“What is it, Bruce?” the president asked.
“Sir, you are probably aware of DoD Protocol Eleven, in which all high-yield weapon transports are locked down in the event of an enemy attack,” he said. “The DoD issued a temporary alert after Baltimore, then lifted it for ordnance already in motion, then reissued it yesterday at eight twenty-two in the morning. It is still in effect.”
“What’s on the hoof?” Cluzot asked.
“The Texas Highway Patrol was alerted by Trask Industries AMRAD Division that a pair of prototype EPWs-earth-penetrating weapons-were en route to White Sands,” Perry said.
“Hell’s silver bells,” Andrews said, sitting back.
“Yeah,” Perry said. “A report from THP Intelligence and Counterterrorism says that the van went from Atlanta to New York with cargo for the NYPD. The GPS showed no stops other than Arkadelphia, Arkansas. When the vehicle was detained outside New Boston by a trio of Ospreys, it was empty and the crew was taken away.”
“To White Sands?” the president asked.
“Presumably,” Perry replied.
“Who’s in command there?” the president demanded.
“Looking, sir,” Andrews said as he studied his laptop. “Brigadier General Arthur Gilbert, since two thousand nine-”
“Get him,” Brenneman said.
For a long moment no one moved. That was typically the role of the executive secretary, but the president hadn’t asked her. He’d kept it in the room. There was no established pecking order, and no one wanted to take that ride down the totem.
“I’ve got the number here, sir,” Andrews said before the president had noticed the hesitation. He moved to the phone. He had said it to the others in the room, using it to save face. He reached for the phone on the coffee table.
“Could there have been an exchange at the motel?” the president asked.
“I was just texting the THP to find out what the GPS says,” Perry said. “That may not help, though. Satellite coverage at night… We don’t do a lot of it along those remote stretches.” He finished the message and sent it. “The FR also indicates that the THP recovered a secure cell phone from the cab of the van,” Perry went on. “A Minotaur, standard issue for classified transport.”
“Are they cleared to access the cell records?” the president asked.
“If you sign a directive, they are,” Perry replied.
“Draft it,” he told Perry. “The day I can’t trust a Texas lawman, the nation’s done, anyway.”
“Yes, sir.”
The president moved to the laptop on his desk to await the document. He would sign it electronically and forward it to the Texas Department of Intelligence and Counterterrorism.
Andrews’s personal phone beeped as he was placing the call to White Sands. He checked the number, stopped the outgoing call.
“Mr. President, it’s Ryan Kealey,” he said.
“Put it on speaker,” Brenneman ordered.
Andrews answered the phone as he walked to the president’s desk. It wasn’t a secure line, but there was no time to worry about that. Anything they knew, the enemy already knew.
“Ryan? You’re on speaker-”
“Good. Sorry I haven’t checked in. A lot’s been going on. The guy we were supposed to meet here, AD Alex Hunt, just shot and killed CIA agent Jessica Muloni of Rendition Group One. Said she was a suspected Muslim sympathizer. I can’t say if she was or wasn’t, but he shot to kill.”
“This is Cluzot. With cause?”
“She had her weapon drawn, was interrogating Reed Bishop, who she seemed to think had helped the assassin Veil escape,” Kealey said. “Sir, have you been notified about the shooting?”
“No,” Cluzot said.
“I’m not surprised. I think Hunt may be our man. He’s certainly dragging his feet on letting us near the lab and keeping his people in the loop. One thing that surprised me, though. He took a cell phone from Muloni. Snuck it away. A Minotaur.”
The president was looking at the phone. He had a strange thought then: that it was his enemy, like some kind of mischief maker in the myths he loved to read as a kid. During his first term in office, technology was not so omnipresent, and information not quite so immediate and unfiltered. The data was compounding to weigh the group down and confuse the hell out of them.
“Hold on, Ryan,” the president said. He looked at Cluzot. “Charles?”
The FBI director shook his head. “Not standard issue.”
“Is there any chance Hunt was right about her?”
“It’s possible,” Cluzot said. “Veil disappeared on her watch.”
“Mr. Cluzot,” Kealey said, “Mr. Bishop impressed on me that Agent Muloni seemed genuinely convinced that he was responsible for the assassin’s escape. She pointed out something else, something I’d noticed, too. The shooting at Penn Station started virtually the minute we walked onto the street. The gunfire took down people all around us, and I mean every side. We were left alone.”
“She was watching you?” Andrews asked.
“Apparently,” Kealey said.
“Then, and I’m sorry to say this,” the president said, “how do we know that Bishop isn’t a part of this? Maybe his daughter was an unintended casualty.”
“I don’t think so, Mr. President,” Kealey said. “He’s been on board with me from the start, letting me run the show. He comes alive when we’re on the trail of these killers.”
Brenneman looked at the others, his expression asking them if they were okay with Kealey’s explanation. All of them nodded.
“What are you doing now?” Brenneman asked.
“I’m leaving the bridge and heading uptown-on foot until I clear the traffic. I have a feeling we may take one more hit here. People are being fed through bottlenecks out of the city. That’s too tempting a target to ignore. It’ll either be the Port Authority Bus Terminal or Grand Central Station. I’m betting on the latter.”
“Why?” Andrews asked.
“High perches and easy getaway to the side streets,” he said.
“All right,” the president said. “Do you want support there?”
“The NYPD is pretty high alert right now,” he said. “I’m sure the National Guard at both locations is the same. Not much more we can do on that front. And there’s no point clustering even more high-value security targets in one place.”
“True,” Brenneman agreed.
“I’m going to see this through, then get downtown for a belated look at Hunt’s project,” Kealey said.
“How is Bishop?” Carlson asked.
“All right. Focused. I have him checking on something. Is anything new there?”
“Nothing that would help you,” Andrews said.
Kealey would understand that to be code for “There’s no significant data, so don’t bother going out of the way to find a secure location.” And they would understand that he was not in a position to tell them where Bishop had gone. Not on an open line. The president presumed it was to the FBI lab at One West Street.
Andrews hung up and went back to placing the call to Brigadier General Gilbert.
“THP reports that the van stopped west of Interstate Thirty, on Pine Street,” Perry reported. “Showing an Arklight Dome Lodge there.”
“Bob, hold on,” the president said.
Andrews and the others all looked at him.
“White Sands is not the issue,” Brenneman said. “You had cargo off-loaded in New York, and possibly in Arkadelphia.”
“Hell, they could have stopped anywhere,” Carlson said.
“That’s true,” the president agreed, “but we need to at least alert the police in Little Rock and Dallas. Bruce?”
“On it, sir.”
Cluzot seemed surprised. “Only the police?”
“Unless we freeze out your AD Hunt, I don’t think we can risk notifying any field offices, Chuck.”
“Sir, we’ll need all eyes on this that we can get-”
“Those cities have terrorist units, good ones,” Brenneman said. “I know. I signed the funding bill.”
“Mr. President, why don’t we want to talk to General Gilbert?” Andrews asked.
“Let’s see if he files an action memo,” Brenneman said. “He apprehended civilians. That should be coming in soon. If he doesn’t, we’ll know he’s running black ops and we’ll need to find out why.”