by Ben Coes
Bruner stared down at Black, saying nothing.
Black ranted on. “Let me out! They’ll know! The secretary of defense cannot go missing!”
“You’ve taken a short vacation,” Bruner said calmly. “It’s already been reported. In fact, someone on Hannity was speculating as to why you might be going on vacation the week of President Dellenbaugh’s announcement for reelection. Speculation about a possible illness.”
Black stared at Bruner, a pained look on his face.
“You’ll never get the codes from me,” said Black, sweat pouring down his face, which was beet red. “I’ll die before I tell you.”
“I told you, we don’t need you for the codes,” said Bruner. “We needed you to move the submarines into the European theater. You did that. The codes are irrelevant. Once Bobby is sworn in as president, he can appoint whomever he would like as secretary of defense.”
Black suddenly relaxed, laying his head back on the bed. He glared hatefully at Bruner.
“I sacrificed everything,” said Black. “Despite your vile … your evil treatment, I believe in what we’re doing!”
“I know you do, Harry,” said Bruner.
“Then let me out of these chains.”
“No.”
Black again lurched up at Bruner, though this time he swung his feet out, trying to kick him.
“Then kill me.”
“No, Harry, we still need you.”
“Why? What for? I’ll never do anything else for you!”
Bruner had an empathetic expression on his face.
“We need you to be the secretary of defense,” Bruner said quietly. “It’s what we’ve always needed you to do. You’re the best secretary of defense America has ever had.”
Black was taken aback. “What do you mean, you need me?”
“You heard me,” said Bruner. “You’re here because the pressure has gotten to you. It’s understandable. This is a stressful time. Only a few of us have ever known this kind of pressure. But it will soon be over, and when it is, you will be the secretary of defense—that is, if you would like to be. If you wish to retire, you can do that too. But we need you there. America—a new America—needs you there.”
Bruner swept his arm across the basement.
“You will forget all of this,” he said. “Trust me. You will be hailed as one of the people who saved our country. I don’t expect you to thank me, but someday I hope you’ll understand why I did it.”
Bruner turned and walked to the door.
“I’ll have blankets brought in,” he said.
42
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The Diplomatic Reception Room was packed with reporters. Every network in America and across the world was ready and waiting. Within the hour, every single one of them would cut away from their prime-time programming to carry the U.S. president’s press conference live.
A low din of conversation permeated the stunningly beautiful room, with its antique wallpaper and period furniture. Bright klieg lights from two platforms—one against the back left wall, one the right, made the room bright with camera-perfect light.
At 8:11 P.M., a tall, husky man with thick brown hair and glasses stepped to the podium. He wore a friendly smile and was dressed in a blue business suit. Everyone knew who he was: John Schmidt, the White House director of communications.
“Good evening, everyone,” he said. “The ground rules are simple. The president will be making a brief statement. He will not be taking questions, so don’t ask.” Schmidt stared at a female reporter seated in the front row. “That means you, April.”
“BBC is reporting they have someone in custody, John,” said a reporter from the back of the room. Schmidt shot him a look but remained quiet.
“John—” asked another reporter, a female seated near the middle of the room.
“Kelly, I’m not getting into it.”
“Will anyone from the administration be available for questions?” she asked.
“Is it true there were threats made to the secretary of state before the trip?” another reporter called out.
Soon, reporters were talking over one another, shouting questions. Schmidt didn’t respond to any of them.
Finally, he held up his hand, telling everyone to be quiet. It took nearly a minute for the reporters in the room to settle down. During this time, Schmidt looked down at the lectern, then at his watch, waiting patiently. Finally, Schmidt looked up.
“We’re twenty minutes out,” he said. “Let your producers know: we go live at eight twenty-five. That means do your pre’s before then. I want dead silence at eight twenty-four. And anyone who asks the president a question is going to have a shit storm on their hands, got it?”
Schmidt nodded politely, then turned and walked down the long, ornate hallway, enveloped by the sound of yet more questions coming after him. He moved around the corner, aiming for the West Wing.
The formality of the central part of the White House transitioned into the comfortable elegance of the West Wing, where the day-to-day work of the president and his senior staff took place. The halls closed in slightly, the ceilings lowered, the lighting, provided by beautiful sconces on the walls, had a warm, golden hue. The West Wing had an old New England feel to it: preppy and aristocratic, like a mansion in Chestnut Hill. Lush wall-to-wall carpeting covered the floors, its pattern a rich red-and-tan matrix. The walls were decorated in white-and-silver Farrow & Ball wallpaper. Large photos of President Dellenbaugh in recent settings—with the British prime minister, the annual pardoning of a turkey at Thanksgiving, a speech before thousands of supporters—hung along the walls every few feet.
Despite the late hour, the West Wing was a buzz of activity. It was the epicenter of all that was going on. Sadness was on the faces of White House staff and senior government officials, all of whom knew Tim Lindsay both professionally and personally.
As Schmidt approached the closed door of the Oval Office, a tall, thin man with glasses emerged from an office just down the hallway, sleeves rolled up, clutching some papers.
“Hey, John,” he said.
“Hi, Cory.”
Cory Tilley was the head of White House Speechwriting. Schmidt followed him to the door.
“Is that the statement?” asked Schmidt, pointing at the papers.
“Yeah.”
“Let me see it before we go in.”
Tilley handed over the pages. Schmidt scanned them.
“‘Murdered’?” he said.
“What else would you call it?” said Tilley. “Besides, it’s already out there.”
“I know it’s out there. Assassinated is what we should probably call it. Anyway, let’s let him make the call.”
“He said he wanted to use it,” said Tilley.
Schmidt looked up, a quizzical look on his face. “He did?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Forget it. Go with it.”
Schmidt opened the door to the Oval Office.
President Dellenbaugh was seated on one of the two tan leather chesterfield sofas in the center of the room. A small group of people were with him: Hector Calibrisi, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency; Adrian King, the White House chief of staff; Josh Brubaker, the national security advisor; Jacqui Murray, secretary of the treasury; Arden Mason, head of Homeland Security; Vice President Danny Donato; George Kratovil, the FBI director; along with certain key White House staff.
Three plasma screens on the far wall were tuned to news coverage—all Special Reports preempting regular programming to focus on the death of U.S. Secretary of State Tim Lindsay. Two of the stations—CBS and BBC—had reporters outside the George V, still a hub of activity—flashing blue lights of police cars, several ambulances, crowds of reporters. The third screen, tuned to Fox News, had cut to the White House and showed the room where President Dellenbaugh would soon speak. All three TVs were muted.
It was clear from the body language in the room tha
t an argument had been taking place. Calibrisi had an angry look on his face, as did the vice president.
Dellenbaugh turned.
“Should we come back?” Schmidt said.
“No,” said Dellenbaugh. “Is that the statement?” he said, nodding to Tilley.
“Yes, sir.”
Tilley handed the papers to the president, who read it quickly.
“How much time until I need to get out there?”
“Twelve minutes, Mr. President.”
Dellenbaugh nodded, motioning for Schmidt and Tilley to sit down.
“Where were we?” said Dellenbaugh.
“Forensics,” said Kratovil. “The bullets came from Andreas’s gun. His prints are on the gun as well as the doorknob.”
“Where’s Dewey now?” asked Brubaker.
“A DGSI holding facility in Paris. They’re saying nothing and they’re not giving us access.”
“Has anybody spoken to him?” asked Dellenbaugh.
“No,” said Calibrisi. “DGSI isn’t letting us speak with him, nor will they allow our station chief to see him.”
“Why was he there?” asked Brubaker pointedly.
“I sent him,” said Calibrisi. “There was chatter coming through NSA regarding Lindsay’s trip.”
“What is DGSI saying?” asked Dellenbaugh.
“They see the evidence as being, at least circumstantially, airtight, sir,” said Calibrisi. “Dewey’s hotel suite was adjacent to Lindsay’s. He comes out of his room, kills the two agents, enters Lindsay’s suite and shoots him. Drops his gun and takes off.”
“Why would he come back to the scene of the crime?” asked King. “I mean … this is Dewey, guys.”
“I agree, why would he drop his gun?” added Donato. “It doesn’t add up. Dewey shoots him and then drops the weapon? It’s absurd. We should demand his immediate release.”
“No,” said Calibrisi.
All eyes shot to Calibrisi.
“Did you just say no?” asked Adrian King.
“Yeah.”
“Hector, why the hell would we not twist those bastards’ arms a little and get him out?” said King, who was pacing near the wall. “He’s obviously innocent.”
“We can twist arms all we want,” said Calibrisi. “Until they complete their investigation, Dewey isn’t leaving.”
“The bigger issue is, why would someone kill Tim Lindsay?” said Dellenbaugh. “That’s what we need to focus on. Dewey wouldn’t kill him. It’s absurd. Let France complete their investigation. Get Ambassador George involved. Let’s make sure the investigation is aboveboard. In the meantime, we need to find out who killed Tim and why.”
Schmidt cleared his throat, getting Dellenbaugh’s attention.
“We’re five minutes out, sir.”
“Let’s push it back ten minutes,” said Dellenbaugh.
“Fine,” said Schmidt, standing up.
“I wouldn’t do that,” said Calibrisi.
“Why?”
“Because someone is going to leak the fact that their main suspect is an American. The moment it gets out there, it’ll be pandemonium. Frankly, I wouldn’t be doing a press conference at all. Just release the statement.”
“I’m addressing the American people. They need to hear from their commander in chief.”
“Then, with all due respect, let’s get it over with. And by God, don’t take any questions.”
“I’ve already laid down the ground rules,” said Schmidt. He took a few steps toward the door.
Dellenbaugh stood up. He looked around the room.
“The main question is, why Lindsay?” he said. “I’m going to give the statement and then go upstairs and read to my daughter. I want to reconvene at ten thirty tonight. I want to know why someone would want to kill America’s top diplomat.”
Dellenbaugh walked to the door. Calibrisi got up as well, following the president into the hallway.
“Mr. President,” said Calibrisi.
Dellenbaugh stopped outside the door.
“Give us a minute,” the president said to Schmidt.
Schmidt walked ahead, giving Calibrisi and the president room to speak in confidence.
Dellenbaugh started rubbing the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes for a moment. He looked at Calibrisi. “What is it?”
“The NSA has uncovered anomalies leading up to the event,” said Calibrisi.
“What do you mean by anomalies?”
“First, a direct link between Lindsay’s murder and the Toronto mosque massacre. In addition, one of the dead State Department guards might have been some sort of sleeper agent. Deep cover. There were, at most, six people who knew Dewey was in Paris. Who knew he had a weapon, that he was staying on the same floor as Lindsay.”
“Do we know who he was working for? A foreign government?”
“That’s the thing,” said Calibrisi. “At this point it all ties back to us, that is, the U.S. government. The ties to Toronto, the sleeper—it’s all internal.”
Dellenbaugh took a deep breath. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m not sure,” said Calibrisi. “In order to do what they did, they would’ve needed to know Dewey was there. He wasn’t on any advance team manifests. It was Lindsay, his security team, me, and a few people at NCS. There was no forced entry into his room either. It has the markings of an inside job, someone we know, someone with access to a very tight stream of information. Something deeper was going on.”
* * *
The lectern stood empty. A low mumble of voices filled the room. Suddenly, President Dellenbaugh emerged from the West Wing and walked down the red carpet to the lectern. Cameras rolled, flashbulbs flashed, yet other than those sounds, the room was as quiet as a library, or a morgue.
Dellenbaugh looked down at the lectern, averting his eyes from the gathered press corps. After almost half a minute, he looked up. He squinted slightly as his eyes scanned the room. It was as if he was in pain, or angry, or a combination, but whatever distractions had perhaps existed until that point in time within the audience, they disappeared. He held the reporters—and by extension the hundreds of millions of people watching across the globe—in rapt attention, as they all waited for him to begin.
“It is my sad duty to report to you that Secretary of State Tim Lindsay died earlier this evening while on a diplomatic mission in Paris,” said the president. “As has been reported, Secretary Lindsay did not die of natural causes. He was murdered. We don’t know who was responsible for this heinous crime, but we will find out. Anyone involved will be brought to justice, and make no mistake: American retribution will be severe. Despite reports that seem to indicate law enforcement has an idea who committed this crime, the investigation has only just begun and as of now we don’t know who did it, and we certainly don’t know why. But whoever was behind it will pay dearly.”
Dellenbaugh paused. He looked down at the lectern, and then his eyes moved to the camera.
“Tim Lindsay was appointed secretary of state by my predecessor, President Rob Allaire. During the three years since I took the oath of office, Secretary Lindsay has been a valued advisor, and a trusted friend. His time in the Navy, where he retired as a rear admiral, taught him toughness, determination, and a deep understanding of the strategic challenges that face the United States of America. He understood the problems that exist in our troubled world. It was Tim’s calm under fire—and the way he built relationships across ideological divides—that defined him. Godspeed, Timothy Josiah Lindsay.”
* * *
Calibrisi watched the president’s speech inside the office of Adrian King. But his mind was elsewhere. All he could think about was what Bruckheimer had told him: an extant CIA program called Order 6.
Calibrisi had been at the CIA in the early 1990s. Like most agents, he had little exposure to the sort of governing orders under which the Agency operated. Those were the purview of a select few in the upper hierarchy. If the original order was memorialized in 1981, as
Bruckheimer said, finding out information now would be complicated and potentially dangerous. Most of the senior ranking officers from that time were gone—either retired or dead. But there were a few, he knew, who could be brought in and questioned. And that was where the dangerous part came in. If Order 6 had never been shut down and was, in fact, still active, asking questions about it might tip off the very people—the insiders—now at work.
His phone vibrated. It was a text from Polk.
WETHERBEE: NO
Frustrated, Calibrisi glanced at the television, absentmindedly scanning the news ticker along the bottom of the screen.
SOURCE: HOUSE MAJORITY WHIP BOBBY LARGENT EMERGES AS LEADING CANDIDATE TO REPLACE TRAPPE AS SPEAKER
Calibrisi speed-dialed Polk.
“You got my text?” Polk asked.
“Yeah. But that’s not why I’m calling. We need to find someone who was at the Agency in 1981. Someone we can trust. And it must be done extremely carefully.”
“Why?”
“I’ll explain later,” said Calibrisi. “Right now, I need you to figure out who was there—and in the immediate vicinity of the director.”
“That would’ve been Bill Casey.”
“Exactly. This is important: Do it yourself. Right now, this stays between you and me.”
43
NSA
Samantha Stout spent several hours studying the mysterious satellite. She had two of her fellow analysts examining the frequency, trying to determine how they’d been able to do it. Samantha’s interest, however, was drawn to one of the photos: a close-up of the manufacturer’s plate on the side of the satellite.
She heard a loud whistle. It was Zachary Follett, another analyst who was sifting through State Department, OMB, and other U.S. government purchase records trying to find transaction records on the satellite.
“What?” said Samantha.
“I found the record.” Follett pointed at his screen.
She stood and walked behind him. On his screen was a slightly lopsided PDF of an old document.
“What is it?”
“It’s a State Department purchase record.”
