“I’m not talking about that. And I remember everything. Or almost everything. Guess I wouldn’t know if there was something I forgot, if I can’t remember it.”
“Tim—”
“Okay, here’s something you’ll be interested in. Those rolled up pages you gave me— Is this line secure?”
“No, and grab a look at your Caller ID so you’ve got my number. In case you need to reach me.” For as long as the battery lasts.
“Here’s what I’ve got,” Meadows said. “Though I have to tell you there aren’t many techs who could do an alternative light source on a tightly coiled piece of thin paper. ALS requires—”
“Tim? Here’s the thing: I’m running out of time — and my battery’s running out of juice. So get to the point.”
“Fine. I lifted three phone numbers off the fourth page. I traced all but one. The first was to a computer parts supplier, the second to a White House extension, and the third—”
“White House? Which extension?”
“I don’t know yet. I have to get clearance from the Secret Service for that. I put in a call to the detail’s special agent in charge, but it may be a while before I hear back. It was the middle of the night and I don’t think they considered it a matter of national security. Even though I told them it might be. But — you’re gonna love this — that’s not the best thing.”
“Tim, the battery…”
“Okay, okay. The best thing is this third number. See, it’s not listed anywhere. So I did some digging, and seems the number is for an encrypted mobile phone. Cutting-edge stuff. It’s got some kind of information security software embedded into its commercial TETRA system—”
“More than I need to know. Bottom line: Who’s using it?”
“I was in the middle of figuring that out when you called. Give me another few minutes.”
“Call me back.” Uzi hit End, then rested his right foot on the engine bar of the Suzuki. He sat there trying to figure out who would have access to such a device. Obviously, the military. But why would anyone in the military be associating with ARM? Then he remembered what Ruckhauser had told him: that there were some active-duty members who were sympathetic to the militia cause. Some had pilfered equipment and supplies and passed them on to militias, while others joined the groups when they’d completed their tours.
Ten minutes later, as Uzi sat there tumbling it all through his mind, the phone rang.
“I’ve got a name,” Meadows said. “How about Quentin Larchmont?”
“No way. You sure?”
“Absolutely. Don’t ask me how I got it, because I kind of broke some rules—”
“Keep working on those pages. Get me the call history on that encrypted phone. And call me if you find anything else.” He thought about turning off the handset to conserve battery life, but power cycling the phone used more juice than leaving it on standby.
Uzi shoved the device into his pocket, then twisted the key and revved the motorcycle.
As the morning sky brightened with unexpected sunshine burning through a cloudy haze, Uzi approached the gothically gaudy Eisenhower Executive Office Building across the street from the White House. He parked his Suzuki, pulled off the helmet and ski mask, and fastened them to the bike. He looked in the side-view mirror and attempted to comb his short hair with his fingers. Realizing it wasn’t going to do any good, he walked confidently up to the guard booth on West Executive Avenue. He pulled out his credentials and presented them to the officer. “I need to see the president. Tell him it’s Agent Uzi.”
The Secret Service Uniformed Division police officer raised an eyebrow at the name, wondering if it was a joke, but after inspecting the ID, he nodded, then lifted a phone from the counter. He spoke for a moment, then turned to Uzi, twisting the mouthpiece away from his lips.
“The president will be in the Oval in twenty minutes. Once he’s there—”
“I need to see him now. Tell whoever you’re talking with to tell the president it’s a matter of national security. I’m working under his direct orders.”
“Agent, I’m sorry, but—”
Uzi pointed to the phone. “Just tell him.”
He saw the muscles of the officer’s jaw tense as the man turned back to the phone.
Minutes passed. The officer finally hung up the phone and said, “Someone will be here in a moment to escort you.” He handed Uzi a red clip-on visitor’s pass, then turned away to make a note in his log.
Uzi shoved his hands into his jacket and began pacing. He hated wasting time. But two minutes later, another officer appeared and ushered Uzi to the West Wing. He was deposited in the Oval Office, a Secret Service agent hovering in the background near the door to babysit him.
Uzi gazed up at the dramatic concealed lighting that radiated from behind ornate crown molding, creating a halo effect around the presidential seal stamped in relief in the center of the ceiling. Ahead of him stood the stately and history-laden Resolute desk, only a handful of items resting on the glossy inlaid top. He walked to the middle of the room, where a steel blue and burnt sienna presidential seal was woven into the dense, oval-shaped area rug. Brown rays radiated from its center and tapered at its edges. Woven in an arch around the eagle logo’s periphery were the words “Of the people, for the people.”
Uzi took a seat on the sofa to his right, threw his left arm onto the back of the couch, and crossed his legs. From this seat he had a view out the three bay windows of the magnolias and Katherine crab apple trees beyond. Directly ahead and slightly to the right was the glass door that led to the covered walkway where President Jonathan Whitehall now stood, about to enter.
Whitehall stepped into the Oval, leaving his two Secret Service agents outside the door. Uzi quickly unfolded his body and stood. Whitehall was dressed in a navy suit, which, against his short salt-and-pepper hair, white shirt and red tie, gave him an air of clean, pressed confidence.
Uzi, not having showered or changed after being blown to the ground in a massive explosion just hours ago, felt somewhat underdressed for the meeting.
“Mr. President.”
“Agent Uziel.” Whitehall’s eyes seemed to roam the length of Uzi’s body, from his facial cuts and abrasions to the disheveled appearance of his clothing.
“I apologize for my appearance, sir. I narrowly escaped getting killed last night and haven’t had time to shower and change clothes.”
Whitehall motioned to the cream and taupe couch and took a seat himself on the matching sofa directly across from Uzi.
“Was this attempt on your life related to the assassination attempt on the vice president?”
“I believe so, sir.”
Whitehall pursed his lips and nodded slowly. He then raised an eyebrow and said, “The message I received said you had something to discuss that was a matter of national security. I assume that means you have the answer I’ve been waiting for.” He glanced at his Démos watch. “And with not much time to spare, I might add.”
Uzi squirmed a bit on the couch. Comments Hoshi had made about NFA’s massive contribution to Whitehall’s campaign flittered through his thoughts. Yet, in spite of that, he trusted the man. And with time perilously short, he had little option; he had to press on. “You wanted me to get to the bottom of this mess, no matter the cost.”
Whitehall dipped his chin slightly. “Go on.”
“I’ve uncovered a lot of facts and information, some corroborated and some not, Mr. President. I’m not sure yet how it all fits together, but there are some things I am ready to report on because they require immediate action. I know we don’t have a lot of time left.” Uzi stopped, suddenly recalling that conversations in the Oval were recorded. “Can we take a walk, sir?”