by Jones, Rick
Kimball placed a gentle hand on his old friend, as much to stabilize the man as to express his good will. He hated to see the cardinal in this condition—a man of greatness deteriorating inch by inch, the victim of a degenerative bone disease. “When do we leave?”
“Immediately. You’ll be flying from Rome into Dulles via private jet. Once on American soil, you’ll need to contact Cardinal Juan Medeiros at the Sacred Hearts Church, one mile east of the Washington Archdiocese. He’ll be your intel source—a good man.”
Kimball gave a light squeeze to the cardinal’s shoulder before getting to a knee and placing a closed fist over his heart. “Loyalty above all else,” he repeated, “except Honor.”
The cardinal reciprocated Kimball‘s gesture with one of his own, placing a hand on top of Kimball’s head—an act of anointing, an act of honor. “Be safe, my friend. The Church has faith in those who believe in righteousness. May God be with you.”
Kimball stood, turned, and walked away from the Society of Seven, his footsteps echoing off the ancient stone walls.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The White House
September 23, Mid-Afternoon
The total area of the White House is 65,000 square feet, including the basement and sub-basement. But as far as the president was concerned, it was not enough space. All around him, White House staff worked like drones, seemingly everywhere at once.
Voices whined and chattered, becoming an incessant buzz that hammered at his temples unmercifully, even within his private study.
All he wanted, even for fifteen minutes, was a short reprieve to regroup his thoughts and emotions.
And he found it in the Press Briefing Room, a small, closed-in area no larger than a decent-sized living room. Forty-eight theater-style chairs stood empty before him.
President Burroughs stood in front of the staging area looking over an empty audience, then rubbed the palms of his hands over his eyes until he saw bright patterns. He knew this room would soon be packed with media shouting out questions for which he had no answers.
“I knew you’d be here,” said the vice president. His voice always projected smoothly, calmly, except when he was involved in a hotly-contested political debate or lobbying for a cause. “It‘s an odd place to find peace and quiet, isn‘t it?” The vice president stood behind the podium, then hooked his fingers over the edges and took a firm grip as if he was about to lead Mass for a congregation of one. “Are you all right, Jim? It‘s not like you to run away from matters.”
The president pitched a sigh. “I’m not running from the situation, Jonas. I’m running from the moment.”
“You know it’s only going to get worse from here, don‘t you?”
The president lowered one of the seats in the gallery and sat down. “When I woke up this morning,” he began, “I knew it was going to be a bad day. Call it presidential insight, intuition, call it whatever you want. But something told me that today was going to be a challenge that I’m not sure I’m up to—that we’re up to.”
The vice president stared at the seamless face of Jim Burroughs. “We’ll get through this,” he said. “We have to.”
The president offered a weak smile. “We’ve been through a lot together, you and me.” He draped an arm over the back of a neighboring seat. “I guess that’s what happens when you have Senator Burroughs from New York and Senator Bohlmer from California running on the same ticket in a race for the White House. People expect a lot from us.”
“And we’ve provided.”
“Until now,” he added.
“There’s nothing you could have done, Jim, to prevent what happened. You took all the necessary precautions. You put your detail in place as required.”
“My detail was murdered, Jonas, by a team of insurgents who walked right into my backyard, which makes this country appear vulnerable—to the American people and to our allies. Not a good thing.”
“Jim, they were highly skilled militants trained well above the level of your people. You know that.”
“Of course I know that. But the court of public opinion and the people of this nation will only see a breach in American superiority. Our government suddenly appears incapable of providing the security that the nation expects.”
“Which is all the more reason why we have to make things right,” Bohlmer returned.
The president closed his eyes, his headache abating little. “We’re doing all we can, Jonas,” he answered weakly, “given what we have to go on.”
“I agree. But there’s still an issue we need to address.”
The president opened his eyes. “Such as?”
“Shari Cohen.”
The president raised his hands intuitively. “Please, Jonas, we’ve already discussed this matter upstairs, and your concern was duly noted. But her presence in this matter is vital.”
“Her presence, Jim, is dangerous. How many people do you think are working on this right now?”
The president shrugged. “A lot.”
“Exactly. A lot. And how long do you think it’ll take for somebody from the Post, the Times, or the Globe to make an offer to someone who is willing to divulge the fact that a woman of Jewish faith is manning the team? You know as well as I do that leaks are caused by those who are willing to set aside their integrity for a pocketful of change. It‘s a fact, Jim. And I’ll bet you anything that you have somebody up there right now who’s willing to sell their mother upriver for a can of beer.”
“We have a failsafe in place against leaks.”
“Jim, a failsafe is not foolproof. You know that.”
“What do you want me to do? Take the best person I have off the job because of her religious background?”
“In this case, yes! You know what the Soldiers of Islam will do to the pope if they find out Cohen is tracking them. Not because of what she does, but because of who she is.”
“If I remove every qualified person from their positions because of their religious affiliations—or any of the rights granted them by the Constitution—then the terrorists already won the battle by forcing me to make decisions based on insurgent beliefs.” The president closed his eyes, the pain beginning to erode his patience. “You need to have faith in our work force, Jonas. Shari Cohen is an unbelievable power. And when all this is over with, they’ll be kneeling at her feet. Believe me.”
“And you need to be realistic. You know we won’t be able to meet their demands, whatever they may be. And deep down you know they have every intention of killing him.”
“Jonas, if they were going to kill him, then they would have done so when they stormed the Governor’s Mansion; they‘re keeping him alive for a reason.”
Bohlmer left the podium, his hands gesticulating wildly to press his point. “Jim, the Soldiers of Islam are making a powerful statement to the world that they’re in control and gathering steam for recruitment by doing what they’re doing. It’s all about giving hope to insurgents by instilling in them the belief that a battle can be fought and won on American soil.” Bohlmer took in a long breath, then sighed. “They’re going to kill him, Jim. You know that. Let’s not give the media a rope to hang us with by keeping Cohen in the game. This will doom the entire administration.”
“Look, nobody understands better than I do that saving the face of this administration is paramount. But if I remove Cohen as head of the team, the probability of finding the pope decreases immensely. With Cohen at the helm, there is a chance that he will be found. If the pope is alive, I must make every effort to save his life using whatever resources are available to me. And Cohen is a valuable asset.”
“Cohen is going to get him killed!” The vice president was becoming heated. “Think about it! The moment a leak is established, his life will be over. There will be no more opportunities to track down this cell and the Soldiers of Islam will disappear.”
The president weighed the possibility that Bohlmer’s judgment was correct. With a topic of this magnitude, a leak could most
certainly occur, despite the failsafe put into place. In all likelihood the media had already attempted to contact White House moles for information that hadn’t been made public. If Cohen’s name should hit the airwaves, the odds of the pope being executed would rise exponentially. And then the accusing finger would point at his administration. The newspapers would go on a feeding frenzy, attacking Burroughs for allowing Cohen to manage the team, even though the dangers were acknowledged beforehand by his staff.
“She’s the best we have,” he finally stated.
“She’s a guaranteed death sentence for the pope if the Soldiers of Islam find out that a woman of Jewish faith is behind the investigation. I can’t stress that enough.”
“She stays, Jonas. I’m not particularly afraid if I hurt the feelings of the Soldiers of Islam. As long as the pope’s alive, she’s the most qualified to find him.”
“You may not be afraid of the Soldiers of Islam, but you are afraid of how the world community will perceive you should this blow up in your face.”
President Burroughs raked the vice president with a fierce eye. “She stays, Jonas.”
The vice president was becoming ill-tempered, his face becoming ruddy. He was not used to losing ground in an argument. “Jim, we’re never going to find him. And do you want to know why? It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack the size of Manhattan.”
He then stood back, found his calm, and spoke in a much gentler tone.
“Look, Jim, this is politics. And we both know that we need to cover our bases on this one. As much as I feel sorry for the pope, and as much as I would love to find him, we can’t let our emotions cloud our judgment. The reality is that the probability of finding him is zero to none.”
The president’s eyes settled on Bohlmer, his demeanor stern and unrelenting, but his voice remaining calm. “I know this is politics,” he said. “But it’s better politics if we put in the best there is and make a concerted effort to find him.”
The vice president looked incredulous. “I don’t get it,” he said. “The picture is right in front of you, yet you continue to put us and the rest of this administration in jeopardy because of her.”
The president remained silent.
“If I didn’t know better, Jim, I would swear you want this to happen. That you want the media to know—”
“That’s enough, Jonas.” The president held up his hand, knowing what Bohlmer was about to say. “I’m not going to argue this point with you any longer. I have based my decision on our government’s potential to find the pope and bring him back alive. If you’re afraid that my decision will determine what the Soldiers of Islam will do to undermine this administration, then deal with it. Once again, your input is appreciated and duly noted.”
Bohlmer took a step back, his jaw tight. “All right,” he said. “But you’ll have to live with your decision, Jim. When they kill him, and they will, I hope you can stand on your own two feet. I tried to reason with you.”
“I’ll stand alone on this if I have to.”
“I just wanted to let you know where I stood.”
The president nodded his head. “Noted.”
After Bohlmer left, the president wondered how much of a gamble he was taking by leaving Cohen in the lineup. He hated to admit it, but there was merit in what the vice president said.
With the ache in his temples sharpening into a stabbing bout of pain, the president leaned forward in his chair and placed his face within his cupped hands, wondering how the game of politics was going to play out.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Washington, D.C.
September 23, Early Afternoon
Shari Cohen’s greatest achievement in life was graduating cum laude from Georgetown University; a strong second was being selected as class speaker and representative for the highly touted group of scholars making their way into the real world. Although many graduated as physicians, attorneys, and business prodigies, Shari’s proficiency was in International Studies and Strategic Counterterrorism. Upon graduation, she was actively recruited by the NSA, the CIA and the FBI.
She started in the FBI, like most agents, tarrying around the bottom rung until she was able to prove herself. But with perseverance and determination, she rose steadily through the ranks until 9/11, when her knowledge and skills immediately triggered a meteoric rise. Now, as head of the Bureau’s Hostage Rescue Team, she had served as lead in dozens of scenarios in which her tactical negotiations and innovative thinking had saved numerous lives. In time, her strategic methods would become departmental protocol, helping the Bureau keep pace with evolving ideologies, especially when dealing with the Middle East.
In the living room of her brownstone, as Shari picked up her daughter’s books that were scattered across the living room floor, CNN was reporting on the death of Maryland’s First Lady, Darlene Steele.
Since no statement had been made by the political brass, CNN offered baseless theories about her death gleaned from “inside” sources, who informed the news media more out of speculation than fact. The end result was a constant looping of assumptive news that became monotonously redundant as she picked up books by Dr. Seuss and Mother Goose and began to stack them into the bookcase.
Gary Molin entered the room wearing a cooking mitt on one hand and holding a two-pronged fork in the other. He was tall and slender with olive-colored skin. His eyes were battleship gray, a drab color that paralleled the dreariness of his humor. For months he and his wife had been growing apart, each talking “at” each other instead of “to” each other. When they hugged or kissed or expressed any type of physical affection, it felt obligatory, insincere, even vulgar. But the true mystery was that neither could remember when they started to drift apart. There was no specific argument or event or act of lascivious impropriety that drove a wedge between them. It was something quite simple, really. The romantic glow of infatuation was simply going away, the once-burning flame barely a smoldering ember. Worse, they both knew it. Nevertheless, each tried to hang on to the other with futile gestures, such as cooking candlelit dinners with fancy French names, with chilled bottles of wine sitting in an ornately-styled silver ice bucket. Then they would sit in awkward silence as they ate, the conversation hard to come by, their passion as elusive as the proper words to initiate a simple thread of discussion.
Tonight Gary was making Greek lamb with spinach and orzo, a favorite of Shari’s during their honeymoon in the Greek Isles several years earlier. It was an effort to bring back the times when they were star-struck just to be in each other’s company, to hear each other’s voice.
He stepped further into the room, the smell of baked meat wafting behind him. “Anything new?”
“It’s still guesswork at this point,” she said. Her tone was flat and withdrawn as she continued to place the books onto the bookshelves.
For a moment Gary’s eyes appeared saddened. Her tone seemed to confirm that their marriage was as artificial as their attempts to communicate.
When breaking news from CNN interrupted the current programming, the anchorwoman reported that a White House spokesman was about to take the podium in the Brady Press Room.
A balding man with Botox lips and a soft appearance stepped to the podium and faced an audience of reporters. Something about his demeanor evoked the impression of a troll, and he spoke in a high-pitched whine. This was not the image Shari would have presented to a world audience, a mistake on the part of the White House staff. But as Shari expected, the first words spoken were of condemnation for the terrorist regime and the obvious call for justice. Then the spokesperson slid neatly into what everybody was waiting to hear—that the Soldiers of Islam were responsible, and there was now an international effort to bring these terrorists to justice and to acquire the safety of Pope Pius the XIII. Nothing was ever mentioned of the terrorists’ identities.
As the spokesperson elaborated, the phone rang. Shari backed up with her eyes on the television and reached blindly for the phone on the
wall. After talking briefly in hushed tones, she slowly placed the receiver back on the cradle. “That was the attorney general,” she said. “He wants to see me right away.”
Although Gary showed no emotion, she could tell he was seething underneath.
“I’m sorry,” she told him. “I know it was important to you that we have dinner together tonight.”
He shrugged. “Yeah . . . well, whatever.”
She appeared wounded; the tone of his voice was deliberately biting. “Gary, this is my job. This is what I do. I don’t have a choice in the matter.”
In a quick display of warring emotions, his face transitioned from anger, to pain, and then to a semblance of understanding.
“He said the president wanted to see me right away.”
Realizing the lamb was wasted, Gary removed the cooking mitt and tossed it on the sofa. “I understand,” he said. But his voice carried the flatness of someone too hurt to care.
“Look, Gary, I’m sorry. You know I wanted to spend tonight with you.” This was a modicum of a lie and Gary knew it. Lying was not her forte. But he knew that she wanted desperately to believe that her marriage wasn’t failing. Shari Cohen never failed at anything in her life.
He stepped forward and looked into her eyes. “Shari, seriously, help me understand what’s happening here, with us. Are you losing interest? Is it because I’m a stay-at-home dad? What? Help me out, will you?”
“There’s nothing to discuss, Gary.” She pointed to the TV, maintaining calm. “You see what’s going on. You know what I do for a living.”
He hesitated before speaking, and then softly he said, “I know you’re a mother and a wife. And I know I’m your husband. And I know you’re running away from me.” He rounded the sofa. “You wouldn’t even take my last name when we married. I know, I know, “professional” reasons. But I guess I can’t help thinking you just didn’t want to be associated with me.”
