High Treason

by Sean McFate

  “Jason, you’re a good man. A patriot,” she said. “Did Dan say anything else? Like who was operating out of the safe house?”

  “No, and he wouldn’t give me anything more. It sounds heavy duty though, and not your typical Russian Federation bullshit.”

  She sat down on a changing bench, twirling the pen in her fingers as she thought. “But why aren’t they investigating it? After Secaucus I assumed the Bureau would widen the scope of inquiry to include suspicious Russian activity in the Capital region.”

  “Yeah, they did except for this safe house. I asked around and the Bureau is looking into all the usual suspects, but this one address is getting a hard pass.”

  “Why?”

  Jason was uncomfortable. “I don’t know, and that’s why I approached Dan when I learned he was on the team surveilling it. In fact, he specifically warned me not to ask about it. Didn’t say why.”

  Lin sat quietly, puzzling over it but only one word came to mind. “Weird.”

  “I know. That’s why I texted you.”

  She had deep knowledge of Russia, but it was mafia focused. This was different. A Russian government safe house that’s being protected by the FBI? she thought. Could it be a double agent? Unlikely. The FBI wouldn’t harbor any safe house during a national emergency, especially one involving WMD. There was only one way to find out.

  “I know that silence,” said Jason. “It’s the patented Lin-Thinking-Something-Stupid. Whatever you’re thinking, stop it.”

  “What am I thinking?”

  “You are thinking about taking down a certain Russian safe house all by yourself. That would be galactically stupid. And certain death.”

  “I’m not going to take it down. I just want to see if it’s there. That’s all,” she protested, crossing her arms and legs. It was disturbing how well Jason knew her.

  “Don’t. Come in while you still can,” he pleaded. “The Bureau is now looking into Russia, thanks to the Secaucus bust. Mission accomplished, Lin. You can come in now. We’re shorthanded, so they may overlook everything if you pitch in and work hard.”

  “You know it might be too late for me, even with the big bust. That’s why I need this. I can’t show up empty-handed. I need more than a lead; I need a victory.”

  A long silence followed. Lin could hear the dull chatter of their office in the background and felt his patience fraying. Yet he did not hang up.

  “One more thing, Lin,” said Jason reluctantly. “And I shouldn’t even be telling you this.”

  “What?”

  “You may be more right than you know about the bridge,” he said, lowering his voice. “They found traces of some new, exotic military explosive. Real state-of-the-art stuff.”

  “What is it?”

  “Wait one second,” he said, and she heard papers rustling around his forever messy desk. “Here it is. I don’t understand it,” he said, reading the report. “Something about the cocrystallization of two parts HMX to one part CL-20, both high-end military explosives. The new material, which they imaginatively labeled Explosive X, can produce a blast wave 225 miles per hour faster than pure HMX.” He whistled in admiration, as if he knew what he was taking about. “And it’s as stable and resistant to accidental detonation as HMX. Good safety tip.”

  “Custom-made?”

  “Yup. This stuff was not cooked up in some terrorist’s basement. There are only a few labs in the world capable of producing it at scale, and ATF and DIA monitor most of them. This development took the building completely by surprise. It’s got everyone here on edge because no terrorist group in the world has it—”

  “But Russia does,” she said, finishing his sentence while doing a silent victory dance in the middle of the locker room.

  “Just be careful,” he said.

  “Of course I will,” said Lin, and hung up.

  Chapter 28

  Around 11 p.m., George Jackson snuck out the White House pedestrian gate and walked briskly across Lafayette Square, his two-man secret service detail following. He didn’t want to be late. A winter gust assaulted his face, and he pulled up his scarf so that only his eyes showed. More important, he didn’t want to be recognized. Even at this late hour, protestors stood on Pennsylvania Avenue, waving signs opposing police brutality, terrorism, and nuclear war. Forty people clustered together holding candle lanterns in an all-night vigil, despite the zero-degree weather.

  “Hey, hey! Ho, ho! Police brutality has got to go!” chanted a smaller group weakly. The freezing temperature had taken a toll on their numbers, and only the most committed rallied on.

  A twenty-foot banner read: war never solves anything. Except for ending slavery, the Holocaust, fascism, and communism, thought Jackson, rolling his eyes. The protestors were none too bright, yet he was sympathetic to their sentiment. They would accomplish nothing, of course. The president wasn’t even in the White House tonight. Demonstrators were an irritant to men like Jackson, but he knew they were also necessary. America embraced dissent, and that was what separated it from the savage nations of the world.

  Two protestors huddled together on a park bench with a large cardboard sign leaning against their knees. end fascism now! it read, scrawled with a Sharpie. Two portraits bookended the message, each with a Hitler moustache. It was expertly drawn, and Jackson slowed to admire it. Then stopped. One of the portraits was of him.

  Bastards! he thought, and quickened his step. Week-old ice and refrozen slush encrusted the sidewalks, and salt crunched under his shoes. They strode past the giant statue of Gen. Andrew Jackson atop his horse, doffing his hat at the White House. Sirens wailed in the background. If Washington had a soundtrack, it would be sirens, honks, and helicopters.

  Jackson checked his watch again. “Let’s pick up the pace,” he whispered to the secret service agents flanking him.

  “Yes, sir,” replied one. Jackson knew these agents well, and he always requested them. Good men were hard to find. In battle this meant bravery, but in Washington it referred to discretion. There are acts of courage greater than taking a bullet for someone else, such as keeping another’s dangerous secrets. And Jackson had many secrets.

  They crossed H Street and walked up the stairs of St. John’s Episcopal Church. The pastel yellow exterior and white colonnade stood in sharp opposition to the concrete landscape surrounding it. It was nicknamed “church of the presidents” because every sitting president had attended the church since it was built in 1816, starting with James Madison.

  The agents pulled open the huge oak doors and Jackson glided through, stomping his feet in the narthex to get warm.

  “Please wait here,” he said, after they followed him inside. “I need to be alone.”

  Jackson walked down the nave toward the altar. St. John’s was small by modern standards, with a wraparound balcony on three sides consistent with the eighteenth century. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet, and the smell of incense and wood polish lingered in the air. Somehow, it reminded him of boarding school in New England, a horrible period many lifetimes ago.

  Fifty-eight, fifty-seven, fifty-six, fifty-five . . . ah, here we go, he thought, and slid into pew 54. A brass plaque on the armrest read the president’s pew in modest lettering. Jackson sat down, exhaling with relief.

  God help us all, he thought, gazing at the cross on the altar. Even in the dim light, the empty church cast a glow of consolation. The United States was the world’s superpower, but it was not omnipotent. During times of crisis, he needed succor.

  No, he thought. I need reassurance.

  The oak doors squeaked open behind him and clanked shut a moment later. Jackson smiled. Reassurance had arrived. Without turning around, he heard the click-click of a cane tapping its way up the nave, until a tall man stood beside him. The gentleman carefully leaned his antique cane against the pew’s back, its ivory handle an exquisitely carved monkey’s head. Then, with effort, he eased his large frame into the seat next to Jackson. Finally, he grabbed his left leg a
nd stretched it out, wincing slightly.

  “Good evening, George,” he said in a raspy voice. His hoarseness came not from old age or too many cigarettes, but from injury.

  “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

  “Of course. Anything for a friend.”

  Jackson fidgeted with his glove, hesitating.

  “What’s on your mind, George?”

  “The nuclear bomb. I need to know if it’s real.”

  This time the tall man hesitated.

  “I need to know if it’s true or just rumor,” repeated Jackson, both men staring straight ahead. Moments passed.

  “I thought we agreed not to do this,” said the older man.

  “Do what?”

  “Ask each other about details.”

  “WMD on American soil is not a ‘detail,’” said Jackson in an unyielding whisper.

  “You understand that it changes nothing,” said the man.

  Jackson stiffened, astonished by this response. Then spoke cautiously. “You will tell me, and I will judge what changes.”

  The man sighed, but Jackson didn’t care.

  “Very well, George. It’s true. Nuclear weapons were smuggled into the country last Friday. They are in transit now.”

  Jackson paused, absorbing the barrage of implications. This was not what he expected. He thought the man would saunter into the church and laugh at the rumor, not confirm it. Jackson’s mind felt adrift. Hundreds of questions exploded in his head, but he could only spit out two: “Weapons, plural? You brought nuclear weapons into the country?! Where are they now?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “You can’t? Or you won’t?” asked Jackson, raising his voice in alarm.

  “No more questions, George. We cooperate when we can, but do what we must. You have your duties, and I have mine. That was our arrangement, and nothing more,” said the man.

  “Give me the location of the nuclear weapons so my teams can intercept them.”

  “I cannot.”

  Jackson’s face turned crimson and eyes bulged. His lips curled back, showing his teeth, and he whispered viciously: “So help me God, I will bring the full weight and might of the United States of America crashing down upon your head until you don’t know your toes from your tonsils.”

  “You do that, we both burn.”

  “I don’t care. You brought WMD into my country, on my watch. I will see us burn before I let a single American perish by your hand.”

  Both men hard-stared each other. Finally, the tall man broke the gaze.

  “Fine, George. You win this round. I will give you something.”

  “What?”

  “A name. A location. Something.”

  “Something?!”

  “In time, George. In time,” said the man, reaching for his cane.

  “In time? Time is the one thing neither of us has. I need ‘something’ now. Immediately.”

  With a grunt, the tall man pulled himself upright and maneuvered into the nave with measured care. George sat perplexed by the man’s indifference. Nuclear weapons changed the equation, and the law of unintended consequences could produce a mushroom cloud. This was never part of their deal. Never.

  “I will get you actionable intelligence on the WMD soon. Very soon. I promise,” said the man.

  “But—”

  “Have a good night, George,” he interrupted, and hobbled out of the church with the clickity-clack of his cane. Jackson considered having his agents seize him, but that would only complicate matters, not solve them. Besides, he knew where to find the man and could grab him at any hour of any day. He was going nowhere. The heavy oak doors shut after the man exited, and Jackson slumped back into the president’s pew.

  God help us all, he thought.

  Chapter 29

  The next morning, Jackson sat in a corner of the press secretary’s office, which was crammed with lesser staffers. Like every room in the West Wing, it was entirely too small for its purpose. Jackson’s weekend cabin on the Chesapeake had larger rooms. Actually, it was a Georgian brick mansion named “Ridgely’s Retreat,” and it came with its own peninsula and former slave quarters. Still, it had larger rooms.

  How can anyone run a superpower out of the dinky West Wing? Jackson often wondered. The press secretary, Kelsey Broderick, stood behind her L-shaped desk and shuffled through papers manically in preparation for her press briefing, which was in ten minutes. The White House press pool was hostile most days, but today was worse. Last night’s televised presidential address was not the speech of destiny everyone had hoped for. In fact, it was a disaster, raising more questions than it answered, and now the media was frenzied. Hence the 10 a.m. press conference to lower the media fever.

  “George, anything new?” she asked nervously.

  “Not since yesterday. At least, nothing unclassified,” he said. Jackson’s only role during the meeting was to answer her national security questions before she faced the cameras.

  “Good. Don’t tell me anything classified. I might accidently repeat it,” she said. “It’s been that kind of morning.” She turned to other staffers in the room for last-minute updates: homeland, FBI, intelligence, others.

  Jackson tuned them out and watched the bank of TV monitors that lined her wall, each set to a different 24/7 news channel. He focused on one of the biggies, reading its closed captions.

  nationwide manhunt continues for terrorists, said the chyron. The screen showed militarized police going door-to-door in a wealthy suburb of Northern Virginia. An older man in a bathrobe was shown yelling at police, barring them from entering his home, and the police plowed by him. The man grabbed an urn and smashed it over a policeman’s Kevlar helmet. Seconds later, he was on the ground in flex-cuffs, then two policemen in black fatigues dragged him across his lawn to a cruiser. An angry policeman yelled at the camera, which was then pointed down at the ground.

  No, no, no! Jackson thought. Dumb police.

  Kelsey saw it too. “What are they doing?!” she said, knowing the press pool would hold her accountable for the policemen’s actions. They already looked more like soldiers than police, and now this. Civil rights groups were howling. The news anchor looked visibly shocked by the elderly bathrobed man’s fate.

  What a humiliating way to go, thought Jackson with a silent chuckle. Hauled off across your lawn in nothing but a bathrobe and flex-cuffs as they dump you in a police car, and all broadcast live on international TV. The legacy of saps. He thanked God that would never be him.

  “Someone turn that off,” said Kelsey. “I can’t look at the news right now.” A staffer diligently switched off all the monitors. “Good. Where were we?”

  As others gave her last-minute updates, Jackson pulled out his phone and checked his social media feeds. He followed all the journalists who mattered in the national security space, and they were on fire with the government’s door-to-door manhunt for the terrorists. “Gestapo,” “desperate,” “insane.” Their descriptions got worse from there.

  “Time to go,” said one of the staffers.

  “I’m not ready,” protested Kelsey, still leafing through her binder.

  “Ma’am, it’s time. Being late only makes them worse,” said the aide. “It eggs on conspiracy theory.”

  Really? Conspiracy theory?! read the expression on Kelsey’s face, but she nodded. “Fine. I’m ready. Let’s go.”

  They all stood up and followed the press secretary out of her office and into the overcrowded briefing room. It was slightly bigger than a double-wide trailer’s living room. The chatter quieted as she took the podium.

  “Good morning,” she began, and then gave an elegant ten-minute statement that said absolutely nothing. When she was done, hands shot up. One by one, she took questions, and her answers sounded convincing yet revealed nothing.

  God, she’s good, Jackson thought as he stood on the side with her staffers.

  The volley of questions and answers continued, while Jackson contemplat
ed his conversation last night with the tall man. It infuriated him. How dare he bring WMD onto American soil? He promised actionable intelligence, but when? He needed it now.

  “I have a question for the national security advisor,” said one journalist, seeing Jackson, who looked up in alarm.

  “Oh, he’s not available for questions,” said Kelsey, caught off guard.

  “But he’s right there!” protested the journalist, pointing to Jackson. All cameras swiveled toward him and zoomed in; he looked up at the monitor and saw himself, standing in the shadows and watching the monitor in shock. Not a good look.

  Busted, Jackson thought, and instantly regretted following the press secretary into the vultures’ lair. A dumb mistake, but it was too late now.

  “Uh,” said Kelsey, feeling herself losing control. “Dr. Jackson isn’t available for comments.”

  “Dr. Jackson,” said the journalist, ignoring the press secretary. “Is it true there’s an American sleeper cell?”

  “Where will the terrorists strike next?”

  “Is there just one nuclear bomb or are there many?”

  “Could they already be planted in cities across the nation?”

  “What are you doing to stop it? The American people deserve to know.”

  “Can you stop it?”

  The barrage continued as the chorus of camera shutters crescendoed and all eyes focused on him. Then the room fell silent, expecting an answer. Live TV abhors silence.

  A pack of vultures! he thought and glanced at the press secretary, but her look offered no respite. He straightened up awkwardly, knowing he was in a no-win situation.

  “The FBI and CIA are still working to ascertain any and all leads. Progress is being made. We are cautiously optimistic,” assured Kelsey, but it was no use.

  “Dr. Jackson,” asked another journalist. “Is Russia behind this, making it look like terrorists? Is this an act of war?”

  Silence hung in the air, making Jackson uncomfortable. The entire world was watching the press briefing live, and refusing to answer or walking out would only validate the conspiracy theorists. However, he had no gift for evading questions like the press secretary, and lying would make things worse later. It always did. There was only one thing to do.