“Maryland.” Colonel Song frowned. “Camp David is in Maryland. Do you have the coordinates of the phone call?”
“Let me pull them up…” Faisal threw one of the windows from the desktop monitor to the wall monitor embedded across the back of his office. A few quick searches and the data file for the call intercepts opened. “Here you go.”
Colonel Song nodded. “That is Camp David.”
“You know that? How do you know that?” Faisal frowned, staring between Colonel Song and the data. “Camp David is the American president’s secret retreat.”
“It’s Camp David. And it’s not that secret. It’s on Google.” Colonel Song leaned back, balancing on the balls of his feet. “So. Someone close to the American president is running communication with Al-Karim.”
“Is Al-Karim CIA?” Faisal thought everyone in the Middle East was somehow connected to the CIA.
“No. We’ve already confirmed that.”
“Mossad?” If they weren’t CIA, they were undoubtedly Mossad agents.
Colonel Song shook his head, glaring at Faisal. “No.”
“Do you think they are the responsible for setting up Hu?”
“Possibly. He could still be a decoy.” Colonel Song tapped one finger against his lips. “Have you kept Mr. Hu alive in the digital world?”
Faisal nodded. “He flew on Saudia to Thailand last week. He’s in Jakarta next week and then checking into the Burj Jumeriah the week after.”
“Good. And his email account that Al-Karim’s lieutenant was emailing is still active?”
“Yes. We’ve been watching it. No messages from Al-Karim’s men, or from the Islamic Caliphate.”
Colonel Song paced in front of Faisal’s desk, one finger still tapping rhythmically on his lips. “Hu was set up as a fall man. Someone set him up with a double life, one as an Islamic Caliphate supporter. A sloppy bank transaction through Saudi Arabia brought him to your attention.” Colonel Song nodded to Faisal, a kind of acknowledgement. Faisal held his chin high. “You discovered this falsity. Started digging. And you have found an unknown connection between a member of the American president’s administration and Al-Karim.”
“That’s about right, yes.” Faisal fidgeted in his seat. Was he supposed to have more? Colonel Song was as mysterious as an alien. He couldn’t read the emotionless spy. He was also, quiet honestly, terrifying. A thought stuck out in his mind, worrying at him. “You said that this wasn’t the Americans.” He frowned. “You said, after the G-7, that you were sure it wasn’t the Americans.”
“This is not the Americans.” Colonel Song stopped, facing Faisal. “The American government is not this…Daedalean.” He shook his head, once again crossing his arms. “This is something deeper. A splinter cell broken off from the American government, perhaps.”
Faisal swallowed. Video games flashed in his mind. “Ninjas with night vision?”
Colonel Song glared at him. “A breakaway faction of the government. Operating outside of the sanctioned governmental policy.” He hummed under his breath. “But who do they take their orders from?” He strode across the room, back to the list of calls made by the mystery caller, along with the dates, displayed on the wall monitor. “Each of these dates and locations corresponds to a trip made by the American president. Whoever this caller is, he is within the president’s circle. Perhaps he gets his orders from the president.”
Faisal was used to seeing conspiracy and American bogeymen in the Middle East. It was how he’d grown up, how his generation had grown up. It would be easy to believe that the American president was, once again, trying to destroy the Middle East. But, as a prince in the Intelligence Directorate, he had to think bigger. “Or,” he said slowly, “the American president is unaware of what is happening.”
“We won’t know that until we know what it is they are planning.” Colonel Song nodded once to Faisal. “I will return to Beijing and get my people on hacking into that phone number. We will find a way to record those calls.”
“How? We can barely track the phone. It is offline and unpowered when it is not in use.”
Colonel Song smiled. “We have our ways.” Turning on his heel, the colonel marched away from Faisal, toward the door.
He paused at the doorway. “This is excellent work, Your Highness,” he said. “You Saudis learned how to turn the Americans’ NSA tactics against themselves. Well done.”
Faisal inhaled deep, puffing out his chest. He basked in the colonel’s praise, letting it roll over him. The colonel slipped out, a tiny smile on his lips at Faisal’s expense.
“What are you up to, you little American splinter cell,” Faisal mused, staring at the data on his screen. “What are you planning now?”
* * * * *
Fridays at the White House were usually quiet. They were working days, catch-up days from the craziness of the rest of the week. Jack liked to stay in-house on Fridays, if possible, and connect with his advisors.
He also took his coffee in his study on the second floor of the Residence, spending an extra hour upstairs catching up on the news. Jack had confided in Ethan once, months ago during a morning workout, that he liked to give his staff as much stress-free time as possible, and that meant him staying out of their way.
Friday morning, then, was the perfect time for an ambush.
Ethan paced on the first floor of the Residence, just in front of the main stair landing in the marble-covered Cross Hall. Chandeliers glittered above, and portraits taller than Ethan hung along the walls. Staid and stately visages of past American legends stared down at Ethan, judgement in their painted gazes.
One floor above, Jack was no doubt sitting in his study, next to the master bedroom, across from the family dining room and kitchen in the West Hall. He could see it, perfectly. He’d seen it before, when he had made up excuses to walk with Jack from the Residence to the West Wing, escorting him side by side and chatting, laughing even, instead of shadowing his moves.
He shouldn’t be here. But that was now the motto of his life. He shouldn’t be here; he shouldn’t be doing this, and he shouldn’t be feeling what he felt. He shouldn’t be in this mess.
But he was, and he had two choices. Forget everything; run away; hide his feelings; bury his emotions and kill this fledgling, tender whisper of hope and longing that had sprung up within him. Or…throw caution to the wind. Engage. Face this full-on, a full frontal assault, and see what happens. Roll the dice. Go with the flow.
What if this was what he was missing? Ethan hadn’t even known he was missing anything until the past few months, or the past week, even. Sitting on his front stoop, leaking tears from eyes that refused to quit crying, and swiping through his phone like a loner was a humbling moment. Six months ago, he hadn’t been this pathetic. He hadn’t been this empty. Or had he?
Something had woken up in his heart. Something deep inside him was yearning for Jack. For everything the man was: his quick mind, dimpled grin, and warm heart. The man who wanted to save the world but hated the pageantry in place for the world leaders. Who had buried his wife and come back from that moment, wanting to fix what was broken in the world. Who sneaked away from sitting with the pretentious French president to sit with a friend and share a beer instead. Who had offered Ethan his hand in friendship.
And Ethan had pushed him away.
He just hoped it wasn’t too late.
Agent Sanders eyeballed Ethan, watching him pace. He stayed silent, though, and looked away when Ethan glared at him.
Ethan checked his watch. Zero nine thirty. Jack should be done any moment. He inhaled, held his breath, and ran his hands through his hair as he exhaled. God, what if he was too late?
Footsteps rang out on the polished marble, descending the stairs. Ethan whirled around, wide-eyed. His throat closed.
Jack padded down the stairs, his nose buried in a file folder.
He didn’t see Ethan.
Now or never. Ethan grabbed his courage with both hands. Part of him still wanted to run. Time to cross the Rubicon. “Mr. President,” he called out. He only grunted a little bit.
Jack paused, hesitating before his foot fell on the last step. Looking up, he met Ethan’s gaze, but his face was impassive, completely blank. “Agent Reichenbach? Can I help you with something?”
Not the glowing reception he’d hoped for. Ethan cleared his throat and told himself to man up. “Yes, sir. I have a proposal for you. Something, uh, that you asked for a few days ago.” He held up a manila folder. “Can I walk with you to your office, sir?”
Jack stared at him. “Sure,” he finally said and kept walking.
Ethan motioned for Sanders to stay back. He jogged to catch up with Jack before he made it to the door to the West Colonnade. Ethan snagged the door handle just before Jack, sliding close to his body as he pushed open the door. Pine wafted into his nose, and he barely held back a soft moan.
Shifting beside Ethan, Jack slipped past him. “Thanks,” he muttered, looking out over the Rose Garden.
They walked in silence for a few feet.
Get it together! You’re going to blow it!
“So what’s this proposal—” Jack began, at the same time Ethan spoke. “Mr. President, I have—”
They both froze. Jack turned to Ethan, his eyebrows quirked up in a question. On their left, the Rose Garden was in glorious bloom, bursting with color and the scent of summer.
“I have something for you, Mr. President.” Ethan held out the manila folder. “It took a while to get to this place. But I believe that this is right. I just ask for your consideration in this matter. It’s…delicate.” He clamped his lips shut.
Silence. Jack stared at him, slight frown creasing his forehead. He stared at the manila folder and, finally, reached for it.
Down the colonnade, the door to the president’s secretary’s office opened. Jeff Gottschalk poked his head outside. “Good morning, Mr. President. Agent Reichenbach.”
Ethan smiled back and waved. “Morning, Mr. Gottschalk.” By the time he turned back, Jack had already flipped open the folder and was reading the single sheet inside. Swallowing, Ethan followed Jack’s eyes as he took in Ethan’s handwritten message:
Mr. President -
This is my personal cell phone number. I’ll be fired if anyone finds out I gave this to you. But I’m sorry for what happened at Camp David, and I wish I would have stayed and had that beer with you.
Jack closed the manila folder. He took his time meeting Ethan’s gaze. When he finally did, his normally warm eyes were closed off. “I’ll take this into consideration, Agent Reichenbach,” he said. “Have a good day.”
Closing his eyes, Ethan waited until Jack had met up with Gottschalk and disappeared into the West Wing before he let himself exhale. He tipped his head back and let the warmth of the summer sun play over his skin and the scent of the White House roses—blood red and bleeding all over the garden—fill his nose. Anything to get rid of Jack’s memory.
* * * * *
Friday evening, the Islamic Caliphate seized another city in northern Iraq, further dividing the country and splitting Iraq into the no-man’s-land of the Caliphate, the Kurdish region of the north, and the beleaguered capital, Baghdad. When the Caliphate moved in, they executed everyone who stood against them or didn’t immediately join the Caliphate’s rigid rules or who looked sideways at them. All of the civilians who had tried to mount a defense—the Iraqi military had long since fled—were executed, as were the police, the teachers, and the politicians. Gruesome videos flooded the Internet, along with cries of rage and anguish from the refugees scattered around the world. They cried for it to stop, taking to the streets throughout Europe in a night of furious protests. The protests turned in the dark hours of the night, as cars and garbage bins were lit on fire and windows smashed in Paris, Berlin, and Budapest.
The White House buzzed until the wee hours of the morning, trying to figure out what to do next. The president and his national security team buried themselves in the Situation Room, going over intelligence reports and satellite images. They watched the Europeans deploy riot police, and as the sun rose in Europe, smoke billowed on the morning winds.
They argued late, strategies and scenarios to combat the Caliphate batted down as those for and against bitterly argued. Harsh words flew around the room. There weren’t any pressing American interests in the region. Russia and China were embroiled in the region now. Let the fight stay isolated in the Middle East. The loss of life was tragic, but ultimately, not an American problem. By that logic, Ethan heard Jack snap, not much would be an American problem.
“Strange bedfellows were made from common enemies,” General Madigan offered. He spoke over the arguing directors, proposing to continue their wait and see approach to the region. “Let’s see what the Russians do,” he grunted. “They have more interest in the region than we do right now.”
Ethan slipped out after that. He’d only ducked into the Situation Room to check on the agents standing their posts and to deliver each a fresh cup of coffee. His eyes lingered on Jack, but he never looked Ethan’s way.
Ethan stayed late in Horsepower, reviewing intel reports from the field offices and the advance team’s proposals for the upcoming NATO Summit in Prague. One month until the summit. Ethan had good relations with the security services in Prague. It would be a coordinated, high-stress travel event, but it wouldn’t be difficult. Ethan signed off on the advance team’s travel plans.
After walking through the White House and checking in on his agents on duty, he finally left just before midnight. The overnight shift was good, and the agents taking a break in Horsepower were playing a pickup game of basketball with a foam ball against the back wall. He waved and walked out as Agent Beech laid up a basket around Agent Caldwell, to loud cheers and jeers.
Gottschalk was on the phone outside the Situation Room as Ethan walked out of Horsepower. Gottschalk waved, smiling as he pulled the phone down and away from his mouth. “Have a good weekend, Ethan.”
The White House parking garage was quiet. Ethan slid into his SUV, but hesitated before starting the car. Leaning back, he let his eyes slide closed. He’d been hopeful just this morning. Maybe too hopeful. His first full weekend off-duty loomed before him. He was going to sleep this whole mess off.