Shock Warning

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Millie Dhouri hated to interrupt the President when he was power napping but the FBI was on the line. “It’s Deputy Director Byrne, Mr. President,” she said. “On the phone. Says it’s a matter of national security.”

Jeb Tyler shook his head to clear the cobwebs. What was he, some middle manager? Didn’t anybody go through channels anymore? It was easy for the President to say that the door to the Oval Office was always open, but he wasn’t supposed to mean it.

Before he took the call he went into the small room just off the Oval Office that one of his predecessors had made famous and splashed some water on his face. He loved playing poker as much as the next good ol’ boy, but this was the highest-stakes game he ever hoped to play in. The situation was fluid and changing by the minute. Prophets and Virgins were appearing in the skies, the Iranians had just fired off three Shahabs to make sure everybody was paying attention, he’d just signed off on an op that, if it failed, would ensure that he ranked right up there with Jimmy Carter and the failed hostage rescue attempt in the annals of presidential futility, fecklessness, and infamy.

What was not to like?

“What is it?”

“There’s a bomb at Mount Sinai Hospital in Manhattan. The NYPD won’t confirm that, but I can.”

“What kind of bomb?”

“Suitcase nuke, we think. The media’s been telling folks for years there’s no such thing, but you and I both know better, don’t we, Mr. President?”

Tyler could see why everybody loathed Tom Byrne. The man was rude, crude, and lewd, and probably screwed, blooed, and tattooed as well. Nevertheless he was damn good at his job precisely because of all those unsavory character traits.

“How do you know? Did your brother tell you? And if he didn’t, why wasn’t I informed?”

“You’ll have to ask Frankie that, Mr. President. He and I don’t get along so good, as you probably know. But I’ve got a little bird in the CTU, and he sings like a regular canary.”

Tyler felt his blood boiling. Goddamned clannish Irish and their goddamned NYPD blue line and their goddamned mick version of omertá.

“Thank you for informing me, Deputy Director Byrne,” said Tyler. “I’ll task it to the proper authorities.”

It was clear Byrne didn’t like getting blown off. “I think you should let the FBI handle it, sir.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of Homeland Security.”

If he’d been present, Byrne would have laughed in his face. The sneer came through loud and clear over the phone. “You have got to be kidding me, sir.”

“I’m the President of the United States,” Tyler reminded him.

“Yes, you are, sir. And the statutory authority is clear: This is an FBI matter, Mr. President. So please let us handle it. We have the men, the training, and the equipment. And I have my… special relationship… with the head of the CTU, as you know.”

Tyler ran through the calculations in his head. Results were all that counted now, and there was no time to waste. The thought of dragging that idiot Colangelo into the case and getting him up to speed made him ill. Whatever the bad blood between the Byrne brothers was, it didn’t matter at this moment. All that mattered was finding that bomb, defusing it, and getting it the hell out of Manhattan with the public none the wiser.

“If this goes tits up…” said Tyler.

“Then we’ve both got bigger problems than jurisdiction.”

“Where are you now?”

“In the Acela, on my way to Penn Station. Will be there in forty-five minutes.”

So the die was already cast. After this was over, if somehow he won reelection, he was going to clean house. Except for Seelye and maybe Shalika Johnson, there wouldn’t be anybody left standing from the old regime. Well, maybe with one or two exceptions, depending on how well they carried out their current missions. But Thomas A. Byrne, he felt quite sure, was destined for early retirement.

“Deputy Director Byrne?” said the President.

“Yes, Mr. President?”

“Don’t fuck up.”

“Thank you, sir. And if you ever need a, you know, favor…”

Tyler kept him on the line. He didn’t have to worry about Byrne hanging up. You didn’t hang up on the President, he hung up on you.

“Sir?”

“I’m thinking…. Listen, Tom, what’s this I hear about you and a certain lady…?”

Thank God for interagency gossip, and his appetite for it.