MR. MILLER: Franklin J. Miller, Special Agent, Counterterrorism. Intel 1 division.
CBD: You have a service record?
MR. MILLER: Yes. Three tours in Afghanistan. Honorably discharged.
CBD: Honorably? I’d say that is an understatement. Medal of Honor, if I’m not mistaken? Second Battle of Fallujah, according to your records here.
MR. MILLER: That’s correct.
CBD: Would you care to elaborate for the panel?
MR. MILLER: I would prefer not to.
CBD: Thank you, Mr. Miller. You understand that your testimony here is on the record, and your words might later be used to charge and try you as an enemy combatant of the United States?
MR. MILLER: No, I don't understand that.
[REDACTED]: Have you not been informed of your rights and requirements under the new Tribunal Act?
MR. MILLER: Yes, sir. But none of this makes any sense to me.
[REDACTED]: You have been informed of the law?
MR. Miller: Yes. Jesus.
CBD: Mr. Miller, how long have you worked with the defendant?
MR. MILLER: Nearly a decade.
CBD: And in what capacity?
MR. MILLER: First I was a special agent in the Intel 1 division under the umbrella of Larry Kanter's counter-terrorism branch. After the attacks on our division, I served under him in the restructured Intel 1.
CBD: And it was serving in this role during which the events in question occurred?
MR. MILLER: Yes.
CBD: And how did you and the Intel 1 division become involved?
MR. MILLER: John likely knows the chronology better. But-
CBD: You mean the defendant, former agent Savas?
MR. MILLER: Former?
CBD: Agent Savas.
MR. MILLER: Yes. Special agent in Charge, John Savas.
CBD: Continue.
MR. MILLER: I mean for the rest of us it was a relatively normal day, if you can ever consider counterterrorism a normal job. We had our usual reports, chatter, kidnappings by more extremists, talks of retaliation for the French raid in Algeria. It was also the ceremony for John's medal, and that morning we were all in front of the Mayor and Attorney General.
[REDACTED]: And the Anonymous case? Please focus your responses to material relevant to this inquiry.
MR. MILLER: Right. It started with the bombing, obviously. As far as I know, NYPD was the first on the scene but they called us in fairly quickly.
[REDACTED]: You know this because?
MR. MILLER: John told us.
CBD: Can we just back up and get the events from you one step at a time. Tell us from what you remember what happened.
MR. MILLER: I wasn't there for a lot of it, but we were all briefed.
CBD: That's fine. Just your words, please.
MR. MILLER: All right. Like I said, it started just like any other day.
1
"Mr. Craig, sir."
A man in a chauffeur’s uniform held a door open patiently. The CEO of Goldman Sachs stalked toward the car. Silver-haired, dressed in a tailored business suit with a golden watch that glinted in the sunlight, his thin-framed glasses gave his harsh features a predatory intelligence. The black leather handle of his briefcase contrasted sharply with his golden wedding ring. Two bodyguards left his side and walked to a second car parked immediately behind.
Jack Craig nodded to the chauffeur and stepped into the limo. He dropped his briefcase onto the leather seat, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed as his driver shut the door. The interior was spartan compared to the cars kept by many of his equals at the top echelons of corporate power. But Craig had never taken to the ostentatious bravado that infected so many of his peers. To his mind, there was no surer sign of dominance than the refusal to flaunt it.
The driver entered and started the engine. “World Financial Center, Miles." The driver nodded and pulled the car out into midday Manhattan traffic. Craig engaged the auditory dampening system, sealing him off from the driver. "Yes, Heidi. I understand that there are midterms coming, but this bill cannot come up for a vote. It's got Warren's dirty paw prints all over it and it’s a step in the wrong direction." He paused, listening. "No, it doesn't matter. You won't lose your position on the committee. Hell, given how much you lot have gerrymandered things I doubt I'll be alive the next time you lose the House. We've got you more than covered with the advertising, believe me. Kill this vote. You’ve got nothing to fear." He pulled the phone away from his head to mitigate the shouting on the other end of the line. "For fuck's sake, Heidi! Least of all the press! Not even the Times has anyone off the payroll now."
Craig nodded several times, satisfied. He ended the call and sighed. No one in Congress has any balls except that damn bitch Warren! And they hadn't been able to find a price for her. He doubted there was one, but they still had many years to find out. Especially if they could couple it with some dirty laundry and rattle her cage a little. He swiped across the phone and hit an entry, placing a call.
"Hi, sweetheart!" For the first time that day, Jack Craig smiled. "No, I can't make your show today, I'm sorry. Daddy's got a very important meeting with the President. Tell that to your friends!" He frowned as a whining pitch escaped from the speaker. "I know, I know, honey. I'll bring you something special tonight, from that new toy store they opened, what's it called? The one with the giant bear?" There was a sound on the other end. "Right. That one. A surprise, okay?"
The vehicle pulled out onto FDR Drive and sped south beneath the Hospital for Special Surgery, the sun glinting off the East River on his left. Craig cracked the window open a wedge, gazing toward the looming mass of the Queensboro Bridge and the white sailboats bobbing along the currents.
"Now, Daddy’s got to go. You give him a kiss." A pop sounded on the speaker. "Thanks, honey. Talk to you later." He closed the connection.
Continuing to stare outside his window, Craig felt a weariness descend. Soon, he knew, they would reach their exit and the nasty courting ritual would begin at the hotel. A presidential speech on financial reform, dutiful agreements from the top managers, handshakes, TV moments, and reporters' questions. Too much money had changed hands for there to be any real concern. They owned the committees. The damn politicians had to trot them out every few years, give them a public tongue-lashing, and then it was back to business as usual.
A black spot in the sky in front of them caught his eye. What the hell? He disengaged the sound suppression.
"Miles, can you see that thing in front of us? I thought it was a plane, but it's something else."
While he was accustomed to the low flying aircraft along this route — helicopters heading to the Hamptons and tourist planes lumbering overhead — something was wrong. The craft, whatever it was, seemed way too low. Too small.
"Look at it — it's off the river and over the damned FDR.”
He could see his driver straining upward and nodding. "Some kid’s remote control helicopter or something, Mr. Craig."
Craig shook his head. "Maybe. Damn if it’s not going to hit us."
The object careened straight for them, slowing its approach until it paced the car. He could see it better now: four helicopter-like blades spun equidistant from each other separated like the points on a square. A mass of spidery arms underneath held what looked like a cylinder, the bottom shining like a large metallic disk. Craig felt a strange unease. It's like some giant insect from Mars.
"Miles, take the next exit. There. The sign that says 53rd. Take that exit.”