The aide returned the phone. “Sir, Chief of Staff Bard.”
Bridge removed his other glove. “Andy, I’ve just been informed that the Milwaukee incident was premeditated. I’ll need to speak to the president. I’m alerting OCP.”
The Homeland Security Office of Operations Coordination and Planning was responsible for monitoring the daily security of the United States. It coordinated activities with governors, Homeland Security Advisors, law enforcement partners, and critical infrastructure operators in all fifty states and more than fifty major urban areas nationwide.
It was the information and decision-making nerve center that was missing during 9/11, and now it was the nation’s best entity to respond to a homeland terror threat.
Tom Ross approached a female FBI agent seated outside a room at the end of the hotel corridor.
“How is she?”
“She’s stopped throwing things, but I don’t think she’s very happy,” the agent answered. “We disconnected the room phone.”
Ross gently tapped on the door, then opened it.
Griffin was sitting in a chair with her knees propped up to her chin. She was wrapped in a blanket and staring at the floor.
“Neela, it’s me,” Ross announced apologetically. “Are you okay?”
“Do I look okay?” she snapped.
He put his hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it away.
“Do you want to go to bed?”
Griffin gave a disgusted look and eyed Ross up and down suspiciously.
Ross blushed violently. “I mean… are you tired?”
“Just how many rooms do you people have in this place? The whole floor? What’s next, a strip search?”
“Neela, what would you say if I asked you to become part of this investigation — an actual insider working hand-in-hand with the FBI and me? You get exclusive rights to the story and can report on anything you witness as long as it doesn’t compromise the crash investigation or national security. Other than some minor screening before it’s released to the public, you’ll have complete freedom.”
Griffin raised one eyebrow. “Why would you and that Ford guy even consider allowing a news reporter to — what if I say no?”
Ross sat on the bed and folded his hands between his legs. “Neela, this is serious. You need to know that the FBI is looking at this from different perspectives. I want to be sure that you don’t get into—”
She flung off the blanket and stood up. “Into what? What exactly are you trying to say? I didn’t do anything wrong here. What perspectives?”
“The Patriot Act. Specifically, sections 212 and 213. They deal with electronic and voice mail communications. You need to know that Fox’s Crime Tip Line has already been seized and is being monitored. No one has access. You can’t reveal anything to anyone, not even to your station. If you do, you could be detained indefinitely as a material witness. I don’t want anything like that to happen.”
She tried to process what she just heard.
“Are you telling me that I’m some kind of hotel detainee?”
“No, you’re not any kind of detainee. But I did tell Jack… er, Mr. Riley, that I would talk to you and that you’d listen. Neela, I think I must be crazy for even saying this. I don’t know anything about you other than I like you and I hoped that you and I might get to know each other socially. I think this whole thing is unfortunate. I just don’t want you to get in trouble.”
She wanted to believe him, but she sensed a red flag. It was her own defense mechanism, and warning that led to a decision to either trust someone and pursue a potential relationship, or end it.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Your cooperation.”
She stared at him perceptively and then reached into her purse for her notepad.
“You’re not a very good liar, Tom Ross. But that’s a plus with me. You want my silence, and you probably want me to stay where you can keep an eye on me.”
“Just until we can get ahead of this thing. You need to act as if nothing unusual has happened. File your crash story normally and inform your station’s management that you’ve asked for and received permission to become part of our team as an embedded reporter, just like those who travel with the military during combat.”
She took all this in. “For how long?”
“I don’t know. It could be a couple of days or a couple of weeks. Maybe longer.”
“So, I keep quiet, and you give me exclusives,” she summarized. “I’m not a prisoner, though, right? I mean, you don’t expect me to stay locked up?”
“You are not a prisoner. Neither the FBI nor Homeland Security could enforce that. They just want your assurance that your reports won’t compromise the investigation. Neela, you can’t tell anyone about that message. Not yet. In return, you’ll get information that no other news reporter will. Riley and I have agreed to merge investigations. If he can swing it, I’ll be reporting directly to him. You’ll be traveling and working with us hand in hand. We’ll arrange a private workspace where you can assemble your stories. Consider it a special assignment. You’ll attend strategy meetings and have access to frontline discoveries. You’ll know the facts before any other media. Riley needs your silence about that message, and he’ll feel more comfortable if you stay close. So would I.”
“Riley,” she snarled. “I don’t trust him.”
“Jack’s an intense guy. He’s doing what he thinks is best for the country.”
“You’re willing and able to do all this for me?”
“It won’t be easy. I’m talking hotel rooms, long hours, and probably spur-of-the-moment travel. We have to exercise some editorial prerogative over what you release, but you have my word it’ll be fair. Besides, NTSB’s investigative process has a life of its own. It’ll move forward with or without me. I can clear just about anything. That’s not the problem.”
“Then what is?” she asked.
He returned her cell phone. “It looks like someone has found a way to bring down passenger aircraft. If they did it once, they could very well do it again.”
Chapter 25
A former senator and Naval helicopter pilot, President of the United States Cale Warren was best described as a tempered moderate. His tendency to lose his temper was an admitted personal flaw, but one that had seemingly faded with age. Friends believed that he had simply learned to harness his anger with little internal harm. To a certain extent, it was true. At sixty-eight years old, he still had all his hair.
Chief of Staff Andrew Bard had served Warren for five years as an underling and political advisor. An unremarkable yet loyal aide, Bard spent a minimum of twelve hours each day keeping the president up to date on current events and ensuring that his schedule carried a balance of recreational activities. Right now that meant preparing for the upcoming presidential election, which was just eighteen months away.
“Andrew, this isn’t Hollywood,” the president said, pacing while sipping fresh juice. “Does Samuel know the impact of that?”
“I would certainly hope so,” Bard replied. “He’s not one to overreact, but without solid evidence of this so-called premeditated act, I suggest prudence, sir.”
The president placed his glass on a napkin and sat down. His mind raced with emotions that swelled between rage and grief, controlled, but powerful. Levels he’d not felt in years. Next came a flurry of distasteful decisions he knew might be required. Distasteful because they would involve the entire country and impact the lives of millions of Americans. He drew a breath.
“I want to hear it myself. Irrefutable, clear, and correct facts. We cannot bring the air transportation of this country to a standstill without cause.”