A full company of Marines was now bivouacked in the woods surrounding Camp David. All two hundred men had one purpose: stop any shoulder-launched missile from interrupting any future helicopter flights. All of which made Bill feel better as he boarded the chopper on the charred and scarred tarmac of the helipad for a quick visit to the CIA in Alexandria.
The hastily arranged conference included the head of Homeland, director of National Intelligence, the DCI of the CIA and the general in charge of DIA. It was the Defense Intelligence Agency that had the skin in the game with the attack of the USS Nebraska. Everyone else was there because the Commander-In-Chief was involved and none of them could risk being on his bad side. After all, the president could cut their funding and they would all be looking for new jobs.
Bill relayed what he knew and reported on what he thought. The various heads all offered their agencies’ services and promised operational plans to Hiccock by 5 p.m. Bill had circulated the picture of Sicard to all in attendance, to be filtered through their networks of spooks and sources in the hope it would ring some bells.
As he was leaving the meeting, a man approached him and said, “Excuse me, sir. You dropped this,” and handed Bill a folded piece of paper.
“Bill said, “Thank you,” and continued walking as he unfolded the paper. It had three words: Washington Monument — Klaven. He turned, but the man was gone. Bill turned to his secret service man, Moskowitz, and said, “Steve, hold the chopper. I need a car to get me to the National Mall ASAP.”
“Yes, sir.” Steve called control and ordered a service car.
As they approached the Mall, Bill had a heart-to-heart with Steve. “I need you to give me at least five hundred yards here.”
“I can’t agree to that, sir. You are my responsibility.”
“Steve, I get all that, but I have to meet with someone who doesn’t like to be known — by anyone. He won’t meet me if he senses any kind of surveillance.”
“I am qualified at fifty yards. I can give you that, but if he sneezes wrong, I will drop him.”
“I guess I’ll take fifty, when you put it that way.”
Bill left the car and walked from the World War II Memorial across Seventeenth to the base of the monument.
A young boy walked up to him and handed him a throw-away phone. “A man gave me five dollars to give this to you.”
“Thanks, kid.” Five seconds later, the phone rang, “Clay? Where are you?”
“The monument is on high ground. I saw you and your nursemaid from three hundred yards off.”
“I’m sorry about that; it’s his job and I can’t stop him.”
“There’s a bench next to a trash can with an umbrella in it.”
Bill walked for a minute and sat on the bench. The phone rang again. “Taped under the bench.” Bill retrieved a yellow envelope and opened it. He was shocked to see a picture of Sicard and a CIA dossier.
“You keep surprising me!” Bill said, shaking his head.
“As far as the company is concerned, this guy went rogue back in 2001.”
“So, his death in Lebanon in 1996 was actually his graduation to the spook house?” Bill reviewed the dossier.
“Yes, but then we lost him. I understand you are looking for him. Can I ask why?”
“Because he walked into my office last week and knew things only the president and I should know — and of course, you.”
“He may have been turned.” Klaven spoke into his phone thirty-five feet away from Bill’s back.
“Wait, you said rogue? You mean the Russians or Chinese?”
“There are other ways for an operative to turn.”
“Look, Clay, why not save me a whole lot of time and a few mini-heart attacks with you jumping out at me from every bush, and just tell me who he is, what he’s doing and who he’s working for.”
“Sorry, Bill, I just don’t know that.”
“Stunning confession from you, Mr. Ultra Spook.”
“No need to get petty, here. How did you make out with the scrambled eggs?”
“After I did a little homework, they suddenly backed off from the big number and came in at about one hundred twenty mil.”
“Oh, I would have loved to hear that discussion at Navy.”
“Hey, Clay, thanks for all your help. Do you need anything from me?”
“I’ll take a chit, payable someday!”
“Your credit is always good here.”
“Take care, SciAD!”
“You too, Clay.”
Bill looked at his watch and decided to use the car to go home and get a few things he and Janice needed during their extended stay at Camp David. He informed Steve of this new plan and asked him to hold the chopper a little longer at the CIA.
Bill entered his house and went to the bedroom. He started going through the list of things he and Janice had talked about wanting. He couldn’t remember if it was her red outfit or the coral one, but the phone rang as he was reaching for it to call her.
“Hello?”
“Bling!”
Bill knew the code word instantly. It was Bridgestone. He and Ross had used it during the Hammer of God operation to positively identify themselves and confirm that what followed was not being transmitted under duress.
“Well, hello my friend. I just kinda met with an old Navy buddy of yours.”
“We’ll have to finish that one on a secure line, Dr. Hiccock.”
“Right you are. What can I do for you?”
“A little bird told me you had a sudden interest in whales.”
Two minutes later, Bill was on his secure phone to the U.S. Embassy in Paris. “Brooke, I need you back in Washington tomorrow.”
“What’s up, boss?”
“We might be able to clear the Navy captain who saved your life.”
Brooke’s face lit up. She started packing as she called Joey in his room, but he wasn’t there so she left a message.
The residence of the Cardinal of Paris was opulent. Although the man himself was in Rome, his staff was more than attentive to Joey and Father Mercado. The Monsignor had picked this spot for its privacy.
Joey noticed the now familiar ‘ring of thorns’ on the finger of the septuagenarian’s liver-spotted hand. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Monsignor.”
“I won’t know if I can help you in your quest until I know what your intention is.”
“First off, I am not interested in anything of a criminal or illegal nature, if any were to exist. I am here to speak to Mr. Sicard because he has come into some information that could greatly aid the United States and all free nations of the world in the fight against tyranny.”
“Are you a Catholic, Mr. Palumbo?”
“Yes.”
“Are you an American or a Catholic first?”
“With respect, they are two separate things. One is who I am and the other is what I believe.”
“So, you are not a man of ideals?”
“Politically, my ideals are those of the Bill of Rights, the Constitution, and the Republic. Spiritually, my ideals are those of Jesus and the Holy Roman Church. Again, I see them as separate.”
“Is not America a Christian country?”
“It is based on Judeo-Christian ethics, but there is no national religion. God is apart from any one religion, but he is recognized as the grantor of certain rights, which no man or government can take away.”
“Do you believe that Jesus is the Son of God?” As he leaned forward, the cross dangling from his neck hit the table’s edge.
“Again, with respect, I already went through Confirmation. I don’t see how this will be relevant to why I am here.” Joey was restraining his annoyance.
“There are loyalties that go beyond politics or nationalism,” the old man said.