The country had grieved with thirty-one year old Elliott Webster when he’d buried his beautiful and generous bride. After a year spent out of the eye of the public, Webster had returned and said he was going to run for senator in New Hampshire.
‘Since I was a boy,’ Webster had said with grim resolve, ‘I have pursued technology and science. I only became involved with business because I needed funding to continue my exploration of emerging technologies. My time with my dear Vanessa has taught me a lot. Her loss, when we have turned away from the very science that might have saved her life as well as the lives of millions of other people, is unconscionable to me. When I’m a senator, I’m going to work to free up the roadblocks that an ill-informed Congress has made for science. I’m going to return the future to all people.’
That declaration, RETURNING THE FUTURE, had become the rallying cry first of New Hampshire, then of the nation. Twelve years later when President Michael Waggoner had selected Webster as his running mate, it surfaced again. They had won the election in a landslide victory.
Now, with all the contacts he’d made while helping his wife’s efforts in the Middle East, Webster was point man for the Middle East peace talks.
And a whole lot of other things, as well.
‘Good evening, Jimmy,’ the vice-president said. ‘It’s good to see you.’
‘It’s good to see you, sir.’ Dawson took Webster’s hand and shook briefly. As always, the familiar electric tingle ran through Dawson. Just being near the vice-president seemed to inspire well-being and a positive attitude in people, even people who knew him well. The brief contact of flesh almost made Dawson forget the snafu in Istanbul.
‘Please have a seat.’ Webster waved his napkin to the plush chair to his right. The room was small and elegant, set up for an intimate party.
Dawson sat. Whenever he had dinner with the vice-president, Webster always had him sit on his right. Dawson liked the feeling of being the vice-president’s right-hand man. It was the little things, these small details, that Webster was so good at.
‘I took the liberty of ordering dinner,’ Webster said. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I know we’re both pushing the clock here.’
‘I’m sure whatever you ordered will be fine, sir.’
Webster poured two glasses of wine, then handed one to Dawson.
‘Let’s say we get rid of the white elephant in the room, Jimmy,’ Webster said. ‘That way we can get on with our dinner.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Tension rattled through Dawson.
‘I’m not happy with losing Professor Thomas Lourds over in Istanbul.’
‘No, sir.’
‘I know you’re not happy about it either.’
‘No, sir. I don’t want to make a habit of letting you down.’
Webster clapped Dawson on the shoulder and smiled. ‘I have a shortlist of people I know I can count on for anything. You’re right there near the top.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Webster took a roll from the covered basket in the middle of the table, then offered the basket to Dawson.
‘No, thank you, sir.’
‘Nonsense. You need to eat. Keep your strength up. We’ve got a lot to do if we’re going to pull a win out of this.’
Dawson took a roll and put it on the small plate in front of him. The vice-president buttered his own roll, then pushed the butter dish towards Dawson.
‘Indulge. We’ll work it off the next time we’re on the racquetball court together.’ Webster smiled.
Dawson buttered his roll.
‘How long ago did we lose Professor Lourds, Jimmy?’
Dawson glanced at the PDA he’d deliberately placed on the table within his view. The number in the upper left-hand corner revealed how long ago Lourds had gone missing.
‘Five hours and forty-two minutes, sir.’
Webster bit into his roll and chewed thoughtfully. ‘That’s a long time.’
‘I’ve got people on it, sir. We’re using all available intel sources. Including ELINT and HUMINT.’
The vice-president nodded. ‘I know you’ve got good people over there.’
‘We’ve got good people over there, sir.’
‘Of course. We do.’ Webster sipped his wine. ‘This is my fault, actually. I didn’t get the information to you about Lourds in time for you to make all the preparations you needed to. I shot you in the foot on this one.’
That was another reason everyone liked Elliott Webster so much. When he made mistakes, he owned up to them and then he worked to correct them.
‘I assume the men killed at the airport were our assets?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What about the other men who were killed in the car crash and in the alley? Do you have anything on them yet?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Dawson pointed to his briefcase. ‘If I may?’
The vice-president nodded and reached for another roll.
Dawson took out the encrypted computer and placed it on the table. He opened it, powered it up, entered his password, and pressed his right forefinger and left ring finger on the two fingerprint scanners. The password changed hourly and the combination of fingerprints changed twice daily. In the beginning, getting the rhythm of those changes had been difficult.
The screen flared to life and quickly searched for the local WiFi connection. Once the connection had been accessed, a red and yellow CIA TOP SECRET screen saver flashed on. But that was just window dressing to scare off normal hackers who might have got their hands on the computer. Dawson entered a series of keystrokes that shut down the main drive and opened up a small partition drive disguised within the computer’s OS file registry.
‘First of all, we haven’t been able to learn anything about the three kidnappers who were killed,’ Dawson said after all the requisite connections had been made.
‘That’s disappointing.’
‘Yes, sir. But the woman is a different story.’ Dawson brought up a picture of her.
‘That’s a pretty young woman.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘She intercepted Lourds at the airport.’
‘Yes, sir. Lourds has an obvious weakness for pretty young women based on the history we’ve been able to dig up.’
‘Young women.’
‘That’s right, sir. Evidently our opposition knows that.’
‘Who is she?’
Dawson’s fingers tapped commands quickly on the keyboard. More pictures of the woman filled the screen. There weren’t very many, but there were enough. Some of them showed her on the street talking to people. Others were of her in a bar.
‘Her name is Cleena MacKenna.’
‘Irish?’
Dawson nodded. ‘Very Irish. Her father, Ryan MacKenna, was part of the Continuity Irish Republican Army. He was responsible for a number of attacks against the British military and Royal Ulster Constabulary. Some reports I’ve seen put his kills at seven, others at thirteen.’
Dawson tapped more keys and photographs of MacKenna’s victims showed.
‘A dangerous man,’ Webster commented. ‘However, the world seems full of them these days. Is he involved with this?’
‘No, sir. Ryan MacKenna was killed six years ago.’ Dawson brought up the news clippings. ‘Evidently he got caught up in an arms deal that went sour. A Chinese street gang called the Hungry Ghosts intercepted him and his seller. Both of them were murdered.’
‘If MacKenna’s not involved with this, why mention him?’
‘Because I think Professor Lourds’ weakness may be exploitable for us.’
‘Explain.’
Dawson went back to the pictures of Cleena MacKenna. ‘When Ryan MacKenna was killed, he left behind two daughters. Years before, his wife was killed in their home, supposedly by police officers seeking revenge for one of their number that MacKenna had slain. No one knows if MacKenna really killed that policeman or even if it was policemen that killed his wife. But, either way, MacKenna moved his girls to Boston.’