Hostile Intent (18 page)

W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

Upon learning the news of Los Angeles, the president helicoptered aboard Marine One directly to the White House lawn, where he held an impromptu press conference. Even his worst enemies and most ardent critics had to admit that Jeb Tyler was made for moments like these. His natural empathy, his good looks, his unforced air of concern—these were some of the qualities that had gotten him elected and today was his finest hour.

Across from him, the usual assemblage of preening White House correspondents, augmented by the network anchors, had their microphones and notebooks at the ready, itching to shout their questions. But right now, the president had the floor:

“My fellow Americans,” Tyler began, with just the right quiver of rage in his voice. Dobson had whipped up the speech on the short chopper ride from Camp David, and it was probably the best thing she’d ever done. Did half the country think him a wimp? Very well then, he would show them. “Today, our country was attacked by wanton, vicious murdering scum.”

A ripple ran through the press corps. Scum? Several reporters made a mental note to contact…well, somebody…to see if any group could possibly take offense at such an un-PC characterization. So far, there had been no terrorist statement that anyone had heard, but it would surely come, and then the great national game of recriminating moral equivalence could begin in earnest. In the meantime, the president was still speaking:

“Many of our fellow citizens are dead. Many more lie dying. A significant portion of Los Angeles has been destroyed by a very powerful bomb. But it could have been worse. Reports are still fragmentary and preliminary, but it appears that the terrorists’ attempt to construct a so-called dirty bomb has largely failed. With the gracious acquiescence of Mayor Gonzales of Los Angeles, federal FEMA, Hazmat, and SWAT teams are either already on site or underway. We’ll have no Katrina here.”

He took a breath, but continued to look steadily and calmly into the TV cameras. “As of this moment, we have not received any communication from the people who have done this reprehensible deed. But let me assure you that we will find them, and we will bring them to swift and sure justice.

“I gather there already has been speculation that this attack was in retaliation for the foiling of the plot in Edwardsville yesterday. I have conferred with my senior national security staff, and they assure me that such a thing would be impossible. This operation was too well planned for it to be a simple act of revenge. No matter how Edwardsville had played out, no matter whether we had acceded to all their demands, it wouldn’t have mattered one whit. The attack on Los Angeles would have happened anyway. So if and when we hear from them, please keep that in mind. There is simply no grievance, whether real or imaginary, that justifies this cowardly and despicable act.”

The president paused. Something caught his eye: Pam Dobson, gesturing discreetly but urgently and pointing to her iPhone.

As President Tyler turned back to the cameras and the press corps he saw that they too were consulting their wireless devices. Pam Dobson walked over and showed him her screen. Tyler blanched, then made a command decision: show it.

“Are you sure?” whispered Pam.

“Sunlight is the best disinfectant,” said Tyler. “My fellow Americans,” said President Tyler, “behold our enemy.” And so the nation’s television feeds cut away from the White House lawn to the face of a terrorist in a ski mask. Tyler signaled for the audio feed to begin:

“…cowardly attack on our forces yesterday cried out to Heaven above for revenge,” the masked man was saying in a muffled and electronically scrambled voice. “And so has it been done. Let there be no mistake about our resolve. Unless the American government immediately and completely capitulates to our demands, these attacks will continue in ever-increasing ferocity until America and the West are destroyed in a holy rain of fire.”

The terrorist looked directly at the cameras. “And that day of reckoning will be the most terrible in the history of the world.” The video was shot in some empty room, blank white walls, no music. “You have had your chance. From this moment on, there will be no further communications, no negotiating. We made our justifiable demands and our reward was death. Now, we will visit death upon you. No justice, no peace, no surrender.”

The masked man stopped, looked at the camera. “Have a nice day.”

The president came back on, calm, unruffled, not a perfect hair on his perfect head out of place. Even the half of the country who hadn’t voted for him, who in fact despised him, had to admit that he was pretty damn impressive at this moment.

“My fellow Americans, everything you have just heard is a lie. You have just seen the hooded face of evil. I realize that some members of both parties have tried to tell you that the threat from beyond our shores is not real. That if we would just be nice to them, if we would just address their ‘legitimate grievances,’ all would be well.

“But let me tell you something. Yesterday’s events in Edwardsville opened my eyes. I too thought that health care and the capital gains tax were the issues most important to you, my fellow countrymen. How wrong I was. And I stand before you now, humbled and contrite of heart, and pledge to you that we will not rest, we will not falter, until we have eliminated this threat to the Republic, and our families can once again sleep soundly in their beds at night—secure in the knowledge that we employ rough men ready to do our enemies grievous harm for the actions they have taken against us today. My fellow Americans—we will not fail.”

It was a lucky thing that the cameras were on Tyler and not his group of advisors behind him; flies would have found comfortable nesting places in their mouths as he continued.

“This very day, I have ordered the leader of one of the most secret, the most elite units in the American intelligence hierarchy to stop at nothing to remove this threat. From this moment on, we will hunt down these folks and terminate them with the most extreme prejudice America has ever brought to bear on an enemy, and that includes Tojo’s Japan and Hitler’s Nazi Germany.”

One last pause. “Thank you, good night, and may God bless America.”

Several of the reporters—the Fox News correspondent most visibly—applauded as the president finished speaking. The ranks of advisors stepped forward to congratulate him. Pam Dobson beamed. As Rubin stepped forward to shake his hand, the president said, “How’s the market doing?”

Rubin glanced at his BlackBerry—the Dow had already lost another 800 points. “We might have to close the Street if things keep going south.”

Seelye was next in line. Before he could open his mouth—“Where’s Devlin?” the President asked.

Seelye thought twice before replying. The president of the United States had just blown one of the nation’s top secrets, and just condemned to death the man Seelye had guiltily raised as a foster son. “In the air, I believe, sir, just as you ordered. Bound for Los Angeles.”

Tyler gripped his hand a little longer than protocol demanded. “Well,” he said, “that’s a lucky break. Now just make sure that cocksucker doesn’t make a liar out of me.”

I
N THE AIR
: D
EVLIN

In the window seat, Devlin was in the middle of a vigorous game of Spades with two morons and a blithering idiot when the president came on the air with the news of the Los Angeles bombing. The video on the screen remained the Spades game, but the audio came directly from the White House’s internal transmission system, which Devlin had taken the liberty of tapping into via Fort Meade the day Tyler was inaugurated.

His blood ran cold as he absorbed the awful news. Although the extent of the bombing in central Los Angeles was not yet clear, there were obviously going to be many, many casualties. Casualties were part of war, and this was a war, no matter whether half his countrymen felt otherwise. The thing that really raised his hackles was the President’s statement:

As he listened to the president’s words over his earbuds, rerouted through the “zone.com” link, the president’s challenge to him personally, he heard one thing and one thing only:
his execution order
.

Again the thought came to mind that someone was deliberately trying to get him killed—that there was some kind of mole inside NSA/CSS, maybe even inside Branch 4 itself, someone who had twigged Milverton to him in advance of Edwardsville. Who could it be?

There weren’t many suspects. If he had to bet, he’d bet on Seelye; when the day came that Devlin had outlived his usefulness to either the country or, more likely, the general, he would be left out in the cold. Seelye certainly didn’t need a living recrimination, proof of his sins, walking around in public.

This scenario assumed that someone in Washington bore him ill. But, to turn it around and look at it from their perspective, the “mole” could just as easily turn out to be Devlin himself, working in some strange consort with Milverton in order to…what? The best he could come up with was that he’d be running a sting operation against whoever was behind Milverton. A double flush-out, and the first guy whose head pops up above the underbrush gets it blown off.

Well, he was not that smart, or that daring, or that desperate. And Tyler was certainly stupid and boastful enough to have semi-blown Devlin’s cover out of sheer braggadocio. Which left the possibility that either Milverton or the man behind him already knew about Devlin, knew that this kind of operation was almost certain to bring him into the mix, after which Milverton could either kill Devlin himself or, better yet, have one of the other Branch 4 ops take him out.

He stayed calm; panic was for lesser men, and Devlin had long ago made fear his friend. It was true: nothing did concentrate the mind like the prospect of being hanged in the morning. There had to be some way for him to turn this chain of events into an advantage, but until he could, one thing was clear: Milverton was already inside his OODA loop. Devlin was heading out to LA, and already Milverton was one step ahead of him.

Devlin looked around the aircraft: no sign that anybody knew anything yet. Luckily, the equipment was an older plane on a budget airline, the kind with TV screens over every third or fourth row, and they were all showing the same movie. Still, it was only a matter of time until some wise-ass disobeying the cell phone restrictions would start shouting the news. Only one thing to do.

Viciously, he wiped out a stupid, first-position double-nil with a three of clubs. His partner, a Hungarian, flashed him a sarcastic “good job” and disappeared into cyberspace. “What an asshole,” he thought to himself as he slammed his laptop shut.

“Hey, mister, are you okay?”

The kid next to him, in the middle seat. A boy, about the same age as the one he’d rescued in Edwardsville. A typical innocent American kid, who had every right to believe that the world he knew now was going to be the world he would find himself in when he was a man. A poor, deluded, lied-to kid who at this moment had no clue about the Grove. Another act of war, a war that had been being waged asymmetrically against the United States since Sirhan Sirhan shot Bobby Kennedy.

His heart went out to the kid and his mother—the forty-something blonde in the aisle seat reading
People.
He looked her over. Not bad. Another time, another place…another lonely woman. He hated himself for the predatory thought.

“Gotta use the head,” he lied.

Gingerly, Devlin stepped over the boy. The blond smiled at him as she discreetly raised her gaze from
People
to his rear end and then, demurely, back to her magazine. “Excuse me, Missus…” he said.

“It’s ‘Ms.,’” she smiled invitingly. “I’m divorced.” Of course she was. He moved forward, toward business class.

Where he was stopped by one of the flight attendants. He flashed a badge at her—the genuine badge of a federal air marshal—and she moved aside. He took her by the arm and whispered into her ear: “I need to speak with the pilot immediately,” he said.

As if to emphasize the situation, a couple of cell phones started ringing. Nobody answered them. Good, obedient sheeple. The stew walked him to the front of the plane. He paid no attention to any of the passengers, and hoped like hell none of them paid him any mind.

She pulled him into the front galley while she phoned the pilot. Even the air marshals weren’t allowed inside the cockpit unless they were retaking it by force. Devlin waited as she spoke, then hung up. “He’ll be right out,” she said.

“Kill the video feeds. Do it now.” His tone and mien brooked no argument.

“This doesn’t have anything to do with the lady in 4A does it?” she asked.

“What about her?” asked Devlin. He hadn’t noticed anybody in particular on his way up front.

“Well…” the flight attendant lowered her voice, “she’s one of
them
. I mean, just look at her. And I heard her talking in some foreign language on her cell phone just before we took off.”

“What’s this all about?” barked the captain, emerging from the flight deck.

Devlin flashed his badge again. “Rocky Sullivan,” he said. He waited until the stewardess took the hint and left. “Captain, I assume you’ve heard about Los Angeles.”

The pilot’s stoic look, followed by concern, told him he had. “There’s been some kind of explosion at the Grove, near the Farmer’s Market. There are deaths, but we don’t know how many yet.”

Devlin took a deep breath. “Do you think they’ll close the airports in southern California?”

The man—his name tag read, “W
ILKINSON
”—thought for a moment. “Maybe. Probably. We’re awaiting word now.”

“Then what? Where do we land?”

“Vegas, depending. Maybe John Wayne, but if this is as bad as…as bad as it could be, they’ll probably shut down the whole southland.”

“That’s what I figured,” said Devlin. “Which is why I need you to ignore any redirection order.”

Captain Wilkinson looked at Devlin like he was nuts. “Negative. That would cost me my wings.”

“Not if national security is at stake.” Devlin vamped, trying to come up with a plausible scenario. What was it the flight attendant had said about the woman in 4A. Devlin lowered his voice to a whisper. “There’s someone we’re watching on board this flight. She doesn’t know she’s being surveilled, but it’s imperative that I get her to Los Angeles.”

The captain thought for a moment. He seemed to know what Devlin was talking about. “Does she have anything to do with what just happened?”

“I can’t tell you that,” said Devlin, honestly, “but it’s crucial that we land in LA.”

A pause, and then—“Sorry, but I can’t. They’ll shoot us down. If we go Code Red, they’ll scramble at Edwards and you’ll have put 150 people in the Pacific.”

“We won’t go Code Red,” said Devlin. “I’ll guarantee it.”

“Then it’ll be a general aviation order.”

“And you can beat that, can’t you?”

At that moment, the cockpit door opened and the co-pilot stuck his head out. “Captain,” he began, eyeballing Devlin.

“It’s okay,” said Wilkinson. “Have they closed LAX?

The co-pilot was smart enough not to ask who Devlin was. “Affirmative, sir. We’re being diverted to Vegas.”

“Thanks, Ben,” said the captain. “I’ll be right in.” He turned back to Devlin. “Rocky, ol’ buddy, you’d better give me a goddamn good reason to even think about what you’re suggesting.”

Only one play left. Whoever the unlucky lady in 4A was, she was now going to be the goddamn good reason. He could take her into custody in a second, and then figure out how to frame her for something as they headed to LA.

“I’ll make the bust right now. Then you’ll have a high-value federal prisoner who must be delivered to LA without delay. I’ll get you all the CYA authorization you need. Deal?”

Captain Wilkinson thought for a moment. “That is one good-looking federal prisoner,” he said, shaking Devlin’s hand. “I’ll have the flight attendant ask the man in the seat next to her to come up front for a moment, for some bullshit message. Then you swap seats and do your thing. But try to keep the fireworks to a minimum, will ya?”

Devlin nodded. “Thanks,” he said. “One more thing—land in Burbank.”

The stew went to get the man in 4B. As he came forward, Devlin slipped past him and walked calmly but purposefully, head down, toward the empty aisle seat. He hated to burn one of his covers, hated to have spent as much time with the captain as he’d had to, but that’s the way it was.

The face of the woman in 4A was buried in a copy of Paris
Vogue
as he took the seat. She didn’t bother to look over, or acknowledge his presence, or absence, in any way. Under other circumstances, the perfect seat mate.

Then his world turned upside down.

Maybe it was the perfume, that magical
madeleine
that triggered involuntary memory. Maybe the shape of the left forearm. Maybe a sixth sense. It didn’t matter. They both knew immediately when she lowered the magazine and looked at him.

“Hello, Frank,” she said evenly. “Long time no see.”

It was a good thing he didn’t have a heart. “Hello, Maryam,” he said. “You’re under arrest.”