"What else is in there?" asked Christman.
"The pardons and banking information. The Man was serious about giving us what we need. Phillips will have to confirm this, but I'd say we have pretty much unlimited funds at our disposal." Starr, who had been standing, sat down. "Okay, feedback time."
No one said anything.
"Come on, somebody's gotta say something," Starr pleaded.
"We get our asses back to Oregon and start doing the president's business," Styles snapped.
20
President Lamar was striding toward the briefing room and caught up with Coverley Merritt, who headed up the Department of the Presidential Office initiated by former President Williams.
"Merritt, bring me up to speed on exactly what your department does. As you know, I haven't spent a lot of time around here since President Williams took office."
"We receive real-time information from all the agencies on terrorism. That way we can keep the president… uh, sorry, sir — you informed at all times of everything that might be going on."
The president dismissed the breech with a wave of his hand. "Is that all you do?"
"Yes, sir. We are an information-gathering agency only. We don't advise. We only inform."
"All right, for the time being, carry on. Be in the briefing room immediately."
The directors of major agencies, cabinet secretaries, and advisers were waiting in the briefing room as summoned.
The murmuring stopped as President Lamar entered the White House briefing room. Everyone stood and turned their attention to him. He walked to the podium and looked out over the gathering of the most powerful men in the country.
"Everyone, please take a seat." He then took some notes from Irving Vickers. He perused them and then intently studied the group. "I know we are all extremely horrified at what has happened, but wasting time talking about it is not going to get anything accomplished. You people know your jobs. I don't know all of you, but I will. For the time being, I do not plan on making any changes. We have too much work before us to complicate anything. I will rely on you to do your very best in not only bringing those responsible for this horrendous act of war on our country to justice, but also with this new toxin. I am read in on this and will meet with the FBI, CIA, NSA, Homeland, and CDC in one hour in the Situation Room. Heads of military also. People, let's get to work."
Rijah Ellhad found himself in a quandary. Unknown to Ryyaki Ali, he had been seeing the woman whom Ali had chosen to accompany him to Lake Mead. She worked in his household as a maid, which was how the two met. While pretenses had to be kept, being in America had loosened her restrictions on what would normally be perceived as immoral behavior. She loved sleeping with Rijah. Not once in his life had he ever remotely questioned an order, but to kill the woman that he had very strong feelings for was going to be difficult. He knew that when the moment came, he would not be able to look her in the eyes; therefore, he was going to have to perform the act without her knowing what was coming. He had thought of many ways and finally had settled on simply putting a .22-caliber pistol behind her ear and pulling the trigger. A manner in which she enjoyed cuddling next to him would make it a physically simple task; emotionally would be a different matter. He had no doubt that when the time came, he would be able to perform the unpleasant deed. He just didn't like it.
Ellhad stayed in a small cabin on the edge of Ryyaki Ali's property. There were eight cabins clustered in a semicircle in a large clearing next to the woods. This small compound was approximately a half mile from Ali's main house. Ellhad's cabin was on one end of the circular row. The woman whom Ellhad kept company with lived in a cabin two down from his. They had been sneaking back and forth for close to a year, when Ellhad was in town. Ali had no objection when Ellhad had asked permission to take her to dinner at an Italian eatery he particularly enjoyed, as long as a chaperone was present. Ali was deeply rooted to his radical Muslim beliefs. Ellhad had no such loyalties. I will miss you, Sahleea.
With Phillips constantly on her computers, the return trip to Oregon was quiet. Starr was up in the cockpit, as usual, and Styles was threatening to push out the bottom of the floor of the plane, as he was doing so many push-ups.
Ninety minutes later, with the aircraft secure in a hangar, Starr and Styles had checked into a Comfort Inn, while Phillips and Christman had checked into a nearby Holiday Inn. Three GMC Yukons, two dark blue and one black, had been picked up at the airport, but the Jeep would have to be delivered. It had been promised by within the hour.
All four had decided to meet in Starr's room, as his was on the ground floor and easily accessible from the parking area without arousing any curiosity. Christman and Phillips had ridden over together, with Styles and Starr each driving one of the blue Yukons. Phillips walked in carrying three laptops and a printer and then proceeded to open them on the table in the room. She immediately started staring at the three screens. "I'm bringing up a Google Earth map of Ali's estate. Styles, do you need me to print it out, or can you get what you need from the screen?"
"The screen will do." He walked over to the table while Phillips pushed one of her laptops over to him along with a wireless mouse. He took them from her and sat down to study the image. He immediately clicked the mouse to zoom out. After a few seconds, he looked up at Phillips and said, "This is really good, very detailed and clear."
"Yeah, Google Earth has come a long way. I didn't want to use any of our satellites in case Backersley is keeping an eye on them."
"This works fine."
Starr looked at Christman and said, "Why don't we go to Marroni's, catch an early dinner, and plant those cameras?"
"That sounds good to me. How far is it?"
"Only about two miles down the road from here," Phillips answered. "Ali's estate is about sixteen miles away."
"I've got the whole duffel of electronic gear," Christman stated.
"Good. Bring it in, and we'll decide what we need," directed Starr.
"Be right back."
"I'll bring back some takeout for you two," Starr said to Styles and Phillips.
Both just nodded.
"No pizza," stated Styles. "Make it lasagna or spaghetti, with lots of meatballs and garlic bread."
"Got it."
Styles continued looking at the screen, even though he'd acquired the information he needed. He was evaluating whether he should talk to the group. He had seen a discernible mood change in the three. Anger was present, most visible in Phillips. Christman seemed somewhat detached, almost confused, while in Starr, he could sense genuine sadness. While they had all lost their president, Starr had lost a lifetime friend. Styles himself felt loss. He had grown to respect the president. The man had balls and wasn't afraid to use them. He decided to speak.
"Hey, guys, I need to say something." The three looked over in surprise, but all came over to sit at the table. "We're all boiling right now. We've got a right to. But we've got a job to do, a job that the president expects us to do." He purposely said expects, rather than expected. "I know that all of us want to go after the bastards that killed him. We will. But we have to finish this first. It's what he would have demanded. This is Saturday; Monday is Labor Day. That will be the timetable for the attack of this agent. I'm sure of that. We have to find these bastards and stop it. Once that's done, Phillips will read us into what everybody else has found out about the assassination, and we'll take it from there. We'll step on a lot of toes, but we won't get caught. We are going to be the jihadists' worst nightmare. We will leave the special signature so they'll know when we have visited. It won't be pretty."