Kranemeyer nodded. “It was called three times in the twenty-four hours leading up to the attacks, the last time approximately thirty minutes before al-Farouk’s death. It’s a D.C. area code, and our attempts to access data on it have been blocked. High-class firewalls, even Ron is stumped. It looks like Zakiri may not have been their only man on the inside.”
Lay’s eyes traced down the paper to the number his DCS was indicating and the color drained from his face. There was a slight tremor in his voice when he spoke again.
“Tell Ron it will be taken care of,” he responded, forcing a smile to his face.
Kranemeyer looked at him strangely. “Are you feeling well?”
“Fatigue,” Lay replied, as glib as ever. “I’m thinking of taking a few days off next week. But assure Ron it will be taken care of.”
The director waited until Kranemeyer had left the room, then he reached into his desk, pulling out a prepaid cellular phone. The phone was clean, had never been used before. There was no way it could be traced to him.
The phone powered on with an annoying cheerful tone and Lay consulted the phone logs, tapping in the number with a trembling hand.
It was ringing. He took a deep breath to calm himself, drumming his fingers on the oak of the desktop as he waited. It rang once, then twice, then three times. He thought for a moment of hanging up, of putting it behind him, but that was no longer an option. The die had been cast.
Four rings and a recorded voice came on the line. So familiar. “You have reached the voicemail of the President of the United States…”