The Paris Protection (7 page)

“That’s why it’s so important for the future that I succeed at the summit.”

“It’ll take time, my love. It’ll be like putting together a modern League of Nations—except, unlike Wilson, you won’t fail to get Congress’s approval. You’ll succeed. I know you will. But don’t put too much pressure on yourself. A change this big is gonna take time.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

“You still getting home Thursday? Christmas is less than a week away, and the kids were asking me more questions about Santa today. I don’t know if I can hold ’em off much longer on my own. They’re getting older now, and they’re starting to get suspicious about all this Christmas magic stuff.”

“Maybe the White House staff can help you tell them the truth,” she joked.

“Oh, no. Only you are authorized to declassify top secret information like that.”

Smiling, she was about to respond when her secretary broke into the call. “I’m sorry, Madame President. There’s a developing situation in Nigeria. The Joint Chiefs and Sec Def are in the Situation Room and waiting for you to patch in.”

Abigail stiffened. Only a serious crisis could have gotten that group together at the White House’s Situation Room.

“Richard, something’s come up, so I have to let you go. Tell Stacy and Jessica I love them.”

“All right. I love you, honey.”

“I love you, too.”

She smiled and ended the call. Then, taking a long, slow breath, she pressed the button to bring up the screen teleconferencing her into the Situation Room. The call with the Israeli prime minister would have to be postponed.

On the screen were eight men. The secretary of defense, in a cool gray suit, sat in the center of the group. Flanking him were the seven Joint Chiefs of Staff, their uniforms decked with medals, ribbons, patches, and insignia in the military tradition of trying to display a lifetime of leadership and heroic sacrifice on the limited real estate of a man’s chest and shoulders. When the president joined the call, the men were speaking among themselves, though she couldn’t hear them.

Sec Def nodded toward the screen and pushed a button on their end to open audio. “Madam President,” he said. The other seven greeted her in the same manner.

“Secretary Nelson, Generals, Admiral.”

“Madam President,” Nelson said, “we have a problem in Nigeria. Intel shows that a group of rebels are breaking through the outer perimeter of the Shlaikee Oil Refinery Plant outside Kaduna. Security is strong on the facility premises, but the rebels are over a hundred strong and well armed. Besides our financial and national security interests at the refinery, there are thirteen American engineers working there for Shlaikee’s parent company. We’re afraid they’ll be taken hostage if the plant is besieged. The Nigerian government is insisting they can handle this and that we stay out of it, but our intel says the Nigerian forces are not qualified for a tactical rescue operation this complex.”

The president’s mind flashed through all the daily security briefings she had read over the past eleven months, recalling all the political tensions between the United States and Nigeria over oil rights. She had been a strong advocate of providing aid to help Nigeria maintain political stability, which was in the best interest of the United States. With so much in the balance, how much value should she place on the lives of thirteen Americans—Americans who must have been well aware of the risks of working in such a dangerous environment? She had the responsibility to do what was best for trade agreements and international diplomacy. But she also held herself responsible for the lives of Americans on foreign soil who needed her help.

“If the Nigerian government can’t ensure the safety of the refinery with Americans in it, then it’s our job to make sure they’re safe,” she said. “What are our tactical options?”

“We can get a drone in the area within twenty minutes,” said the chief of staff of the Air Force.

“We can also get a SEAL team on the ground within two hours,” said the chief of Naval Operations.

“All right,” President Clarke said. “Let’s patch in the secretary of state and the vice president. Put our embassy in Nigeria on high alert and send out alerts to other embassies in Africa. Send in two high-altitude drones as soon as possible and get the SEAL team ready to move in. I’ll have a short phone call with President Okonko to mitigate international political tension while we respond with our forces.”

The conversation with Richard about the children and Christmas was now forgotten as she raced through the crisis response with the Joint Chiefs. It was her job, not theirs, to understand the long-term implications this could have for diplomatic affairs in West Africa. But she understood the political issues perfectly, just as she understood the needs of her countrymen and -women in harm’s way. And as their leader, she had silently vowed never to abandon an American in trouble on foreign soil. It was a principle she was willing to go to her grave to uphold.

11

THE YOUNG MAN KNELT ON the thick blue carpet in his hotel room and prayed to God. For so many years during his youth, he had been adrift growing up in a Chicago suburb, unable to see the path he was meant to take. It wasn’t his parents’ fault. They hadn’t failed him, but he had been born to serve a greater purpose than they could understand. God had promised to reveal his path to him only when he journeyed alone. He had needed to leave his parents. And so he had.

And God had indeed shown him the way, over time and through much despair, to his new family. A family that had eventually put him in the Tour Montparnasse Paris hotel, with ten yellow plastic bottles of lighter fluid. To avoid suspicion, he had bought each bottle at a different petrol station in Paris. Combining the purchases with other items and using only cash, it had taken him half the day to discreetly acquire enough flammable liquid for his task. It was a critical role to help purge the world of godless sin. He was honored that his new brothers had rewarded him with such an important role in the mission.

He glanced out the window at the Paris skyline, the low lights of the “short” city with its beautiful Eiffel Tower standing less than a kilometer away from his hotel room. In the distance, just above the twinkling city skyline, floodlighting illuminated the three imposing white domes of the Sacré-Cœur Basilica at the top of Montmartre. Gazing out at the church, he felt more certain than ever that God was watching him with approval. And as an omen of his coming eternity in heaven, light snowfall drifted down like small celestial feathers from the dark-orange clouds hovering over the city.

Zipping open his backpack, he took out the ten yellow bottles of lighter fluid and stood them in a circle around him like a miniature palisade. Then he removed his long-sleeved button shirt so that he was now barefoot and wearing only his jeans and white cotton T-shirt. Sitting cross-legged within the ring of bottles, he lowered his head, raised his hands, and said one last prayer while imagining the brilliant wonders of the next life, which would be far better than anything he had ever known in this one.

Then he snapped open one of the bottles and squeezed it so tightly that a thin stream of fluid shot across the room to the windowsill. Moving his arm, he sprayed the fluid all across the carpet in front of him, until the bottle was empty. After replacing the empty bottle back in the ring, he snapped open the next bottle. Still sitting, he sprayed fluid on the bed. When finished, he sprayed another bottle toward the hallway door, then another at the desk, and another toward the bathroom. Then three more at the ceiling. And finally, the last two—on himself.

When all ten bottles were emptied, he took the steel cigarette lighter from his jeans pocket. Then, looking out again through the falling snow, he took a few seconds to marvel at just how beautiful the world could be when the moment was right. Smiling, he flicked the lighter, closed his eyes, and turned the hotel room into a box of fire that would send him to heaven and justify his martyrdom on earth—but only after death silenced his screams of pain.

*     *     *

The siren screamed through the central firehouse of the Paris Fire Brigade on the north side of the Seine River. As the firefighters rushed through the building in their heavy, clanking gear and turquoise helmets, the announcement came over the speakers: “
Dépêchez-vous! Alarme d’incendie dans un hotel. Dépêchez-vous!
”

The men and women spilled into the garage, the large front doors opened, and the mid-size red fire engines roared off into the night.

12

REBECCA REID LEFT THE ROOM where three young GIs on leave had been partying noisily enough to attract the Secret Service. Beforehand she had grabbed Ferrara, one of the floor’s three post agents. They had just finished checking the young men’s identities and suggested they dial back the revelry a notch. They promised to quiet down and even asked if she could tell the president hello for them. She assured them that she would.

Just as the door closed and she was back in the hallway, the coded transmitter on her belt started beeping and flashing red. She held up her hand for Ferrara to hold position as she flipped the transmitter switch. “Reid here,” she said into her sat phone, using the encrypted GSM mode for indoor reception. “Go ahead.”

“Special Agent Reid, this is JOC. Be advised there are reports of a hotel fire at the Montparnasse Tower, one mile west of Shield One. Local fire crews are responding. The incident is beyond the outer perimeter of the protection bubble, so no threat to Firefly. The fire is containable and shouldn’t spread. Will give a situation status every five until first responders give the all clear.”

“Cause of fire?” Rebecca asked. Ferrara stepped closer after the question.

“Unknown,” said the voice from the Joint Operations Center. “No reports of explosion or other suspicious sounds. Alarm box indicates single-room fire was triggered first. Other alarms on floor triggered afterwards. Probable cause is electrical problem or guest accident.”

“Okay. Keep us updated. Over.”

She looked at Agent Ferrara, who was plainly curious. “Hotel fire close by, but no current threat. They’ll keep me informed.” She switched from the sat phone to the small microphone clipped inside her sleeve, at the wrist. “Agent Alexander,” she said, “this is Agent Reid. JOC just informed me of a developing situation in the area: hotel fire about a mile west of Shield One. No current threat to Firefly. Paris responders are at that site. Joint Ops will keep us informed of developments.”

“Roger that,” Alexander replied.

She didn’t especially like the coincidence of the fire and the president’s trip. Fires were real concerns for the Secret Service, and for many years it had been considered too risky for presidents ever to stay in a hotel anywhere above the eighth floor—the highest point a fire engine ladder could reach at the time. But over the past few decades, that policy had eased considerably because of the advances in fire suppression systems for large hotels. Still, a building only a mile away was now blazing, and that made her a little uncomfortable.

“Alexander doesn’t think we should move POTUS to a lower floor?” Ferrara said, showing an eagerness to contribute more to the protection team other than just standing post.

“She’s on a call with the Joint Chiefs. It could have national security implications.”

Ferrara said, “I guess if we’re monitoring the fire, we’ll have plenty of time to move her if it gets more serious.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Just seems a little strange . . .”

A small fire a mile away wasn’t justification for moving the president. But there was one precaution she could take.

On her wrist microphone, speaking into the encrypted radio connected to all agents and transportation units, she said, “Commander Robinson, this is Agent Reid from Command Center. What’s the status of HMX-one?”

Two seconds later, Commander Robinson’s flat, almost lazy-sounding voice came through her earpiece. “I have three White Tops with one escort resting next to Air Force One in our DL zone at de Gaulle. Pilots are on call and on-site. All active crew on standby.”

Robinson was the HMX-1 White House Liaison Officer on-site, responsible for helping coordinate the four-helicopter lift package sitting at Charles de Gaulle: three HMX-1 White Hawks and one King Stallion. They had been flown in on Air Force C-17s from Quantico to Paris a week earlier with the president’s entourage, as was done with all HMX-1 lift packages for presidential trips.

“Call the pilots in and have them prep one of the White Tops and the escort. Maintain on hot-evac standby for one hour. Contact the French military and request permission for possible flight activity for POTUS on Marine One over Paris.”

“Roger. Marine One White Top and Secret Service escort King Stallion will be on hot-evac standby in four minutes. Over.”

Ending the communication, Rebecca noted Agent Ferrara’s intense look.

“You sense a threat?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Increased risk factors, but no threat. I just want to leave as little as possible to chance.”

Ferrara nodded. “For a moment, I thought you were going to issue a Crash POTUS alert.”

“Are you
serious
?” she said. “I analyze threat potential and maintain communication with Joint Ops to monitor and manage risk, but this situation is nowhere near a Crash POTUS.”

He sighed. “Bad joke. Sorry.”

She nodded, then said, “Want to hear a punch line to all this? I need you to head to the roof. I know we have countersnipers already up there and on surrounding buildings, but I’d like your assessment of the fire. Can you see it? Smell it? Will the snowfall help the firefighters? What does the city sound like? How many sirens and emergency vehicles are moving in the area. Give me the trained eyes and ears I need up there that the JOC updates can’t provide.”

“Yes ma’am. How long would you like me up there?”

“Twenty minutes. Things are quiet enough in the building anyway.”