Bodington weighed in-though he wasn’t willing to interrupt the president, he would interrupt Palmer. “Sir, you’re suggesting we share highly classified material with-my apologies to Ms. Garcia-but essentially a security guard. Is it not just as plausible that Deputy Director Magnuson was trying to stop the shootings and she killed him before the response team arrived?”
Garcia went from sweet to seething in the flash of her dark eyes. “I’ve never met you before, Director Bodington, but I’m sure you know it’ll take about two seconds for ballistics to confirm the DD’s weapon murdered at least half a dozen of my coworkers.”
Bodington tried to wave her off, all but ignoring her to make his case to the president. “Please, sir, listen to reas-”
Garcia’s shoulders began to tremble. “I realize we have an extreme situation here. Frankly, I don’t even give a damn if you call me a security guard. It’s what I do. Someday, I hope to work for the Clandestine Service-and when I do, I hope to have the sense to look at a little evidence before I accuse someone of being a cold-blooded terrorist.”
Clark gave a quiet smile, sucking on his front teeth the way he did when he was particularly amused. “Kurt, I think the fact that she didn’t call you a son of a bitch shows incredible restraint. Two points here: First, as Win points out, we have to trust someone. Second, I’m not suggesting you share anything. From what I’ve seen, you have damn little to share. I’ll do the sharing. So, do your boss a favor and sit still for a couple of minutes.”
Bodington clenched his teeth, but said nothing more.
“Win.” The president tipped his head toward Palmer. “Would you be so kind?”
“Of course, Mr. President.” Palmer turned in his seat to face Garcia, who calmed immediately from her confrontation. “Plainly speaking, late yesterday evening, intelligence sources in Pakistan confirmed a problem we had suspected for some time. Foreign agents placed within our government-moles.”
The director of the CIA shook her head. The muscles in her face clenched, but she kept quiet. It was obvious she agreed with her FBI counterpart. Briefing such a low-level employee was just not done. Palmer decided to address that from the beginning, since it was, after all, a plan he had endorsed to the president.
He moved to the edge of his chair, leaning in to close the distance between himself and the young woman. “We have to assume these agents… these moles could be anywhere and that they-like Deputy Director Magnuson-have passed various backgrounds and security checks. An in-depth review of both Timmons’s and Gerard’s files found several glaring holes in their backgrounds-facts that when take separately mean nothing, but in light of what they did, mean everything.”
Garcia sighed, pushing a lock of hair out of her eyes as she processed the information.
It was a lot of information to dump on her, but Palmer plowed ahead. “Both men are the sole survivors in their families. Neighbors who were interviewed for previous backgrounds admit they really knew the parents better than the boys. Neither have a single friend that remembers them earlier than the seventh grade. According to their supervisors at the Central Asia Desk, both were fluent in Turkic, but when we looked into it further, other than some Internet courses, there’s no record of them ever studying that particular language.”
“You believe them to be foreign born then?” Garcia mused.
“We do,” Palmer continued. “And we missed it in their initial backgrounds. Essentially, everyone in the government needs to be re-vetted-and that includes the ones doing the vetting.”
“Ah,” Garcia said, deflating slightly. “And since you feel you can trust me, I get to begin the process.”
The president held up the blue file folder containing the background investigation on Garcia. Palmer himself had completed a review only two hours before. “Except for your load of good old American credit card debt,” Clark said, “you come out smelling like a rose, my dear. Who would admit to having a Soviet father and Cuban mother if they wanted to hide something?”
Director Bodington folded his arms tight across his chest, looking toward the Rose Garden as if to distance himself from events unfolding before him. Palmer never had liked the man, finding him a bureaucratic bloviate without concrete facts to back anything up. All hat and no cattle.
Garcia’s eyes remained worshipfully attentive to the president, ignoring Bodington altogether. “I assume I’m being assigned to a team,” she said.
Palmer smiled. “This is the team,” he said. “Director Ross, Director Bodington… and you.”
“And we are to vet government employees?” Garcia went pale. “All government employees?”
The president laughed, sucking his front teeth again. “All two million of them-not counting the Postal Service-but we’ve prioritized the list. As you clear people, they will begin to assist with the background investigations.”
Garcia sat perfectly still.
“You in particular will focus on those with direct access to the president,” Palmer said, hoping to calm her fears.
She turned her head to one side, hands folded quietly in her lap. Her eyelids drooped with exhaustion. “If I might ask…”
Palmer’s chair began to chirp softly. Each piece of furniture in the Oval Office was equipped with a secure phone line so presidential guests could carry out pressing directives on the spot.
President Clark nodded. “Go ahead and take it, Win.”
Palmer slid open the upholstered drawer hidden below the seat cushion and took out a white handset.
“Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Palmer,” the voice said. It was Millie, his secretary. “You need to turn on the news, sir. The president will want to see this…”
CHAPTER SIX
Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson Anchorage
Canadian cousin to the more ubiquitous government Gulfstream G5 business jet of Hollywood spies, the luxurious Bombardier Challenger CL 601 sat sleek and falcon-like on the ramp. Just as Quinn was an OGA-other governmental agent-the executive jet was an other governmental aircraft. Registered to the Federal Aviation Administration, the pilots were former Special Operations and reported directly to the national security advisor. Palmer had dispatched the plane to get the Quinns out of Alaska. If the sheikh had sent one team, he was likely to have sent two.
A low fall sun cast a pink blush on the snowy Chugach Mountains to the east, shining through the oval windows of the jet. Jericho knelt in the aisle, looking down at Mattie, who lay sideways in a soft leather seat, head resting in her mother’s lap.
Two seats back, Kim’s mother reclined with a damp washcloth over her eyes. Her head lolled from the effects of exhaustion and the Valium government medics had given her when they’d all been hustled away from an extremely curious Anchorage Police Department after the attack. Bo stood at the rear of the plane. Broad shoulder against the bulkhead, he chatted up the female Air Force staff sergeant who acted as safety officer and attendant. Brother Bo wasn’t about to let a little bloody ambush on the family cramp his ability to hit on cute women.
Quinn’s parents were out fishing for Pacific cod, the sheer danger of capricious Alaska waters protecting them from attackers.
Mattie looked up with a wan smile. Framed in a halo of her dark curls, the features of her perfectly oval face were drawn from fatigue. Her eyelids sagged. She blew him a kiss.
“You’re looking at me funny, Dad,” she said after a long, feline yawn. “I think I can trap you with my eyes.”
Jericho kissed her forehead. “Oh, sweetheart,” he said. “If you only knew… Now, you better get some rest.”
Kim ran trembling fingers through their daughter’s hair. She affected a smile for Mattie’s benefit, but the tightness of her breath and the set of her jaw made it clear to Quinn she held him accountable for the attack on their family.