At the National Security Council meeting in the White House Situation Room, it was Anders’s turn to shine.
When the president asked, in a tone indicating he was expecting nothing but bromides, what Anders had managed to uncover about the perpetrators of the bombing, Anders waited a long beat before responding in his gravest, most confident tone, “Quite a bit, Mr. President.”
The president raised his eyebrows. Anders indulged just the briefest of satisfied glances at Jones, then stood and nodded to the aide he’d brought with him. The aide fired up the laptop he was manning, and the wall screen displayed the faces of the three men Manus had disposed of in Turkey — all looking suitably sinister with their dark complexions, mustaches, and stubble, and each with a graphic of a mobile phone and phone number alongside his profile.
“You’ll see these numbers,” Anders said, indicating each with a laser pointer, “are the very same geolocated units the Pentagon managed to identify in Turkey and to confirm as being in contact with jihadist units on the Syrian side of the border — the jihadists believed to be holding Ryan Hamilton.” He turned to Jones. “Vernon, nice work on that.”
Jones glared at him, recognizing the deliberate condescension behind the ostensible compliment.
“These units are now active in the DC metro area. Each has made several suspicious calls, information regarding which we have of course provided to the FBI and to the relevant section chiefs at the Department of Homeland Security, and on which we are otherwise following up.”
The attorney general and the secretary of homeland security nodded, the prerogatives of their agencies having been respected. In fact, both organizations depended on NSA for SIGINT analysis, so providing them mobile numbers was mostly pro forma. The only role of their FBI or HSI agents would be to carry out arrests once proper suspects had been identified. That identification, naturally, would come from NSA’s own intelligence.
A White House flunky knocked and entered the room, carrying a sheaf of photos. “Nine confirmed dead, sir,” the flunky said. “Fifteen more hospitalized, seven in critical condition.” He handed the photos to the president and left, closing the door behind him.
The president leafed through the photos, then passed them to the secretary of state, who was to his left. Anders judged the timing of the casualty report propitious. “Of particular note,” he continued, “is that one of the phones”—he paused and circled the number with the laser, then looked meaningfully at each of the people seated at the table, stopping at the president—“is the unit that was used to detonate the very device that went off this morning.”
There was a long, silent pause. “What does this mean?” the president said.
Anders clicked off the laser pointer and crisply returned it to his jacket pocket. “It means that groups affiliated with ISIS are moving out of the Syrian kidnapping business, and into the American mass-casualty bombing business.”
“Who, exactly?” the president said.
Anders was waiting for that. “Sir, if we had a biometric cell phone program like Pakistan’s, we’d probably be interrogating the bastard who did this in a black site right now. As it is, our information is unavoidably more general. But I can tell you this. The calculus we’ve been using to determine whether and how to rescue the journalist Ryan Hamilton has changed.”
Jones said, “Changed how, exactly?”
Anders didn’t even look at him. It was the president he was talking to, and the president was listening. “Sir, prior to this morning’s attack, we had the luxury of telling ourselves we could attempt a surgical rescue of a single journalist being held in Syria without increasing the danger to American citizens here in the homeland, on American soil.”
Anders knew that even with a crowd as cynical as this one, it was important to use the proper buzzwords, if only so the president could more easily imagine how his own subsequent speeches and interviews would sound. And he knew the president was a particular fan of the word “homeland,” derived by the government after 9/11 from the German Heimat. He even knew, through his access to God’s Eye, that the White House had discreetly employed a private polling company to gauge the word’s emotional resonance with the public, and had found that resonance very appealing indeed.
The president’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re not answering my question, Ted.”
Oh, but I am, sir. “Sir, the Syrians the Pentagon believes are holding Ryan Hamilton have now been proven to be connected to a mass casualty attack on American soil.”
The Pentagon merely believes; NSA offers proof. He wondered whether anyone would seize on that sleight of hand. No one did.
“An attack that took place just blocks from the White House,” he went on, “the real and symbolic seat of American power and world leadership. In my opinion, sir, this group has demonstrated a global reach and a fanatical zeal that requires a response more robust than a mere rescue. For strategic reasons as well as symbolic, we have no choice but to eliminate the individuals behind this attack. And fortunately, we have the opportunity to do so. Right now. Today.”
Anders had smoothly transitioned from “connected to” an attack to “behind” the attack, but if anyone noticed, nothing was said.
Anders turned to Jones. “Vernon, you have a UAV base in İncirlik. Not far from the Syrian border. On the president’s command, how quickly could you have Reapers hit Azaz and take out the group behind this morning’s attack?”
Jones looked at him for a long moment, obviously trying to figure out what he was up to. Why was Anders dealing him in, when a moment earlier he seemed intent on dealing him out?
Jones looked at the president. “Sir, we’re ready for that rescue. But yes, if you decide to emulsify these bastards instead, we can have Hellfire missiles pounding Azaz in three hours.”
Anders was pleased. He had recognized he was coming dangerously close to usurping the president’s prerogatives in proposing the new course of action. The “on the president’s command” had been intended to mitigate any chafing he had caused. Jones’s attempt to save face by responding not to him but directly to the president could only help in that regard, by demonstrating that everyone recognized the only person in the room, indeed, the only person in the world, with the authority to make these decisions was the commander in chief. On top of which, that “emulsify these bastards” flourish suggested Jones had decided to accept Anders’s peace offering. He was signaling he was okay with Anders changing the destination, as long as the Pentagon could still own the glory when they got there.
Again the room was silent. The president leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and stroked his chin. He looked first at Jones, then at Anders. “Are you certain the people behind this morning’s attack are at that location?”
“This kind of intel is inherently uncertain, sir, but our confidence is as high as it gets in such matters.” Much further out on a limb than he would ordinarily be willing to go, but today certain risks had to be taken.
The president nodded and turned to Jones.
“Vernon, if you send in those Reapers, what are the chances — hypothetically — of a hostage making it out alive?”
Jones paused, clearly uncertain of what the president wanted to hear. “I would call those chances low, sir.”
The president sighed. “And therein lies the problem.”
Damn. “If I may, sir?”
The president extended a hand, palm up, in a go ahead gesture.
“Sir, first, with all respect to Vernon’s very impressive collection efforts, we can’t be certain the person we think is being held in Azaz even is Hamilton.”