Andrew Britton: The Exile

The last thing Lily Durant heard was a young girl’s scream of rage and despair. Then her world ceased to exist.

CAMP DAVID, MARYLAND

The sky was still dark over central Maryland as the Bell 206B Jet-Ranger cut a fast, steady path north, sweeping over the gentle rise of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Although the helicopter had room for four passengers, just one was on board for the short hop from Langley, Virginia, to Camp David, in the northernmost reaches of Catoctin Mountain Park. He had buckled in just twenty minutes earlier, but checking his watch, the sole passenger saw that he was already close to his final destination. The private retreat of every U.S. president since Franklin Delano Roosevelt was just 70 miles from the White House, and not much farther from the passenger’s point of embarkation. When he realized how close they were to touching down, he swore softly under his breath. Everything was moving too fast, and the worst was still to come.

Normally, he would have been gratified by the short travel time, as it wasn’t the usual state of things. As the deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency, Jonathan Harper was used to working on the fly, whether it was in the backseat of a government car or in the air, on one of the Agency’s executive jets. On this occasion, however, he could not bring himself to focus on the upcoming meeting. It wasn’t even the lack of useful information on hand, although that certainly wasn’t helping matters. Simply stated, he was still trying to wrap his mind around the news he had been given just one hour earlier.

The call had come in on his secure telephone at two minutes past midnight. Fifteen minutes later he had stumbled out of his three-story town house on Embassy Row to meet the black Lincoln Town Car that was already idling at the curb. His driver had taken him straight to Agency headquarters outside Langley, where the Jet-Ranger’s twin rotors were already turning. In his hurry to get in the air, Harper had not had the opportunity to fully absorb what he’d been told by the night duty officer trotting along with him on the tarmac.

The news could not have been worse. The refugee camp at which the president’s niece had been working in Darfur had been burned to the ground, a fact that satellite imagery had confirmed just five minutes earlier. They had heard from at least one reliable witness that Lily Durant had been killed in the attack. That particular fact had yet to be verified, though there was little doubt in Harper’s mind that it was true.

The deputy director of operations at Langley had called Harper personally to relay the first piece of information-and although it wasn’t much, Harper was grateful for it. The SATINT seemed only to confirm their worst fears, but at least it was something to work with. More to the point, it was hard intel. Harper couldn’t abide conjecture for one simple reason… He couldn’t afford to. The nation’s intelligence apparatus was fueled by information, and given the stakes, that information had to be rock solid each and every time. That partly accounted for Harper’s dread of the upcoming meeting. He had almost no information to work with, which meant he was about to be put in the uncomfortable position of being briefed by his own superiors.

His own personal ignorance, however, wasn’t Harper’s primary concern. What really worried him was the emotional element involved in this particular situation. He had served the current president for nearly six years, and Harper knew him to be a smart, careful, methodical man. A man who had never let his power-or his anger-influence his ability to analyze and solve a given problem. He didn’t always come up with the right answers, but to his credit he never lost sight of the overall picture, or the core awareness that millions of people were affected by every decision he made. Still, Harper couldn’t help but wonder if the president would be able to maintain that sense of proportion given the tragic circumstances, and felt uneasy when he considered the possible consequences if he could not.

A voice in his ear jolted Jonathan Harper back to the present. It was the pilot informing him that they were three minutes out. Harper keyed his mic and acknowledged the words, then settled back in his seat. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying in vain to clear his mind, knowing that he would need a clear head for the upcoming meeting.

A few minutes later the helicopter touched down with a slight jolt, the skids settling onto the rain-drenched tarmac. Harper waited until the pilot gave him the all clear. Then he unbuckled his harness, removed his headset, and reached for the door.

It was a short ride from the helipad to Aspen Lodge, the presidential cabin on the east side of the compound. As the black Tahoe threaded its way along the steep mountain road, a Secret Service agent behind the wheel, Harper stared out the rain-streaked window. This was his first time visiting the presidential retreat, and despite the troubling thoughts swirling through his mind, he found himself absorbed in the passing scenery. He had always been interested in history. In fact, he had minored in that particular subject at Boston College some twenty-two years earlier, and it was hard not to feel the weight of it here.

After passing the camp commander’s quarters, they turned onto a secondary road and immediately hit a checkpoint. Harper displayed his ID to the marine sergeant standing post, and the sentry proceeded to call in the information. They were cleared through a moment later.

Without being asked, the driver hit a button and the window whirred up. Then the Tahoe lurched forward, the tires slipping for a moment on the damp road. A mile or so later the road curved gently to the left, and Aspen Lodge came into view.

Harper’s first thought was that the presidential cabin didn’t look like much. The brightly-lit exterior was constructed of rough-hewn planks painted a monotonous shade of gray. A single fieldstone chimney jutted from the black shingle roof, and the building itself was dwarfed by the surrounding oak, maple, and hickory trees. In front of the cabin, a grassy slope led down to a modest pond fringed by cattails and irises. On the whole, the building looked like it could belong to anyone with a little money and a need to get away from it all. The only sign that it might be something more was the Secret Service agents posted in front of the two main entrances, as well as the dark shapes Harper had seen moving through the trees on the approach to the building.

Harper knew that the retreat was guarded year-round by approximately 100 soldiers and sailors, the bulk of whom were drawn from the ranks of the navy and the marines. As he opened the door and stepped out of the vehicle, he found himself wondering if they knew what had transpired in Darfur less than eight hours earlier. Looking up at the members of the president’s detail, he took note of the hard edge to their usual fixed expressions and decided that these individuals, at least, had been made aware of the situation. Even from 30 feet away, Harper could sense their anger and frustration. A person close to the president had died on their watch, and they had been unable to stop it from happening. Of course, it was absurd to think they could have prevented it, and on some level, they would know that as well. At the same time, Harper was quietly impressed by their demeanor. In his eyes, the fact that they were taking it so personally was a testament to their commitment and professionalism.

A tall figure was coming down the steps at a brisk pace, his features blotted out by the light at his back. As he drew closer, his face came into focus, and Harper recognized him at once. Joshua McCabe was the assistant director of the Office of Protective Research, one of the senior figures in the U.S. Secret Service. Harper had worked with him several years earlier to prevent an attempt on the president’s life. The CIA-and one man in particular-had been instrumental in preventing the assassination, and to his credit, McCabe had never forgotten the Agency’s crucial role in averting that near catastrophe. Thanks to him, Harper had more access to the president than most of the cabinet. More importantly, McCabe was able to provide insight as to the president’s general mood, as well as his stance on various issues. Harper supposed that accounted for why he felt relieved beyond measure to see him coming down the steps.