It’s not transmitted by blood. It can’t be. He stared after her as she left, hopeless.
ELEVEN
“Mr. President,” the Director of Homeland Security said warmly, striding with confidence into the Oval Office. “Thank you for”—he caught sight of the man already seated in front of the President’s desk, and finished, after a noticeable pause—“seeing me.”
Jeremiah Horton was a large man who looked like the college linebacker he had been. He had a reputation as a gruff no-nonsense man, one who was more comfortable as a manager than as a leader. Like many men in the current Administration, he had had no military service. However, a distinguished career in the Senate had led to his appointment to the newly formed Homeland Security and Defense Office. He enjoyed the challenge of setting up the new cabinet-level post, and he prided himself on the exceptionally smooth integration of HSD with the rest of the President’s Administration.
Nevertheless, the birth of HSD had not been without problems. Notably among them, the man he was now surprised to see. Carl Chassen, FBI director of operations, his counterpart — although a lesser rank, since his was not a Cabinet-level post — had been a continual thorn in his side. The FBI saw conspiracies everywhere. Most particularly now, they were focused on what they believed was a plot to strip the FBI of its powers in domestic law enforcement.
Publicly, HSD had repeatedly assured both the FBI and the public that nothing was further from the truth. HSD would merely serve as a clearinghouse, a coordinator of the various agencies having law-enforcement responsibilities within the U.S.
Privately, the struggle for control of domestic intelligence operations was another matter altogether. The FBI, the DEA, and the ATF all viewed every “coordinating policy” as an infringement on their territories. Each one guarded its turf jealously, sharing information with its sister agencies only when there was something they wanted in exchange or when they were forced to. In the last week, the situation had escalated, with the CIA treating a simple overture for cooperation of operations like a frontline assault. No matter that it had been a simple request for information coupled with an informal suggestion that HSD quite reasonably had an interest in those matters occurring overseas that were likely in the immediate future to affect the United States internally. No matter that the artificial boundaries created by legislation between the various agencies only serve to drain off resources that the fledgling HSD coveted. But last week, ah — that had been the kicker. The CIA, noting the HSD’s growing stature within the Administration, seemed to have instituted a new policy of complete noncooperation. In at least one private conversation, the director of the CIA had blandly suggested that for security reasons it made more sense, in some situations originating overseas, for the CIA to be the lead agency when the action moved into the United States itself.
Horton had been outraged. The CIA’s maneuver was clearly a grab for power, one that overstepped the bounds of its charter. The CIA was explicitly forbidden to have any role in domestic security. Yet here they were, suggesting that HSD was not to be trusted with highly classified and sensitive information developed from the CIA sources. No matter that everyone in HSD had undergone rigorous security screenings, and that their administrative procedures and security measures were modeled on the very best techniques now in use in other agencies. No, it was a daring move, but one that would fail. There was no way that the President would let the CIA assume control of any operations inside the United States.
The FBI, however, was another matter entirely. Horton knew that they were frothing at the mouth over HSD’s charter role inside the United States. It was, the FBI had argued, the essence of their charter — law enforcement inside the United States, most particularly those matters that constituted crimes. And weren’t all terrorist acts and preparation for them criminal acts? Why reinvent the wheel? The FBI was hoping, not so secretly, that Horton and his crew would fall on their faces. The FBI would be ready to step and to take over their role.
Chassen was the primary instigator. He had always been ruthlessly power-hungry, as far back as Horton could remember. Now, to see him sitting in on what Horton had fondly anticipated as a private meeting with the President was an unexpected slap in the face.
“Horton, come on in,” the President said easily, pointedly ignoring the brief spasm of distaste that had floated across the other man’s face. “We were just talking about the situation in the Middle East.”
“Will there never be an end to it?” Horton said, shutting the door behind him and walking over to the unoccupied chair. He settled into it lightly with surprising grace. “If only they could settle their differences and bring some peace to that part of the world — I wonder if it will happen in our lifetime.”
He saw similar expressions of cynicism on the face of both the President and the FBI director. “No. Of course not,” the FBI director said, as though surprised Horton would even suggest it. “Why should they start now? War is the natural state of affairs for them.”
“You have a cynical view of the world,” Horton said stiffly.
“Don’t you?” the President asked. “Come on, Jeremiah. Have you seen anything in the last twenty years — hell, make that the last two hundred years — to suggest that there’s any possibility of peace in that region? Even if Israel disappeared, the Shiites and Suni Muslims would still fight. And they’d exterminate the same Palestinians they claim Israel is persecuting now, if indeed there are any such people, on their own.”
Horton wished desperately he been in on whatever conversation had preceded his arrival. Clearly the President and the FBI director were singing the same tune, and he wondered what had led up to it. “One can always hope and pray for peace, Mr. President,” he said gravely. “Is that what you wanted to see me about?”
“No, of course not,” the President said, looking at Horton with a slightly bemused expression on his face. “Not unless I transferred you over to State and forgot about it.”
Horton joined in the general laughter that followed that weak attempt at a joke. “I’ll expect to see an increase in my travel budget, then,” he added.
“Those frequent-flier miles to Idaho can really add up,” the FBI director said.
Horton nodded gravely. “Bull Run, of course. I have to tell you, Mr. President, we don’t like the way things are looking up there. From the reports we’re getting, there’s a good deal of potential for civil unrest. You know that with the mind-set up there and the militia presence, I wouldn’t be surprised if—”
“It’s not just the locals,” Chassen interrupted. He shot Horton a sardonic look. “Abraham Carter — you know the name?”
Horton didn’t but he had no intention of admitting it. “What is his involvement?” he asked, trying for a knowing, world-weary tone.
Chassen ignored the question. “Abraham Carter — with his son, he’s active in the Free America Now organization. We’ve been following their purchases and tracking their movements over the last month. All at once — Bull Run — and they go to ground.”
“We’re on the lookout for them.” Horton said, as though it was old news.
“You won’t find them.”
“Because you didn’t?”
“Exactly.” Chassen turned back to the President, who wore an impatient expression. “Sir, our intelligence indicates they’re planning a major move of some sort. Something to call attention to the government abuse of power in summarily executing that family and the kids. From what we know, it could be on the order of Oklahoma City.”