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Authors: Marc Cameron

BOOK: Act of Terror
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Ronnie Garcia wasn't the best shot on the force, but she was consistent, even under the pressure of a screaming, spit-launching line coach.
Ninety seconds after the killing began, she stepped back from the corner and brought her Glock up to eye level in both hands. With slow deliberation, she began to sidestep, inch by slow inch—
cutting the pie
, they called it. Her heart beat like a kettledrum as the first assailant came into the picture formed by the glowing tritium sights of her Glock.
She struggled to control her breathing and mouthed the words her instructor had drilled into them on the range: “ ‘The key to life is front sight and trigger control. '
Focus on the front sight... . Press the trigger, front sight... . Press ... front sight ...”
A young, redheaded analyst she recognized from the Central Asia Desk pushed his way through overturned plastic chairs toward a group of three women huddled under the edge of a round table. Even at twenty yards, the bloodlust was palpable in the kid's wild eyes. He flung a chair out of the way and loomed over his cowering victims, grinning maniacally.
Front sight ... press
—
Ronnie shot him twice, center mass. She prayed he didn't have on a vest.
Watching him crumple, she took another half-step to reveal not one, but two shooters working their way between the long tables less than ten yards away. She took the one in the lead first, a tall, quiet man with a bobbing goiter—Timmons was his name. She'd always liked him... .
She rushed her first shot. It went low, slamming into the man's groin. He staggered back, eyes thrown wide in surprise, struggling to keep the gun in his hand. Her second round caught him square in the chest. The Browning slipped away. A wan smile crossed his face as his body toppled across the screaming woman he'd been about to kill.
Ronnie processed the identity of the third shooter a split second later. Her breath caught hard and painful in her throat.
Surrounded by a melee of screams and gunfire—and surely deafened by the grenade blast—the third man walked from table to table, finishing off the wounded with another Browning Hi Power. Up 'til now, he'd not even noticed Ronnie's presence. It was a man she knew well, someone she'd called a friend. Her stomach lurched. She had to force herself to stay aimed in.
Dressed in the maroon polo shirt of CIA Academy staff was a decorated veteran of the Clandestine Service—and the firearms instructor who'd supervised her and countless others at the range.
Ronnie put her front sight over the chest of Marty—Mags—Magnuson, the newly appointed CIA deputy director for training. When he looked up from his bloody rampage, she demonstrated his old mantra with two center-mass shots. The key to life was indeed “front sight and trigger control.”
C
HAPTER
F
IVE
The White House
2025 hours Eastern Time
 
“P
lease sit.” President Clark flicked a hand toward the green Queen Anne couches on either side of his larger, olive-colored chair. His back was to the fireplace, facing the Resolute Desk and the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Rose Garden. The first lady had redecorated the Oval Office to be reminiscent of Theodore Roosevelt's stint in the White House, with rich, dark evergreens and bright whites. The painting of the former president on horseback had been moved from the Roosevelt Room to a spot of honor to the right of his desk above the Remington roughrider bronze.
Palmer sat to the right of the president in a matching chair. Apart from advising on matters of national security, his self-appointed secondary duty was to sit nearest the president when anyone else was in the Oval Office—including most members of the cabinet. The directors of the FBI and CIA sat across from one another, each on an opposing couch. DCIA Virginia Ross smoothed her dark skirt and sat to the president's right. On the heavy side, she constantly tugged and adjusted her clothing.
A Navy steward brought a silver tray of coffee and set it on the oval cherrywood table in the center of the furniture. The cups were already poured and made to the specifications of each guest.
Clark took his mug—bone white with the presidential seal—and nodded toward the door that led to his secretary's office. “Eric,” he said. “Please ask Mrs. Humphrey to show in our guest.”
“Of course, Mr. President.” The steward shut the door on his way out.
The president put the cup to his lips, then set it back on the table without drinking. A stab of dark emotion creased his normally smiling face.
“I'm not sure who we can trust,” he said, glaring at both directors. “Frankly, I'm not at all certain I want to bring
either
of you in on this.”
Both Bodington and Ross tugged at their collars.
There was a confident knock at the door. The matronly Mrs. Humphrey entered, leading an attractive Hispanic woman with broad shoulders and the athletic, corn-fed look of a college softball player. Her dark hair was pulled up in a wooden comb, giving her a slightly disheveled look. She wore the navy-blue slacks of a CIA security officer and a pressed white polo shirt that highlighted her maple complexion. She wore no sidearm, but the outline of her Kevlar ballistic vest was visible under her polo shirt. Her arms swung slightly away from her body like someone who wore a gun belt for a living. Brown eyes, holding a glint of sparkle, even in abject fatigue, flicked around the room, taking it all in. The distinctive Green A identification badge of one who was allowed into the West Wing hung around her neck.
Palmer caught a glimpse of movement outside the door—Secret Service personnel who'd moved even closer than normal to the president over the last eight hours. A trained observer in his own right, the new national security advisor noticed the distinct outline of submachine guns under the loose coats of agents who normally carried only a pistol. Interior White House posts, particularly those outside whatever door the president happened to be behind at the moment, had double the number of usual agents.
Jack Blackmore, the agent in charge of the presidential detail, appeared at the threshold. He looked like a male model from a hunting magazine with his chiseled features and splash of gray at his temples.
“We can be relatively certain about Ms. Garcia, Jack,” Clark said with a smiling nod.
“Very well, Mr. President,” Blackmore said, shutting the door with what Palmer knew was the anxiety of one who safeguards the life of another.
Clark stood, as did Palmer and Bodington. “Please have a seat, Ms. Garcia.”
Palmer studied the young woman as she thanked the commander in chief politely, then perched herself at the edge of the couch, nearest Virginia Ross. Since the other woman was technically her boss, Garcia undoubtedly saw her as an ally. For the time being, Palmer was sure Ross cared little one way or the other about her valiant security officer.
“Well.” The president picked up a light blue file from the coffee table. “Ms. Garcia, it appears we owe you a debt of gratitude.”
Garcia's round cheeks, already flushed, turned a darker shade of crimson. “I was just doing my job, sir.”
“A fine job of it too.” Clark smiled. He leaned forward, cutting to the chase. “Ms. Garcia, we've read your report and I have to say, the thing that intrigues me the most is your discretion. Not once do you mention Deputy Director Magnuson as one of the shooters. Care to tell me why?”
All eyes fell to the CIA officer. Palmer smiled at her composure. He wasn't sure if it was pure naïveté or something deeper—something he looked for in those he hired for special duties.
“Well.” Garcia nodded, biting her bottom lip before taking a deep breath. “The idea that senior management at the CIA could be involved in a terrorist act might be a little disconcerting to the American people. I knew Director Ross would release that information if she thought it prudent.”
Clark nodded. “Something like that gets out, it could cause a lot of trouble,” he said. “That goes without saying. Particularly after we took the time to reexamine Mr. Magnuson's background.”
Now it was Ross's turn to flush. As director, it was her responsibility to see that her employees, and more importantly her division deputies, were properly vetted. Magnuson had passed no fewer than three periodic security clearances over the course of his career and double that number of polygraphs. The fault really couldn't be placed at her feet, but everyone in the room knew responsibility could not be delegated.
Clark tilted his head, looking at Garcia. “Would it surprise you to know Magnuson made three unreported trips to Peshawar, Pakistan?”
“After what I saw today, sir,” Garcia said, “nothing would surprise me.”
“All three shooters had a calendar in their respective homes with today's date colored in red and the same Chinese character.” The president paused, glancing up at Palmer. “What is it again, Win?”
“
Dan
,” Palmer said. “It means
gall
—bitterness.”
“Chinese ...” Garcia mused, almost to herself.
“Oddly enough, yes,” the president said. “Chinese.”
He gave Director Bodington a hard look. “Other than that, the Bureau has found precious little evidence to connect them. No emails back and forth, no phone records ...” He paused for a long moment before raising the blue file folder again. “Young lady, I hope you don't have any plans for the near future. What I'm about to tell you is really going to screw up the next few months of your life.”
Garcia smiled, giving a shrug that, to Palmer, seemed utterly beautiful and free of guile. The poor kid obviously no idea what she was getting into. “I'll make it work, Mr. President,” she said.
“Outstanding.” Chris Clark wasn't one to stop and linger over the details. “Here's the deal then, Ms. Garcia. I need to know how much I can trust you.”
Garcia flushed, recoiling as if the question were a slap. “Well, completely, sir.”
Clark caught Palmer's eye. It was his cue that the national security advisor should do his job and dispense a little advice.
“In the end,” Palmer said, “we have to trust someone, Mr. President. Veronica Garcia has demonstrated her loyalty as well as her valor in stopping the CIA shootings—”
Bodington weighed in—though he wasn't willing to interrupt the president, he would interrupt Palmer. “Sir, you're suggesting we share highly classified material with—my apologies to Ms. Garcia—but essentially a security guard. Is it not just as plausible that Deputy Director Magnuson was trying to stop the shootings and she killed him before the response team arrived?”
Garcia went from sweet to seething in the flash of her dark eyes. “I've never met you before, Director Bodington, but I'm sure you know it'll take about two seconds for ballistics to confirm the DD's weapon murdered at least half a dozen of my coworkers.”
Bodington tried to wave her off, all but ignoring her to make his case to the president. “Please, sir, listen to reas—”
Garcia's shoulders began to tremble. “I realize we have an extreme situation here. Frankly, I don't even give a damn if you call me a security guard. It's what I do. Someday, I hope to work for the Clandestine Service—and when I do, I hope to have the sense to look at a little evidence before I accuse someone of being a cold-blooded terrorist.”
Clark gave a quiet smile, sucking on his front teeth the way he did when he was particularly amused. “Kurt, I think the fact that she didn't call you a son of a bitch shows incredible restraint. Two points here: First, as Win points out, we have to trust someone. Second, I'm not suggesting you share anything. From what I've seen, you have damn little to share. I'll do the sharing. So, do your boss a favor and sit still for a couple of minutes.”
Bodington clenched his teeth, but said nothing more.
“Win.” The president tipped his head toward Palmer. “Would you be so kind?”
“Of course, Mr. President.” Palmer turned in his seat to face Garcia, who calmed immediately from her confrontation. “Plainly speaking, late yesterday evening, intelligence sources in Pakistan confirmed a problem we had suspected for some time. Foreign agents placed within our government—moles.”
The director of the CIA shook her head. The muscles in her face clenched, but she kept quiet. It was obvious she agreed with her FBI counterpart. Briefing such a low-level employee was just not done. Palmer decided to address that from the beginning, since it was, after all, a plan he had endorsed to the president.
He moved to the edge of his chair, leaning in to close the distance between himself and the young woman. “We have to assume these agents ... these moles could be anywhere and that they—like Deputy Director Magnuson—have passed various backgrounds and security checks. An in-depth review of both Timmons's and Gerard's files found several glaring holes in their backgrounds—facts that when take separately mean nothing, but in light of what they did, mean everything.”
Garcia sighed, pushing a lock of hair out of her eyes as she processed the information.
It was a lot of information to dump on her, but Palmer plowed ahead. “Both men are the sole survivors in their families. Neighbors who were interviewed for previous backgrounds admit they really knew the parents better than the boys. Neither have a single friend that remembers them earlier than the seventh grade. According to their supervisors at the Central Asia Desk, both were fluent in Turkic, but when we looked into it further, other than some Internet courses, there's no record of them ever studying that particular language.”
“You believe them to be foreign born then?” Garcia mused.
“We do,” Palmer continued. “And we missed it in their initial backgrounds. Essentially, everyone in the government needs to be re-vetted—and that includes the ones doing the vetting.”
“Ah,” Garcia said, deflating slightly. “And since you feel you can trust me, I get to begin the process.”
The president held up the blue file folder containing the background investigation on Garcia. Palmer himself had completed a review only two hours before. “Except for your load of good old American credit card debt,” Clark said, “you come out smelling like a rose, my dear. Who would admit to having a Soviet father and Cuban mother if they wanted to hide something?”
Director Bodington folded his arms tight across his chest, looking toward the Rose Garden as if to distance himself from events unfolding before him. Palmer never had liked the man, finding him a bureaucratic bloviate without concrete facts to back anything up. All hat and no cattle.
Garcia's eyes remained worshipfully attentive to the president, ignoring Bodington altogether. “I assume I'm being assigned to a team,” she said.
Palmer smiled. “This is the team,” he said. “Director Ross, Director Bodington ... and you.”
“And we are to vet government employees?” Garcia went pale. “All government employees?”
The president laughed, sucking his front teeth again. “All two million of them—not counting the Postal Service—but we've prioritized the list. As you clear people, they will begin to assist with the background investigations.”
Garcia sat perfectly still.
“You in particular will focus on those with direct access to the president,” Palmer said, hoping to calm her fears.
She turned her head to one side, hands folded quietly in her lap. Her eyelids drooped with exhaustion. “If I might ask ...”
Palmer's chair began to chirp softly. Each piece of furniture in the Oval Office was equipped with a secure phone line so presidential guests could carry out pressing directives on the spot.

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