The talking head explained that the virus, now called the Second Sign Virus by network consensus, targeted key commodities and banks on the London Stock Exchange. It worked subtly, artificially nudging some prices down and others up until it triggered a wave of automatic trades. That wave triggered another, more serious wave, and then another, and the digital snowball picked up speed.
Millions of transactions took place in the first minute alone, driving bank stocks and gold into the ground and oil through the roof. Then the snowball leaped across the Atlantic and hit New York as well. The Americans shut their markets down, but the damage was done. Within a few minutes, the Second Sign Virus had caused the single greatest destruction of wealth the world had ever seen. The talking head predicted falling markets across the globe for weeks to come, with losses reaching into the trillions. A well-timed ticker floating across the screen noted that three suicides had already been reported.
As the video switched to a leggy brunette asking the expert a question he had already answered, the senator’s door opened. A stocky gentleman with thick white hair and a disingenuous smile emerged. “Ah, Colonel Walker,” he said in an overstated Virginia accent, “I’m so glad you made it.”
Walker stood without so much as a squeak from the chair and took the senator’s offered hand. “I was not under the impression that I had a choice.”
“Very direct, sir.” The senator motioned Walker into his office. “Very direct. I was told to expect that.”
Moving from the dark oak paneling of the anteroom to the sunlit ivory walls and blond furniture of the senator’s office gave Walker the impression of emerging from a dank cave into fresh air. He knew this was intentional. He had once played similar games with his own office at the Pentagon. The senator offered him a seat — a twin of the overstuffed chair outside except for the lighter color of the leather. Walker opted to stand.
Cartwright shrugged and sat down on the edge of his desk. “I often find that I am disadvantaged when it comes to first impressions,” he said, opening his hands. “My life is an open book, always on public display. You must feel that you already know all about me.”
“Only what I see on the news,” Walker lied. In truth, Molly’s team had started digging into Cartwright’s background the minute the politician had started harassing CJ. Their report was worrisome to say the least.
The liberal senator from Virginia had served his state in that capacity since 2002, but he had not made his mark on the national stage until recently, elbowing his way into the limelight of the second campaign by becoming the president’s most vocal supporter. Cartwright likely expected to be rewarded with a cabinet position for his loyalty. All he got was a seat on the Intelligence Oversight Committee and an occasional invitation to dine at the White House. The senator was not a major political player. He was a minor player with a lot of ambition, and that kind was often the most dangerous.
“Why am I here?” asked Walker, checking his watch. “With all due respect, sir, I have a lot on my plate and the drive back to my office isn’t exactly short.”
“So I noticed. You took quite a while to get here. I was under the impression that you worked at the DIA’s Directorate of Analysis. Heading up Section Seven, was it?”
“Romeo Seven.”
“Right. But the DIA offices at Bowling are just a hop, skip, and a jump across the river — just a hop and a skip, really. Surely traffic wasn’t that bad at this hour of the day.”
“Romeo Seven is an off-site section. Our offices are in a different location.”
The senator raised a set of bushy eyebrows. “And that would be…”
Walker’s features remained a flat scowl.
Cartwright lightly punched the air with his fist and grinned. “G-14 classified. I get it.” He stood up and walked behind his desk, backlit by a broad window with the U.S. and Virginia flags on either side. He placed his hand on the high back of his chair. “Colonel, you do know that I have a top-secret clearance with multiple caveats, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir, and Romeo Seven is not one of them.” The colonel checked his watch again. The more time he wasted here, the longer Baron and Merigold would sit idle in a British jail. “Again, why did you call me here?”
Cartwright nodded. “Very direct.” He picked up a small remote and pointed it at the flat-screen TV that hung over his faux mantel. The muted feed from CNN blinked and became a paused video. Walker recognized the image of Baron with the woman slung over his shoulder. “Do you know this man?” asked Cartwright.
Walker cast a sidelong glance at the senator. Through all the subtle changes in Cartwright’s expression, that phony smile never faded from his lips. He could not read the mind behind it. “Hard to say.”
“Too true, what with his face hidden behind that young lady’s rump and all. Let’s see if I can fix that for you.” Cartwright clicked his remote and the video began to play, the same video Walker’s techs had recorded from the news stream. He wasn’t worried. The bystander would stop filming before Baron’s face came into view.
But the bystander did not stop filming. The video kept playing beyond where it had before. A man in an overcoat held up a badge and pointed a gun. The scene jostled around as the cameraman fiddled with the zoom to get the gunman’s face. Then it shifted back to Baron, who had just set the woman down. Merigold was next to him. Both of them raised their hands.
Cartwright paused the video. “This is a much better picture. How about now, Colonel? Do you know this man — the blond guy with the angry scowl?”
“Never seen him before.”
“Well, that is disappointing.” Cartwright came around his desk and stood between Walker and the screen. “I suppose you already know that I have a vested interest in these attacks.”
“Why would I know that?”
“Oh, right.” The senator touched the side of his nose. “G-14 classified. Okay, I’ll play along.” He walked over to the screen and scrutinized the men in the video, keeping his back to Walker. “One of my staffers was injured in the first attack, you know. He lost an eye.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Me too. Anyway, the injured party swears up and down that a blond man was on the scene right after that suicide bomber blew up on the Mall. That same blond fella refused to help him with his eye and even punched him.” Cartwright tapped the image of Baron. “Isn’t it funny that another blond fella, who matches the description of the first blond fella, appears here, smack in the middle of the second attack?”
Walker nodded. “That does seem suspicious.”
Cartwright turned from the TV and shook the remote at Walker. “You’re telling me, but it gets even more interesting.”
He pointed the remote over his shoulder and pressed play. On the screen, the constable flipped open Baron’s ID wallet. The bystander got a nice shot of the badge before a policeman waved his hands in front of the camera and the screen went black.
“Are you sure you don’t recognize that man?” asked Cartwright. “Last chance.”
“Positive.”
The senator nodded. “I know you have a lot of friends, Colonel. It seems that half this town owes you a favor, even though no one knows quite what section Romeo Seven does for the Defense Intelligence Agency’s Directorate of Analysis.”
Walker raised one eyebrow. “We analyze stuff. Mostly intelligence.”
“That’s clever.” Cartwright carefully set the remote down, squaring it with the side of his desk as he spoke. “I have friends too — like the one at CNN who kept that blond fella’s face off the television. You’re welcome. Another friend told me that the Brits were pinging State about two American Interpol agents named Nicholas Stafford and Drake Martignetti.” He stepped around the front of the desk, moving closer to Walker. “Turns out Stafford and Martignetti each have a very authentic-looking file. One problem: not a single person at American Interpol has ever heard of them.”