Blowback, p.36
Blowback, page 36
“Oval Office.”
“Good,” Hannah says. “Not so far to walk.”
They enter the West Wing lobby reception area, Hannah nodding at the young female receptionist sitting there. They walk the familiar corridors past open office doors, antique oil paintings on the walls, and ceramics and glassware on display. She has taken this route many times over the years, yet senses something different this time from the staff members walking around these particular corridors of power. They seem to flatten themselves against the wall as she walks by. Their eyes are downcast, there are no cheerful smiles. She has a flashback to her childhood, growing up with an alcoholic father.
Dad never yelled, punched, or broke things, but when he was drunk, he would brood in long silences, or start long monologues telling stories of past fights or grudges, or just stare at you, like he couldn’t quite figure out who you were and why you were in this house with him.
That’s exactly the feeling she gets from the passing staffers.
The president is not right, and they know it.
They come to the closed door to the Oval Office, with a female Secret Service agent standing guard. Sitting nearby is a Marine officer, the familiar bulky nuclear football at his feet. There are two chairs flanking the closed door. Hannah says, “Ralph, Jean, have a seat.”
Jean says, “Are you sure, ma’am?”
Hannah says, “If I need you, I’ll call you. Same for you, Ralph.”
They take the chairs and Quinn looks to her, a despairing look on his face. She says, “Quinn, thanks, you did the right thing.”
He doesn’t reply.
Hannah says, “One of my supervisors, back in the Directorate of Operations, had to make a tough decision that would end up in bloodshed. There were a lot of arguments back and forth, and finally, he said, ‘It doesn’t mean that it’s the right thing to do. It means it’s not the wrong thing to do.’ That’s what you’ve done.”
Quinn says, “I’ll announce you.”
“Don’t bother.” She nods to the Secret Service agent, who unlocks the door and swings it open quietly.
Hannah remembers a prayer from her younger days, says it silently, takes a deep breath, and walks into the Oval Office.
CHAPTER 133
PRESIDENT KEEGAN BARRETT is sitting behind the old Resolute desk in the Oval Office and decides to hide his anger and aggravation as he stands up when CIA Director Hannah Abrams comes in, unannounced and uninvited.
He plasters a fake smile on his face—easy to do after years of practice—and comes around the desk, offers his hand.
“Hannah, good to see you, but still, this is quite a surprise,” he says.
She gives his hand a quick shake, her hand firm and dry, and says, “Sir, there’s a number of urgent emerging issues taking place that I need to discuss with you. Please, may I take a seat?”
“Absolutely,” he says, pulling a chair free from the side of his desk, putting it in front, at an angle, so she has to twist her body to look at him. He resumes his seat, puts his folded hands on top of the Resolute desk, and says, “That sounds pretty ominous. Do go on but make it quick. My schedule is pretty full.”
Hannah nods at him, looking like a schoolteacher about to issue a detention slip.
Go ahead, little lady, there’s nothing you can do to touch me, or harm me.
She says, “Sir, I’ll begin by saying that the American people—including myself—have admired the strong and decisive way you assumed the presidency this past January. There were no traditional bumps in the road or embarrassing incidents during the transition, you began your work that afternoon, even skipping most of the inaugural balls, and you set a tone of service that quickly became most admirable.”
Barrett nods with satisfaction. This certainly isn’t what he is expecting from this spook, and if he had his way, she would not be here. But Carlton Pope can’t be reached, so he decided to give her just a few minutes, just to keep the situation calm.
Even though he was in charge of it a couple of years back, he’s never trusted the CIA. He’s sure the agency killed JFK, crippled LBJ’s presidency with Vietnam, tried to take down Reagan via Iran–Contra, and for the past couple of administrations, illegally spied on candidates and subsequent presidents.
So he’s watching this serious-looking older woman and seeing a coiled rattlesnake sitting in front of him.
Hannah says, “Sir, you have had an admirable beginning to your term. But I’m in possession of key evidence that shows you have violated numerous federal statutes, as well as your oath to the Constitution, during the subsequent months. You had the background, experience, and passion to be elected president, sir, but you don’t have the temperament to govern as one. Like Mark Zuckerberg of Facebook, your managing principle was to ‘move fast and break things.’”
She shakes her head. “That principle may be admirable in business. But it’s sheer poison and a disaster for a president.”
Barrett frowns. “And you couldn’t tell me this over a phone call, and save us both a lot of time?”
“No, sir.”
“Why?”
Hannah says, “Because, sir, I needed to tell you to your face, that for the good of the nation and your legacy, you need to resign as president of the United States.”
CHAPTER 134
THERE, HANNAH ABRAMS thinks, I’ve tossed it out.
All the fictional tales about presidents being forced out, compromised, blackmailed, from Seven Days in May and up to House of Cards, well, those disturbing fictions have now become a stone-cold reality this fine summer morning.
The director of the Central Intelligence Agency is trying to force a legitimately elected president from office.
She waits.
How will he react?
Barrett stares at her with focused eyes, and then smiles, leaning back in his chair.
“Hannah, that’s one hell of a joke,” he says.
Keeping her face set and impassive, she says, “This isn’t a joking matter. I’m quite serious, sir.”
He slowly brings his chair back to place in front of the Resolute desk. The air feels thick and heavy, like just before a severe thunderstorm, when killer lightning and high winds suddenly break out.
Barrett says, “You have some damn nerve to come here and say this to me. I’m the president of the United States, not one of your analysts or officers.”
She keeps her voice steady. “To repeat, Mr. President, I have evidence that indicates numerous violations of federal statutes, as well as your oath of office. You need to resign.”
He stops smiling, leans forward over his desk, voice cold. “The day before President Nixon resigned, three Republican members of Congress came to talk to him. House Leader John Jacob Rhodes, Senate Leader Hugh Scott, and Senator Barry Goldwater. The three of them told Nixon that his support in Congress was melting away, and that impeachment and conviction was guaranteed.”
Barrett makes a point of looking over Hannah’s shoulder. “Yet here you are. Alone. A spook. With no Senate or House leaders backing you up. Trying to destroy the will of the American people. To hell with you. Director Abrams, you’re fired.”
CHAPTER 135
LIAM GREY IS bleeding from his left wrist from some random bit of metal, either shrapnel or a ricochet from the attackers, but he’s still keeping up the fight. All of the windows of the farmhouse are shattered, and there’s a heavy haze of gun smoke and CS gas in the rooms, but so far, with his M40 gas mask, he’s breathing reasonably well.
There are at least three bodies sprawled across the dirt lawn in front of the house. He’s pretty sure there’s one more at the rear. It’s been a fast-moving battle on his end, rushing from the kitchen, bedroom, garage, and living room, then repeating, firing from previously positioned M4s.
In going back to the weapons storage locker ten minutes ago, he was delighted to find an M4 with an attached grenade launcher. It fired 40mm grenade rounds—too bad there were only four—but they had gone to good use, destroying two of the three Range Rovers, and putting a dent into the armored Mercedes-Benz.
Now it’s just him and the other three M4s. He carefully shoots in three-round bursts, but he knows this is just a delaying action. Every minute that he holds Han and his mercenaries up, is sixty more seconds for Lin and Benjamin to get free to a place to start making phone calls.
He looks through the scope again, from the floor by the partially opened door, with furniture he moved to make a barricade, and sees quick movement.
Three men running out, taking shelter behind a crumpled Range Rover and—
Oh shit.
He instantly recognizes the weapon the middle man is about to use, an RPG-7 rocket-propelled grenade. Liam gets up and starts running to the rear as he hears a faint whoosh and an explosion and darkness as the farmhouse falls on him.
CHAPTER 136
CIA DIRECTOR HANNAH Abrams believes the president is hoping she will melt away, back down, or even worse, start sobbing. To hell with that. She’s met with Sudanese militia leaders at night in remote campgrounds, with accused Serbian war criminals deep in their territory in a smoky café, and she’s raised herself up the slippery and treacherous ladder to become the Agency director.
She hasn’t—and won’t—bend.
“I’m sorry, Mr. President, I no longer recognize your authority,” she says.
Barrett sits cold and firm, like a stone sculpture.
She goes on.
“Mr. President, this is not your office,” Hannah says. “It’s the American people’s office, and with your actions, you’ve shown you’re not fit to carry out your duties.”
“Such as?” he shoots back.
“Sir, more than two months ago, you authorized the illegal use of CIA assets to carry out missions in the domestic United States, including breaking and entering without a federal warrant, unlawful detention of foreign nationals, and spending funds to support same, without congressional knowledge or approval.”
He smiles. “Says who?”
“I’ve made the necessary inquiries, sir.”
Barrett shrugs. “A foul-up, then. Before your arrival I briefed Acting Director Milton Fenway on what I had planned, and he assured me that he would brief the Gang of Eight and other members of Congress. I guess he didn’t do that in his hasty departure from Langley.”
Hannah quietly and firmly goes on. “We also have evidence that you’ve personally directed your special assistant, Carlton Pope, to assist you in your illegal activities, including the purchase of various weapons and explosives for an Iranian terrorist cell operating in this country.”
Barrett says, “If Carlton was here, he’d tell you you were lying, straight to your face.”
She says, “Mr. Pope is currently in FBI custody, having been arrested for violating federal law concerning firearms possession near a military base.”
Hannah’s curious at how Barrett will respond to losing his right-hand thug.
He nods, seemingly without a concern in the world. “Carlton. Always pushing the envelope, always taking my orders too literally. If you’re expecting Carlton to turn on me, forget it. He’s utterly loyal. You can waterboard him for a month or cut off his fingers, and he won’t say a word, Ms. Abrams.”
Hannah ignores the insult, him not using her title. “However that might be, a congressional investigation will reveal the truth behind the matter, and I have no doubt—despite your current popularity—you will be impeached and convicted.”
“So says you. And your witnesses I suppose…let’s see, Noa Himel and Liam Grey would be key. Last I heard, Noa was hiding out at your house, and a squad of FBI agents and federal marshals are about to break in to take her into custody. And Liam is somewhere out of touch in South Africa, for whatever that means. Ms. Abrams, if that’s all you’ve got, then it’s thinner than tissue. Now. You’re to leave my office before I have the Secret Service come in and haul you out.”
Hannah says, “Liam Grey is in South Africa, trying to rescue your son, Benjamin Lucas.”
Barrett’s face is impassive.
She says, “That goes against your impressive history and narrative, doesn’t it, Keegan? How will your popularity survive among a certain section of the electorate, when they learn that you had a son out of wedlock, and that you didn’t pay a dime of child support for him over the years?”
His eyes narrow, darken. “Inquisitive little bitch, aren’t you? I’ll tell you what will happen. Americans are a forgiving people. All I need is to give a maudlin speech about my past personal failings, the guilt I’ve carried all these years, a promise to do right, and, you know what, my popularity ratings will increase.”
Hannah thinks, Okay, time to go nuclear, strike deep behind that narcissism and raging self-confidence.
“You mentioned past personal failings?” she asks. “How about your current personal failings, Keegan?”
“Me?” he answers. “You know what I’m called in the press and among the party. The warrior monk, only worried about his country and his people.”
Hannah says, “Does being a warrior monk include threatening to sexually assault and murder a subordinate?”
CHAPTER 137
PRESIDENT KEEGAN BARRETT is aware of the time slipping away before the noon hour strikes—about fifty minutes away—but this damn coiled rattlesnake in front of him, who has the nerve to call him by his first name, is hissing and preparing to strike. He needs to kill it. He thinks back to his recent visit to Minnesota, how the thousands upon thousands of American citizens there showed their love and trust in him.
He will not let this professional creature, this inhabitant of the DC swamp, make him betray that trust and love.
“What the holy hell are you claiming, Ms. Abrams?”
“That on a certain date and time, in your private office in the family quarters in the White House, that you did threaten to assault and murder Noa Himel, an officer of the Central Intelligence Agency, your subordinate.”
“That’s a lie.”
“I have proof,” the woman says.
“What? Her notarized statement or something equally worthless?”
“No,” she says. “This.”
From her leather bag she takes out a small device that she places on the center of the Resolute desk. She presses a switch, a green light comes on, and two voices emerge, his and Noa Himel’s.
“To make it even more clear, so even a woman like you can understand, I own your ass. You belong to me. All of you. You will continue to operate in the United States, and screw the laws, and screw Congress.”
A pause in the recording.
“That’s funny. You know why? Because you do have a cute ass, and I could take you now, toss you over my desk, and screw you six ways to Sunday, and you couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Because I’ve got evidence that you’re a stone-cold killer, Noa Himel, safely kept in my hands.”
He hears his laugh.
“But that’s beneath me, as you said. So think of this. You leave the White House and if I feel like doing it, within the hour, I’ll come for you. You will no longer exist, your records will be wiped, you will become an un-person.”
“Are…you threatening to kill me?” comes Noa’s shaken voice.
“Worse. I’m threatening to make you disappear. Like you never existed. You think I can’t do that?”
A faint hiss from the little recorder’s speaker.
Barrett watches the bitch smile at him and switch off the recorder.
Don’t let her see you blink, squirm, or sweat.
Don’t do it.
He says, “A fake. Come on, Hannah, I know from experience the technical talent that is over at Langley. It’d probably take a day or so to mock up something with my voice and Noa’s voice. You’ll have to do better than that.”
The woman suddenly stands up. “Challenge accepted.”
Barrett reaches underneath the desk to press the button to summon the Secret Service, but Hannah is too quick and she opens the door to the Oval Office, says, “Jean?”
A second woman joins Hannah as she comes back to the desk. Hannah pulls out a chair for her, and she sits down.
Barrett recognizes her straightaway, dressed in a simple black jacket and slacks ensemble, with a plain white blouse.
Hannah says, “You remember Jean Swantish, my deputy director?”
“Of course,” Barrett says, irritated and deciding enough is enough.
His fingers return to the Secret Service button, as Jean shifts in her seat, brings up her hands as if in prayer, and he stops.
For the first time in a very long time, Barrett is afraid.
CHAPTER 138
NAVY CAPTAIN DAN Callaghan is walking to his office at Walter Reed National Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland, dreading the rest of the day ahead for him, as the facility’s commanding officer. The hospital’s most famous patient, Vice President Laura Hernandez, is in a coma up in Ward 71, the medical suite reserved for the president and other high-ranking officials.
He yawns, opens the door to his office, nods greetings to the staff. A few minutes ago he was at the latest hospital-wide meeting to pinpoint the source of the vice president’s illness, and how to reverse the effects so she’ll come out of her coma.
The best working hypothesis is sometime before she collapsed at the Las Vegas dining room, she was either exposed to—or consumed—some sort of cholinesterase inhibitor, part of the family of nerve-gas weapons first developed more than a century ago.
Most recently, such chemical agents have been the poison of choice for the Russian FSB, the successor to the KGB, as its agents have traveled around the world to poison and kill dissidents currently protesting against the Motherland. But the standard treatment of atropine isn’t working, and Captain Callaghan and other doctors here have received unofficial reassurances from counterparts in Moscow that they had nothing to do with the vice president’s poisoning.
