Layla lifted an eyebrow, then told the guard, “She’s with me.” He nodded, looked at Shari’s U.S. Navy uniform and identification card, and wrote out a pass. He thought they almost looked like twins. Very attractive twins.
Her mother led the way through the swirl of people who were washing down tiny pieces of food with liquor from an open bar, as a Jordanian-American oud player easily plucked the stringed instrument to provide classical Arabic music in the background. Layla said hello here and patted a shoulder there as she smiled a path through the crowd. Shari, although in a crisp white uniform, felt positively early Banana Republic beside her. Women usually felt frumpy in Layla’s manicured presence. They went into her private office on the second floor.
As soon as the door was closed, Shari collapsed onto a big, soft sofa and stared at her mother and tears welled in her eyes. She began to cry, angry at herself for doing so. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m really sorry for barging in like this.”
Her mother kicked off her high heels and put an arm around Shari, rocking her back and forth, smoothing her hair and dabbing at the tears with a tissue. In Arabic, she said, “What’s going on, Little One?”
The gestures were as comforting to Shari as they had been years ago when her father died in a plane crash. “Something big and complex and dangerous is going on and Kyle and I somehow got dragged into the middle of it,” Shari sobbed. “I have to hide for a while, which is why I rushed over still dressed like this. The embassy, thank God, is foreign soil. This is Jordan. They can’t touch me here.”
“Who can’t?”
“The United States government.”
Layla gave her another little squeeze, and then put on her high heels again. “My, oh my, Little One. Just like your father, bless him. You never do things by half-measures, do you? I’d better go get the ambassador,” she said. “He’s an old Rolling Stones fan, and will welcome the chance to avoid having to listen to any more oud music. You, my dear, don’t leave this room until I get back.”
CHAPTER 40
HOW FRESH IS THIS MATERIAL?” National Security Advisor Gerald Buchanan asked as he scanned the computer-generated transcript of the conversation between Shari Towne and Master Sergeant Dawkins.
“Almost real-time,” said Sam Shafer. “Thirty minutes max.”
“Fast,” said Buchanan with a nod of approval. He loved, and
“It’s a pretty easy catch on the intercepts when the NSA has exact names and numbers, like her cell phones. She was near the White House when her call pinged the system. The computers automatically translated the audio into printed text.”
Buchanan read the conversation again. Kyle Swanson was alive. The man he had sent to make sure Middleton died had almost been picked out of a damned hat, and not only had he turned on them, he had also had a link into this office! “So now we know what she saw, and the sniper is alive out there. What is this relationship between Towne and Swanson? Why should we care?”
“According to the gals in the secretarial pool, Commander Towne has kept it under wraps because she is an officer and he is an enlisted man. That kind of fraternization is against military regulations, although it is violated all the time.”
“Ahhhhh!” Buchanan gave a grim smile. “One and one finally equal two. She had thought him to be dead, but the photos proved that he is not. She calls a mutual friend and realizes she has stepped in shit. Right?” He smiled with tight lips. “You have a chat with the secretaries?”
“Yes, sir. The ones whom we identified as her friends, or worked with her. Took them all to the safe house in Falls Church in a darkened van, had agents perform cavity searches to break their spirit, then put them one by one under the kleig lights, just like in the movies. They were most cooperative once I explained that it was a matter of national security and they would be held incommunicado under the Anti-Terrorism Provisos until we cleared this thing up. I pointed out that Section C states that if a White House employee is found to be an accomplice, that employee would face a secret military tribunal. They gave up everything. We also searched their desks, and the whole thing took less than an hour.”
“There’s no such Anti-Terrorism Provisos,” said Buchanan.
“They didn’t know that.” Shafer wore a look of satisfaction.
Buchanan grunted a small laugh. “Where are they now? I noticed some new faces out there.”
“Still up in Falls Church. Can’t let them go until it’s done. You know women can’t keep secrets, and one of them would most likely confide in their husband, boyfriend, or particularly with a close girlfriend. Actually, I believe they feel kind of important right now, helping catch a possible terrorist. They were already whispering together about Commander Towne when I left. Probably guessing who will play who in the movie.”
“So no one was hurt?”
“No. Just threw a scare into them is all. Time is of the essence.”
Buchanan made a note. “When they come back to work, I’ll put a confidential ‘Attagirl’ letter into each of their files and have it signed by the director of Homeland Security.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Shafer. “I pulled the Marine personnel jacket on Gunnery Sergeant Swanson and confirmed he has no identifying tattoos.”
“So she called this other guy, who must be a close friend because they are on a first-name basis, and they agree that Swanson escaped the crash.” Buchanan steepled his fingers beneath his chin as he thought out loud. “This Sergeant Dawkins also saw my letter and gave it to his commanding officer, a Colonel Sims.” He hunched his fat shoulders and stared hard at his aide. “That is not good. You told me you destroyed the letter, did you not, Sam?”
“Absolutely, sir. After having Swanson open and read it, I then personally read, burned, and flushed it. Somehow while this big guy Dawkins was pulling me around the carrier on a wild goose chase, Swanson must have gotten to a copying machine. He’s a resourceful son of a bitch.”
“Not good. Not good at all. We must contain this circle of knowledge to only those four people. Where’s Swanson?”
Shafer shook his head. “We don’t know. In Syria somewhere, disobeying your order and apparently on a one- man raid to pull out General Middleton. He has shut down all electronic contact.”
“And Lieutenant Commander Towne. Why do we not have her in custody?”
“Can’t find her. Her apartment was locked, no lights or music on. The cell phone and her beeper were in a garbage can outside Starbucks. The gate log shows she never showed up at Quantico.”
“At least the master sergeant is confined to a boat in the middle of the Mediterranean, so I can safely assume that Dawkins is now in the brig?”
Shafer was clearly uncomfortable as Buchanan led him on, pounding with question by question like a criminal prosecutor, knowing the answers before he asked. “No, sir. He’s still on the carrier, we think, but the Naval Criminal Investigative Service agents have not found him yet. Dawkins is another one of those Special Ops types, and if he does not want to be found, we won’t find him. Plus he has a lot of friends on that ship who probably are helping him stay hidden. And it’s a really big boat.”
Buchanan doodled on a white legal pad. “Send an instruction to the
“Good idea, sir,” Shafer responded. “But I think he will stay hidden if he considers the order to be illegal. Sooner or later, we’re bound to find him.”
“So that leaves us with Colonel Sims, the one carrying the letter itself.”
“Another blank, sir. We have him arriving at Andrews Air Force Base a few hours ago, but then it’s like he fell off the planet. The aircraft crew dropped him off at the dark end of the runway, didn’t see anything, and assumed it was part of a clandestine operation. No records in the tower of any military or civilian planes taking off from Andrews at that time. The only thing that left was an experimental NASA scramjet headed for California on a test
