After the echoes of the ovation in the arena ceased, Bishop Dibold Kora motioned for a priest from the New Aztec Tribal Union to approach the podium. The priest lit a “unity” torch and waved its flame back and forth in front of him as he chanted.
The crowd, excited by the idea of a new world dawning, rose to its feet and cheered — and kept cheering for several minutes, clapping and voicing their approval in a sea of many languages.
Annapolis Junction, Maryland,
Headquarters of the Security and Identification Agency (SIA), Near the National Security Agency
At the SIA headquarters, Jeremy, the night-data manager, had just sent an insta-memo to the assistant managing director for the Division for Exigent Requests for the TagWatch Surveillance Program. Jeremy knew his boss was at home, probably finishing his dinner, but this was urgent. The message simply said:
Have received Red Notice from AG, seconded by Homeland. Please call.
Jeremy’s line rang a minute later. The assistant managing director said, “What’s this about a Red Notice?”
“Yes sir. Signed by Attorney General Hamburg.”
“Homeland Security wants this too?”
“That’s what it says.”
“Who’s the subject?”
Jeremy hunted for the name on his screen. “Female. Married. U.S. citizen. Abigail Jordan.”
The assistant director took a moment to respond. “Why does that name sound familiar?”
“Don’t know, sir.”
“All right, then. Start trolling. When you get a good fix, alert the SIA agents or maybe the FBI for an apprehension.”
Jeremy clicked off his Allfone and whirled in his chair until he was in front of another screen. He placed the palm of his hand on the screen for two seconds until a green light lit up in the corner. He typed the Red Notice case number and Abigail’s name, date of birth, social security, driver’s license, and passport numbers into the blank. Then touched the screen where it said Extrinsic Data Location Commencing.
After thirty seconds, he received a message that read, “Subject’s Last Verified Location — Mayflower Hotel, Washington, D.C.”
“Okay,” Jeremy said to his computer screen, “let’s go trolling.” His screen lit up with ten smaller screens arrayed along the margins, five on each side. Each image was in grainy black and white, the kind produced by remote video cameras.
A female face appeared in another small box on the screen. It was the District of Columbia Sector clerk Speaking. “Jeremy, this is the D.C. Sector here. We’ve got a black vehicle we believe to be a private limo — Lincoln Navigator — driving the subject down Constitution Avenue. Video will follow.”
“Copy that,” Jeremy said.
Inside the Lincoln Navigator, the driver, silver-haired attorney Harry Smythe, glanced up at the green light of the traffic camera that had just captured the image of his vehicle as it passed through the intersection. He spoke aloud but didn’t turn around to his occupants. “Abby, after all these years you’ve known me to play it close to the vest, cautious, careful, I bet you’re shocked to see me aiding and abetting a public enemy like you.” He guffawed. “I read your affidavit from Harley Collingwood. Finally I told myself, that’s enough. The Gestapo kind of tactics I’ve seen from the Tulrude administration is the last straw. So — I guess I’ve just become an honorary member of your Roundtable.”
In the rearview mirror, Harry could see Cal turn to his mother and say, “Deb said they probably located you at the Mayflower Hotel through the extrinsic data system … public records, like hotel registrations. So we can assume they’re already following us with the traffic cameras here on Connecticut Avenue.”
Abigail looked ahead, and Harry followed her gaze to the sign for the National Zoo on the right. “Harry, try going in here,” she said, pointing to the sign. He took a sharp turn into the zoo entrance.
Moments later, Harry was wheeling the Navigator back onto Connecticut. After several miles, he turned sharply off to the right, heading toward Rock Creek Park. But the cameras at the intersection caught the vehicle again.
At SIA headquarters, Jeremy spotted the image of the Navigator speeding through an intersection, then turning toward the park. He touched the SIA agent button on the screen and then the FBI button. A message flashed: “Closest agents — 35 minutes.”
So he touched the Metro Police square on his screen. The message flashed — “5 minutes.” Jeremy touched the button on the screen that read: “Authorize Metro Police Stop.”
Four minutes and twenty seconds later, a D.C. metro police car, with its blue lights flashing, pulled the black Navigator over.
Two patrolmen with their guns drawn ran up to the car, yelling for the driver to put his hands up. When Harry Smythe calmly lowered his electric driver’s side window, one of the officers screamed, “Hands up where I can see them. Step out immediately!”
Harry stepped out of the car, and the officer slammed him face forward against the side. The other officer was already on the other side to arrest Abigail. As he swung the passenger door open with one hand, grasping his sidearm in the other, he screamed into the vehicle, “Come out with hands raised — now!”
A few seconds passed. From the driver’s side, the officer who had Harry Smythe pinned against the car called out to his partner. “Officer Baker, confirm that you have the subject in custody.” Several more seconds passed, and the first officer repeated, “Officer Baker, confirm apprehension!”
The other officer appeared at the driver’s side now with his revolver holstered. “No subjects in the car, sir.”
The officer stepped back, and Harry Smythe lowered his arms and brushed off his silk shirt. “Do you know who I am, officer?”
“I was about to ask for your driver’s license —”
“No need. I’ll tell you. I’m a lawyer who has personally represented two former presidents and half a dozen U.S. senators and congressmen. I’ve also had one other client you ought to know about — your boss — the chief of police of the District of Columbia.”
The officers gave each other a quick look. Then they tipped their hats and began to walk away. One of them added, “Sorry to have troubled you.”
On a bus that was now leaving the National Zoo, Abigail and Cal sat next to their suitcases on the bench seat in the back. They glanced up at the camera above the driver’s head. Cal whispered, “In two blocks we’d better hop off, get a cab. I don’t think they’re all equipped with cameras yet.”
At SIA headquarters Jeremy was on the cell phone with his boss, explaining that the apprehension had not been successful — yet.
“I wouldn’t worry sir,” he said. “We’ll get our subject eventually. First, she’ll hit the trip wire of our BIDTag scanners and register a nontag alert. Then she’ll be tracked with facial recognition cameras in every public place — restaurants, gas stations, airports …”
“Yeah, yeah,” the assistant director bulleted back. “I help run this outfit, remember?”
“Just saying,” Jeremy replied, “she’s in the matrix now. Just a matter of time.”
THIRTY-ONE
On the Campaign Trail Somewhere in the Northeast
Special Agent Ben Boling was ordering a sandwich at the outside counter of a roadside deli. “I’d like the pastrami on rye. No chips with that, but I’d like it heated.”
Senator Hewbright was next to him. His entourage of staffers were milling around the campaign bus, out of earshot. “Don’t mean to hurry you, Agent Boling, but we have an incredibly tight schedule. What can you tell me so far?”
“First — I don’t have much on Perry Tedrich’s death — yet. We just don’t know if it was connected to your run for president. The autopsy indicates he was poisoned. That’s all I know.”
“I’d like to reach out to his family …”
“I know you would. But I recommend that for the time being you let me express your heartfelt regrets. There’ll be time for you to talk to his relatives when our
investigation gets a clearer picture of why he was killed.”
“And my Allfone being hacked?”
“That’s a different story, though it may be connected. Just can’t tell. What our IT forensics people say is this — it was hacked through a source in China.”
Hewbright was nearly speechless. “What in the world …”
“Do we have any reason to believe that China has any particular interest in your campaign?”
“Certainly. I’ve traveled there several times, spoken out against their abuses of human rights and violations of religious liberties of Christians and other religious minorities. And I’ve argued against President Tulrude’s attempt to expand our national debt that’s owed to China. I’ve publicly argued that she’s enslaving us financially to that nation.”
“Anyone on your staff have any special relationship with Beijing?”
“No, sir, other than my foreign-policy advisors being knowledgeable about China in general.”
Agent Boling threw some cash onto the counter and plucked up his pastrami sandwich, wrapped in paper. “We’ll keep looking at this,” he said. “Meanwhile, be careful who you have around you. I’ve talked to Agent Owens, your Secret Service man. He’ll help you keep your circle tight. Can’t afford too many people getting close to you. Limit yourself to those who are air-tight, as pure as the driven snow.”
Ben Boling smiled at his own comment as he took a bite of his sandwich. How pure could anyone be who was knee deep into the dirtiest blood sport of all — a run for the presidency of the United States? On the other hand, after being around Hank Hewbright for a few days now, Ben had a feeling about him. There was a kind of common decency about the guy. Maybe he was the exception.
“You know, Agent Boling,” Hewbright said strolling toward the campaign bus, “you want me to restrict my circle, but that’s impossible. People want to — have a right to — shake your hand. The voters ought to be able to look you in the eye, find out what makes you tick.”
“Sure,” Boling said, walking beside him and using a paper napkin to wipe the mayo off his chin. “But I’m not talking about that. I mean your staff,” and he tossed a nod toward the campaign workers by the bus. “They’re the ones who know your every move.”
Cairo, Egypt
U.N. Secretary-General Alexander Coliquin stopped at a glass case containing the mummy of an ancient Egyptian prince. He gazed into the display and studied the smooth facial features, worn by thousands of years but still preserved enough to give the impression of his brow, nose, and jaw line. The tour guide droned on about the collection in the Museum of Antiquities, lecturing his audience — representatives from the Arab League nations and the OPEC countries who had gathered to celebrate Coliquin’s great coup in negotiating the treaty agreement with Israel. Meanwhile, the tour guide gushed enthusiastically about how the museum had been gloriously rebuilt since its desecration during the so-called Arab Spring revolts of 2011.
U.N. Deputy Secretary-General Ho Zhu was standing next to Coliquin. He looked at the mummy too. “Once a ruler of a great civilization,” Ho remarked. “Now, just some bones in a glass box. A museum piece. How is greatness measured, truly?”
“By becoming more than even that,” Coliquin replied.
Ho Zhu wondered at that. “More than what?”
“Than merely a ruler of a civilization.”
Before his deputy could pursue that further, Coliquin changed the subject. “Did you get the polls after the Tulrude speech on economics in Nebraska?”
Ho smiled and bobbed his head up and down. “Yes. She gained twelve points. The bump probably won’t last, but it’s a good start. An excellent speech. This is good momentum leading up to the convention. Meanwhile, Senator Hewbright’s party will have its convention first.”
“In politics,” Coliquin added, “a few days, or weeks, is an eternity. Anything could happen to Hewbright. Don’t you agree, my friend?” The two men shared a knowing look.
As the crowd was led to the other end of the hall, Coliquin and Ho Zhu dropped back. The deputy whispered to the secretary-general, “Also, you should know that we have been contacted by Faris D’Hoestra’s people. The World Builders.”
Coliquin stopped in his tracks. “Concerning what?”
“They want a meeting.”
“You still haven’t answered the question.”
“Concerning your ‘agenda for the future.’ That is how they put it.”
Coliquin took a few steps and then turned to Ho Zhu. “Arrange the meeting.”
“Really?”
“Of course. And I want Faris D’Hoestra there personally. Is that understood?”
Ho Zhu gave a tight-faced nod of understanding. “It will be done.”
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
President Tulrude had just finished a photo op and a quick public appearance at the Liberty Bell. Nearby was her former chief of staff, Natali Traup, who had taken a leave of absence from her White House job to help with the campaign. Traup had her Allfone in her hand and was waving it at Tulrude, as her Secret Service entourage led her to the limo. “Madam President, this has to be addressed.”
“I don’t see why.”
“Because there are allegations that your speech was stolen from Hewbright, as a result of the Chinese hacking into his computers.”
“I have no personal knowledge about Chinese computer hackers. Do you?”
Traup followed her into the backseat of the limo. “No, but it’s going to look bad.”
“Screw what looks bad,” she replied. “How do they know that Hewbright didn’t try to steal the speech from me — but I just happened to deliver mine first? That’s the story that needs to get out.”
“But there isn’t any evidence of that.”
“Then find it,” Tulrude said. “Look, in the melee leading up to Nebraska, we go into a prep meeting before my speech. And when we come out, I’ve got a five-point plan to save America from a final, devastating financial depression. That’s the fact, Natali. Now, who gave me what regarding those five points for my speech I honestly don’t recall. My staff is gathering research, data, and policy ideas from the four corners of the earth. That’s what they’re paid to do. I’m simply not going to agonize over this. Oh, and another thing,” Tulrude said, remembering a PR idea. “Get Coliquin to set up his schedule to do a public event with me while he still has the glow on from this peace deal with Israel. He may be the hero for the day, but he needs me and he knows it. Time to pony up.”
“Speaking of Israel,” Traup said, “Attorney General Hamburg said to tell you that Colonel and Mrs. Jordan will soon be in custody. Israel will extradite Colonel Jordan back to the U.S. and Mrs. Jordan is being arrested for violation of the BIDTag Act.”
“I smell baseball in the air,” said Tulrude, a die-hard White Sox fan, with a smile. When Traup flashed a confused look, the president added, “You know, a double-play.”
Jessica Tulrude nursed a satisfied grin as the limo gunned away from historic Independence Hall.
THIRTY-TWO
Reagan National Airport, Private Jet Hangar
Cal paced in the lounge as he waited for the pilot of the Jordan family’s private jet, the Citation X, to finish his preflight check. While waiting, he put a call in to the Roundtable’s media leader.
The voice of Phil Rankowitz finally came on the other end. “Cal, buddy, what’s up?”
“I’m in D.C., about to leave on a trip with my mother.”
“Anywhere interesting?”
“Yeah, but I can’t tell anyone where or why.”
“Now you’ve piqued my curiosity.”
“I have something even more important.”
“Shoot.”
“I got a story that, if we can back it up, will blow the roof off this presidential campaign.”
“Sounds like a category-five hurricane news-wise …”
“At a minimum. This is going to make Watergate and Monica-gate combined look like stuff that belo
ngs in the lifestyle section.”
“Spoken like a true tabloid journalist,” Phil cracked.
“Okay,” Cal continued, noticing that the pilot was exchanging pleasantries with Abigail. “I got to talk fast. You need to find some high-caliber forensic pharmacologists who are not afraid of stepping on political toes. No — strike that. Make that — not afraid to amputate some political feet.”
“Ouch.”
“I made a few inquiries into the National Institutes of Health and just sent you a qwiktext with the name and contact information of one doctor in particular. According to my research he did a documentary with this guy, but we may need more than one.”
“We’ll jump on it.”
“Also, we have a blood sample that can be sent to any of them to analyze at a moment’s notice.”
“All right. So, can you give me a hint what we’ve got here?”
“Remember the Wizard of Oz?”