The End Game

“Tell you to fix your ponytail? It’s rather lopsided.”

Mike grabbed her hair and pulled it back into place and slipped the band back on.

“I guess your shirt needs to be tucked in again, too.”

She shoved her shirt back into her trousers, called out, “Dillon, we’re coming,” and she stalked away from him, going around the teenagers, leaving him to listen to the boy with the broken arm laugh like a hyena since he was happily floating on pain meds.

61

KNIGHT TO F3

The White House

Callan had spent half the evening on the phone—talking either to the president or to Ari, or the head of the Iranian security services, who swore up and down his government had nothing to do with the reactors turning on. She wanted to tell him he was a lying moron, but of course she didn’t. It drove her mad, but denial was woven into their brains, par for the course. Then who did know about the reactors? But he didn’t have an answer to that.

A big muckety-muck had ordered someone to push the button and keep pushing. The Israelis had taken one look at the Iranian landscape lit up like a series of way stations across the desert and started pla

It was all happening lightning-quick, too, a match set to a fuse, flaring to life and settling in to burn fast and hot. If they didn’t nip it in the bud right here, right now, too many people to count would be dead.

The talks had fallen apart, no great surprise there, considering one of the parties was lying big-time. What had started as Bradley’s hopeful road to lasting peace was fast turning into a fistfight to see who would kill the other first. Again.

The president had ended up stalking out. He was now flying back to the United States on Air Force One, expected to land by ten in the morning. She hoped his blood pressure hadn’t spiked too high. She assumed she’d get a royal ass-chewing simply because she was handy, and given her opinions on the Middle East talks were diametrically opposed to his, that would make him even more pissed off to have her proven right. And then he’d have a nice long ride to lay into her on their way to the Yorktown event. Given he was the president of the United States, she couldn’t slug him.

She stayed in the Situation Room, her cup of strong black tea at her elbow, watching the movements across the region. The domino effect of the nuclear facilities coming online was a wonder to behold. Every country who’d been at the table in Geneva—from Saudi Arabia to Russia to Israel—was scrambling for position. The reports had been filtering in for the past few hours—major movement in Lebanon, Syria, Yemen. The ISIS media machine had been on Twitter promising attacks. Hezbollah and the Palestinians were openly calling for the Israelis’ immediate surrender, threatening attacks on the Gaza Strip, threatening to bomb Tel Aviv. Israel wouldn’t hold back for very long.

And, of course, this was what Iran was waiting for. Provocation. Why had they pushed it now? She knew they didn’t yet have a nuclear weapon, so why?

She had to fix this. She had to stop it. And she had no idea how she was going to pull it off.

Callan picked up the phone and called Trafford.

“Temp, tell me you have news for me. The media is all over us, trying to find out what’s going on, and believe me when I say ‘the president is unhappy’ is a gross understatement. He is adamant he doesn’t want to cancel the event at Yorktown, won’t be seen as knuckling under to a terrorist threat, et cetera. All I’m concerned with is making sure he gets to Yorktown, that we aren’t going to have to do something stupid, like stop a war instead.”

“We’re working on it, Callan. FBI’s been officially briefed, we’re all on the same page and moving forward. Again, I strongly recommend the president cancel Yorktown. This man, Matthew Spenser, is completely unpredictable. We don’t know what he plans to do now and we haven’t found him yet. But our agent is certain he plans an attack, probably at Yorktown.”

“I’ll keep working on Bradley.”

“Good. A few minutes ago, Agent Savich, FBI, sent us over an enhanced photo of Zahir Damari. I’m hoping that since we now know what he looks like, we can keep him from getting anywhere near you.

“Even better, we have a video feed of two males; one of them is very likely Damari, although he doesn’t look like the enhanced photo the FBI sent us back. He’s probably wearing cheek implants, makeup, maybe a wig, really an excellent disguise. He’s lasted so long in his business because he appears to be very careful, no matter the situation.”

“Who was he meeting with?”

“As yet unidentified. The video shows them meeting in a diner in Baltimore. The unidentified male passed Zahir something in a tube. Plans of some kind, the waitress said. They were arguing, but talking low, and she tried to stay out of the way. As soon as we have more, I’ll let you know.”

“You’re sure it’s Zahir? Tell me, Temp, where are you getting all your information?”

He was quiet for a moment. “Callan, you know sometimes it’s better not to know all the details.”

“Would you say that to the president?”

“In this case? Actually, yes, I would.”

That gave her pause. She wasn’t used to being kept out of the loop on top-secret covert actions. “Temp, we’ve known each other a long time. If you’re trying to save me from a possible political hit down the road, I appreciate it, but to be honest, I think it would be best for me to know the whole story, as soon as possible. I have a bad feeling about all of this. A very bad feeling. Now, tell me, where are you getting your information?”

He sighed. “You asked for it. We’ve had a deep undercover agent in with COE for the past four months.”

She was shocked into silence, then came to life with a roar. “What were you thinking? You should have briefed me immediately, the president, too, at the very least—”

“Callan, when we sent in an undercover asset, it was because we heard this man, Matthew Spenser, was developing a new undetectable bomb with a huge payload. When he suddenly brought his band back to the U.S., what could we do? The asset had to wait until he perfected the bomb before she could steal the final plans and get them back to us. We couldn’t very well pull her out.”

“She? It was a female agent?”

Temp chuckled. “What is this? You’re surprised? You, the first female vice president?”

“It’s not that, Temp, and you know it. Where is the agent now? I want a briefing, I want her in front of me right away.”

“You can’t have her. She’s in the hospital. Unfortunately, Matthew Spenser discovered she was working for us and shot her, left her for dead in a burning building.”

“Will she live?”

“Yes. She was very brave, Callan. It’s amazing she survived. Spenser still believes she’s dead.”

“Who is this agent? What’s her name?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

Callan slapped her hand onto the desk, the sound sharp as a gunshot. “Templeton Trafford, do not play games with me. I want her name, now.”

“Vanessa Grace.”

Callan said, “Is she related to Carlton Grace, by chance?”

“Yes, she’s his niece. You remember her father, also an undercover expert. He was killed when she was a girl.”

“Yes, I remember Paul and I remember mourning him.”

“Well, her uncle Carl raised her. She’s been with the agency six years. She’s very good, might even prove to be better than her old man one of these days, maybe even better than her uncle, and he was incredible in the bad old days.”