Michaels: What about the operative? What if he doesn’t play along?
Bozeman: There are ways of dealing with him.
Michaels: Such as?
Bozeman: Perhaps we’ll brand him as a traitor after an elite team of agents sweeps in and ties up all the loose ends.
Michaels: I like it.
Brentwood studied Bozeman’s face during the recording. His expression slowly transformed from shock to rage.
“I also have information from a trusted source that you also enabled the attack on Nationals Park several months back. Care to comment on any of this?”
Bozeman pointed at the camera. “Turn that off right now.”
Standing, Brentwood walked behind the camera and tapped a button. Bozeman leaped out of his seat and walked behind the camera.
“What are you doing, sir?” she asked.
“Delete that file, and I need you to get rid of that audio file immediately. It’s a matter of national security.”
“I can hardly agree with you,” she said. “Based on your own comments, to me it sounds like you and President Michaels are as big of a threat to national security as any terrorists are.”
Bozeman faced her and shook his finger in her face as he spoke. “I don’t know where you got that recording from or who doctored that up to make it sound like my voice, but that wasn’t me or the president. This administration does everything above board. That file was completely fabricated.”
Brentwood gestured toward Bozeman’s chair. “Please, have a seat, Mr. Bozeman. I’m not here to attack you. I simply want to hear your side of the story like the one you’re giving me right now.”
Bozeman’s scowl had become permanent, one he seemed to wear proudly as he continued with her line of questioning. He slowly eased back into his chair.
“Now, I will admit that I’m not a voice expert, and if I’d heard this from a disgruntled former federal employee of the White House, I would’ve dismissed it with a wave of my hand. But then I read the report out of Saudi Arabia about the raid on Malik Bashir’s hideout and the capture of the missiles.” She paused for effect. “Something went wrong, didn’t it? Maybe your operative wasn’t compliant with pulling the wool over the eyes of the American people?”
“Now you’re just slinging wild accusations like an irresponsible member of the press. It’s probably why you spend half your time tweeting inane blog posts about Kim Kardashian’s weak links to some political story.”
Brentwood’s eyes widened.
“Yeah,” he said. “I did my homework on you before I came, half expecting this type of bullshit interview. I know what kind of pathetic journalist you are. You failed miserably by printing lies, and The New York Times kicked you to the curb. Now you’re just peddling click bait.”
But Brentwood didn’t flinch. “Your personal observations about my career aside, would you finally care to comment on the story?”
Bozeman leaped from his chair and charged toward the camera. He knocked it over and then picked up the tripod and began smashing it against the ground until broken pieces of plastic littered the floor. He opened the door containing the camera’s flash drive and yanked it out.
“If you ever post that fake conversation that sounds like me and the president, I swear I’ll do everything I can to make sure you end up at Gitmo,” Bozeman said, pointing at her for emphasis. “And don’t ever call me again if you know what’s good for you.”
Bozeman stormed out of the conference room, rattling the walls as he slammed the door shut behind him.
In his haste to get out of the office, Bozeman never saw Brentwood’s phone in the corner, which streamed the entire interview live to thousands of viewers.
CHAPTER 34
HAWK INHALED THE AROMA wafting from his coffee mug the next morning as he watched the live news conference. Alex had yet to make an appearance in the kitchen, reluctant to accept the fact that a new day had begun.
“You’re missing this, Alex,” Hawk called. “Your kids will one day ask you where you were when the president was arrested.”
He heard the shuffling of slippers coming down the hallway followed by a long yawn. When he turned to look at her, she continued her measured pace, hair exploding in all directions.
“I made a pot of coffee, something you might need from the looks of things,” he said.
“I had a hard time getting to sleep last night.”
Hawk poured her a mug and then slid it across the bar in front of the seat next to him. “This will get you going.”
He turned up the volume on the television. On the screen, U.S. Attorney General James Lowell attempted to address a gaggle of reporters screaming questions at him. He pointed at one journalist who shouted something that was barely audible but not intelligible.
“The question was what is the procedure for investigating a crime of this manner against the office of the president?” he repeated then paused, looking down at some papers on the lectern. “There is no handbook for handling this type of crime. Suffice it to say, this accusation coupled with potential evidence is unprecedented in the history of our country. We’ve all heard of elected officials accused of such things, but never presented with any proof other than wild claims irresponsibly posted on the Internet or obvious altered images. But this is different. The interview with Harry Bozeman was shown in real time, and it’s difficult to dismiss the accusations presented there without a proper and full investigation.”
Another reporter blurted out a follow up question. “Mr. Attorney General, the
