Chapter 63
Daniel surveyed the crowded hotel bar from their cozy table in the corner. Happy hour had kicked into full swing about an hour ago, the room packed so tightly that their target drifted in and out of sight in the throng of well-dressed D.C. professionals. The man Wellins had traded for the guaranteed safety of his own family had entered the basement lounge twenty minutes ago, quietly occupying a saved seat at the bar. He’d shared words with several people since he arrived, but nobody had stopped for a long conversation.
“His second martini just arrived,” said Jessica. “Time for work.”
“You sure we want to go down this path?”
“We can’t keep running. Not from this,” she said, looking into his eyes. “Our work isn’t done. That’s been made painfully clear over the past few days.”
Daniel took a small sip of the rye whiskey Manhattan he’d nursed to the bottom of his tumbler for the past hour. “I don’t see how Berg and Sanderson can take this on.”
“Somebody has to try,” said Jessica.
He cracked a subdued smile. Jessica had changed since Chicago — for the better. He’d prepared for the worst after that traumatic experience, but she’d somehow emerged on the other side.
“What?” she said, raising an eyebrow.
“You’re right, and I love you more than you know,” he said before squeezing her hand. “You better get going.”
Jessica got up from the table and stood next to him. She looked stunning in the low-cut black cocktail dress and matching high heels they’d purchased at an outlet mall in Leesburg, Virginia. He hadn’t seen her dressed “to kill” like this in over a year. Sandals, sundresses and shorts had been her outfit du jour since they moved to Anguilla.
“Quit staring,” she said.
“Kind of hard not to,” said Daniel.
“That’s the point,” she said. “You better get out of here.”
“Meet you on the corner of K Street and Sixteenth,” he said.
“If he makes it that far.”
Daniel swirled the remains of his drink and tossed it back before sliding through a polished-looking group of beltway acolytes to make his way out of the bar. A few steps up the wood-panel-finished stairway, he glanced back, catching a glimpse of Jessica from his elevated vantage point. She’d managed to wedge her way between their target, a brown-haired man with wire-rim glasses, and the woman next to him. The man slid his untouched martini in front of her and raised a finger to get the bartender’s attention. Jessica touched his arm, leaning in to him to whisper. The guy cocked his head and turned in the chair toward her, a hungry look on his face. It was almost too easy for her.
Chapter 64
Frederick Shelby’s office phone buzzed, drawing his focus away from the computer screen and the endless stream of intelligence updates and analyst summaries that vied for his attention on the National Intelligence Fusion Network. He glanced at his office phone, an intra-office call from his secretary vying for his attention. It was a little early for the day’s usual assortment of bureaucratic check-ins. Shelby lifted the handset and pressed the illuminated button connecting him to his secretary.
“Michael, can you hold any calls until after the eight-thirty morning briefing?” he asked.
“This isn’t a call, sir,” said the secretary. “You have a visitor. A rather important one. Raymond Burke.”
Senior counselor to President Crane? At seven thirty in the morning? This couldn’t be good.
“By all means, show him in.”
Shelby stood up and moved around his desk, rapidly recounting the events of the past several days for any possible missteps that could lead back to him. Nothing came to mind. Shelby had just finished straightening his suit coat when the door opened. Raymond Burke, an average man in every aspect of his appearance, walked into his office and politely thanked his secretary, shutting the door.
“This is a pleasant surprise,” said Shelby, offering his hand.
Burke shook his hand with a mostly official smile. “In my experience, and I assume yours as well, the words ‘pleasant’ and ‘surprise’ rarely yield anything positive.”
“I usually reserve judgment,” said Shelby. “But in this case, I felt comfortable going out on a limb.”
Burke laughed, his smile coming closer to passing as genuine.
“Please. Have a seat. May I offer you some coffee?” asked Shelby, motioning toward a mahogany table used for private meetings.
“I can’t stay long,” said Burke, remaining solidly in place near the door. “I have good news and bad news.”
Shelby’s stomach tightened, waiting for Burke to continue.
“The bad news is that Gary Vincent died in his sleep last night. Suspected heart attack. News of his death has not been reported publicly,” said Burke. “I presume you can guess the good news.”
Shelby stood before him as the acting director of National Intelligence. Astonishing. “I wouldn’t exactly call it good news under the circumstances,” he said, forcing a solemn tone.
Burke eyed him cynically. “No need to pretend with me. You were promised the position. Now it’s yours.”
Shelby’s vision narrowed for a brief moment, the full scope of the words sinking in. Burke was part of it. Quite possibly in charge of it.
“Frederick,” said Burke, putting a hand on Shelby’s shoulder, “you’ve served True America well over the past few years, but it’s time to take this service and loyalty to the next level. We’re going to rebuild this nation from the ground up, and we need your help.”
All Shelby could manage was a nod.
“President Crane will immediately nominate you for the position of director, and the Senate will confirm the nomination after a brief hearing.”
“You can count on my support,” Shelby said. “I won’t let our country down.”
Burke’s face deadpanned. “Changing our nation’s current downward trajectory will be difficult. It’ll require sacrifice.”
“I’m willing to make any sacrifice to bring about the needed change.”
“We’re not talking about your sacrifice. Sometimes you have to burn down the forest to regrow it,” said Burke. “This will not be an easy task or a job for the fainthearted, like Gary Vincent.”
Did Burke just threaten him? It didn’t matter. Shelby had sold his soul to True America when he held up the investigation into the attempted bioweapons attack and minimized the link between the fanatics responsible for the attack and the mainstream True America political party. The ink had long ago dried on that contract, and there was no going back.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” he said.
“I wasn’t worried. I just needed to reemphasize the unwavering commitment required to be a part of the inner echelon.”
“I’m fully committed,” said Shelby, both thrilled and alarmed by Burke’s statement.
“We’ll make all of the necessary arrangements for your confirmation and call on you shortly,” said Burke. “Until then, we need your help with something.”
“Anything.”
“A member of the outer echelon has gone missing. We’d like to find him immediately.”
“Who?”
“Gerald Simmons. White House Counterterrorism director,” said Burke.
Simmons? In the outer echelon? He didn’t even know there were echelons. That explained how the weasel had landed a coveted position at the White House. Shelby hadn’t thought the guy was worth a squirt of piss when he’d first met him.
“Do you suspect foul play?”