“Of course we do. In fact, our major producers are the biggest investors in alternative energy sources. We know we need it all. But here again, there are roadblocks. Nuclear energy is clean. It doesn’t add to your concerns about global warming, and while there’s been more discussion about building nuclear plants, we’ve been stuck at producing less than twenty percent of our electricity from nuclear for decades while France gets about eighty percent and Sweden almost fifty percent of their supplies from nuclear. As for refineries, we haven’t built a new one since 1976. We’re working on bio-fuels, but we had to backtrack when the price of corn hit the roof. I doubt if there’s enough switchgrass to make up the difference, although some outfits are experimenting with pig fat.”
Laughter erupted in the back of the room and Senator Jenkins banged her gavel. Roy went on with his extemporaneous list. “Then there’s solar. Great idea but it gives us less than a few percent of the country’s electricity supply. And as for windmills. Well, now there’s a shortage of turbines and besides, nobody on your committee wants to put wind farms near Nantucket or Rehoboth Beach, right?”
Now he’s getting testy, Godfrey thought. All good points, but we can’t afford to piss ’em off any more than we usually do. He nudged Roy who seemed to take the hint.
“Madam Chairman, I mean no disrespect to the members of Congress. It’s just that when we are called up here, as we are on a pretty regular basis, to explain our industry and our pricing, it does seem to fall on deaf ears. Yes, the price of oil and gas is due to the pipeline attacks, but during the same time frame, the price of eggs also went up, and I don’t see any hearings being called for ‘Big Egg’.” Godfrey kicked him under the table.
Senator Jenkins glowered down at the witness table. “Thank you, Mr. Foss, for your illuminating statistics today. We are all well aware of the difficult situations we face when it comes to energy production. Yet we are here to serve the American people, to protect the American environment and do our best to provide for America’s security. We are all under a great deal of pressure right now, especially with the attacks on your gas pipelines. I’m sorry to hear that you have evidently made no progress in securing the remaining pipelines from further acts of sabotage.”
Godfrey’s cell began to vibrate. He knew he had no business even glancing at it in the middle of a congressional hearing, but he had told his assistant to only contact him if it involved an absolute emergency. He slunk down in his chair and reached in his pocket for the device.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
MCLEAN, VIRGINIA–TUESDAY AFTERNOON
Samantha crossed Chain Bridge into Virginia and drove up Route 123 past the entrance to the George Washington Parkway and kept going until she saw the large green sign on the right, GEORGE BUSH CENTER FOR INTELLIGENCE NEXT RIGHT. She turned at the corner and drove past another sign that read RESTRICTED FACILITY.
She didn’t turn off toward the VISITOR CENTER. She figured that was kind of a misnomer anyway. They didn’t have many visitors to this facility. No public tours at least. She kept going to the main gate, showed her ID, waited while the guard checked his log book and then continued to drive down a tree lined road. She knew that in the spring and summer, this place looked like it could be a lovely gated community of posh homes where you’d almost expect to see a golf course off to one side or a swimming pool and tennis courts through the trees.
As she slowly navigated the roadway, she knew there were no posh homes here and no posh country club. She reflected on the word posh and remembered she had heard somewhere that it had been coined over a century ago by the British who were ruling India at the time. When their officers traveled back and forth between the two countries, the highest ranking men were allowed to sit on the shady side of the boat so they wouldn’t be bothered by the heat of the sun. So it was Port Out, Starboard Home. She had no idea if that were true. But it was as good a definition of an acronym as any.
There were no boats here either, just a couple of very modern looking buildings. And while it was called “The Campus,” it housed more Ph.D.’s than any university in the country. The original headquarters building was finished the day the Berlin Wall was constructed. Then, in a unique twist of fate, the new headquarters building went up the day after the Berlin Wall came down.
The grounds were quite lovely. Three-hundred and fifty acres in all. And while the whole complex was technically located in McLean, Virginia, it was called Langley because it sits on the land that originally made up the Langley estates, home to Camp Griffith and Camp Pierpont during the Civil War. In those days they had a rather different way of spying or keeping track of things. She recalled stories about how they launched air balloons to keep watch over the Capitol. So they ended up taking the name Langley to refer to this headquarters of the CIA. To add confusion for the post office, its mailing address is Washington, D.C. Then again, so is the Pentagon’s, and it’s actually in Virginia too.
Samantha mused about government bureaucracies as she parked in the VIP lot and walked up the steps and through one of the ten glass doors into the bright lobby of the Central Intelligence Agency. It was because of government bureaucracy that she had taken a break and driven over here today to meet with her contact, Will Raymond. She was totally frustrated with the State Department, the NSC, the Embassy in Caracas, the Diplomatic Protection Service, and GeoGlobal’s Security Team. She couldn’t get answers from any of them. She prayed the CIA would be different.
There had been another gas pipeline explosion that day. She had been watching the congressional hearings and saw Godfrey Nims and the executive vice president jump up from the witness table, rush over to the chairman and ask for a recess. It was then announced that there had been another attack. She knew that GeoGlobal would be focused on that. She should be focused on it too, but she had already set up this meeting with Will, and she told Joan that she had an off-site meeting and asked her to make excuses in case anybody asked. She said she’d be back in two hours.
Samantha walked past the eight white pillars in the lobby, stepped around the huge circular design in the center of the gray and white terrazzo floor with the outline of an eagle and a star embedded in the center. The star was known as the Compass Rose, meaning the organization covered all points on the globe. She glanced at the left wall where the statue of William Donovan stood sentry.
She checked her watch and saw that she was a few minutes early so she walked over to the wall on the right to read the names of CIA agents who had given their lives in the line of duty. Each name had a star next to it, but there were a number of stars with no names. She knew that it often took years for a name to be posted next to the star because they had to protect identities and families lest some enemy tried to take revenge for an agent’s actions.
She signed in and left her cell phone at the desk. No cell phones were allowed in the building since outside forces might be able to pick up conversations. She wished that restaurants and Amtrak trains had the same rules.
At the back of the lobby, she looked through a wall of windows into a court yard with a big tree that she thought was a magnolia. She once asked how they tended the garden since there was no obvious way for big machinery to get in there. Will had told her that at one point they had solar powered computer robots who rooted around and dealt with the plants.
They developed a lot of technology in this place. Some was duel use. She had learned that their experts had even perfected the system of mammography that they gave to medical science along with a lot of other inventions. The directorate that handled those things was called the DS&T or the Directorate for Science and Technology. She figured it was like the guy called “Q” in the James Bond movies, who gave out all the clever gizmos to the agents in the field.
There were three other directorates. One dealing with support, payroll, and training. Another for the collection of intelligence. Those folks monitored TV programs, video, newspapers, photos from all over the world. They could analyze them, enhance them, figure
out what was important and deliver the PDB, or President’s Daily Brief and NIE, the National Intelligence Estimates to the White House. She read a lot of those reports and marveled at how they sifted through the mountains of intel.
Today, she’d be meeting with Will who was in the fourth one, the Directorate of Operations, known as the clandestine service. They established networks of operatives, recruited agents, spies, and assets all over the world. Oddly enough, it was the smallest directorate with the fewest number of people.
As she was mulling all of this over in her mind, Will came across the lobby to meet her. “Hey, glad you could make it over to my shop for a change. Want some coffee or anything. We’ve got McDonald’s and Starbucks in the food court.”
“Coffee would be good. It’s still freezing out there.”
They headed to the counter and ordered a couple of double lattes. Will said, “Would you believe that this little Starbucks stand has the third highest gross sales on the whole East coast?”
Samantha looked around at the employees scurrying down the corridor. “Must be the stress level in this place.”
They waited in line to give their orders, then took their coffees, and moved away.
“Come on. I’ll take you up to the third floor.” They headed down another hallway past the Museum sporting The Clandestine Collection. “Did you ever see this stuff?” Will asked.
“I never really went through it.” She glanced at the trophy cases and saw tiny cigarette lighters, small umbrellas and pen and pencil desk sets. “What’s all this?”
“Stuff we got from the KGB in the old days. They were masters at hiding cameras and listening devices in every conceivable place, even in pen sets they gave our ambassadors when they were welcomed to Spasso House.”
“I’d love to check it all out, but I’m on a rather tight time schedule. There was another attack on the lines today.”
“Yep. Saw that one. But you said you had something else you wanted to talk about and didn’t want to do it inside the White House.” They took the elevator up to the third floor and walked into a secure conference room with a mahogany table and sixteen chairs around it.”
“We don’t need a big meeting today. I just need to talk to you. Privately,” she said as she looked around the room.
“I know. It’s just handy to meet in here when nobody else is using it.” He sat down. She took a seat next to him, set down her drink and tossed her coat and purse on another chair.
“Okay,” Samantha began. “Here’s the deal. I need your help!”
“We’re already doing everything we can on the pipelines, but that’s not it, is it?”
“No. I’m here about the kidnapping. Tripp Adams. I’m sure you know about it.”
“Yeah. We know. Bummer. I haven’t been involved myself but I hear that our people down in Caracas are working it. Why?”
Samantha leaned forward, an earnest expression on her face. “That’s what everyone says, Will. State says they’re working it. GeoGlobal has set up a war room of some sort. I had a meeting with Ken Cosgrove and Evan Ovich yesterday.”
“But?” he interrupted.
“But I don’t think anybody is really doing anything,” She paused to take a sip of coffee. “They say they are waiting for a ransom note, checking their contacts and all of that. But there’s no action plan here.” She pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and pleaded with him, “Can you do something? I mean, can you and your people get involved in this case? Please?”
“Wait a minute,” Will said. “We have an official policy of not dealing with kidnappers. You know that.”
“I’m not talking about dealing with them. I’m talking about rescuing Tripp.”
He studied her features, hesitated a moment and asked, “Why, Samantha?”
“Because …”
“Is this personal?”
This time she hesitated. She drew a breath and admitted the obvious. “Yes.”
“In what way?”
“We’ve been meeting about the pipelines. Then we met some more, after hours, and then. Well, he’s … he’s a friend and I can’t bear the thought of him being held by a bunch of maniacs, or whoever they are.” She felt tears coming. She brushed her eyes with the back of her sleeve. She didn’t usually get emotional in meetings. But this meeting was different. She needed help. Desperately.
Will leaned over and put his hand on her arm. “I think he’s more than a friend, right?”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “Oh God, can you imagine what it’s like picturing someone close to you being taken at gunpoint and held somewhere by someone, and you have no idea who they are or what they really want? And you have no idea if he’s still alive, if he’s been hurt or shot or wounded or any of that, or if he has any food or any water or ….”
“I do know what that’s like. You forget who you’re talking to. I served overseas in a number of shit holes. I’ve seen friends, fellow agents taken, interrogated, killed in our line of work. So yes, I do know.” Will sat back and took a drink.
“So what can we do? Anything?” she asked staring at him with tear-filled eyes.
Will stared back and finally said, “Samantha, this is new for me. I mean, seeing you personally involved in a case. Whenever I’ve seen you, you’ve been in total control. Control of a meeting, control of a staff. I always thought of you as …”
“A control freak?” she asked with a wan look.
“Not exactly.”
“Not exactly? Tripp once said that expression sounds like an old Hertz commercial.”
He stared at her. “Now you’re sounding like the old Samantha. Look, let me see what I can do. We have assets in Venezuela. We have more in Colombia because of FARC and all of their shenanigans.”
“You don’t think that terrorist group is involved in this, do you?”
“Not from what I’ve heard. It really seems more like a street gang of some sort. Those guys are strictly out for money.”
She brightened a bit. “So if that’s the case, they’d need to keep him alive, right?”
“You’d think so. At least you’d hope so.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THE WHITE HOUSE–WEDNESDAY EVENING
“Merry Christmas, Mr. President. Lovely party,” Samantha said, plastering on what she hoped was a sincere smile. She certainly didn’t feel like partying, but the White House senior staff Christmas party was an absolute must-show. When you receive an invitation from the president of the United States, you never, ever decline unless you’re on your death bed, and even then, you ask for a transfusion and a driver. She knew that.
“Good to see you this evening, Samantha,” the president said. “Here, stand between us for the photo.”
Samantha moved between the president and the First Lady as one of the White House photographers focused the camera. Samantha couldn’t help but admire the blue silk Versace gown the First Lady was wearing. When you put that next to Samantha’s red lace Filene’s Basement model, at least it would turn out to be a patriotic scene.
Samantha had found her dress on sale last week when she had hoped Tripp would be her escort. She had raced into the store on Connecticut Avenue after work in an effort to pick up a few Christmas gifts for her family and happened to see the dress on the mark-down rack. It had a scoop neck, long sleeves and hugged her slim figure. She figured it would be just right for this command performance, not too dowdy, not too much decolletage.
She tried to stop thinking about Tripp for a few moments and smile for the camera. She wished she could say something to the president about the kidnapping. Maybe he would take an interest and get some action from the agencies. But this was not the time or the place to ever push an issue with the First Family.
They were standing in front of a massive Christmas tree decorated with ornaments made by school children from every state in the country.
And as she moved away to give another staffer their moment with the president, she realized that the First Lady
’s dress matched the décor. After all, this was the Blue Room. It was also oval in shape, like the Oval Office, so it was the perfect setting for the gigantic White House Christmas tree.
She wondered how many florists it took, in addition to the four they had on the regular staff, to decorate the tree and the rest of 132-room mansion. Since it was the only home of a president in the world that was also a museum with thousands of visitors each year, it took an army of folks to spruce it up and keep it in shape, especially for the holidays.
There were decorations everywhere, including a large gingerbread house complete with candies on the roof and sugar canes lining a walkway. One of the five White House chefs always made one of those for the dozens of Christmas parties the First Family hosted each year. She had no idea how they ever got through such a grueling schedule in addition to the usual daily grind.
She meandered next door to the Green Room and saw Angela standing in front of the Duncan Phyfe bookcase, chatting with Evan Ovich. A portrait of Benjamin Franklin, the ultimate ambassador, was hung over the nearby mantel. She decided to ask Evan if he or his staff had heard anything from our ambassador in Caracas.
“Hey, Samantha, neat dress,” Angela said. “Must have made a great picture.”
Samantha looked down at the red lace and shrugged, “Uh, maybe. Listen you two, can I bring up a piece of business for just a minute here?”
“Sure,” Angela said. “What’s up?”
Samantha focused on Evan and almost whispered, “I’ve been waiting all day to hear some news from the NSC on the kidnapping case.
“I know. Isn’t it just awful?” Angela said, leaning into the trio.
“I wish I had something concrete to report, Samantha, but I still haven’t heard back from the FR leaders or anybody at our embassy either. You know that as soon as anything comes in, we’ll let you know,” Evan said. “And I assume you haven’t got anything new on that latest pipeline attack?”
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