“I found one lady who seemed mildly interested in sharing her story about working for Peterson, one that she alleged was still filled with unwanted advances and other unseemly activity.”
“So, what happened to her?”
“I’ve got an idea, but not an official story,” Miller said. “On the night we were supposed to meet to document her story, she didn’t show up. So, I got her address and drove to her house where a shiny new Mercedes-Benz was parked in the driveway. I knocked on the door, and she told me that I must be mistaken because she never agreed to tell me any story, let alone say anything negative about her wonderful boss, Mr. Peterson.”
“You really are fighting an uphill battle, aren’t you?”
“It’s what I do all day long.”
“Well, thanks for looking into it for me. If you do happen to hear of something else, please don’t hesitate to call me.”
“You got it,” Miller said before he hung up.
Blunt was left with the silence and the heavy weight that accompanied it to ponder another possible direction. He stared at his phone for a few seconds, lingering on it and playing the conversation over in his head, a conversation he’d yet to have but one he desperately needed to have. He took one last deep breath before picking up the receiver again and placing another call.
“Trevor McDonald,” the man said as he answered.
“Trevor, it’s so good to hear your voice,” Blunt said after removing the cigar from his mouth.
“Senator Blunt, is that you?” McDonald asked.
“Sure as I am sittin’ here.”
“Aww, man. To what pleasure do I owe your call, Senator?”
“What do you think about the Longhorns’ chances of winning the conference this year? That game against Oklahoma was a classic.”
“Hook ‘em, Horns,” McDonald said. “Best damn football team in the land. Who cares what the pollsters think, right?”
“Exactly. If they finish up strong, they’ll be hoisting a championship trophy by season’s end.”
“Now, Senator, you know I’ll gladly talk college football with you any time, but I have a feeling you called for a different reason, now didn’t you?”
Blunt laughed. “Nobody could ever get anything by you, Trevor. That’s why you’re working for the NSA these days.”
“I’d like to think it’s because of all my hard work and dedication that I’m here today.”
“Ah, you know what I mean. You’ve always been so damn tough to sneak anything by. Your father and I could never talk in code around you because you’d figure out what we were discussing in a matter of seconds.”
“So, if you didn’t call to talk about football—”
“All right, I’m getting to my point,” Blunt said. “As much as I’d love to have an hour-long conversation over beer about our beloved football team, I do have some other pressing matters.”
“I’m all ears.”
“That’s a good one, son,” Blunt said. “You really are.”
“I wasn’t trying to make a joke. It’s just an expression.”
“And a fitting one for anybody that works at the NSA.”
McDonald sighed. “Perhaps we should have this conversation over beers later tonight.”
“No, no. I’ll be brief.”
“Go ahead then.”
“I’m doing a little background check on our good friend James Peterson and was wondering if you happened to hear anything untoward regarding the presidential candidate.”
“Senator, you’re not asking me what I think you’re asking?”
“I’m just inquiring to see if there are any chinks in his armor, so to speak. Just wondering if any rumors or stories have flitted across your desk as of late.”
“Look, not to be rude, Senator, but I don’t feel comfortable with this conversation. This isn’t really appropriate—not to mention legal—for me to be discussing with you. Maybe you were used to these kinds of calls when you were on the defense committee, but I think we both know that the information you’re requesting isn’t the kind you can have access to.”
Blunt grunted. “If you only knew. Well, I get it. You’re trying to do the right thing, and I guess I can’t fault you for that. But if you happen to come across something that you think would be useful and want to call me on your own free time, let me give you my number.”
Blunt recited his cell before wishing McDonald a good afternoon. After hanging up, Blunt stood back up and shoved the cigar into his mouth. He chewed on the Cuban tobacco for a few minutes in silence, contemplating his next move.
No one is that squeaky clean.
CHAPTER 7
Washington, D.C.
ALEX LOOPED THE DRONE around the position of Karif Fazil’s suspected hideout in Iraq and let out a few choice words when nothing of interest appeared on the screen. Caves, caves, and more caves. She wanted to lower the drone’s altitude, but if she was right about where Fazil was laying low, she would fly right into an easy shot for one of Al Hasib’s guards. One blast from a rocket propelled grenade launcher and her eyes and ears from the sky would go up in a plume of black smoke.
“Are you sure you’re not seeing anything out there?” Alex asked Hawk.
Hawk, who’d been dispatched to the region, was a quarter of a mile away from the front of Fazil’s suspected underground location. She calculated the distance as the drone circled around on its previous approach.
“I can see the entrance,” Hawk said. “There’s no reason you couldn’t just light it up right now.”
Alex sighed. “This is the last Al Hasib hideout that we have confirmed on the ground. If I obliterate it and he’s not there, we’ll never know where he’ll go into hiding next.”
“But if he’s in there . . .”
“Hawk, I thought you wanted to watch him die.”
“It’s the only way to be a hundred percent sure that he’s dead. Otherwise, we’re left with picking over the bones of a bunch of Al Hasib guards and hoping a DNA test matches. I’d never be sure.”
“Exactly. So, why have me blast this place now?”
“I’m close enough that I could
