by Tom Abrahams
“If he was the only prisoner,” Anne pressed, “then isn’t it a safe assumption he was targeted? Given his high value and the proximity of his trial, shouldn’t there have been more security around him? Is this a lapse in judgment akin to that of the Secret Service during the Obama administration?”
“That’s three questions, Anne,” President Jackson bristled. “I’ll take them one at a time. No. No. No,” she replied, counting off on her fingers. “Next question. Bob?”
“How can you suggest this is not a lapse in either judgment or security given what happened?” asked Bob, a longtime White House correspondent. His seat was front row and center, and the president respected him.
President Jackson gripped either side of the lectern tightly. “Bob, we don’t know what happened. We don’t yet have enough information to call this…” She paused to choose the right word.
“A terrorist attack, Madam President?” Bob said helpfully. “I mean, can’t we be frank about this? That’s what it was.”
“Bob, I was unaware of your security clearance or your expertise in the subject matter,” President Jackson responded. “A Pulitzer does not an intelligence analyst make.”
“In all fairness,” Bob said, “you told us you’d speak with candor. That’s not what this is.”
“This is also not a debate, Bob,” the president snapped. “I am giving you information. I’m not going to speculate. I’m not offering supposition. I will repeat, we are working diligently to ferret out the facts and use them to lead to whoever is responsible for the violence. I do think this attack”—the president raised a finger and waved it at the cameras in the back of the room“—regardless of the motive or group responsible, underscores the necessity of the SECURITY Act currently under discussion in Congress. Electronic intelligence is more critical than ever in our effort to prevent violence against our citizens. Valuable tools were stripped from our arsenal when key elements of the PATRIOT act expired and the NSA lost its ability to conduct wide-net surveillance.”
“Isn’t it true,” Bob asked without an invitation, “that parts of the SECURITY Act essentially nullify the Fourth Amendment?”
“Nullify is an overstatement,” President Jackson said, shaking her head. “The Bill of Rights is unaffected by this. There are four other Western nations, all part of the G12, who are considering nearly identical legislation. This is a global effort at peace.
“What we are hoping to achieve with these new capabilities, should my colleagues in the House and Senate see the light and pass the legislation, is an opportunity to better protect our people. What greater responsibility does a government have than to keep its citizenry safe? Had the PATRIOT Act not been castrated years ago, had Edward Snowden not devastated our electronic surveillance, maybe we could have prevented the attack on the Capitol. Maybe our economy wouldn’t be teetering. Maybe the global marketplace would be more stable. Maybe unemployment would be at manageable levels.”
“That’s a—” Bob started before the president cut him off.
“Huffington Post, your turn.”
“We have information that the scene was quickly secured,” said the slender chain-smoker, the rasp in her voice distracting. “And that the airspace within a five-mile radius was closed below five thousand feet. Can you confirm that? And if it is true, why?”
President Jackson looked over at her National Security Advisor, who offered a subtle nod. Goodman followed.
“Yes,” she answered, speaking slowly and minding the adrenaline, “the alert activated by the deputy marshals triggered a rapid response. We were able to locate and address the scene quickly. A secure perimeter was established. I am told, as you can imagine, containing the scene and preserving any evidence is paramount. That is also the reason for the restricted airspace.”
“It wasn’t to prevent cameras?” asked the HuffPost puffer.
“No. I’m a firm believer in the Constitution and the First Amendment. All right—” President Jackson forced a smile “—last question. Gary at the Post. Go ahead.”
“How might this affect your Barcelona trip?” he asked. “Any additional security concerns?”
“There’s no impact, Gary,” she said. “We already have an advance team on the ground there, planning ahead. As for specific security changes, that’s above my pay grade.”
The reporters laughed.
“I’m still headed there for what I know will be critical meetings as it relates to the world economy and our relationship with the European Union,” she added. “I’ve got a quick trip to Camp David, of which I’m sure you’re aware, where we’ll prep for the G12 meetings. But again, no alterations as far as I’m concerned. We have the people’s business to do. That’s it for the questions. I’ll turn it over now to the director of the US Marshal Service. Thank you all for coming.”
The president turned to her right and swiftly strode past her team and into the recesses of the West Wing. She ignored the volley of questions tossed at her as she left.
*
NEAR THURMONT, MARYLAND
Despite the darkness of the night, Sir Spencer recognized the secure location as soon as the armored Suburban rolled up to the gatehouse at the only entrance to the wooded and fenced facility in Catoctin Mountain Park, Maryland.
“Ah,” he said, elbowing the bearded operator. “I know where we are. Shangri-La, as it were.”
“You’ve been here?” The operator’s left eyebrow arced higher than the right.
“A few times,” said Sir Spencer, rubbing his hands together. “None of them official visits, you know.”
“Of course not.” The operator rolled his eyes. He handed Sir Spencer a pair of dark glasses and a Washington Nationals baseball cap.
“How ridiculous.”
“You said yourself how recognizable you are,” replied the operator. “Let’s mitigate that as much as possible.”
The facility was under the joint operation of the United States Navy and the Central Intelligence Agency. Its official name was Naval Support Facility Thurmont, and it was as secure a location as was possible at the moment.
A Marine stepped from the gatehouse and the driver rolled down his window, offering his identification and clearance information. The Marine, in his blue dress uniform, peeked his head inside, shining a flashlight at each of the faces in the vehicle.
“Just the three of you, sir?” The Marine stood straight, examining the paperwork as he spoke.
“Yes,” the driver responded.
“Thank you, sir.” The Marine returned the documents. “I’ll need you to drive directly to the barracks at the rear of the property. You’ll drive straight ahead, continuing straight at a four-way intersection. You’ll pass the lighted tennis courts on the left, a parking lot on your right, and the barracks will appear on the left. You’ll find an escort waiting for you. He will direct you to the proper location.”
The driver rolled up the window and accelerated slowly along the narrow road. Occasional streetlights provided the only glimpse of the century-old trees lining the asphalt on either side.
“When were you here last?” the operator asked Sir Spencer without looking at him.
Sir Spencer rubbed his chin, considering his most recent visit. “It’s hard to remember. It may have been after Osama Bin Laden was killed. Your agency needed a new villain. We worked hard to create one.”
“Create one?”
“Really?” Sir Spencer chuckled. “You know how these things work. Well, I certainly hope you do. I always assumed you operators were as much a part of the charade as the rest of us.”
“I don’t—”
“Today’s friend is tomorrow’s enemy,” Sir Spencer counseled. “Today’s enemy might be tomorrow’s friend. It’s a game played by every nation in the world. Do you really think Vladimir Putin went from threat, to ally, to legitimate threat again in a matter of a decade?”
“I—”
“Of course not. He was always a threat. We just made the world be
lieve until we couldn’t anymore that he was our ally. It had to be that way post-9/11.”
The operator scratched his beard, both eyebrows knitted together. Even in the dark, Sir Spencer could see the wheels grinding.
“Chris Osman ring a bell?” Sir Spencer asked, adjusting the sunglasses.
“Bin Laden’s agency handle?”
“Yes.” Sir Spencer nodded. “Did he go from CIA asset to American enemy? Or did we make everyone believe he did? Was Saddam Hussein really a threat to our security? Of course not. It was about the oil. It was about the perception that we were doing something about terrorism.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is”—Sir Spencer rubbed his wrist, wincing against the bruise—“I was here last to help create the next persona non grata. Good cannot exist without evil. We provide the balance. The yin and the yang. Bin Laden existed as an enemy because we made him one. North Korea is a threat to democracy because we act like it is. Iran is the flavor of the month. It’s amazing to me the American people don’t see it. Nobody in the Western world sees it, for that matter. They just choose to believe the pablum we feed them.”
“You’re a lunatic,” the operator mumbled, turning away from his charge to look out the window at the darkness whirring past them.
“Without the crazy,” Sir Spencer replied, “the sane are irrelevant. I’m disappointed someone of your skill was so blind to the way things work. Maybe I’ve said too much.”
“I do my job,” said the operator. “I protect my nation. I don’t ask why. I just do it.”
“And therein lies the beauty of it all,” chided Spencer, content to let the operator squirm and scratch his beard.
The Suburban slowed near the glow of a parking lot to its right. In the middle of the two-lane road stood a Marine waving a flashlight. He was directing the driver to the lot, pointing and waving until the SUV swung to the right and into an empty spot.
A third Marine stepped to the side of the SUV as the men opened the doors and stepped out into the damp cool of the Maryland night. Sir Spencer took note of the man’s youth. He could have been no more than twenty years old.
“We have space for you in Linden,” the Marine said, his back ramrod straight as he stood at attention. “I’ll be escorting you there. It’s a short walk from here.”
“Lead the way,” said the operator. He gestured for Sir Spencer to follow their liaison.
The path was narrow but short. It led directly from the northeastern edge of the parking lot to a grouping of cabins, each lit with the soft yellow glow of their door lights. They passed two of the cabins on the right before finding Linden on the left, a wooden plaque engraved with its name in white paint.
“This is Linden,” announced the Marine, his flashlight pointing at the vented front door. “You’ll find what you need inside, sir.”
Sir Spencer thanked the Marine, climbed the two concrete steps to the door, pulled it open, and walked into the dark confines of the cabin. He reached to his right, his hands wiping the roughhewn wall until he found a light switch. He flipped on the light and took stock of his surroundings. They were better than a federal penitentiary, but paled in comparison to the Hay-Adams.
The operator stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. “I’ll be outside if you need anything.”
“I’ll be fine,” said Sir Spencer without turning around. “No need for a child minder.”
“You don’t have a choice,” said the operator. “Neither do I.” He stepped back onto the concrete step and closed the door, its springs creaking resistance as it slammed shut.
“A Deo et Rege,” Sir Spencer whispered to himself. “From God and the King.”
*
WASHINGTON, DC
Matti was asleep at her desk, her forehead on the edge of the laminate wood, when a knock at her door woke her from her nap. It wasn’t until the second set of raps that she responded.
“Yes?” she called, clearing her throat. “It’s unlocked. Come in.”
Matti rubbed her eyes and tried to squeeze the sleep from them as the door opened. It was Brandon Goodman. He leaned into the doorway without stepping into the room.
“You okay?” he asked, his eyes narrow with concern. “You don’t look good.”
“I was just sleeping. Trouble sleeping lately. Just dozed off for a minute.”
“Uh-huh.” His tone told Matti he didn’t buy it, but he didn’t probe. “I need to know if you’re still headed to Camp David. We’re leaving first thing in the morning.”
“Of course,” she answered through a yawn. “Why wouldn’t I be going?”
“You weren’t the most engaged person in the meeting,” he answered. “And the president seems to think you’re a bit off.”
“I’m fine,” Matti insisted. “I’ll be ready to go in the morning.”
“Okay then. We’re taking Marine One at oh-seven-hundred. Are you staying here tonight or going home to Baltimore?”
“I’ll stay here,” Matti said. She’d kept her place in Charm City despite moving to the White House from the NSA. The president insisted she move inside the Beltway, but Matti wanted to hold on to some sense of normalcy. “I’ve got a change of clothes. I’m good.”
“Might want to get some coffee too,” Goodman suggested. “And a shot of adrenaline. Your input, especially as it relates to problem solving, is critical as we get ready for Barcelona. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Goodman said goodnight and closed the door as he left. Matti got up from her desk and stretched, turning her head toward a bookshelf on the wall opposite her desk. Her eyes caught a familiar slim blue book nestled between books written by Robert Gates and Michael H. Hart.
She inhaled deeply and stepped over to the shelf, pulling the book by its narrow spine. It was a journal with no markings on the outside. Matti pulled it to her chest, cradling it with her arms folded across it, and sat back down at her desk. She carefully placed the journal in front of her and dusted off the cover before cracking it open.
She ran a finger down the outer margin, feeling the indention of the hurried script, noting the fervor with which the barely legible words were written.
“Spencer Thomas,” wrote the author, “is a megalomaniac. He has conceived this violent plot to overthrow a government he believes is ill-equipped to serve its people. I know that our path as a nation has strayed from one that is truly righteous and abiding of the constitution. He is misguided.
“For years,” the author scribbled, “I have gone along with the idea that we could effect change at the highest levels of government. Never did I envision violence. The greasing of palms and the quid pro quo of political favor was murky enough for me. I did not sign up for murder.”
The author was Bill Davidson, the former attorney general of the United States, a conspirator in the Capitol bomb attack, and the man who’d given her a stack of journals as a parting gift before he killed himself.
Matti saw it as an act of contrition; a realization he’d strayed from his core beliefs into a dark work clouded by angry rhetoric and violent deeds. He’d entrusted her with the journals in an effort to prevent the attacks. They detailed years of thoughts, activities, meetings, phone numbers, bank account tracking information, and more. Despite its value, it hadn’t worked.
Matti offered the entirety of them to her boss at the NSA. He’d taken them in the days after the attack. They were part of the record during the congressional hearings at which Matti testified. There were twelve of them submitted as evidence.
Matti kept the thirteenth for herself on the shelf in her White House office. It was so conspicuous, nobody ever noticed it. Matti couldn’t be sure anyone even suspected it was missing.
She licked her finger and carefully flipped backward in the book, skimming pages. She’d read most of these notes and missives before. This was a ritual of sorts: Matti replaying her failure in her mind, searching for clues, patterns, codes hidden in Davidson’s diatribes.
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“Sir Spencer tells us the endgame is regime change,” Davidson had written. “He tells us that the founding fathers were heroes to us and terrorists to the British. The man convicted of blowing up Pan Am Flight 103 was a terrorist to us. But when the Scottish released him from prison, the Libyans rejoiced in the streets. He contends that the line between patriotism and terrorism is all in the eye of the beholder.”
Matti flipped back some more. There were addresses, a note about his prostitute girlfriend, a mention about a meeting at the Cato Street Pub. There was also a passage about a journalist named Dillinger Holt.
According to Davidson’s notes, Holt appeared on the television news program Constitution Avenue with host Vickie Lupo minutes before she interviewed Davidson on the day President Dexter Foreman died at his desk.
“Dillinger Holt,” he wrote, “reporter at a website called PlausibleDeniability.info, sounds smart. He’s not the typical bombastic self-promoter Lupo likes to have on the program. Get his number. He might be of use, should higher levels be interested.”
Matti read the passage again.
Matti, an eideteker who could memorize vast amounts of information, was a speed reader. She closed the journal and opened it at the first page. She placed her index finger at the top of the page and, as she ran it down the center of the text, scanned for the phrase “higher level”.
Even in the fog of her prescriptively altered mind, she knew something was odd about that characterization. Bill Davidson was an attorney by trade, a lawyer who chose his words carefully. He wouldn’t have chosen those particular words without intending them.
There was something there. Something she’d missed. Something that could redeem her now. Matti scanned page after page, reading each page more quickly. And then she found it.
How could she not have seen it?
*
The assassin sat on the edge of her bed, the room service table pulled close. The plate was empty, except for the red liquid pooled in the center. She took a doughy roll from the basket on the table and tore it in half, dipping one end into the juice and sopping up as much as the bread could hold.