We three EAs were told to contact every department head and find out.
We spent the afternoon talking to people throughout the agency who were trying their best to find a hint, a clue, a sniff. They failed. While it is theoretically impossible to prove a negative, you can often get close enough for government work. And we did. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Of course, on television every terror organization in the Middle East was claiming credit.
I was elected to tell Grafton, and did so a bit after five p.m. He just nodded. He had spent the afternoon on the phone, presumably talking to other heads of agencies and political big shots all over town.
“Are you going home soon?” he asked. After all, five o’clock is traditionally quitting time, although not in the CIA.
“Not if you need me, sir.”
“Hang around. Sal Molina is coming over again later. I may need a witness.”
Oh boy. I wandered out past the receptionist and walked the halls a while with my hands in my pockets. Was Grafton going to resign? Or get fired?
People were standing in knots here and there, chewing the rag over the terrorist attacks. The news shows, they told me, said that Cynthia Hinton had scheduled a news conference for prime time this evening.
I was sitting in the director’s reception area when the vice director, Harley Merritt, strode by on his way to the inner sanctum. He ignored me. He had an EA with him, and she ignored me too. It was that kind of day.
They were in there about a half hour and came marching out. Grafton stood in the doorway as they crossed the reception room. He motioned to me. I went in and he closed the door.
“Molina is on his way. Sit down.”
“Is he going to ask for your resignation?” I asked. Why beat around the bush?
“I don’t know,” Grafton said crossly.
I also suspected he didn’t give a damn, but I kept my mouth shut and seated myself on the couch. Laid my notebook on my lap, so I’d be ready to scribble down orders or telephone numbers or order flowers for funerals.
Grafton picked up something from his in-basket, glanced at it, tossed it back, then rose from his chair and stretched. He reminded me of a caged lion. Waiting. In a darkened office with the lights off. Behind him the day was slowly coming to an end.
“Nations don’t just happen,” he remarked, as if he were talking to himself, or perhaps composing an essay. “They are put together by groups who are convinced that the people who live within a certain area will be better off as one political entity, this thing called a nation. Nations are fragile. Homogenous nations seem to have done best through written history. Ours is anything but homogenous, a grand experiment with many people from diverse racial groups, cultures, and religious heritages, all mixed together willy-nilly and bound together politically.”
Looking back, I think at that moment Jake Grafton had a glimpse of the future, a future that disturbed him profoundly.
He sat in silence for a while, then remarked, “A government that loses, or forfeits, the consent of the governed is doomed. Invariably. Inevitably. Irreversibly.”
He was sitting in silence with the light from the window behind him throwing his face in shadow when the squawk box buzzed. “Mr. Molina.”
“Send him in.”
I went to open the door and close it behind Molina. He sat in the chair across the desk from Grafton and glanced at me. “You won’t need him,” he said to Grafton.
“He stays. Say what you want to say.”
“You need a witness?”
“I won’t know until I hear it.”
“The president is declaring martial law tomorrow. He wants you standing behind him tomorrow at ten o’clock in the press room when he announces it.”
Jake Grafton didn’t look surprised. I was flabbergasted, but since I was sitting on the couch against the wall Sal Molina couldn’t see the stunned look on my face unless he turned his head, and he didn’t.
“Why?” said Grafton.
“These terrorist conspiracies need to be rooted out. We must make sure the American people are safe, and feel safe.”
“Horseshit,” Grafton roared, and smacked the desk with both fists. “Pure fucking horseshit! Oh, a million or two jihadists would love to murder Americans, including Soetoro, if they could get here, but if they were a credible threat we’d have heard about it. This is just an excuse for Soetoro to suspend the Constitution and declare himself dictator.”
“The American people must be protected, Admiral. The president is taking no chances. No one wants to be the next victim of Islamic terrorists.”
“So he is going to rule by decree.”
“We face a national emergency.”
“And he is going to postpone or cancel the election in November. Isn’t that the real reason for martial law?”
“I’m not going to debate it, Grafton. Tomorrow at ten at the White House. Be there an hour early and we’ll have a decree signed by the president detailing the actions that he wants from this agency.”
“His staff can e-mail me a copy,” Grafton said softly. “I am not going to be a prop in a presidential power grab. Not now, not ever.”
Molina ran his hands over his face. “Jake, you don’t have a choice,” he said reasonably. “You’ll either be there or your name will go on the list as an enemy of the president. They’ll lock you up. Soetoro is playing for keeps. You can kiss your pension good-bye. Do you want to spend the rest of your life in prison?”
Molina stood, put both fists on the desk, and leaned forward. His voice dropped. “You think I want to be a part of this? I have a wife and two kids. I don’t have a choice. By God, you don’t either.”
Grafton was silent, looking at nothing for a moment or two. Finally, he said, “Soetoro has been waiting for a terror strike so he could declare martial law, become a dictator, and fix all the things he doesn’t like about America.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’ll bet any sum you want to name he is going to call off the election and remain in office.”
Molina straightened and made a gesture of irritation. He glanced around and saw me, which obviously startled him. Apparently he had forgotten I was in the room.
He took a step in my direction. “One word from you outside this room will put you in a cell, Carmellini.” I’d had confrontations with Molina before. I wasn’t stupid enough to open my mouth this time.
Molina swung back to Grafton.
“Be there tomorrow morning. If you aren’t, I can’t help you.”
“Me? You can’t help me?” Grafton was standing too, and he was beyond fury. He had a scar on his temple that was throbbing red. “That bastard is going to rip this country apart, and you worry about your family and pension? You think there’s a lifeboat handy that will keep you and yours comfortably afloat in this sea of shit while the ship sinks? What the hell kind of man are you, Molina? He doesn’t need you and he doesn’t need me. Get a grip, fool.”
Molina was holding on to the desk, as if he were trying to stay erect. “Jake…”
“You get out of my office and don’t ever come back.”
“It won’t be your office long. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
“I don’t ever want to see your face again, Molina. Get the fuck out.”
Molina turned and walked from the room. Neither fast nor slow. He merely walked. The door closed behind him.
I was too stunned to open my mouth or move.
Grafton looked at me and gestured toward the door. “You too, Tommy. Out.”