There are some blurry photos posted on the internet that seem to make the case, and as Rupert picks up his phone, he sourly thinks that in his lifetime, not once has there been a President he has respected or admired. Maybe Reagan—although Reagan was too liberal for Rupert’s tastes—but that was before his time.
He answers the phone with, “Munson,” and one of the corporation’s operators says, “Mr. Munson, I have the White House on the line for you.”
Earlier he had been a bit sleepy from having stayed up too late last night, surfing his usual internet bookmarks, but those few words have just snapped him wide awake.
“Who is it?” he asks.
The operator replies, “He didn’t identify himself, but he did provide a code phrase that indicates that he is at the White House. Before the call proceeds, on your phone, you need to press the E-one switch.”
On the mess of buttons on his phone console is a green switch marked E-1—meaning Encryption One—and when he presses the switch, the call between here and the White House is now encrypted. Rupert doesn’t like the E-1 channel because more often than not, the call is filled with static and has odd echoes, as if he were talking to someone at the bottom of a well, but this call is clear and sharp.
The nameless operator says, “Your party is now on the line,” and there’s a click as the operator signs off, and he says, “Rupert Munson here.”
“Rupert? Parker Hoyt, chief of staff for the President.”
Holy crap. Rupert switches the phone from one hand to the other. “Mr. Hoyt, what can I do for you?”
Hoyt’s voice is clear and sounds exactly like him, although the voice is also troubled. “We have a situation that’s developed here … and I need the corporation’s assistance.”
Rupert knows of Parker Hoyt’s tenure at the corporation and instantly realizes he wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t something important.
“Go ahead, sir, what is it?”
Hoyt says, “The scandal in Atlanta … it’s impacting our operations here, and it’s impacting the President’s decision-making process. We have actionable and detailed intelligence that a terrorist cell from ISIS has infiltrated the country and is set to start a series of terrorist attacks, perhaps as early as this afternoon.”
Good God, Rupert thinks. “Go on, Mr. Hoyt.”
“The President has been notified that this ISIS cell is located at a remote farmhouse in rural Virginia. Despite all of the briefings, the pleadings, and meetings, the President is refusing to take action from federal forces. He won’t even contact the Virginia State Police or local authorities. He just wants to wait it out.”
Rupert says, “I understand, Mr. Hoyt.”
“I think you and I both know what waiting it out will mean. It will mean putting hundreds of innocent civilians at risk because the federal government won’t take prompt, severe, and necessary action. And that’s where you and the corporation come in.”
Rupert is starting to feel the initial thrill of being part of something confidential and important, something so necessary in the fight against terrorism. “We’re here to help, Mr. Hoyt.”
Parker seems to breathe a sigh of relief.
“I knew I could count on you and my company,” he says.
CHAPTER 64
OUR QUIET BLACK Chevrolet Suburban pulls to a halt in the early-morning mist on East Dominion Road. The lane is one-vehicle wide, cracked and bumpy, and on either side, it’s bordered by high grass, stone walls, and distant lines of woods. For the past several minutes, we haven’t seen a single passing vehicle. A mailbox, dented and rusting, is leaning over toward the dirt driveway. Black-and-white stick-on numerals denote 14.
Scotty is driving and says, “Why don’t we just roar right up?”
“Because it’s not going to happen,” I say. “You folks are going to stay right here while I wander up and see what’s what. We roar in, we make a big appearance, a loud show, who the hell knows what might happen.”
From the rear Pamela says, “For God’s sake, Sally, that place could be filled with terrorists, or the KKK, or anybody else that has a grudge against CANARY and cut off her damn finger. You’re really going up there alone?”
I open the door. “I am. But I’ll have my Motorola up and running, and I’ll call if I need backup. But let me make this clear— all of you are staying right here until I contact you. Or if you don’t hear from me in fifteen minutes.”
Tanya says, “What happens in sixteen minutes?”
I nod to the big man behind the steering wheel. “Then you can assume that Scotty is now acting special agent in charge of the Presidential Protective Division, and you’ll follow his orders.”
I step out, take a cool breath, and rearrange Amelia’s thick red scarf around my neck.
My Amelia, I think, as I go up the dirt road. My poor little girl. I’m grateful my sister is taking care of my sweet Amelia, and I would give anything to stop this walk so I could phone and talk to my little girl, but I stay with my job.
It’s quite the cool morning, and I’m glad for Amelia’s scarf. I unbutton my black wool coat so I can get easy access to my SIG Sauer, but I’m gambling I won’t need it this morning.
Birds flitter overhead, going into the brush and trees. I have a pang of memory, of being in the Girl Scouts, and I wish I had remembered the identification of all those birds I had studied back then.
I wish I remembered lots of things.
Like that giddiness and pure joy that came from those first years with my Ben. Once, those memories would take my breath away, but now that’s gone.
My poor murdered Ben.
The dirt driveway rises up and swings to the left. Here the brush has been trimmed back, and a one-story cabin is before me. In front of the cabin is dirt and gravel. Two vehicles are parked to the left, under a grove of pine trees. One is a black Mercedes-Benz S-class with red-white-and-blue Ohio license plates. The other is a black heavy-duty Ford pickup truck, with one hell of a dented front area. It looks like someone has welded lengths of black steel beams to the front of the truck.
I shake my head.
Not my concern.
I step closer to the cabin. There’s a simple door in the center opening onto a porch, and next to the door is a carefully stacked pyramid of firewood. There are two light-brown wicker chairs, and one of them is occupied by a man.
He’s in his late sixties or early seventies, thick white hair, wearing a plain blue Oxford button-down shirt, khaki slacks, and polished brown loafers. He may be old, but his face is set and his brown eyes are staring right at me.
Across his lap is a shotgun. I can’t tell the manufacturer at this distance, but it looks clean and well maintained.
“Good morning,” I call out to him.
He nods, says nothing.
I get closer.
“This is a very pretty area of Virginia,” I say. “Nice and remote, out of the way, with no noisy neighbors. Even has a river out in the rear of this house.”
The man doesn’t even nod. By now I’m looking at his hands. They are loosely clasped over the shotgun. I hate to think of it, but if his hands start moving, I’m going to have to react.
I won’t like it, but I’ll do it.