Chapter 44
Six Days, Two Hours, Twelve Minutes
"Talk to me, Chloe," Donovan barked at his speakerphone.
"I'm listening, Craig."
"That's good," he said, "but I don't want you to listen to me. I want to know what we have on Richard DeMarco that's not in the fine print."
"Whatever do you mean?"
"You know damn well what I mean," he challenged. "These files – even the private server ones – they're never the sum total of data on any individual. I doubt that any server has everything we know about any wanted or tracked individual, and Richard DeMarco has a background that indicates to me that the United States would have a vested interest in knowing where he is at any given moment in the man's life."
He heard the rustling of some papers on the other end of the telephone. "Richard DeMarco," she finally replied. "Well, I can only assume you've read the file."
"I have," he agreed, "and I'm not looking for what's available in the paperback version, Chloe. There's a rather significant gap, and that's not like us. You remember us? The good guys? We've spent the better part of the last two years looking under every rock, but DeMarco's file would have you believe that he's been vacation on Pluto. You and I know that isn't the case."
"How can I help you?"
"You can help by giving me the obvious. DeMarco looks like one bad dude, but it doesn't look as if he's ever posed a serious threat to any American interests. Is that your read?"
"It is," she shot back quickly.
"Okay, but that doesn't mean he hasn't planned on going anti-American at some point in the near future, am I right?"
"There's no possible way I can know that, Craig."
"Then tell me what you do know."
"Well, I think the events of his disappearance bear some review."
"The gap in his file?"
"Yes."
"Which means what exactly?"
She cleared her throat. "Craig, my friend, we've been over this hundreds of times since you took this post with the NSA. You know I can't divulge every scrap or shred of information that the White House has placed under Executive Privilege. It isn't a matter that I don't like you. I love you to death, sweetheart, but you don't have clearance."
Incredulous, he tried, "I don't have clearance?" Leaning forward, he brushed his own paperwork aside, singling out the file photograph of DeMarco he had printed from the Essential Capital Storage security feed, tacking it up on the front of his flat screen computer terminal. "Chloe, I know the truth about Roswell, for Pete's sake. How can I not have clearance for what appears – for all intents and purposes – to be a cookie- cutter terrorist?"
"Richard DeMarco is far from the cookie-cutter variety."
Staring into the eyes of the photographed man, Donovan asked, "You can't throw that out there and expect me to simply hang up."
"Oh, yes, I can."
"How's that?"
"It's my job."
"It's your job to withhold information on subject who possibly committed arson?"
"Oh, please," she snapped back at him. "If DeMarco burned Macy's to the ground, I doubt anyone in the White House would raise an eyebrow."
"How can that be?"
"It's a media-driven world, Craig. We who control the information, we also control the picture. When you control the picture, you control public opinion. When you control public opinion, you win elections. It's never been about fighting the right war. It's been about showing the people that the war is worth the fight. Beside, you know how the President gets about ... these things."
"What things?"
"These things."
"And I'll ask the question again, Chloe: what things?"
After a brief pause, she cleared her throat again. "Look, I can appreciate the fact that we're friends and all."
"Friends?" he snapped. "Chloe, I've taken you out to dinner. We've gone to movies ... well, those that I picked. Don't get me wrong. I don't doubt that Meryl Streep is a talented actress. I just didn't want to see any of those films, but we still went to some movies."
"Your film choices tended to revolve around sex and explosions, Craig," she answered. "As a matter of fact, I think we saw one film where the ones having sex exploded."
Ignoring her obvious taunt, he pressed on, "Hell, I even babysat your kids when you were going steady with that fellow over at Langley ..."
"Now, that was uncalled for. I wasn't going steady."
"You were going steady," he argued.
"Craig, I'm forty-two years old," she admitted. "At my age, there is nothing steady about it. You know how it is out there. It's dog-eat-dog, and I wouldn't wish that Langley instructor on my worst enemy. You're not scoring any points by bringing him up."
"I'm not trying to score any points," he said.
"Then please explain what it is you're hoping to accomplish by bringing up these awful memories."
He sighed. "Look. You're in the White House. You work for the President's Chief of Staff. I know that – in your position – you hear things. I know – for a fact – that you've been in attendance at several of the International Threat Matrix briefings."
"How do you know that?"
"You told me, you bottle blond."
"That's not scoring points either, Craig."
"You hear things," he repeated. "You've obviously heard something about Richard DeMarco. As I said, anyone of us over here at the NSA can read his file and see that he's not exactly a small player on the international terrorists' scene, but his activities have not been directed against American interests."
"That's a solid analysis," she admitted.
He raised an eyebrow. "Thank you."
"No, no," she tried, speaking more loudly through the speakerphone. "That's a really solid analysis, Craig. That's solid desk work. I should make a telephone call and have you pulled out of field ops. Hell, at the very least, it would save me a good babysitter."
"Okay, that's enough of that."
"No," she argued. "I'm being sincere. Craig Donovan, you should be doing the work of an analyst, if this is the kind of thinking you're capable of."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Walk it through."
He narrowed his eyes, still studying DeMarco's face.
"Walk it through, Craig," she said again. "I'm listening."
"He hasn't acted against American interests," Donovan said slowly, emphasizing each syllable, "and that means he has no reason to act against them?"
"I take back everything I said. Stay in the field, Craig."
"You're saying ... I'm getting colder."
"I'm saying you should keep your resume current."
He grimaced. "Ouch. That was cold."
"Then warm me up."
Shifting in his chair, he reclined a bit, stretching his feet out under the desk. Tilting his head, he considered DeMarco from a slightly different angle, and he tried, "He hasn't acted against American interests because ... because he's been ordered not to?"
"Well, Craig," she replied, "that's a mighty interesting theory. Everyone knows that terrorists – wherever they're anointed in the food chain – all respond to a commander. It's the cornerstone of every terrorist group we're watching – those stateside and around the globe."
His ears perked up. "Stateside?"
"Yes. That's what I said."
He thought he saw the two dimensional DeMarco wink.
"Chloe, are you saying that this man ... are you saying that Richard DeMarco is receiving his orders from a terrorist organization located here within the United States?"
"I'm not saying anything, Craig," she insisted. "To do so would be a punishable violation of several oaths of secrecy I've been sworn to ..."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he muttered. "So ... DeMarco's activities overseas ... those have all been orchestrated against foreign countries at the behest of an American sponsor?"
"Like I said before, Craig, you'd make a great analyst."
He threw his head back and closed his eyes. There were answers to the questions swimming around inside his brain, but he knew that Chloe – despite their friendship – wasn't going to give up anything easily. After all he had done for her – after all the dinners and movies and favors and gifts and late night talks about growing older as a divorced mother of three – she still wouldn't violate a sacred oath made to the Supreme Commander of the Free World.
"You've got class, Chloe," he said.
"I pick and choose my friends wisely," she agreed. "Not all of us do. In fact, some of us end up regretting the choice of friends – and professional colleagues – that we've made along the way." Finally, she repeated, "You know how the President gets about these things."
"The President?"
"Yeah," she answered. "My boss. Your boss. All of our bosses, really."
Again, he stared at the picture.
"DeMarco's an American agent?"
"Pack up your desk, Craig."
He shook his head. "DeMarco's receiving his orders from someone close to the President?"
"Take a shower, sweetheart. You're in line for a promotion."
"But ... who?"
"That's where I draw the line."
"Come on, Chloe."
"Craig, I can't."
"Chloe, if this guy is here, the authorities are on to him."
"DeMarco is being watched."
"By whom?"
"DeMarco is being watched."
"By whom?"
"I said, DeMarco is being watched."
He rolled his fingers into a fist and almost pounded his desk.
"Chloe, what does that mean?"
Suddenly, Donovan glared at the picture of DeMarco over his computer screen, and he swore that the man winked again.
"... by the same person who's been giving him orders." With even stronger conviction, he stated, "DeMarco's being watched by the same person who ordered him off our radar a few years ago."
"You keep up this thinking, Craig, and we're on for more than just dinner," she replied. "You're on the fast track. It's always good to hang with someone on the fast track."
"You have to run?" he asked.
"You know I do."
He reached for the phone. "We're not through with this conversation."
"When you have more analyzed," she offered, "give me a call. I can always use a good babysitter, Craig, but you and I both know how much this country needs a patriot."
After a long pause, she said, "Be a patriot, you're better at it," and hung up.
End of Chapter 44
Six Days, Two Hours, Twelve Minutes
"Talk to me, Chloe," Donovan barked at his speakerphone.
"I'm listening, Craig."
"That's good," he said, "but I don't want you to listen to me. I want to know what we have on Richard DeMarco that's not in the fine print."
"Whatever do you mean?"
"You know damn well what I mean," he challenged. "These files – even the private server ones – they're never the sum total of data on any individual. I doubt that any server has everything we know about any wanted or tracked individual, and Richard DeMarco has a background that indicates to me that the United States would have a vested interest in knowing where he is at any given moment in the man's life."
He heard the rustling of some papers on the other end of the telephone. "Richard DeMarco," she finally replied. "Well, I can only assume you've read the file."
"I have," he agreed, "and I'm not looking for what's available in the paperback version, Chloe. There's a rather significant gap, and that's not like us. You remember us? The good guys? We've spent the better part of the last two years looking under every rock, but DeMarco's file would have you believe that he's been vacation on Pluto. You and I know that isn't the case."
"How can I help you?"
"You can help by giving me the obvious. DeMarco looks like one bad dude, but it doesn't look as if he's ever posed a serious threat to any American interests. Is that your read?"
"It is," she shot back quickly.
"Okay, but that doesn't mean he hasn't planned on going anti-American at some point in the near future, am I right?"
"There's no possible way I can know that, Craig."
"Then tell me what you do know."
"Well, I think the events of his disappearance bear some review."
"The gap in his file?"
"Yes."
"Which means what exactly?"
She cleared her throat. "Craig, my friend, we've been over this hundreds of times since you took this post with the NSA. You know I can't divulge every scrap or shred of information that the White House has placed under Executive Privilege. It isn't a matter that I don't like you. I love you to death, sweetheart, but you don't have clearance."
Incredulous, he tried, "I don't have clearance?" Leaning forward, he brushed his own paperwork aside, singling out the file photograph of DeMarco he had printed from the Essential Capital Storage security feed, tacking it up on the front of his flat screen computer terminal. "Chloe, I know the truth about Roswell, for Pete's sake. How can I not have clearance for what appears – for all intents and purposes – to be a cookie- cutter terrorist?"
"Richard DeMarco is far from the cookie-cutter variety."
Staring into the eyes of the photographed man, Donovan asked, "You can't throw that out there and expect me to simply hang up."
"Oh, yes, I can."
"How's that?"
"It's my job."
"It's your job to withhold information on subject who possibly committed arson?"
"Oh, please," she snapped back at him. "If DeMarco burned Macy's to the ground, I doubt anyone in the White House would raise an eyebrow."
"How can that be?"
"It's a media-driven world, Craig. We who control the information, we also control the picture. When you control the picture, you control public opinion. When you control public opinion, you win elections. It's never been about fighting the right war. It's been about showing the people that the war is worth the fight. Beside, you know how the President gets about ... these things."
"What things?"
"These things."
"And I'll ask the question again, Chloe: what things?"
After a brief pause, she cleared her throat again. "Look, I can appreciate the fact that we're friends and all."
"Friends?" he snapped. "Chloe, I've taken you out to dinner. We've gone to movies ... well, those that I picked. Don't get me wrong. I don't doubt that Meryl Streep is a talented actress. I just didn't want to see any of those films, but we still went to some movies."
"Your film choices tended to revolve around sex and explosions, Craig," she answered. "As a matter of fact, I think we saw one film where the ones having sex exploded."
Ignoring her obvious taunt, he pressed on, "Hell, I even babysat your kids when you were going steady with that fellow over at Langley ..."
"Now, that was uncalled for. I wasn't going steady."
"You were going steady," he argued.
"Craig, I'm forty-two years old," she admitted. "At my age, there is nothing steady about it. You know how it is out there. It's dog-eat-dog, and I wouldn't wish that Langley instructor on my worst enemy. You're not scoring any points by bringing him up."
"I'm not trying to score any points," he said.
"Then please explain what it is you're hoping to accomplish by bringing up these awful memories."
He sighed. "Look. You're in the White House. You work for the President's Chief of Staff. I know that – in your position – you hear things. I know – for a fact – that you've been in attendance at several of the International Threat Matrix briefings."
"How do you know that?"
"You told me, you bottle blond."
"That's not scoring points either, Craig."
"You hear things," he repeated. "You've obviously heard something about Richard DeMarco. As I said, anyone of us over here at the NSA can read his file and see that he's not exactly a small player on the international terrorists' scene, but his activities have not been directed against American interests."
"That's a solid analysis," she admitted.
He raised an eyebrow. "Thank you."
"No, no," she tried, speaking more loudly through the speakerphone. "That's a really solid analysis, Craig. That's solid desk work. I should make a telephone call and have you pulled out of field ops. Hell, at the very least, it would save me a good babysitter."
"Okay, that's enough of that."
"No," she argued. "I'm being sincere. Craig Donovan, you should be doing the work of an analyst, if this is the kind of thinking you're capable of."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Walk it through."
He narrowed his eyes, still studying DeMarco's face.
"Walk it through, Craig," she said again. "I'm listening."
"He hasn't acted against American interests," Donovan said slowly, emphasizing each syllable, "and that means he has no reason to act against them?"
"I take back everything I said. Stay in the field, Craig."
"You're saying ... I'm getting colder."
"I'm saying you should keep your resume current."
He grimaced. "Ouch. That was cold."
"Then warm me up."
Shifting in his chair, he reclined a bit, stretching his feet out under the desk. Tilting his head, he considered DeMarco from a slightly different angle, and he tried, "He hasn't acted against American interests because ... because he's been ordered not to?"
"Well, Craig," she replied, "that's a mighty interesting theory. Everyone knows that terrorists – wherever they're anointed in the food chain – all respond to a commander. It's the cornerstone of every terrorist group we're watching – those stateside and around the globe."
His ears perked up. "Stateside?"
"Yes. That's what I said."
He thought he saw the two dimensional DeMarco wink.
"Chloe, are you saying that this man ... are you saying that Richard DeMarco is receiving his orders from a terrorist organization located here within the United States?"
"I'm not saying anything, Craig," she insisted. "To do so would be a punishable violation of several oaths of secrecy I've been sworn to ..."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he muttered. "So ... DeMarco's activities overseas ... those have all been orchestrated against foreign countries at the behest of an American sponsor?"
"Like I said before, Craig, you'd make a great analyst."
He threw his head back and closed his eyes. There were answers to the questions swimming around inside his brain, but he knew that Chloe – despite their friendship – wasn't going to give up anything easily. After all he had done for her – after all the dinners and movies and favors and gifts and late night talks about growing older as a divorced mother of three – she still wouldn't violate a sacred oath made to the Supreme Commander of the Free World.
"You've got class, Chloe," he said.
"I pick and choose my friends wisely," she agreed. "Not all of us do. In fact, some of us end up regretting the choice of friends – and professional colleagues – that we've made along the way." Finally, she repeated, "You know how the President gets about these things."
"The President?"
"Yeah," she answered. "My boss. Your boss. All of our bosses, really."
Again, he stared at the picture.
"DeMarco's an American agent?"
"Pack up your desk, Craig."
He shook his head. "DeMarco's receiving his orders from someone close to the President?"
"Take a shower, sweetheart. You're in line for a promotion."
"But ... who?"
"That's where I draw the line."
"Come on, Chloe."
"Craig, I can't."
"Chloe, if this guy is here, the authorities are on to him."
"DeMarco is being watched."
"By whom?"
"DeMarco is being watched."
"By whom?"
"I said, DeMarco is being watched."
He rolled his fingers into a fist and almost pounded his desk.
"Chloe, what does that mean?"
Suddenly, Donovan glared at the picture of DeMarco over his computer screen, and he swore that the man winked again.
"... by the same person who's been giving him orders." With even stronger conviction, he stated, "DeMarco's being watched by the same person who ordered him off our radar a few years ago."
"You keep up this thinking, Craig, and we're on for more than just dinner," she replied. "You're on the fast track. It's always good to hang with someone on the fast track."
"You have to run?" he asked.
"You know I do."
He reached for the phone. "We're not through with this conversation."
"When you have more analyzed," she offered, "give me a call. I can always use a good babysitter, Craig, but you and I both know how much this country needs a patriot."
After a long pause, she said, "Be a patriot, you're better at it," and hung up.
End of Chapter 44