But then she stopped.
“Yergi called him ‘the Algerian.’”
“ ‘The Algerian’? Are you sure?”
“Yes. That I am certain about.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“But I want to tell you one more thing,” Elena said.
“Yes?”
“When you find this man who killed my Yergi. Please…” Elena’s chin trembled a little.
“What?”
She managed to stop the trembling. Then she spoke with icy control.
“Kill him good.”
That was the last entry that appeared on the last page of the CIA interview transcript.
When Gallagher had finished reading the transcript, he collected the pages and handed them back to Ken Leary, who had by then finished his ice-cream cone. Leary thrust the papers back into the big envelope.
“Thanks,” Gallagher said.
Leary was struck by the way his friend had said that. Gallagher seemed intensely deliberate like Leary had never seen him before. Committed. Inflexible. So Leary gave Gallagher another warning, just for good measure. “Look John, I can’t deal with you any more on this subject. You’re on your own from this point on. I will deny our conversation. All of it. You know that.”
“Right.”
But Leary had to ask one last question. “You’re going to keep after Zimler aren’t you? John, do you know what you’re doing?”
“Ken, I thought you and I were finished talking about this. Isn’t that what you just said?”
Leary smiled and stood up with the envelope under his arm. His last words to John Gallagher were “God’s speed.”
Then he walked out of the dry cleaners and headed back to his office.
FIFTY
From his position against the railing of the ferry, Joshua Jordan had a good view of the Statue of Liberty as it loomed large on the water beyond the bow of the tour boat. The sky was grey and overcast, and the iron-colored water of the bay was choppy as the ferry left Battery Park Harbor in Manhattan. He felt uneasy about leaving the privacy of his hotel room. Wearing a baseball hat and sunglasses was a start. But he knew he was exposing himself to risk. But the wife of the Patriot, whoever she was, had said that they had inside information about threats against Joshua, and he needed help. Time for another calculated risk. But he couldn’t afford too many more. He just hoped he wasn’t walking himself out onto a gangplank by agreeing to the meeting.
He turned his focus toward the passengers on the deck and tried to pick out his contact. Joshua didn’t know what he looked like, but the voice on the phone had told Joshua that the man known as “The Patriot” would recognize him.
Taking one last look at the business card bearing only “The Patriot” on it along with a telephone number, Joshua wondered if anyone would show up. Joshua had called him immediately after the conference call with the Roundtable. The Patriot had insisted on the ferry for their rendezvous. Not exactly Joshua’s first choice.
There was a crowd on the ferry that day. Joshua looked over the sea of faces milling around on the deck.
Then he heard the voice of a man next to him. “You remind me of a man who likes to play chess.”
That was the prearranged opening line. The scripted intro concocted by the Patriot seemed melodramatic. But Joshua was required to give him the agreed response.
“I do. I prefer to lead with the knight.”
The other man reached out his hand and gave Joshua a crushing, hydraulic handshake. He had a good-natured face, in his early sixties, was medium height, and in very good shape. By all appearances he could have been a banker or a clerk in a men’s clothing store.
“Sorry about the secret-agent stuff,” the man said. “Mr. Jordan, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Call me Josh.”
“And you can quit calling me the Patriot. My name is Packard McHenry. I’m simply Pack to my friends. So you wanted to talk to me?”
“Your wife gave me your card. It seems that you’re a man who stands ready to help. Exactly how, I’m not sure.”
“Information, Josh. Among other things. I’ve got a little group of friends that work with me on matters important to our country. Similar to your Roundtable.”
“How’d you know about that?”
“If you knew my friends you’d understand. Retired folks from the National Security Agency. Former members of the Defense Intelligence Agency. Past agents from the Secret Service. Me, I’m retired from…the Company.”
“CIA?”
Pack McHenry smiled, didn’t reply directly, but asked, “What can we do to help?”
“We’ve got an emergency. We need to know something about World Teleco. They’re shutting down a project of ours. We had a contract with them, but they’re refusing to honor it. Our media plan depended on it. And that, in turn, was going to be the linchpin for everything.”
“You mean, the linchpin to get Senator Straworth to drop the subpoena, so Judge Jenkins will then not order you incarcerated for contempt of court and of Congress…so you can keep the RTS weapon design protected and solely in the hands of the Defense Department of the United States, so it doesn’t get leaked to some less-than-friendly nations? You mean that kind of linchpin?”
Joshua chuckled and said, “So, you really are on top of the game.”
“Look, my group likes what you’re doing. For the country. So I’ve had some of my people track you. For your own safety. And also to track some not-nice people who might pose a threat to you. I have intelligence about a meeting arranged by one particular not-nice lawyer by the name of Allen Fulsin, a man you know about because Judge Fortis Rice from your Roundtable talked to him about joining your group. I’m sure Judge Rice thought he was being discreet when he talked to him. But it turns out that Fulsin is one of those well-connected guys who knows all the dirty tricks and can get deep information from only a few leads. So Fulsin did some digging about your Roundtable based solely on the tidbits Judge Rice had given him, got what he needed, and then met with a high ranking VP of World Teleco at a bar. In a corner booth. We’ve got the whole story. Fulsin warned the telecom company that your message would be criticizing the White House. Exposing corruption. Showing how deliberate misinformation has been fed to the American people. How a media monopoly is aiding and abetting this. And most important to us, explaining how control of our country is being sold off, piece by piece, to a global network.”
“But how did you get all this information?”
Pack McHenry pointed to the approaching Statue of Liberty. “I wonder when they started naming a football play after that monument?” he said.
Joshua just shook his head.
McHenry said, “Well, sometime before the turn of the century, at least, a college team ran the first Statue of Liberty. That same play, or some variation of it, is still used occasionally in college ball. I’ve even seen it used in the NFL. Guess that proves one thing.”
“Which is?”
“It’s good to stick with the old stuff that works. We followed an old playbook with Fulsin. Did an old-fashioned close surveillance. It paid off. When they set up the meeting, we made sure they were shown to a booth. It was in the evening, and both of those guys are the drinking type. Not likely to take coffee. So we had a listening device placed in one of the sugar packets in the cream-and-sugar basket. I’m telling you all this because it’s our first meeting and we’re building trust. But don’t expect me to tell you any more of our tricks of the trade in the future.”
“Understood.”
“I’ll tell one of my people right now to email you an affidavit substantiating the meeting between Fulsin and the World Teleco executive.”
“Here, I’ll give you my private email address—”
“No need,” McHenry said, “we already have it. By the way, you may want to upgrade your email encryption security program.” Then he smiled as he continued. “Just be warned, I’m hoping this doesn’t get into court and go public. If it
does, our operative who signed the affidavit will have to distance himself entirely from us. That’ll be the end of his usefulness to our group. And he’s a good man.”
“Don’t worry. My wife has a plan, but it’s not litigation.”
“Good.”
“But there is something else I need to know,” Joshua said.
“Right,” McHenry said preempting him. “What my wife, Samantha, told you in the hotel restaurant. About being in danger from foreign actors? All we’ve got are bits and pieces that don’t add up. What we do know is that federal agencies, including the Department of Justice, are all clamping down on this hard. Closing ranks. We can’t get any intel on this at the moment. But we’re working on it. I do have one recommendation, though.”
“What’s that?”
McHenry handed Joshua a slip of paper, then said, “Have General Rocky Bridger from your group call this man at this number. They need to talk.”
On the slip of paper he had written the name of Special Agent John Gallagher along with his private telephone number.
After that, Pack McHenry pronounced what sounded like a kind of benediction. “We wish you God’s speed.”
Then he crossed the deck and disappeared into the crowd of passengers.
FIFTY-ONE
Judge Olivia Jenkins was in her chambers bright and early. She flipped open her calendar to see what was pending. She had a full docket. But one case in particular was on her mind. And it would be the first case she would call.
Outside in the courtroom Harry Smythe and the two assistant U.S. attorneys from the government were waiting patiently for the clerk to call them back into the judge’s chambers.
Then the clerk poked her head out into the courtroom and waived them in.
When all were seated and the clerk had closed the door, Jenkins began. “Harry, I notice that your client, Mr. Jordan, is not with you today.”
“He’s not, Your Honor.”
“Are you prepared to give this court the whereabouts of Mr. Jordan so he can be served with my bench warrant today?”
“I’m not, Judge.”
“What’s the reason for that?”
“Not anything I can discuss without breaching attorney-client confidentiality.”
“I recognize that,” Judge Jenkins said. “But it could be argued that the oath you took when you were first sworn in to be a lawyer—the oath to uphold our system of justice—is equally important. Maybe more so.”
“There’s nothing more I can say, Judge,” Smythe said in his studied calm. “Except that I’ve been presented with a very…challenging dilemma.”
“You know I could cause you a world of trouble,” the Judge said.
“As a federal judge, your power is broad and impressive,” Smythe said. “I would only ask that you allow us until the end of today before you issue your bench warrant for the arrest of Mr. Jordan.”
“Judge,” one of the assistant attorneys interjected, “that would be more than forty-eight hours. And your order from the bench the other day said forty-eight hours.”
“End of business today,” Harry Smythe said. “That’s all I’m asking.” In his face was the plea for mercy rather than justice.
Judge Jenkins recognized the look. She picked up the case file and balanced it in one hand. Then she ruled. “Okay. End of business today. But that’s it. No more extensions. No more excuses. Unless there’s been a radical change of circumstances, at that time I will be issuing an order for the immediate apprehension of Joshua Jordan. From that point on he will be treated as a fugitive from justice by the federal government.”
Harry Smythe slipped quickly out the courtroom and called Joshua to give him an immediate status report. He got his voicemail and left a lengthy message.
Cloistered in his hotel suite Joshua wasn’t taking any calls other than those from the Roundtable. That day he had been in constant contact with Phil Rankowitz about the AmeriNews project. Phil had his entire wireless tech team ready to pull the switch on the national unveiling of their news service, sending it to half of the cell phones in America. But one thing was missing. The technical support engineers at World Teleco would have to open the electronic gate.
The night before, and first thing again that morning, Phil’s media brokers had called the chief telecommunications engineer for the global telecom company, threatening, cajoling, pleading with him to connect the AmeriNews feed to the Allfones that were serviced by World Teleco, just as their contract had required.
“Look,” the engineer blew back, “I’ve been told this is a transaction in dispute. We’re not about to throw the on-switch just because you want it. My superiors say no, and I’ve got to follow orders. Sorry.”
Then Joshua got a text-message from Abigail. It said simply, “With lawyers now. Will advise.”
Abigail had caught a shuttle flight down to the capital the night before.
Now, in a small coffee shop near the Federal Communications Commission building in D.C., Abigail sat at a table with four lawyers, all of them veterans in communications law. She was briefing them on their legal mission.
“All of you have the affidavit,” she began, “of the witness to the conversation between Allen Fulsin and Bill Cheavers, the executive with World Teleco. He lays it all out in there.”
“I just have to ask,” said one of the lawyers, a middle-aged woman, “about this guy who signed the affidavit, where he got this stuff? How was he able to simply ‘overhear,’ as he vaguely describes it, this really startling conversation between Fulsin and Cheavers?”
“You can ask,” Abigail answered matter-of-factly, “but I won’t be answering. Now, let’s get to the overall strategy here. There are five commissioners who sit on the FCC. I’ll be taking the chairman, Jacob Daniels. I’ve assigned each one of you to one of the other commissioners. As you know, for some strange reason, President Corland, after he was elected, has dragged his heels in exercising his executive prerogative in appointing a new chairman of the FCC. I think Corland has simply had his hands full with a number of crises. I have a good professional relationship with Daniels, so I will approach him first. If I think he’s amenable to my argument, I will hit the Quick-Tweet—QT—function on my Allfone and instant-message you all with the Twitter ‘go’ sign to approach your respective commissioners.”
“I’d like to go over the legal theory we’ll be arguing with these commissioners,” one of the other lawyers said.
“Very simple,” Abigail said. “You’ll remember when all the national news media—all the television networks and all the news-radio syndicates—were required to transfer over to the Internet for the delivery of their communications content. Arguments broke out about who would control it. Who would supervise it. The courts struck down all the legislative attempts to structure a federal oversight. Congress, worried about the economically distressed media and news industry, lifted the antitrust restrictions on those businesses. Internet-based media quickly became a monopoly that now rests in the hands of a few transnational corporations. But remember, the FCC still retains a very narrow, rarely used power over the Internet.”
“Right, only in cases of clear viewpoint discrimination by the telecom companies,” another attorney chimed in.
“Exactly,” Abigail said. “We all know that discrimination by the telecoms against ‘politically incorrect’ viewpoints over the web does happen. But no one has been able to prove it. Until now. This affidavit is the smoking gun that shows that World Teleco is committing a viewpoint-based act of illegal discrimination against our client and the AmeriNews project.”
“Sounds logical,” the first lawyer said. But she pointed out, “The Chairman has a great deal of discretion. How do you know he’s going to buy this? And how in the world are you going to get him to act immediately? The FCC is known for dragging some issues out for years.”
Abigail smiled and said, “Leave that up to me.”
“But the chairman is not going to issue a cease-and-desist order by hims
elf,” a lawyer retorted, tapping his pen on the table for emphasis.
“No, he’s not,” Abigail replied. “He’s going to want backup from at least two of the other four commissioners, so he’s got a majority vote of three out of five.” Then she added, “And that’s where you fine legal advocates come into the picture.”
Fewer than thirty minutes later Abigail was on the eighth floor of the Federal Communications Commission building, in the vestibule of the office of Jacob Daniels, the chairman. In her hand was the file containing the affidavit. Chairman Daniels’ secretary had already been given the message that there was an urgent need to speak to the chairman.
After a wait of forty minutes, the chairman’s legal counsel strode out. He was a young lawyer, in his early thirties, and he had a pressed smile and an insincere handshake.
“Ms…,” he said, searching for Abigail’s name.
“Abigail Jordan,” she said. “Could you tell me if attorney Cort Windom is still working as Chairman Daniels’ chief legal counsel?”
“I’m afraid not. He left about a year ago to practice law with a D.C. firm. I’ve taken his spot. Can I help you?”
“I used to do a lot of work here with Mr. Windom, representing media clients before the FCC,” she said. “I also worked very closely with Chairman Daniels on a number of communications issues. Back when he was a new Commissioner. I haven’t seen him since he’s been serving as chairman. But I always enjoyed an excellent relationship with Jacob.”
“Well…that’s nice,” he said blandly.
“Did you get my message…?”
“Yes. You’d like a meeting with the chairman. I’d be glad to pass your name on to Chairman Daniels’ scheduling secretary. Maybe something could be set up a few weeks from now.”
“This is an emergency. It can’t wait.”
The lawyer struck a pose as if his mother had just been insulted.
“I’m sorry. But protocol is that walk-in requests for appointments must first be vetted through the scheduling secretary. No exceptions.”