Andrew Britton - The American

Brenneman knew that many of his predecessors had grown tired of the mansion’s elaborate trappings, thinking it more like a museum than a home, but he had become only more fascinated with the history of the place as time wore on. The Blue Room was his personal favorite by far — a large, oval space that offered a sweeping view of the South Lawn. The center of the royal blue carpet was dominated by a marble table purchased by James Monroe in 1817. Hanging above it was an elaborate French chandelier dating from the early-nineteenth century. When he closed his eyes, he was pleased to hear only the gentle tap of the rain against the lead-lined windows.

The brief reprieve would have been much more enjoyable, though, if he didn’t have to return to the situation brewing on his doorstep.

A week earlier, the FBI’s Explosives Unit had finished its analysis of the residue collected at the Kennedy-Warren blast site. The explosives were identified as SEMTEX H, originating from the Czech Republic. When these results coincided with the findings of an independent lab, it became clear that the main charge had been smuggled into the country, which meant that Customs was first on the firing line.

Of course, there was plenty of blame left over for the man in charge of it all. His approval ratings had dipped six points in one week, and supposedly there had been quiet talk from the new Senate Majority Leader about pulling support for the incumbent in the upcoming election year. Brenneman believed the rumors to be true, and was astounded and angered at the speed with which his own party had dismissed his chances for reelection.

He was startled from his thoughts by a Secret Service agent standing at one of the entrances to the room. “Excuse me, Mr. President. Deputy Director Harper is here to see you.”

Brenneman waved a hand absently. “Thanks, Dan. You can send him in. Oh, and could you call the kitchen and have them send some more coffee over?”

“Of course, sir.”

The agent withdrew, and Brenneman stood as Harper entered the room. “John, good to see you. How’s Julie?”

“She’s fine, sir. Thank you for asking.” Harper never ceased to be amazed by the man’s prodigious memory and sheer graciousness, especially considering the pressure he was currently under.

Brenneman gestured to the seat opposite his own and glanced at his watch. “Take a seat. I’m supposed to be at a meeting with Patterson from Treasury, but you’ve got my full attention for the next twenty minutes.”

“I’ll get right to it, then, sir,” Harper said as he sat in a mahogany chair. “You’re familiar with the file on Jason March?” He received a brief nod in return. “Then you’ll know that March is not his actual name. Two of our officers have just returned from Pretoria, where they were able to discover his true identity.”

The president leaned forward with interest. “And?”

“His name is William Paulin Vanderveen, a South African national, thirty-nine years old.” The deputy director handed him a briefing folder, which the president immediately opened. The pictures were the first thing to catch his eye. “The South African authorities believe that he was responsible for the murder of one Joseph Sobukwe in 1975. Vanderveen was eleven years old when Sobukwe was killed. Vanderveen’s sister died under unusual circumstances as well, but he was never officially tied in with that.”

“Jesus Christ.” Brenneman leaned back in his chair and perused the contents of the folder. The picture began to unfold over the next several minutes: Francis Vanderveen, a South African general even more ruthless than the policies he enforced; William, the general’s brilliant, misguided son, wholly devoted to his father; a broken promise of American money and support; a fiery helicopter crash on a warm December morning. The president was absorbed as a Filipino steward glided into the room and poured coffee from a silver carafe. The room was silent until the man was gone and the door closed behind him.

“So this man, William Vanderveen. He blames us for what happened to his family, is that right?”

“That would appear to be the case, sir. We found evidence in South Africa — letters — that suggest William Vanderveen knew plenty about the general’s antipathy toward us in the last days of the Angolan campaign. Then you have his sister’s death and his mother’s subsequent suicide… It doesn’t take a great stretch of imagination to see how this might have played out.”

“And we trained him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jesus Christ.” The president leaned back in his chair and closed the folder. “So what are we dealing with here, John? How can we use this information?”

“Sir, to be perfectly honest, this kind of information is useful for shoring up a case against him when he’s caught, and that’s about it. There’s a reason the Department of Transportation keeps coming up empty on the airport surveillance tapes. Vanderveen probably has at least two airtight identities, everything from driver’s licenses down to birth certificates. That’s the only way to explain his ease of movement in and out of the country.”

The president nodded slowly as he lifted his cup. “I’m sure you’ve heard that some of my advisors are pushing me to reconsider the military option. They think Tehran’s involvement is clear enough to justify air strikes.”

Harper lifted his open hands. “Sir, we know who is directly responsible for these attacks, and we know that he’s not hiding out in a training camp. It would be a-”

“So where is he?” Brenneman interrupted. “What are your people saying? This, uh…” — he looked around for his briefing folder — “Kealey. Is that right?”

“Yes, sir. He was one of the officers involved.”

“What does he think?”

“In his opinion…”

Brenneman lifted an eyebrow. “Out with it, John.”

“He thinks that Vanderveen is coming after you, sir.”

The rain beat against the windows, but there was no other sound in the room. The president shifted in his seat, but the expression on his face did not change. “May I ask how he came to that conclusion?”

Harper hesitated once again. “Vanderveen hasn’t failed here yet. Kealey thinks he’s going to set his sights higher.”

“That’s it?” Brenneman looked skeptical.

“No, sir.” Harper went on to tell him about Gray’s final words, and the same confluence of facts that Ryan had pointed out during their recent meeting with Director Andrews.

“So where is Kealey now?”

“Something came up that he could only take care of today. Naomi Kharmai, the only other officer directly involved in this case, is with him, if I’m not mistaken.”

Brenneman ignored the circumspect answer. “What exactly do you need from me, John?”

“Sir, I’ve got my best people working on this, as does the Bureau. It’s just a matter of time, really, but any adjustments that could be made to reduce the threat to your own security would be-”

“You want me to hide in a corner, is that it?”

Harper hesitated, unsure of the other man’s reaction. “As a precautionary measure, I believe — as does the director — that it would be a wise decision to cancel any high-profile events for the next couple of weeks. Especially those for which details have been released by the White House press secretary.”

“If I’m hearing you correctly, most of your argument stems from this man Kealey’s instincts. You must have a lot of faith in him.”

Harper leaned forward in his chair. He sensed defeat, but he wasn’t going down without a fight. “Sir, Ryan Kealey has risked his life several times in the past few weeks tracking down William Vanderveen. I’ve known him for eight years, and I trust his judgment. It’s only because of Kealey and this other officer, Kharmai, that we can even put a name to the face. Believe me, I know we don’t have much right now, but we’re getting closer, and the threat is very real. Vanderveen has serious backing and financial support from Al-Qaeda, and there is solid evidence that the Iranians are involved as well. They have a clear motive here, sir. Kealey knows this man, and he’s our best chance at finding him. When you look at it that way, we’re not asking you for much. The reason for the change in schedule doesn’t even have to be released to the press.”