At Any Cost (25 page)

On Air Force One, winging toward New York where its passenger was to deliver a presentation at the United Nations in a last ditch effort to rally support for sanctions against Iran, President Ballard read the classified brief that had been placed on his desk. It included a probability study to determine who was responsible for the attack on Fallon Hughes's motorcade, based on the concept of “chatter.” The Deputy Director of the National Security Agency had pointed out an uptick in Iranian chatter in the hours after the attack. Of course they were chattering more; if Preston Taylor Hughes had his druthers, they'd be choking on bomb dust on January 20.

The same countries that were always suspect were analyzed, giving potential motivations for them to take the young daughter of the not-quite-in-office president-elect. Russia, Ukraine, Afghanistan, Iraq, China, Pakistan …. The whole damn world had a motive to toy with the USA, but after eight years in office, Ballard didn't think this was some state-sanctioned act of terrorism. A small cell of terrorists that had a grudge about Mahomet Ayrzu executed the kidnapping; there was no mystery here.

There was nothing of value in the brief.

And now for the difficult call. He indicated for his secretary to dial the number.

Preston Taylor Hughes picked up the line.

“This is a call from Air Force One. Please hold for the President.”

He was meeting with Jerry Chambliss and his online media coordinator in the Blair House Library. Setting the handset aside, he asked his personal assistant to shepherd everyone out while he spoke to the president. Hughes braced for news of a nuclear attack—some big act of revenge, from Russia with love.

But the news of Russia was not to materialize. Instead, Ballard came on the line and explained he only had five minutes before the plane landed in New York. “So I'll come right to the point. Unfortunately, the United States simply will not authorize exchanging Mahomet Ayrzu for Fallon Hughes. To do so would jeopardize relations with half a dozen countries around the globe as well as undermine the confidence of the American people in their government. On national security grounds, we simply refuse to even engage on the subject.”

Ballard had the good sense to sound a little apologetic, but it made no difference. Preston clenched his teeth, wondering if this was sick payback after a bruising political defeat.

“At this point, the best we can do is stall. Frankly, with the Russia situation, we simply cannot become distracted …”

“Distracted?” Hughes cut in.

“I understand your anguish, Preston.”

Preston Hughes felt disgust for his predecessor. Saving his legacy was apparently more important than protecting American lives. He was counting down the hours until he could fly back to his home in Vermont and live out his days giving speeches and building his presidential library. It was a time-honored tradition, of course, to avoid controversy in the last months of a presidency. But to Hughes, this felt less like punting the issue than simply running from it, and that stank of cowardice.

“My foreign policy advisors believe the most prudent course of action is to attempt to stall with the people who have captured her. We simply cannot acknowledge the existence of Ayrzu.”

“For Christ's sake,” Preston said, “this is not the time for prudence. Use him as bait. Promise to hand him over if they return Fallon.”

After a short, deliberative pause, Ballard said simply, “The United States's policy is not to admit that he exists.”

“That is
your
policy,” Hughes corrected, “not the United States's.”

“It is the policy of the United States not to negotiate with terrorists. I realize this is emotional for you, but I believe the best course of action is to appear on television and explain that there is no such person as Mahomet Ayrzu in our custody.”

“What do you expect them to do to her,” Hughes demanded. “Just let her languish? No. They are going to torture and kill my daughter. They have leverage and they know it.”

“We can do some behind-the-scenes work to see if we can broker a deal, but as a matter of policy, we can't open negotiations with terrorists.”

Preston finished the phone call and then rose to his feet. He paced the library, thinking. The first whiff of the limits of presidential power unpleasantly settled around him. There had to be a way to get Fallon back. His only biological child. She had been a sweet, startlingly beautiful little golden-haired girl who loved her daddy more than anything in the whole world. Then somehow, by minutes he could no longer remember, she grew into a beautiful young woman whose mind was as independent as his own.

When he ran for president, he had envisioned himself masterfully solving world problems. Yet he could not solve even his own domestic issues.

He shut his eyes, thinking about Fallon and the things he had missed in her life while he pursued the presidency. Was it worth it? The boy, Evan, would grow up in the public eye and eventually he would have to morph from publicly known figure to just a normal kid. Or as close to normal as possible.

Preston largely ignored Evan simply because it was painful to be around the evidence of his wife's betrayal. But Preston would have had to be blind to not know Fallon meant the world to Evan. He wondered if the boy realized what was happening, if he asked where Fallon was. A jab of pity and genuine sadness staked him through the chest.

Preston resented the feeling of helpless that was engulfing him. This frame of mind would not help Fallon. He would focus only on what could be done to bring Fallon home.

With the official position being that the US would not negotiate with terrorists, Tom Bishop was his only hope to bring his daughter home alive. He hoped Tom didn't negotiate with them. He hoped he killed them.

The entire security apparatus of the government had been compromised. Omar Koss had stopped the Russians, but with the map of the keys on the open market, it was impossible to know who was watching America's systems. Unfortunately there were many individuals and countries with a motive to interfere with America's ability to track intelligence assets and programs; the most prudent course of action was to act as if every single one of America's enemies was watching.

The problem with alerting the president was that Ballard had never liked the Sutton Layes program. Twice he had attempted to axe it, only to be persuaded by the secretary of defense and the CIA chief that Sutton Layes was vital to national security. There was very little advantage in admitting a screwup and giving him a reason to shut the program—and Omar was under no illusions about his own career, if it came to that. The map of the keys was never supposed to get out. Antoine Campbell had been right to be alarmed enough to alert Fallon Hughes. Koss, who was without sentimentality about people, felt genuine sorrow for Antoine Campbell and anger about his death. Collin had acted impulsively, stupidly. Antoine Campbell could have been silenced in other ways—he did not have to die.

Koss had originally written off the young radical, but he did have some good Middle Eastern and Chechen contacts, so he strung Collin along long enough to get the read on several of those contacts. One was Malkhazi, who had one very good contact for highly enriched plutonium that Omar was keenly interested in. Because Collin had expressed desire to kill Fallon himself, and because Malkhazi was probably the most dedicated terrorist in Collin's phone book, Omar made the easy assumption that Malkhazi, or someone close to him, had Fallon Hughes.

Thus at ten o'clock on the morning after the kidnapping, a very fortuitous thing happened. A video of Fallon Hughes was broadcast on television. She said an odd thing. “Tell Tom I'm okay.” Not “tell my family I am okay.” But “Tom.”

Listening to the news broadcast, Omar heard the name Leah Lennox, identified as a reporter for the
Washington Post
.

And thus, one of America's most covert operatives, a man whose face and name had never been uttered anywhere in any media, showed up at the 15th Street offices of the
Washington Post
and asked to have an audience with Ms. Leah Lennox.

Leah was frightened of the giant man who stood up as she entered the conference room at the
Washington Post
office. He was huge. Six feet four or five, built thick. All muscle. His face was impassive and expressionless.

“Mr. Jones?”

“My name is Omar Koss,” he said. His voice was low and soft and precise. Factual. He did not smile.
Spare
was the word that came to her.

“Oh. Was Jones a … pseudonym?”

“Miss Lennox, sit down.”

There was simply no question of arguing with him. She sat.

“You have a tape of Fallon Hughes. Why did they send it to you?”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Koss. I can't …”

“Miss Lennox, I do not have much time. The security of our government has been compromised. Any information you give to the FBI, CIA, NSA, even MPD or anywhere else is exposed directly to our enemies.” He slid across a credential that identified him as a CIA employee.

Leah picked it up and examined it. Looked legit. She had seen Tom's Secret Service credentials many times, and this small booklet looked a lot like that. She slid it back to him, eyes wide with shock.

“I believe I can return Fallon Hughes to her family, but I cannot use the FBI's massive surveillance assistance, and certainly not the NSA's electronic expertise, or even a small, specialized team of operatives from the CIA. If you do not assist me, it is inevitable that Fallon Hughes will die.”

Leah's eyes had gone huge. “Inevitable,” she whispered.

“Yes, ma'am. You have to trust me.”

“My friend Tom …”

“Tom from the video?”

“Yes. My friend Tom is a Secret Service agent. He was on Fallon's security detail. I know he would never betray our government.”

“Do you know where I can find him?”

“Probably Secret Service headquarters. I think they're analyzing the video for clues about where she might be.”

“You need to come with me.” He started to stand up again.

“I can't. I have to work …. The Russian situation …”

“Miss Lennox, Fallon Hughes is in the custody of a man who wants to chop off her head.”

“I … I …” She floundered; there was no answer to that.

“Bring your iPad and let's go.”

Leah sat in the passenger seat of Omar Koss's Crown Victoria, dialing Tom's number. He didn't answer. She left a message. Koss would not talk. He would not turn on the radio. He just drove. The air became heavy with awkwardness. Leah kept glancing over at him, fascinated and scared of him. He was not conventionally handsome, but she felt sort of magnetized by him. But he was also terrifying.

“So do you track terrorists for the CIA full time? Or do you have other tasks?”

He didn't answer.

“I see.” She looked out the window. “Who do you think has Fallon Hughes?”

No answer.

“Who is Mohamet Ayrzu?” After another silence, Leah asked, “Do you have a hearing problem?”

He looked at her. His face was utterly impassive, his eyes hidden by dark black shades.

She nervously took out her phone and dialed Tom again. This time he answered. “Hold on,” she said and looked at Omar. “What should I tell him?”

“Tell him to meet you at the Starbucks on H Street.”

She relayed the message. “He says he can't.”

Omar grabbed the phone. “Meet us at the Starbucks or I'll kill your friend. Come alone.” He hung up and handed the phone back to Leah.

Leah stared at him with fury and fear, completely confounded. “That's not nice,” she said finally. “You don't just threaten to kill people.”

She thought for a moment that he was going to apologize. Instead, he asked, “Is that him?”

On the sidewalk, Tom was walking from Headquarters to the Starbucks. He looked so handsome; even after all he had been through, he looked so invincible. Her heart swelled with pride.

“Jump out and tell him to get in the car.”

Leah did as Omar instructed. Tom hesitated. He approached the car and opened the passenger door. “Who are you?”

“Get in the car. Watch your feet. My gun is in that bag on the floorboard.”

Tom tried to understand what this stranger was saying but it sounded crazy. He could not ask the FBI or even his own agency for assistance? “It's compromised,” Omar said plainly. “The map of the keys is out there. It's going to take hundreds of billions of dollars to fix the damage caused by this. But more importantly, for the foreseeable future, assume that everyone you speak to is operating against you. Your entire chain of command is suspect. Your radio transmissions are being monitored; everything you type into a government computer, every secret we have is being bought and sold right now around the globe.”

Tom tried to absorb the impact of what Omar Koss was saying. Under the horror of the situation was a grim sense of pride: Fallon had been correct. She had known, with some otherworldly sixth sense, that Antoine Campbell had not been an attention-seeking lunatic. And his call to her suddenly did not seem quite so random. He would have known that the government systems were not secure. Fallon, a lawyer whose father was the president-elect, was near government without being a part of it. She would have seemed an infinitely safe and reasonable person to contact.
Good job, Antoine Campbell.

“Ballard is going to kick this down the road and deny, deny, deny. The last thing the US wants is for news of Ayrzu's existence to become part of the dialogue of terrorism. Ballard is in CYA mode and not going to be any help at all. That means we have the choice of actually freeing the terrorist in exchange for Fallon, which I am not wont to do, or finding her ourselves and taking her from them. The problem with the second scenario is that we will have minimal support, and it could be bloody. The operations people at Sutton Layes will be able to give us some logistics assistance, but there is no backup.”