The 13th Target

by Mark de Castrique

  “What goes around comes around,” Mullins said. He stuffed the pillow case in the paper bag and left.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  “Welcome back, Nails.” The Secret Service agent stood outside the closed door to the Oval Office, his normally serious face hijacked by a broad grin. “Congratulations. Job well done.”

  Mullins shook his hand. “Thanks, Sam. Good to see you again. It’s been a long time. It’s also been a long day.”

  “Tell me about it. Because of you we got scrambled here from Camp David. So much for the president’s holiday weekend.”

  “Sounds familiar. If you’re not arriving, you’re leaving. But I don’t understand why he wants to see me. I had a debrief with Hauser.”

  “Tomorrow when the full story comes out, you’ll be a national hero.” Agent Sam Dawkins lowered his voice. “And it’s an election year. Brighton could benefit from basking in your glory. Enjoy it while you can. Monday you’ll be old news.”

  “Then here’s to Monday.”

  The door opened and Mullins faced Daniel DeMarco, President Brighton’s chief of staff. The man wore a white shirt with a maroon tie loosely knotted around his neck.

  “Welcome, Mr. Mullins.”

  Mullins caught a whiff of Scotch on DeMarco’s breath. “Thank you. Please call me Rusty.”

  “Certainly. I’m Danny.” He pumped Mullins’ hand with too much energy for ten o’clock at night. “Come in. I understand you’ve been here many times.” DeMarco stepped aside and with a sweep of his arm, gestured for Mullins to enter.

  “Thank you, Agent Dawkins.” DeMarco closed the door.

  Mullins swept his eyes across the Oval Office. He immediately noticed the differences, those elements that change with each new president: different pictures on the wall, different chairs and sofas in different groupings, different colored drapes for the three windows overlooking the South Lawn. Brighton had chosen royal blue and they were closed, shutting out the night and the long lenses of any photographers.

  The Resolute desk given to President Hayes by Queen Victoria was still placed in front of the windows, and the oval rug with the Great Seal of the United States hadn’t changed. What was missing was the president. Mullins stood for a moment, unsure what to do next.

  Then the door on his right opened and President Brighton walked in from the adjacent study. He had to make an entrance, Mullins thought.

  “Mr. Mullins. Or should I say Agent Mullins? Once an agent, always an agent. Outstanding work.”

  Like his chief of staff, Brighton wore a white shirt and loose tie. His long sleeves were rolled at the cuffs, and Mullins figured he and DeMarco decided to appear prepared for business in case they were seen coming from the helicopter to the West Wing.

  “Call me Rusty, sir. And I’m too rusty to be back in the service.”

  Brighton laughed more than the pun called for. He clasped Mullins’ hand and held on to it, a maneuver used during photo ops. Habits are hard to break.

  “And modest too.” Brighton pulled Mullins toward the end of one of the two sofas. “Sit, please.” He released Mullins’ hand.

  Mullins sat on the edge while Brighton took an adjacent chair. DeMarco sat on a matching sofa opposite him. An oak coffee table was centered between them.

  Brighton leaned forward. “I appreciate your coming here. I know it’s been a hell of a day.”

  “For all of us, Mr. President.”

  Brighton nodded gravely. “Whenever an American institution is attacked, we are all attacked. When you served my predecessors and put your life on the line for them, you weren’t simply safeguarding the president, you were defending the American people, the American way.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And the American people need to understand that, Rusty. I’ll be addressing them again tomorrow night at seven. When I spoke from Camp David earlier today, some of my advisors wanted me to speculate which terrorists might be behind the planned attacks here and in Richmond.” Brighton shot a pointed glance at DeMarco. “But I learned from Hauser and the FBI that the circumstances were still unfolding. I prefer to wait until I can assure the public of what we know and how we are proceeding.”

  “I agree, sir. In my opinion, that’s the wisest course. There could be serious international implications if conjectures are voiced prematurely.”

  Brighton pursed his lips. “Such as?”

  “The man we knew only as Asu is Syrian. Some will see him as proof of state-sponsored terrorism and begin calling for reprisals. I know from what transpired that Asu was a mercenary, expecting to be paid by the people running Amanda Church.”

  “What do you mean running?” Brighton asked.

  “Well, as Hauser probably said, this operation was too complicated to have been conceived and executed by Amanda Church.”

  “Hauser said her husband committed suicide earlier today. They found his body when they went to check her home. You think he was involved?”

  Mullins paused, as if he hadn’t thought about the question. “Possibly. I never knew him, but I understand he traveled a lot. Europe mostly. A thriller writer. Why, the kind of story this turned out to be.”

  Brighton shook his head. “If that’s the case, then the investigation could dead-end with him. Maybe there was some grudge against Chairman Radcliffe and the Federal Reserve. Amanda created the funds and her husband created the plan.”

  “Maybe,” Mullins said. “That’s for smarter people than me to figure out.”

  Brighton shifted in his chair, striking a more casual pose. “I understand you tried to record your abductors but there was a technical problem.”

  “Yes. Sidney Levine, the reporter who was killed, wasn’t familiar with the equipment. I brought the data card to Hauser, but it was blank. Detective Sullivan and I reconstructed the conversation for Hauser as best we could.”

  “That’s too bad,” Brighton said. “But you did amazingly well and averted a national tragedy.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  “That’s why I’d like you standing beside me tomorrow night. You and Detective Sullivan, of course.”

  “Thank you, sir. I only wish Sidney Levine could be there. He’s the real hero.”

  “You have my word he won’t be forgotten.” Brighton slapped both hands on his knees. “Well, that’s all I had. I don’t want to keep you.”

  The president started to rise. Mullins reached over and touched his bare forearm.

  “There is one thing, sir. A personal request, if I may?”

  “Certainly, anything.”

  “I’m a little embarrassed to ask it.” Mullins turned toward DeMarco. “Danny, could I have a moment alone with the president?”

  Daniel DeMarco frowned. To be asked to leave the Oval Office by a civilian rankled, no matter how much the guy was the hero of the moment.

  Brighton suppressed a flash of annoyance and then nodded to his chief of staff. “Why don’t you start making the arrangements for Rusty, Detective Sullivan, and their families to be here tomorrow. And we should see if Mr. Levine has any relatives who can be present.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.” DeMarco stood.

  Mullins rose from the sofa and extended his hand. “Thank you, Danny. And thank you for all you do for our country.”

  “You’re welcome.” His handshake was less exuberant this time. He departed the way he and Mullins had entered, closing the door behind him.

  Mullins sat down, this time a little farther away from Brighton. He paused, listening to DeMarco’s footsteps fade in the hallway.

  Then he took a deep breath. “Mr. President, I’m afraid I lied to you and Mr. DeMarco. And I’ve lied to Deputy Director Hauser.”

  Brighton’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

  “There is a recording. S
idney Levine didn’t make a mistake. He captured every word from the time I was forced into the car at the Federal Reserve to when Asu ripped the microphone and transmitter from my collar.”

  Brighton’s eyes narrowed. Instantly, his guard went up and the consummate politician grew wary. “Why would you lie about that?”

  “For the good of the country. For the good of the Presidency.”

  Brighton’s wariness transformed to unease. He didn’t know where the conversation was going, and like any man of power, he didn’t like losing control. “Then why did you ask Danny to leave?”

  “For his protection. To give him deniability.” Mullins pulled his personal cell phone from his belt. “White House security does an excellent job making sure nothing dangerous is carried in. I had to turn on my phone to demonstrate it was a working device. But fortunately no one checks content.” Mullins pressed his audio player app and held the phone toward Brighton.

  Mullins’ voice started loud for a split-second and then the automatic gain lowered the level. “How do you know Radcliffe will even come? The Richmond bomb has to create some kind of lockdown.”

  Amanda spoke her first word in a lower volume, but the electronics boosted her voice. “Give me some credit, Rusty. Timing is everything. Radcliffe will be here first. Even if the Richmond bomb is discovered, the Fed’s confident of their D.C. security measures. Radcliffe might be convinced to skip the parade, but he’ll never skip honoring his comrades. And he wants his granddaughter to see what sacrifice and courage are all about. No press or photo op. Just a private moment. And all we need is ten seconds for one little girl to give another little girl a birthday present.” The recording stopped.

  Mullins put the phone back in his pocket. “That’s all I had time to excerpt. Enough to let you know it exists.”

  Brighton looked puzzled. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “I know. It matches the evidentiary findings and is consistent with a plot carried out by Amanda and her husband.”

  Mullins scooted along the sofa until he pressed against the armrest beside the president. Dropping the lie in the middle of the truth required a seamless delivery, a projection of genuine concern. “Right before Asu destroyed the transmitter, I made a plea to Amanda. I said she’d never get away with it. People wouldn’t stand for the slaughter on one of our most sacred sites. She said it was the only way to protect the Federal Reserve.”

  “Protect it?” Brighton exclaimed.

  “Yes. What better way to rally public support for an institution under fire?”

  Brighton licked his lips nervously. “If it came to light that someone plotted this attack to benefit the Federal Reserve, the country would be in an uproar. Congress would revoke the legislation that established the Federal Reserve in a heartbeat.”

  “And they’d hear it from the lips of one of the prime conspirators,” Mullins said. “Now you understand why I withheld the recording?”

  Brighton nodded vigorously. “Absolutely. We need the Federal Reserve, especially in these uncertain times, but not at that price. The Reserve survived political challenges before and it would have survived this one.” He grew wary again. “But why even tell me?”

  “Because Amanda said there are people who will do whatever is necessary to insure the Reserve remains independently shielded from scrutiny as to where money is going.”

  “Who are these people?”

  “She said they’re outside the Reserve, operating without the Reserve’s knowledge. Most are outside of this country, but the money supply from the United States is the most important asset providing their economic control. Powers behind the thrones, if you will. She said they would protect her.”

  “Did she name names?”

  “Only one, Mr. President. Orca.”

  Mullins saw the fear in Brighton’s eyes, not the indignant shock of a false accusation. Fear was there and then gone as quickly as it appeared. Contrived anger rose from its wake. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean? Was she accusing me of conspiring with her?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I recognized your Secret Service code, but she didn’t say president or specify you in any way. I know this town and how your political opponents would seek to use it against you.”

  “Those bastards would have a field day. And we’re less than four months from the election.”

  “I wanted you to be aware of what Amanda Church said in case something surfaces elsewhere. I’m sure I was targeted to be framed and they might have manufactured something to compromise you.”

  Brighton gripped Mullins’ arm. “Yes. They would do that. And if the investigation uncovers some lie about me, we’ll be ready to refute it. Your innocence is above reproach. You and I can withstand any accusations together.”

  “Yes, Mr. President. Just like I’ll be standing with you tomorrow evening.”

  “Thank you, Rusty. So, we’re agreed. You’ll destroy the recording.”

  “No, sir. I will not.”

  Brighton flinched like he’d been slapped. “What do you mean you won’t destroy it?”

  “I believe you, Mr. President,” Mullins lied. “But what if I’m wrong. I have a daughter and a two-year-old grandson. You might be innocent of this accusation, but others might want to exact revenge, if there is some broader conspiracy afoot. I’m sorry, Mr. President, but it’s a chance I can’t take. As you know, your Secret Service agents always have a backup plan, a contingent escape option. This recording is mine.”

  Brighton’s jaw clenched. “Are you blackmailing me?”

  “I prefer to call it providing you a reality check. Something your other advisors might be reluctant to do. I’ve made copies of the recording. One is in a secure military classified file. Should I die under suspicious circumstances, I’ve made arrangements for it to be declassified. My son-in-law is in Naval Intelligence. He has access to all the necessary protocols and security clearances to protect the information, but also retrieve it. He doesn’t know the content of the file, but he has his instructions. I know you are Commander in Chief, but any attempt to acquire what he secured through either a direct or indirect order will trigger its immediate release.

  “The same is true for multiple copies I’ve encrypted and placed on secure servers that can be accessed by me and my daughter. Should anything happen to us, I’ve made arrangements for the information to be released, not just through my attorney but others who would be difficult for you to discover. So, innocent, which I’m sure you are, or a theoretically guilty player in Amanda’s alleged financial cartel, you need not worry about any trouble from me.” He paused. “Provided, of course, you make sure Sidney Levine, Craig Archer, Fares Khoury, and Paul Luguire didn’t die in vain.”

  The color rose in the President’s face. “So, it is blackmail.”

  Mullins shrugged. “Blackmail. Politics. I’m not going to argue semantics, Mr. President. You know how the game is played. But I’m not letting this shadow network win and derail what Paul Luguire stood for. Chairman Radcliffe will testify at the hearings and you will publicly reiterate your confidence in him and any proposals for monetary reform he puts forth. You won’t exploit the public’s outrage over the bombing here or the failed one in Richmond in an attempt to continue cloaking the Fed in secrecy.”

  Brighton stared at Mullins. He fought to control his anger as he weighed his choice between the devil in front of him and the devil lurking behind him. “All right. You have my word.”

  “And you have mine.”

  Brighton sighed and his eyes moistened. “I would never condone or be a party to the bombing of our own people.”

  “I know that you’d never knowingly be a party. Otherwise, I would have posted the recording on the Internet.” Mullins stood, forcing the president to look up at him. “Until tomorrow, sir.”

  He walked out of the Oval
Office without looking back.

  Chapter Fifty

  “Paw Paw.” Josh squealed his grandfather’s name and jammed a banana-coated finger into the newspaper photo.

  “Yes. That’s me. The handsome devil whose good looks overshadowed the President of the United States.”

  Kayli slid a bowl of dry Cheerios in front of her son, immediately pulling his attention away from the picture. “Sorry, Dad. You come in second compared to breakfast.” She lifted the paper clear. “And I’m going to have to buy at least ten more of these.”

  “Why? I don’t know ten people.” Mullins took a sip of coffee and glanced at the photo again.

  President Brighton stood behind a podium adorned with the Presidential Seal, wearing a sharp blue suit, white shirt, red tie, and U.S. flag lapel pin. The official uniform every president and candidate had to wear.

  Mullins stood behind Brighton’s right shoulder, also in a blue suit that probably cost nine hundred dollars less and a white shirt with a dark blue tie. Mullins had worn a red one, but a media consultant had whisked it off of him. Did she think people wouldn’t be able to tell him and the president apart?

  Detective Sullivan wore police dress blues. He held his cap by his side and the white gauze of his head bandage looked like a halo.

  Both Mullins and Sullivan had asked not to speak, and Sidney Levine’s mother was too ill to travel from New York. The president was all too happy to occupy the spotlight. All Mullins and Sullivan said was “Thank you, Mr. President,” as Brighton shook their hands for the sea of photographers.

  “I wasn’t expecting you to give copies away,” Kayli said. “I thought you’d plaster them up on each wall of your apartment.”

  “Hey, young lady, at my age, I avoid mirrors. All the newspapers can go in the landfill for all I care.”