Captive-in-Chief

by Murray Mcdonald

  Things were happening too quickly. As much as he wanted Joe to be careful, he needed him to do something, and quick.

  Chapter 69

  The C-32 was the military version of the Boeing 757-200. Eight had been purchased, six for VIP use and two for special airlifts. Able to carry forty-five passengers in luxury, they were normally used by the vice president, secretary of state, first lady, and the president, although for him only when runway lengths excluded the use of the VC25, his Boeing 747. Other than at Andrews Airfield, their home base, it was not likely many people would ever have seen more than one at any one time.

  Coming in to land and seeing five already parked below was unheard of, even at Andrews. Seeing it in another country was inconceivable, yet there they all sat. All six C-32 VIP configured United States of America emblazoned blue and white colored aircraft were at Bariloche Airport in Argentina. For the very keen plane spotter, the even more amazing fact was that the additional two C-32s were also in situ. Their exterior was far more demure, plain white with U.S. Air Force simply written on the side. A number of C-5 Galaxies parked in rough terrain off the edge of the taxiway hinted at a far greater American contingent than even the C-32s suggested. The fleet of helicopters that had been assembled were testament to the work the crews had carried out.

  There was little doubt the Americans had arrived.

  Val Caldwell, First Lady of the United States of America, descended the steps from her C-32 and boarded the nearby VH-60N White Hawk helicopter, which took on the designation ‘Marine One Foxtrot’ as it took to the skies. It was joined by a number of almost identical aircraft, Black Hawks, the far less luxurious version of the first lady’s transport. The Black Hawks were filled with Secret Service and elite Special Forces that would bolster the already significant security forces in place.

  “We’re two minutes behind the vice president, Ma’am,” announced the pilot as they dipped their nose and accelerated northwest over the city and towards Lake Nahuel Huapi.

  He pointed ahead, to where a swarm of dots were visible. Another large contingent of forces accompanied him as well.

  “We’re certainly well protected on this trip,” she said to Charles, who had hitched a lift with Val to the summit.

  “I was across a number of the preparations, Ma’am,” he said. “While still National Security Advisor. The president was supposed to be here and planning started over a year ago for this trip. The island the American delegation have been given is a mile offshore and around a mile long by half a mile wide. We’ve shipped in MK V high speed patrol boats, we’ve got mini subs, surface to air and sea missile stations, and more SEALs and Delta Force soldiers than you’d need to overthrow a small country. Nobody will be visiting us on that island that we don’t want.”

  By the time he had finished describing the defensive set up, they were approaching the island. Only twelve miles from the airport and a further seven miles from the summit conference center. Val looked beyond the buzz of surface craft and helicopters that littered the area below and across the beautiful countryside. Memories of her childhood on the lakeside came to mind. The lush greenness of the unspoiled country air was washing over her. The Andes sat majestically as a picture perfect backdrop to the beautiful scene.

  “It really is a truly beautiful part of the world,” she said as they touched down.

  A golf cart awaited their arrival and transported the executive to the spectacular lakeside mansion that would play host for the next two nights to the senior members of the delegation. A number of surrounding temporary buildings had been erected to house additional staff, of which there were hundreds. Washington’s movers and shakers had temporarily moved their operations base five and a half thousand miles due South.

  Val walked into the palatial mansion and was greeted by half of Clay’s cabinet and senior staff enjoying a roaring log fire in the main lounge. Summer in Washington was early spring in Argentina and the fire was a welcome heat away after the icy air flowing down from the snowcapped Andes. The room silenced when she entered. A glass of champagne was handed to her and she raised it to the room. A reciprocal raise from around the room recommenced the chatter that had preceded her entry.

  “Aunt Val.” A kiss on either cheek from the vice president was an additional pleasant welcome.

  “Where’s Maria?”

  “Upstairs, tired after the flight.”

  “How is she?”

  “Okay,” he said noncommittedly. “Still upset about the attack.”

  “Understandable,” said Val, catching Charles’ eye. She needed to check her itinerary for the following day. “I’ll catch you at dinner, I’m sure we’ll be seated together.” She kissed Eric on the cheek and left him to mingle.

  ***

  Elsa and her crew had been in situ for two days. The passes that allowed them onto the island as part of the set up had cost hundreds of thousands to procure. A number of contractors were never going to have to work again. For the plan to work, they had had to be on the island forty-eight hours prior to the arrival of the main delegation. After that, the island went into lockdown. Nobody on or off. A major sweep had been undertaken during the forty-eight hour exclusion but hidden thirty feet below ground in a specially constructed hideout, they had nothing to fear except boredom. After the sweep, their ability to move was freed up as the island was considered secure.

  She reread the message from her father. She had failed again. They had killed the wrong person in New York. They had killed the journalist’s ‘fag’ partner, as her father had so eloquently put it. He had responded ‘well…yeah’ when asked if he was Daryl, although as she and Clyde realized on reflection, he hadn’t really been able to finish his sentence. The moment he’d said ‘yeah’, Clyde had propelled him by the throat out of the window. He could well have been about to say well, yeah he lives here or well, yeah, leave the parcel for him. Whatever the case, it was now a problem he was going to have to fix which, given the journalist had subsequently disappeared, suggested he believed, and rightly, that his days were numbered.

  If she hadn’t been stuck in a hole in the ground with her team, she’d have screamed. However screwed up her relationship was with her father, impressing him was still the most important thing in her life. It meant she absolutely had to deliver, failure was not an option. Despite being his own flesh and blood, too many failures would be intolerable for her father. As it was, two was more than he’d allow anyone else. He didn’t tolerate failure. She accepted full responsibility, knowing any mention of Clyde’s part in the failure would more than likely be his death sentence. Her father’s operatives had an extremely inspirational desire to deliver: their lives.

  She put away her cell and focused on the job at hand. Darkness had fallen. She signaled to her men. Her Special Forces operatives donned their uniforms, exact replicas of the guards stationed across the island. Her specialists donned their maintenance uniforms; again exact replicas, indiscernible from the legitimate maintenance outfits.

  It was time.

  Chapter 70

  With so many witnesses seeing him almost be hit by his partner’s falling body, it was a no brainer that Daryl had played no part in Jamie’s death. It was ruled suicide and Daryl let it go. After walking for what felt miles in a daze, Daryl had stopped. He couldn’t go home. Nobody would want to kill Jamie. He was an interior designer and probably the best in New York, certainly top three, and one of the most expensive. His work was extraordinary, as he had been.

  Daryl, on the other hand, was about to expose one of the biggest scandals to ever rock the military establishment in the US. If there was a target on anyone, it was him. Jamie had died in his place.

  Daryl was in Harlem, nowhere near his apartment but very near his mother’s house. He couldn’t go there. He couldn’t go anywhere they might expect him. He looked at his cell. They could trace him through that. He went to throw it in the trashcan on the street but stopped. He was missing something. He quickly checked his emails, n
othing. It hit him like a sledgehammer. He had obviously been ignoring something in his subconscious. He scrolled through the apps on his phone. He had been born and raised in Harlem. As cool and hip as the Village was to him, it was still New York and he was an investigative journalist. He had insisted on the solid secure front door. A door that was supposedly impossible to kick down or burst through. However, that was only one part of the security system. A camera was hidden in the spyhole. He opened the app. The camera recorded to a 2 terabyte hard drive. The app for the system opened, he pressed rewind, entered the required admin password, and five tries later, he was in. He pressed rewind. Three hours earlier, he watched himself closing the door behind himself after winning the argument to get champagne.

  Barely a minute later, a blonde woman was at the door, a man with her. He recognized them both. He had said ‘Hi’ to them as he had bounded down the stairs. He captured both as still images, perfect headshots. He emailed them to a Gmail account, erased the phone’s account and memory with two inputs of his password, and threw it into the nearest trashcan. He withdrew a thousand dollars, the maximum his account would allow from a nearby ATM, hailed a Yellow Cab, and told the driver to drive forty blocks south.

  He paid cash and after numerous attempts to find a working phone booth, managed to call his editor. He’d know what to do, he was sure.

  His editor told him to lie low and call him back the next morning at 8 a.m. He’d ask some questions and find a safe place for him to go.

  Daryl spent the night in a low end motel on Long Island. In the morning he picked up the phone to call his editor, then paused. What the hell? Why hadn’t the editor invited him to his house? Or tell him he was being paranoid? Or anything? He had believed somebody wanted to kill Daryl, no questions asked. It was as though he knew Daryl was right, no matter how crazy it sounded. The editor knew he was right.

  Daryl realized he couldn’t trust anyone.

  He boarded a bus to D.C., though he didn’t fully understand why. He needed to get out of New York, and Washington was the home of justice, the FBI, any number of agencies that could help him. He had the killers’ photos and he needed to bring them to justice. After an hour on the bus, he panicked. Photo recognition software. The Defense Department ran the NSA and they were, as he knew from his work, all seeing. What if the facial recognition software had detected him at the bus station, recorded him boarding the bus? He was a sitting duck, they’d know where he was. They’d await his arrival or deal with him en route. As soon as the thought took hold, he couldn’t shake it. He waited for a remote stop and after being confident no cameras were around, he got off. A local bus and taxi deposited him miles off of the original bus route and he spent a second night in a motel.

  Between the grief for his loss and his paranoia, he was a wreck. He spent most of the next day hidden away in the motel, the only place where he felt safe, where no one knew where he was. It was only when he thought of the killers escaping without punishment that he forced himself into action. He had eight hundred and fifty dollars in his pocket and he was about two hundred miles from D.C. For three hundred, the motel owner’s son was only too happy to drive him to D.C. and deposit him as requested at the front door of the FBI headquarters.

  ***

  Another day as a swimming pool attendant passed, unsurprisingly, without incident. Joe and Sandy headed home, another circuitous route planned by Joe to try and find Hank’s car and apartment. Another failure. They arrived back at the house no further forward.

  Joe took his Librium and stared into the mirror. Sandy walked by, glancing towards the reflection.

  “What?” he asked her.

  She tilted her head, lying down with a sigh.

  “Jesus, you’re tough.”

  Her look said more to him than if she could have talked. She was right. He was there to save a girl and protect his president, not look after a pool and try to find a car. There was a lead upstairs. Clara’s life was in danger, and every moment he failed to act was a moment’s more danger. As much as the idea of questioning Amy turned his stomach, she was likely working for the people holding Clara and blackmailing the president, and ultimately threatening the country he loved.

  A car door closed, and he peeked out of the window. Not an Uber, not Lloyd’s limo, Hank giving Amy a lift home. As innocent as they tried to make their arrival look, it had illicit affair stamped all over it. Joe watched as Hank, with other things on his mind, followed Amy into the house. He hadn’t locked his car.

  Joe checked Sandy’s water and laid out some food. He snuck quietly out of the apartment and slipped into the trunk of Hank’s car. Two minutes later, and in the blistering heat, he realized it wasn’t his brightest idea. The sound of the door opening and closing nearby prevented him extracting himself. The shudder of the car door opening and thudding closed then the engine starting gave him some hope that he might have made the right call.

  The coolness of the air conditioning didn’t quite permeate into the trunk but it held off the worst of the late afternoon sunshine to the point Joe could breathe, though not enough to stop him sweating profusely. Although he tried to concentrate on the turns, there were too many and if Hank was heading back to his apartment it certainly wasn’t around the corner.

  A ringing cell was answered quickly. Joe pushed his ear to the back of the rear seat. He needn’t have bothered; the sound was pumped through the sound system in the car, and the back of a speaker was next to his ear.

  “You got my message?” a demanding and authoritative voice boomed out.

  “Yes, I’m on my way now,” replied Hank.

  Joe thought he sounded panicked.

  “Good. Ask for Assistant Director Davies. He will transfer the man into your custody. I need you to shut down any leads he gives you. Then shut him down.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “I had, three days ago. Don’t disappoint me as my daughter and your brother have!” The call ended.

  “Shit!” shouted Hank, banging his steering wheel.

  Joe tried to understand what had just happened although whatever it was, without more context it was meaningless. He’d have to be patient.

  After a short drive, the car slowed down. Joe pressed his ear to the back of the seat.

  “US Marshal. I’m here to pick up a witness. Assistant Director Davies is expecting me.”

  The door opened and Hank was gone. Joe suddenly worried the guy might have luggage but before he could work out how he was going to work his way around that and not be arrested, two of the car’s doors opened and closed.

  “They only sent one marshal? Seriously? This is supposed to make me feel safe?” said a new voice.

  “We’ve never lost anyone in the Witness Protection Program,” replied Hank.

  “There’s always a first time,” replied the passenger.

  The car took off again with Joe wondering if he had totally misread everything over the last few days. If Hank was a US Marshal and involved in Witness Protection, perhaps Amy was in protection, or Lloyd, or both of them. It may be why she’d overreacted to Joe. If so, he was back at square one. He still had to get to five of the most well protected men in the US and had wasted days for nothing. He felt sick, in no small part to the being stuck in a boiling hot trunk, but more over the waste of time the last few days. He was failing Clay and that was the hardest pill to swallow. Joe didn’t fail his friend.

  A few minutes later, the car came to a stop.

  “Where are we?” asked the passenger, his voice panicky.

  “A safe house. What’s wrong?” asked Hank, his voice almost drowned out by a mechanical sound.

  Joe realized why he’d never found Hank’s car, they were waiting for a door to open. He didn’t park on the street.

  “It says institute on the plaque,” the passenger commented.

  “A cover,” assured Hank.

  Joe was already wondering how he was going to get out of the trunk without alerting Hank to his presence. If
the door worked on a security code, he was screwed. He’d potentially be there all night. He didn’t have any water or his Librium. It was either going to be a rough night or he had to explain why he was hiding in Hank’s trunk.

  The car moved forward and the sound of the door closing behind them followed them until the car drew to a stop.

  “I’m not happy about this,” said the passenger.

  Any thoughts of a rough night disappeared with Hank’s answer. He slapped his passenger and from the sound of it, about as hard as you could slap someone.

  “You shouldn’t be.” Hank’s tone had become menacing, a tone Joe hadn’t heard before.

  “What the…?”

  “Get out!” commanded Hank, opening his door.

  “No way, I’m not. Whoa, okay, okay I’m getting out.”

  Joe could only assume Hank had pulled a gun.

  Shit. In his haste to jump in the trunk, he’d forgotten something other than water. A gun.

  Chapter 71

  The producer watched the first cut of the report and sat silent.

  “What?” asked the reporter.

  “You’ve verified all of this?”

  The reporter nodded.

  “How can this be? How can it be that nobody else has picked this up?” The producer was struggling to comprehend what had been going on over the last few days that the country hadn’t heard anything about.

  “It’s being talked about online, blogs, there’s plenty of talk about it out there although no mainstream channels or press have picked up on it. I’ve no idea why.”

  “How can we have been so blind to what’s happening? In a week our country has regressed sixty years, maybe even more in its attitudes.”