Blowback, p.28
Blowback, page 28
“But Mr. President, surely you will agree to our requests.”
“Why?”
Dejiang licks his dry lips. “Because Benjamin Lucas is your son.”
CHAPTER 99
CIA DIRECTOR HANNAH Abrams says, “Excuse me, say that again? Benjamin Lucas is the son of President Barrett?”
“Yes, ma’am,” says Jean Swantish.
She leans back in her chair, just staring in disbelief at her deputy director.
“Jean,” she says, “tell me what you got, and it better be good, to have been hidden all these years.”
Jean has a thick manila folder in her lap but doesn’t refer to it as she begins.
“You asked us to go deep, and deep is where we went,” she starts. “Roberta Tyler was Benjamin’s mother. At the time of his birth, she was employed as a civilian contractor for the Department of Defense, working at Fort Ord in California before it was closed. The birth certificate said father was unknown.”
“Did we talk to her?”
A sad shake of the head. “She’s been dead for a number of years. Car accident. But we did talk to her neighbors from that time, and one said she was sure Roberta’s father was stationed at Fort Ord. We did a check of personnel records, to see who was stationed at Fort Ord at the time, and to see if there was any connection that led to Roberta. Nothing…but one of our analysts found that Barrett Keegan, then a lieutenant, was stationed there. That just raised questions, especially considering Benjamin’s golden career here at the Agency, with someone clearing the way for him.”
Hannah shakes her head. “Not nearly good enough.”
“That’s what I said, and knowing how fast you wanted confirmation, we skipped a few steps. Actually, a lot of steps.”
“Where did you end up?”
“DNA analysis,” Jean says. “We have Benjamin Lucas’s DNA on file, of course, and we ran a match against the president’s DNA and—”
“Hold on, where did you get the president’s DNA?” Hannah asks. “Did you access the Secret Service’s cold storage? They keep some of the president’s blood for emergency use, but that supply is well guarded. That would be an incredibly dangerous move, Jean.”
“Er, no, we didn’t get his blood from the Secret Service. Or Homeland Security. We got it from our own medical office.”
Hannah feels her eyes widen. “We have blood samples from President Barrett?”
Jean nods. “Not just him. We have blood samples going all the way back to Kennedy.”
“Kennedy…?”
“Yes, ma’am. Er, a little-known program called the Manchurian Project. Named after that—”
“Book and movie,” Hannah recalls.
“Correct,” Jean says. “It seems at the time there were concerns about, well, a body double assuming the presidency during a moment of crisis, and having samples of the real president’s blood on hand would be key in—”
“Enough,” Hannah says, resting her head in her hands for a moment. “Holy shit on a cracker, if we spent more money on real programs and technology, instead of this James Bond nonsense like exploding cigars for Castro, the Cold War would have ended a decade earlier.”
“Is it possible the Chinese know?” Jean asks. “And that’s why they’ve captured him? And won’t talk to us about his release?”
“Possible,” Hannah says. “They’re good at sucking up petabytes of information from Social Security numbers to payroll records for every damn company in the country. Why not?”
Hannah pauses for a moment, then sits up. “All right. A good piece of intelligence we didn’t know before, about Benjamin’s parentage. Good job to you and your operatives. Barrett has based his entire political career on being the lone wolf, utterly dedicated to the nation, with no family and no distractions. Doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, doesn’t chase women. But now, you and yours have given me something I didn’t have before.”
“What’s that?” her deputy asks.
Hannah says, “A weapon to use against Barrett, at the right time and place.”
CHAPTER 100
THE FIRST THING Noa Himel notices when her eyes flutter open is the sharp acrid smell of firecrackers being shot off, and then there’s white dust everywhere. She coughs, comes to full awareness.
Her stolen Celica is up on a sidewalk, the front end smashed by a utility pole, and the passenger’s side is caved in by a blue Chevrolet Tahoe. Steam is rising from under the Tahoe’s hood.
They’re here, she thinks, grabbing at her bag, unbuckling the seat belt, needing to get out of the X, the kill zone. Setting up a fake car accident to stop me from getting to Director Abrams’s home and safety. The ones who shot Kay Darcy and me, they’re here.
It takes one good shove before the door opens—her wincing hard from the burst of pain—and she steps out, 10mm Glock in her hand, and there’s a yell. She turns, saying, “Hold on, right there!,” pointing her weapon at the people closest to her.
She takes in the scene, best as she can, with her chest aching after the hard blow of the airbag deployment, her eyes burning from the dust coming out from the now deflated safety device.
A few people are on the sidewalk, gaping in awe at the accident. Other cars that don’t want to be held up slowly drive around the wrecked vehicles.
In front of her are two teen girls, weeping, one holding up her freshly manicured hands to her face, saying, “My parents are gonna kill me! My parents are gonna kill me!”
Her friend has an arm around her. “It was an accident, that’s all. Just an accident.”
The weeping girl says, “The cops are gonna call up my phone records, they’ll see I was texting when I hit this woman’s car.” She drops her hands and says, “You okay, lady, it was an accident, right? Are you okay?”
Noa is definitely not okay, but she’s feeling like karma has just bitten her, hard.
To survive that shootout back at Kay Darcy’s apartment then to be stopped by a high school girl looking at her phone? Stuck without transportation just two blocks away from safety?
“Lady,” the second girl says, voice quavering. “Put the gun away, will you? You’re scaring us.”
Noa ignores them both, goes back into the Celica, retrieves her bag, starts walking. No time to stay here, no time to make sense of this traffic accident.
“Lady, you gotta stay here,” the other driver says. “You just can’t walk away! The cops are coming and we’ll have to fill out paperwork.”
Noa keeps her mouth shut, limping down O Street. Other voices call out. “Hey, she’s leaving the scene of an accident. She can’t do that. Somebody stop her!”
She keeps on moving, bag over her arm, wrist, side, and most everything else hurting. The sidewalk is rough and cold against her right foot. She looks down, sees she’s lost a shoe along the way.
“Lady, you gotta stop. You just gotta!”
The driver’s passenger races up, grabs her arm, and Noa turns, displays her Glock.
“No, I don’t,” she says firmly. “Go away and leave me the hell alone.”
Noa takes a couple of deep breaths, keeps on moving.
Crosses a street.
Just one block to go.
Sirens are coming clearer.
Noa looks back.
A DC fire truck and ambulance have stopped at the accident scene.
Then a blue-and-white DC police cruiser. Three people are pointing in Noa’s direction.
Move it, she thinks, move.
Up ahead, her energy draining, she sees that brick wall and wrought-iron gate of the driveway belonging to Director Abrams.
Just a few yards away.
Just those several feet.
The roar of a car comes up behind her.
No need to turn around.
Noa gets to the metal call box set into the brick.
She presses the buzzer.
Again.
Again.
A car breaks to a halt.
Quick glance.
DC police cruiser, of course.
“Yes?” a tinny male voice comes out of the speaker.
Noa takes a breath. “This is CIA Officer Noa Himel. I need to get in here.”
“Director Abrams isn’t home.”
Noa says, “I don’t care if she’s orbiting Jupiter…she gave permission for me to come here.”
From behind her, a strong male voice. “Ma’am, freeze, right there. Don’t move. Don’t you dare move!”
Over the static coming from the little speaker mounted on the gate, two males seem to be talking over one another, and then a second male voice says, “Okay, the gate’s opening now.”
Noa looks back at the male cop, who’s joined by a female companion, both with service weapons in hand.
To the call box Noa says, “I need somebody here. The cavalry has arrived and they’re not happy.”
A buzzing sound and a clank, and the gate starts rattling to the left.
“Ma’am, don’t you dare move!”
Two tall and hard-looking security men step out and Noa brushes past them, going up the cobblestoned driveway.
More shouting from behind her—
“…hey, we’re all on the same team…”
“…she’s walking away from an accident scene…”
“…we can sort it out later…”
“…the hell we will…”
The small front lawn of Director Abrams’s home looks so green and luxurious. Noa sits down and stretches out. She feels like some Cold War refugee, gaining sanctuary at some church or embassy.
The voices lower.
It’s quiet.
The gate starts rattling shut.
Even her various pains and aches seem to fade out.
Safe.
Noa fights to stay awake.
Safe. But for how long?
CHAPTER 101
PRESIDENT KEEGAN BARRETT is enjoying the stunned expression on the Chinese intelligence officer’s face after he shrugs and says, “So what?”
It seems like nearly a minute passes before Dejiang regains his composure. His otherwise quite good English stammers some as he speaks.
“But—again—sir. We have your son. Your only child—Benjamin Lucas—in our custody. In South Africa.”
Barrett shrugs. “Keep him.”
It grows increasingly silent and uncomfortable in his upstairs office, and Barrett is enjoying every second, seeing this opponent before him squirm. How could this poor man know what he’s up against? Not only a president, but a president who’s about to fulfill his lifelong fate. What man or nation could defeat that?
“But…sir, this is highly irregular.”
“Certainly is,” Barrett says.
Dejiang says, “I am forced to tell you something, Mr. President, that circumstances have led us to this position.”
He pauses, swallows. “If you do not cease your operations against the People’s Republic of China and agree to a summit to reach an understanding of our respective areas of concern, especially concerning cyberattacks and cybersecurity, it will not end well for your son.”
Barrett just stares at the man. “You’ve already threatened him with execution, What, you’re going to kill him twice?”
Dejiang says, “However you phrase it, the choice of whether he lives or dies remains with you.”
Barrett keeps his stare on the man, the same stare he’s used on fellow politicians when he was back in Congress, at recalcitrant generals and admirals when he was secretary of defense, and at bureaucrats deep in the bowels of the CIA’s swamp.
He bursts out in laughter.
“Go ahead,” he says. “You think that will do anything to sway me? The death of my son, dying in the line of duty?”
Dejiang looks on, still stunned. “Sir…”
“You ever hear of John Marshal?”
The intelligence officer stammers for a moment. “One of your early American jurists, correct?”
“No,” Barrett says, suddenly impatient. He has a long day still ahead of him and he wants this man out of his office.
Barrett says, “You folks always whine about outside forces and tyranny of history. Well, get ready for a history lesson you won’t ever forget.”
CHAPTER 102
CIA DIRECTOR HANNAH Abrams hangs up one of her secure phones, looks again with dismay at the foldout bed taking up a good chunk of her office. How long will that damn thing remain here? How soon before she can have it hauled out when circumstances get back to normal?
And what the hell is normal anyway?
A knock on her door and Jean Swantish steps in from her office, her face concerned.
“Madam Director, I—”
“Just a moment,” she says. “I just got off the phone with one of my new security officers at my house. Noa Himel is there, injured.”
Jean slowly sits down.
“What happened?”
Hannah says. “Kay Darcy insisted on meeting Noa at her apartment. Noa had no other choice. They met and within fifteen minutes, the place was raided.”
“The DC cops?”
Hannah says, “Not on your life. It was an outside force. They broke in, shot up the place, and then left. Noa bailed out of a third-floor deck, messed up her left arm and got a gunshot wound to her side. Thankfully, it’s a through-and-through. There’s an Agency medical team heading to my house now. She also asked that I send over a friend of hers, Gina Stasio, who works here. Make that happen, will you? Give her a security escort, complete with lights and sirens.”
“At once, Madam Director,” Jean says. “What about Kay Darcy?”
“Shot, in serious condition, now over at GW Hospital. I want her guarded, twenty-four/seven, through one of our contract companies.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Hannah lets out a sigh.
“You came over here for a reason, Jean,” she asks. “What is it?”
Jean says, “I got a secure phone call from a friend of mine, works at the FBI in their Counterintelligence Service. Xi Dejiang, the rezident here for China’s Ministry of State Security, is currently at the White House, meeting with President Barrett.”
Hannah lets that last sentence roll heavily around in her mind. The president secretly meeting with the Chinese ambassador, that could happen. Or with an official from their Trade Ministry, or some other flunky at their embassy.
But the head of their intelligence service?
One-on-one, in secret?
“I need to go back home,” she says. “I want to get a fuller debrief from Noa Himel.”
“On it, ma’am.”
“What the hell is Barrett doing with the Chinese rezident?” Hannah asks, getting up from behind her desk. “Making promises, or making threats?”
“I don’t know, ma’am.”
“Neither do I,” she says, getting her bag ready. “And that is scaring the crap out of me.”
CHAPTER 103
PRESIDENT KEEGAN BARRETT says, “You know about John Marshall, one of our most famous chief justices of the United States. Well done, sir. As much as I despise your government, your education system is first-rate. Most American college and high school students, if asked, would probably think Mao was the sound a cat makes.”
Xi Dejiang doesn’t say anything. The man before him, the most powerful man in the West, is starting to rave.
Barrett says, “Damn it, Mr. Xi, I just paid you a compliment. Don’t you have the courtesy to at least say thank you?”
Dejiang remembers whispered tales of old men he had met on his rise up the ladder of power, who when they were younger, worked for the Great Helmsman, Chairman Mao himself, and how the old man would slur, stutter, and talk madness at the end of his days.
He now knows how those old men must have felt.
Dejiang nods, his voice just above a whisper. “Thank you, Mr. President.”
Barrett smiles. “You’re quite welcome. Now, the John Marshal I was speaking about was an Englishman several hundred years older than our famed chief justice, and spelled his last name with a single l. In 1152, there was a civil war in England between a King Stephen and a Queen Matilda. King Stephen wanted to hold on to his throne and John Marshal, an ally of Queen Matilda, was holding on to a strategic castle. You following so far?”
The slightest of embarrassed nods. His homeland and this nation are about to trade deadly blows and Barrett wants to talk ancient Anglo-Saxon history?
“Well done,” Barrett says. “There was a long siege, and John Marshal offered a truce. To seal the deal, Marshal gave up his five-year-old son William to King Stephen as a hostage, so Marshal wouldn’t violate the terms of the truce. But that’s exactly what Marshal did. He brought in fresh troops and supplies. King Stephen was outraged and threatened to kill his son, the hostage. You know what Marshal said?”
The slightest shake of Dejiang’s head. A mistake, it had been a mistake, trying to come here and reason with this man, who is clearly mad.
Barrett said, “Marshal basically said, so what. Kill the boy. He still had the hammer and forge to produce another son, even finer. Got it?”
Dejiang says, “I’m not entirely sure, Mr. President.”
Barrett leans over and says, “You can kill my son and dump his body on the South Lawn, and it will not make a lick of difference in my actions. I’m doing what is best for my nation and its people. There will be casualties. And if by some odd chance in the future, I wish to have another son…”
Barrett quickly stands up, slaps his crotch.
“I have the hammer and forge to produce another son, even finer.”
“This…makes no sense.”
“Sense? I’ll show you what makes sense from where I sit.” Barrett goes around to his wooden desk. From the lower right-hand drawer, he pulls out a Colt Model 1911 .45 caliber semiautomatic pistol. He comes back to the couch, puts the pistol on the table.
“See that?” he asks. “Designed more than a century ago. One of the finest sidearms ever developed for our military. This one was carried by my grandfather, when he was in the Marines, in Korea, and nearly got killed at Chosin Reservoir. I’m sure you know about that battle…hundreds of thousands of your ancestors came at my grandfather and other Marines. He survived, but he lost both feet, frozen from the cold.”
