President Burroughs gazed at him with eyes that seemed sorrowful rather than judgmental. “You had me second-guessing myself,” he told him. “You wanted me to believe that Special Agent Cohen was the wrong person for the job because of her faith. But you knew if I kept her on, and if given the time, she would have discovered the truth as to the governing force behind all this. Thank God I didn’t listen to you.”
“What I did — I did for the future of this country.”
The president closed his eyes in disgust. “I chose you, Jonas, because I thought you would be a good successor with a good head on your shoulders. Apparently I misjudged you.”
The president walked back to the window and stared outside for a while before speaking again. “Of course you understand we’ll have to keep the Oversight Committee out of this.”
Vice President Bohlmer closed his eyes. In so many words, the president had just given him the death sentence. The vice president nodded. “I’m not beyond insight, Mr. President. I realized the ax had fallen on my career when Ms. Cohen played that tape.”
“Before you leave, Jonas,” he said, turning and placing the flats of his palms on top of his desk. “Tell us where he is.”
The vice president turned away.
“Jonas, where is he?” the president repeated.
The vice president turned back, his eyes vacant and unreadable, the lack of expression behind them denoting that he was not about to crack.
In turn the president pressed him with a stare that was clear, if not determined.
Then finally, after a whittling away of perseverance, the vice president conceded. “In Boston,” he finally said, his tone weighted with defeat. “The pope’s in Boston.”
“Boston? Where in Boston?”
“Behind the Granary Burying Ground. There’s a depository there that has been abandoned and marked for demolition years ago, but never was. We knew that as soon as the news got out about the kidnapping, a dragnet would have been sent for hundreds of miles from the epicenter of D.C., which is why the operation was moved north. We even went as far as to place the body of the governor here in D.C. as a red herring to keep the search limited to this area.”
Shari stepped forward. “The Granary Burying Ground — that’s part of the Freedom Trail.”
“It’s an old section of Boston managed by the historical society where Paul Revere and Samuel Adams are buried,” said the vice president. “Most of the buildings surrounding that particular site are either condemned or too far gone for revitalization, which means activity in that area is minimal. You’ll find him on the third floor,” he added.
“And how long before they kill the pope?”
The vice president hesitated, as if his conscious was vacillating on whether or not he wanted to continue. Then in the same defeatist tone, he relented. “They’re going to kill him today,” he said.
The president stood there looking nonplussed. “Today?”
The vice president nodded.
“Then we’ll negotiate a peaceful surrender. And you, Jonas, will be the negotiator.”
“That’s unlikely,” he said. “I already tried to abort the mission once Murdock was in custody. But the Boston faction refused to hear me out.”
“Then contact him again.”
“You don’t seem to understand,” said the vice president. “They’re in a win-win situation. If you try to compromise their position by trying to negotiate a peaceful solution, they know the media will be all over this like a pack of dogs on a three-legged cat, which the United States can’t afford. On the other hand, if the cause runs its course, then the accusing finger is pointed directly at the Arab world and the United States isn’t labeled as the culprit, since the truth is unbeknownst to the worldwide public. Our image is maintained.”
The president looked at Alan Thornton, then to Shari. “Is what he says true?”
“It all depends upon the Boston faction,” said Thornton. “It depends if their command leader is willing to hold this country hostage by calling upon the media. If that’s the case, then it would be devastating to this country.”
President Burroughs began to pace the room, his eyes cast to the carpeted floor, thinking. “Obviously this can’t get out,” he said. “Is there any way we can quash this without the media knowing? Anything we can do?”
“Unfortunately, Mr. President, we’re at the mercy of the Boston faction. Who knows what they have, or what equipment or contingencies they planned for.”
The president turned toward the vice president, who sat unmoving in his seat. “Jonas, tell me, tell us, what they have?”
“I can’t help you,” he said. “All I know is what I told you — what the Boston commander has already informed me of. He stated quote-unquote, that there will be no discussions, no debates and no negotiations. The cause will go on.”
The president slapped an open palm against his desk. “Dammit, Jonas!”
The vice president didn’t even flinch.
Once again the president addressed Thornton. “Alan, what’s your stance on trying to negotiate a peaceful solution to all this?”
Thornton’s face screwed into a semblance of wrinkles, seams of complete loss. “Perhaps, Mr. President, you should ask Special Agent Cohen.”
“Ms. Cohen?”
“I don’t know the commander of this Boston faction or his capabilities of what he can or cannot do. But I do know that he’s in a win-win situation as the vice president states. If he knows that we suspect his location and try to negotiate a deal, all this does is allow him time to strategize and defend his position.”
“But?”
Shari hesitated before speaking. “I believe, Mr. President, that a surgical strike is needed. We need to catch them off guard and take away their advantage.”
“I still think we need to try to negotiate a peaceful solution to this.”
“Mr. President, we don’t have time. They’re going to execute the pope today. So we need to act accordingly.”
The President turned back to the vice president. “Jonas, is there any way — any way at all, to negotiate this without anyone getting harmed?”
“As sure as the sun sets,” he said, “this man will follow through and kill the pope. If you interfere, then he will retaliate by bringing this country down… a win-win situation.”
The president stood straight. And everyone in the room could tell that the man was calculating. “Then we have no choice,” he finally said. “We strike.”
The president was then quick to direct orders. “Contact Boston’s FBI field office immediately,” he told Johnston. “I want them to set a perimeter around the district with trained law enforcement personnel and assault teams. I want our team from Quantico to conduct the mission. You do agree, director, the Quantico Team is the best we have to offer?”
Johnston nodded. The Quantico CIRG Team, the Critical Incident Response Group, trains for hours on end for such scenarios. “They can do it in their sleep. It’ll take an hour, maybe an hour and a half to get the team assembled, and perhaps another two for transport.”
“Too long,” piped Shari. “I have a CIRG Team already assembled and willing to go as soon as transportation is ready.”
Johnston looked at her quizzically, not sure what she was talking about. The CIRG Team is always posted at Quantico until called to duty.
She continued. “Mr. President, as far as I’m concerned, this team is the best in the world. If they can’t pull off this mission, nobody can.”
For a brief moment the president looked at her in an appraising manner, neither good nor bad. And Shari had to question him.
“What is it this time, Mr. President? I know it’s not because I’m Jewish, so is it because I’m a woman? You don’t think I have the capabilities of a man to put forward the effort of a combat-trained soldier?”