The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. They exited the elevator and turned the corner, headed for the front entrance, the well-worn carpet leading the way. A robotic receptionist stood at the front desk.
As they passed, the robot said, “Have a nice evening.”
It was nearly 8:00 p.m., but it was still light outside. The front entrance was a bank of four glass doors. They were roughly forty-feet away when Summer stopped in her tracks and placed her hand across Connor’s chest, stopping him cold. From her vantage point, she saw the tip of a boot just outside.
“You see that?” Summer pointed to the tip of the shiny black boot.
Connor craned his neck and said, “Shit.”
The next thing they saw were their rifles, followed by their helmets and body armor, with FBI emblazoned on the front.
Summer turned to Connor and said, “Run.”
Connor let go of his suitcase and ran for the rear exit. Summer didn’t even try. She could barely waddle to the bathroom. She simply put up her hands, the suitcases at her feet evidence of her guilt. Some of the men faced her, gun barrels pointed at her chest, shouting, “On your knees. On your fucking knees.” Others hurried past, presumably looking for Connor.
But her legs were unsteady, her body unwieldly. She simply shook, tears streaming down her face.
“Get on the fucking ground!” another man said.
One of the men slammed her to the carpet, her shoulder and side taking the brunt of the impact. The man wrenched her hands behind her back and affixed tight handcuffs.
All the while, Summer said, “Stop. My baby. You’re hurting my baby. You’re hurting my baby.”
48
Naomi and Counterterrorism
“Never let a good crisis go to waste,” Vernon said.
“What did you have in mind?” Naomi asked.
Vernon, Naomi, and Katherine sat in the sitting area of Naomi’s congressional office, strategizing about yesterday’s stock market crash.
“You need to be the one pointing out the evils of capitalism and the one pointing to the stock market crash as the result,” Vernon said. “You’re the only socialist presidential candidate. Technically, you’re the only one with clean hands.”
“What about a protest and a march to the steps of the New York Stock Exchange?” Katherine asked. “At the end of the march, Naomi could make a speech opposing capitalism.”
Vernon nodded to Katherine. “I like that.”
“So do I,” Naomi said.
“This needs to happen quickly though,” Vernon said. “The Fed could pump up the markets at any time.”
“I think we could organize something for this Friday,” Katherine said. “Maybe we could have Naomi’s speech culminate at the closing bell. We have our New York base who would show up, and we can hire protestors for forty Fed Coins a head.”
“I like that too. What’s the weather forecast for Friday?”
Katherine tapped on her phone. “Sunny and clear but very hot. Mid-nineties.”
“We’ll have to make it a short march.”
A knock came at the office door. Vernon went to the door and opened it. Nina, Naomi’s tiny receptionist, valiantly stood in front of a tall fit man, with graying hair at his temples.
“He’s demanding to speak with Naomi,” Nina said, her hands on her hips. “He’s from the FBI.”
“What’s this about?” Vernon said, looking over Nina’s head at the FBI man.
He removed his wallet from the inside pocket of his dark jacket and showed his badge and ID. “I’m Assistant Director Vandenberg from the Counterterrorism Division. I’d like to talk to Naomi Sutton for a few minutes. This is a courtesy call.”
“It’s okay, Nina,” Vernon said, giving her a nod of approval. “Come in, Director.”
Nina went back to her desk, and Vernon shut the door behind the FBI director.
Katherine stood from the couch. “I’ll start the arrangements for Friday.”
“Thank you, Katherine,” Naomi said, also standing.
Katherine left the office.
Naomi joined Vernon and the FBI man, standing in the middle of her Oriental rug. She shook hands with Vandenberg. “What can I do for the FBI?”
Vandenberg glanced at Vernon and said, “I’d like to talk to Mrs. Sutton alone.”
“It’s either me or her lawyer,” Vernon said.
“It’s fine,” Naomi said. “If I need a lawyer, I’ll invoke.”
Vernon nodded to Naomi and left her office.
Naomi led Vandenberg to her cherry wood desk, offering him a seat across from her. They sat, Naomi’s desk in between them, downtown DC over her shoulder.
Vandenberg didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Do you know a man named Mark Benson?”
“No,” Naomi replied.
“A woman named Zoe Benson?”
“No.”
“How about Javier Munoz or Connor Pierce?”
Naomi thought for a moment. “No.”
“Summer Fitzgerald?”
“No. Who are these people?”
“We think they’re members of an antigovernment terrorist cell called The Resistance.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“During surveillance, Mark Benson and Zoe Benson discussed video they obtained with a nanocamera and a mike which Ms. Benson installed in the office of Jacob Roth. During subsequent questioning, Ms. Benson stated that the video included footage of you being offered campaign support by Jacob Roth in exchange for continued support of the Federal Reserve. Ms. Benson also stated that you declined the offer. Can you confirm or deny the veracity of Ms. Benson’s statements?”
“If you have the video, you don’t need my confirmation.”
Vandenberg didn’t respond.
They don’t have the video. “Mr. Roth simply wanted to find out if my platform supported his interests. Our interests didn’t align.”
Vandenberg clenched his jaw for a split second. “Let me be blunt. Did Mr. Roth offer you campaign funds in exchange for continued support for the Federal Reserve?”
“It depends on how you interpret what Mr. Roth said.”
“How did you interpret it?”
“The central bankers of the world have an agenda like most groups. They donate to candidates who already support their agenda.”
Vandenberg nodded and stood. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Sutton.”
49
Derek Does Recon
The AutoLyft dropped Derek in Georgetown. From his internet research, he knew The Regal Hotel had a security gate, so he’d have to enter another way. Derek stood on a brick sidewalk a few blocks from The Regal Hotel. Under the glow of the streetlights, he walked past restaurants and bars and shops. The foot traffic was light on a Tuesday night. The Regal Hotel was two blocks from the strip and protected by a canal, the Potomac River, and a chain-link fence. The only access was over the bridge and through the security gate.
Derek lifted the bandanna around his neck to cover his face as a precaution for the facial recognition cameras. Then he slipped behind another hotel, this one without a security gate and also the nearest neighbor to The Regal. A chain-link fence separated the two properties. Derek looked around, then scaled the fence. He approached the edge of the canal, overlooking the dark water below. The canal was about forty-feet across and constructed with stone retaining walls. He could jump in the water and swim across, but the Potomac was disgusting, and the stone wall was steep and smooth, without handholds, making it nearly impossible to scale. Not to mention, he was wearing nice slacks and a button-down shirt. He’d hoped to blend in with the clientele, which was unlikely if he was dripping wet.
He walked along the canal to the rear of the hotel, hoping to find a way over, but found more of the same. He crept to the front, shielded by the night and the trees overhead. A robot security guard manned the front gate and the bridge over the canal. The guard shed was situated beyond the canal, a metal arm blocking the road. Technically, Derek was already behind the shed. He could simply walk over the bridge, but, with the lights and cameras on the bridge, he’d likely be seen.