a very good actor,” Matti mumbled and logged onto the Internet through the plane’s satellite connection.
The onboard server would recognize she was online, but using the masking software she’d installed, there’d be no record of what sites she visited or what she typed.
She went to her email drop site and logged in. There was an attachment saved to her original, unsent email.
She clicked the attachment, dragged it to her desktop, and disconnected from the server. She deleted her history and cookies and then opened the attachment on her desktop.
The beginning of the document included a note from Matti’s contact at the NSA, her former supervisor. He was the man who ultimately believed her Capitol conspiracy theory and was the one who’d held her in the moments after the explosion. They’d kept in touch, as much for the friendship as for the information they could swap.
Here’s what we’ve got on SST. It’s more than what you had nine months ago. Hope it helps. If you need more, I’m here. Travel safe.
The remainder of the attachment was, on its face, gibberish. It was a seemingly random collection of numbers and letters. Matti selected the entirety of the lengthy document and copied it to the computer’s clipboard. Then she deleted the attachment and removed it from the computer’s hard drive.
She clicked to the computer’s list of programs and opened a game called Solitaire. The traditional card game filled the screen with a prompt.
Would you like to continue your existing game?
Matti declined and the screen went black for a moment before a flashing red cursor appeared in the center of the screen. Matti typed in a password and waited while the screen changed from black to gray to white.
Another prompt appeared, and Matti entered an encryption code, telling the phantom program which of the code keys to apply to the text she was about to enter. The screen flashed and a cursor appeared at the top left, awaiting her input.
She pasted the text of the supervisor’s attachment, and the program began deciphering the encoded message. Line by line, the gibberish morphed into legible Arabic text. In the upper right of the screen a timer indicated the process would take six minutes. It was a large file.
While the program uncorked the message, Matti read the government’s “unofficial” file about Sir Spencer Thomas. She knew, hidden somewhere in the file, she’d find a clue about what was coming, his role, and his connection to the president.
She scrolled through the biographical information she already knew and scanned the peripheral intelligence about the advisory roles he’d played for various administrations and regimes.
Matti smirked at the references to Bohemian Grove and the suggestions that he was part of a subversive, secretive, but unnamed organization. She scrolled through the translation without much focus until she came upon a section detailing his known associations.
There were names she expected; all of the Capitol conspirators who identified themselves as Daturans, some defense industry magnates, a Ukrainian mobster named Liho Blogis, the deceased and disgraced former governor of Texas, a couple of energy executives, and some missing political aide named Jackson Quick.
Those were all known names, people who’d been in the news for one reason or another. But there were a couple of people Matti didn’t recognize, and there was little information about them.
One was unnamed. There were three photographs of a tall, bald man with broad shoulders and a thick neck. In one photograph, a tattoo was visible on the back of his neck. His connection to Sir Spencer was based on a single, unencrypted phone call in 2008 to a payphone in Rome and a bank transfer within minutes of the call. The man’s photograph was captured on a bank surveillance camera.
The account was in the name of one of Sir Spencer’s holding companies. There was little money in it. Surveillance beyond the photograph had never turned up anything remarkable about the man or the money.
Matti wondered, however, why Sir Spencer would have been under electronic surveillance in 2007 and 2008?
The second name was Dr. Miguel Chapa, a neuro-ophthalmologist from Charleston, South Carolina. There were photographs of Chapa and Sir Spencer strolling along the Battery Promenade. There was a list of phone calls, which Matti noted were dated 2007, and a series of financial transactions that revealed an influx and immediate withdrawal of six-figure cash deposits to a series of accounts with Chapa’s name attached.
Matti more closely read Chapa’s associated biography, and suddenly, the connection between Sir Spencer and the president became clear. Chapa was a partner in Felicia Jackson’s husband’s medical practice.
When Jackson first won her congressional seat, her neurosurgeon husband had sold the practice to Chapa. Somehow, at some point, Chapa and Sir Spencer connected.
There was no direct link to the president, except a notation that he’d attended her inauguration. It was close enough. It was smoke. No need for fire just yet.
The file finished its conversion, and Matti looked for more about Chapa. She reconnected to the satellite and reopened the dummy email account.
Matti looked at her hand. It was trembling. She reached into her bag and pulled out a bottle. Gripping it in her hand, she stared at it, considering the consequences of opening it. She closed her eyes. An image of her mother flashed in her mind, and she stuffed the bottle back into her bag.
She considered the most efficient use of words and typed additional notes in the unsent message. She had three questions.
Who is Miguel Chapa? Why were eyes on SST in 2007–8? Am I safe?
She exited the mail program and, without spending
time on her security protocol, moved straight to her new email account, opening it up to find a reply message from Dillinger Holt. It was about what she expected. Coy, arrogant, skeptical. She played along.
She aimed the laptop’s camera at a blue and gold coaster embossed with the presidential seal and snapped a photograph. She attached the photograph to a new message and typed her reply.
I’m sending this email from Air Force One. And I’m not in the media cabin.
She sent the message, closed the account and the browser, deleted her history and the cookies. She erased the photograph and was logging out of the satellite connection when, without warning, the door to the cabin swung open.
“Matti, I was just—” Brandon Goodman stopped short when Matti slammed shut her laptop. “Sorry. Was I interrupting something?” He was carrying a plate of food: a sandwich and a bag of chips. A bottled water was tucked under his arm.
“Uh, no,” Matti said, “you just startled me.”
“Sorry.” Goodman held up the plate. “You hungry? You left the staff room before the galley staff brought in our gourmet meal.” He pulled the bottle of water from under his arm and shook the sweat from it.
“I’m good, thanks,” she said. “You’re welcome to have a seat.”
Goodman flashed a grin and shut the door with his elbow. He dropped into the seat opposite Matti, balancing the plate and the bottle. “At least take the water.”
“Thanks.” She took the bottle and set it in the seat’s cup holder. “Can I ask you a seemingly off-the-wall question?”
“Shoot.” Goodman adjusted the seat and set the plate off to the side.
“You were part of President Foreman’s staff, right?” she asked, knowing the answer.
“Yes. I worked on his campaign policy team. He liked that I was a West Point graduate with a background in international relations. I’d served overseas. That was a plus. After the election, I worked transition. I was at the State Department as an undersecretary for a year before moving back to the White House. I worked as a special assistant, like you do for President Jackson.”
“I’d forgotten you were a veteran.”
“I don’t talk about it much.”
“Special Forces?”
He winked. “I don’t talk about it much.”
“So why did the president make you chief?”
Goodman chuckled. “I don’t know.” He reached for the bag of potato chips and pulled it open. “I guess I was a link to the past, but young enough to have forward vision. I made her transition easier. I don’t know, really.”
“People were as critical of her hiring you as they were of her hiring me,” Matti said. “They said you didn’t have the experience.”
“That they did.” He popped a chip in his mouth. “Thanks for reminding me.”
“It’s been nine months,” Matti replied. “How’s it going?”
“It’s going. Sometimes I do feel overwhelmed.”
“Overwhelmed?”
“More than that. I’m out of the loop. For a chief, there are a lot of conversations that don’t include me. I take comfort in the big office.”
“I knew that.”
“Knew what?”
“That you were an outsider,” Matti said. “Like me. We’re kept at arm’s length.”
“So why do you think she hired us?” Goodman sat up in his seat. “Between you and me?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t figured that one out yet. I was just excited to be at the inauguration. Then to be offered a job? Crazy.”
“I remember you at the inauguration,” he said. “You stood out against the others.”
“You’re funny.” Matti’s face reddened. “I don’t remember you.”
“Ha!” Goodman crumpled the empty chip bag and tossed it at her. “You don’t play games, do you?”
“I didn’t know a lot of people there,” she said. “It was all government people.”
“And some family friends,” Goodman added. “People from South Carolina.”
“I do remember that. I got introduced to a doctor from there. I don’t remember his name.”
“Couldn’t help you there, Matti,” he said. “Like I said, I’m not part of the inner loop. But those chips made me thirsty. Can I have the water?”
“Of course.” She tossed him the bottle. “I think I know why.”
“Why what?” He uncapped the bottle. “That was conversation whiplash.”
“Sorry. My mind is going a thousand miles a second.”
“As always.”
“I think I know why the president hired us,” she explained. “She thinks she’s smarter than us. She needed people in seemingly key positions who were so happy to be part of the party that we wouldn’t ask too many questions. We wouldn’t push for information or influence.”
Goodman took a swig of water and recapped the bottle. As he lowered it to his lap, Matti noticed his demeanor morph. He slipped from jovial and playful to wounded and withdrawn. He licked a drop of water from his lower lip and looked down at his lap.
“I didn’t mean you’re not good at what you do,” Matti backpedaled. “I’m not implying that. I didn’t mean that.”
“I didn’t take it that way.” Goodman shrugged. “I think you’re right. I believe the president wants a small circle of trust, as it were. And we’re not a part of it. She needs chumps, and she needs somebody to blame when things don’t go her way.”
“So you agree?”
“Yes,” he said. “Otherwise, why would she keep you on the payroll? I like you, Matti. You’re a smart woman with a good heart. You’re a PTSD-suffering drug addict with no policy experience. Two plus two doesn’t equal four in your case.”
“You don’t play games, do you?” Matti forced a smile and flexed her hands.
“Nope.” He stood from his seat. “I’m the chief of staff.” He winked and moved to the door. “I’ll leave the sandwich. You might get hungry.”
“Thanks.”
“And whatever you were doing on that laptop”—he glanced at the computer and then back up at Matti—“be careful.”
CHAPTER 29
WORLD TRADE CENTER
BARCELONA, SPAIN
Jon Custos was at home amidst the ballooning crowd of demonstrators protesting the arrival of G12 summit participants. They were a motley mix of hemp enthusiasts and anticapitalists. Some of them wore the overplayed Guy Fawkes masks. Others held signs or bullhorns to proclaim their disaffection.
Despite his size, he moved among them without issue, occasionally raising his fist and shouting with them. They were held in an area between the Ronda Litoral and Plaça de les Drassanes, two circular drives that formed a figure eight of sorts at the entrance to the man-made peninsula on which the World Trade Center and the Hotel Eurostars were built.
Police blocked them from moving in any direction other than directly away from the peninsula and west along the Avenue del Parallel. Custos joined the group from the west, paying close attention to the numbers of police and their weaponry. He counted vehicles and estimated distances. The level of security was significantly more impressive than the day before.
A red double-decker tourist bus chugged northeast, toward Port Olimpic. The tourists’ necks craned in unison as they passed, seemingly more interested in the protest than the history of the port. Custos’s eyes followed the bus until a collective roar from the protestors drew his eyes back to the peninsula.
A pair of black Lanca Thesis armored limousines led a caravan of five cars turning from Ronda Literal onto the peninsula. They carried Italian flags on one front quarter panel and a banner with an inset Emblem of Italy on the other.
“Are they the first to arrive?” Custos asked an unwashed, screaming Englishman next to him.
“Why would I know?” the man spat at Custos and then turned back to shaking his fists at the oblivious motorcade.
Custos cursed the man under his breath and slid a step to the left. He stood directly behind the Eng
lishman and lifted the demonstrator’s wallet from the frayed back pocket of his jeans. He slipped the wallet into his own pocket and then moved to another section of the crowd.
He found himself next to a tall, thin woman in a loose tank top who wore no makeup. Her face was flushed from the heat, her long hair matted against the back of her neck. She was shouting in Spanish. He wondered what circumstances had put her there. What had happened in her life that compelled her to fight what she thought was unjust?
She had to know that nothing would come from her civil disobedience. She couldn’t be naive enough to think any real change could happen without incivility.
Sir Spencer had taught him about the need for violence, about its role throughout history. From Mesopotamia to Egypt and dynastic China, bloodshed was the only real means by which leaders of men could effect true change.
“Peace,” Sir Spencer told him, “is the space in time between wars. It is the time during which we plot.”
Whether it was the French, American, or Russian revolutionaries freeing themselves from oppressive rule, or nineteen suicidal al-Qaeda militants seeking to spark a new caliphate, a big stick was far more likely to accomplish the job than speaking softly.
Protests did not matter. Action mattered. And Custos was acting.
He was prepared to give his life, and take countless others, to create the kind of change the world needed. He looked at the people surrounding him, feeling the bile rise in his throat. The protestors, with their masks and clever posters, were false prophets. They had to know they were ineffective.
What change had they ever brought? Even the peaceful American Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s required violence and death before the laws changed.
That was the way of the world.
Custos saw another motorcade turn on the peninsula. It was a much larger motorcade than the Italians’. Two motorcycle officers led a pair of Range Rovers that were, in turn, leading a trio of Jaguar XJ Sentinels. They were unmarked, but Custos recognized them as the official vehicles of the United Kingdom and the British prime minister. It wouldn’t be long before all of the member nations arrived.
