Granted, Simon Hall was dead to the relief of many, and the national electric grid remained operational despite the constant threats. But the stagnant economy and a job market with no predictable improvement in sight presented a herculean challenge for President Randall Post in his first few months in office.
The weather was of little consequence.
The country, coming off the heels of a world recession, was destined to head back down that slippery slope. The president needed to act. He had retained a slight majority in the House and in the Senate, but it left the opposition enough muscle to oppose any sweeping legislation. There were no guarantees, but it afforded President Post two years to try to turn the country around before the off-year elections—but the country could not wait two years.
The clock read five minutes of two. Noble Bishop, the director of the States Intelligence Agency, needed only three minutes to walk down the stairs to arrive at the Oval Office. That gave him two minutes to wonder what the president’s urgent request entailed.
“Go in; he’s waiting,” the president’s secretary announced as Noble rounded the corridor.
Seconds later, Noble found himself locked in the customary handshake. “Mr. President.”
“Thanks for coming down on such short notice,” the President greeted him. Then, seeming more officious than usual, he motioned Noble to the sofa on the left. “Have a seat.” The president remained standing.
Noble readied himself for the unexpected.
“You’re a smart guy,” the President continued, offering a slight smile. Then he asked, “What have you found to be the number-one concern of the American people?”
Noble was surprised by the rather simple question, considering it was the topic dominating the national conversation. He offered the logical answer. “Jobs, sir.”
“Hmm, I asked my twelve-year-old niece the same question, and she gave that exact answer. Precocious and quite mature for her age, she persisted and asked, ‘Uncle Randall, you’re the president; can’t you fix it?’ I promised the sweet child that I would do everything in my power to resolve the problem.”
After his pronouncement, the president walked over to the other sofa and sat down opposite Noble. Then, while he maintained unsettling eye contact, the conversation took an even odder twist. He began to deliver what sounded like a State of the Union Address from his seated position.
“Our nation’s economy continues to be unstable and a weak economy threatens our national security. In the last two months alone, there have been massive layoffs, witnessed by the streaming picket lines of unemployed workers protesting against their companies. And when they’re not railing out against their employers, they’re protesting against the newly amnestied immigrants, fearing their own government subsidies are in jeopardy. Social unrest is spreading across the country.”
Noble was well aware that the president had inherited an untenable situation, but was saddened that the president spoke as though he was personally responsible. At that moment, for some inexplicable reason, an unattributed quotation popped into Noble’s head. “Sir, someone once said, ‘War is when the government tells you who the bad guy is; revolution is when you decide that for yourself.’ I hope that’s not what we are facing.”
The president cocked his head. “Clearly, the citizens have already attributed their woes to the bad guy—their government.” He stopped and looked straight at Noble with an unusually painful expression. “The country is divided; her mere existence is in peril. As I told my niece, I would do everything in my power to resolve the problem. There are a multitude of options to consider, but to be utterly honest; I’m not sure where to start. After a brutal election, partisan politics have reached their apex. The past Congress, incapable of stopping the bleeding, perpetuated the problem. And the freshly elected Congress has yet to make the difficult choices.” The president paused for a moment and then lamented, “I’ve become the Commander in Chief of Triage. With all the government resources at my disposal, I still can’t see a clear way out of this crisis. And most indeed it can’t be resolved with the swipe of a pen!”
“Sir, unfortunately, the crisis doesn’t stop at our borders,” Noble said, referring to the ongoing crisis in the Middle East and the increase of radicalism throughout the world.
The president seemed not to take note; his focus was on the domestic front for the moment. Then, he abruptly backed away from his earlier self-recrimination and returned to his usual stoic presidential mode.
Noble noticed that the president glanced toward the American flag, positioned behind his desk. He assumed the president was contemplating his next statement. Then without warning, he redirected his eye contact to Noble.
“Our unemployment rate has flatlined at six-point-five percent, notwithstanding the staggering number of people who continue to drop out of the workforce and become dependent on the government. Today, one third of eligible workers have been unemployed for more than a year. That’s one of the dynamics that caused the Great Depression.” His decisive statement was coupled with great unease. He continued, “People once again are defaulting on their loans, and with energy costs soaring, the middle class is barely able to sustain its lifestyle. As a direct result, the embattled housing market is bracing for another moment of truth—the likes of the 2008 crash.”
“If we continue to sashay down this path the economy will become unsustainable,” Noble stated with emphasis, signaling that he understood the gravity of the situation.
Satisfied at Noble’s grasp of the situation, the president nodded and then continued in the same vein, quoting numerous statistics to support his premise. Then, he cited another grave concern. “After three years, the country is still recovering from the influx of one hundred and fifty thousand immigrants arriving from Central America in 2014, increasing pain to the already suffering. Added to the mix was the induction of twenty million more illegal immigrants that needed to be prepared to stand in the so-called path to citizenship. The entire process has put a terrible strain on state governments and the taxpayers. The language barrier alone adds to the tension. Noble, we are about to ride the killer wave in a perfect storm. God willing, we’ll come out on the other side.”
“Sir, we are all grateful that you were able to gain approval to reallocate funds to seal the border at long last.”
“We’re not home free yet—but we are getting closer. Increased border security will have to suffice in the interim until we find permanent solutions. But the processing and deportation have been an exhaustive administrative nightmare. The costs are untold.” The president let out a noticeable sigh before readjusting his seat. Then he confessed, “You’ll never hear me speak about this outside these walls, but had Baari gone to the table with comprehensive immigration reform, it would have saved the taxpayers billions of dollars. His end run around Congress, directing the Department of Homeland Security to ignore deportation, was unconscionable. But the final blow was the sweeping amnesty provisions he neatly wrapped up in an executive order. In the final analysis, he chose to abdicate his responsibility for leadership and turned it over to the governors and state taxpayers to bear the burden.”
Noble continued to listen intently but felt distraught at the president’s even bleaker assessment that followed.
“We are standing on the edge of the precipice and run the risk of falling into a depression. It would create insurmountable damage not only to the country but to the world economy,” he stated, as though it were a personal default on a promise. The concern resonated in his voice. “In the eyes of the people, the makeup of the new Congress makes no difference. Confidence in the government as a whole has been lost. The people see the legislative branch and the executive branch as still being polarized, not able to shake off the rhetoric from the last eight years that divided the nation.”
The president stopped. The room became eerily silent, adding to Noble’s discomfort. Then he redirected the conversation back to the prior administration and alleged, “The info
rmation that spewed out of the White House from my predecessor seemed to take a circuitous route, directing the citizens away from the truth.” He noted a few scandals to make his point, emphasizing Benghazi, Bergdahl, and NSA, IRS, DOJ, among other jumbled letters. Then, sounding more like his fighting, spirited self, he became most emphatic and announced, “The American citizens deserve better! I must regain their trust!”
After a few more statements in a similar vein, it appeared that the president was about to wind down the conversation—leaving Noble even more confused as to why he was summoned in the first place. For certain, the sweeping change in the tenor of the conversation had left him flummoxed. But before he departed the Oval Office, the discussion would take another curious route.
“Did you enjoy your prior position as research analyst at the CIA?” the president asked.
Noble, taken aback by the question, responded instinctively. “There are times I miss the simplicity of the role, sir—relatively speaking.”
The president offered no reaction to his answer. But then the actual purpose of the meeting unfolded. Over a ten-minute period, the president made a series of requests and then posed the ultimate question. “Can you do this?”
Noble took a deep breath and then replied, “Yes, sir. It can be done!” It was the only acceptable response.
After a few hurried pleasantries, Noble left the Oval Office, carrying more questions than answers.
It was not an agenda he could have anticipated.
2
CALL TO ARMS
Noble trekked back up the stairs to his office, contemplating the situation along the way. Then he readied himself. As he entered his reception area, he exclaimed, “Fine!” without giving Doris the opportunity to ask the inevitable question.
She was predictable. For years, his secretary had asked the same question each time he returned from the Oval Office. “How did it go with POTUS?” had become her mantra.
In response to his outburst, Doris just rolled her eyes and refocused on the keyboard.
In that particular moment, he was in no mood for chitchat. And truth be known, there was nothing fine at all about his conversation with the President of the United States.
“Doris, hold my calls,” he ordered as he headed into his office.
Before even reaching his desk, Noble hurriedly opened his famed xPhad, a combination smartphone that transformed into a tablet. Although it was somewhat thicker than an iPhone, when unfolded the tablet became the identical thickness as the iPad; it was a device essential to his day-to-day activities. Now, seated at his desk, he began to use the stylus to doodle on the tablet as he reviewed in his mind the gist of the meeting. Then, after firmly collecting his thoughts, he started to dissect point-by-point the issues the president had addressed. As Noble continued to mull over the series of questions that had been raised, he was overcome by the same trepidation that the president had projected.
One question in particular caused him to reflect on Hamilton Scott, his predecessor. It was a time when Hamilton had plucked him out of the CIA and coaxed him to join the SIA. Fatefully, it had thrust Noble into a case that required him to interrogate his former classmates from Harvard, the infamous members of La Fratellanza. In some ways, he was affected as well, despite the fact that he had refused to become part of the illicit group. Certainly, after the death of Hamilton, he was pulled into a life-changing game of cat and mouse with Simon Hall, challenged to track him down and bring him to justice; three times he had failed. Without foresight, he had been robbed of the opportunity. It all came to an end with Simon’s grand leap off the Peace Bridge.
The conversation with the president had also dredged up memories of the years spent in the hunt for Simon and of the final words Simon left in a message on that fateful day. Noble could still picture vividly the last sentence that read, “Act Three has yet to begin—watch out.” That statement continued to haunt him to this day. This is no time to resurrect the past, he thought fleetingly, until he quickly admonished himself. The answer will have to wait. He shrugged.
With stylus once again in hand, he continued to jot down a few more points. Then he reached for the phone and made the first of his calls.
Secret Service Agent Stanton hung up his phone, mildly curious as to the reason for all the secrecy. Although, the SIA director had said that the orders came from the president. It was not his job to question, only to obey orders. Of all people, he understood protocol, having been a major in the U.S. Army’s Special Forces. And he trusted Noble. Had it not been for his recommendation, Stanton would not be heading up the president’s Secret Service detail. It was then that Major Stanton proudly traded in his medals and uniform for the standard black suit and earpiece.
Stanton first met the director during Operation NOMIS, an operation tasked with entering an underground encampment south of the Dugway Proving Ground in Utah. The mission was to capture Simon inside the encampment where they suspected he was hiding. Noble’s deputy director, Maxine Ford, was in charge of the initial operation, at which time she was badly bruised in an explosion that killed two soldiers. The next day Major Stanton met Max. At first, sparks flew as they stepped on each other’s turf; then the sparks took on a different meaning. Not surprisingly, Stanton moved to Washington a short time thereafter—and not for purely professional reasons.
From the onset, Stanton and Max recognized that their respective professions could create tension from time to time in their personal relationship. But he was grateful that Max had top-secret security clearance and was familiar with most of the Secret Service assignments. Unquestionably, it made their time together easier and generated many lively discussions. Later that evening, Stanton was scheduled to meet Max at the Blackfinn American Saloon, a watering hole for the politicos inside the beltway. It was their usual go-to spot before deciding where to head for dinner. For the first time, Stanton would not be able to discuss his latest assignment—an assignment that was beyond even Max’s purview.
3
STRANGER IN THE NIGHT
Max rushed out of the White House and into the pouring rain. “Shit,” she uttered as she retrieved her umbrella. Then she sprinted the typically nine-minute walk to meet Stanton, all the while trying to avoid the taxis that managed to splash through most of the puddles on the street.
Fortunately, Stanton didn’t notice her bursting through the front door at the Blackfinn, nor the fact that she was running late. Unaware, he sat at the end of the bar nursing his beer. Without delay, she removed her soggy raincoat and hung it on the last of the empty wall hooks. Then she tiptoed over and playfully slid her arms around him from behind. Stanton jerked his body forward, apparently surprised by her arrival.
“Hey babe, I told you not to do that,” he cautioned, and then little by little softened his lips into a smile.
“Sorry. I know!” Max admitted, wrinkling her nose. She hated it when she fell out of character, and it was a trait that was occurring with some frequency as of late. Despite the fact, she was well aware of the pitfalls of their professions and knew to stay vigilant. The whole relationship thing was still very confusing—a concept she would admit only to herself. More often than not she would question her behavior and confess to herself, “If this is what love does to you—I’m not sure I want any part of it.” Embarrassed at her faux pas, she immediately changed the subject. “You seemed deep in thought. Is everything okay with the big guy?”
“Everything is fine. POTUS has been staying pretty close to home these days. I think, in part, he wants to assure the public that he’s at the helm, trying to stem the economic crisis.”
“Why does everyone keep bringing up the economic crisis?” she carped, annoyed by the perpetual chant.
Stanton ignored her slight distraction. “On a happy note, it keeps me in Washington close to you.” Considerably more at ease, he moved in, but was able to manage only a kiss on the cheek. Without niggling, he asked, “What can I get you?”
“The usual.” Max
sat up on the bar stool and began to tackle the potato-chip bowl.
“Hungry?”
“Not really. Sorry I’m late; I was wrapping up a few cases. So what are you working on?” she asked, throwing a question back at him.
“You mean other than keeping the president safe?”
“When the rooster is in the roost, you must have other duties?”
“Max, what’s going on? You’re aware of what I do.”
“Nothing. I guess I can’t decide what to talk about tonight.”
“We could go to your place. I’m sure we can find something to do that doesn’t require talking.” Stanton reached over to pull Max closer but she jolted backward.
“Now who’s pulling away?”
Max had just viewed a figure entering the door at the front end of the bar. “See that guy? The one who just walked in, the one in the hoodie and dark glasses.”
“Yeah.”
“I saw him a few days ago at the supermarket. Yesterday, he was at the bus stop when I was walking to work. I had this weird sensation that he was following me.”
Stanton, without hesitation, stood up.
“Sit down!” she ordered brusquely.
“I’m going over to speak with him,” Stanton insisted.
“I can handle this, Agent. Let it go for now—maybe I’m imagining things!”
“Max, this doesn’t sound like you. The Max I know would have pinned his face against the wall.”
“I’ll be on my guard. I promise. Can we change the subject, please?”
“Do you think you could find a subject you would like to discuss?” Stanton was becoming frustrated, and he didn’t need a fight at that moment. “Look, you seem tired. Finish your beer and I’ll walk you home.”
Redemption Page 2