“One week from tomorrow, we will meet. Pick me up at my hotel at 9:45 in the morning. We will go to Winchester where we will talk, and all will be made clear.” They shook and left the storage unit.
Not far beyond the gate, Mohammed asked to be let out. “Ma'a as-salāmah, until then, my friend.” Clay watched as Mohammed walked along the street, a swarthy man, confident and well dressed, one hand in his pocket, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world.
A Hospital Visit
Rick and Travis parked in the wrong lot at the Virginia Hospital in Arlington. They walked in a circle until they found a person who was able to tell them how to get to admissions. After more walking, they were finally in the right place.
“Do you remember where we parked?” Rick asked as they waited in line.
“No, but I think we’ll need a taxi to get back there,” Travis answered. Their snickers drew a harsh look from the man behind the check-in desk.
He was cordial, but Rick and Travis still had to show their credentials to be allowed into a restricted area. They also had to change out of their clothes and put on scrubs for the visit.
Xandrie was in ICU, but she was conscious, and the head nurse suggested she needed visitors.
When they were finally ready to go in, Travis wondered why he was there. He’d never met her, but what he knew of Rick, he expected that Rick carried some kind of guilt for the injury. Travis had seen survivor’s guilt in Iraq and Afghanistan. Understanding that bad guys did bad things, it was a roll of the dice as to whom was on the receiving end.
The best thing anyone could do was to follow procedures.
Which is what the HRT did. To the letter. Armor piercing rounds fired through a wall hitting a target six times were probably the luckiest shots of all time. It didn’t lessen the injuries, but reiterated his point that sometimes the enemy gets lucky and that bad things can happen to good people.
Rick’s anxiety rose perceptibly as they walked toward the bed. She was supported by a device to probably minimize the stress on her damaged spine. She had IVs and tubes for waste. She looked nothing like the warrior Rick met only three days past.
“Rick. Fancy meeting you here. Do you come here often, or just when you want to pick up girls?” She said with a small smile.
“Jack suggested you could use company. Right up front, I have to tell you that I’m really horrible at sympathy, so expect that I’ll avoid all of that touchy-feely crap.”
“You’re a man. I’d expect no less and thanks. I’m not in the mood for a pity party.” She looked at Travis with a wary eye.
The Lieutenant Colonel rose to the challenge. “I expect Rick never introduces his wife at parties either. I’m Travis Strong. I worked with Rick on, oops, almost said it. I worked with Rick on that thing we don’t talk about at a place we were never at,” Travis said in a low voice, looking around comically, ending with a check under her bed. “You can never be too careful.”
Xandrie smiled. “I’d get up and shake your hand, but there seems to be a minor issue with that.” Her smile disappeared, and a dark cloud consumed her expression.
“So, what do you do to pass the time here?” Rick wanted to cry. He could do nothing for her. He wasn’t kidding when he said he wasn’t good at sympathy. Rub some dirt on it. Get over it and move on. He had a myriad of sayings that helped him through challenges, but nothing seemed appropriate. He hung his head.
“Sleep, mostly. There is nothing to do here except recover. Thanks for coming that’ll kill a few minutes of my day.” She looked away, seemingly disinterested. “You military?” Xandrie asked without looking back.
“Lieutenant Colonel, sentenced to three years at the Pentagon. Intel, but don’t do much of that in the big building. We outsource it to people like Rick.” Travis’ eyes hadn’t left Xandrie from the moment they’d arrived. Rick pushed a chair over so Travis could sit, which he did. He reached under the blanket and pulled out her hand, taking care not to tangle the IV.
She turned, looking oddly at him, but didn’t say anything or try to pull away. They sat looking at each other until Rick grew uncomfortable and cleared his throat.
“They told me what you did,” she finally said. “How you tackled the guy who shot me. I would have been put out if he got away. So thank you,” she said, almost emotionlessly.
“I didn’t stay where you told me. Please don’t hurt me,” Rick blurted out. They both looked at him and started to laugh. Xandrie winced but kept smiling.
“Damn that hurt, but it felt good, too. A person needs a certain amount of pain, don’t you think?” The two men nodded. “I don’t know, Rick, but I think you’re kind of good at what needs done. Thank you for coming. And you,” she said turning her full attention to the Lieutenant Colonel. “You tell me the story of Travis Strong. I seem to have time in my schedule.” Travis slowly caressed her hand and without taking his eyes from her, he told Rick he’d take a taxi home.
With a mumbled goodbye, Rick excused himself, wondering what just happened. Then the truth dawned on him. He had to find where he parked the minivan all by himself.
Another Monday
Rick showed up early on Monday at CIA Headquarters not feeling guilty about taking Sunday off. He was happy to see that the parking lot was half full. That meant people took their jobs seriously. This is the week, we’ll start to make progress, he thought.
First thing on the list was to talk with someone about TATP and precursor chemicals. He’d research it on the classified system to learn more, then see if anyone knew how to track the chemicals within the United States. Sounded like a job for the FBI. Maybe Becky could come for a visit? If the lawyer couldn’t figure it out, then who could?
Although Rick wanted to learn more about TATP, he wouldn’t compromise his home computer with anything related to his work as an intelligence analyst. Searching TATP could trigger something. One never knew if the enemy had access to Google or not, but as with anything classified, Rick didn’t want to be the example. The cry of “but Hillary did it” won’t save the average person.
Rick decided that he needed to meet with the DDI or someone that the DDI designated as Rick had to understand jurisdictional issues. The FBI was probably far better suited to find terrorists within the U.S. The CIA was limited in what it could do, but unlimited in what it could hide from prying eyes.
Rick continued handwriting what he needed to do. When he flipped to the next page, he suspected he was in over his head. There was too much to do. He needed to refine and prioritize. He went back to page one looking for the foundation from which he could build other things. He wasn’t in a position to ask Becky intelligent questions yet, so he moved that task and the associated requests to a different page.
Then his desk phone rang. He figured the call was for the last occupant but knew that he had to answer it. Who was the last occupant and why wasn’t he or she here anymore? That question bugged him for a millisecond before he answered the phone where it automatically went secure.
All of this for a wrong number, he thought as he waited.
“Rick? Race, here.” The Deputy Director of Intelligence. “I need you to come with me to Capitol Hill. We’ll be briefing the Senate Select Committee on Intel. We’re leaving in an hour. It’s best if we don’t bring anything. When we do, they want copies, and that’s when we start losing control. We can always send supporting documentation later.” Even through the encryption of the DDI’s voice, Rick could hear the disdain.
Control what you can control, Rick told himself. You’ll be with The Man if that makes any difference.
“I look forward to it, sir.”
The DDI said to meet him in the basement garage where the DDI’s driver waited.
“A driver? I’m getting shuttled to Capitol Hill with the Deputy Director of Intelligence for the CIA. I must be doing something right, but then again, didn’t the ancient Hebrew bring their own goats for sacrifice on Temple Mount?” Rick asked himself. A passerby, seemingly disin
terested, looked into Rick’s office. If anything, the man was surprised that someone so new had degenerated so quickly. More likely, he didn’t care as talking to yourself was commonplace.
The IC was filled with strange birds. Rick considered himself average, but he wasn’t the best judge. He’d been in the Intelligence Community for a long time. It was a different normal.
He didn’t have much time, so he checked the status of tasks, seeing if anything new came in. Nothing did. Rick couldn’t verify that anything was being worked. Maybe that’s what this meeting was for, request more funding.
Rick established his top three in each category. If he gave the Senators a list of ten things he wanted, they probably wouldn’t give him anything. But if he only asked for three, he might get his number one. Then the Senators could slap themselves on the back to celebrate how they saved the day.
Rick’s top three needs. 1) TATP precursor chemicals; 2) Da’esh direction to the faceless man, as in NSA running their algorithm on all conversations leaving the country; and 3) any intelligence collected from the Bagdad Market. He wanted Travis, Becky, and Bobbie Mac, because they were all gifted at different things, and he liked them.
Maybe someone from the Thorny Rose watch floor might have been a better choice, but they hadn’t spoken up or made their ideas known. If you don’t tell anyone, then you don’t exist.
He needed Bobbie Mac to help him navigate the new bureaucratic, but if he made that number one, then they could easily deny his other choices.
He left fifteen minutes early to meet the DDI. He’d never been in the garage and didn’t know where to find the steps or the elevator to take him there.
When he asked an older woman for help, she told him to use the phone booth around the corner, just like in the television show “Get Smart.” Once he dialed his own office number, it would reconcile who he was and a voice would ask him where to go. He knew she was joking, but she never cracked a smile. After telling him what to do, she returned to her business without giving Rick a second look.
Following her directions, he walked around the corner and found the elevator to the basement. He swiped his badge to call it and then again once inside to punch the button for the basement-level parking garage.
There were numerous sub-basements in the building. He’d just been to one on Saturday where the Situation Room was protected deep in the bowels of the earth.
Rick only wanted to go to the parking garage where the DDI’s driver waited. Stepping off the elevator, he was greeted by an armed guard, who barely glanced at Rick. There was a black Suburban waiting. He approached the driver who leaned against the door.
“I’m Rick Banik. I think I’m in the right place.” He didn’t attempt to shake hands since the man was probably armed. The driver needed his hands free one hundred percent of the time.
“Nice to meet you, Rick. Wait until the DDI gets in on the passenger side, and then you get in on my side.” The driver went back to leaning against the car and watching. Rick noticed that he hadn’t given his name. Maybe that was part of the CIA mystique.
Or maybe he was an asshole.
Probably a bit of both. Although he was a security professional, he drove in DC’s traffic for a living. Rick wouldn’t wish that on his worst enemy, so he cut the guy some slack.
They waited in silence. Rick shuffled around as he reviewed his lists of three and imagined various conversations that could take place. He wanted to be ready for anything but had no idea what other contingencies might be discussed. Realizing how woefully unprepared he was, Rick hoped that Race Banyon would help alleviate some of his concerns.
The DDI showed up exactly on time, and they climbed in as the driver said they would. Rick expected that they’d scream out of the garage, sliding sideways into traffic, and then race forward, hell bent toward the center of town. Rick watched too much television and was quickly disappointed.
The pace was more sedate. There were no squealing tires or power slides. They casually drove from the garage and out of the building, entering traffic as would any other vehicle. Rick was disappointed in a bizarre way.
DDI must have noticed.
“Expected something a little more exhilarating?” He asked with a chuckle. “It’s okay. Most people do. Cranston takes it easy on me. I’m probably the only one who doesn’t leave at the last minute, forcing their drivers to break every traffic law on the books to get where they need to go. I’m too old for that, preferring the stress-free version.”
Rick nodded, appreciating the DDI’s efforts to calm him, but Rick needed to know. “Thank you, sir. What I really need, though, is what do you expect from the SSCI, and what do you need from me?”
“Straight forward, huh? I think that will serve you well in the right company, but could be a hindrance in others. With me, I insist on it. When we’re on the Hill, I need you to be more abstract, more discreet. Maybe indirect is the best term.” Rick looked at the DDI without answering. He didn’t hear a question, but Race waited, then cocked one eyebrow.
“I will give you all I have. Direct with you, indirect with the Senators and their staffers.” Rick said firmly. “So, what do I need to be indirect about?”
“And that’s what the Senators will do to you. If they ask a question and you don’t give them the answer they want, they’ll ask it again. It’s best if you only provide them with the first answer, reworded. Do not try to expound. Eventually, they’ll consider you an idiot and tell you the answer they wanted to hear. Then, you’ll agree with them without agreeing. You’ll say something like, ‘I see your point Senator,’ followed by nodding with a pensive look on your face. You both know that you’ve agreed to nothing, but he’s made his point, and it’s in the official record.
“For today, they’ll want a brief recap of how we came to determine that the FBI raid took out the primary terrorist threat.” The DDI held up his hand as Rick prepared to disagree vehemently. “We have to stay at a high level. I want you to talk about coordinating the agencies, playing to the strength of each with redundancies. The FBI discovered the recruitment effort that you predicted. Then we plant the seed that there is a parallel effort that may include explosives. This is where I’ll take over and lay out a strategy where we need additional resources.
“And before you ask, yes, this is about money. Without it, we’re dead in the water. You can’t imagine what our budgets used to be. Now, every line item gets scrutinized. DCI, me, the DDO? We all have to beg for the crumbs, relatively large crumbs, mind you, but crumbs all the same. I’m ashamed to say that I’ve gotten good at it. And that’s why we have to be indirect. If we tell them that the FBI raid was effective, but we didn’t net who we wanted. Then they’ll close the purse strings and prevent us from finding the faceless man, as you call him. We’ll be cut off because they will think it’s just a ploy to get more money. It is to get more money, but it’s not a ploy. So, Rick there’s your Political Science lesson for today. Still looking forward to your trip to Capitol Hill?” Race smiled at his own joke.
Rick wanted to run screaming, but knew he had to stay. He decided that if he asked to get out of the vehicle, they’d let him, but they wouldn’t slow down first.
He nodded as he saw the wisdom in the approach. They would do what they had to to stop the threat. If that meant massaging the truth while under oath before the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, then so be it. The goal of testimony to congress was to tell the truth, or at least not lie.
Rick appreciated the DDI’s candor, and found the idea of a mental chess match with political grand masters appealing. Yes, he was in over his head, but to get what he wanted, he had to play the game.
Senate Select Committee
Rick and the DDI were escorted from the front entrance to a back elevator to a back room in the Hart Senate Office Building, near the Capitol. They were led into a large meeting room, without windows, where the fifteen members of the Committee could sit above any guests. Only the staffers were present when they
arrived. Rick counted ten of various shapes and sizes. None of them seemed willing to talk as they turned away, seeking conversation elsewhere when Rick approached.
They were polite enough when he introduced himself, but wouldn’t converse beyond small talk. The master at arms directed them to stand behind the center table, which they did as two Senators entered using the door behind the raised platform.
The Chair of the SSCI was the powerful Senator from Virginia, Daniel Webber. An older woman accompanied him. Rick didn’t recognize her, but he probably wouldn’t know ninety out of the current one hundred members of the Senate. She walked down the horseshoe-shaped table, taking a seat behind the name placard showing Kathy Finklestein from California.
After the Senators took their seats, Rick and the DDI sat also, adjusted their microphones, and waited.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Senator Webber said with a slight drawl. “You’ll see that we are a bit short-handed, so we cannot make any decisions today, but don’t let that dissuade you from telling us what we need to know.”
The Senator waited. Rick looked to Race, who smiled and nodded slightly.
“Good morning Senator Webber, Senator Finklestein. There is nothing more important right now than answering your questions, no matter how many or how few attend,” Race said. Rick thought it was diplomatic, but judging by the sour expression on the Chairman’s face, maybe it wasn’t.
“We’d like a quick review of the events leading to the FBI raid on the Bagdad Market. Understand, the FBI will be in here tomorrow during our normal closed-door meeting to explain themselves. We are not happy with the media coverage telling the world that…” the Chairman said and leaned over his microphone so he could look down the table at his colleague. “What was that exact quote, Kathy?” She riffled her papers, then pulled one to the top.
“…but people nearby said they heard hundreds of shots fired inside the Bagdad Market in Alexandria. What appeared to be one HRT member was carried out of the building on a stretcher to a waiting ambulance. At least seven body bags were carried out, too. We have a cell phone picture of one man of Middle Eastern descent being led away by the FBI. An observer in the area described the Bagdad Market as a hotbed of terrorist activity.” She slid her reading glasses down her nose and peered over them at Rick and the DDI, giving each a steely glance of similar duration.
People Raged: and the Sky Was on Fire-Compendium (Rick Banik Thrillers Book 1) Page 15