The Operative

by Andrew Britton

  Yasmin would defend it.

  To the death.

  CHAPTER 18

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The meeting had moved to the Oval Office. Kealey learned that after arriving at Lafayette Square, walking to the White House, and making his way to the West Wing, where he passed through a metal detector at the door and another at the far end of the lobby just before he made a left past the Roosevelt Room. A right at the Cabinet Room brought him to the last leg of his journey. He was escorted by a Secret Service officer and a self-important aide who couldn’t have been more than twenty-six. Kealey learned from Erin Enslin, personal secretary to the president, that he was, in fact, twenty-five and the son of the Speaker of the House. Ms. Enslin presented Kealey to Richard Meyers, special assistant to the president and personal aide. Meyers sat right outside the Oval Office. He phoned inside, and at last, like a pail of water in a bucket brigade, Kealey was tossed on the blaze.

  Kealey knew all the people present and waved a general hello before the president directed him to an armchair. In addition to Brenneman and CIA director Andrews, the others in attendance were FBI director Charles Cluzot, Homeland Security director Max Carlson, and Press Secretary Andrea Stempel. They were arrayed on two mustard-colored sofas that faced each other just short of the presidential seal in the carpet. Kealey’s armchair was not quite between the sofas on the opposite side, just in front of the unlit fireplace.

  The hot seat, he reflected.

  There were no military brass, cabinet members, other than Carlson, or what Kealey called “the briefers,” people like the FBI’s Sandy Mathis. They didn’t need the multimedia extravaganza that was the Situation Room. That told Kealey they weren’t here to analyze findings or put pieces together. There was a plan to discuss, and it involved him.

  Andrews’s slightly amused eyes confirmed that. He was seated nearest to Kealey, on the right.

  “Mr. Kealey, we would like you to accept a temporary reactivation to service,” the president said.

  The president did not ask him to consider a TRS. This was a fiat. It was too bad, Kealey thought—even though part of him resented being the recipient of this—that all presidents didn’t govern their entire term with the assertiveness of a lame duck.

  “What’s the assignment, Mr. President?”

  “Is that an acceptance, Ryan?” Andrews asked. “We need to be clear about that before we go on.”

  Now Kealey was amused. Andrews knew him too well. It wasn’t an acceptance, not really. He had said it firmly, which gave that impression to the president and the others.

  “I’m accepting,” Kealey replied.

  Andrews smiled with satisfaction.

  “Thank you for clarifying that,” the president said. “Charlie?”

  The FBI director was on the end of the sofa on the left, nearer to the president. He leaned forward and angled himself toward Kealey. He was a distinguished-looking man, square-jawed and steel-eyed, with broad shoulders and an unfortunate comb-over.

  “Two of our agents were shot and killed while attempting to enter what appears to have been the staging area at the Baltimore Hilton,” he said. “Before he died, one of them said that he was shot by one of our own agents.”

  “FBI,” Andrews clarified.

  “That’s correct,” Cluzot said. “Insiders at the Bureau, and perhaps elsewhere”—he said that with a glance at Andrews—“would help to explain how the terrorists were able to mount such a large-scale action without anyone catching a whiff of it.”

  “And you want me because you don’t know who to trust,” Kealey said. “Problem is, I don’t know my way around—”

  “We’ll be pairing you with an IA agent we know we can trust,” Cluzot went on. “Reed Bishop.”

  “You know we can trust him how?” Kealey asked.

  Cluzot’s smug half smile told Kealey that he’d been bushwhacked, that his renowned I’m-from-Missouri-ness had somehow backfired. It underscored what he had witnessed a moment earlier in the exchange between Cluzot and Andrews, that despite the mandated interdepartmental cooperation since 2001, there was still a sharp, enduring rivalry between the intelligence branches.

  “Agent Bishop was with his daughter at the convention center,” Cluzot said. “She was killed in the explosion.”

  The words hung like a toxic cloud. Kealey actually felt sick. Andrews saved him.

  “Who’s spoken with Agent Bishop?” he asked.

  “I did.” Cluzot raised a hand. “He flew back with the special agent in charge up there, who will be briefing me about ongoing operations”—he popped the pocket watch he carried—“at midnight.”

  “Does the SAC know why Bishop was summoned?” Andrews asked.

  “Courtesy to a brother who has suffered a loss,” Cluzot replied. “That’s all.”

  As he was speaking, both the phone on the president’s desk and the FBI director’s cell beeped. They exchanged looks. Kealey knew why. They were probably getting the same message. He was guessing it wasn’t good.

  Cluzot rose from the sofa and walked to the recessed door. The president picked up. They listened without comment to whatever was being said. The room was like church, full of purposeful silence.

  The calls finished at nearly the same time. Cluzot deferred to the president.

  “New York?” Brenneman asked him.

  “Yes, sir,” the FBI director replied.

  “Go ahead,” the president said. He sat back in his leather chair, looking reflective and disgusted, like someone who just wanted to push every damn thing off the table.

  Cluzot took a long breath. This was obviously personal to him. “Franklin May, our assistant director of the DI, was found beaten to death on a Manhattan street,” the director said gravely. “It appears to have been the work of a homeless man, but the NYPD is investigating.”

  “Was the AD on assignment at that location?” Andrews asked.

  “He was checking the progress of psyops research,” Cluzot replied. “It happened near Battery Park, less than a block away from our lab.” He regarded Brenneman. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. President, I’d like to see what our people down there know. The NYPD is asking.”

  “Of course,” Brenneman replied. “Use my study.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Cluzot made his way to the door between the fireplace and the main entrance. This was where presidents went for breakaway talks during meetings, to smoke, or to meet clandestinely for reasons that were rarely discussed on the outside. The FBI director did not shut the door behind him but walked toward the dining area beyond the study. No one said what was on the unhappy faces and busily working minds of everyone present, that this was somehow related to the events of the day. Everyone slipped into reflection while they waited for Cluzot. Only the press secretary seemed fully present. That was understandable. She was listening carefully to everything that was said. When standing before the press corps, it was just as important to know what not to say as it was what to say.

  “How’s everyone holding up?” the president asked. The question seemed calculated more to break the silence than to pump up energy levels.

  There were indecipherable murmurs and vague nods.

  “Would anyone like—where are we?—dinner or breakfast?” he asked, gesturing to a small table that had been set up on the other side of the desk.

  There were insincere chuckles. It didn’t look as though anything had been touched, other than the coffee. There were half-emptied cups on the coffee table between the sofas. The Oval Office attendees had been too tired, too shell-shocked, too focused to think about eating.

  The president went over, poured himself coffee from an antique coffee pot, and selected half a turkey sandwich. He sat on the corner of his desk and held the plate while he ate.

  “I’ll be meeting with the Joint Chiefs at one a.m.,” Brenneman said. He lofted the coffee as if he were making a toast.

  “That stuff ’ll float a horseshoe, Mr. President,” Carlson
remarked.

  “That’s what I need,” the president replied. “I don’t think that meeting will be brief.”

  The chuckles were even less enthusiastic now.

  The president didn’t have to explain to this group what Admiral Breen was doing. The Office of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs would be collating its own satellite data, phone intercepts, and reports from international intelligence teams, all of which were being funneled through Homeland Security. If they came up with anything that showed the attacks were rooted somewhere overseas, they were going to have to respond. The best-case scenario was a city in an allied nation, like Germany or England. Arrests could be made there, with no attacks. If it turned out the terrorists had plotted in a hostile nation, that nation would be bombed.

  That was informally referred to as the Kissinger Mandate, and Kealey agreed with it. In the hours after the September 11 attacks, the former secretary of state was the first official to go on record saying that a military target must be found and hit. That was necessary not only for the psyche of the nation but also to show the enemy that they couldn’t bloody our nose and get away with it. Not in the short term, and certainly not in the long term. It was also a bone to the military. As an army colonel had said to Kealey after the attacks, “What the hell are they waiting for? Just send us over, with fixed bayonets, shoulder to shoulder, and let us march from one end of that goddamn country to the other.”

  Cluzot returned before that could become a topic of discussion. “One of our guys walked him downstairs from the lab, pointed him in the direction of the subway, came back,” the FBI director said. He looked at notes he had made on a small notepad; he would shred those before leaving the Oval Office. “The man in question is Alexander Hunt, assistant director of the New York field office. He was the only other Bureau man on scene. Eight-year veteran, fast-track rise. Psych tagged him as an ‘aggressive patriot’ because of actions against some of his Muslim coworkers, but no other blemishes. Concierge at the building confirms that he was in and out.”

  “Surveillance?” Andrews asked.

  “Solid except for about a half a block, zero of the crime scene.”

  That set off alarms in Kealey’s brain. In a high-security area like Lower Manhattan that kind of a precision “mugging” was just too neat to be an accident. “What do we know about the lab?”

  “We are presently running twenty-nine separate R & D projects in psych alone,” Cluzot said. “I wasn’t following this one.”

  “Who was?” the president asked.

  Cluzot replied, “May and Hunt.”

  “Terrific,” Press Secretary Stempel piped in.

  “Andrea, the idea is to keep information contained,” Cluzot said. “That’s the strength and the weakness of these programs.”

  She raised her hands defensively. “That wasn’t a knock, Mr. Director. It’s just another question I can’t answer at a press conference. Every time I say an operation is ‘classified,’ we get ten conspiracy theory sites online.”

  “Well, we can’t go asking Hunt,” Kealey said. “Not until we’re sure about him. He might torch the place.”

  Cluzot looked at him. He didn’t seem pleased by the suggestion.

  “You said he was ... What was the phrase?” Kealey asked. “An aggressive patriot? That place is about five blocks from the World Trade Center site, eight blocks from the Ground Zero mosque. That kind of proximity does things to people.”

  “Agreed, but we still have to debrief him,” Andrews said.

  “No argument. Recommendation?” the president asked.

  “I suggest that Mr. Kealey and Mr. Bishop go up there and talk to AD Hunt and the people at Xana, that is the name of the team at the lab,” Cluzot said.

  There was a short, crushing silence. Kealey had always been a Hail Mary pass, not a first responder. He wondered if things had gone farther than Cluzot was letting on.

  “Won’t that tell them someone is onto them?” the president asked, obviously wrestling with a little of what Kealey was thinking.

  “I think, Mr. President, that’s kind of the idea,” Kealey said. He looked at Cluzot. “I’m sure, if he tried real hard, the director could find one trustworthy soul at the Bureau. Someone in accounting or data processing, someone with no connection to Xana.”

  “Mr. Kealey, that option wasn’t presented to me—”

  “No, I was presented to you,” Kealey said. “A red flag to wave at the bull.”

  “Gentlemen, I’m a little tired and a little confused,” the president said. “What the hell’s going on here?”

  “Sir, we’re not just investigators,” Kealey told him. “We’re bait.”

  “That’s a little strong, Mr. Kealey,” Cluzot said.

  “No, it’s exactly right,” Kealey said. “And it’s okay. I’ve been there before. It would just be nice if we were all up front about it.”

  There was a point in any meeting with the president when it was over for one or more of the participants. Someone would upset the delicate balance by speaking his or her mind a little too frankly and way above his or her pay grade. For Kealey, that moment had arrived. He was a former mid-level agent who had effectively called a department head a liar. Before things could escalate, Andrews rose, saying he’d see Kealey out.

  “Of course,” the president said. He looked at Kealey. “I’m not interested in whatever was behind this little flare-up. We have a situation, and we need results. You’re the man to bring us those results. Are you on board with that?”

  “Very.” The former agent had gotten to his feet as Andrews was speaking.

  “Then thank you again,” the President said, “and please keep Bob in the loop.”

  “I will, and thank you, Mr. President,” Kealey said without looking at Cluzot.

  “Let us know if there are any names or resources you need, Mr. Kealey,” the FBI director said to his back.

  That was as good and sincere a send-off as Kealey was going to get. He left the Oval Office ahead of Andrews’s extended arm.

  They walked down the hallway that took them past the outside wall of the study toward the reception area. Tired staff, fewer than in the daytime—but not by much—moved between doorways that ended with the office of the chief of staff. His own door was opened as aides came and went, helping him to coordinate the intelligence briefings that would be presented to the president prior to his meeting with Admiral Breen.

  “Still can’t play along,” Andrews said quietly as they made their way along the narrow hallway.

  “I hate that goddamn sandbox.”

  “No. Really?”

  “Anyway, Cluzot will survive,” Kealey said.

  “Not the point,” Andrews said. “His organization is the one that got blindsided and humped. You could’ve cut him slack.”

  Kealey stopped. “And I’m the guy going up there to be humped. He could have been up front about that. You already made the point that I was accepting the assignment—for which push, thank you very much, by the way.”

  “Again, beside the point. You know the way the totem is stacked, and you know how the game is played.”

  “Yeah,” Kealey said. “You done?”

  “I think so.”

  The men continued walking. Whether Kealey liked it or not, Andrews would apologize for his snippiness when he went back to the Oval Office. For his own self-respect, Kealey decided to make it “or not.”

  “You need a ride?” Andrews asked.

  “No thanks.”

  “I’ll have Mei make the arrangements. She’ll e-mail the itinerary. Figure on a six a.m. flight.”

  “Figuring away,” Kealey said. “Only book me on the Acela. The train is less hassle with more legroom. And it’ll give me time to prep.”

  “Okay.”

  They stopped at the exit. Andrews didn’t look happy, but he wasn’t angry, either. “It’s been a long day for everyone,” he said. “And all of the bullshit aside, what you did in Baltimore was exemplary.”
r />   “I know you mean it,” Kealey said. “That’s a commendation-level word.”

  Andrews showed a little smile. “Honestly, Ryan? I don’t know how you lasted as long as you did.”

  “My exemplary deeds.” He grinned back. He sighed. “I’m tired, Bob. Not just of the work and the egos, but of the responsibility.”

  “I hear you.”

  “And the pain, always up close and too personal,” he added. “I went to see Jon.”

  “Shit. I meant to call—”

  “It’s okay. He’s pretty out of it. Julie’s facing a couple of surgeries. There was no word on any of them.”

  “Thanks for doing that,” Andrews said. “And for going along with this. It’s a little seat of the pants for my taste.”

  “That’s okay,” Kealey said, his smile broadening as he turned to go past the guard. “It’s what I do.”

  CHAPTER 19

  NEW YORK, NEW YORK

  The “Canyon of Heroes” is the short section of Broadway that runs from city hall to Bowling Green, located just a few blocks from the bottom of Manhattan. It is the traditional site of the city’s ticker-tape parades, which are staged to honor national and international heroes. Plaques set in the sidewalks commemorate the names and dates of each parade.

  In the aftermath of the World Trade Center attacks, there was another kind of hero at the midpoint of the parade route. Stationed near historic Trinity Church, where the likes of inventor Robert Fulton and founding father Alexander Hamilton were interred, a unit of police officers stood beside steel barricades erected on the east side of Broadway. Their job was to pull over and examine any vehicles—typically vans and U-Hauls—which they deemed to be suspicious. Stopping a van or truck loaded with explosives, of course, would cause the driver to trigger the device prematurely, killing them. But the police stopped the vehicles just the same, as part of their oath to preserve and protect.

  The Trask Industries van was pulled over as it rolled down Broadway. A name was easy enough to fake, so the Atlanta tags would have to be checked along with the contents.