Liquid Gold

by James Phelan

“The State Department has passports made up for Fox and Gammaldi reflecting official diplomatic cover,” Hutchinson said. “That will give them the highest access to embassies that can be afforded to State Department employees. They’ll be covered under the reciprocal diplomatic-immunity laws, and we can legally go in and provide protection to them akin to what our high-level diplomatic protectees get in places like Iraq.”

  “So they’ll have armed protection?”

  “Yes. FBI agents are being readied, and we’re working on providing on-the-ground assets in India ready to greet them on the tarmac and transport them. But make no mistake—and I’m sorry to be so blunt, Lachlan—you don’t have many friends in the region since your stories have syndicated.”

  “Yeah…” Fox said.

  “What about contingencies?” Faith asked. “What if the threat changes when they’re in the field?”

  “As we speak I have a team of agents readying to deploy,” Hutchinson said. “They’re heavy hitters. If things get heated, they’ll exfil Lach and Al to the nearest friendly location for air evac.”

  “Agent Hutchinson,” Faith said. “Do you think they should stay here in New York?”

  “Sure, maybe,” Hutchinson said. “They can lie low. We can hide them—hell, we can give them new IDs if it comes to that. But I know Fox isn’t for that—it’s a lifelong thing, hiding like that.”

  “It’s fine, Andy, we’re finishing this story,” Fox said. “We’re not going to let—”

  “What’s that?” Wallace interrupted, pointing to one of the flat-panel televisions: breaking news running on the BBC World News channel.

  “A bomb blast in Libya…” Faith said.

  They watched the screen.

  “I’ve got another call coming in,” Hutchinson said. “Hang on the line.”

  Scenes of panic filled the screen in all-too-familiar images of smoke fumes and the burning wreckage of a car. A suburban street. Wallace, Faith and Fox watched in silence, their thoughts all beginning to head in the same direction—

  Hutchinson came back on the line.

  “It’s our man—he’s okay.”

  “Hasif?” Fox asked.

  “Yep, he’s at our embassy in Tripoli right now, and he’s asking for asylum,” he replied. “His family, too; his wife and kid, and his sister; we should be able to take them in, too. He headed there right after the attack, didn’t even wait for the cops to show at the scene. His brother-in-law was killed—a car bomb, in Hasif’s car. It should have been him.”

  Fox looked at Wallace and Faith but spoke to Hutchinson. “I need to talk to him before I head back to Kashmir. I’ve got to find out what else he knows.”

  “All right,” Hutchinson said. “They’re headed Stateside via a military base in Spain, where they’ll get another medical. Debrief him there, then let me know where the story takes you.”

  Fox looked at his boss. The older man nodded. Faith looked reluctant.

  “We’ll leave for Spain within the hour,” Fox said. “Call me back with details.”

  “Will do.”

  “And Andy?” Fox said, leaning close to the phone. “What if we let it get out that it wasn’t his brother-in-law killed in the blast?” Fox said. “We let everyone think it was Hasif. These guys will think they got their man—it’ll take the heat off.”

  Silence from the other end.

  “Andy?”

  “That’s good,” Hutchinson said. “I’m about to land in DC. I’ll work on that from my end.”

  18

  THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON DC

  Bill McCorkell walked up the stairs from the Situation Room, said goodbye to the National Security Advisor and walked through to the foyer and along the expansive Cross Hall. He could tell that the new guy, who had taken over from McCorkell just a month ago, had pulled an all-nighter. A former four-star Marine General, he was right for the job; a good, strong military choice for a young President whose insight and intelligence outweighed what shortfalls he might be perceived as having on the national security front. Not that any person in this building wouldn’t bleed on the flag to keep the stripes red.

  McCorkell didn’t miss his former job, nor did he miss working in this building—although he had hardly gone far; just across the street. He didn’t miss the National Security Council meetings and all that preparation and wrangling, didn’t miss riding in the Bubble—that ever present inner sanctum of Presidential senior staff—at all hours, being in the eye of the storm … didn’t miss much of anything. He’d done his time, far more than most, and at fifty-four he was easing himself out of this life. Academic and thinktank offers were piling up in his office back home, a space already knee-deep with requests for him to serve on boards and write books: it was all a promise of an easy time and easy money, but he didn’t want either, not yet. While he still had good advice to give the President of the United States, he would stick around. Working on the golf handicap would have to wait a little longer.

  As he walked out of the White House McCorkell passed the President’s body-man and offered a closed-fist high-five greeting. The 6’2” former wide receiver and college basketball star was also a Poli-Sci graduate from Duke who had secured an aide’s job in Obama’s Senate office and been with him ever since. Valet, confidant, PA, butler, work-out partner and general buddy to POTUS, this twenty-something year old reset the bar of exceptional service; he had a 24/7 work ethic beyond most others in the House.

  “Hey L-Train,” McCorkell said to him, “how’s it treating you?”

  “Good, B McC, this is the good life,” he replied with a grin, already heading back to the President, from whom he was usually no more than a few paces. “You ready for that rematch?”

  “I think my basketball glory days came to an end after that one and only comeback.”

  “Too bad, old man, you had some skills.”

  McCorkell smiled as he passed security at the Western exit. It was invigorating to see so much enthusiasm among the executive staff. Sure, it was still honeymoon days for the Obama Administration, but there was a gloss here that wasn’t going to tarnish in a hurry, credit crisis be damned.

  McCorkell’s new office was in the Eisenhower Executive Offices Building next door to the White House. He walked across West Executive Avenue, holding his jacket collar up against the cold, and into the huge nineteenth century granite building—an imposing presence compared with the understated tack-on structure that was the West Wing of the White House. The EEOB housed the bulk of the offices of the Executive Branch staff, and there was a constant stream of junior staff assistants shuttling back and forth to the White House—not a sought-after duty on a cold February day.

  The title on his door gave away very little about who McCorkell was, beyond ‘Special Assistant to the President.’ Dozens of staff in this building and the West Wing of the White House had such a title, and their roles were as varied as Special Assistant to the President for Legislative Affairs; for Speechwriting; for Domestic Policy. McCorkell’s field of expertise was national security in all its guises, and he had agreed to stay on into this next administration on a year-by-year contract. Technically it was a couple of rungs below his previous post as Assistant to the President, but this was a Presidency that looked for all the world to be a shift in historical significance beyond the ordinary; and no Presidency was ordinary by any means.

  This morning’s brief was something he had worked for months on—an update on the peace in Georgia following the flare-up during the 2008 Olympics. Sarkozy had brokered peace in the spotlight while McCorkell organised a serious US military presence in the region, a presence serious enough to back the Frenchman’s words. McCorkell knew from decades of experience that when the bad guys received intel that the United States were prepared to intervene with armour, air power and a wall of steel on the sea, they usually relented. And Russia was no different; the flames from the Kremlin were dampened.

  As he took the stairs to
his second-floor office he was saluted by a guy coming down the stairs, unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth.

  “Hey Tony,” McCorkell said, shaking hands with the National Intelligence Agency man.

  “Hey Bill. Thought you’d be out on the driving range.”

  “Can’t get rid of me that easily,” McCorkell replied.

  “Yeah, you know this place, once they get you…”

  “They don’t like to let you go…” McCorkell conceded with a smile. “What you up to?”

  “Just briefed the VP on South Ossetia,” Tony Niemann said quietly. Until recently, he had been a deputy director at the CIA; now he was the White House National Intelligence Agency liaison, where he oversaw and coordinated all intelligence agencies that fell under that jurisdiction. “A bunch of stuff has come up, some arms and personnel deals that may cause more heat with Georgia, and our NATO exercises are pissing off the Russians.”

  “Funny that.”

  “Yeah. We’ve got a State Department and EU delegation meeting on the ground in Gori today.”

  “Oh yeah?” McCorkell said, the two moving close to the wall to let people pass on the busy staircase. He gestured upstairs in the vague direction of his office: “Walk and talk?”

  “Yeah, then I gotta get to a thing,” Niemann replied, following McCorkell up the stairs. “I read your brief on DoD working on putting UN boots in there instead of NATO.”

  “UN, EU—or more specifically cutting back US numbers—moving us back to our pre-war levels of training support.”

  “Which the VP has been championing,” Niemann said, still in hushed tones. “The situation’s a real cluster fuck: all the usual Russian military and political bullshit, and now we’ve got evidence of a bunch of private outfits giving militants a helping hand.”

  “Russian?”

  “Mainly,” Niemann replied. “This is becoming a private war as much as a political and military one. There’s gas and oil pipelines involved, so we’re talking some big commercial players who are keen on protecting their assets, like Umbra Corp’s contractors, who are mainly—”

  “Ex-Russian Special Forces guys from Chechnya. I’m up with it,” McCorkell said, scratching around the back of his collar as they paused at the first floor landing. “Wanna grab a coffee, chew it over for a bit?”

  “I’m good. I’ve got to get to that thing,” Niemann said, looked around.

  “Anything I can help out on, you just need to say hey, okay? Remember, you can’t win them all. I won’t be walking the halls around here forever, you know…”

  “Yeah, thanks, we got it,” Tony said and checked his watch as two Army officers passed them on the stairs with a nod. “Although … Yeah, how about that coffee? Something else has popped up that would be good to run by you.”

  “Sure,” McCorkell said, and led the way to his office as his cell phone rang.

  19

  JFK AIRPORT, NEW YORK

  “Okay, thanks,” Fox said and ended the call. He turned to Gammaldi.

  “Bill McCorkell sends his love.” Fox tucked his iPhone away and not for the first time found himself thankful that they had a friend with so much clout in the White House. Almost like a brother to Tas Wallace, McCorkell had been instrumental in several big GSR investigations and it was a relationship that had literally saved many lives in recent years. Not that any of the finer details would make the press.

  “Nice, what a lovely guy,” Gammaldi replied. “You surprised he’s still working in the executive branch?”

  “Nah,” Fox said, holding onto the oh-shit handle as he rode in the back seat of the fast-moving SUV. Gammaldi sat next to him, two GSR security guys up front. “Bill’s worked for a few admins now, couldn’t imagine he’d sit out on this one.”

  Eyal Geiger pulled hard into JFK’s Hangar 12, the tyres of the Mercedes 320 BlueTEC squealing on the painted concrete floor. The whole fleet of GSR vehicles had switched to BlueTECs for the grunt work, their new-technology diesel engines even cleaner than petrol–electric hybrids. Sure, there was cleaner tech available like hydrogen-cell fleet vehicles that emitted nothing but H2O, but outside LA there were too few filling stations. All emissions for the entire GSR fleet of vehicles—plus all the air miles travelled via the leased jets and the thousands of commercial seats they used each year—were offset by the hundreds of acres of woods on Tas Wallace’s Connecticut farm, plus a large parcel of former mining land the company had bought in Canada and was reforesting.

  “He’ll work on getting us clearance to land at the US military airport in Spain,” Fox said. Gammaldi looked at him with a raised eyebrow as they got out of the car. “What? McCorkell will get it done—he’s still got pull.”

  Fox and Gammaldi walked towards their G650, backpacks over their shoulders, followed by Geiger and Goldsmith. As another Gulfstream pulled into the hangar Fox saw Gammaldi’s face light up.

  “What’s with you?” Fox asked him as the security men loaded the bags.

  Before Gammaldi could answer, the door to the newly arrived jet opened and a few GSR staff poured out, led by security operator Emma Gibbs. She and Gammaldi came together slowly and hugged, then kissed.

  “You guys are sick,” Fox said as he walked past them and shook hands with a few reporters returning from their tour in the Middle East. GSR was good at rotating their overseas bureaus and on-the-ground hot-spot teams, constantly streaming back and forth from Afghanistan and Iraq and Gaza for the most part, relieving stressed personnel while maintaining good on-the-ground and company-wide knowledge. And as other news agencies tightened their belts GSR picked up more and more outsourced work, advancing the company’s good name and facilitating a broader public awareness, thanks in no small part to Fox’s endeavours. Not quite two years in the job and it felt like many a lifetime.

  “Where are you boys heading?” Emma asked, taking her bags from the ground crew.

  “Spain,” Fox said.

  “Then India,” Gammaldi added. “Back within a week.”

  Emma’s gaze fell over their shoulders, and Fox turned to see Geiger and Goldsmith loading their weapons cases and several bags of US military field rations onto the G650. She looked at Gammaldi, who flushed a little, and then she looked at Fox, questioning.

  “I’ll leave you two to catch up,” Fox said, beetling off to help finish loading their aircraft.

  Emma Gibbs was a security member with GSR, a specialist sniper to whom Al had been engaged for the past few months. She didn’t take well to the news of the death threat.

  “It’ll be a quick trip,” Gammaldi said, looking into her eyes. She was strong and didn’t need consoling, but that was double-edged: she knew the risks—too well.

  “You don’t need to go,” Gibbs said. “You’re a pilot, not a reporter.”

  “Lach needs me.”

  She didn’t say, “And what about me?” She didn’t need to.

  “I won’t be long,” Gammaldi said, taking her hand and brushing a wisp of her shoulder-length mousy hair behind her ear.

  “It’s not that…” she said.

  “Just don’t go spending all our savings on the wedding,” Gammaldi said with a big grin, but she wasn’t buying into it. “Seriously, two hundred people max.”

  “It’s not that either…”

  “I won’t come back with black eyes or broken bones, I promise. Eyal and Rob’ll be with us the whole time,” Gammaldi said. “What? What’s wrong?”

  She looked up at him, her eyes no longer showing concern. She took his hand.

  “What?”

  She smiled a little.

  “What?” he asked, confused. “You’re killing me…”

  Fox buckled into the copilot seat and Gammaldi was ready at the controls. They’d said their goodbyes, and Gammaldi had hurried around the outside of the G650 doing his preflight, checking visually for any wear or tear on the tyres, joins, seams and flaps—these new aircraft used metal bonding instead
of rivets, more aerodynamic and carefree—and fluid leaks. The G650 taxied out of the hangar, as smooth a ride as their SUV, and headed towards runway 4R-22L to await take-off. Gammaldi adjusted and quadruple-checked flight instruments as he went. He was grinning from ear to ear. Fox looked at him sideways.

  “What the hell’s up with you?”

  A smiled played at Gammaldi’s lips as he toggled the interior lighting on and off.

  “You’re creeping me out with this chipper mood,” Fox said, looking out the windows at the JetBlue, Qantas and United aircraft that were coming in to land in tandem on the parallel runways; at this organised chaos of an airport sometimes the aircraft seemed so close you could reach out the window and touch them.

  “Fine, suit yourself,” Fox said, adjusting his seatbelt. They sat in silence for a few minutes as they waited in line for their turn on the smaller of JFK’s runways.

  “So,” Gammaldi said, looked at Fox deadpan. “What MREs were packed?”

  “How the hell do I know?” Fox answered, adjusting his headset. Meal, Ready to Eat was the ration pack of today’s US military force, from whom GSR logistics purchased supplies for their remote-post staff—plastic bricks stuffed with twenty-four hours’ worth of food that a soldier—or in GSR’s case, a hungry reporter, photographer, fixer, diver or security contractor—would need. MREs ranged from edible to non-edible, with not much in between save for the improvements Tabasco sauce could make. A two-word review would read: ‘calories, portable.’

  “This army travels on his stomach,” Gammaldi said, patting his gut. He was several inches shorter than Fox and never seemed to stop eating, energy that was usually burned lifting heavy weights. To boot, he had recently shaved his black hair down to his skull—he could pass as a silverback, Fox thought.

  “Al, you’re going to have to travel around everywhere on your stomach if you don’t pick up the cardio.”

  “Ah, the wise, lean Fox slays me again.”