3 Thank God it's Monday (7 page)

T
he hardest part about pretending was that part of him
wanted to be here. It was familiar ground. The Marine sentry with his
ridiculous rigidity. The Secret Service personnel tired, wired, and alert. The
agents with binoculars and high-powered rifles on the rooftop. The smell of the
roses wafting up to greet him as he entered the West Wing. The pristine
whiteness symbolizing good. It was all comfort to him.

Jake flicked the press pass on his jacket and tried to smile
as he was checked by yet another security personnel. Everyone seemed to go
through the motions.

He had passed all the tests. Yet he still had a convoy of
consortium five-v’s following him into the packed press room. It amazed him the
depth of the corruption. He saw several looks of recognition and they nodded. Like
they were all in on this. They knew who he was. He was fooling no one.

He wondered for a moment how this could have happened. The
Agency was an elite group of men that were dedicated. He did not understand how
they could be involved in a conspiracy to kill the man they were sworn to
protect. He felt sorry for his father for the first time in over a decade.

Jake squeezed into the room. Gentle pushing, awkward smiles
and the press of bodies was unavoidable. Camera equipment, men in ties and
women in heels vied for room, for line of sight, and for front row status. He
could smell hair gel, dry cleaning chemicals, and chewing gum. His stomach
lurched. He had not eaten. The chemicals in his system still corrupted his
bloodstream. His head pounded. He tried to concentrate. One lapse would mean
that the programming would overcome his barriers.

Now that he was this close, he had no idea of how to proceed.
The plan had been to follow protocol until he could assess his opportunities. He
glanced around the room. He recognized some of the agents. They were studiously
ignoring him.

He pulled out the recorder from his jacket pocket. It was
larger than most. That was because it was also a retractable stiletto, though a
short one. The length did not matter. It only needed to be three to four inches
to reach the heart. Razor thin and less than two inches deep to slice the
jugular or carotid (but messy). A thin wire could kill silently and quickly. Exsanguination
would take less than ten seconds.

The device he held was designed to be somewhere between a
stiletto and a dirk, actually. Its base was thicker, but without the stiletto’s
triangular configuration. Still, it was a puncture weapon, not a slicing weapon.
The dirk needed to be placed with almost surgical precision.

The typical human heart was less than three inches across. Easy
target to miss. Especially on someone who was large.

He thought of these things, oddly comforting statistics he
processed without effort, like a baseball player considering a curve ball in
the half second it took to travel from the pitcher’s hand to the plate.

Meanwhile, he watched with heavy-lidded eyes the congested
room. He wondered what his next move should be. No matter what he did, it would
be akin to suicide. And, where would he go? He knew he had to do something to
stop them. If he failed to murder his father, then surely they had someone else
prepared to do the deed and then somehow pin it on Jake. And if he went through
with it, then what? Dead, of course. Which explained the nods. They were not
just going along, they were preparing for target practice. It was their turn to
play hero.

How were they going to explain letting him in, though? It
was obvious. Someone was already lined up to take the fall. Maybe Randy, the
new guy or Howard Ettle, the veteran. Both were on service. Neither had seen
him. The deviousness of the entire operation was almost inspiring.

“It was confirmed to be the Hezbollah,” one correspondent
shared with another. They both nodded. Jake tried to shut out the buzz of conversation,
the constant rustling.

Jake understood that an embassy had been attacked. People
had died.

It was strange to him. People died every day. Children died
of disease and malnutrition. Women died from abuse and neglect. Young people
died from drug overdoses. Mothers died in childbirth.

They did not get a press conference. The President did not
speak for them. Yet, attack a building designated as American property on
foreign soil and the press came out in droves, the President prepared a speech,
and people threw their arms up in rage and despair.

Jake was prone to bouts of irony.

Then, it came to him. He knew what he needed to do and how
he would do it. The room was chaotic enough that it might just work.

Jake edged his way forward, excusing himself and watching
the agents as they tried to ignore his progress. Several of the press
correspondents looked at him askance. He knew he was unknown among them and
they wondered who the new guy was pushing forward like a rookie, overlooking
press decorum. He would probably get his membership to WHCA revoked.

As he pushed forward, he wondered if the attack in Juba had
been manufactured in order to get this press conference scheduled. The timing
seemed coincidental. As more of the conspiracy was exposed to him, he became
impressed with the strings of the marionette. So many people and events were
being orchestrated. From what he could tell, only a handful of people were
responsible. It was impressive and frightful.

He held the recorder in front of him, judging the distance
to the podium. Several security and officials milled around the stage, turning
on the media at the podium, wiping fingerprints off the plasma display to the
left of the podium and generally looking busy. Two men in suits stood by the
door, their right hands over their left wrists, eyes scanning the press corps.

It was odd that his exodus from the back of the room to near
the front, poised just opposite of the two dozen cameramen, had garnered no
alarm from the security in the room, but concerned looks from the veteran press
correspondents. Two of the consortium five-vs were at the back of the room
monitoring monitors. Cameras were everywhere. The Press Pool cameras were
trained on the podium. This assassination would be better documented than Kennedy’s.

“A
rrest her.”

Hallie had never heard those words uttered toward her before.
She supposed she deserved it, but not for Kyle. She was only mildly surprised
that they had implicated her so soon.

“Wait. No. I need to talk to Director Loxley,” she said as
calmly as possible. She understood that if she maintained her composure, they
would be more likely to at least listen.

Still, one of the Agents grabbed her wrist and put a
handcuff on it. She did not resist. She looked from one to the other, hoping
that they would make eye contact with her.

She had to look bedraggled. She had spent the night in the
airport. She wore a neon t-shirt and a dark blue scarf. Out of desperation, she
had come to the Secret Service Headquarters, just a few blocks east and north of
the White House.

She wanted to cry, but that would be worse than flailing and
screaming.

“I am agent Hallie Monday, and I need to speak to Director
Loxley. President Vine’s life is in danger.” She added that last bit for effect.
Of course, it was true. She also risked interrogation about the validity of
that announcement in lieu of her demands. She was only making an educated guess
that Harold was here. Often, he headed up the five-man personal protection team
that surrounded President Vine where ever he went.

“We know who you are, Agent Monday. You have been identified
by NTAC as someone who poses a high threat possibility. In addition, we are
apprehending you because you are a suspect in the investigation into the murder
of Agent in Charge, Kyle Evers.”

“Maybe you should suspect the dead man at his feet instead. It
is Agent Evers who wanted me to relay this message in person. It was his dying
wish.”

Easy lie. No one could deny it. It sounded good. Put Evers
in the position of a hero and her as simply a messenger. This would fit these
agents’ idea of the place for a female agent. No matter what strides they had
taken in the Agency in terms of equality, sexism was still alive in its roots. It
thrived just under the surface. Of course, it rarely was articulated publicly.

“We have already contacted Director Loxley. He has agreed to
meet with you before we process you for arraignment. Would you like for us to
read you your rights now or after you tell your lies to the director?”

Hallie bit back her anger. He was provoking her.

She knew she had little chance of getting close to the
President this morning unless she enlisted the assistance of someone they both
trusted. Harold Loxley was the President’s friend as well as in charge of his
protection details.

Hallie looked the agent, Randall Messer, in the eye. He was
almost a foot taller than her. His light blue eyes and short-cropped dark hair
reminded her of a friend she had growing up. Agent Messer was just doing his
job. In fact, he was using a technique on her that she would use herself. Hallie
resisted smiling.

“You are welcome to read me my rights any time you deem it
necessary, Agent Messer.”

“Can I ask what you think you were doing coming here after
what happened in New York? Leaving the scene of a crime is a felony and against
regs.”

She fixed him with a cold stare.

“I thought you wanted to recite Miranda?”

He sighed.

Just then, a man burst through the door just down the hall. The
door slammed back against the marble tile wall of the entry.

“Let her go. She’s with me. This is a national emergency,”
he said, brandishing a badge. The agents stepped back. Behind the man, four
Secret Service Emergency Response Team members came through the door carrying
submachine guns and scowls. Two of them were bald, which made them look even
sterner. But she could not take her eyes off the young man with the badge.

He wore a dark blue suit, cut in athletic style, a light
blue tie that accentuated his eyes, and he carried himself with confidence.

“Who are you?” Agent Messer asked. He seemed taken off
guard, but still wary.

“Calvin Royster with the National Threat Assessment
Committee. If this is Hallie Monday, I need her to come with me right away.”

“She is being held for questioning for the murder of Kyle
Evers, Agent in Charge of the New York City Office,” he protested.

“Calvin? The Calvin?” Hallie asked. She wanted to laugh. She
was still in handcuffs, though, and so she felt that would be a poor life
choice.

He gave her an irritated glance.

“Yes. Lars is my biological father. We have been fighting
the wrong people all along, it seems.”

“What do you have to do with Jake and Galbraith?”

“I can explain later. It is important that we get to the
White House Brady Press Room right away. We only have thirty minutes.”

Hallie was relieved to feel one of the agents slip off her
handcuffs. She turned and gave a smile of gratitude.

“This does not mean you are cleared of suspicion. We will
have to. .”

Calvin put his hand on Agent Messer’s shoulder and looked
him in the eye. The four ERTs flanking him were certainly intimidating.

“We will discuss this once we get back, Agent Messers. This
is not your concern. We appreciate your commitment to your duty. I am not
appraised of the situation in New York, but I am positive Mrs. Monday is not
responsible for murdering her superior. You must trust me. This country we
serve is under attack as we speak and I cannot allow you to stand in the way of
protecting the President and his staff. With your leave, sir, I will take
custody and full responsibility of Mrs. Monday.”

“There is paperwork...”

“Shove the paperwork!  We are leaving now!”

Calvin grabbed Hallie and took her back up the hall the way
he had come. She glanced back, and saw the three agents that had apprehended
her. One shook his head with chagrin. Messer stood with his fists and his jaw
clenched. Internal struggles were so fun.

“I thought you said we need to get to the White House,” Hallie
noted as he dragged her along.

“We will never make it. Rush hour traffic, too many people. We
have to keep panic down. There is a tunnel that connects. We will have to walk
briskly. Are you up for it?”

She had never heard of a tunnel from the Headquarters to the
Whitehouse before.

“Sure. I can keep up.”

“I only ask because you seem a little bedraggled.”

“Thanks. Sorry I didn’t have time to shine my shoes and
brush my teeth on the flight.”

“What happened in New York?” He asked, looking back for a
moment. She just shook her head.

“I think it was Galbraith. Kyle gave me this,” she held up
the flash drive. “He said he found out several connections that would give us
some idea what is going to happen. Evidently, they wanted the information.”

“We suspected Kyle had been compromised. He may have had
second thoughts and they came back to eliminate him.”

She shook her head.

“I cannot believe Kyle would do that.”

“Yeah. I know. Me either. I wouldn’t think that my father
would turn against the CIA and your husband, either. He was sent to protect him
and feed him information. Not kill him.”

“I see what you mean. So, all that stuff that Jake said
about Darius and Sinegem? What was that?”

They ducked inside a small room. The ERT guys were not even
breathing hard. Hallie was winded from talking and walking so quickly. They
opened what appeared to be a safe in the wall. She had no idea where they were.
It was the first floor. She spent practically no time down here when she and
Jake were stationed in Washington.

Inside the safe, aluminum stairs led down into darkness. As
they descended, gas lights flared with an audible popping sound. A concrete
tunnel lay ahead, about six feet across and six feet tall. The poor ERT guys
had to hunch and walk, their FN-P90s held out at an angle across their bodies.
The tunnels appeared to have been built in the fifties.  At intervals, small
alcoves housed a table, a lamp and some various supplies. 

“It was my father’s program. He was trying to weaken Sinegem
from the inside. He was targeting large stakeholders. It was dangerous stuff. He
got caught. Plus, we did not know at the time that Jake was being
counter-programmed.”

“What do you mean?”

Calvin sighed and rolled his eyes.

“We were working with Agent Evers and your department, the
CIA, and the NSA on a program to develop a threat assessment model that took
into account not only our assets but our allies as well. We were creating a
global database of the most influential terrorist threats and national security
threats that we have ever had access to.”

“Then what happened?”

“The entire protection apparatus failed.”

Hallie almost stopped walking. That would be a nightmare.

“How?”

“We cannot pinpoint how long, is the worst part. We noticed
some anomalies at first—bank accounts, visa discrepancies, travel itinerary
inconsistencies, and odd pairings of personnel and accumulations of money. We
immediately suspected some sort of localized corruption. Perhaps an agent or
two. Then, we were getting these same reports from our sister agencies. Treasury,
FBI, NSA, CIA. Now, for some of those guys, those sorts of things are common,
every year occurrences. For us, it was unusual but not unheard of. You remember
Colombia, right?”

Hallie shook her head in disgust.

“Yeah. Big black eye. Typical macho bull. No offense, guys.”
She said the ERT closest to her. She smiled. He returned the smile. Did not say
a thing.

“Anyway, we suspect now that there is widespread corruption
of our system at all levels and in multiple areas. Everything from water and
electric CEO’s at large municipalities to senators and members of the
President’s cabinet, to Supreme Court judges, some of the Joint Chiefs, and
several key ambassadors.”

“How can you be sure? That sounds like it is too rampant.”

They turned a corner. The tunnel was well lit but damp. It
was painted a dull gray and the floor was an aggregate concrete popular in the
forties and fifties.

“That’s just the thing, we can’t. It might all be a ploy to
throw us off. We’ve considered that. It is the main reason we have failed to
apprehend anyone yet. Until now.”

Hallie looked up at Calvin as he pulled ahead.

“Senator Swane?”

“Yes. Nancy died and he came to us.”

“When?”

“The night you left. She passed in her sleep. Peacefully. We
think it was mercy killing but we can’t be sure. It doesn’t matter. Robert
wanted to let us know the whole thing. He said it was too dangerous for only
Jake to know.”

“How did he find you? We didn’t even know who you worked
for?”

He finally smiled.

“Yeah. It was meant to be that way. I work directly for
President Vine. Even Director Loxley did not know my full capacity. The NATC is
well known, of course. It was President Vine who pulled our activities under
his umbrella.”

“Sort of black ops,” Hallie said. She meant it as an insult.

“Actually, it is what we call red ops. We are sort of the
extra life line for the Executive Branch. We came to interview the senator
through inner channels. He didn’t know we existed until we brought him to our
headquarters.”

“Where is he now?”

He smirked.

“Need-to-know basis, Agent Monday. Come on, we have to hurry.
This could end badly.”

“What is going on?”

“Jake is faking it and we have to save him.”

“Faking it? Faking what?”

“The last time we de-programmed him, we gave him treatments
that make him immune to the chemicals they use to manipulate him. We also
inserted several micro devices that intercept the technology that they use to
control him. The only thing that will work now is the verbal-tactile triggers.”

Hallie shook her head and stopped, her hands on her knees. She
was hyperventilating. She was afraid she was affected by the tightness of the
tunnel and their pace. Her heart thudded in her chest and she could not catch
her breath.

“You have to be kidding!” she said to the concrete at her feet.
She looked up at Calvin. He did not look apologetic at all.

“He is in danger. The President is in danger. We did not
know Jake would pass the tests.”

“You let him die.”

He shook his head.

“No. We took a calculated risk and we lost. Now we need to
fix it. Come on.”

She put her hand to her mouth and a tear leaked out. Calvin
turned away and began to trot ahead to catch up with his team.

“Calvin!”

He stopped and turned, his eyebrows raised.

“Give me a gun, will ya?”