“Orange juice, if you have any.”
“Sure thing,” Sally said as she left, closing the door behind her.
“Brooke, what a surprise.”
“Yes, well I needed to set up some things down here. And tap a few favors, so I figured rather than an impersonal email or the phone . . .”
“I understand. What kind of things are you setting up?”
“I have enlisted the help of Bill Hiccock. SOM37 is a new and different type of ISIS terror cell. More technical; ‘engineery,’ if that’s a word?”
“I see, and how can Bill help you with that?”
“He’s got a network of top minds . . . We are circulating a redacted description of the cell’s supposed members and possible capabilities to his network. Maybe they can give me some inkling as to what they are up to, and what their targets might be.”
“Brooke, this sounds like it is outside the scope of our investigation. I mean, ISIS . . . really?”
His statement sidelined Brooke. She hadn’t anticipated that he would object. “Sir?”
“What I mean is, you’re heading up this investigation for Treasury. Your mandate was to stem the flow of, and shut down the illegal transfer of funds from, US financial firms to various terror organizations around the world. This new line of investigation seems more appropriate for the FBI or CIA.”
Brooke wondered if she had overstepped her authority. If she had opened up a simple forensic accounting investigation into a track, hunt, and kill operation on an ISIS terrorist cell.
While she paused, the secretary drilled down deeper. “I did not authorize or approve any type of clandestine or covert operation to root out active terrorist cells.”
Brooke digested his position. Maybe she was too gung-ho. Maybe she just instinctively reacted and started chasing bad guys again; old habits die hard. She mentally checked off a list of decisions she had made that got her to this point.
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in, Sally.”
Sally entered and placed the tray of milk and juice on the coffee table in front of the couch. “Will there be anything else?”
“No, thank you, Sally.”
She smiled at Brooke, but Brooke was deep in thought and did not return the pleasantry, so she just left the room.
The secretary put Brooke’s juice in front of her then took a sip of his buttermilk from his Department of Treasury mug. He waited for her to respond.
Brooke’s face reset and she spoke. “Sir, our initial investigation in New York was compromised, somehow. It will be a small miracle if we can come up with enough evidence for a parking ticket, much less an indictment. The only lead we have is pointing us towards the end game of the financing, the actual operating cell. I see this extension of my investigation as totally consistent and the next logical step in tracking the money.”
The secretary just took it all in, and then adjusted himself on the couch, crossing his legs and extending his arm over the back. “Can we speak candidly here, off the record?”
“I assume this is all off the record, sir.”
“This town has buckets. The entire federal government is just a collection of buckets. My bucket is this department; Charles over at State has his bucket, and defense, transportation, and all the cabinet members have their buckets. What you are doing is messing with someone else’s bucket. Maybe State’s, maybe Homeland Security’s. But to keep the money coming into this bucket, I need to make sure I am not dipping into someone else’s. Do you follow me?”
“So you think I am creating a jurisdictional issue by crossing agencies?”
“Yes. Have you discussed any of this with the president?”
Brooke’s radar beeped. Of course, he’s worried I have more pull with the president than he does.
“Well, normally my conversations with the president are in a bucket of their own, sir, regulated and protected by about twenty federal statutes. However, I can assure you, my brief conversation with the president this morning was purely of a personal nature.”
.G.
It was now the secretary’s turn to be thoughtful. So she did speak with him this morning, even as he was headed to Finland. Personal nature? With Mitchell? For a second he dallied in the tabloid-esque notion of gray-haired, grandfatherly, patrician, James Mitchell having an affair with this very good-looking blonde, former FBI agent. Then he quickly erased it from his mind.
The president, James Mitchell, had been an ally of his for thirty-five years. He was a good man, ex-fighter pilot and a reluctant winner of his first election six years ago. Maybe “reluctant” was too strong a word; “shocked” was probably more fitting. But soon it had been discovered that the first manipulation of a federal presidential election might have been responsible for his long-shot victory. Again, he did the right thing and went before congress when it was learned that he’d benefitted from the hacking of the system. But like the lucky fighter jock he was, he had been found to benefit “through no complicity on his part.” So he’d evaded congressional flack and been given a hall pass back to the White House. Overall, he’d done well for America.
Cass didn’t feel as lucky. The Prescott business up in New York and this Burrell woman’s failure to finish the investigation would have its political consequences. Personal nature?
Was he being set up? Or worse, being used? Was the whole reason he was saddled with this Burrell woman, a quid pro quo by the president to Brooke in exchange for a little hanky-panky? His heartburn kicked in and his chest was on fire. She’d failed and now she was trying to cover her tracks by expanding the investigation and getting the president to cover for her. Not in my department!
.G.
“Mr. Secretary?”
He snapped out of it and reached in his drawer and took out a pill case. He downed the pill dry, without water. He looked at Brooke.
“Are you okay, sir?”
Cass patted his chest. “Just a little indigestion, I’m afraid.”
Chapter 10
Music and Movies
Paul could smell the marijuana as he exited the elevator and walked past the sign that read, “The Smoking of Any Substance on These Premises is Illegal under New York State Law.” Ultra Sonic’s rehearsal room number seven was to the left. He had his guitar case, as he’d been instructed to buy. The place was populated with musicians using the studios. Many of the men had long hair and various pieces of metal inserted into their ears, noses, and cheeks, which made him feel like he was in a strange land.
A young woman wearing black makeup and with tattoos covering her bare arms and midriff smiled at Paul. It was then he noticed her nose and cheek were pierced with insect jewelry. He was glad that his stock-in-trade good looks, the key to his success, still worked on this young . . . whatever she was, girl.
He entered rehearsal room number seven. Six men were already there. There was a piano, a corner stacked with many electronic keyboards, many microphones on stands, a wall lined with all kinds, sizes, and shapes of electric amplifiers, and a large set of drums. One wall was fully mirrored and the others, as well as the ceiling, were covered with dark gray foam panels in odd geometric shapes. Paul surmised it was to control the sound. He sat behind the drums; others had used the folding chairs that were stored against the wall in the room. He tapped his fingers on the head of the drum directly in front of him. It made a very resonant tone with the buzz of something under the drum. His curiosity piqued, he lifted it to see wires across the bottom. He snapped the wires and they made a sharp report.
The door to the room opened and Dequa entered. With him, the sound of the other rooms, whose bands had also changed on the hour, flooded in as they tuned up or started playing. When the outer and inner doors to the room were finally shut, all that could be heard was a low thumping and growl coming through the walls from the eight other music rehearsal rooms on th
e floor. Still, it was enough soundproofing that one could be heard while speaking in a normal voice.
Dequa was of average height with skin that could best be described as weathered leather, no doubt sun- and sand-blasted from the Afghan elements. His eyes moved like that of a commander of men, seeing strategically what others could not. His manner demanded respect even as he stood there surveying and counting the heads in attendance. He had entered with a guitar case and, once he sat, opened it and took out ten sets of large headphones. Each with a boom microphone attached. He then took out a standard iPod and plugged it into the powerful PA system that fed into the large speakers all over the room. Immediately the sounds of musicians talking, laughing, tuning up, and playing parts of songs filled the room. Eventually the band on the tape played and sang a song with many voices. It was very loud! As loud as if the band were playing right here in the room.
Dequa motioned for everyone to put on the headsets. Immediately the noise went away. Now the loud music in the room seemed as far away as that coming from the rooms next door. Dequa spoke and was remarkably clear in everyone’s ears. He touched the headset with the word Bose on the ear cups and said, “Just like the ones they use in American football stadiums, these units cancel out all outside sound and the microphones only switch on when you speak.”
The results were quite comfortable.
Then Dequa started the meeting. “Praise Allah, we are all here except for Ramal, who is finishing up in Bolivia. We will continue to meet in places like this until we separate for our assigned posts and targets. Ben-el Ram will distribute funds to you as we proceed.”
Ben-el opened another guitar case that was stuffed with stacks of hundreds.
As he handed Paul a stack he said, “I congratulate you on Montreal.”
“Yes, it went just like I planned it.”
“Surely you mean it was the will of Allah.”
“Well, yeah. I mean, it was he who guided my hands to do his bidding.”
Ben-el nodded, but Paul could sense his questioning eyes tracking him as he walked away.
.G.
Outside the room, Tyrone, one of the setup men at the Ultra Sonic Rehearsal facility opened the outer door and was about to open the inner door to room seven when he heard the band and singers. He decided to borrow a mic from another room that wasn’t as full of as many musicians as he heard playing and singing through the door.
.G.
They had rented the room for two hours, as always, with cash. Dequa had two hours of recording he’d made of a band in Los Angeles a month before. Tonight’s meeting only lasted an hour and a half.
.G.
As the “musicians” filed out of the room, Tyrone checked his watch. He liked that they were out early because it meant he could reset the room for the next booking at the top of the hour. He waited for them to leave then went into the empty room.
Wow, he thought, these guys were really neat. None of the amps were left on, like most musicians carelessly did. The drums must have been played exactly as they were because they were still in the studio’s prescribed set up. Usually drummers moved and set up the drums and cymbal stands to their own height and style. Even the mics had been returned right where they were. With nothing to do but check the garbage pails, Tyrone took the few minutes he saved, went downstairs and smoked a j before the five o’clock turnover.
.G.
Movie night on a fleet ballistic missile submarine was a little incongruous, but the constant war-ready alert status was a fatiguing existence. This patrol by the gold crew of the USS Nebraska was thirty-eight days into a fifty-four day mission. Many men chose to jog around the missile bay as a way of burning off energy and breaking the monotonous routine of constantly listening for hunter-killer submarines that would kill you if they found you.
“What’s on the bill tonight, COB?” Captain Bret “Mush” Morton asked the Chief of the Boat.
“Run Silent, Run Deep, sir.”
Mush cringed a little. Submarine movies were always popular on subs, especially World War Two movies. Mostly because the men who served on today’s wide-beam boats, who could jog around the boat and never had to duck pipes and conduits or hanging equipment, marveled at how small, cramped, and compact their former counterparts had had it. But he remembered this movie, especially the downer part, the fact that the captain dies at the end.
“Geez, COB, can’t you run Operation Petticoat or Destination Tokyo? You know, something cheerful.”
“Well, sir, I can see Petticoat being cheery, but Destination Tokyo?”
“Forget it, chief. I was just trying to avoid a funeral at sea.”
“Sir???”
“Carry on, COB.”
The Chief of the Boat aye-ayed and went aft.
Deciding to skip the flick, Mush returned to his quarters and found the printout of world threat assessments that was downloaded every night through the VLF system. It took a long time to receive the encrypted signal, but the text file was a situational report on all the hot spots in the world and any geopolitical nastiness that might result in him having to fire his missiles in offense or defense. Fleet decided long ago, having a sub skipper out of touch for up to six months at a time probably wasn’t conducive to the decision-making process they relied on their commanders to engage in.
To avoid the blues that could result from reading exclusively about the conflict and unrest of what was essentially a redacted version of the president’s daily briefing, Mush reminded himself that this wasn’t a hometown paper he was reading. This dreary report was a culmination of all the bleak things happening all around a dangerous world, all neatly compressed down to three pages of negativity and depression. On the other hand, he trusted that this was the worst of it, and today it was par for the course. No sign of any little sparks that could erupt in a nuclear inferno.
He glanced over a blurb on a suspected terrorist cell that had fallen off the radar and was a concern to British Intelligence. Terrorist groups were hardly a threat to the national security that could be addressed by a submarine-launched Trident ICBM, but he was trained and his mission profile was to expect the unexpected. World War III, or the end of the world, however you chose to see it, could start in thirty minutes just as much under the wrong set of circumstances as the “proper” set.
He looked at the picture of his wife, Brooke, on his desk. Every time he looked at her he got the same hit. It was like an electric trickle enveloping him. He felt it as strong as the first time he’d seen her. It wasn’t just her physical attractiveness, which was plain for all to be mesmerized by, but the subtlety in her eyes, her confidence and her achievements, the sacrifices and heroic acts she had performed for her country. The Navy made sure that he was the top one-tenth of the top one percent of warriors in the world. He was trusted with the autonomous power to destroy a billion or more lives. To that end, he’d been strenuously weeded out, selected, inspected, dissected, and analyzed to be beyond reproach and of a proper character and unquestioned integrity to hold the launch keys. Yet, she was his hero.
Chapter 11
The Beast with Two Backs
12 days until the attack
“This woman is a nightmare, a goddamn opportunist, a concubine of the president! I tell you she’s an albatross around my neck.”
“That’s a little dramatic wouldn’t you say, Warren?” Julius Valente said as he shifted in his seat across from the man who held the Secretary of the Treasury position that he could have had.
“Dramatic my ass, Julie. She blew the Prescott raid. She has the ear and, for all I know, the cock of the president. I’m telling you, Mitchell is looking to get even with me for that pass I gave Selchow and his directors on that sub-prime violation.”
“Mitchell doesn’t seem like a backdoor kind of guy; I think if he wanted you to fry, he’d light the stove himself. Maybe his chief of staff or one of h
is advisors could hold a grudge . . . but you said she’s in with him?”
“Look, Julie, I am not asking you for your opinion. I want you to get up to New York under the guise of being my appointed special investigator to help this woman find the leak. Then I want you to find out what I am dealing with here. If she and Mitchell are making the beast with two backs, I’ll need that as leverage.”
“Beast with two . . . ? Where do you get this stuff?”
“Julie, we go all the way back to Harvard. You are my oldest and most trusted friend in this town. I need you to do this for me. Your résumé is perfect for this post and no one will raise so much as a ‘but’ in objection.”
Julius had done well out of Fordham University and after getting his masters at Harvard, the First Bank of Boston lured him away from an early life of government service, otherwise he’d have been a shoe-in for Sec Tres or to head up the Federal Reserve. Instead, he’d made his forays into government later in life, after he’d amassed his fortune in the private sector. He had been the Attorney General of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, served as economic advisor to the last president and was currently a consultant for Global Strategies, a Washington think tank. Valente looked at his old friend. “You’re really scared, aren’t you?”
“I just don’t like not knowing what I’m up against,” Cass said.
“You might want to rephrase that double negative constructed sentence, Warren, or no one will believe you graduated in Harvard’s top percentile. I accept the post. I get $3,000 a day plus expenses.”
“Done!” Warren Cass waved his hand like a Roman emperor decreeing a new tax.
“Well, Cass, I’ll leave you to your day. I’ve got a plane to catch,” Julius said as he exited the secretary’s office.
Warren Cass scribbled a note to the personnel department to set up a special account for “Julie” at “3K” per diem then fished through his drawer and found a prescription bottle and flicked out two capsules. His duodenal ulcers were really acting up because of this woman.
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