White: A Novel (15 page)

“Clear!”

“Clear!”

The two shooters finished their assigned routes and lowered their muzzles just enough to show they were done. Ellis had taught them to cover their targets until God had finished sorting the dead. These two seemed to understand his point.

“Strong shooting,” Ellis called out. He removed his ear protection but left his Oakley sunglasses in place. “Smooth movement through the breach, clear communication.” He checked his stopwatch. “Seven seconds to the hot zone. No friendlies down. Good work, fellas.”

The two men ducked quickly out the door. They knew Ellis ran an all-business range. No high fives or self-congratulation allowed.

“Colonel, you in here?” someone called out. Ellis knew the voice.

“Back bedroom,” he responded. Elijah had worked for him since Kuwait. The former captain had risen quickly in the Homestead’s affairs, from overseeing tactical operations to marrying Ellis’s oldest daughter.

“Coming in!” Elijah yelled. It was standard practice in the House of Horrors to announce one’s unexpected appearance.

“News?” the colonel asked. He couldn’t imagine any other reason for his son-in-law to lay down his other responsibilities.

“News of Caleb,” Elijah said. He looked relieved. “He’s been shot. The other two killed.”

Ellis hung his head.

“How? That wasn’t the plan.”

“Well, the plan apparently changed,” Elijah told him. “Caleb lost an eye. Says he’s OK to travel.”

Ellis thought for a moment.

“That means a delay on the next phase,” he said. “How badly will that hurt us?”

“Not a problem, Colonel.” His son-in-law shook his head. “We built a certain amount of flexibility into the timetable anyway. It’s more important that we get Caleb back here in one piece than it is to rush things along.”

“Right,” Ellis said. He pushed past the news bearer, headed back out to his students. “See to it that we do. It would be a flying shame to jade things this early in the process.”

“AFTER FURTHER DISCUSSIONS,
I have decided to hold off on invoking all of the contemplation of government protocols until we get a better handle on things,” the president said. He strode into the Oval Office with all the authority his beleaguered mind could muster.

“But, Mr. President . . . ,” Havelock began, not daring to point out that the president meant
continuity
of government protocols, “these provisions were put in place specifically to ensure . . .”

“Darn it, I know why they were put in place!” he yelled. All eyes turned toward Beechum, clearly the force behind this sudden change in tack. Havelock, the press secretary, the president’s chief of staff, and Alred had been joined, now, by the secretaries of defense and state.

“Flying helicopters in this weather would put us in more danger than these terrorists,” Beechum said in a firm voice. “Besides, I doubt . . .”

“I don’t have time to argue,” Venable said, returning to his podium. Even through the fatigue he knew better than to let them think Beechum had coerced this decision. “We’ll reassess once the storm clears. What’s the latest?”

“Saudis, Mr. President,” the secretary of defense barked out. “Let’s get right down to the problem at hand. The FBI has found compelling evidence that Prince Abdullah, a potential heir to the House of Saud, has channeled significant amounts of money into accounts used by suspected fundamentalists here in the U.S.”

“Where?” the president asked. “I want names, locations, dates, amounts.”

His mind seemed to flow quickly all of a sudden, leading everyone in the room to believe his “contemplation” reference had been a mere Freudian slip.

“Atlanta, Los Angeles, Miami, New York, and DC,” Alred spoke up. He had the information on a briefing paper but never even glanced at it. “Financial transfers from accounts attributable solely to him. All transactions came in ninety-five- to ninety-nine-hundred-dollar increments, thereby avoiding mandatory disclosure regulations. We have tracked eleven transfers so far—a grand total of one hundred six thousand seven hundred dollars. Movement began three weeks ago. The most recent occurred last Tuesday.”

Venable looked impressed. Beechum too.

“Richard?” Venable asked, turning to his secretary of state, Richard Crabb.

“I wouldn’t have believed this had I not seen the transactions myself,” said the former ambassador to the United Nations. Venable had picked him for his level head and conciliatory nature. After the last administration, he had hoped that his White House would extend a hand of goodwill to the rest of the world.

“Despite our religious differences, they’ve been one of our strongest allies in the Middle East. I mean, haven’t they? It certainly seemed like that based on what I saw on the news and read in the papers.” Venable threw his hands up in the air. “I mean, you’ve had the briefings on this. What do you think?”

“I think the Saudis have always played us for personal gain,” Beechum said. Of all the people in the Oval Office, she knew the most about the House of Saud. “Until the Riyadh bombings two years ago, they always dealt to us from the bottom of the deck, trying to placate our intelligence services without antagonizing their Middle Eastern allies. They talk a good game against al Qaeda, but there’s no denying their sponsorship of pro-Palestinian groups: Hezbollah, the Al-Aksa Brigades, PIJ. Who’s to say some of that money hasn’t slipped into pockets of people who mean us harm?”

Everyone nodded.

“Why haven’t we taken a stronger position with them?” Venable asked.

“Oil,” Havelock said. “Why else?”

They all shook their heads until Beechum spoke up again.

“Don’t get too cynical, gentlemen,” she said. “Taking shots like that may work at fund-raisers and stump speeches, but the reality is undeniable: oil represents a way of life in this country. We may be the most powerful nation in the world, but it’s the Saudis who fuel our engines. Energy, manufacturing, transportation . . . hell, you want to heat your house, brush your teeth, or go out for groceries, you got a Saudi to thank.”

“Why now?” Venable asked. “Why are they backing terrorist attacks on this country? They have to know we can track their money. Surely they’re that smart.”

Beechum again.

“It’s not that simple,” she said. “The Saudi royal family is as dysfunctional as it is large. Too many profligate princes, too little money. There’s power at stake, a sense among the ruling class that they’d better stake their claim now while they still can.”

More nods.

“Look at the outrage over Jordan Mitchell selling them those Quantis phones,” Havelock interjected. “You’ve got to admit that they take one helluva beating in the media over here. And they’re scared. I’ve seen several intercepts suggesting that the Crown Prince himself fears that this administration has turned against them.”

“Maybe there’s a good reason for that,” the president thought out loud. “I’ll tell you what, I’m not going to stand around while they shoot down commercial aircraft!”

“Wait a minute,” Alred cautioned. “We have a list of money transfers. I don’t mean to imply for a second that we can tie anyone in the Saudi royal family to these specific acts of terrorism. This is an investigation, not an indictment.”

“And we all know that where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” Venable said, rubbing his itching eyes. “I want to know the minute you find something, understand?”

He walked toward the door, mumbling.

“Why the heck can’t we get a pot of coffee in here? Is that too much to ask for the leader of the free world?”

He disappeared into the West Wing calling out, “Can’t someone get me a goldarned cup of coffee?”

“SIERRA ONE TO
TOC, we have movement in White Bravo Three,” Lottspeich spoke into his radio. He and Jeremy lay behind a parapet, looking down through a storm drain.

“Wish we could tell them what the hell that movement might be,” Jeremy complained. “This goddamned snow is dicking up everything.”

More than two feet had fallen since the storm began, and the skies showed no signs of reprieve. All the HRT snipers could see through the thick flakes was five multipane windows on the second story of a building across the street. Frost had obscured all but plate-sized openings, blurred by refracted light from incandescent bulbs inside.

“You got any more lens paper?” Lottspeich asked, trying to defog the front lens of his 40x spotting scope. “I can’t keep this damned thing clear.”

Jeremy reached under a poncho and rummaged around until he found a pack of the nonabrasive paper.

“That’s all I got,” he said. “I hope they decide to take these assholes down in a hurry. I’m shaking like a dog shitting razor blades.”

Lottspeich laughed.

“I’d say you might get your wish.”

He pointed off to their left, at a convoy of black SUVs. The assault force was moving in to prestage for the hit.

“Probably playing cards and polishing up their boots, complaining about having to run all the way to the front door,” Lottspeich groused. “Did I miss something when they decided we were going to be snipers? I mean, did anybody tell us up front that this lying-in-wait business really sucked?”

Both men had learned quickly that sniping was not the glamorous, door-kicking hostage rescue business depicted in the HRT poster. This was a grueling art defined by discipline, attention to detail, and opportunity along the tiniest of margins. Sniper school taught men how to kill others at great distances without getting killed themselves. Staying miserable just came with the trade.

“You guys still bitching?”

A man crawled up behind them.

“Jesus,” Lottspeich said. “Sneaking up on us is gonna get you killed.”

“Jesus as in ‘Hi, Jesus, it’s nice to see you again’ or ‘Jesus Christ you scared the hell out of me?’” the man said.

Jesús Smith, their former Xray team leader had never known exactly how to respond to various pronunciations of his name. Most guys used the hard
J,
New Testament version, but he never knew if they were using his name in sport or the Lord’s name in vain.

“As in ‘Oh, Jesus, why is it that every time you show up I end up hating myself in the morning?’” Jeremy smiled, but both men knew he wasn’t kidding.

“Hey, I’m a suit now, remember? I don’t shine shoes anymore.”

Jesús had been promoted to supervisor and moved to the FBI/ CIA Terrorist Threat Integration Center. Jeremy hadn’t seen his former partner and team leader in more than six months.

“Right,” Lottspeich grumbled. “You’d give your left nut to be out here shivering yourself dizzy like the rest of us.”

“Yeah.” He slapped Lottspeich’s leg. “Hey, Jeremy, can I talk to you for a minute?”

His tone changed. He hadn’t come to chat.

“Told you,” Jeremy said, elbowing his current partner.

“Hurry back, boys,” Lottspeich said, rubbing condensation off the lens of his spotting scope. “People are starting to talk.”

VII

Wednesday, 16 February

05:05 GMT

Harvey Point Defense Testing Activity, Hertford, North Carolina

JEREMY TURNED LEFT
off New Hope Road just after midnight, trying to decide whether or not to call home. It had taken him a little more than an hour to drive the sixty-one miles from Norfolk, Virginia, to Albemarle County, North Carolina—more than enough time to ponder events that had once again turned his life upside down.

“You have been selected for a new assignment,” Jesús had told him just hours earlier. “A Group Two undercover op relative to the Irian Jaya mission.”

How the two related, the former HRT team leader didn’t say. But that seemed typical of assignments Jeremy had received since joining HRT. Life there felt like an ill-defined, undulating, often nonsensical series of impromptu journeys to places that were never explained with people he’d never get to know.

“You’ll be gone for several weeks,” Jesús had said, “but this is a highly classified mission. You can’t say anything to Caroline, of course. She’ll understand.”

Understand my ass,
Jeremy thought, driving past a sign that read
WELCOME TO HISTORIC HERTFORD, NORTH CAROLINA.
Caroline had put up with a year of unexplained disappearances followed by unexplainable reunions. She had always been a strong and loving wife, but every relationship had its breaking point. He had pushed this one to where it was starting to crack.

That’s it up there on the right,
Jeremy told himself, shaking off daydreams of Caroline and the three little kids who were growing up without him. He pulled up to a normal-enough-looking checkpoint. This was a military installation, after all—at least on the surface. Though he had never visited Harvey Point, other guys on the team had talked about the secret facility the way they talked about Camp Peary.

“The Point,” as they called it, occupied the easternmost portion of Perquimans County township, a stubby thumb jutting out into the Albemarle Sound. Named for one of North Carolina’s first governors, the Harvey Point Defense Testing Activity served as a paramilitary training center for second-stage CIA officers, high-risk political operatives, and some of history’s most secretive groups. Yasser Arafat’s security detail had trained here, as had Russian intelligence agents, Cuban Bay of Pigs insurgents, and numerous other organizations Middle America might not want to know about.

Guys on the team had told Jeremy not to bother asking for directions. This shy neighbor provided much-needed jobs and financial support to the backwater village. Besides, there was a war on. All curious visitors could expect to hear from Hertford residents was “What point?”

Jeremy pulled up to a drive-in-style talk box, where a stoic voice asked him to dim his headlights, turn off any portable electronic devices, and identify himself.
So much for a call home.

“Jeremy Waller. FBI,” the HRT sniper announced at the gate. He dimmed his lights but could see clear as day beneath the scouring wash of mercury vapor lamps. A modern-looking guardhouse stood at the other side of a heavy steel trap-gate. Three men in black SWAT gear waited nearby, M-4 assault weapons at ready arms. Another man held a regal-looking German shepherd on a short tether.