36

CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

Martha Dell was in her office, working the phones.

She had just finished a secure conference call with the Agency’s station chief in Sana’a, dispatching a CIA team to Aden to gather as much intel as possible. She’d spoken briefly with her counterparts in Riyadh and Abu Dhabi and asked them to vacuum up whatever they could on the attack in Aden and feed her anything and everything they found as fast as possible. But now her assistant had stepped in and turned up the sound on one of TV screens.

An MSNBC correspondent in Rome was reporting that Pope Pius XIII had just issued a statement asking Catholics around the world to pray for all the volunteers who had been attacked and for the speedy return of the three American aid workers to their families. The correspondent then explained that the Vatican was not commenting on a report in an Italian newspaper that the pope had decided to cancel his upcoming trip to the States, though he added that one cardinal who spoke to NBC News on the condition of anonymity said, “It is probably not appropriate to make the trip in light of all that has happened, but no formal decision has yet been made.”

With that, another phone rang. Dell answered it. Stephens was back in the building and on his way up to the seventh floor. Dell muted her TV and headed into the director’s adjacent office.

“Please tell me the news on POTUS hasn’t leaked,” Stephens said the moment he arrived.

“Not yet,” Dell replied.

“You’re sure?” he pressed as he removed his suit jacket and draped it around the back of his chair.

“We’re monitoring everything.”

“Who’s we?”

“Three of my top aides—that’s it.”

“I don’t want anyone else in this building to know—not until we know exactly what’s happening with him and figure out how to proceed.”

“Agreed.”

“Because it’s . . .”

Stephens suddenly slumped down in his chair and closed his eyes.

“What do you need, Richard? Seriously, let me help.”

“Just give me five minutes to myself, Martha. I need to catch my breath.”

“Of course—but before I go . . .”

“What?”

“What happened with Ryker?”

“Nothing.”

“What does that mean?”

“I demanded the president fire him on the spot. The president said no, he’d suspend him but nothing more, not until a full investigation can be conducted. We got into a knock-down, drag-out shouting match . . .”

“In the Oval Office?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“And?”

“And that’s when the president lost consciousness.”

Dell was speechless.

With his head still down and his eyes still shut, he asked her again to give him a few minutes and to have the staff direct all his calls to her for the time being. She agreed and returned to her office.

✭

The moment the door was closed, Stephens opened his eyes again and turned on all of his TV monitors, keeping them muted with captions visible so he could read everything that was being reported. All the U.S. and European networks were still wall-to-wall with the kidnappings in Yemen and the ongoing coverage of the video footage from Ghat and the firestorm on Capitol Hill over it. Fortunately, he saw nothing about the president’s health. But at the moment, Clarke was not his primary concern. Pulling out his mobile phone, he dialed an unlisted number. It rang four times; then a woman answered.

“Carolyn Tam.”

“Carolyn, it’s me.”

“Whoa—didn’t expect to hear from you today of all days.”

“Got a minute?”

“I’m on a commercial break.”

“I know. I’m watching.”

“Sure, go ahead. Are we on or off the record?”

“When have I ever spoken to you on the record?”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“Not today. Same rules as always.”

“Fine. Talk fast. I’ve got a minute-forty-three left.”

“I’ve got something for you, so long as you swear that you’ll never reveal that I’m your source, not to your editors, not to your staff, not to your mother, not to God when you reach the pearly gates.”

“Sounds juicy.”

“Believe me, it is.”

“Fine, you have my word. What is it?”

“Audio of the NSC at Camp David last Saturday.”

“That’s classified.”

“Which is why you didn’t get it from me.”

“Then I’m guessing you weren’t the one pushing the president to order the strike, even though everyone in town believes it was you.”

“You’ll hear exactly who pushed the strike and who pushed back.”

“That’s a big risk.”

“And under any other circumstances, I’d never give it to you. But it’s yours if you want it.”

“Yes, of course, I’ll take it.”

“One more condition.”

“Name it.”

“You break this story today.”

“That’s crazy. You know I’m going to need several days to digest it, to do it justice. I can’t just—”

“No—it runs today, preferably in prime time, or I move on to someone else.”

“Why so fast?”

“Carolyn, do you want another Emmy or not?”

“Fine,” she said. “How do we do this?”

“I’m sending it now through an anonymous, untraceable email account. It’s a big file. It’s going to take a few minutes.”

“I’m on it,” she assured him.

“You do this right, and believe me, I’ll open the vault for you.”