“Not at all,” Bob said. He tried to catch the eyes of the other people around him emerging from the subway station in order to draw more of a crowd. He took a step closer to the woman.
“Oh, good … Well … This is weird … I don’t really do this …” She stamped her feet a bit as if she were cold. “But … here goes … I am part of a book club, and I’m not sure you do book clubs … Not many authors do … I mean, not many authors of your … you know, caliber … I mean, who doesn’t know the story of Jamie Carter and Don Bailino? And you portrayed it so well. We read your book when it came out in paperback. We all loved it. I felt like I was there. Well, not really there … You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do,” Bob said. The woman was getting more attractive by the second. “And thank you.”
“I mean, we’re meeting this Saturday, and even though we’re supposed to discuss another book, if you could, maybe, stop by … I don’t know if you’d have any interest … We can’t really pay you anything, but we do have wine and—”
“I’d love to,” Bob said. He fished into his pocket. “Here’s my business card. Email me the details, what time you’re meeting, and all that, and I’ll try and be there.”
“Really? That’s great!” the woman said, taking the card from his hand. “I’m Nadia, by the way. The girls are gonna flip when I tell them.” She pulled down on her beanie, which smooshed the bangs against her eyes even more, and stuck out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“You as well,” Bob said, shaking her hand and noticing no wedding ring on the other.
“Okay, then …” She held up the business card and backed away. “I’ll email you,” she called.
Bob watched her go, her perfect thigh gap swaying between her jeaned legs. He practically jogged the three blocks to his apartment. His instincts had been good, after all—taking the subway, becoming an author, the private practice, divorcing Jamie. It all led him here. Sure, a book club isn’t as high profile as a national news slot, he thought as he stepped inside the hallway of his building, but it sure beats a butterface any day of the week.
CHAPTER 5
Wilcox was standing in the West Colonnade wearing his usual blue suit and starched white shirt, which surprised Phillip, although it shouldn’t have. This was what retirement would look like for a man like Paul Wilcox, who had devoted his life to the Bureau. The longtime federal agent nodded as Phillip approached.
“Mr. President,” Wilcox said. “It’s good to see that you’re all right. And the family?”
“Everyone’s fine, thank you, Agent Wilcox.”
“Mr. President, as you know, I’m no longer … with the Bureau.” Wilcox gave a small nod. “Paul is fine.”
It was clear by the expression on Wilcox’s face that Paul was not fine. Phillip knew that Wilcox had been nudged into retirement. A new culture was taking root at the Bureau, one that relied more on technology than man power, and more on quantity rather than quality. This left no place for a veteran agent like Wilcox who believed time and teamwork is what solved cases, not hindered them.
“Thank you for coming.” Phillip motioned toward the Oval Office. “Let’s go to my office to talk.”
Agents and staff members flowed silently around them. Phillip held the door open for Wilcox and was about to close it behind them when Fred Collins came rushing forward.
“Mr. President? Do you have a moment?” he called.
Phillip didn’t often work directly with his deputy press secretary, but with Jamie away he would need to. When Collins had been a reporter for a conservative news outlet in the D.C. area, he was known for his composure and coolness—with that smugness about him that journalists usually shared. However, the Collins approaching him now was of another sort—harried and sweating and looking as though he were going to pass out. Perhaps he was learning fast how much more difficult it was to make the news rather than deliver it.
“Mr. President, I think we need to go over your statement.”
“There is no statement right now, Fred.”
Collins looked astonished. “But, Mr. President, the press is outside the—”
“The press is always outside. I meant what I said in the PEOC.”
“There are already murmurings, sir, about there being some kind of bomb in the White House, and I’m getting calls that—”
“You’ll have to hold them off, Fred. I’m not in the business of giving misinformation, so until I know exactly what’s going on, the press will have to wait.” He motioned to Wilcox standing inside the Oval Office. “Have you met Special Agent Paul Wilcox?”
“No,” Collins said, appearing dazed at the distraction. “Nice to meet you.” He and Wilcox shook hands. “But, if I may, Mr. President … I’m not sure it’s going to be easy to contain this and—”
“I’m afraid that’s your job, Fred.” Phillip thought he saw the color drain from Collins’s face. He put his hand on his shoulder. “It will be all right. I will get you what you need as soon as I can. If need be, we’ll cancel tomorrow morning’s press briefing. Until Jamie returns, do your best.”
“And when will Jamie—?”
“Thank you, Fred,” Phillip said, stepping inside the Oval Office.
Collins was smart enough to take the hint and went fumbling back down the corridor, calling after the White House communications director as Phillip shut the door.
“Guy looks a bit green, no?” Wilcox said.
“He’ll be all right,” Phillip said, although he wasn’t entirely convinced that Collins would be. “He’s been thrown into the deep end of the pool.”
He motioned for Wilcox to sit down on one of the mauve sofas that had been furnished by the previous administration. Clark had been getting on Phillip to redesign the room—“It’s what new administrations do,” he had said—but Phillip couldn’t see the point of it. A couch was a couch. Maybe it was the conservative in him, but he couldn’t rationalize the expense. He sat down on the other sofa facing Wilcox.
“You sent for me, Mr. President?” Wilcox asked.
Phillip nodded. “Agent Wilcox, we’ve had a long history together, you and I. You have helped me in very trying times in my life and in the lives of people I care about.”
“I appreciate you saying that, Mr. President, but I was just doing my job.”
“You went above and beyond, I think we both know that,” Phillip said. “Other than Katherine and a select few, I trust you implicitly. I know you are a man of honor and a man of your word, which is the reason I would like to appoint you, as you know, as the new director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation—”
“Mr. President, I—”
“But that is not why I asked you to come today,” Phillip said. He inched farther up on the sofa and leaned his elbows on his knees. “The list of people who have access to my private residence is short. Either there has been some breach of security or the person who has put my family in danger is very likely a member of my team or my staff, and that is a very difficult situation to consider, as you can imagine.”
Wilcox nodded but said nothing.
“I need someone I can trust … I know you’ve retired, Agent Wilcox, but I’d like to reinstate your credentials, temporarily, until we figure this out. You’d be working as a member of the Bureau but reporting directly to me. On special assignment. You’ll have the full power of the office of the presidency behind you to do what you need. Agent Fuller and Katherine will be arriving shortly, and I expect Agent Fuller will be briefing me on the situation and next steps, and I’d like you to attend.”
Wilcox stood, and Phillip thought for a moment that he was about to walk out the door, but instead the longtime special agent bowed his head and said, “It would be my honor, Mr. President.”
“Good.” Phillip stood up as well, and the men shook hands. “Again, you will have the full authority of the FBI, but will be reporting to me. Can you live with that?”
“I can,” he said. “As long as you can live with me d
oing my job the way I need to do my job.”
“I wouldn’t ask for anything less, Agent Wilcox.”
There was a double knock on the door, which was Katherine’s signal, and she walked in with Agent Fuller. Katherine was the only one who would even think of entering the Oval Office without an invitation, which is why, Phillip believed, his wife had made a habit out of doing it—she liked the special privileges.
“Agent Wilcox,” Katherine said and shook Wilcox’s hand. “I’m sorry this meeting is due to such unfortunate circumstances.”
“Mrs. Grand,” Wilcox nodded. “You may call me Paul. Glad to see you are all right.”
“Where are the children?” Phillip asked Katherine, who had changed her clothing and applied a bit of makeup.
“With your mother,” she said. She sat down, and both Phillip and Wilcox returned to their places. Agent Fuller stood between the two sofas, his eyes on the four doors of the Oval Office and the windows. “You should know that Josef is inquiring about this meeting, as is Rudy Ray,” Katherine said.
“We’ll bring them and the others in shortly,” Phillip said. “Right now, the information shared goes no further than the people in this room, the four of us.” He leaned back and put his hand on Katherine’s lap. “As everyone here knows, we’ve been, for lack of a better word, infiltrated, and we need to take that very seriously. I have trust in my staff and in my administration, or else they would not be working here, but I am also smart enough to know that trust only goes so far. I have the utmost trust in the people in this room, however. Is that understood?”
The three nodded.
“Good. Let’s get started. Agent Wilcox, Agent Fuller was just telling us that he believes the explosive device was not brought into the White House. Isn’t that right, Agent Fuller?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Brandon said. The young agent began rocking on his heels, reminding Phillip of a student giving a class presentation. “We believe that it was made here, in the White House, and brought into the president’s private residence.”
“Made?” Katherine said. “Like a cake?”
“In a sense, Mrs. Grand.”
“What makes you say that, Agent Fuller?” Wilcox said.
“The IED was composed of found objects—baby food jars, metal utensils, a type of acid or gasoline, we’ll have more specifics on that soon, but things easily collected and not readily noticed if they disappear. Improvised explosive devices usually consist of a few basic parts—a power supply, which could come from a flashlight battery, a detonator, a container to hold everything, and a trigger … It appears that portions of Faith Carter’s Hello Kitty watch were even used as components.”
“You can’t be serious,” Katherine said. “You can make a bomb from those things?”
“I’m afraid you can,” Wilcox said.
“So what you’re saying, Agent Fuller, is that this thing wasn’t made overnight,” Phillip said. “It was made over time.”
“And right under our noses,” Katherine added. She looked into Phillip’s eyes.
“Yes,” Brandon said grimly. “Carefully and methodically. The detonator was located under your pillow, Mr. President. It is a small miracle that little Faith Carter crawled under the bed and not on it.”
Brandon’s words hung in the air, and a feeling of violation sizzled through Phillip. His wife, his children, his family, his closest friends—they had all been in danger, and he hadn’t known it.
“An individual, or individuals, crafted this, we assume, nearby and slid it under your bed, Mr. President,” Brandon said. “But the good news—”
“There’s good news?” Katherine asked.
“Yes, only so many people have access to the private residence. Right now, we believe it is highly unlikely that someone without clearance was able to get in undetected. Therefore, we are looking at only thirty or forty people who could have perpetrated this crime.”
“Oh, is that all?” Katherine huffed with sarcasm.
Phillip agreed with his wife. This was far from good news. Perhaps the persons of interest could quickly be narrowed, but they were some of the people he trusted the most—and each had a veritable all-access pass to the White House.
“Cameras?” Wilcox asked.
Phillip shook his head. “Not in the private residence. Quite frankly, I didn’t think I needed cameras. I do now.”
“They’re being installed as we speak, Mr. President,” Brandon said.
Wilcox sat forward, his arms crossed. “Mr. President, I know that access to the private residence is restricted to immediate family, for the most part,” Wilcox said. “Who else?”
“Some of the agents, such as Agent Fuller, have full access to the private residence,” Phillip said, “as do some of the White House staff.”
“And Jamie and Faith Carter?” Wilcox said.
“Of course. I already counted them,” Phillip said. “Under family.”
Wilcox nodded. “May I ask, Mr. President, where they are now? Jamie and Faith Carter?”
Phillip hesitated, and he wasn’t sure why. “They’re not in the White House,” he said finally, almost defensively. “Jamie and Faith are off the premises.”
“Mr. President, do you think that was the wisest choice for them, considering their history?”
Phillip could feel Katherine’s and Brandon’s eyes on him. It was a valid question.
“It wasn’t my choice to make,” Phillip said. “Jamie insisted on leaving. She was spooked. And I can’t say I blame her.”
“And yet she knows this house is probably the safest place that she could be,” Wilcox said, “that her daughter could be.”
“And, yet, there was an explosive device in this house, Agent Wilcox,” Phillip said.
“What are you getting at, Agent Wilcox?” Katherine asked.
Wilcox didn’t answer. His gaze remained on Phillip. “Where is Jamie going?” he asked. “To her brother’s?”
“Actually, she’s heading out west, I believe, for a few days.”
“Did she leave an address?”
“What is this about, Agent Wilcox?” Katherine asked again. It was clear that none of them were going to call him Paul. “I think we need to return to the matter at hand.”
“With all due respect, Mrs. Grand, I am,” Wilcox said.
The tension that had always existed between Katherine and Wilcox reared its ugly head, and Phillip held up his hand as if to defuse it. “She did not leave an address,” he said. “And I didn’t think to ask in all the commotion. Now … I’d like to return to Agent Fuller’s briefing.”
Wilcox appeared unsatisfied but settled back on the sofa and looked up at Brandon, who resumed his swaying.
“As I mentioned,” the young agent said, “it looks like we’re dealing with an IED, an improvised explosive device.”
“What is believed to be its radius?” Phillip asked.
“As of now, we are guessing not much, only a few yards. It was rudimentary. Lethal, but rudimentary.”
“Enough to harm us,” Katherine said. Phillip squeezed her hand.
“Have you found anything other than the device?” Phillip asked.
Brandon shook his head. “No, Mr. President. Unfortunately, according to preliminary reports, the only fingerprints or hair samples we found belonged to little Faith Carter, members of your family, the Secret Service agents designated for the area, or the cleaning staff.”
“Edna?” Katherine asked. “She’s worked in the White House for years. For crying out loud, I never thought I’d miss Rosalia Garcia …”
“Let’s not start a witch hunt,” Phillip said. “Innocent until proven guilty.”
“That being said,” Brandon noted, “I’d like to begin questioning staff members, both those with access to the private residence as well as others who may have seen something unusual. Despite the limited persons of interest, I think it best to cast a wide net.”
“Yes, go ahead,” Phillip said. “Do what you need t
o. Agent Wilcox, any questions?”
“Just one,” Wilcox said. “If Jamie Carter didn’t leave an address, do you have any way of getting in touch with her?”
Brandon and Katherine looked at Phillip, who shouldn’t have been surprised by the question. When Wilcox grabbed onto something, he had the bite force of a crocodile. He didn’t let go.
“Katherine, Brandon, I’d like some time with Agent Wilcox alone, if that’s all right. If you’ll excuse us …” Katherine bristled, and Phillip could tell she was about to protest. “Katherine, please …” He put his hand on her knee.
She inhaled deeply and nodded, and she and Brandon headed for the exit. Phillip got up from the couch, poured two glasses of water, and handed one to Agent Wilcox. The longtime agent took it and moved to the window, looking out at the Rose Garden as Katherine closed the Oval Office door. Phillip drained his glass in one gulp and placed the emptied glass on his desk.
“You instructed me to do my job, Mr. President,” Wilcox said before Phillip had a chance to speak. He placed his still-full glass next to Phillip’s. “That’s what I’m doing. I need to get a hold of Jamie Carter. Did she provide any contact information?”
Phillip let out a heavy sigh and sat back down on the sofa. “She gave me a phone number,” he said finally.
“I believe you should contact her. There’s something you need to consider. And I’m afraid you’re not going to like it.”
“What’s that?”
Wilcox seemed to be thinking carefully about his words. “Mr. President, you know that there was a limit to the number of people who had access to your private residence. You just said so yourself.”
“And?”
“I think you need to consider the fact that Jamie Carter is … well, unfortunately, a suspect in the attempted bombing of the White House.”
“A suspect?!” Phillip exclaimed, standing. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m afraid I am.”
“Agent Wilcox, you’ve known Jamie as long as I have, and you know damn well that what you’re saying is crazy.”
“I understand, and I agree with you, but, frankly, there’s a short list of people who could have not only placed that explosive device in your bedroom but also put it together over an extended period of time. And she’s one of them.”
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