by Bob Graham
He turned his head toward her and looked earnestly for several seconds. Finally, “Yes, Terri ... there is—it is happening. But I need some time to sort it all out. I don’t want to make the same mistakes I did with Carol.”
“I understand, Tony, with what you’ve been through. But for now, I’ll be whatever you want me to be.”
“I ... I don’t know what to say, Terri.”
“Don’t say anything. It’s not necessary.”
Neither one of them spoke for the next twenty minutes. The only sound was the rush of the salt-tinged air coursing over the top-down convertible.
Tony broke the silence. “I’m wiped out. My head is crowded with dark thoughts. Would you mind if we found a place where we could relax, get some sleep?”
Somewhat surprised, Terri quickly said, “Whatever you want.”
She knew the Pacific Inn just ahead in Laguna Beach. No doubt as a result of the fears and uncertainties generated by the Thursday explosion, there were few cars in the parking lot.
Tony stayed in the car while Terri went inside. The young woman at the front desk gave her the full selection of rooms. She chose 418, which the clerk said was one of the front rooms with a charming balcony. They’d be able to see the Pacific. Terri retrieved Tony and their scant luggage, raised the Mustang roof, and locked the car. Together they took the elevator up to 418.
After they dropped their bags, Tony went to the bathroom and washed away the rivulets of tears still dampening his face.
“Are you feeling okay?” Tony asked.
“Tired, but happy we can be together.”
“Terri, I need a drink. I’m too hot-wired to sleep.”
“I could use one, too.”
They walked down to the Beach House restaurant, where they could watch the gentle waves lap in over the sand. “I feel like I could spend the rest of my life in a beach house,” Tony observed.
Terri ordered a margarita; Tony, his standard Chivas. They drank as if they were alone, separately contemplating their own experiences since the last meeting with Nasir and their own futures. How fortuitous it had all been. Would the future be equally perplexing?
It seemed as if all of the other diners were locals, and they had what Terri knew was that signature Laguna look that involved so many contradictions: dressed casually enough to be teenagers but well into their thirties, forties, and fifties; clearly concerned with fitness and appearance, yet leathery and wrinkled from so much time in the sun. It was as if they were trying to preserve their younger selves, trying to bring back the past—perhaps to understand it. It made Tony think about his own teenage years in Hialeah.
“Maybe it’s my own life playing out,” he said to Terri, “but it is true your view is affected by where you are, where you have been.”
She slid closer, nuzzled against Tony’s chest, and in a tequila-tinged whisper said, “Do you think we could end up in the same place?”
“I hope so; I really do.” The waiter came by and Tony signaled for a third round. “But as our lives have already shown, luck, fate will play a big part.”
By the time they got back to their room, Terri was barely awake. Tony laid her on the bed, removed her shoes, and pulled a light blanket over her shoulders.
He showered, then stretched out on the king-size bed and tried to keep himself still so as not to disturb her. Staring at the ceiling, he felt alternating waves of guilt, remorse, and bewilderment. He twisted to another position, pulling the pillow tightly to his head. He had imagined the woman sleeping next to him every night into the future would be Carol. Was it survivor guilt that kept him from completely embracing this moment, this woman? Whatever path his life might take, Carol would always be with him. Maybe the distance between them was too great for that path to have led to marriage; the image of her parents’ expressions the first time they met hung in his consciousness.
What about Laura? She was one of the most enticing women he had ever encountered. Where might that adventure have gone? Laura was also the most self-centered woman he had ever known, and he had almost been the victim of that egotism. While the full circumstances of her last moments were buried in the ocean, her courage and resourcefulness were a direct reflection of John’s and Mildred’s genes and nurturing.
Terri could be the one, though. Maybe their similar upbringings, her hardscrabble life as an immigrant child with the determination to become a star in her profession, were the ingredients that would hold them together. He owed it to her and himself to give it a chance. But it was all too much to sort out right now.
At 4:30 a.m. Tony gently swung his legs over the side of the bed, tested his feet firmly on the deep carpeting, dressed in the same clothes he had the day before, and stepped out onto the balcony, his laptop under his arm.
The moon was still hovering above the ocean, but the early-morning light from the east was blotted by the heavy clouds that had reached the coastline during the night. Tony typed away for more than an hour. It came out in a steady stream, with hardly a pause, his eyes never straying long from the computer screen. By 6:00 he had read over what he had written, making very few changes.
He placed a memory card under Terri’s pillow. It was enclosed in a hotel envelope along with a single sheet of stationery from the desk drawer. In his precise hand he had written:Terri,
I’ve been thinking about Senator Billington and his prescience. These are a few of my thoughts on what has happened. I’m not suggesting anything more is going to happen, but let me say this straight: if something does happen to me that you think is suspicious, I want you to read what I’ve written and share it with Ambassador Talbott and Senator Stoner.
Both of us need time to think things through and make good decisions. I’m leaving the keys to the Mustang. I’ll be flying back to Washington from here this morning.
I think I love you. I need the chance to be sure.
Tony
TWELVE WEEKS LATER ...
JANUARY 20
Washington, D.C.
For the third straight time, the presidential inauguration commenced under gray clouds and subfreezing temperatures. As had become official policy, the National Park Service declined to estimate the crowd size. The Washington Post set it at 450,000, reporting:The almost million fewer in attendance than at the ceremony four years ago was consistent with other events held out of doors since the attacks involving weapons of mass destruction that began with the Mumbai nuclear explosion on September 19.
From the podium on the specially built platform on the west side of the Capitol, the new president’s inaugural address prompted the multitude to applaud twenty-nine times during its thirty-five-minute duration. He concluded with the traditional call to the future:
“America is leaving the valley of doubt in which we have toiled for more than a decade. America is starting the climb to the mountain of hope and a new prosperity. We are unburdened of those policies and leaders who have slowed our progress. We have new companions, with a new vision of the nation’s destiny and the roads we will travel to reach our goals.
“Our success depends upon our recommitment to God as our creator and protector; to the old American values of personal responsibility, family, and neighbor; to optimism earned by a history of achievement of a better future for each generation of Americans, better than any of those generations that have preceded us on this blessed land; and a shared sense that together—not as a nation divided by partisan labels or region or social class—we can, we shall, stand on the mountaintop.”
The applause thundered from the crowd and lasted several minutes. Just as the new president signaled his wife to join him at the podium to accept and relish this surge of adulation and optimism, the sun broke through, as if heralding the dawn of a bright new age.
The applause grew even louder and more fervent.
The ovation had gone on for at least six or seven minutes when Special Agent Wilbur Wright Sullivan of the United States Secret Service, newly assigned chief of the presidential
protection unit, stepped forward and approached the chief executive. With a technique so well practiced that it was all but invisible to the dignitaries assembled on the platform, he placed his left hand casually on the president’s shoulder while his right hand made its way under the back pleat of his morning coat and locked firmly onto the waistband of his striped gray trousers. In this fashion, it appeared to both the crowd of onlookers and the millions of television viewers as if the president were leaving the platform of his own accord.
When he was safely inside the Capitol’s vestibule, he noticed that the vice president had been secured in the same manner.
Their confusion increased as the two men were hustled up the stairs leading them back into the interior of the Capitol and a sharp turn to the left. A knot of Secret Service agents had surrounded them as Sullivan led the group to the Lyndon Johnson Room on the second floor of the Senate wing.
It was the most ornate of the suite of conference rooms circling the Senate chamber and had been Johnson’s power center when he was the iron-willed majority leader. Already waiting for the president were several of his top appointees.
Secret Service agents secured the doors.
Helen Robinson, who had resigned as governor of New Hampshire to accept the appointment as secretary of homeland security, got immediately to the point.
“Mr. President, at 9:07 a.m. Pacific Time—approximately forty-nine minutes ago—the director of security for San Francisco International Airport reported an Emirates A380 on a nonstop flight from Dubai landed normally and taxied to its assigned gate at the International Arrivals area.”
“I assume we are nearing the end of the ‘normal’ part of the story,” the president said, his voice betraying both impatience and mounting apprehension.
“I’m afraid so,” Secretary Robinson continued. “When the gate crew signaled cabin attendants to open the door, there was no response. No communication could be established with the cockpit crew. When several tries failed, a catering company scissors truck was brought up so the ground crew could see through the windows.”
“And? ...”
“There was no apparent sign of life, sir.”
“What?”
“All of the passengers were slumped over in their seats.”
“How many people were on the plane?”
“We don’t have the flight manifest yet, but the A380 is the largest passenger plane in operation, and this particular one is configured for 517 passengers and 26 crew.”
“The airport fire department and all emergency services personnel were immediately summoned, and the plane was towed to a remote hangar where airline mechanics opened the door externally.”
The president squirmed, rotating his right index finger counterclockwise. Secretary Robinson accelerated her pace.
“When the door was dislodged, a toxic plume overwhelmed the maintenance personnel. Seven have died, and five are in critical condition. The pilot and copilot were discovered collapsed on the floor outside the flight deck, so it’s assumed they succumbed when they opened the cockpit door. The fuselage has been resealed until it can be examined without further risk. Hazmat teams are standing by to examine the cabin and cargo holds as soon as we can rig up a safe, negativepressure air lock.”
“What else do we know?”
“Mr. President, I’m afraid that’s most of it. We’re trying to put the facts together and contain rumors as well as we can to avoid panic.”
White House chief of staff Chip Burpee spoke up. “We are carrying on with the inaugural parade to maintain as much of a semblance of normalcy as possible under the circumstances.”
The president nodded. “And we have no idea if this is an isolated incident or part of some larger? ...”
“I think I should let Secretary Talbott address that,” Burpee said.
Ambassador William Talbott, the president’s surprise choice to be secretary of state, spoke up. “Of course, the FBI, CIA, FAA, and all relevant investigative groups are already on this. But as you and I discussed during the transition, I have felt our capability to react quickly to major crises like TERRORNUKE has been constrained by the Byzantine security apparatus we’ve constructed since 9/11.
“It was for this reason that I recommended a special, elite, top-secret unit hidden within my department’s Bureau of Intelligence and Research, a group prepared to respond to what you and the leadership of the department consider to be the most immediate and threatening risks to America. For internal identification, we are referring to it as the Armageddon Response Team, or ART. We already have certain team members identified and assigned and can activate immediately with your say-so. I have asked the officer who saved our national hide in TERRORNUKE to head up the team.”
Secretary Talbott turned to the handsome, dark-skinned man to his right.
“Mr. President, this is Mr. Tony Ramos.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book, five years in the writing and editing, was the result of my passion to tell a story—fact augmented by fiction—of betrayal and courage. I have chosen to do so as a novel in order to answer questions for which there are real answers, but answers which to date have been withheld. This work represents the next best thing: informed speculation.
As has been true for most of my adult life, all that I have undertaken has been with the encouragement and support of my wife and best friend, Adele. Our four daughters, Gwen, Cissy, Suzanne, and Kendall, and their spouses, have been invaluable reviewers, commentators, and subject matter experts as the writing progressed.
In addition to my family there were others who had to accommodate to and support my writing schedule, for which I am deeply grateful: Chip Burpee, my executive assistant, who had more late nights on this novel than Ambassador Talbott had in it; and Tom White, who was also an assistant in my office and counsel on all the Spanish language. He has left our office for an assignment I cannot disclose; Jonathan Rizzo might know.
Although he might not remember, Dr. Joseph Nye of Harvard University’s Kennedy School of Government, formerly an assistant secretary in the Department of Defense and author of The Power Game, was the first person to suggest my concerns and ideas might lend themselves to fiction. Also at the Kennedy School, as she has been on previous occasions, Sharon Wilke was the superb op ed editor.
Two people who stimulated my initial novelistic impulses are creative writing professors at Florida International University and veteran practitioners of the art: James Hall and Les Standiford.
From the beginning to the end, I have been enormously assisted by another distinguished novelist, Mark Olshaker. He has read, critiqued, and encouraged me as the novel developed and took on its final shape.
I was very fortunate that Will Schwable, a New York author and book agent, suggested I associate with Ed Victor as an agent. Ed brought this work of a first-time novelist to the attention of Vanguard Press. Its publisher, Roger Cooper, agreed to take it on and his gifted and insightful editorial staff, Kevin Smith and Collin Tracy, gave it the final polish.
As a member of the CIA’s external advisory board I submit all my writing within its scope of activity to the agency’s publication review board. I appreciate the work of Richard Puhl and his colleagues in assuring that the material in this novel does not compromise national security.
Keys to the Kingdom is fact embellished with fiction, much of it based on my years as governor of Florida and then representing that state in the U.S. Senate. But a novel of this scope involves numerous individual subjects and many layers of expertise. To assure that the facts were as accurate as possible, many friends and those with whom I have become friends educated me and vetted the manuscript. While I assume full responsibility for what you will read, I want to acknowledge them for their contributions.
For nuclear details I have been advised by Dr. Howard Hall of the University of Tennessee and the Oak Ridge National Laboratory, and Michael Allen, staff director of the House of Representatives Intelligence Committee.
Farooq Mitha, a Fulbright scholar in the Middle East, has greatly assisted me in the presentation of cultural and linguistic matters related to that fascinating region of the world.
An old friend, Marc Henderson of the Miami-Dade Aviation Department, was kind to answer a long list of questions about the Miami International Airport, especially its parking garage.
The numerous law enforcement sections were informed by Steve Hurm, my son-in-law and a former agent for the Florida Department of Law Enforcement; Tom and Barbara McGraw, also with the FDLE; and Captain Chris Dellapietra of the Florida Highway Patrol.
I am extremely fortunate in having such devoted, interesting, and well-informed sons-in-law, all of whom were willing to be drafted into service. Bill McCullough, a former professional photographer, was my advisor on Laura Billington’s photographic challenges.
Tom Gibson reviewed and critiqued the manuscript at various stages. He was also the consultant on Tony’s wardrobe.
Yet another son-in-law Robby Elias, coached me on the finer points of tennis. He was assisted by my minister, Reverend Jeff Frantz of the Miami Lakes Congregational Church, who also advised on the protocols of funerals.
Robby’s brother, Jaime Elias of Trivest, was very informative on the nuances of private equity.
Professor Paula Thomas of Middle Tennessee State University, Professor Larry Crumbley of Louisiana State University, and Andre Teixeira, chief financial officer of the Graham Companies, guided my character Carol Watson through her forensic accounting challenges. Morgan Ortagus of the U.S. Treasury Department was also helpful and a fine role model.