CHAPTER 11
WASHINGTON, D.C.
It was just after 7:20 AM Eastern Standard Time as the elevator slowed to a halt on the basement level of the West Wing. Once the doors slid open, Jonathan Harper stepped out and hung a right, making his way past a Secret Service agent and several members of the National Security Council secretariat. The men and women of the secretariat were the primary occupants of the White House Situation Room, which was actually a 5000-square-foot warren of interconnected rooms. The vast underground complex—sometimes referred to, inexplicably, as “the woodshed”—also incorporated the NSC watch center. Harper only glanced at the harried faces as he walked past, but it was clear they were operating in a state of suspended disbelief. The deputy DCI felt much the same; he was still trying to get his mind around what had transpired in Pakistan less than an hour earlier. He’d gotten the first call from the watch officer at Langley at 6:25. He’d been at home, eating breakfast, when the secure line buzzed in the next room. Less than ten minutes later, he was dressed and on his way out the door, but he’d barely slid into the backseat of the waiting Town Car when his BlackBerry started to vibrate. It was the White House senior duty officer, or SDO, informing him that an emergency meeting had been called by the president and was set to begin in twenty minutes’ time.
Before he had been nominated for the post of deputy executive director, Harper had served as the CIA’s deputy director of operations (DDO). Back then his name had been classified, withheld from the media, but his current role did not allow for such ambiguities. The attempt on his life eight months earlier had only heightened the media’s interest in him, and for this reason, he and his wife had been forced to sell their brownstone on historic General’s Row, just south of Dupont Circle. After a brief search, they’d settled on a five-bedroom town house on Embassy Row. While the house itself was everything they’d been looking for, it made for a slightly longer drive to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. He’d used the time in the car to get hold of his primary advisors, who’d filled him in on what they knew. Unfortunately, it wasn’t much, and now he had to share that fact with the president.
He was admitted to the conference room. Like the rest of the West Wing basement, the room had been extensively remodeled in 2006. The mahogany walls had been largely replaced with a specially designed, sound- absorbent fabric, and sensors built into the ceiling alerted the Secret Service to the presence of activated cell phones, which were prohibited for reasons of security. It all combined to make for a very quiet space, but never more so than today. The faces around the long mahogany table were understandably grim, but they were all recognizable, at least to anyone with a passing interest in the U.S. government.
Flanking the president was Emily Susskind, the recently confirmed director of the FBI; also, her deputy, Harry Judd; and Kenneth Bale, the director of National Intelligence. To Bale’s left was Robert Andrews, the ample, dark- haired director of Central Intelligence. He nodded a curt hello when he caught his subordinate’s eye. The other side of the table was occupied by the undersecretary for political affairs, Elliot Greengrass; Jeremy Thayer, the national security advisor; and Stan Chavis, the president’s chief of staff. There was one other person in the room, seated next to DCI Andrews. He appeared more shaken than the other officials around the table, which was understandable. As assistant secretary for the Bureau of Diplomatic Security and director of the Office of Foreign Missions, Gavin Dowd was responsible for the day-to-day operations of the DSS, as well as the protection of numerous State Department officials, including Brynn Fitzgerald. If blame was to be dispensed at this meeting, the sixty-year-old former prosecutor would likely receive the lion’s share.
“Jonathan,” the president said from the head of the table. David Brenneman usually looked at least a decade younger than his fiftyfour years. His short, wavy hair still held more brown than silver, and it was no secret that his open, honest features had assisted him greatly over the course of his political career. On this particular morning, though, he looked every inch his age. Harper took that as a bad sign, as the day had hardly begun. “Pull up a chair. We were just about to get started.”
There was only one chair to be had, but Harper didn’t point this out as he sat across from Dowd. “That’s fine, sir. Please, don’t let me hold you up any longer.”
“Very well.” The president nodded and turned to Andrews. “Bob, if you could bring everyone up to speed.”
“Yes, sir.” The DCI used a remote to power up the NEC plasma televisions strategically placed around the room. After a few seconds, the presidential seal dissolved, and the first of several grisly images appeared. A few people winced, including Dowd, but no one looked away as Andrews began the briefing.
“Mr. President, ladies and gentlemen. As you can probably guess, what you see here is the aftermath of the attack on Secretary Fitzgerald’s motorcade. These digital photographs were taken less than twenty minutes ago. For those of you who’ve never been to Pakistan, Airport Road is several miles north of Chaklala Air Base, approximately halfway between Islamabad and Rawalpindi. It’s a fairly common route between the presidential palace and the air base. The agent who took these shots was part of the twelve-man reserve team that responded to the distress call. As most of you know, the signal is automatically broadcast once a tagged vehicle in the motorcade is incapacitated. In this case, the secretary of state’s detail leader, Mike Petrina, had time to relay an additional request for assistance. Unfortunately, the reserve team was unable to respond in time. Special Agent Petrina was killed before he could get the secretary of state clear of the area, along with six other members of the protective detail.”
Andrews paused and cleared his throat. “I’m afraid that’s not the worst of it. It’s my unhappy duty to report that Ambassador Patterson did not survive the attack. He was killed by a single gunshot wound to the head, which, according to eyewitnesses, was inflicted at point-blank range. These same witnesses saw armed men leaving the scene with a woman matching Secretary Fitzgerald’s description. That was about two minutes before the first police units responded. She has not been accounted for, and at this point, I think we can safely assume that she has been kidnapped.”
The room was completely silent. Everyone knew what had taken place, but until this moment, it hadn’t really sunk in. Not for most of them, and nothing made it hit home like hearing the words aloud. Harper was slightly surprised that Gavin Dowd hadn’t been asked to provide the initial assessment—it was his bureau, after all, that was responsible for losing Fitzgerald—but that was probably the exact reason Brenneman had settled on Andrews: he wanted a concise, unbiased account. It was Bale, the director of National Intelligence, who finally broke the silence.
“Do we have any idea how the secretary’s route was compromised?”
“Not at this time,” Andrews said simply.
“I take it, we’re still waiting on a claim of responsibility,” Chavis said.
“That’s correct,” the DCI replied. “We can probably expect a claim to be made within the hour. That will give us a better picture of who we’re dealing with, as well as what kind of demands they’ll eventually make.”
“But won’t we get the demands when the claim is made? Isn’t that the way it usually works?”
“Not necessarily,” Harry Judd put in. He looked over at Stan Chavis, who had posed the question. “In the case of a kidnapping, it’s not unusual for days or even weeks to go by before a ransom demand is made.”
“I understand that,” the chief of staff said dryly. “But then again, this is not a typical abduction. Time is not on their side, Harry. Whoever is responsible for this must know that we will bring the full weight of the government to bear in tracking them down.”
“With all due respect, Stan, you couldn’t be more wrong.” Ignoring the cold look his words earned him, Andrews went on. “Let me clarify. We
“On that note, what’s happening right now?” Brenneman asked. He looked down the length of the table. “Gavin, what are you hearing from your people on the ground?”
“Sir, I spoke with the head of the reserve team less than fifteen minutes ago,” Dowd said. His voice was shaky, but he seemed to be in control. “They arrived shortly after the Pakistani police, and so far, they seem to be getting all the cooperation they need. They’ve secured the scene, but it’s still unclear exactly what’s going to happen with the evidence. By that, I mean it’s unclear where it will be taken, including the vehicles that were damaged and destroyed in the attack. Wherever it goes, though, our people
