She was, at that point, exceptionally attractive and resourceful and proceeded to make herself indispensible. Whether he required a cup of coffee, or a brief on the salacious activities of some political opponent, she was able to provide it. Within two years he made a run for the presidency, but was demolished halfway through the primaries. Tyra remained faithful, worked for him sixteen hours a day, and with her many skills—acquired in the Army and the CIA—she became a behind-the-scenes whip of sorts.
Governor Finnegan’s marriage had been on the rocks for a decade, but he was fastidious at cultivating his image. The portrait presented for public consumption was that of a happily married, churchgoing couple with three young children, representing the essence of the American dream. The truth was that he despised the ground his wife walked on—a sentiment that was mutual. She went along with the portrayal for nothing more than monetary gain—he had several million dollars stashed away and she, through an intricate series of matrimonial contracts, had first claim to it all. In return, she played the role of doting First Lady.
Matthew Finnegan did something that was quite uncharacteristic of him—he fell in love with Tyra, although she had no capacity for love. To her it was an utterly alien concept, but she had no difficulty convincing him of the mutuality of the emotion.
By the time he made his second and successful bid for the White House, she was a fixture behind the scenes, but without title or position. Any time any risky undertaking was required, she was able to accomplish it. She often operated outside the law, but she always covered her tracks. He didn’t ask questions and she knew he had the power of pardon. While CJ was the president’s political fixer, Tyra fixed what CJ couldn’t.
The president’s code of moral conduct was somewhat expansive, and he had no difficulty lining his pockets with various forms of monetary gain that were the residue of his many edicts. His wealth was cloaked by an intricate series of trusts and holding companies in offshore jurisdictions. The vastness of his misappropriations matched the lootings of any African monarch. Tyra was caught up in the tailwinds, and she, too, became spectacularly wealthy. She had also hidden her gains through byzantine networks of corporate vehicles in tiny, obscure countries with ironclad banking secrecy laws.
The Afghanistan play was by far their most precarious gambit, and between its initiation and fruition sat a Canadian judge who had clearly delaminated long ago, and a conflicted terrorist who for some mystifying reason had developed a conscience. Courtroom 401 was threatening to become the confessional. With Dan Alexander having performed a very public face-plant, the skills of Tyra, the fixer, were called for.
The sleek Citation coasted to a halt at South Terminal, the private terminal complex at Vancouver International Airport. It discharged eight passengers: Tyra, her two senior CIA operatives Ron and Keith, and various foot soldiers. All carried diplomatic passports. All carried large hockey equipment-size duffel bags that contained an astounding range of weaponry, everything from handguns to explosives to fully automatic rifles. Three of them contained specially tweaked Barrett M82 sniper rifles, probably the most accurate sniper rifle on the market, coupled with a military issue Nightforce Optics NXS-M scope. When married together, these items created the most sophisticated, accurate sniper rifle in existence—good in the hands of an accomplished operator for consistently striking a bull’s eye at 1,500 feet.
One of the duffel bags contained snap-together components for a Raytheon weaponized M17 Sentry drone. It was outfitted to carry a M32 multigrenade launcher. The high-tech weapon had been thoroughly tested at the Army’s Aberdeen Proving Ground; from 100 feet it was as accurate as a sniper from 1,000 feet. In any event, accuracy is not a critical parameter when grenades are employed.
They zipped through customs with enough weaponry to start a war, rented two large vans, and sped off to the American consulate on West Pender Street, some ten blocks from the courthouse. The consulate was a large and complex structure, and with the many visa, trade, and immigration issues that existed between the two countries, more than 500 people worked there. The consulate had a law enforcement hub where members of the FBI, DEA, ATF, ICE, and other agencies worked with their Canadian counterparts. It also housed a substantial armory, a requirement for all American consular offices around the world since 2001.
There were a number of suites that were part of the complex, and the eight agents were put up there without any difficulty and without attracting attention. Having established a base camp, Tyra went to the courthouse to reconnoiter. It was 3:00 p.m. and court was still in session.
51
It was 4:05 in the afternoon and the cream of Inverness McPhail International were at counsel table alongside McSheffrey, et al. Dana had a yellow legal pad out and was nervously flipping through the four volumes of case law that had been provided to her. Judge Mordecai strode in.
The judge looked at McPhail as the clerk handed him the complex legal argument. He flipped through it and while he said it away from the microphone, the lip read was easy. “Jesus Christ,” he swore. McPhail didn’t care. They had advised their client, a large DC law firm that represented the president whenever he was sued, which was often, that the application in front of Mordecai would be unsuccessful, and
