“And you were going to tell me … when?”
“Last night, or today. We only obtained the corroborating information yesterday. You weren't here, Mr. President,” the secretary scratched his chin, “and what we've found isn't good news.”
Saying nothing, the president's gaze pierced the wiry-haired man across from him, a man he once trusted implicitly. He rubbed behind his left ear, his brow deeply lined. “Mr. Secretary, now would be a good time to tell me everything. Do you have all the information with you? In your head?”
“Mason prepared a file for me, eyes only. It's secured in my office safe. Mason has original documents, copies of emails, other correspondence. He never said where that is. But I guarantee he can have it to you as soon as possible.”
“Does Mr. Hamid have all the materials you have?”
“Yes, sir, and more. May I suggest that you bring him here? You can judge for yourself.”
“Does he have names?” The secretary said he did. He buzzed Ms. Crispin and told her to find Mel Zack.
“She's right here, sir.”
Mel poked her head around the door. “Yes, sir?”
“I need you to do something, please. Get two agents to guard General Beech. If he asks, which he will, tell him I've ordered it as a precaution, and keep him in the White House. Tell him to arrange for Mason Hamid to be brought here as fast as possible.”
In as reassuring a manner as he could muster, the secretary said, “He has the details. He can tell you about them.”
When Ms. Crispin informed the president that Mason Hamid was on the way, the secretary spun a tale of conspiracy within the government.
“And this has been confirmed by the CIA?” the president asked.
“Mason is CIA, Mr. President.” Eyebrows raised around the room. “They'll have records, I'm sure.”
The president asked Ms. Crispin to get Bill Brandon on the phone. Thirty seconds later, the CIA director had been instructed to be at the White House “as soon as possible, sooner.”
“Of course, Mr. President. Can you tell me what's up?”
“I just want to verify the CIA's information regarding a planned military coup against this government.”
The director choked and coughed. The president imagined a mouthful of coffee spraying the kitchen. “You're kidding.”
“DO I SOUND LIKE I'M KIDDING?”
“No, sir. Sorry, sir. I'm on my way as fast as I can.”
When the CIA chief arrived, the secretary explained that the information had been collected specifically by Mason Hamid, who had met a man named Richard Salzmann at a country club dinner in Virginia. After a couple of meetings, in between which Mason had checked out all he could find about his informant, Salzmann explained how he had acquired his information. He had met a man named Florian Declercq, who after a few drinks, spouted about his disgust with American intervention in the third world, and how he intended to extract large money contracts as the primary delivery provider for the new development plan in the Middle East. His final comment sent Hamid straight to the secretary. Declercq told Salzmann he had created a group that would sabotage the deliveries, assuring no supplies ever reached their destination.
“An FBI informant spotted Declercq at the Willard Hotel and CIA agents arrested him.”
“Now, who's Declercq?” asked the CIA director.
“Later,” said the president. “Now Mr. Secretary, please tell me about the planned disruption on Election Day.”
“Mason discovered links to websites and email accounts of the Caballeros, that's what the group is called, and he has copies, he told me, naming an international conglomerate, associated with known domestic terror organizations and top military officers who have a plan to take down the government. Three steps—first, jam communications; second, take down the electrical grid across the country; and third, selective assassinations. Mason has a list of the targets.”
“That's absurd,” said Brandon. “All due respect, Mr. Secretary, but I'd have been informed if anything like this came through the Agency.”
“You would have, and should have been, unless you're involved, or you're a target,” the secretary snapped. “Sorry, Mr. President, I told Mason to hide the list until we had more information.”
The CIA director stood, a flash of anger crossing his face, but the president told him to sit down. Turning to the secretary, he said, “And I have to pry this out of you?”
* * *
THE PRESIDENT ESCORTED the director and the secretary to the door. He told them to go watch the football game around the corner. “Ms. Crispin, please ask General Beech to come down here, and when he arrives, ask him to wait. And would you ask the First Lady to come down. Tell her code magenta.”
“Yes, sir. Code magenta?” Her look expected more information.
“Our own code.”
In less than five minutes, the First Lady entered the Oval Office, and handed him a cigarette. “That bad?”
“I'm anticipating.” He repeated the secretary's story watching her face change from placid to amused to angry. Then she did what the president expected. She analyzed.
“If any of this is real, we have a major mess. And they'll blame you.”
“I don't care about that, but I'm…”
“You need to care. This time. They'll say you did it so you can stay in office.”
He pondered her comment and asked her to stay and listen. He told her to watch reactions, the secretary's and the general's, in particular. He said that none of the story made sense to him, but only one of them could be telling the truth. If he was wrong, the country faced a constitutional crisis, and he might face an assassination. “When this meeting ends,” he said to his wife, “I want you and the girls to get out of here.” He winked at her and told her not to argue. Turning to Clemmons standing on the other side of the room, he said, “Sam, make arrangements for a way out of the country tonight. Send Mel Zack, and you go too.”
“Mr. President…”
“Don't argue. Just do it.”
Chapter 43
HER BACK LOOKED like an aerial view of railroad tracks in a blood-stained train yard. After a long and drug-induced night, Jane woke, hazy-headed and sore. Still lying on her stomach, her neck stiff, she started to turn over. Gentle hands on her bare shoulders held her in place.
“The doctors don't want you to move yet.” The voice penetrated the fog, while awareness and memory dawdled in returning.
“Ash, is that you?”
He walked around the bed so she could see him. “Yup.” She tried to tuck an arm under to push herself up. “Be still for a little longer. The nurse went to get Dr. O'Donnell.”
“My neck's like a rock. I need to look the other way.” She lifted and turned, groaning as she did. “Will you massage my neck? It's all knotted.” He walked around to the other side and with his thumbs kneaded the tightness as she moaned her relief. She began to ask him where they were, but the door squeaked open, and Dr. O'Donnell, dark circles under her eyes, said good morning. She bent over so she and Jane could see each other. Ashley dragged a chair to her.
“That's better. Thanks, Ashley. Now, Ms. Barclay, my name is Debra O'Donnell. You've had a bad night, but we've stitched you back together. I wanted to keep an eye on our work, so you've been left uncovered. I want to bandage you and see if we can let you move around a little this morning. How do you feel?”
Jane said, “Groggy. And stiff. I sleep on my side so this is awkward. And it's starting to itch.”
“Do me a favor and don't scratch it.”
“Where am I?”
“A hospital between Richmond and Washington. You came in last night. You have some interesting friends.”
“Thanks,” Ashley said. Jane started to turn, but yelped when the stitches pulled. His soft push made her relax.
“Well, yeah, you too, I guess, Ashley. Jane, the president asked me…”
“He was here?”
“He came in with you, and he stayed un
til the wee hours. He gave me explicit instructions to take good care of you.”
Ashley said, “And I have an Executive Order that I should be here too.”
Dr. O'Donnell continued. “Your nurse is Robert Pine. He'll be back before I leave. We'll keep you here until we're sure the sutures will hold. But you're going to need to change bandages regularly for a while. The cuts weren't deep enough to kill, but enough that you'd keep bleeding when you moved. I'll talk to you later about what you'll need to do. For now, I'm going to keep you groggy to keep the pain away. We'll bandage you in little while.”
AS THE SHIFTS changed, and daytime staff arrived, news of the past few hours' activities started conversations anew. Tim had dozed while Emily sat, paced the ER, walked outside and called Joe, talked to Ashley and Dr. Spiritosa. But, mostly she sat at the treatment room window. She couldn't take her eyes off her daughter, lying naked and raw. Dr. Kramer had told her to try and get some sleep, that Linda would be sedated for quite a while. At eight o'clock, Dr. Kramer had told her that she had completed arrangements for transfer to Hopkins by helicopter at noontime. Tim, tired and cranky, listened to the transfer comment and objected before the doctor had finished. He told her that Linda wasn't going anywhere until he said so, and he was waiting for a call from a doctor friend. “Then I'll decide.”
Emily told Dr. Kramer that she should wait, and when Tim went to sit, told her to ignore him. “He thinks he's going to bring her home and everything will be fine.”
“Ms. Miller, this will be a long healing process. She'll need help with everything, even getting dressed for a while. Her husband won't be much help now either.”
“He disappoints me. I expected he would be here, at least for moral support.”
“I'm sure if he could, he would.” She wished she could violate her promise to the president and tell this woman that Fritz might be dying.
“Yes, Tim. It's Sunday morning. What's so important that it can't wait until a reasonable hour?”
“John, Linda's been hurt. We're in Virginia. Some local doctor wants to move her to Johns Hopkins and I want her home.”
“Give me the details, Tim. I can't diagnose over the phone.”
“She got whipped, her back is raw. They haven't even put on bandages.”
“Let me talk to the doctor.”
Interrupting Dr. Kramer again, Tim said his friend, Dr. John Thomas, asked to speak with her. He handed her his cell and went back to sit down. She excused herself from Emily and walked to a desk. After a few minutes, she handed the phone to Tim.
“So John, what's the word?”
“The word is you're an idiot. Dr. Jean Kramer is one of the foremost dermatologists in the world. Let her do her job. How you got so lucky is beyond me, but Linda couldn't be in better hands. And Tim, listen to what she says.”
* * *
EMILY TOLD ASHLEY they would be back later. She dragged Tim to their car, just as John Russell and the Barclays came into the waiting room. John reached the desk first and received the same answer the Millers had. Fritz Russell–the computer blinked–tell any requests no such person. John stepped away, took a note from his pocket and looked for a sign with the hospital's name. The Barclays replaced him in front of the information clerk.
When John saw the hospital sign, where he belonged, he called Ashley. Puzzled at the message they too received, Andrew and Carolyn Barclay took seats in the waiting room, and Carolyn called Ashley. Her call went straight to voicemail. John, standing only five feet away, overheard her tell Ashley they had been told that Jane wasn't here.
“Excuse me,” John said, “did you just call Ashley Gilbert?”
“Why yes, I did.”
“I did, too.”
Before they could go further, Ashley rushed through the double doors, and after quick introductions, led them toward their children.
“Sir, they can't go in,” said the admissions clerk. A security guard, noticing the raised voice, stepped in front of the entrance. The clerk told the guard that “these people are looking for people who aren't registered.”
Bill Sharp jumped from his nap and catapulted from the chair, his hand on his pistol. “Not again. Doesn't anybody tell anyone anything around here?”
“Who are you?” asked the guard.
“I'm a very tired secret service agent. Let them go in.”
“Sorry, sir. I can't do that.”
Ashley said, “Bill, these are Jane's parents and Fritz's father.” Sharp glanced at the ceiling and rolled his eyes.
“You don't want me to pull rank,” Sharp said to the guard. “These folks are here to see their kids. Just let them through.”
“Sir, their children are not here,” said the admissions clerk. Ashley started to respond, but Bill told him to be quiet. He told the clerk to call Mr. Hanover and the misunderstanding would be resolved.
“Sir, he doesn't work on Sunday.”
“Then call him at home, or give me his number and I will. And when I'm done, you will, I repeat, will, be arrested for interfering with a federal officer on duty.”
“May I see some identification?”
Ashley said, “Hold on, Bill. What about Dr. O'Donnell or Dr. Spiritosa? They can vouch for us.” Sharp looked at the security guard, then the clerk, and asked if that would satisfy them.
“I'm sorry sir. We have our instructions,” answered the admissions clerk.
“Bill, I'll take care of this.” Ashley led the Barclays and John Russell around the building to the emergency entrance, with Bill Sharp jogging to catch up. A helicopter prepared to land in the adjacent parking lot.
Dr. Kramer joined the growing group. Ashley spoke in her ear. The doctor spoke to the guard, who then waved to Ashley.
“Sorry, sir, go on in.” When the helicopter touched down, Dr. Kramer met her staff and explained what she wanted. They carried Linda up the ramp. Dr. Kramer asked Ashley if Linda's parents were nearby. After a quick exchange, she gave him her card with a cell phone number.
“He's gonna be pissed that you took her.”
Her twinkling eyes had a bit of devilishness. “Call me when they head north.” She ran up the ramp, and in seconds, the helicopter became a dot in the morning sky.
The Barclays were talking to Dr. O'Donnell when Ashley walked in. John told him that he just needed to hear the current status, so that he could call Martha. “She hasn't been told anything yet.” He planned to find a local motel and asked if Ashley could suggest one.
Ashley hadn't left the hospital, and didn't know, but suggested it would be cheaper if they could share a room. “That way, at least one of us can be here.”
Dr. O'Donnell left the Barclays with their daughter, and after making notes on a chart, came to talk with Ashley.
“Doctor O'Donnell, this is Fritz's father, John Russell.”
“How's my son doing?”
Her soft greeting disappeared. “Mr. Russell, I really don't know. But let me make a call.” They waited only a few minutes before she returned. “Doctor Sherman, the surgeon, will be down in a few minutes.” She told them that the president had asked Dr. Sherman to help. Ashley told John he'd check on Jane's parents and be right back. He asked Dr. O'Donnell to speak with them after he did.
“Mr. Barclay, John and I are going to a motel. Maybe we should stay at the same place.”
“That's a good idea. We passed one a short way from the entrance on the way in.”
Ashley hesitated, glanced around the room, and said. “I need to ask you a question. Did you know she was alive? When I visited in June, I couldn't tell.”
Andrew Barclay started to answer, but Carolyn interrupted. She told him they were as surprised to see him as they were at his question. “Ashley,” he noted the extended 'a' as she said his name, “she had called us and said you were killed in that battle in the desert. She told us she would be okay, but the president didn't want anyone to find out she had survived.”
Andrew took over. “The president called us. Himself. B
efore you came. He said that you had survived also, but that we couldn't tell Jane for the present. If anyone discovered you had lived, he said, it would put Jane's life in danger again. More than national security, it was life and death, for both of you.”
* * *
DR. SHERMAN yawned as he entered the emergency room with Dr. Clark. She looked like she had just marched a hundred miles. Less damaged, but only to a minor degree, Dr. Sherman looked tired and wrinkled to his core. Ashley introduced John Russell, who asked the only question that mattered to him, would his son be okay?
“Mr. Russell, I wish I could be definitive for you now. Or tell you when I'll have an answer. He's been pieced together, has a lot of new blood, and a heavy dose of antibiotics. Dr. Clark here kept him alive long enough to get to this point. Blood loss alone makes my prognosis uncertain. I'm sorry. I'll have a better sense of his condition tomorrow. For now, I'm just guessing. If you'll excuse me, I need to make a few phone calls.”
“Can I see him?”
Chapter 44
HIS DESK PHONE buzzed. Ms. Crispin told him that Mason Hamid had arrived at the Old Executive parking lot and that Dr. Sherman asked to be put through right away.
“Ms. Crispin, get our guests back here, please. Bring Hamid in, and connect me to the doctor.” He waited for another buzz. “Thank you for calling, Doctor. How's our patient?”
“Mr. President, at best, 50-50. The blade that cut him was sharp, and certainly not clean. I can't rule out poison. I've cancelled my schedule for tomorrow. I'll stick around until I get a better picture.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“I'm at your service, Mr. President. At least until you get my bill. Then you might not want to talk to me.”
Storm Surge (Quantum Touch Book 5) Page 23