“Exactly,” Jones confirmed. “This wasn’t a couple of Hinckleys. We’re more than likely dealing with some major players here.”
“That could influence our response to this,” Bud added, carefully avoiding the word ‘reaction’.
The president knew the eyes were upon him. At thirty-nine he had a lot to prove, or so some would say. He wasn’t above admitting that he had a great deal to learn. “Bud, I’d like you to put together a list of options we have if this turns out to be what I’m afraid it might, considering what I’ve heard so far. Tomorrow’s good.”
“In the morning, sir.” Bud quickly jotted a few ideas that were fresh in his mind.
“Now, shifting gears a little,” the president began, closing his folio. “I’m meeting with the congressional leaders at eleven. Hopefully that’ll go smoothly. I don’t anticipate anything out of left field. I’m going to ask for some assistance, butt kicking if necessary, to get my nomination for vice president through the Senate. I’ve decided to ask Nate Harmon to accept the job.” He waited, letting the choice settle in. “Any comments?”
“He’ll fly through the process,” the secretary of state noted. “I don’t think there will be much need for ‘butt kicking’ to get the nomination confirmed.” He looked around knowing that there wouldn’t be any disagreements.
“Definitely,” Bud said. “Four Senate terms. He’s squeaky clean and—”
“And old enough to be your father, Mr. President,” Gonzales finished the sentence with a grin.
“As is three quarters of the membership of both houses,” the president responded. There was a unified chuckle.
“His antiabortion stand conflicts with your view on the subject,” Meyerson pointed out, raising the first possible concern. Granger, sitting to his left, knew this wasn’t his area to input. He was a soldier. The vagaries of bureaucratic goings-on were uninteresting to him, and he often found himself cynical when allowed to observe. This wasn’t his place.
“I was no clone of President Bitteredge, if you remember. But he knew that.” He knew a lot. “It was a strength to him to have a — I don’t know — maybe a counterweight of sorts on the other side of the fulcrum. I think Nate Harmon will be a good addition to the administration.”
There was no further discussion on the decision. It was a wise choice. Nathan Hale Harmon had been a constant player in government since the early fifties when he began his long career as a public servant with the State Department. He could have opted to continue as a paid appointee, but allowed himself to be chosen instead for office by his home state of Louisiana. The president expected him to accept and felt that he would be the proper representative at the services in Britain. The others concurred.
With the meeting over, the president rose, as did the others in the accepted show of respect, and exited through the heavy oak-covered steel door. His augmented security detail met him and escorted him and the COS to the Oval Office.
The other participants gathered their things and filtered out, Director Jones leading off to his waiting car. He seemed to be in the most hurry. Granger and Meyerson quietly exchanged critiques of their new boss. There was nothing improper about that, Bud thought. He was doing the same thing silently.
Herb Landau strained against the armrests to push himself up. The doctors had said it would be a matter of months. Spinal cancer was a hideous thing and unfortunately not as painless as some forms of the disease. He walked over to the acting NSA in steps that he forced to appear normal.
“It may not be appropriate,” the DCI began, “but Congrats, Bud.”
He took the director’s hand. The old man still had a hearty grip and shake, which Bud especially felt in his right side. “Thank you, sir, but it’s not official.” The grimace was obvious.
“It will be. Like it or not, he’s going to ask you to be his national security adviser.” The director’s expression changed. “Bad, son?” Landau was genuinely concerned.
“Three broken ribs. Landed on my briefcase.” Bud tapped his Anvil, which he had lifted to the tabletop.
The director, who stood a head shorter than the NSA, brought a closed fist to his own stomach with a thump.
“I broke every rib and both legs on the Lexington back in the big one. It hurt like a son of a bitch for a year, every time I breathed. They can’t tell you how to stop breathing, can they?”
Bud smiled. “No, sir. The tape doesn’t help much either. Just seems to squeeze tighter every time I take a deep one.
“Stick it out, Bud.” The DCI almost made a comment about making sure the wife took care of him, then remembered that the man’s wife had died a few years back. Heart attack, or something. “Listen, son, could you come by my office later today? Say one o’clock?”
“Urgent?”
Landau didn’t want to telegraph the genuine concern he felt. “I’m not quite sure, but I’d feel better if you would look something over for me.”
Bud mentally checked his schedule. He could push back the meeting with the German ambassador a couple of hours or so. “Sure. One’s fine. Is this quiet?”
“I’d appreciate it.” The DCI pulled out his small pocket calendar and made a note to himself. “I’ll have a bird here for you at about half past twelve.”
“Fine.”
A parting handshake, gentler than the first, and the DCI was slowly on his way. As he walked away his gait appeared somewhat shuffling. His own detachment of plainclothes Agency security was waiting in an anteroom near the elevator upstairs. They formed up and escorted their chief to his helicopter.
Bud finished stowing his papers in the case. The lid closed with a sharp slap. Lifting his eyes he saw that he was alone in the room. He hurried out, passing the guard outside without a look.
There were twelve round tables arranged in one corner of the banquet room. Each had at least one phone, one had four, and duct-taped wires snaked along the floor to a temporary junction box just inside the only open door. Contrary to the fire regulations the other four doors that led out of the room were secured, chains and padlocks around their panic bars. But then the hotel was empty, much to the displeasure of its manager.
The makeshift office was temporary home to the FBI’s investigative team, which exceeded two hundred agents, though most were in the field following the scant few leads there were or just arriving in the city. Offices from as far away as New York were sending agents to augment the resources on hand, and that was fine with Art Jefferson. He knew he would need a lot of manpower to sort this one out.
Other government agencies were working with the Bureau, each having a senior representative who reported to Art. Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, the government apparatus whose name, when compared to others, most accurately conveyed the scope of its mission, had agents sifting through the debris-strewn street below the 818 and inside the damaged areas of the building. ATF’s work had paid off so far with an identification of the types of weapons used. Now they were trying to find evidence that would aid in identifying the source of the weapons, and, working with the Bureau’s explosive experts, trying to determine the maker of the explosives used in the blast.
Art read over a brief summary of findings prepared by his second, Special Agent Eddie Toronassi, affectionately known as Joker by those fortunate enough to have avoided being a victim of his near legendary practical jokes. Art called him Eddie.
“The shooters weren’t born on the fifth floor,” Art said, sipping from his convenience store cup of coffee. The Hilton’s kitchen was closed. “They came from somewhere.” He looked up. “Where?”