His phone buzzed. It was Madison, the receptionist at the K Street office. “Madison,” he said. “How are you today?”
“Terrible,” she said. “I’m all worried about what’s been going on. Couldn’t sleep. How are you, Mister Danforth?”
Madison was still under the impression that Carver and O’Keefe were consultants. She had never asked what kind. She was young, unambitious, preoccupied with her social life, and completely uninterested in the services that the company performed for its clients. She was one of those people who just wanted to punch in and collect a paycheck and get health care. A perfect fit for a front company.
“We’re on our way to a client meeting,” Carver told her as he winked to O’Keefe. “What’s up?”
“I heard on the news that lots of companies are closed today because of the attacks. And I was wondering…”
“Stay home,” Carver said. He was trying to be practical. And since the Georgetown field house had been compromised, he knew that they could expect a break-in on K Street as well. They wouldn’t find anything, but there was no reason to put Madison in harm’s way. “And don’t worry about coming in the rest of the week. We’re on the road anyhow.”
“Uh, okay, but I don’t want to use up all my vacation time. I’ll still get paid, right?”
For God’s sake. Carver was trying to save the country from further attacks and he had to worry about some receptionist’s paid time off. He had told Speers from the start that these elaborate dummy aliases were more trouble than they were worth.
*
The markets were due to open shortly. The Treasury Secretary walked with an attache in one hand and her phone in the other. On the receiving end of Eva’s call was the Federal Reserve Chairman, who sat in an office high above the New York Stock Exchange trading floor, where nervous stock runners talked incessantly into cell phones to anxious brokers who feared the worst.
This wasn’t the 72-year-old Fed Chair’s first rodeo, and he was predicting a massive sell-off that might send the already troubled economy into a tailspin.
“Mister Chairman,” Eva said, “I think that if we can manage the message before the opening bell, the markets should open as usual.”
“Eva,” the Fed chair countered, “in my neighborhood there was a line a hundred deep outside Bank of America. And that was at five a.m.”
“And you think closing the markets will make them any more confident?”
Eva knew that the President had fantasies about forcing the old man’s resignation, but the Chairman was an institution, having survived twenty-two years and four different administrations. Eva liked the old codger. He was a little conservative for her taste, but there was something to be said for someone who worshipped fundamentals. His favorite book remained Graham’s The Intelligent Investor, and to Eva’s mind, everyone needed a cynical old coot like that in their camp. If the Vice President was truly dead, God rest his hateful soul, Eva wished the President would call her and make her the Veep already. As the mere Treasury Secretary, her relationship with the Fed Chair was little more than one friend talking another down from a suicide jump.
“If you close the markets,” she explained patiently, “and you cut people off from their investments, it’s only going to make it worse.”
“How about early closure?”
“No. Just listen to me. Call the major analysts. Get them to go on the networks advising a strong buy on any defense contractor and aerospace. You also pitch high-tech, natural resources, and precious metals.”
“Those sound like protracted war investments. Are you trying to tell me something? Should I be thinking about war bonds?”
“You must’ve seen the Allied Jihad tape by now,” Eva said. “If I know the President, he’ll open up another front on those barbarians before the week’s out. Point is, if we can get the talking heads invested in the idea that more fighting is good for the economy, we might avoid a crash today.”
She hung up just as she entered Colonel Madsen’s conference room and sat at the head of a cheap fiber-board table. Colonel Madsen and his senior staff sat at her flank. The American flag, the Kentucky State flag and the Army flag hung in a row behind her.
Agents Carver and O’Keefe came in just as Colonel Madsen began addressing his staff. “I’d like to inform everyone that Treasury Secretary Hudson is using this base as a temporary command post for a joint investigation into yesterday’s events.” He waited a moment for the officers to absorb the idea that the Secretary of the United States Treasury had effectively taken over command of the base. “And as Garrison Commander, I’m prepared to do anything in my power to see that she has our full cooperation.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” Eva said as Madsen sat down. “Everyone, I’d like to introduce NSA case officers Carver and O’Keefe. Carver is formerly of CIA counter-terrorism and will be leading the investigation.”
“With all due respect,” Carver said, “This is news to me, Madam Secretary. Agent O’Keefe and I are engaged in a classified operation that reports directly to the White House.”
Eva folded her arms across her chest. “The White House?” she said. “To whom specifically?”
Carver was afraid to name the President, and not just because Eva was the President’s not-so-secret girlfriend. The investigation was strictly off-the-grid.
“Well?” Eva said.
“We report to Chief of Staff Julian Speers,” Carver replied.
“Have you had direct contact with Julian in the past twelve hours?”
“No ma’am.”
“I’ll be honest,” Eva said. “We don’t know where the Chief of Staff is now. He hasn’t responded to calls. Considering the state of emergency we’re in, I’ll take full responsibility for the disclosure of your classified mission. Now I’ll give you a chance to transfer operational details to me in private.”
She excused Colonel Madsen and his staff. They rose uncertainly and began filing out. O’Keefe leaned close to Carver, whispering in his ear. “Are you sure we can trust her?”
“No,” Carver said, “but the fact that she dismissed the brass is probably a pretty good sign that we should throw her a bone or two.”
Eva tapped the table with her pen. “Before we get off on the wrong foot, I need you to explain why Nico Gold is on my base.”
Carver was caught off guard. He was used to getting his way, and it was clear that Eva was significantly more hands-on than Julian. “Nico is a specialist in rare languages as well as computer…”
“I’m painfully aware of Nico’s qualifications. I’m asking how a notorious international criminal found his way onto this base.”
Carver didn’t care how hot Eva was. He didn’t like anyone baiting him. “Again, his skill set…”
“Let’s get some history out of the way,” Eva said. “When I was Executive Director of the IMF, Nico Gold hacked into our systems and drained our coffers of billions. I wasted two years of my life chasing him in some of the world’s most unpleasant countries. We finally caught him in Syria, where he was living with a group of Iranian dissidents and learning Farsi. I pushed to prosecute him in Saudi Arabia, where he would’ve gotten the death penalty. I was overruled.”
Carver’s neck grew hot. He had done his homework. He was quite familiar with Eva and Nico’s tangled past, but never thought this operation would by on anyone’s radar. “Nico Gold isn’t politically convenient,” Carver said, “but he solved in one day what our agents couldn’t crack in a year.”
Eva considered this for a moment. ”Fine. I’ll allow you to use him while we’re in crisis mode. But whatever deal you made, know I’ll break it when this is over.”
Rapture Run
Julian Speers walked through the cavernous command room and lingered between two rows of workstations occupied by eight soldiers on each side. He pretended to look for a network printer — General Wainewright had given him some bullshit assignment to draft legal documents regarding military power during martial law — but he was really just snooping. He looked over the shoulder of a Ulysses communications specialist and saw satellite imagery of several Iranian armor brigades. A massive formation trucking across Syrian territory toward Israel.