The only access was the open sea front which itself was well covered by motion sensors and cameras. However, it did offer a clear view up to the pool area and the spectacular house beyond. What it didn’t offer was any view from land, as the house was pointing south towards the open Mediterranean and the spectacular super yacht that the egomaniacal prince had called ‘Abdullah’.
“Well?” asked Flynn’s number two as he paddled alongside.
“Piece of cake.” “Seriously?” he asked.
“Well yeah, if we didn’t have to cover our tracks and make it look like an accident or it was natural, piece of cake; one cruise missile right through those beautiful French doors and right into the motherfucker’s living room.”
“And given we can’t do that?”
“How good a shot are you?” he joked, as they bobbed up and down on the swell that broke into some quite fabulous surfing waves another fifty yards to their right.
“Whoa! What the fuck!” the number two suddenly shouted.
Flynn turned back to look at the prince’s home. The prince had seemingly slumped to the ground, for no apparent reason.
“Shall we catch some waves?” asked Flynn.
“What the fuck did you do?” his partner asked.
Both were out of earshot of other the two DCS team members.
“I may have given him a letter,” said Flynn quietly.
“And?”
“Let’s just say you wouldn’t have wanted to be the first to open it. After a few seconds, no problem, but if you were to touch that paper before the light was able to break down the chemical coating it, a few hours later you might just keel over.”
“Like that?”
“Perhaps,” smiled Flynn. “Anyway, let’s go catch some waves. Being a courier is stressful work, you know,” he joked.
After delivering the letter, he had washed his hands incessantly for an hour, just in case he had managed to get any chemical on himself, which he was assured was impossible. The chemical coated the letter sealed inside the envelope, which itself was specially lined to stop any light getting through. The letter was a risk. A secretary could have opened it before the prince, but with the number of official government seals and stamps that declared the letter extremely private and confidential, it would have been a brave secretary that would have broken the seals. The chemical itself would be absorbed through the skin on contact and begin its work. Seconds after exposure to light, the letter would be free of any compound. Any tests would show it to be standard government issue paper. A few hours later, a cardiac arrest would ensue. Any autopsy would show death by natural causes, heart failure.
Piece of cake, thought Flynn, riding the wave.
Chapter 83
The call from Flynn confirming the package had been accepted by the right person brought a smile to Carson’s face. He had wanted to deal with the playboy prince for years. His funding had been aiding the jihadist cause across the world for years while he partied and socialized with the very people he was fighting against.
The call from Bill Jameson had been slightly less welcome. Frankie wasn’t giving up. Her phone call with Bill had been overheard by the President and a meeting was consequently arranged, something Bill Jameson would never have allowed. But President Mitchell had always had a soft spot for her. They all did. It was the reason she had been put on the investigation in the first place. Her career was over. Her link to Nick was too toxic for her to remain with the Secret Service. The rumblings were already beginning as the news spread of her involvement with Nick. The President had already had three Senators ask him if he were mad having the girlfriend of the world’s number one terrorist on the team hunting him down. “Ex-girlfriend” was the President’s response but that would only work for so long.
If she remained in the Service, her pregnancy, a pregnancy she was not in the least interested in aborting, would be public knowledge. It would be the child and not just Frankie who would be labeled. A decision had to be taken, a tough one but it was for the best. Carson called his security team. He needed to get to the White House.
Frankie drove while Turner and Reid prepared the papers in the back seat of the Prius to show the President. They had ten minutes, and in that ten minutes the lives of tens of thousands of innocent civilians were in their hands. They not only had to lay out what they believed Carson was doing, they also had to offer an alternative solution. They would have to be concise, clear and convincing.
“I think you should do the talking,” said Turner, looking at Frankie from the back seat.
“No way, you’re the professional investigators.”
“I agree with Paul,” said Reid, surprising Frankie.
“What the hell? My job was to protect one person, not make cases that would hold up when put before a jury. You guys are the professionals,” she replied, looking into the mirror and seeing fear etched across both their faces. “These are the lives of thousands, tens of thousands of people,” she argued to them both.
Fear stared back.
Reid squirmed awkwardly. “We’re not used to meeting with the President.”
“The last time I met him, I was a quivering wreck,” admitted Turner. “Too many lives are at stake for me to start stumbling over my words because of nerves!”
“He’s just a person like we are,” Frankie said.
“He’s not, he’s an office, he’s an institution, he is the United States encapsulated in one person,” Turner expounded.
“He’s also a hell of a nice guy.”
“Who you know and can talk to easily,” said Reid.
The pleading eyes of two of the most senior members of the FBI from the rear seat were too much.
“Seriously, you guys need to grow some!” She sighed. “Make me good notes,” she said as she turned in towards the security gate at the White House.
“Hey, Joe,” she said, greeting the guard.
“Good to see you, Frankie, we’ve been missing that smile around here.”
“Not for much longer, I hope,” she said.
“Good news,” he smiled. “Head on up, Frankie, they’re expecting you in the residence.”
‘Thanks, Joe,” she said, blowing him a kiss, as she had done for all the years she had known him.
“He’s lovely,” said Reid. “Can’t imagine he’s much good as a security guy though. Bit old and heavy,” she mused.
Frankie laughed. “Don’t ever let anyone hear you say that. When you talk about institutions, Joe is one. Don’t let his age or weight fool you either. That man has more medals for bravery and has seen more action than nearly any other Marine alive. We rest easy knowing Joe’s on the gate. If anyone ever got past him, we’d know we were in trouble.”
Turner and Reid each looked back with a newfound admiration for the cuddly looking old guard who was still watching them drive towards the White House residence.
Frankie stopped as directed and was pleased to see Bill Jameson, her old boss, had come down to greet them.
“Hey, Bill, looking good,” she said.
“Hi, Frankie,” he replied without the warmth of his normal his tone.
“What’s up?”
Bill didn’t answer, he just led the way into the main residence towards the elevator which sat ready and waiting for them.
“Bill?” she pressed. They stepped into the elevator.