Severe Clear

26

Mike Freeman hung up the phone and called his contact at the NSA.

“Scott Hipp.”

“Scott, it’s Mike Freeman. I just came by some information I thought you ought to have.”

“I’m always happy to have more information, Mike.”

“There’s another report on Wynken, Blynken, and Nod.”

“How so?”

“Have you ever heard of anyone called Mohammad Shazaz, who calls himself ‘Mo’? Has a sister named Jasmine?”

“Hang on a sec.”

Mike could hear the tapping of computer keys.

“That’s interesting,” Hipp said, when he came back on the line.

“What’s interesting?”

“They’re not in our database. Hardly anybody is not in our database. The name doesn’t even register as Muslim. Sounds made-up to me.”

“Could be, I guess.”

“I got a couple of hits when I Googled Mo, but nothing of substance, and I think they must be very recent, because everything on Google migrates to our database pretty quickly.”

Mike gave him the address of the office in Palo Alto. “It’s a furnished, short-term let, Scott. I doubt if it will yield anything of value, but I can send one of my people from our Palo Alto office there to go over it, if that will be helpful.”

“I think it would be more helpful to the FBI or CIA than to us, but I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention this to them right away. I’d rather they get it from the White House.”

“What about the Secret Service?”

“Okay, talk to them, if you think it’s necessary. I’ve already alerted the White House to the first reports of the nursery trio, and they would, of course, alert the Secret Service.”

“Okay, I’ll wait a few days before taking this to one of my Agency contacts, and I probably won’t give it to the FBI at all, since I don’t think they’re involved.”

“Right. Why stir them up?”

“Will you let me know if anything else comes up in this regard?”

“Of course, Mike, and thanks for calling.”

Mike called Agent Rifkin, who was based in a conference room attached to the presidential cottage, and invited him over.

They ordered lunch from room service, then Mike spread out his satshot of the L.A. area and showed Rifkin how the radials ran from the cell tower up the mountain. He held back the information about the office in Palo Alto. There was no point in swarming in there with Secret Service agents yet; it would only diffuse their efforts to protect the president at The Arrington, Mike reasoned.

“So they’re all in L.A.,” Rifkin said.

“Or were.”

“I don’t like it a bit.”

“Neither do I,” Mike said.

“I especially don’t like it that this radial right here”-he tapped the photo with a finger-“runs right through where we’re standing.”

“That may be meaningless. The caller could have been anywhere on that line, up to about five miles from the cell tower.”

Rifkin just looked worried.

“Look at it this way,” Mike said, “there is no tangible, verifiable threat to the president or the hotel. We’re just taking this bit of intelligence and overlaying our fears on it. This might be an exercise in paranoia.”

“Just because I’m a paranoiac doesn’t mean that somebody doesn’t want to harm the president. I’m paid to be a paranoiac.”

“My very point,” Mike said.

Rifkin went back to his warren, looking troubled.