Washington, DC
7:06 PM Sunday, January 18
“I’m standing in the White House.”
Brynn cringed as her nervous whisper echoed loudly enough to earn her a snicker from the Secret Service agent checking their IDs.
“Actually, we’re in the west entrance of the White House.” Jack handed her ID back. “What’s the matter?”
“Um.” She gestured at her worn jeans and frayed JMU sweatshirt. “I’m not exactly dressed appropriately.”
Her fingers moved to the stray strands falling out of the knot she’d tied her hair into, and she cringed again. She searched for a restroom and found Jack grinning at her.
“You look nice, B.”
He was trying to assure her, but his compliment only made her more self-conscious. She gave his attire a once-over. Dark jeans, charcoal-gray sweater. Only thing out of place was the slightly disheveled hair caused by his beanie cap.
“Easy for you to say, you look like an Eddie Bauer ad.” She placed her phone in a plastic bowl to go through the X-ray machine. “Have you ever been here before?”
“Yes.” Jack walked through the metal detector. “A few times.”
“So what? You frequent the West Wing for lunch?” She followed him through and then scooped up her cell phone before taking the visitor lanyard the Secret Service agent handed her. “Enjoy tea with the Secretary of State?”
“Only on Tuesdays,” Jack teased, looping his lanyard over his head.
An aide quickly ushered them through the marbled hallways of the White House until they reached the West Wing. Deep-red carpet swallowed the cadence of their steps so the only sound echoing in her ears was the pounding of her heart inside her chest.
Their escort paused by a pair of walnut doors, then he opened the right one and stepped aside to allow Brynn and Jack to enter the Roosevelt Room.
Time slowed as Brynn took in the historical significance of the room. At its center was a large mahogany conference table, a fireplace mantel hung on the east side with a painting of Roosevelt astride a horse above it, and to her right a large Queen Anne–style armoire filled the wall. The flags of the armed forces flanked the American flag, and standing in front of them were three men—waiting. Brynn recognized Doug Martin, the National Security Advisor, Director Walsh, and Peterson, whose gaze held a thousand questions.
The dark-wood door to the right of the fireplace opened, and everyone stood as President Margaret Allen stepped into the room. Brynn’s breath lodged in her chest. I’m standing in the same room as the president of the United States.
The woman was in her early sixties and had the charisma of Jackie Kennedy with the prowess of Anna Wintour. The media might’ve succumbed to comparing the first female candidate with the severe editor of Vogue if it weren’t for Margaret Allen’s decorated success in the US Air Force that preceded an equally successful appointment as director of Signals Intelligence Directorate for the National Security Agency. A role that led to the exposure and prosecution of Nigel Chapman, a British hacker, for impersonating a CIA chief intent on accessing sensitive information.
President Allen’s opponents worked hard to label her ruthless, but the number of charity projects she’d worked on over the last three decades proved otherwise. She had the bearing of someone who didn’t mess around or take garbage, likely the result of having to forge her way in a man’s world. A sentiment Brynn knew well enough herself.
At this late hour, however, President Allen did not look ruthless. She tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, and her blue eyes peered over the reading glasses on her nose as she took her seat at the center of the table, looking nothing but focused.
Everyone sat.
“Well, it looks like we’ve got ourselves a quandary.” The soft southern drawl of the president’s words spread between them. She glanced around the room, her eyes landing on Brynn. “Ms. Taylor, I don’t think we’ve met.”
“No, ma’am.” Or was it Madam President? “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Brynn fought back the cringe. Pleasure? “I mean, it is a pleasure, but I wish it weren’t under these conditions.”
President Allen smiled. “I think we can all agree on that.” She looked at Jack, her smile growing with a fondness. “Hiya, Jack. Still turning up trouble, I see.”
He returned her smile with a nod. “Just doing my job, Madam President.”
Brynn controlled her expression, not sure what to think of the familiarity she sensed between the president and Jack.
“I’m sorry this didn’t turn out the way you’d hoped, Ms. Taylor.” Sympathy softened the president’s features. “I’ve spoken with President Talaat, who has sworn his support to help us find the person responsible for Riad’s death.”
Brynn nodded. “That’s good to hear, Madam President.”
President Allen pressed her lips together. “What I’m about to share does not leave the walls of this office.” Her gaze landed on each of them, pausing long enough to elicit verbal acknowledgment and acceptance. “President Talaat informed me the General Intelligence Directorate has been actively investigating members of the National Liberation Jihad and their involvement with ISIS. For the last several months, members of the NLJ have gone missing.”
Brynn couldn’t help looking at Jack from the corner of her eye. Was he wondering if Seif El-Deeb and Tarek Gamal were members of the NLJ?
President Allen continued. “Four months ago, Riad was looking for Wael Abdullah, a young man whose family reported him missing. He was a student at Ain Shams University but stopped attending classes and then disappeared. A month later, security footage in Central Tunis recorded Wael Abdullah walking into the Ministry of Interior’s National Police Unit and detonating the bombs strapped to his chest.”
“ISIS claimed responsibility.” Brynn’s lips snapped shut, and Peterson shot her a look. Had she really just interrupted the president of the United States? “I’m sorry, Madam President.”
The corner of the president’s mouth lifted. “You’re correct, Ms. Taylor. However, Egypt’s General Intelligence Directorate has linked Wael Abdullah and the other suicide bomber involved to the NLJ. The director of the GID suspects Riad’s disappearance may have something to do with his continued investigation into the NLJ.”
“I don’t think he’s wrong, ma’am.” Brynn caught Jack giving her a tiny nod, and it bolstered her courage to continue. “I apologize for interrupting, but at this point, I think it’s safe to assume Riad might’ve come here to uncover a terrorist plot already in action.”
“You’re telling me Remon Riad knew about a terrorist plot already underway and failed to report it?”
Doug Martin’s sharp tone reflected the troubled expression on Director Peterson’s face. He frowned at Brynn, looked at Walsh and then to Jack before settling back on Brynn, awaiting her response like everyone else.
“I’m not suggesting that at all, Mr. Martin.” The apples of Brynn’s cheeks burned. “If Riad’s investigation into the NLJ brought him to the US, then given recent events, we need to assume someone found out and killed him. We could be looking at a situation with terroristic implications here in America.”
“This only solidifies my recommendation.” Doug Martin turned to the president. “Ma’am, until we get this figured out, I think it’s in your best interest and the interest of national security to either postpone the opening of Wadi Basaela or send someone else in your—”
“No, I don’t think so.” President Allen shook her head, steel in her voice. “This is exactly why I need to go. I’ve got less than a year left in this office.” She tapped her finger against the table. “I will finish what I set out to do, which is bring stability to our allies in the Middle East.”
“Remon Riad’s death does not eliminate the potential threat to your personal safety and national security. HUMINT suggests growing hostility in Egypt.”
President Allen released a sigh, slipped off her glasses, and settled back into her chair. “Jack, do you agree with Ms. Taylor?”
Brynn’s head snapped to Jack. Had the president really deferred to him? Why?
“Madam President, Mr. Martin”—Jack sat forward—“Ms. Taylor’s assessment is an accurate reflection of what might be an underlying threat. Every new lead we follow leaves us with more questions than answers.”
“And a few scars to boot.” President Allen eyed Jack with a bit of motherly affection. “I wasn’t kidding when I said you’re turning up trouble.”
“Not my own, ma’am,” Jack said. “The last several days it’s felt like someone has been one step ahead, which suggests the NLJ may have footing here in the US.”
“My entire program is designed around the premise that terrorism can and does happen all around us. We can’t assume Riad was involved beyond what we know. We have to continue to follow the leads until—”
“There’s not enough time for that, Ms. Taylor,” Doug Martin said. “I cannot in good conscience allow a decision to be made on the whim of the very person who could’ve prevented this from the very beginning.”
“Negative.” Director Peterson spoke, his voice booming around them even though he hadn’t shouted. “Officer Taylor was not negligent. She is one of my most thorough analysts. Her work is meticulous, and I have no problem challenging anyone who dares to say otherwise.”
Brynn had to fight to school her reaction to Peterson’s defense, which had left Doug Martin slack-jawed and looking to the president for support she didn’t seem ready to offer.
“Mr. Martin, I’m not dismissing your assessment of the threat,” Brynn said, wanting to bring deference back to the NSA. “What I’m saying is that unless we continue to try to figure out how all of this fits together—because I believe it does—the risk to President Allen and the United States will continue to escalate, leaving us at the mercy of the terrorists’ timing.”
President Allen was content to let Brynn’s words settle among them, leaving her worried she might’ve overstepped.
“I would be irresponsible if I didn’t agree that this unfortunate and untimely circumstance is worrisome.”
“It’s a bit more serious than that, Madam President,” Mr. Martin nearly grumbled.
“And”—President Allen glanced at Mr. Martin, her expression kind but firm—“I’m taking my security advisor’s concerns for my trip to Egypt this week very seriously. But midnight tonight I will be leaving for Cairo to meet with President Talaat, and I will be bringing with me the body of their decorated military leader and dedicated intelligence officer.” She glanced between Brynn and Jack. “I refuse to accept that I won’t be able to offer him an explanation and a promise that those responsible will be met with swift justice in whatever form necessary. We, at the very least, owe that to Remon Riad and his family.”
“I believe I can speak for Director Peterson and myself,” Walsh said. Brynn had nearly forgotten he was there. “Mr. Hudson and Ms. Taylor will continue to work diligently on this assignment while keeping Doug apprised of anything new they learn so adjustments to your schedule can be made.”
Several seconds passed before President Allen tapped her fingers on the table with an inhale. “I think that’ll work. Doug?”
The man shook his head, lifting his hand in a “would it matter if I didn’t agree?” gesture.
“Doug?”
“Ma’am, at the very least I’d like to increase our security measures before your arrival and discuss the schedule with our counterpart in Egypt.” He released a sigh. “But yes, ma’am, if you insist, we can proceed forward as planned.”
“Good.” President Allen pushed back from the table and stood, everyone in the room following suit. “I appreciate y’all coming in at the last minute and your willingness to pursue the mission for the good of our nation and the American people.”
There was a collective response affirming President Allen’s directive before she collected her binder and glasses and walked toward the inconspicuous door etched into the molding of the room. Brynn’s lungs felt tight like she’d been holding her breath the whole time.
“Ms. Taylor?” The president turned. “Your father was a firefighter in New York on 9/11?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Brynn shifted, her palms turning damp. “Fire House 7.”
“Is that why you joined the CIA?”
Brynn swallowed. “Ma’am, that day will likely never stop being the worst moment of my life. For most Americans, their lives moved forward, but for me and others directly impacted that day, we can never forget. I joined the CIA because I never want another child or family to go through what ours did. The Diplomatic Intra-Agency Cooperation program is unique in that it brings together intelligence forces from around the globe under the expectation that the only way to combat terrorism is to do it collaboratively. America united is a nice sentiment, but to fight and win the war against terrorism, it’s going to require a world united.”
President Allen smiled appreciatively. “Ms. Taylor, your candor is refreshing. I’m sorry for what you and your family have been through, but I’m not at all sorry for what that means for our enemies.” She tilted her head. “I’m counting on you and Jack. If there’s something to be found—sooner is better.”