Chapter 25
*** At the same time ***
Content behind the wheel of his silver BMW Z4 Roadster, Craig Donovan didn't have a care in the world.
Moments ago, his life was at stake, his head crushed to a marble counter under the weight of a thug and his loaded weapon, but now, with the wind in his hair and the sun rising in the sky, all he could think about was 'the drive.' He loved being behind the wheel. He didn't have to be driving fast. As far as he was concerned, he could've been searching for some dive on the city side streets, crawling at five miles per hour, and he'd still be perfectly happy. It was about control. It was, always, about control. He was due at the NSA within the hour, but the seemingly endless parade of meetings after meetings after meetings over the last several months had begun to wear on his patience. Homeland Security was barking up a tree. The Secret Service wasn't happy with much of the latest 'intel' surrounding investigations of threats made against the First Family. Several old friends at the Pentagon were calling him daily, trying to coerce him into a comfy desk job over at their old haunt. The opportunities were endless, but all Donovan wanted to do was drive his beautiful car. Since he accepted assignment to the Washington, D.C., he found it insensible to reliving the past. In this world – the place beyond BackSteph – the past remained the past. Once he severed ties with the BackStep Program, he quickly learned never to give 'the past' a second thought.
On his hip, his Blackberry vibrated. He snatched it up quickly and read:
'Simon. Call. Now.'
"Ouch," he replied.
The director wasn't nearly as amiable as Bradley Talmadge was. In fact, Donovan didn't much care for Terrence Simon's attitude toward Talmadge, the BackStep Program, or any of the hundreds of successful missions Donovan had been a part of. For all he knew, Simon had an axe to grind with Bradley – maybe the man was in line for directing BackStep at one time. All that mattered to Terrence Simon in this brave new world was following orders, and he made it perfectly clear that Donovan's devil-may-care attitude wouldn't sit well with the NSA's D.C. Bureau. Despite his desire to ignore the message, Donovan snatched his cell from his jacket breast pocket and speed-dialed his boss's direct line. It rang twice before the man answered.
"I hear you're doing your part to serve and protect," he heard.
"Just making a deposit," Donovan replied.
"Craig, the stunt you pulled this morning only proves you're a pain in the ass to all of the greater D.C. area police enforcement."
"Despite what you've been told, I had nothing to do with that," the black man tried.
"Yes. Apparently, you never do."
"Wrong place," Donovan stated matter-of-factly, "wrong time."
"That's precisely what is written word-for-word throughout your personnel file, Donovan. You really should stick to your own side of the street, if you know what I mean? I can't keep bailing you out, even if your track record stays as strong as it is."
"The way I see it, Terry," the man argued, "I did the police a favor. I did the bank a favor. Hell, I even did the crooks a favor, but I'm not expecting any commendations. Those guys had guns, and the one at the door was itching for a reason to pull his trigger. I made sure that, when it happened, the man was taken down." He sighed heavily. "Look, I know I've not been around the block as many times as you have, but I keep hearing rumors that there used to be a time when stepping up and putting your life on the line actually meant something to the NSA. I guess those days went the way of the dodo."
"Spoken like a true pacifist."
"Since when have you known me to ever toe the line?"
"My thoughts, exactly."
"So here I am. You wanted me to call. I'm calling."
"And where, precisely, is here? You're not canvassing other banks, are you?"
"I'm in the car," he confessed.
"Hi ho, silver."
"I'm on the way to the office, Terry."
"How close are you?"
"I'm about fifteen minutes out." Donovan knew that his boss wouldn't order an immediate telephone response without some serious reason, but he was confused as to why the director was bantering with him. "What? Did you need me to pick up some doughnuts, or did you want me to get there faster?"
"After this morning's heroics, I doubt that the D.C. road patrol would repay the favor by not writing you a speeding ticket, so, no, save the heroics for some other date and time," Simon explained. "What I need for you to do is get in contact with Nathan Ramsey. He and Bradley Talmadge called here looking for you. Talmadge was off to other things, so he asked that you contact Ramsey. I told him I'd have you return the favor."
"Ramsey?" Donovan asked, carefully swerving around a large freight truck that was moving far too slowly for a late morning commute. "Did he say what he wanted?"
"He didn't say," Simon answered, "I didn't ask. You know that I'm not particularly fond of your previous stint on BackStep, so I left it alone. But Bradley did ask me to pass along one word."
"One word?"
"Yes," he heard. "Conundrum."
All of his muscles reacting, Donovan slammed on the brakes. He gripped the steering wheel tightly as he screeched his car thirty, forty, fifty, sixty feet to a dead stop in the middle of traffic. As the effects of inertia passed, he glanced around. Cars – sedans and compacts and SUVs, their horns blaring angrily – banked around him, swerving to avoid collisions with his BMW and one another. Staring straight ahead, he sat back in the bucket seat, a thin bead of sweat forming on his brow.
"What the hell was that?"
Conundrum.
"Craig!" Simon yelled into his ear. "Craig, are you there?"
What the hell ...?
"Simon, you're certain that's what they said?" Donovan asked.
"Are you all right?" the man demanded. "I thought I heard the sound of a car careening out of control."
"That was me."
"You? What happened?"
Ignoring the question, Donovan said, "Simon, I know you don't give a rat's ass for Bradley, but I swear ... I swear that, if you're screwing around with me, then I'll put in for a transfer to the Pentagon faster than you can hang up this telephone!"
"Take it easy, Craig. Take it easy! That's what they told me to tell you," the man droned in his authoritative voice, "and now I've told you."
"Conundrum?" he asked disbelievingly.
"Yes!"
It wasn't possible.
"Craig, what more can I help you with?"
Conundrum?!?!
"Craig, listen to me: it's wasn't a request," Simon explained. "It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order. I reminded them that you no longer worked with the BackStep Program, but apparently Bradley Talmadge has Jetsetter's ear on this one."
Jetsetter?
"The President?" Donovan pried. "You're telling me ... you're telling me that Bradley's order came down from the President of the United States?"
"That's a question you're going to have to find an answer to on your own, Craig," Simon confessed. "In the meantime, I for one have serious work to do. It would seem you do, as well. Make the call. Report in to me once you know where you're going to be heading for the next wild ride of your life."
End of Chapter 25
*** At the same time ***
Content behind the wheel of his silver BMW Z4 Roadster, Craig Donovan didn't have a care in the world.
Moments ago, his life was at stake, his head crushed to a marble counter under the weight of a thug and his loaded weapon, but now, with the wind in his hair and the sun rising in the sky, all he could think about was 'the drive.' He loved being behind the wheel. He didn't have to be driving fast. As far as he was concerned, he could've been searching for some dive on the city side streets, crawling at five miles per hour, and he'd still be perfectly happy. It was about control. It was, always, about control. He was due at the NSA within the hour, but the seemingly endless parade of meetings after meetings after meetings over the last several months had begun to wear on his patience. Homeland Security was barking up a tree. The Secret Service wasn't happy with much of the latest 'intel' surrounding investigations of threats made against the First Family. Several old friends at the Pentagon were calling him daily, trying to coerce him into a comfy desk job over at their old haunt. The opportunities were endless, but all Donovan wanted to do was drive his beautiful car. Since he accepted assignment to the Washington, D.C., he found it insensible to reliving the past. In this world – the place beyond BackSteph – the past remained the past. Once he severed ties with the BackStep Program, he quickly learned never to give 'the past' a second thought.
On his hip, his Blackberry vibrated. He snatched it up quickly and read:
'Simon. Call. Now.'
"Ouch," he replied.
The director wasn't nearly as amiable as Bradley Talmadge was. In fact, Donovan didn't much care for Terrence Simon's attitude toward Talmadge, the BackStep Program, or any of the hundreds of successful missions Donovan had been a part of. For all he knew, Simon had an axe to grind with Bradley – maybe the man was in line for directing BackStep at one time. All that mattered to Terrence Simon in this brave new world was following orders, and he made it perfectly clear that Donovan's devil-may-care attitude wouldn't sit well with the NSA's D.C. Bureau. Despite his desire to ignore the message, Donovan snatched his cell from his jacket breast pocket and speed-dialed his boss's direct line. It rang twice before the man answered.
"I hear you're doing your part to serve and protect," he heard.
"Just making a deposit," Donovan replied.
"Craig, the stunt you pulled this morning only proves you're a pain in the ass to all of the greater D.C. area police enforcement."
"Despite what you've been told, I had nothing to do with that," the black man tried.
"Yes. Apparently, you never do."
"Wrong place," Donovan stated matter-of-factly, "wrong time."
"That's precisely what is written word-for-word throughout your personnel file, Donovan. You really should stick to your own side of the street, if you know what I mean? I can't keep bailing you out, even if your track record stays as strong as it is."
"The way I see it, Terry," the man argued, "I did the police a favor. I did the bank a favor. Hell, I even did the crooks a favor, but I'm not expecting any commendations. Those guys had guns, and the one at the door was itching for a reason to pull his trigger. I made sure that, when it happened, the man was taken down." He sighed heavily. "Look, I know I've not been around the block as many times as you have, but I keep hearing rumors that there used to be a time when stepping up and putting your life on the line actually meant something to the NSA. I guess those days went the way of the dodo."
"Spoken like a true pacifist."
"Since when have you known me to ever toe the line?"
"My thoughts, exactly."
"So here I am. You wanted me to call. I'm calling."
"And where, precisely, is here? You're not canvassing other banks, are you?"
"I'm in the car," he confessed.
"Hi ho, silver."
"I'm on the way to the office, Terry."
"How close are you?"
"I'm about fifteen minutes out." Donovan knew that his boss wouldn't order an immediate telephone response without some serious reason, but he was confused as to why the director was bantering with him. "What? Did you need me to pick up some doughnuts, or did you want me to get there faster?"
"After this morning's heroics, I doubt that the D.C. road patrol would repay the favor by not writing you a speeding ticket, so, no, save the heroics for some other date and time," Simon explained. "What I need for you to do is get in contact with Nathan Ramsey. He and Bradley Talmadge called here looking for you. Talmadge was off to other things, so he asked that you contact Ramsey. I told him I'd have you return the favor."
"Ramsey?" Donovan asked, carefully swerving around a large freight truck that was moving far too slowly for a late morning commute. "Did he say what he wanted?"
"He didn't say," Simon answered, "I didn't ask. You know that I'm not particularly fond of your previous stint on BackStep, so I left it alone. But Bradley did ask me to pass along one word."
"One word?"
"Yes," he heard. "Conundrum."
All of his muscles reacting, Donovan slammed on the brakes. He gripped the steering wheel tightly as he screeched his car thirty, forty, fifty, sixty feet to a dead stop in the middle of traffic. As the effects of inertia passed, he glanced around. Cars – sedans and compacts and SUVs, their horns blaring angrily – banked around him, swerving to avoid collisions with his BMW and one another. Staring straight ahead, he sat back in the bucket seat, a thin bead of sweat forming on his brow.
"What the hell was that?"
Conundrum.
"Craig!" Simon yelled into his ear. "Craig, are you there?"
What the hell ...?
"Simon, you're certain that's what they said?" Donovan asked.
"Are you all right?" the man demanded. "I thought I heard the sound of a car careening out of control."
"That was me."
"You? What happened?"
Ignoring the question, Donovan said, "Simon, I know you don't give a rat's ass for Bradley, but I swear ... I swear that, if you're screwing around with me, then I'll put in for a transfer to the Pentagon faster than you can hang up this telephone!"
"Take it easy, Craig. Take it easy! That's what they told me to tell you," the man droned in his authoritative voice, "and now I've told you."
"Conundrum?" he asked disbelievingly.
"Yes!"
It wasn't possible.
"Craig, what more can I help you with?"
Conundrum?!?!
"Craig, listen to me: it's wasn't a request," Simon explained. "It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order. I reminded them that you no longer worked with the BackStep Program, but apparently Bradley Talmadge has Jetsetter's ear on this one."
Jetsetter?
"The President?" Donovan pried. "You're telling me ... you're telling me that Bradley's order came down from the President of the United States?"
"That's a question you're going to have to find an answer to on your own, Craig," Simon confessed. "In the meantime, I for one have serious work to do. It would seem you do, as well. Make the call. Report in to me once you know where you're going to be heading for the next wild ride of your life."
End of Chapter 25