Foreign Agent

CHAPTER 44

Almost twenty-four hours had passed since the suicide bombing. The North Portico, which functioned as the front door to the White House, was badly damaged. Scaffolding had been erected to block it from view. Emblazoned across it was a billowing American flag.

In a trend just as disturbing as the Secret Service’s reluctance to apply maximum force to trespassers, the President had refused to be evacuated.

He had been in the West Wing when the bomber detonated. His security detail had immediately rushed him to the underground bunker formerly known as the Presidential Emergency Operations Center. They watched the unfolding pandemonium on the cable and television networks whose cameras were permanently encamped on the North Lawn.

Once it became obvious that it was a suicide bomber and that several minutes had passed with no follow-on attack, President Porter had wanted to leave the bunker to assist the wounded. The Secret Service didn’t need to restrain him. His entire senior staff jumped up to stand in his way.

“Absolutely not,” his Chief of Staff said. “No way.”

When Porter tried to push past, his National Security Director stated, “You know how these people operate. The first bomb draws everyone in. The second takes everyone out.”

“Look at the feeds,” Porter insisted, pointing to all the television monitors in the room. “The first responders are already up there. There isn’t a second bomb.”

“We don’t know that,” the Vice President replied. “Please, Paul. Let’s just wait.”

“Those are our people up there,” he fired back. “I am not going to have it said, ‘The President of the United States cowered in a bunker while they needed help.’ ”

Now it was the Press Secretary’s turn to step in. “Nobody will say that, Mr. President. Right now, though, you need to be kept safe. The nation is going to want to hear from you.”

His lead Secret Service agent, a man named Chudwin, drew the Chief of Staff aside and made his case to evacuate the President to the Continuity of Government facility in West Virginia.

Porter saw them speaking and interrupted. “Agent Chudwin,” he said. “We’re not leaving. That is final. Am I understood?”

Chudwin looked at the Chief of Staff and then to the President. “Yes, sir.”

What he liked even less than cowering in the bunker was abandoning ship. With the issue settled, he looked at his Press Secretary. “I want to give a national address.”

“When?” she responded.

“As soon as possible. Just a few brief remarks to show everyone we’re still here and to reassure the American people that we will respond to this attack.”

The Press Secretary looked at her watch. “Give me twenty minutes to write something up.”

“And I want to do it from the Oval.”

The Press Secretary looked at the President’s lead Secret Service agent.

Chudwin shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, sir.”

“Duly noted,” replied Porter, who looked back at his Press Secretary and stated, “We’re doing it from the Oval.”

An hour and a half later, stations around the world broke into their programming to carry the President’s brief address.

Porter was a gifted speaker and had struck the right tone. He praised the Secret Service for its bravery, extended his heartfelt prayers for the dead and wounded, as well as their friends and families, and then announced his resolute determination to avenge the attack.

It was a very specific choice of words. Some of his predecessors had preferred the phrase bring the perpetrators to justice. Bringing perpetrators to justice was what you did with purse snatchers or bank robbers.

This attack hadn’t been a criminal act. It had been an act of war. Porter didn’t want to put the perpetrators in prison, he wanted to put them in the ground. If, once America found them, there were enough pieces left to justify using a casket.

When the address was complete, the President joined his National Security Council in the Situation Room. They had been practically living there ever since.

With Washington’s network of security cameras, the FBI had been able to gather a significant amount of intelligence.

They already had CCTV footage of the bomber as she walked several blocks to the White House, though her point of origin was unclear.

The bomber’s walk had started somewhere within an area where there were no cameras. They were assuming that she had exited from either a building or a vehicle.

The two-block area in question had been completely sealed off. FBI agents were combing it methodically, which meant the search was very slow-going.

The Bureau’s biggest concern was that when or if they found a car, a van, or an apartment belonging to the bomber, it might be rigged with explosives. They were using robots, dog teams, and everything else at their disposal, to get to the bottom of it.

In the meantime, the banner the bomber carried had been identified as the flag of ISIS. They had all suspected as much.

The big question now was whether the bomber had been inspired by ISIS or actually directed by them.

For his part, President Porter had grown unforgiving of the distinction. As long as ISIS called for attacks against the West, America in particular, the responsibility was on them.

But what about the Russians? Harvath had been able to draw a line from his murdered informant in Belgium to the GRU. He had even learned that a GRU operative had flown from Frankfurt to Antalya right around the time of the attack on Secretary Devon.

That didn’t mean, though, that the Russians had been involved. In order to allege, much less act on, something that serious, he was going to need proof. Ironclad proof.

Right now, though, they had to assemble a response to ISIS. America’s previous attack had dominated global headlines for the last seventy-two hours. The phone at the White House was still ringing off the hook from world leaders.

But in the blink of an eye, the United States had lost the propaganda initiative. ISIS had been able to strike the White House itself. It was an amazing coup.

The Joint Chiefs of Staff had been assembled at the Pentagon. A secure videoconference link connected them with the bunker.

Porter addressed the Chairman. “Your thoughts regarding a response, General?”

The man tapped his pencil onto the pad of paper in front of him. “My guess is the attack on the White House was in the works before we hit them with Operation Iron Fury.”

“Agreed.”

“And all the intel we’re getting here says that we kneecapped them pretty good. We can put together any kind of response you ask for, Mr. President. But what we’d need to know is what you’re looking for.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” the General replied, “do you want something that’s proportional? Or disproportional?”

It was a fair question, and one that Porter had already been thinking about. “Let’s say we wanted to deliver an equally symbolic message. What would it take to blow the front doors of ISIS headquarters right off their hinges?”

“Well, for starters, we’d actually have to find their headquarters,” said the General.

“And if we can do that?” asked the President.

“If you can do that, we’ll give you the most unbelievably symbolic response you’ve ever seen.”