Brink of Chaos (28 page)

While Joshua was on the Allfone with Abigail, Ethan stepped out into the hallway of the IDF headquarters. He thought about Josh’s comments, and his gut did a flip. He didn’t understand the meaning behind Josh’s words. He was used to Josh’s talk about the so-called end times, but now things were getting a little too personal.

As he walked down the hallway, he saw something that made his head spin. He tried to look nonchalant but failed. He made an attempt at a polite head nod but ended up breaking into a grin. Rivka was in the corridor, leaning against the wall with her arms folded. She looked unusually professional in a dark suit and tan blouse. She greeted him, “Hello, Mr. America.”

“You look spiffy,” Ethan shot back.

“Well, I’m on official IDF business.”

With an attempt at bravado, Ethan cracked, “I thought you came by for me.”

“And what if I did?”

Suddenly he knew this was one of the nanosecond moments — in the cockpit, stick in hand, incoming aircraft sighted. Friend or not?

“Well,” Ethan said, not realizing he was blushing, “I’d say that was good to hear. Really good. If it’s true.”

“Let’s take a walk,” Rivka said, motioning them away from the cluster of Israeli officers who were mulling over something out in the hall.

He thrust his hands in his cargo pants. “The last time I saw you,
Rivka, you weren’t so dressy. In fact, you were decked out like a fishmonger at the Mahame Yehuda Market, tossing a pan of oily fish guts on the floor, right in front of those Shin Bet agents.”

She muffled a laugh. “Have to say I enjoyed that one. I knew that HQ here would eventually get that extradition decision of Bensky reversed, talk some sense into the PM — particularly now that the threat level is sky-high again and they need you guys.”

Rivka stopped and looked around. No military staffers were in earshot. “And I noticed the neat little trick you pulled with the forklift at the Souk. Those Shin Bet guys were so ticked …”

“Brought back memories. I operated a forklift in a warehouse, working through junior college, before the Air Force.” He and Rivka leaned against the wall now. It felt good to be close to her again. She smiled but didn’t respond. He kept talking. “That was you, giving me the text message that day in the market, wasn’t it? Warning us about the two agents.”

“I told you once that I was the best friend you could have.”

Ethan looked down the hall, where the IDF officers on the bio-threat task force had finished their huddle and were going back into the conference room. “Are you in on this deal too?” he asked, nodding down toward the conference room at the end of the hall.

She answered with a simplicity that Ethan recognized. It was her resolve to do her duty to Israel. “Yes,” she said. “I’m involved.” But then, with equal calm, she added, “And so are you.”

That was a comment Ethan wasn’t ready for. He took a breath and was about to dive into it with Rivka, but before he could, Colonel Clint McKinney came hustling down the hallway. “Ethan, where’s Josh? I’ve got to talk to him, stat, about taking a little trip with me.”

Ethan pointed to the open door down the corridor. “He’s taking a call down there, sir. In that room.”

McKinney thanked him and quick-stepped his way to the conference room. He disappeared through the open door.

On their drive from the IDF headquarters to the airbase, Colonel McKinney briefed Joshua on what he was about to see. The idea electrified Joshua’s attitude about finding a solution. Joshua said he had been working hard to use a “left field” approach to solving the RTS problem — thinking beyond the parameters of the problem — which had to do with the inability of the RTS laser system when fired from a defensive rocket, to take hostage the entire guidance program of the other, hostile, incoming missile.

“Yes, Clint, absolutely,” Joshua said with a burst of enthusiasm, “this could be the answer.”

Clint eyed him with a smile as they strode into the experimental-aircraft hangar.

The IDF officer finally had to ask, “Josh, for a guy tormented by your RTS problem, you seem to be in a good mood all of a sudden. What’s up?” Then he flashed a grin. “Is it just my brilliant suggestion?”

“Not to take anything away from you,” Joshua shot back with a smile, “but I just called my wife. I’ll tell you, Clint, God is good. Abby’s been punching away at that phony criminal case the DOJ brought against me. Now she’s got the other side up against the ropes. And the court order keeping her from joining me over here just got kicked. She’s making plans to round up Cal and Deborah and fly over here.”

Inside the hangar, Joshua saw what he had come for. He walked slowly around the gleaming fighter jet and studied it. Another officer joined them.

“Josh, this is Dr. Jacob Chabbaz,” McKinney said. “He’s in charge of our R&D RTS in-flight program.”

Joshua pointed to the fighter. “So, this is it?”

Chabbaz nodded. “The F-35 Laser Variant. We weren’t planning on manning this one yet, but with the newest threat, I think we can prep it for you. You’ll notice the orbital laser housing where the weapon bay door used to be. The LV has three-hundred-sixty-degree optics, capable of locating any incoming missiles. Excellent capacity also to strike them with your RTS laser.”

Joshua peeked under the fuselage at the laser mounting. “I’ve read the specs. Very impressive.” He stood and looked over at McKinney. “You know what I’m thinking …”

“Yep. That’s why I brought you here. You’ve flown our F-22s over here in the last few months. Our test pilots can run you through the operational stuff for this F-35 variant on the ground. But it’s a canopy built for only one pilot — and that pilot has to be able to decipher the RTS laser readings during the test runs. Nobody can do that like you, Josh.”

“Okay,” Joshua said, “I’m in. Once your guys walk me through the drill I think I can handle taking it up for some test runs. Clint, this may be the way to crack the problem with our RTS data-stream. Starting with in-flight use of the RTS aimed from the jet at an incoming missile at a close range. If I can capture the guidance program of the enemy bird completely that way, then we just work backward to refine the ground-to-air system.”

Clint McKinney nodded in agreement. But he and Dr. Chabbaz exchanged glances. Then Clint spoke up. “Our intel says that this bio-threat is imminent. So, I need to start your operational briefing immediately. That’s one phase of our defensive response — but there’s another.”

“Am I involved in that?” Joshua asked.

“No,” Clint said with a penetrating look, “but your assistant, Ethan March, is.”

Secret Service Agent Owens, wearing the usual dark suit, white shirt, and light blue tie, was munching a cookie in the corner of the five-room suite while Deborah cleared the soda cans and coffee cups from the long buffet table. The Hewbright staff had decided they couldn’t trust the convention hospitality workers to set up and tear down the food service, not since the hacking of Hewbright’s Allfone, and Agent Owens had made them aware of the need for heightened security.

Deborah was tossing the trash from the buffet table into a big garbage bag. She glanced over at the meeting taking place in the adjoining room, where the senator, in shirtsleeves, was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. Beside him stood George Caulfield, his national campaign manager, and across from him was Zeta Milla, holding her black D&G handbag. Winston Garvey, the chief foreign-policy advisor, was somewhere out of sight, and Deborah could hear snatches of their conversation. Several American companies in Bolivia, they were saying, had just been forcibly taken over by government forces, and the executives had been taken hostage. President Tulrude was deferring to the United Nations to intervene. Now Hewbright was formulating his public response.

The opening ceremonies of the convention would start that night. Deborah knew that would involve a military honor guard and a musical number by a large community choir from Colorado Springs. That
would be followed by a video presentation on the JumboTrons, giving a retrospective of American history, called
Our Legacy of Liberty
. Later, at the end of the evening, Senator Hewbright would appear on stage and formally present the big ceremonial gavel to the chairman of the party, who was presiding over the convention. As she thought of all this, Deborah had a feeling of impending dread — it was the timing of it all, right before the climax of the convention. If someone was going to disrupt Hewbright’s nomination, wouldn’t this be the time? Deborah knew she had to do something — anything — to find out what Zeta Milla might be planning. And she had to do it fast. It was time to try the plan she had formulated earlier.

Deborah tied up a garbage bag and walked out of the common room. Rick had left with a rolling cart of leftover food several minutes before. On the way out, she snatched up an empty garbage bag and tucked it under her arm. With the full bag of garbage in her hand, she jogged down the hall to the service elevator and threw it into the open elevator. She pushed the button for Basement and scooted back down the hall to the women’s restroom where, around the corner from the stalls, she had stashed her duffel bag. She opened it and pulled out the handbag she had purchased that morning — identical to Zeta Milla’s — which Deborah had filled with empty files and a stack of photocopy paper to give it heft. She dropped the expensive handbag into the empty garbage bag and trotted back to the war room.

Hewbright’s group was still in the adjoining room. Zeta Milla was in the same spot, handbag hanging from her arm. Deborah could see Hewbright Speaking and looking up at Milla. Milla nodded and walked out into the common area where agent Owens and Deborah were standing. Deborah took her garbage bag and pretended to busy herself, collecting plastic knives and spoons. Zeta placed her handbag on a chair and pulled out her Allfone. On her cell she talked quietly to someone, asking for statistics on the U.S. companies in Bolivia that had just been raided. While she was talking, George Caulfield hurriedly dashed out and told her to come back into the room, to catch the remarks of President Tulrude, who was about to deliver a live televised
message from the Oval Office. Caulfield was red-faced, yelling that Tulrude was “trying to co-opt our convention” with this stunt.

Zeta Milla nodded and told the person on the phone that she would call back. She dashed back to the adjoining room with her Allfone in her hand, leaving her black handbag on the chair. A chill ran down Deborah’s back. An opportunity. She knew this was it.

Go girl, charge of the Light Brigade!

She stepped over to Agent Owens and said, “Excuse me, Agent Owens, I’m not sure, but there seems to be some strange stuff going on out in the hallway. Thought you may want to know.”

“Strange? Like what?”

“Like a suspicious-looking bag in the service elevator.” She tried to sound innocent so that later he wouldn’t suspect her of having staged a diversion.

Owens swallowed the last bite of his cookie and headed down the hall.

Deborah made her way to the chair where Milla’s handbag was. Keeping her eyes fixed on Zeta, who had her back to her, Deborah snatched it up, pulled her identical bag out of the garbage bag, and after placing it on the chair, strode quickly around the corner to the kitchen galley, out of sight. Deborah opened Milla’s bag and rifled through the contents. A small makeup kit, lipstick, a calendar. She leafed through it, but nothing suspicious jumped out.

She peeked around the corner. Milla still had her back turned. The group was glued to the television at the other end of the adjoining room, and the president’s voice could be faintly heard in the background. Deborah kept digging. Kleenex. Breath mints. She came to the bottom where she found a piece of folded paper. It was a printout of an email from Zeta Milla to FBI Agent Ben Boling. She poured over its content. It confirmed their earlier conversation, in which Milla described to Agent Boling, in detail, her visit to Perry Tedrich in Wichita the day of his disappearance. Milla told Boling how much she appreciated his clearing her of any suspicion in Tedrich’s disappearance and tragic death and how heartbroken she had been. She also mentioned that she feared for Senator Hewbright, particularly after the hacking
of his Allfone, and that she urged the FBI to increase surveillance for the sake of Hewbright’s personal safety.

Zeta Milla seemed to be the epitome of a non-threat. Deborah was numb with disbelief. And something else — she felt utterly stupid. She stuffed the contents back into the purse and quickly moved over to the chair. She grabbed her replica handbag off the chair, tossed it back into the garbage bag, and then placed Milla’s black bag back on the chair.

When she turned, she was startled to see Zeta Milla standing in front of her.

“Sorry,” Milla said with a smile, “I need to get past you.”

Deborah moved out of the way. Milla smiled, casually picked up her handbag, and turned back to Deborah. “By the way, I’m glad to see you on the team. I’m sorry I sort of gave you the brush-off a while ago. Must be the stress of everything that’s going on, I guess.”

With a nod, Deborah said, “Sure. Understood.”

Milla dashed back into the adjoining room, as Agent Owens came strolling back from the hallway. He walked up to Deborah. “I found that suspicious bag in the service elevator.”

“Oh?”

“Wasn’t that the same garbage bag you just took out of here?”

With a struggle to look confident and undaunted, Deborah replied, “Wow. Yes. Don’t know where my head’s at. Sorry.”

Agent Owens sauntered over to the cookie plate and grabbed a lemon bar, still eyeing Deborah as he did.

Deborah tried to sort things.

An hour later she was standing in the top tiers of the convention arena, looking down over the scene — the human tide of political exuberance mixed with celebratory chaos. Every seat was taken. Funny hats, waving banners. Confetti flying. The signs for each state delegation posted among the crowd.

But in the midst of that massive surge of optimistic energy, she was surrounded by darkness. Doubt, like a storm cloud, had swept over her.

When the house lights dimmed, the crowd quieted. A mezzo-soprano from the Denver Opera appeared on stage in a single spotlight.
Behind her, the entire back wall displayed an enormous American flag made of tiny lights, which sparkled and began waving digitally. The woman began singing “The Star Spangled Banner.”

Deborah saluted the flag, but as she did so, something flashed into her mind. Why would Milla carry such an exonerating email in her purse in the first place? In fact, why would she have so carelessly left her purse in the main room if she knew there was a mole inside the campaign? Deborah quickly worked through one explanation in her head. If Milla was a traitor, then perhaps she had left the purse within Deborah’s reach so that she could deliberately plant false information about her innocence. But if that was true, that would mean Zeta Milla had discovered that Deborah was suspicious — and maybe even knew that Deborah was a plant herself.

When the singer finished, she made a quick bow, and the crowd roared their approval.

But Deborah’s mind was not on what had just been sung — the familiar first stanza of the national anthem — but on what had not been sung. At West Point, Deborah had learned the second stanza as well, and as she recalled the lyrics she felt a chill run down along her spine, as if an ice cube had fallen down the back of her blouse.

She mouthed the words to herself. “Half conceals — half discloses.” That was it. She thought about the email in Milla’s purse, purporting to be from Milla to the FBI agent. But that was only half the evidence, wasn’t it? Milla could easily have contrived that. Where was the evidence that Agent Boling ever received it or that she had actually sent it?

She grabbed her Allfone and typed into the little keypad a question to Gallagher.

Then she hit Send. But Deborah wasn’t going to wait for the reply. She was already jogging out of the arena and down to the elevator so she could get up to the war room suite.

In a small, noisy café in northern California, at John Gallagher’s uncle’s wedding reception, a homegrown band was playing the blues instrumental “Night Train.” Gallagher was one of the groomsmen, but this definitely was not his kind of bash. When he received Deborah’s text, he was glad to be able to loosen the button of his starched tux shirt and step outside onto the deck to get a breather.

He glanced at her question on his Allfone. He squinted. He dashed off a reply and hit Send. But halfway back across the deck toward the door, Gallagher stopped and typed another short message to Deborah.

Be careful kiddo.