Credible Threat

by Ken Fite

  “Thank you for the opportunity.”

  “I know that must have been hard for you with everything you’ve gone through. I could get you your old job back, if that’s what you wanted. But something tells me you wouldn’t go back, even if you could.”

  I smiled and nodded in agreement. “You know me well, sir.”

  Keller returned the smile. “Besides, I’d rather you help me in another way, if you’d be open to it that is.”

  “I’ll help any way I can.”

  “Blake, I think you’d make a fine advisor to me on my security team on domestic terrorism issues. You’re articulate, a strategic thinker. You bring a lot to the table, which is why I offered you the job,” he said and paused before continuing. “But we both know that’s not where your strengths are.”

  “I don’t understand. What do you need me to do?” I asked as I leaned in to figure out what he meant.

  Keller leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “I’ve been speaking with Mike Billings over the past few days about using you, and eventually others like you, in my administration in a different way. Officially, you’d be on the government payroll as my domestic counterterrorism advisor. Unofficially–”

  The president-elect paused again, trying to figure out the best way to propose his idea to me.

  “I’d create the flexibility within the FBI, CIA, and other agencies to use you on a provisional basis for special projects in the field, however and whenever we needed to. You’d be an interdepartmental floater.”

  “Are you telling me that my job as a security advisor is just a cover?”

  Keller shook his head. “Blake, you and I both know that you belong in the field. I’m tired of the BS between all of these agencies. Government keeps getting more complex, more red tape keeping good people from doing good work. You know this. When I was kidnapped and you ran the Chicago field office for DDC, you were taken off the case by the FBI. If they had just listened to you, things could have turned out a lot differently for all of us.”

  I knew what Keller was getting at and I thought about my dad and all of the events from last August.

  “Your father was like a brother to me. And I don’t blame you for what happened to Ben, but damn it, Blake – we need to figure out what we’re going to do to clean up the mess that President Rouse has created. Each agency’s lack of sharing information is dangerous to national security. If I could,” Keller continued, “I’d assign you to the FBI right now to determine the legitimacy of this threat from al-Shabaab.”

  I looked away and shook my head. “Sir, I accepted this job because I thought it would be good for me. A chance to start over. I’m not a federal agent anymore. That life is over now. I’m experienced, and like you said, I have a lot to bring to the table as one of your advisors. I appreciate it, but I’m done with field work.”

  I could tell that those weren’t the words that my longtime friend had hoped to hear from me.

  Keller picked up the manila envelope and slid it across the desk to me. I pulled out the contents and reviewed the information that the FBI was willing to share, which wasn’t much. Keller was showing me firsthand how siloed the FBI had become. Having run Chicago’s DDC field office where Jami still worked, I knew how challenging it was to keep the city safe without stepping on the toes of other agencies.

  Still, I wasn’t expecting to have this conversation. This wasn’t what I had signed up for.

  “Blake, twenty years ago, your father and I both worked at the ATF. Right before I retired to launch my campaign for senate, he asked me if I’d train you to help you accomplish your goal of becoming a Navy SEAL. Having been a former SEAL, I knew how much work that would be. Do you know why I said yes?”

  I shook my head slowly.

  “Because he said that if I trained you, he’d help me with my campaign, and I thought your training would last about day,” he said and we shared a laugh. “I really got the raw end of that deal, didn’t I? What kind of kid has the dedication to train at four o’clock in the morning every day for a year?”

  “It gave me a purpose, helped me focus during my senior year. That was the best year of my life,” I replied.

  “And you passed your BUD/S training with ease, didn’t you? The more you sweat in training–”

  “The less you bleed in war,” I said, completing his sentence. “Only because of all of the time that you spent working with me. I was prepared because you knew how rigorous BUD/S would be. I have you to thank.”

  “That wasn’t me, Blake. That was you. I showed you what to do to prepare. I coached you. I held you accountable. But, ultimately, you’re the one that did the hard work. He who has the most heart wins, Blake. You not only had the talent, you had the heart, too. And if you’re still blaming yourself for your dad, if that’s what all of this is about, then son, you need to get over that. I miss Ben, too. But your talent isn’t in sitting behind a desk or in conference rooms. Talent can’t be taught, Blake. But it can be awakened.”

  Thoughts of my father came rushing to me. He was why I worked so hard. I wanted to make him proud.

  “What you did to save my life last year was extraordinary,” he continued. “I urge you to reconsider.”

  We heard a knock at the door and Emma Ross looked inside the conference room. “Sorry to interrupt, but we need to get you over to Blair House to finalize and practice your inaugural address. Both versions.”

  The fact that Keller would even have to have another version of his speech to direct the millions of people watching from the National Mall to safety, should a bomb actually detonate while he was giving his speech, was sickening. I could tell by the look on his face when Ross said those words that it bothered him, too.

  I slid the information I had in front of me into the manila envelope and handed it back to Keller as we both headed for the door to exit the room.

  Keller stopped me at the door. “Talk it over with Jami. Let me know what you decide.”

  The president-elect shook my hand and walked out, accompanied by Emma Ross and two Secret Service agents.

  After he disappeared around the corner another thought entered into my mind. Max Donovan – I should have said something to Keller. I reached into the pocket of my jacket and felt the business card that Ron Gibson had given me. I decided that calling right now wasn’t the best idea.

  I’ll have to keep an eye on Donovan, I thought as I headed to the hotel’s lobby to look for Jami.

  TEN

  THE MOMENT THAT Paul Hartmann entered Kenwood in Chicago’s south side, he became nervous, wondering who the man on the inside was that the woman at Buckingham Fountain had been referring to.

  Was he in the home that he was about to enter? Was he one of the Secret Service agents escorting him? Paul had no idea and wondered how he would even know when he met the man, whoever he was, realizing that he was going into this job completely blind.

  Paul wondered why the two agents hadn’t asked to search his moving van before they left his shop. Maybe one of the agents really was the man inside that he’d be handing over the briefcase to. Paul reflexively placed his right hand on top of the cooler, wondering just what the hell was inside that briefcase, anyway.

  As he drove, Paul realized that if he didn’t stay engaged in conversation, Rich might sense that something was wrong. He thought Rich was already acting strange and began to wonder if something might be up.

  “Must be nice to live in this neighborhood, don’t you think?” Paul asked as he and Rich drove past some of the biggest homes in the city.

  “What kind of people live here?” asked Rich as he and Paul took in the mansions lining Greenwood Ave.

  “The rich, that’s who. Muhammad Ali used to live right over there,” Paul replied, pointing to his right.

  “Wonder how much these houses are worth,” Rich muttered before asking his boss the same question that Paul had been asking himself for the last twenty minutes. “So, are we moving who I think we’re moving?” Rich grabbe
d the clipboard from the dash and read through the paperwork, trying to confirm the answer.

  The two continued to drive past endless rows of red-brick mansions built as far back as the 1850s. Some of the houses were three stories tall. Most of them were fenced in. Paul saw the agents tap their brakes to slow down and Paul slowed the moving van as well, pointing to the property that they were about to enter.

  “Looks like it,” Paul said as his eyes caught a sign that hung on the outside wall of the home, just to the side of a pair of large, wooden doors, that read THE KELLERS.

  Hartmann parked the van and rested his foot on the brakes as he and Rich watched the agent driving the SUV open his door, walk over to the gate, and enter in a code to open it. The agent climbed back inside, rolled down his window, and motioned for Paul to follow him inside the property.

  Once both vehicles had passed through, Paul watched the gate close from his driver’s side mirror.

  “I would have thought that Keller’s stuff would have already been moved over to Washington by now with the inauguration taking place tomorrow,” said Rich. “Why’d he take so long to send his stuff over?”

  “That’s not how it works. Newly-elected presidents don’t move in until Inauguration Day,” replied Hartmann as he watched the agent driving the SUV get back out of the truck, approach his side of the van, and motion for Paul to lower his window.

  “I need you to pull up to the front of the house,” said Hastings. “Agent Miller will escort you in and we’ll oversee the process. When you park, open all doors and we’re going to take a look before we go inside.”

  Paul felt sick to his stomach.

  “Got it,” he replied and pulled the moving van as close as possible to the front door.

  Hartmann and his partner exited the vehicle.

  Keeping the driver’s side and passenger doors open, Paul jogged to the back of the truck to meet Hastings and lifted the door to the cargo area for the agent to check out. Hastings stepped inside to look around while Agent Miller walked around to the front of the van.

  “Pop the hood for me?” asked Miller. Rich nodded and reached inside and pulled the lever to open it.

  Hastings jumped down from the back of the van and walked the perimeter, trying to identify anything out of place while Agent Miller walked back to the SUV and opened the hatch, emerging with a metal detector and mirror which he proceeded to use to look underneath the moving van. He found nothing concerning.

  When Agent Hastings looked inside the cabin, Paul felt his hands begin to sweat again.

  “Mr. Sullivan, can you open the cooler?” Hastings asked.

  “That’s mine,” Paul replied, realizing that this was quite possibly the end of the line. He envisioned the agent looking inside the cooler and noticing the aluminum reflection from the briefcase hidden below. Paul could see Hastings ask him to pull the briefcase out to inspect it. And when Paul wouldn’t be able to produce the key and display the contents, the federal agents would arrest him on the spot.

  For a brief moment, Paul Hartmann wondered if getting caught might be such a bad thing. It would give him a way out of the mess that he had found himself in with the woman that he had met with earlier.

  Paul sat down in the driver’s seat as Hastings stood just outside the passenger side door, opening the glove compartment and pulling a flashlight from a pocket as he looked underneath both seats.

  Paul carefully unzipped the cooler the whole way around and lifted open the top for the agent to see.

  Hastings looked it over and glanced back up at Paul who was looking at the mansion, trying to stay calm. “You must really like trail mix,” said Hastings.

  “Can’t get enough of the stuff,” Paul replied, zipping the cooler closed and sliding it back in place against his seat while hoping that this would be the end of the questions. Paul felt the agent’s eyes still on him.

  “Follow Agent Miller inside. You guys can go ahead and get started,” Hastings said and Paul walked into the residence with Rich to review the items that they’d need to start packing into their van.

  An hour and a half later and the furniture and boxes were expertly packed, ready to be shipped to the east coast. Rich reached up and tugged on the cargo strap to lower and lock the back of the van as Miller watched the lock snap into place and asked to hold onto the key until they arrived.

  “I thought we could stop for the night around Cleveland and head back out in the morning,” said Paul.

  “No stopping,” replied Hastings. “We drive straight through. And we’re not going to Washington.”

  Paul walked a few steps over to the van, grabbed the clipboard from the dash, and looked it over. “But, that’s not what I was told–”

  “I know what you were told, Mr. Hartmann. You’ll be following us to a secure storage facility in Bethesda. Use this if you need to contact us,” continued Hastings as he handed a business card with his contact information and Miller’s cell number written on the back as well. The men got into their SUV as Paul thought about how desperately he needed sleep and wondered how he was going to make it to Maryland.

  ELEVEN

  I FINALLY FOUND Jami in our suite. The first thing I noticed was Jami typing on her laptop from the large sitting area, using the glass coffee table as a desk. The blinds were pulled back on the large window behind her. Great view, I thought. One we wouldn’t be enjoying.

  “There you are,” said Jami as she grabbed the top of her laptop and pulled it down slightly so she could focus on me. “I was starting to get worried.” Jami leaned back on the couch. “What happened?”

  I dropped my keycard on the desk next to the door, took off my blazer, draped it over another couch adjacent to the one that she was working from, and walked past her to the window. “Al-Shabaab,” I began. “Four Canadian disciples of the east African terror group have made it into the United States and the FBI believes there’s a credible threat to tomorrow’s inauguration ceremonies that they’re tracking down.”

  “I read the briefing and there’s nothing there about al-Shabaab,” Jami replied.

  “That’s what we’re being told.”

  “Who’s saying that?” she pressed.

  “Defense Secretary Ron Gibson. He said that he spoke with the FBI director who advised that they received an anonymous tip about the Somali threat this morning,” I continued as I left the window and sat down on the adjacent couch. “He said an informant walked into an overseas U.S. embassy to tip us off.”

  Jami got quiet. She lifted the lid to her laptop slightly so she could see the screen again and began typing.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, sensing that Jami wasn’t buying it.

  “Do we know who gave us this tip? There are close to three hundred embassies and consulates worldwide, it’d be nice to know which one this guy walked into, how he knows about the planned attack, and why he decided to tell someone. It seems like a hoax to me, a classic poison pen.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Blake, last year’s bombings–”

  “Paris?”

  “Glasgow, two weeks after that.”

  “Glasgow ended up being an internet hoax, Jami. There was no bombing.”

  “But the Jihadi Coalition had been planning an attack, Blake. You had already left DDC by then, but I was in the meetings. They blamed ISIS when the JC found that they had entered the city and were planning on a round two from Paris. The JC is who we believe tipped off officials so they could take out their rivals.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  Jami paused briefly. “I don’t know. Al-Shabaab? It just doesn’t add up. Morgan got into the office a little while ago, but had to run to a meeting. I’m going to call him in a bit to see if we can figure out who walked into that embassy. That’ll tell us more about the credibility of this thing than anything else would.”

  I nodded in agreement and listened to Jami continue to type. “Why don’t we just let the FBI do their job?”

 
; “Why don’t you let me do mine?” Jami snapped. After a few seconds Jami looked back at me from her screen. “I’m sorry. I just don’t understand why the briefing was so vague. It’s like they did it on purpose.”

  “They did,” I replied. “They have the names of the Somalis, they’re just not willing to share them with us yet. More red tape, keeping good people from doing good work.” Jami gave me a look. “Keller’s words.”

  “How is he? Did you get to talk with him at all?”

  “Keller wants more from me,” I said as I watched Jami shake her head slowly with her eyes narrowed. “I got a chance to talk with him one-on-one for a few minutes. Jami, my job isn’t going to be what I was told it would be. Keller wants me in the field. To be a liaison between the different agencies. He says he’s tired of the bureaucracy and is looking for a way for us to be able to cut through the red tape.”

  Jami crossed her arms. “I don’t understand. Your job as an advisor to the president – it’s just a cover?”

  “Something like that.”

  “But each agency has a different focus with checks and balances built in and that’s not going to change.”

  “He knows it won’t change and that’s the point. Keller wants to give me the authority to be able to work with any governmental agency as needed, depending on where the need would be. DDC, DHS, or FBI if it’s a domestic issue. Maybe even the CIA if it’s abroad. I wouldn’t be the only one. But it doesn’t really matter.”

  Jami got closer to me and put an arm around my waist. “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not going to accept the offer.”

  I looked around the suite, trying to locate our luggage that the front desk clerk said he’d send up to our room once our suite was ready, but I didn’t see our bags anywhere. “Where’d they put our stuff?” I asked to change the subject.