General Nandesera felt a pain in his back. It was his first consciously aware moment since he sat down three hours earlier to review the final operational plans for Samovar. The lactic acid in his muscles made him stiff. His body was used to the military regimen. Sitting still had been an acquired talent — one that he struggled to conquer every day that he sat and thought rather than stood and fought. It had been a while. The last time he actually fought was Afghanistan in ‘89. Overall, he was pleased with the report he had read. His assets were in position. The retribution for the American cruise missile strikes deep within his country would soon be rained down on the imperialist giant that felt it could kill without consequences. The General was about to sign an order making America pay dearly for those punitive attacks carried out towards the end of the last century. All that was needed was an exact position and time in which to execute. That, he was hoping, would be provided by the new “eyes and ears” center supplying the much-needed intelligence. As an old soldier, he would have much preferred hard human intelligence over electronic eavesdropping, especially when the eaves one was dropping in on were public media outlets.
Alone in his office, he signed the order without fanfare or ceremony. As he removed his reading glasses, he sat silent for a moment. Very quietly, his nation had just gone to war with the United States of America, which was already under attack by somebody else; he didn’t know who, maybe the North Koreans, but he knew those events were the perfect diversion and cover for Samovar, his Master Plan.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“You’re telling me that the CEO of Intellichip was illegally exporting chemicals from Mason Chemical to Iran?” said Reynolds. “I don’t believe it!”
“I don’t know if I do either but there are two separate issues here. The illegality aside, if the mixture in the building that night was going overseas, and it was heavily suspended, then it couldn’t have spontaneously combusted or been accidentally ignited by the employee. It had to have been sabotaged. On the other hand, Wendell could just be a disgruntled employee of Intellichip. I think the FBI should check out his story, whether he actually did lose a daughter on the night of the explosion and so on.”
Reynolds raised an eyebrow, announcing that Hiccock just impressed him in some way. “FBI? Handing the ball over to the other team?”
“Let’s just say I don’t want that factory to blow up again, this time in our faces. Besides, Tate strong-armed an old friend of mine to grovel for the FBI. They don’t want to be left out of my loop.”
“It’s your call. You know, Bill, your FBI pal probably wrote a report that found its way to Tate’s desk already.”
“Then they better have a good infirmary in the old FBI building there, because if Joey wrote a blow by blow of everything I said, Tate’s going to have a coronary.”
“Now why doesn’t that surprise me? Listen, you aren’t in the pristine realm of science now. You are into an area populated by power-hungry men. Being right isn’t always as important as surviving the political shit storms around here.”
Bill was confused. Reynolds was the last guy he expected to give fatherly political birds-and-bees speeches. “Thank you, Ray, for that insight. I’ll try to remember to always have my umbrella out.”
“Look, whether I like it or not you are now part of my team. I have a vested interest in your survival and Tate knows it. Be careful!”
Bill knew that Reynolds was covering his bets, straddling both sides of the loyalty issue. After all, he, the dumb political guy, could be right. Reynolds was making sure there wasn’t anything more than a few feathers left in his potential serving of crow. Or was he keeping a murky access road open for his boss, President Mitchell, to take as an escape route? Hiccock was stunned to catch himself in the middle of such political calculations and reverie. Maybe this place is rubbing off on me.
“How’s it going with the wife … ex-wife?”
“Fine. She’s onto something.”
“Has she found the common tie yet?”
“No, but this is either two-dozen, separate one-in-a-billion coincidences of individual schizophrenia or …” He paused as the scientist in him demanded more empirical data before even speculating on a conclusion. His last words hung awkwardly for a moment. “That’s all I am prepared to say at this time.”
“Very politically astute answer, Bill. You’re learning. I got to hit the head.” Reynolds made his exit, totally misreading Bill’s intention. It would not be the last time.
As William Hiccock left Ray Reynolds’ office he looked at his watch and realized it was five past three. He decided to skip a pit stop to the men’s room and get back to his office to meet Carly.
When he reached his office, she was sitting there, filling his office with a French perfume he should probably learn the name of. He made a small apology and sat behind his desk. She was looking very attractive today. Her hair color had changed. It was now a constant shimmering hue. It almost didn’t look real. “Well, what’s on your mind, Ms. Simone?”
“Carly, please.” Hiccock nodded and she continued. “Well, things are happening so fast here at the White House. Yesterday I was offered a job at MSNBC.”
“Congratulations!”
“Thank you. Actually it was in no small part because of you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. You are drawing a lot of attention and they want me to cover you.”
Hiccock was intrigued by her directness. “I’m flattered, but I’m doing classified work here.”
“That’s why I wanted to talk with you first. Do you see any way of me covering what you do while you maintain your need for secrecy?”
Hiccock liked that she was clearing it with him… But wait! He caught himself. “Carly, that’s really a question for Naomi’s press office.”
“Mr. Hiccock, I know what she’ll say. That’s why I am coming to you. You can grant me access, I believe, if you feel that you are being treated fairly.”
“Pardon, but the news media has been anything but fair with me. And don’t quote me on that, please.”
“Trust starts here, Mr. Hiccock. I won’t breathe a word of it. After all, I am a print journalist at heart. I like to believe we hold ourselves to a higher standard.”
Hiccock took in the new television reporter for a moment. Now the hair color made sense. He imagined that someone spent two or three hundred dollars on a “colorist” to bring luminosity, highlight, and tone to her soon-to-be nationally broadcast, locks. He found himself smiling at her and her 300-dollar dye job. It was worth it.
He forced himself to look beyond her good looks and tried to look into her heart to see if she harbored good or evil. He gave that up in short order realizing probably only God could do that. Were her eyes always that blue? was the thought that capped his mortal failing at being God-like.
“I’ll talk to Naomi and see what we can do. But, if I say I can’t divulge or talk about something you’ll have to respect that.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ll let you get back to work.”
She stood and extended her hand. Hiccock was amazed at how soft it was. Something was said through the brief eye contact that followed but Hiccock had no idea what that was. She then turned toward the door; he consciously avoided watching her as she left.