Foley’s security detail.
Watson tried to convince Foley that in five years, the knowledge she possessed would be utterly useless to foreign governments.
Foley countered that high treason was a death-penalty offense.
Watson responded by describing in detail the secret portal she had carved into the IC Cloud that her auctioned algorithmic key would open. She even patched it right there on the airplane under the supervision of Foley’s top cyberwarriors, who confirmed the fix.
Foley’s best and final offer was thirty years in a federal minimum-security facility with community-service privileges. She suggested it was still a better deal than a visit by John Clark in the middle of the night.
Watson agreed.
“Director Foley? You’re not going to believe this,” Sergeant Molly Houk said, the blue glow of the computer screen reflected in her glasses. Her baby bump hardly showed in her maternity battle uniform.
“What is it?”
The petite twenty-three-year-old airman beamed. “We’re already inside the Iranian mainframe.”
“They didn’t waste any time, did they?” Foley said. She called over to the steward near the galley.
“You guys got any champagne aboard this bird?”
TWO HUNDRED FIFTY MILES DUE WEST OF THE AZORES
The Hendley Associates G550 was on nearly the same flight path and just under six minutes behind Foley’s aircraft.
The Campus team debriefed the events of the last few days, compared notes, and discussed options for future action, but it was difficult to lay out any specifics without hard data.
Hard data that suddenly became available when Gavin shouted, “CRIKEY!” from the back of the aircraft near the galley.
Hunkered over The Czech’s laptop for the last three hours and connected to his own personally designed computer network via the onboard encrypted satellite comms, Gavin had unearthed a gold mine of data.
“Hey, Jack! Come over here and look at this. I think I’ve finally found an answer to that question you had.”
Jack scrambled back and dropped into the seat next to Gavin. He scrolled through pages of account numbers, deposits, and receipts. Jack clapped the IT director on his soft, round shoulder.
“Gavin Biery, Resident Genius.”
Gavin beamed with pride.
The two of them spent the remaining flight time assembling a document that would rock Capitol Hill like a high-magnitude quake.
87
WASHINGTON, D.C.
OVAL OFFICE, THE WHITE HOUSE
Mr. President,” Senator Dixon said, flashing her best Chamber of Commerce luncheon smile.
Dixon was a very attractive woman, President Ryan had noted on previous occasions, but her arrogance diminished it considerably for him.
“Madame Senator, I appreciate you coming on such short notice.” President Ryan gestured toward one of the chairs. She took one of the long Chesterfield couches instead. He didn’t bother offering her anything to drink.
“It must be urgent, Jack, so I came right over. I’m here to serve.”
More like here to measure for curtains, Ryan thought. Don’t get too eager just yet.
He took one of the chairs, a file folder in hand. The seat gave him a slightly elevated position. Not that he needed it.
“Where’s your lapdog, Arnie? It won’t be the same without him here, slavering on the leather and nipping at my heels.”
“We have a problem I’d like to discuss with you, and I wanted to do it in private.”
Dixon pointed a finger at the ceiling. “We’re not being recorded, then, I take it?”
“Never without asking permission, and I’m not asking for it. This stays strictly between us.”
Dixon brightened. “I’m all ears.”
Ryan opened the file folder and handed her the inch-thick report. “You’ll find an executive summary on the first page.”
Dixon took the document in hand cautiously, her eyes locked on Ryan’s.
“Why don’t you ballpark it for me? I know you’re good at summarizing.”
Ryan fought back a smile. His son Jack had already ballparked it for him less than an hour ago as his plane was landing. He and Gavin had put together one heck of a document, with every i dotted and every t crossed. He was damn proud of both of them.
“Bottom line? Your son, Christopher Gage—”
“Stepson.”
“—has been connected with an international criminal organization known as the Iron Syndicate. He’s also partnered with a Chinese national by the name of Hu Peng, the son of one of the directors of a state-owned bank and a high-ranking CCP official. The two of them have been running point for a drug-smuggling operation distributing chemical precursors along with processed heroin and methamphetamine all over Europe. They’ve hidden their activities behind a series of shell companies that take advantage of BRI trade treaties that Peng’s father helped negotiate.”
Dixon flipped a few pages, scanning numbers.
“That’s a fascinating story—sounds like a Clive Cussler novel. Even if it’s true,