Bullshit, the President wanted to shout and slap the smug smile off the ambassador’s face. But convention stopped him.
Instead he would have to spout some platitude such as, “We haven’t seen your situation in just that fashion, but it bears further investigation.”
A glow under the lip of his desk caught the President’s eye — the situation light, a signal from his chief of staff. In the six months of his term, this was the only time other than routine weekly tests that the light had been switched on. The last time the light had been used officially was during the Soviet coup in August of 1991.
The President stood up quickly, his professional smile masking his consternation. He extended his right hand and the ambassador knew that he was being dismissed.
“We haven’t seen your situation in just that fashion, but it bears further investigation. Thank you, Mr. Ambassador.”
“Thank you, Mr. President, for being so generous with your time,” the ambassador replied sourly. He’d been promised another half hour.
They shook hands briefly. The ambassador turned in a whirl of robes and left the Oval Office.
The President sat back down and had time to rub his temples for a second before the other door to the Oval Office opened. Expecting the angular figure of his chief of staff, Catherine Smith, the President was surprised to see Richard Henna.
Dick Henna was the new director of the FBI, one of the only important presidential appointees that Congress had so far approved. As always, self-serving political squabbling in the House was holding up the work of the federal government and costing the taxpayers tens of millions of dollars.
Henna was a career snoop who had managed never to step on the wrong toes. He had plodded his way through thirty years in the bureau, never grabbing headlines but always garnering respect. He had an exemplary family life, a modest slice of suburbia to call home, and absolutely no skeletons in any closet. Knowing of his reputation, the opposition party in Congress had not bothered with any serious investigation into his past.
The President, who liked Henna for his unshakable integrity, smiled when he saw the director enter his office. The smile faded when he realized that Henna, never a neat man, looked terrible. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot. The jowled lines of his face were blurred behind thick stubble. His suit was rumpled, his shirt looked as if it had been slept in, and his tie was cocked off and stained.
“You look like you could use some coffee, Dick.” The President tried to put cheer into his voice, to penetrate the air of gloom that had permeated his office. His effort was as effective as a candle in a dark forest.
“I could use something a bit stronger, sir.”
The President nodded toward the Regency table which acted as a bar, and Henna helped himself to a triple Scotch.
Henna slumped into the seat opposite the President, the one formerly occupied by the African ambassador. Settling his attaché case on his lap, Henna opened it and withdrew a thin, violet file. The file was stamped PEO. President’s Eyes Only.
“What’s going on, Dick?” The President had never seen Henna so morose.
“Sir,” Henna started shakily, “this morning, just after midnight, the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration ship Ocean Seeker was reported missing about two hundred miles north of Hawaii. Search planes have been dispatched and found only debris in the water. A nearby freighter is assisting in the search, but so far it doesn’t look promising.”
The President had gone slightly pale; his fingers clenched. He had not obtained this office by being overly emotional and his mind was clear and sharp. “That’s a terrible tragedy, Dick, but I don’t see how it concerns you or the FBI.”
Henna would have been surprised had the President not asked that question. He handed the file across the desk and took a sip of Scotch. “Please read the top sheet.”
The President opened the file and began to read. Seconds later, the blood drained from his patrician’s face and tension lines around his eyes tightened so that he squinted at the paper.
Before he finished reading, Henna spoke. “That was brought to my attention two days ago, after it was proven to be Ohnishi’s handwriting and not written under duress. When I received it, I checked with the coast guard and the navy. They didn’t have any scheduled traffic to or from the islands, so I figured we had a little breathing room.” Henna’s voice broke. “I didn’t check with NOAA, I forgot all about them. I had been warned that any government ship steaming outward from Hawaii would be destroyed. I had a goddamn warning. Those people didn’t have to die.”
The President looked up. Pain and guilt and failure were etched into Henna’s face. “Take it easy, Dick. How many people know about this?”
“Three besides the two of us — a mailroom clerk; my deputy director, Marge Doyle; and a handwriting analyst.”
The President glanced at his watch. “I’ve got lunch with the speaker of the house and if I cancel it. . I don’t want to think about the consequences. The rest of my day is booked solid. We’ll keep things normal here in Washington, but I’ll have all naval traffic to and from Hawaii suspended, just like this letter demands. I’m not about to give in to Ohnishi, but we need the time. I’m also going to put the military at Pearl Harbor on full alert. They’ve been on standby ever since the rioting started two weeks ago, but I think it prudent to up their readiness status. Let’s meet tonight at nine in the Situation Room to discuss the situation and our possible responses. Use the tunnel from the Treasury Building so you don’t arouse suspicion.”
“Yes, sir. Is there anything you want me to do in the meantime?” Henna was regaining his composure.
“I assume you’ve already started a full background check on Takahiro Ohnishi.” Henna nodded. “Find out what he’s all about. We’re all well aware of his racial views, but this is an outrage. Also, I want to know where he got the capability to destroy one of our ships. Someone is supplying him with arms and I want it stopped.”
“Yes, sir,” Henna replied, and left the office.
The President touched the intercom button on his desk. Joy Craig, his personal secretary, answered instantly.
“Joy, set up a meeting in the Situation Room for nine o’clock tonight. Call in the chairman of the joint chiefs; the directors of the CIA, NSA, and NOAA; the secretary of state and the secretary of defense.”
Most of those men were only acting heads, until their confirmation, but this crisis warranted trusting them as if they were already sworn into their respected offices.
The President sank back into his chair, his face blank, and stared at the gold braid-trimmed American flag near the office door. In his lap, his hands trembled.
The rain looked like Christmas tinsel in the headlights of the taxi parked outside an Arlington, Virginia, brownstone. The passenger gave the driver a crisp fifty and told him to keep the change. The back door opened, and in the glow of the domelight, the man grabbed the handles of his two soft leather bags and exited the cab.
Philip Mercer had always believed that international airports were a type of stateless limbo, sovereign nations allied only to each other with no allegiance to their host countries. His flight had touched down at Dulles an hour and a half earlier, yet he only now felt that he’d returned to the United States. Although the cool rain soothed his dried sinuses, Mercer still groaned as he inevitably tried the wrong key on the Baldwin lock of the front door. He no longer wondered why he always tried the wrong key when his arms were full, yet chose the right one when they were empty.