He smiled back at Frankie. “Maybe, but only you and I know that,” he winked. Turner was going to take the flak for the fuck-up. Carson never took the blame for anything, only ever the credit. He had thirty years of eating Turners and spitting them out for breakfast.
“You told him the President wanted to see me?”
“I’m sure he does. He’ll need cheering up and I’m sure he’d be delighted to see you,” replied Carson.
“But what if Turner checks?”
“The President will tell him he wanted to see you,” said Carson confidently.
Frankie shook her head. “But he doesn’t.”
Carson simply smiled.
Frankie sat back in her seat. “What is it you do exactly?”
“I’m just someone who helps out when required,” replied Carson.
“Helps out who?”
Carson smiled and turned back to the window and the view of the approaching Walter Reed Hospital.
President James Mitchell sat up in the hospital bed as they entered. The pain in his face made it clear that the TV address earlier that day had been staged. At least in the respect that they had hidden just how badly injured the President really was.
“Mr. President.” Frankie maintained her professionalism despite her instincts to rush over and hug the man she’d been in close contact with over the previous few years.
“It’s good to see you, Frankie,” he said warmly, biting back the pain.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. President, I can’t believe he fooled me.” She broke down in to tears again. Jesus, she thought, fighting them back. She hadn’t cried since she was a child until that day.
The President beckoned her towards him and placed his good arm around her to console her.
Bill and Carson watched on as one of the most highly trained female law enforcement officers in the land, experienced in all forms of self defense and trained to kill when required, approached the man who, just a few hours earlier, had almost been killed by her boyfriend. Neither flinched or thought it inappropriate. Aisha Franks, daughter of a Saudi princess, hugged the President and wept on his shoulder.
There could have been no greater show of trust and faith in her as an innocent caught up in a terrible tragedy.
Frankie stood up. Her tears were finished. “What can I do for you, Mr. President?”
“Trust Harry.”
Chapter 17
Turner watched the helicopter disappear out of view and more importantly, out of earshot before hitting the dial button on his cell phone. He paced while the phone rang and rang. Nobody picked up. He killed the line and rushed back to his office. He grabbed his desk phone and dialed the number again. He consoled himself with the thought of the time it took to refuel, taxi to the runway and get clearance for takeoff, it had only been about nine minutes. The line rang and rang again.
The Colonel answered, gasping for breath as he rushed to grab the ringing phone.
“Keep them there!” blurted Turner.
“What? Who is this?” replied the Colonel catching his breath and taking a seat.
“FBI Deputy Director Turner.”
“They are gone Mister Turner,” replied the Colonel coldly.
“Well get your planes up and get them back!” ordered Turner.
“On whose authority?”
“Mine!”
“I’ve just had a new asshole chewed into me by a Saudi prince who assures me he has the connections to kill my career. He’s already promised I’ll be in the Arctic for the rest of my career. What can you promise me Mister Turner?”
“You’ll still have a career,” said Turner boldly.
“Unfortunately for you I believe him far more than I do you, and the sad thing is I think you know that’s true.”
“The black box on the plane will tell us where they opened the doors and let the suspect escape.”
“And you know for an absolute fact that happened?”
“We assume—”
“Assume! What a very appropriate word, makes an ass of u and me” interrupted the Colonel.
“We can’t see any other explanation.”
“I can. Perhaps the stewardess did get ill and she did leave and nobody noticed her going.”
“Look, we know the prince is tied up in terrorist activity.”
“Yet we let him fly in and out of America and have contact with senior officials?”
“Well, we don’t have any actual proof, we just know.” Turner winced at how weak he sounded.
“Mister Turner, I am going to end this call. If the President or the Secretary of Defense or State orders me to retake that plane with their written authority, it will be done without hesitation. Anyone else, not a chance. We can’t just order planes out of the sky with threats of violence, particularly when we know the suspect is not on board. Goodbye.”
“Fuck!” screamed Turner into the empty line. There wasn’t a chance in hell that anyone was going to allow him to pluck the plane out of the sky again. Certainly not based on a hunch that a man may have jumped out of the plane at some point over the Atlantic. But you’d need to be jumping somewhere and the middle of the ocean wouldn’t be somewhere, it was nowhere.
He hit his intercom and connected with his assistant.
“Get me a large scale map of the Atlantic Ocean and Northern Europe, an aviation expert and anyone in the building who was trained to jump out of planes!”
Chapter 18
With every degree rise in temperature, Nick knew he was just that little bit closer to shore. The depths of the ocean gave way to the sands of the shoreline and he approached the shore, checking for any passersby. It was approaching midnight in France. The beach was deserted. He had visited the same beach three months earlier. The vast expanse of sand stretched for miles but, in the almost forgotten northeast of France, even in the height of summer, the beaches were never filled.
He checked his bearings. Merlimont Plage was just a half mile north. After a two-minute breather, he began the walk along the beach, picking up the pace as the first sounds of helicopters began to break through the stillness of the night. A bright spot a few miles to the north, just off shore from Le Touquet, was all he needed to know that they were looking for him. Another bright spot appeared in the sky, only nearer. Searchlights glared down on the ground and sea below.
Nick knew that was the least of his worries. The chances of them picking him out in the spotlight were minimal to nil. His biggest worry was the infrared and thermal imaging devices that would be accompanying the light. The spotlight was the secondary tool to pinpoint what they had already seen.
Nick made it into the small seaside village while the search was still concentrating a couple of miles to the north. He smiled at the small green Renault Clio, almost ten years old, that had received a number of polite messages to move it. Although parked perfectly legally, the apartment owners who assumed ownership of the spaces in front of their beachside apartments during the summer were obviously perturbed at the length of time the mystery car had been parked in front of their building. Nick bent down and retrieved the key taped inside the small tailpipe. He opened the car, popped the hood and connected the battery. The car, thanks to its age and simplicity, started on the first turn of the ignition key, despite being inactive for over three months. Nick checked his mirror and pulled away.