Gallagher still wasn’t moving.
The last time it was scanned was at the Canada-U.S. border crossing at Lacolle, Quebec. Whoever’s using it made entry at Champlain, New York.”
Gallagher continued to process everything Leary was saying.
Leary tucked his head down a little bit so he could look Gallagher directly into the center of the pupils of his eyes and leaned forward.
“It means, John, that this guy, whoever he might be, is now inside the United States.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Matt Christensen was trying hard to keep it together. With eighteen minutes of airtime still remaining, he knew he’d better get some control back. As the long-running host of Crisis Point, a talking-heads television/web simulcast, it was his job to help push the agenda forward while giving the impression that he was unbiased. And he was good at it. That’s why he got paid the big bucks.
Last week’s show had gone smoothly. The truckers had been marginalized exactly as the White House had wanted. Both of Matt’s guests, a leftwing journalist and a liberal strategist, had, of course, been personally handpicked by Corland’s press secretary. And the resulting program had served its purpose. But the ratings, along with the program itself, had been lackluster. There was no conflict. No reason to watch.
Today’s show, however, was proving to be a different story altogether. Inside the Global News Network’s New York studio, a verbal free-for-all had erupted. And while these types of scuffles could increase viewer numbers and ad revenue, if the agenda suffered, heads would roll. The same reliable guests from the previous week had already been booked. So the show’s new exec, to spice things up a bit, decided to add a third guest to the mix. It would be his first and last mistake.
Matt had tried to discourage this young new producer from booking Patrick Forester because Patrick was…well, he was articulate. And he could hold his own under pressure. Despite a barrage of interruptions and constant ridicule from his opponents, the conservative strategist was able to fire off a couple of key points, even though he was outnumbered by a margin of two-to-one—three-to-one, if you counted Matt.
“Fifty-eight percent of the American people feel that Secretary of State Danburg’s speech at the Davos peace conference went too far,” Patrick announced. “They believe that America shouldn’t be so quick to trade our RTS weapons technology with other countries. Fifty-eight percent! And that’s using your own poll numbers! I imagine the numbers are in reality quite a bit higher.”
Michael Kaufman, the journalist, shot back. “Whoa, hold on! So now you’re claiming the polls are rigged?”
“The parent company that owns the very news service you work for, Mike, conducted the poll. And everybody knows you guys are nothing but a mouthpiece for the Corland administration. You guys wouldn’t know how to conduct an unbiased poll if it snuck up behind you and bit you on—”
“All right, fellas. Let’s try to calm down.” Matt interjected. “Look, we don’t yet know exactly what this weapons system can do. All we know is that we’ve had one test run during the New York City crisis, and it liquidated a North Korean ship.”
“Yeah, and it created an international scandal,” the liberal strategist added. “And a lot of unanswered questions. North Korea claims the ship was unarmed.”
“Doesn’t surprise me that you’re gonna side with the Communists on this,” Patrick quipped.
“Now wait a second. That was—”
But Patrick charged ahead like a bull pushing his way through the noise. “The Pentagon has confirmed that the North Koreans were the ones who launched two nuclear missiles. And it was good ol’ American technology that was able to turn them around and send them back. The studio we’re sitting in right now, along with many New Yorkers viewing this program, wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for the RTS system.”
“That may be true,” the journalist responded, “but the administration has released a statement to the Special Select Congressional Committee investigating this incident, stating that President Corland did not authorize the use of RTS during the crisis. His understanding was that our air-defense people at NORAD and NEADS would be taking those missiles down with conventional airborne intercepts.”
But Patrick had an answer for that too. “If you recall, Mike, there wasn’t enough time for that.”
“Nevertheless, without notifying the White House and Congress, a defense contractor took the matter into his own hands. Now this same defense contractor is refusing to cooperate with Congress,” Kaufman continued. “He’s stonewalling. The American government has a right to know exactly how this system operates.”
“The only reason this administration wants to know is so they can sell the technology to other countries, as Secretary Danburg so eloquently announced during his speech at Davos—”
“Hey, nobody said anything about selling anything, Patrick!” the liberal strategist shouted. “If anybody’s trying to make money, it’s your buddy Joshua Jordan, who’s obviously holding out for the highest bidder—”
“Okay, guys, come on,” the host interrupted. “Let’s take a deep breath. This is a good time to take a break. When we come back, I want to talk about the real problem, in my opinion, the ethical repercussions of turning nuclear weapons back onto civilian populations. Because Joshua Jordan’s RTS defense system will certainly lead to that. And I also want to discuss just who Mr. Jordan really is and why he’s in the hot seat before Congress. Until he’s more forthcoming, we’re all going to remain in the dark. And in today’s volatile world, that’s never a safe place to be. We’ll be right back.”
The White House Press Secretary bolted out of the West Wing at a fast clip. He was heading directly toward the Oval Office.
Halfway there he was joined by the president’s chief of staff, Hank Strand.
“Do you have a statement drafted yet?” Strand bulleted, a little out of breath as the two strode together like Olympic long-distance walkers.
The press secretary tapped his head and said, “I’ve got it all in here.”
“Well you’d better get it down on paper for the president to read. And stat.”
“I already know the basics of the line we’re going to use. Secretary of State Danburg’s speech was taken out of context. The administration has made no formal decision to trade RTS designs for international economic assistance. Then we quickly shift the focus off of the president and onto Congress. They need to exercise their congressional authority. You know, use the oversight committee’s contempt powers to force Joshua Jordan to be forthcoming…blah, blah, blah…”
An hour later, Caesar Demas, who was back at his palatial, columnstudded compound outside of Rome, received a phone call from the U.S. State Department. The message was cordial, but blunt…and not surprising.
“Mr. Demas, we appreciate your offer to negotiate as a mediator between the United States and other key countries regarding the sharing of our RTS technology. But regrettably, we will have to decline your offer.”
“I understand,” Demas casually responded.
“As I’m sure you can appreciate, current political realities have rendered such a trade…well, not feasible at this time.”
“Yes. Too bad.”
“Have a good day, Mr. Demas.”
Five minutes later, Petri Feditzch got a call on his cell. He was just about to leave his industrial harbor office in the Netherlands and head into downtown Rotterdam for a late dinner.
Caesar Demas was on the line. “It’s me.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You know, Petri, I told the State Department to have that idiot Danburg avoid making it obvious in his speech about swapping the RTS for better international trade terms. But no, he wouldn’t listen. So the poll numbers went south for the White House, and now they’ve got cold feet. It looks as if we’ll have to get the RTS the hard way. We are returning to Plan A.”
“And the messenger?”
“Tell him we are back on track.”
 
; “All right. I hope this is the last time we have to change course…”
“Just deliver the message,” Demas barked. “Considering your former KGB status, Petri, I am surprised at you. You are like a little girl. Are you afraid to talk to the messenger?”
Petri glanced into his rearview mirror to see if he was being followed.
“Not at all. My sole concern is for success of the mission.”
“Fortunately, we didn’t lose much time. Our man should be able to reach the target and retrieve the information without compromising the timeline.”
“I would think so.”
“Oh, and one more thing,” Demas added.
“Yes, sir?’
“I would appreciate it if our messenger didn’t leave a messy trail behind him.”
“That may be a problem.”
“And why is that?” Demas asked.
“Because creating a human mess is what he does best.”
Demas couldn’t argue with that.
“Fine. Just make sure he gets everything we need related to the RTS.”
By the time Atta Zimler got the call from Petri Feditzch he was already driving a different vehicle and had left the highway. After heading down a deserted dirt road in a wooded area in northern New York State for a few miles, he pulled off and entered a fire lane that cut through the forest. He then drove a half mile into the woods before coming to the edge of a clearing where there was a peaty bog full of black mud. Before getting out, he stopped and looked at himself in the mirror.
Zimler had already shaved off his mustache, removed the spectacles, and dyed his hair red.
Then he climbed out of the car.
That is when his cell rang. He clicked on the cheap, untraceable InstaAllfone that he had picked up at a local gas station and answered the call while popping the trunk of the car.
It was Petri. “The boss says the mission is a go. Exactly as planned. You can start up again.”
Zimler had to smile at that. He had only one thing to say. “I never stopped.”
He clicked off the call and stuffed the Allfone in his pocket.
Then he lifted the trunk of the car and reached in. Grabbing a big, heavy burlap sack, Zimler lugged it out of the trunk and tossed it to the ground. The resulting thud would likely be considered sickening to most people, but it didn’t bother Zimler in the least.
He then snatched a box of lime from the trunk.
The Algerian opened the burlap bag and looked in.
Inside, staring blankly up at him, was his latest victim, wearing the final grimace of death on his face. He was the owner of the car that Zimler was now driving. The assassin methodically poured the lime into the bag, added a few bricks, then tied it shut and dragged it over toward the edge of the bog.
He then hoisted the bag containing the body over his head like a weightlifter, took a few tottering steps forward, and tossed it out into the deepest part of the swamp.
The bag hit the watery bog and floated on top for just an instant. Then it quickly sank into the muddy black ooze, disappearing entirely from sight…hopefully forever.
TWENTY-FIVE
Abigail had had to ask herself whether some dark secret might be lying just under the surface. She knew her friend Darlene well enough to know that she seemed to be carrying some great weight on her heart that morning as they drove together. While their husbands prepared for the first day of meetings of the clandestine Roundtable group, the two women had driven to Aspen for lunch. The idea had been Darlene’s.
Abigail was several years younger than the round-faced Darlene. The two had known each other for nearly a decade and had initially met through their husbands. Darlene was married to Judge Fortis Rice, a former Idaho State Supreme Court justice. He was a charter member of Joshua’s Roundtable.
As a longtime resident of Colorado, Abigail had traveled through that fashionably rustic little village more than a few times. She privately didn’t care for the celebrity-conscious, Beverly-Hills-of-the-Rockies atmosphere of the famous ski resort, which was home to a number of Hollywood stars and even a Saudi prince. But Darlene had never been there and wondered if they could go. Abigail said she would be happy to take her and agreed to do the driving. They would travel in the little yellow Jeep for the daytrip, the one that Darlene thought looked so cute, which the Jordans kept year-round at Hawk’s Nest.
As they sat down together at the crowded outdoor café for lunch, Abigail wondered if Darlene may have arranged their day together so she could open up about whatever it was that had her in its grasp. But Darlene wasn’t ready just yet. Instead, she was busy cracking jokes about the Aspen society: the trendy Labradoodle mix of designer dogs being walked past their table by the locals, and the wealthy chic women wearing artfully ripped blue-jeans and eight-carat diamonds strolling by and swinging their Prada bags.
Darlene had Abigail laughing and enjoying herself. But as Abigail studied her friend, she saw it. A sadness just beneath the surface of Darlene’s humor.
They continued to pick their way through their salads while chatting about nothing in particular. Darlene had ordered a huge chef salad while Abigail had fancied the lean “Aspen Forest Special,” which consisted of a bowl of greens garnished with nuts and fruit.
Darlene finished a bite, glanced over at her friend, and shook her head. “Oh, you’re still so good with calories. Look at me. I’ve loaded up with all this ham and cheese. And I forget to order the low-cal dressing…”
“Darley, don’t be so hard on yourself. Just chalk this up to a little celebration. Two chick-friends doing lunch. It’s really been too long…”
“Not since New Year’s Eve.”
“We’ve got to get together more often. I mean it, Darley…”
Suddenly Darlene got very quiet. She looked at her salad and listlessly stirred the lettuce for a moment. She then sighed, put her fork down, and rested her chin on her folded hands.
“You know Abby, I used to think you were a friend…”
Darlene paused. Abigail wondered what was coming next.
“But now I think of you as my dearest friend.”
Abby blushed a little and reached across the table for Darlene’s hand. She squeezed it while Darlene continued.
“We don’t see each other but, what, maybe twice a year on average. And lots of phone calls in between, of course…”
Abigail smiled at that.
“I feel I can really share anything with you…”
Now Abigail was waiting.
But then Darlene suddenly darted off course. “You look so fit, Abby. You must still be jogging?”
“I try to. Our schedules have become impossible lately. It’s hard to stick to the routine with everything that’s going on…”
“I know. Fort and I have been following how the media has been going after poor Josh over this missile crisis. What a mess this country’s in.”
Abigail nodded and smiled, but she knew Darlene was just dancing around the issue now, whatever it was.
“I bet there’s been a lot of pressure on the two of you,” Darlene continued.
“There has been. But funny enough, I feel so close to Josh lately, despite the tension and stress.”
“Hmm, stress…” Darlene repeated the word with almost a kind of whimper.
“But on the other hand, I know of so many other folks who have it much harder than we do,” Abigail offered with a gentleness in her voice that unexpectedly caught her friend off guard. Darlene quickly covered her mouth with her hand as her eyes began to fill up. It took nearly a minute before she could collect herself and respond. When she did, her voice was noticeably trembling.
“I will never forget how you helped me through Jimmy’s death. It’s one of those things that a mother doesn’t ever let go of. So many questions. How could my perfectly healthy twenty-five-year-old die like that from an aneurism? No warning. No symptoms. A call from his friend…they were playing basketball at the Y. ‘Jimmy collapsed,’ he said. Your whole life
changes in an instant. From one phone call.”
“I’m just glad I could be there for you,” Abigail reassured. “And I’m still here.”
“I tried to talk with Fort about it. But you know him; he sort of retreats into himself. I don’t blame him. It’s just the way he is. I know he was devastated. I still wonder whether all of that contributed to his heart problems. And ever since he had to retire from the bench it’s been…well…interesting at home, and not in a good way.”
Darlene paused. She was getting closer. Abigail let her friend continue.
“So I’ve had to cope as best as I can. Find my own little methods to live with all of this. Funny how when you’re younger you don’t really fear much. Then you start losing things, losing people you love, and suddenly you’re afraid of everything. So you do whatever it takes to put one foot in front of the other, maintain your balance.”
As she stared off into space, her hands were now on the table, and her fingers were gracefully moving in a rhythm, as if she were strumming some tiny, invisible guitar.
Then, abruptly, she sat straight up and began looking around. “Where is it? Where’s my purse?”
There was a look of panic on Darlene’s face.
Abigail spotted it under her chair and reached down to pluck it up. Darlene thrust her hand over the table to grab the purse. As she did she inadvertently knocked her purse out of Abigail’s hand and down onto the table where the contents spilled out.
Including a dozen prescription pill bottles.
Abigail picked up one of the bottles. Then another. And another. They all read Diazepam.
Abigail recognized what it was.
“These are all valium…”
Darlene reached out to grab them and stuff them back in her purse. She was trying to look unruffled. But it wasn’t working. Her hands were trembling, and she accidentally dropped several of the pill bottles on the floor once again. Abigail quietly helped her pick them up and placed them on the table.
Then she reached over and squeezed Darlene’s hand. “Okay, friend. You’re dealing with a lot, aren’t you?”