Authors: Tim LaHaye
Special Agent Ben Boling was ordering a sandwich at the outside counter of a roadside deli. “I’d like the pastrami on rye. No chips with that, but I’d like it heated.”
Senator Hewbright was next to him. His entourage of staffers were milling around the campaign bus, out of earshot. “Don’t mean to hurry you, Agent Boling, but we have an incredibly tight schedule. What can you tell me so far?”
“First — I don’t have much on Perry Tedrich’s death — yet. We just don’t know if it was connected to your run for president. The autopsy indicates he was poisoned. That’s all I know.”
“I’d like to reach out to his family …”
“I know you would. But I recommend that for the time being you let me express your heartfelt regrets. There’ll be time for you to talk to his relatives when our investigation gets a clearer picture of why he was killed.”
“And my Allfone being hacked?”
“That’s a different story, though it may be connected. Just can’t tell. What our IT forensics people say is this — it was hacked through a source in China.”
Hewbright was nearly speechless. “What in the world …”
“Do we have any reason to believe that China has any particular interest in your campaign?”
“Certainly. I’ve traveled there several times, spoken out against
their abuses of human rights and violations of religious liberties of Christians and other religious minorities. And I’ve argued against President Tulrude’s attempt to expand our national debt that’s owed to China. I’ve publicly argued that she’s enslaving us financially to that nation.”
“Anyone on your staff have any special relationship with Beijing?”
“No, sir, other than my foreign-policy advisors being knowledgeable about China in general.”
Agent Boling threw some cash onto the counter and plucked up his pastrami sandwich, wrapped in paper. “We’ll keep looking at this,” he said. “Meanwhile, be careful who you have around you. I’ve talked to Agent Owens, your Secret Service man. He’ll help you keep your circle tight. Can’t afford too many people getting close to you. Limit yourself to those who are air-tight, as pure as the driven snow.”
Ben Boling smiled at his own comment as he took a bite of his sandwich. How pure could anyone be who was knee deep into the dirtiest blood sport of all — a run for the presidency of the United States? On the other hand, after being around Hank Hewbright for a few days now, Ben had a feeling about him. There was a kind of common decency about the guy. Maybe he was the exception.
“You know, Agent Boling,” Hewbright said strolling toward the campaign bus, “you want me to restrict my circle, but that’s impossible. People want to — have a right to — shake your hand. The voters ought to be able to look you in the eye, find out what makes you tick.”
“Sure,” Boling said, walking beside him and using a paper napkin to wipe the mayo off his chin. “But I’m not talking about that. I mean your staff,” and he tossed a nod toward the campaign workers by the bus. “They’re the ones who know your every move.”
U.N. Secretary-General Alexander Coliquin stopped at a glass case containing the mummy of an ancient Egyptian prince. He gazed into the display and studied the smooth facial features, worn by thousands of years but still preserved enough to give the impression of his brow, nose, and jaw line. The tour guide droned on about the collection in
the Museum of Antiquities, lecturing his audience — representatives from the Arab League nations and the OPEC countries who had gathered to celebrate Coliquin’s great coup in negotiating the treaty agreement with Israel. Meanwhile, the tour guide gushed enthusiastically about how the museum had been gloriously rebuilt since its desecration during the so-called Arab Spring revolts of 2011.
U.N. Deputy Secretary-General Ho Zhu was standing next to Coliquin. He looked at the mummy too. “Once a ruler of a great civilization,” Ho remarked. “Now, just some bones in a glass box. A museum piece. How is greatness measured, truly?”
“By becoming more than even that,” Coliquin replied.
Ho Zhu wondered at that. “More than what?”
“Than merely a ruler of a civilization.”
Before his deputy could pursue that further, Coliquin changed the subject. “Did you get the polls after the Tulrude speech on economics in Nebraska?”
Ho smiled and bobbed his head up and down. “Yes. She gained twelve points. The bump probably won’t last, but it’s a good start. An excellent speech. This is good momentum leading up to the convention. Meanwhile, Senator Hewbright’s party will have its convention first.”
“In politics,” Coliquin added, “a few days, or weeks, is an eternity. Anything could happen to Hewbright. Don’t you agree, my friend?” The two men shared a knowing look.
As the crowd was led to the other end of the hall, Coliquin and Ho Zhu dropped back. The deputy whispered to the secretary-general, “Also, you should know that we have been contacted by Faris D’Hoestra’s people. The World Builders.”
Coliquin stopped in his tracks. “Concerning what?”
“They want a meeting.”
“You still haven’t answered the question.”
“Concerning your ‘agenda for the future.’ That is how they put it.”
Coliquin took a few steps and then turned to Ho Zhu. “Arrange the meeting.”
“Really?”
“Of course. And I want Faris D’Hoestra there personally. Is that understood?”
Ho Zhu gave a tight-faced nod of understanding. “It will be done.”
President Tulrude had just finished a photo op and a quick public appearance at the Liberty Bell. Nearby was her former chief of staff, Natali Traup, who had taken a leave of absence from her White House job to help with the campaign. Traup had her Allfone in her hand and was waving it at Tulrude, as her Secret Service entourage led her to the limo. “Madam President, this has to be addressed.”
“I don’t see why.”
“Because there are allegations that your speech was stolen from Hewbright, as a result of the Chinese hacking into his computers.”
“I have no personal knowledge about Chinese computer hackers. Do you?”
Traup followed her into the backseat of the limo. “No, but it’s going to look bad.”
“Screw what looks bad,” she replied. “How do they know that Hewbright didn’t try to steal the speech from me — but I just happened to deliver mine first? That’s the story that needs to get out.”
“But there isn’t any evidence of that.”
“Then find it,” Tulrude said. “Look, in the melee leading up to Nebraska, we go into a prep meeting before my speech. And when we come out, I’ve got a five-point plan to save America from a final, devastating financial depression. That’s the fact, Natali. Now, who gave me what regarding those five points for my speech I honestly don’t recall. My staff is gathering research, data, and policy ideas from the four corners of the earth. That’s what they’re paid to do. I’m simply not going to agonize over this. Oh, and another thing,” Tulrude said, remembering a PR idea. “Get Coliquin to set up his schedule to do a public event with me while he still has the glow on from this peace deal with Israel. He may be the hero for the day, but he needs me and he knows it. Time to pony up.”
“Speaking of Israel,” Traup said, “Attorney General Hamburg said
to tell you that Colonel and Mrs. Jordan will soon be in custody. Israel will extradite Colonel Jordan back to the U.S. and Mrs. Jordan is being arrested for violation of the BIDTag Act.”
“I smell baseball in the air,” said Tulrude, a die-hard White Sox fan, with a smile. When Traup flashed a confused look, the president added, “You know, a double-play.”
Jessica Tulrude nursed a satisfied grin as the limo gunned away from historic Independence Hall.
Cal paced in the lounge as he waited for the pilot of the Jordan family’s private jet, the Citation X, to finish his preflight check. While waiting, he put a call in to the Roundtable’s media leader.
The voice of Phil Rankowitz finally came on the other end. “Cal, buddy, what’s up?”
“I’m in D.C., about to leave on a trip with my mother.”
“Anywhere interesting?”
“Yeah, but I can’t tell anyone where or why.”
“Now you’ve piqued my curiosity.”
“I have something even more important.”
“Shoot.”
“I got a story that, if we can back it up, will blow the roof off this presidential campaign.”
“Sounds like a category-five hurricane news-wise …”
“At a minimum. This is going to make Watergate and Monica-gate combined look like stuff that belongs in the lifestyle section.”
“Spoken like a true tabloid journalist,” Phil cracked.
“Okay,” Cal continued, noticing that the pilot was exchanging pleasantries with Abigail. “I got to talk fast. You need to find some high-caliber forensic pharmacologists who are not afraid of stepping on political toes. No — strike that. Make that — not afraid to amputate some political feet.”
“Ouch.”
“I made a few inquiries into the National Institutes of Health and just sent you a qwiktext with the name and contact information of one doctor in particular. According to my research he did a documentary with this guy, but we may need more than one.”
“We’ll jump on it.”
“Also, we have a blood sample that can be sent to any of them to analyze at a moment’s notice.”
“All right. So, can you give me a hint what we’ve got here?”
“Remember the
Wizard of Oz
?”
“Let me guess,” Phil said, filling in the blanks. “Uh … let’s see. A house is about to land on the Wicked Witch of the West …”
After chuckling at Phil’s quick pickup, Cal said, “Yeah, something like that.” He began to stroll in the direction of the pilot and Abigail.
“Makes me think,” Phil said in a voice that was now changing tone, “that God might be moving the chess pieces in a huge way. This is all child’s play for the Lord, of course. I was in the book of Haggai recently. Not where I usually spend my Bible-reading time. I’m kind of a New Testament guy. But it pays to keep one foot on each side of Malachi, I think. Anyway, I ran across a verse in chapter two. Just a few words, but it struck me in a powerful way in light of what’s going on in America. The dark days we’re in. The election. And the tidal wave of change around the world … It said, ‘I will overthrow the thrones of Kingdoms and destroy the power of Kingdoms and nations …’”
“I need that reminder,” Cal said, “about who’s really in control. Especially now, in the middle of this chaos. And listen, Phil, Mom and I need prayer. Like right
now
. I’ll fill you in later.”
Cal clicked off his Allfone, greeted their longtime family pilot, and climbed into the Citation X.
When he and Abigail were buckled in, he turned to her. “Did our backpacks get loaded?”
“Check,” she said, nodding. “Did you contact Phil?”
“Yes. He’s going to line up some medical experts with steel in their spines.”
“By the way,” she said with a smile, “nice of you to finally fill in
your mother with the news story of the century you’ve dug up — ‘Vice President Poisons President and Steps into Oval Office.’”
Suddenly hearing it phrased like that, the full weight of the revelation bore down on Cal. “Almost sounds like a Shakespearean tragedy, doesn’t it?”
As the jet slowly turned toward the runway, Cal glanced back and caught a glimpse of the tiny green light of the surveillance camera mounted on the top of the hangar. He said aloud, “I wonder who’s watching us now.”
Through the jet’s windows, Abigail and Cal could only see the pitch black of evening. The pilot clicked on the intercom, “Jackson Hole, Wyoming, folks, straight ahead.”
Down at the airport, just out of sight, an SIA field agent sat in one vehicle, and four local police officers were in two squad cars, all poised in the shadows to rush toward the incoming jet. The plan was to wait until the plane had taxied to a stop, and then to roar up to it from three directions, pinning it in, so the jet couldn’t attempt a turnaround and a quick takeoff.
“Remember,” the SIA agent said to the two squads, as he leaned toward his dashboard audiofone, “I take Mrs. Jordan into custody. You four take the pilot and her son. Keep your subjects in custody in separate squads for interrogation. I’ll take Mrs. Jordan to the plane that I’ve chartered and have standing by. Remember, I won’t be able to hang around your lovely city. I’ll have my charter take off immediately for Washington — just me and my subject in cuffs.”
“Anything else we ought to know?” one of the local deputies asked.
The SIA agent flicked on his dash light and glanced at his digital data pad. He tapped on the little window of his screen that said Extrinsic Data Field and answered, “It says here the subject may have picked Wyoming to land because she is believed to have personal contacts here, maybe people who will aid and abet her. This is Senator Hewbright’s home state, and she’s a supporter. Extrinsic database says she
gave money to his campaign and has met with him personally. She and her husband have visited here three times in the last five years for recreational purposes.”
The SIA agent clicked off his dash light and radio, then said to himself, “Looks like we’ve got you figured out, Mrs. Jordan.”
The pilot started the descent.
“Citation X,” the tower called in, “you’re cleared to land.”
“Roger,” the pilot responded. Then he brought the private jet perfectly in line with the airstrip ahead and continued to drop.
Ten seconds later the pilot clicked on his transmitter again. “Stand by.”
“Tower standing by.”
“Okay …” was all the pilot said at first. Then, a few seconds later, he said, “Landing gear …”
“Sorry, Citation, didn’t catch that. Say again …” Silence. The tower radioed again. “Say again, Citation. We’re tracking you, and you’re cleared for landing.”
“I said, landing gear.”
“Oh, okay. Landing gear,” the man in the tower responded with a lighthearted laugh. “That’s always a good idea.”
“No,” said the pilot, “landing gear light … not up yet …”
Down below, just off the tarmac, the SIA agent who was looped into the tower’s conversation was staring at the little audio screen on his dashboard.
“Clear to land, Citation,” the tower barked again.
“My landing gear light isn’t lighting up,” the pilot explained.
“Toggle it,” came the sharp reply from the tower.
“Did that.”
“Do a flyover,” the tower responded. “With our big spots we’ll give you a visual of your underside, to make sure your landing gear is completely down and in place.”
The pilot of the Citation X clicked off his external radio control and calmly announced over the intercom, “Abigail, Cal, hold on tight now …”
Suddenly, the Citation jolted upward at forty degrees. The jet soared off in a westerly direction, over the mountain range that ringed Jackson Hole.
“Citation, this is tower. Please make a flyover immediately! This is the tower. Bring your jet …”
But the pilot was no longer listening. “Folks, we’ll be getting some slight turbulence over the mountains,” he said to his two passengers. “You can sit back and relax. Next stop, Washington State.”
The sun had not yet risen in Maryland, but it would be up in another twenty minutes. An early-shift Tag Enforcement officer was standing over Jeremy’s screen, drinking from a large paper cup of coffee. He was looking at the big red box with two Xs in it in the upper right-hand corner of the monitor.
“Hey,” he said to Jeremy, who was hunched over the screen, “I see you got a big fat double-failed notice on your locator status window …”
“Gee, thanks,” Jeremy grunted. “‘Cuz until you mentioned it, I hadn’t noticed the huge red Xs staring me right in the face …”
“Maybe you need Sheila to come down here.”
“Negative. I can handle this,” Jeremy snapped back.
Fifteen minutes later, the director strode in with a Red Notice Status Memo in his hand. He usually didn’t arrive until well after dawn. Jeremy had been frantically swishing his hand across the screen, moving from menu to menu to try to insure the location of his subject. But when he saw the director, his hand froze.
The other Tag Enforcement officer slinked out and down the hall to his cubicle, clutching his mocha latte.
The director approached Jeremy, holding a crumpled email in his fist, his face radiant with flushed heat. He stood directly over Jeremy.
“This is a major malfunction, Jeremy,” he growled.
“Yes, sir.”
“You will consummate positive location and apprehension of the subject Abigail Jordan — and I mean in a hurry. You understand?”
“Absolutely.”
“Which is why I’ve instructed Sheila to come down from master control and make sure it happens. The efficacy of our BIDTag protocol is on the line. The White House is watching me, and I am watching you. And you know what else?”
Jeremy shook his head.
“I’m watching your descending career path. I’ll make sure the odds of your holding onto this or any other meaningful job for the rest of your life will be about the same as a porpoise playing first base for the Nationals if this snafu doesn’t get turned around.”
The director stormed out.
Five minutes later, a woman with stringy, slightly disheveled hair, came strolling into Jeremy’s room while munching a candy bar.
When Jeremy spotted Sheila he was about to make a crack about her eating a Snickers bar before six in the morning but decided against it.
Without expression, Sheila shooed Jeremy out of his swivel chair by wagging the fingers of both hands like the maître d’ in an expensive restaurant might do to a homeless visitor.
Once planted in the chair, which she first adjusted to her taller height, Sheila proceeded to display programs on Jeremy’s screen with lightening speed.
“I’ve never seen those properties before,” Jeremy muttered as he watched the master at work.
After another fifteen minutes or so, Sheila tapped a lower quadrant of the screen that read, “All National Systems Synced.”
Then the red X box in the upper right section of the screen disappeared. It was replaced by a display that said, “Reboot Completed — Advanced Search Commencing.”
“You know,” Sheila said with mild irritation, “I told the guys here at SIA I didn’t have time to train you humanoids on the second floor.” Then she sighed and got up from the chair.
Jeremy pointed to his computer. “What did you do?”
“It’s what you
didn’t
do,” she said with a lilting whine, “like integrating all the systems. What good does it do for us to spend billions on all this stuff — voice- and facial-recognition monitors, BIDTag scanners,
the Personal Profiler EX-3, All Extrinsic Database and Likely Route Estimator programs, and all those cameras and mics planted in every corner of the country — when morons like you forget to synchronize them during your subject location search?”
When Sheila reached the door she tossed one last comment over her shoulder. “Now hit Start,” she said. “Your Red Notice subject, whoever she is, won’t have a chance.”