The Oval Office The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W. Washington, D.C. 0830 18 April 2007
“Go see who’s out there, Douglas,” President Clendennen ordered. “I called this meeting for half past eight, and that’s what time it is.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” replied Secret Service Special Agent Mark Douglas, who now saw himself as the guardian of the President’s door. He went through the door into the outer office.
The President pointed at Clemens McCarthy, the presidential press secretary, and at Supervisory Secret Service Agent Robert J. Mulligan-both seated on simple chairs against the wall-and motioned them toward the armchairs and couches to which senior officials felt entitled.
“We don’t want these disloyal bastards to feel too comfortable in here, do we?” the President asked rhetorically.
Douglas came back into the office and announced, “The secretary of State, the attorney general, and the FBI director are out there, Mr. President.”
“Look at your watch, and in precisely five minutes let them in,” the President ordered.
“Yes, sir. And the secretary of Defense, Mr. President, and General Naylor are out there.”
“I didn’t send for them,” Clendennen said.
“Secretary Beiderman said he is aware he doesn’t have an appointment, Mr. President,” Douglas said. “He said he will await your pleasure.”
Clendennen considered that a moment, and then said, “Let them in with the others.”
“Yes, sir.”
Five minutes later, Secretary of State Natalie Cohen led Attorney General Stanley Crenshaw, FBI Director Mark Schmidt, Defense Secretary Frederick K. Beiderman, and CENTCOM Commander in Chief General Allan Naylor into the room.
“Since I didn’t send for you, Secretary Beiderman,” the President said, “what’s on your mind? Let’s get that out of the way first.”
“Mr. President, I regret to have to tell you that General Naylor was unable to speak with General McNab as you requested.”
“Why not?”
“General McNab was on his way to-by now is in-Afghanistan,” Beiderman said, and waited for the explosion.
It didn’t come.
Clendennen didn’t say anything at all.
Beiderman went on: “It was our intention, Mr. President-General Naylor’s and mine-to speak with General McNab together. But when General Naylor called, General O’Toole, the deputy SPECOPSCOM commander, reported that General McNab was on his way to Afghanistan.”
The President considered that for a moment, and then said, “Well, we’ll just have to deal with that issue at a later time, won’t we?”
“Yes, sir,” Beiderman said.
“And the photographs?”
“I have them right here, Mr. President.”
“Give them to Mulligan,” the President said. “We wouldn’t want them to disappear, would we?”
“Yes, sir,” Beiderman said. “I mean, no, sir, we wouldn’t.”
Still standing, and thus somewhat awkwardly, he opened his attache case, took out the manila envelope that held the photographs, and handed it to Supervisory Special Agent Mulligan.
“Will that be all, Mr. President?” Beiderman asked.
“No. Stick around. I think you should hear what we’re going to do about Colonel Ferris. You, too, General Naylor.”
“Yes, sir,” they replied, speaking on top of each other.
Natalie Cohen, although she had not been invited to do so, sat down in one of the armchairs. After a moment, Attorney General Crenshaw sat on one of the couches, and a moment later FBI Director Schmidt sat beside him. Beiderman and Naylor remained standing.
“So where do I start?” the President asked rhetorically, and then answered his own question. “With you, Schmidt.”
“Yes, sir?”
“How are things going in El Paso? Has that classified advertisement our Mexican friends have asked for been published yet?”
“Yes, sir. Yesterday. The first time, yesterday. It will run for four days.”
“And when do you think there will be a reply. Today? Or when?”
“Mr. President, my SAC there-William Johnson-I told you about him, sir. He’s one of my best-”
“That’s nice to hear, but it doesn’t answer my question,” the President interrupted.
“I was about to say, sir, that SAC Johnson has determined that the average time for delivery of a letter deposited in a post office to be delivered to a post office box in the same building is a minimum of six hours, and may take as long as twenty-four.”
“You’re telling me it takes our postal service at least six hours to move a letter from the in slot to a box?”
“Yes, sir. And that’s presuming the letter would be placed in a mail drop slot in the post office building itself. If it were placed-as it very likely would be-in one of the drive-past post boxes outside the post office, that could add as much as two hours to that time. Mail is collected from the outside boxes every two hours from eight A.M. to midnight. It is collected only once from there from midnight until eight A.M.
“And of course if a letter were deposited in a mailbox not immediately outside the main post office, that time would be further increased, as the mail is picked up from there usually only twice a day. And if it were mailed in Ciudad Juarez-right across the border from El Paso-that would add at least another twenty-fours to the time. And if it were mailed in, say, in San Antonio, it-”
“I get the picture, Schmidt,” the President said, cutting him off. “There is a very unlikely possibility-on the order of a miracle-that if our Mexican friends went to the main post office in El Paso yesterday, their reply could be in our box right now. If that isn’t the case, we have no idea when we’ll hear from them.”
“If a letter had been deposited in Post Office Box 2333, Mr. President, we’d know about it. SAC Johnson has agents all over that post office,” FBI Director Schmidt announced, more than a little proudly.
“Not only are there surveillance cameras inside and outside the building,” Schmidt went on, “but agents, male and female, are constantly rotated through the lobby. Additionally, there are agents in the working area of the post office physically checking each piece of mail as it is dropped in a slot. Other agents go through mail coming into the post office from all sources.”
Then Schmidt suddenly got carried away with his recitation of SAC Johnson’s accomplishments: “Mr. President, the FBI has got that post office covered like flies on horseshit.”
President Clendennen did not seem very impressed.
He said: “So what happens if somebody drops a letter addressed to box. . whatever. .”
“Box 2333, Mr. President,” Schmidt furnished.
“. . and an agent sees him do it? Or someone comes into the post office and goes looking in Box 2333? What then?”
“In the first case, Mr. President, two things will happen. The envelope will be opened, and the contents photocopied, sent to the FBI’s San Antonio office, and immediately forwarded to the J. Edgar Hoover Building, where agents are standing by to bring it here. Meanwhile, the letter dropper will be surveilled to see where he goes. Same surveillance will be placed on anyone going to Box 2333.”
“What if he heads for Mexico?” the President asked.
“He will be arrested if he tries that, Mr. President.”
“No,” President Clendennen said. “He will not be arrested.”
“Sir?”
“And you tell your SAC that if this happens, and the person being surveilled even looks like he suspects he is
