Traitor (17 page)

She looked down and read the note.

Monsieur Jacques Guillon,

Crédit Agricole Marseille

“Nobody can know where you got this, especially Dan,” emphasized Carson.

Frankie nodded while quickly calculating the time in France. Midnight. Too late to call the bank.

“I’ll get on it at 8:00 a.m. French time,” she said enthusiastically.

Carson shook his head and pointed to Turner and Reid huddled on the other side of the operations floor.

“There’s a car waiting. You and Reid are getting over there tonight. Flynn will meet you at the airport with a team of Deltas. You need anything, you just call me, 24/7, and I mean
anything
! Nothing’s too big or too small and I’m including aircraft carriers!”

“You’re not coming?”

“No, Turner and I need to stay here. We’re briefing the President tonight. The crisis planning is kicking into gear.”

Frankie nodded nervously, feeling a huge weight shift onto her shoulders.

Carson noticed her mood darken. “Hey, we’re here because of you. You tracked down this lead. Just remember you trained as an investigator with the Secret Service and from looking at your personnel records, you were a damned good one before you moved into protection.”

Reid joined them. She too was apprehensive. Turner followed. “Best of luck and remember, don’t come back without him!” he said unhelpfully.

Frankie looked down at the note again. Monsieur Jacques Guillon, aka Nick Geller.

You are caught, you just don’t know it yet.

The White House

State Dining Room

Carson and Turner were among the last to arrive. Turner took the seat next to his boss, the Director of the FBI, while Carson took the seat next to the Secretary of Defense. A spectacularly grand room, the State Dining Room had been transformed with miles of cables into the temporary Situation Room. The President had made it clear he wasn’t hiding in a bunker on his return from the hospital, ruling out the use of the emergency operations center deep below the East Wing.

Just four days on from the shooting and explosion, the West Wing had all but disappeared. The demolition crews had removed the debris and the site was being prepared for a new West Wing with plans being drawn up. However, the overwhelming suggestion was for the building to be rebuilt exactly as before with greater blast proofing protection. The only positive that remained was the fact that only one person had lost their life in the blast. The Vice President. His on-duty Secret Service detail had recovered his body shortly after the blast and all of them handed in their resignations for not having been by his side. The President had rejected every one of the resignations from his hospital bed but they all refused his rejection. A funeral was scheduled for later that week at which heads of state and leaders from around the world would pay their respects to a great man. He had served his country at war and in peace and whenever called upon, he always rose to the task handed to him. A widower with no children, he had given everything to his country. The President was going to give him a send off fit for the President he should and could have been.

President James Mitchell entered the State Dining Room, his arm still strapped to his chest. The First Lady escorted him into the room, fussing as any loving wife would, telling him that it was too early, he had just been released from hospital, was lucky to be alive. President Mitchell nodded to each statement as it was thrown at him but continued unperturbed. Sitting him down and making sure he was comfortable, she turned to the group assembled to update her husband. A strong and beautiful Southern Texan, she was a powerful force in her own right.

“Now y’all listen here!” she said, pointing to a photo of Nick Geller. “I want that man to feel pain before you kill his sorry ass!”

A few nods emanated around the table.

“Dead! I want him dead!” she demanded.

The nods grew stronger as they realized she wasn’t leaving until they all agreed.

“Okay, good. You’ve got him for forty-five minutes,” she ordered.

The group consisted of the most powerful individuals the world had ever known. At their fingertips were the mightiest forces ever assembled but they nodded meekly in unison, as though chastised by their grandmothers.

“Good,” she said, kissing her husband on the cheek. “Forty-five minutes!” she reiterated and promptly departed.

“Let’s make it quick people,” smiled the President, making light of the First Lady’s timescale, however, everyone knew she meant it. The meeting would be over in forty-five minutes whether the President had finished or not.

“Deputy Director Turner, why don’t you kick off?”

Turner stood up and updated the group with their progress up to and including Reid and Frankie’s departure back to France.

“So basically, we’re nowhere near catching him?” asked the President.

“No, sir,” replied Harry, saving Turner from answering.

“Do we know his plans?”

“No, sir,” replied Turner.

“Colonel Barnes?” The President turned to the virus specialist. “I believe you’re working with FEMA on a plan in case the virus is released?”

Colonel Valerie Barnes stood up and briefly updated the group with the outbreak plan.

“So if I’m hearing you correctly, the plan is that everybody goes into quarantine in their homes and stays there for weeks while hospitals are overwhelmed with millions of people they can’t save? In short, America will grind to a halt until six weeks after the last death from the virus?”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” she protested to a roomful of looks that suggested that was exactly how she had put it. “Yes, I suppose it is that bad,” she sighed, taking her seat.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m so glad I managed to get out of my hospital bed for this meeting,” President Mitchell said sarcastically. “And we’ve not even touched on the four hundred fifty-nine disappearing radicals or the death of the Ebola victim streaming live on the internet!”

The Director of National Intelligence stood up. The DNI was responsible for all of the US intelligence services and gave a brief update on where they were on tracking the vanishing radicals. He also informed the President of the threat that for every search engine or service provider that blocked the Ebola victim’s live feed, another victim would be added, also confirming that the Ebola victim had sadly died a few hours earlier.

The President banged the table with his good hand. “So now we’re letting terrorists dictate to us?! We don’t negotiate! And we don’t let them stream live murders into American homes!” he shouted. “Chairman?”

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff stood. “Mr. President, our forces have been placed on high alert and all leave is cancelled. We’re calling up reservists and heightening security at all installations. We’re coordinating with the National Guard and FEMA should a requirement for martial law occur. In short, Mr. President, we’re ready when you need us.”

“Thank fuck someone is.” President Mitchell let that hang for a moment, then turned to CIA Director Carl Hunter. “I believe you’ve done some background on how they turned one of our guys against us?”

Both Carson and Turner sat up in their chairs. Barry, their CIA liaison and a member of their team, had not mentioned to them any work that was being done without their knowledge.

The CIA Director, however, offered little they hadn’t uncovered themselves when it came to Nick Geller’s secret family history of being Muslim and his potential radicalization after his parents’ deaths as a teenager. What they had uncovered was the point at which Nick had reengaged with his radical youth. They had pieced together what had happened to him a year ago when Nick claimed to have been injured and lost in the hills for three months. Images were shown of Nick in various disguises meeting with Al Qaeda and Taliban hierarchy on various trips, all of which were new to Carson and Turner.

“Where the hell did you get these and why haven’t we seen them?’ asked Carson angrily, one of the few people in the room brave enough to go up against one of Washington’s most feared power brokers.

“We need to protect our sources,” said Hunter smugly.

“Perhaps if you hadn’t, we wouldn’t be sitting here now?” countered Carson.

“Our source had no idea who this was. Nor did we until the mock-up images of Nick Geller were released. “It was just luck that one of our image analysts recognized Geller and pulled up these old images.”

“This is bigger than any source’s confidentiality! We need those images and your source!” demanded Carson.

“Over my dead body!”

“Just make sure you put that in your will tonight!” threatened Carson.

“Okay, okay, enough,” said President Mitchell, stepping in. “Carl, give them what they need. And I don’t mean just what they ask for. They don’t know what you’ve got.” He glanced at the door. “Anything else? I hear my wife coming.”

The room stayed silent and the President got up, signaling the briefing was over.

“Bob,” President Mitchell said to his Secretary of Defense, “and Harry,” he said, looking at Carson, “can you both hang back?”

Turner looked at Carson; they had shared a ride over. Carson signaled for Turner to give him ten minutes, and Turner stepped out into the hall.

When only the three men were left, the President turned to Carson. “Honestly, what are your thoughts? And no bullshit.”

“I’ll know better when I see what the CIA has on Geller and what the source has, but at the moment it’s not looking good.”

Wednesday 9
^th
July

Nasim, as directed by Nick, flashed the aircraft landing lights every ten seconds as they neared the GPS location. Nasim kept an eye on the fuel gauge; its warning light had already begun to blink. With every second that passed, Nasim could have sworn it began to blink more rapidly. He flashed the landing lights again and began the count,
ten, nine, eight…
He stopped. The dark desert floor had just sent a bolt of light off into the distance. Approximately a mile ahead, a line of light suddenly appeared. As they neared, Nasim began to descend, the light separated and became two - their makeshift landing strip.

Nasim called out their imminent touchdown. Nick braced himself but needn’t have bothered. The oversized tires and Nasim’s many, many years of experience produced a near perfect landing.

“You certainly earned your bonus with that landing,” said Nick, looking out at the uneven desert floor highlighted by the meager landing lights.

“That’s a far better runway than I’m used to,” Nasim replied, making Nick wonder exactly what the pilot usually transported. Nasim opened the door and was met by an unwelcome sight of six men pointing AK-47s at him. They gestured with the barrels of their guns to get out.

While Nasim blocked the gunmen’s view, Nick reached around and extracted his Berretta. He checked the safety, placed the pistol on the seat opposite him, along with his satchel and metal briefcase, and followed Nasim out into the darkness. The fires that had lit the runway were slowly dying. Only dim lights from a truck illuminated the area around the plane.

“What is the meaning of this?” barked Nick in Arabic as he stepped from the plane.

The gunmen looked at him. It was clear that they hadn’t understood a word of what he’d just said. He tried a similar message in French. Again, they looked at him with obviously no idea what he was saying. Nick’s gestures began to grow more wild as the gunmen, all of whom were in their early twenties, looked on. Nick could see they were nervous and, more worryingly, poorly trained. Their fingers were on the triggers of their weapons and not the trigger guards. Their gestures were so erratic that they occasionally pointed their weapons at each other.

“It’s not them dude, shoot them!” said one of the gunmen to another. Again, poor training was evident. The talker was frightened to take the shot but, just as importantly, Nick recognized a strong regional English accent.

“Whoa, calm the fuck down!” shouted Nick in English.

“What the fuck? You’re American? Dude, we nearly blew your motherfucking head off!” replied the gunman in barely recognizable English.

“What’s with all that mumbo jumbo, mate?” another said, lowering his weapon. The rest followed, lowering their weapons. A mumble of discontent rose as they bragged how close they had been to ‘popping’ the American. The truth was that none of them had come close. They were embarrassed at how badly they had handled the situation and were trying to big themselves up after a dismal showing.

“Are we going to stand here all night?” asked Nick, taking command, something these guys desperately needed.

The gunman pointed to the truck and gestured towards the open back. Nick looked at him with contempt. “Nasim!” he said loudly. “You and I in the front with the driver. The rest of you in the back.”