Power and Empire

15

Dr. Ann Miller perched on the edge of a smooth leather chair and shot a glance at the clunky digital watch that dwarfed her slender arm. The black plastic monstrosity was waterproof and practical in the woods, but it looked incredibly out of place among the three women and one man working at their desks in the smallish White House office. The guy was young — probably still in college and rumpled in appearance — but the women were dressed to the nines in stylish blouses and elegant if sparse jewelry — not a clunky watch among them. Compared to them, Miller may as well have been wearing a bathrobe. Her Kühl khaki slacks and oversized buffalo-plaid wool shirt were perfect for a canoe trip on the Shenandoah — but now she just looked ridiculous.

Hired by the Central Intelligence Agency for her uncanny ability to recognize and recall patterns, Miller didn’t work at Langley or even Liberty Crossing, home of the director of national intelligence and the National Counterterrorism Center. Her office was in a satellite location, hiding in plain sight. The other tenants of the nondescript building just off Twelfth Street in Crystal City certainly guessed she was with some government agency — probably because they were from some other government agency. That’s the way it was in the shadow of the Pentagon. It was better than Langley, though. Her office had easy access to the Crystal City underground, where she and her other mathematician buddies could walk when the weather got crummy — and far enough away from all the bosses that she could dress down on Friday, something she was seriously regretting at the moment.

Miller had a doctorate in applied mathematics from Duke and was certainly smart enough to realize that the information she’d found regarding payments made by a Hong Kong investment firm through an Australian mining company to a bank in Central Africa with accounts linked to Boko Haram would eventually garner her a meeting with some muckety-muck in the intelligence community. Gears in D.C. turned slowly, especially after lunch on a Friday, so she didn’t expect to hear anything until Monday at the absolute earliest.

She’d kicked the information up her chain of command via a secure e-mail, then eaten a yogurt and some blueberries at her desk while she continued with her work. She’d just turned off her computer to call it a day when her desk phone rang. Her supervisor, a nervous sort who was always fretting about his career, said she was needed for a briefing and a car would meet her downstairs. She was not to bring any files. A copy of her e-mail had already been sent over. Miller was not one to try to get out of work, but it was five o’clock on a Friday. She mentioned the Shenandoah canoe trip she had planned with her boyfriend, hoping the fact of her casual Friday dress might postpone the meeting until Monday. The supervisor told her not to worry, though it was clear from the audible gulp on the other end of the line that he was worried enough for them both. He hung up before she could ask him just who it was she was supposed to brief.

Miller took the time to scrape the last few spoonfuls of yogurt out of the cup, figuring it would take her ride a few minutes to get there. She was surprised when she saw a black Crown Victoria waiting curbside along Crystal Drive. Must be some super-important muckety-muck, she’d thought. The bigwigs didn’t usually stay this late when a weekend was looming. Just her luck that she got a workaholic to look at her information. Probably an assistant to some assistant team leader at Langley or Liberty Crossing. When the Crown Victoria turned off the Jeff Davis Highway to head east across the 395 bridge toward D.C. proper, Miller asked the driver where they were going.

The answer made her teeth ache.

She’d been ushered in through the East Gate and met by a man she recognized from television as the White House chief of staff. Mr. van Damm saw to it that she was given a visitor’s badge bearing the large letter A signifying that she had an appointment, and then ushered her into the President’s secretaries’ suite, between the Oval and the Cabinet Room.

The situation would have been laughable, really, if it hadn’t been so terrifying as to turn her entire digestive tract into molten lava. She’d never met a mathematician who’d been summoned on short notice to the White House. It was an honor, but Miller only wished she’d taken the time to change into something that made her look a little less like Paul Bunyan’s Mini-Me.

The secretary who was seated nearest the door to the Oval Office must have noted her discomfort because she offered a motherly smile. “Everyone who comes here gets nervous, Dr. Miller,” she said. “Even the generals.”

“Thank you,” Miller said, licking lips that had not been nearly so chapped a half-hour before.

The secretary leaned in, keeping up the perfect smile. “The President really is a kind man,” she said. “You are here because you’re an expert. Tell him what you know — but don’t be afraid to tell him what you think.”

Miller was thinking that she didn’t know if the President was kind or not, but he sure hired kind people — and then the high muckety himself opened the door to the Cabinet Room.

“Thanks for coming, Dr. Miller,” President Ryan said, smiling and motioning her into the room with a wave of his hand. “I understand you’ve found something interesting.”

She couldn’t help but notice that he looked very tired.

Ryan leaned back in his chair after the mathematician left the room and looked at the four folders on the mahogany table in front of him. The problem with time bombs — political or otherwise — was that they seemed so benign until the moment they blew up in your face.

“And we’re certain LKI Telephone is linked to the Zhongnanhai?”

Mary Pat Foley tapped a closed fountain pen against her legal pad. “The Hong Kong firm Marshall, Phillips, and Symonds is definitely a PRC front. We haven’t linked President Zhao personally, but he would certainly be aware of it. That’s what piqued Dr. Miller’s interest in the first place. CTA — Cromwell Telecom Alliance — appears to be nothing but a shell.”

Ryan reached under his reading glasses to rub his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. His suit jacket hung over the back of his chair. His tie was loose, top button undone, and his sleeves were rolled up to his forearms — signs that he considered this a meeting where everyone would get down in the analytical weeds.

The actual “head” of the table was on the east side, with the President’s back to the Rose Garden windows and the wings of the long oval extending on either side.

The room was virtually empty today, with just six other people in attendance — Ryan preferred to think of it as a strategy session rather than a meeting. The Oval Office would have been more comfortable, but the Cabinet Room gave everyone space to spread out their paperwork — and Ryan knew that the DNI liked to doodle with her fountain pen when she put on her analytical hat. The location also afforded him the opportunity to leave the others to their work rather than disrupt a fruitful discussion by kicking them out of the Oval.

SecState Scott Adler sat in his usual Cabinet Room spot to Ryan’s right. Arnie van Damm occupied the chair to his left. SecDef Bob Burgess and CIA director Jay Canfield sat across the table with Foley.

Supervisory Special Agent Gary Montgomery stood just inside the door by the wall. Customarily, Ryan asked the Secret Service to give him space inside the Oval and the Situation Room, but it was not uncommon for an agent to be within “lunging distance” during other meetings in the White House.

Ryan pondered the information for a moment, tossing it around with what he’d learned from Dr. Miller.

He asked, “How hard was this to find?”

Mary Pat looked up, fountain pen poised above the pad. “Sir?”

“Dr. Miller said she found this connection easily,” Ryan said. “But she’s obviously downplaying her intelligence.”

“True,” Canfield said. “She’s one of our brightest.”

“If it was too easy, I’d worry the information was worthless.” Ryan looked up at the ceiling and groaned. “We need to handle this quietly. Mary Pat, how well do you know the director general of ONA?”

“Rodney Henderson,” Foley said. “He’s new. But our interactions have been positive.”

Australia’s Office of National Assessments was often considered a combination of the ODNI and the Department of State’s Bureau of Intelligence and Research. ONA’s director general could tap into intelligence data from the Australian Secret Intelligence Service, its domestic intelligence counterparts, the Australian Security Intelligence Organisation, other members of the intelligence community, and, to a lesser extent, the Australian Federal Police.

“Very well,” Ryan said. “Reach out to Mr. Henderson and let him know we’re interested in this Cromwell Telecom.”

Burgess’s right hand formed a clenched fist on the table, an outward expression of his desire to hit China hard. “This makes a damn good case that Zhao is responsible for orchestrating the attack in Chad.”

Ryan nodded. “It’s thin,” he said. “But it does look that way at first blush. I’ll be interested to see what Director Foley finds out about that telecom.”

The President turned toward van Damm before Burgess could convince him to kick President Zhao in the nuts the next time they met — which, admittedly, would not take much at the moment.

“Let’s switch gears and talk about the Orion for a minute,” Ryan said. “Any more evidence that there was a bomb on the ship?”

The chief of staff looked at his notes. “Nothing concrete. The ship is setting in six hundred feet of water. The Navy intends to send a mini-ROV down tomorrow when the seas calm. That should give us a preliminary look at the hull until they get a larger submersible on scene.”

“Update on injuries?” Ryan asked.

“Ten dead,” van Damm said. “The remaining crew members suffering from various injuries, badly shaken, but alive.”

“Butcher’s bill would have been a lot higher but for the response of the Coast Guard,” Ryan said.

Jay Canfield looked up from his copy of the latest Coast Guard situation report. “A Filipino seaman who was in the engine room during the explosions reported an object the size of a car melting through the roof. He describes it as a huge ball of intensely white flame.”

“That makes sense,” Burgess said, also reading. “The poor guy is blind now. A magnesium fire would account for the Welder’s Fever. He’s suffering from chills and gastrointestinal distress.”

Mary Pat whistled low under her breath. “Magnesium would burn hot enough to melt right through the deck of a ship?”

“It would indeed,” Ryan said. “I read just the other day about a firefighter near the eastern shore of Maryland who had half his body burned when he responded to a car fire. The heat of the magnesium breaks up the water molecules and releases hydrogen — not good stuff to have around an open flame. My dad used to warn me about that when he was trying to teach me to hold on to my blue-collar roots.”

“That’s exactly what it sounds like, Mr. President,” Burgess said. “Chinese ship, Chinese oil rig, Chinese money… That’s no coincidence, sir.”

“I know what it’s not, Bob,” Ryan said. “So let’s have some theories on what it is.”

Ryan stood and rolled down his shirtsleeves, grabbing his coat but not bothering to put it on. “I know it’s Friday, but I’d like some ideas on my desk by tomorrow morning.”

Special Agent Montgomery opened the door and followed the President out of the Cabinet Room and into the Oval just long enough for Ryan to grab his briefcase. He wasn’t done for the day by a long shot, but things happened fast around here and he didn’t like to be too far from his notes. Montgomery opened the door to the Rose Garden and Ryan stepped out, hanging a left toward the residence. He looked over his shoulder at the hulking form of his lead agent.

“Walk up here beside me so I can talk to you,” Ryan said.

“I’d prefer to stay back a step, Mr. President,” Montgomery said.

“Of course,” Ryan said. He’d been under protection one way or another for decades, first from John Clark and Domingo Chavez in the CIA, and now the Secret Service. Even so, he’d never get completely used to someone following him around like this.

Jim Langford, another agent on the day shift, joined them before they reached the residence elevator. Only then did Montgomery move forward as Ryan had requested.

“What can I do for you, Mr. President?”

“I’d be interested in your opinion.”

Montgomery looked mildly pleased. “On what, sir?”

“On what?” Ryan frowned. “You were there in the meeting. China, the recent events in the news. Whether I should invoke the Ryan Doctrine and… You get the picture. Some people under protection may figure the Secret Service is wallpaper, but you hear things. You have ideas. I can see it in your eyes.”

Special Agent Langford stared at the elevator buttons, unwilling to catch the eye of his boss or his boss’s boss.

Montgomery gave a sly smile. “I’m just a knuckle dragger, Mr. President. You have some supremely intelligent people in your cabinet.”

“Cut the shit, Gary,” Ryan said. “You guys are worthy of a lot more than ‘trust and confidence.’ There’s at least one of you in half the meetings I attend. You can’t tell me you agents don’t sit around down there below the Oval Office in W16 and talk about how you would handle things if our roles were reversed.”

Montgomery nodded slowly, exchanging a look with Special Agent Langford as all three men stepped on the elevator.

“What?” Ryan asked. “You’re thinking if the roles were reversed, I couldn’t protect you?”

Montgomery shook his head. “Not at all, Mr. President. I was just thinking that I’ve been doing this job for nineteen years and no one I’ve protected has ever asked my opinion about anything other than their own security.”

Ryan gave him an isn’t-it-obvious shrug. “You’re a smart guy,” he said. “I’m always interested in the opinion of smart people.”

“That’s kind of you, boss,” Montgomery said as the elevator door opened. “But it doesn’t mean I’m going to go easy on you in the gym.”