James Patterson - Kill Alex Cross

So I rode that wave. I spent the rest of the night feeling good about myself, and pretending for just a little while longer that I was someone important.

But don’t ever tell Nana I said that.

“Sir, it’s been two months since the bodies were found at the beach in Truro. Since that time, there have been no known attacks from or by Al Ayla that we’re aware of. All of our intercepts and intel from the Kingdom indicate that their Washington operations have shut down for the time being.”

President Coyle looked across his desk at the dozen high-ranking men and women gathered in the Oval Office. The events of the last few months had left these people exhausted. He could see it in their eyes.

But it had also brought a renewed sense of unity to the intelligence community. The breadth of knowledge and experience in the room this evening was not insignificant.

“What about those bodies? Any progress there?” Coyle asked.

“Still no luck identifying three of them, sir,” answered Norma Tiefel. “The fourth was Tariq Al Dossari, the husband of the woman we believe was in charge of the Washington cell just before everything died down.”

“And she is—?”

“Unaccounted for. It’s like she disappeared. We believe she might have killed the others.”

Coyle twirled a sleek gold pen over his thumb like a propeller. It was something Zoe had taught him to do on the plane to China last summer. That seemed like a very, very long time ago now.

“What about elsewhere? New York, Chicago, LA?”

“All quiet, as far as we can tell,” FBI Director Burns told him.

“Of course, it’s possible that they’re just regrouping,” Evan Stroud from the CIA put in. “But none of the major agencies anticipate any kind of resurgence without some kind of advance chatter giving us a heads-up.”

“Right. Because we’ve never been surprised before,” the president said.

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t mean to oversimplify anything. I’m just saying that these moments of quiet between the United States and the Kingdom are getting harder to come by.”

“Which is just another way of saying wait and see,” Coyle grumbled. He sat back and took stock of the room. “Well, it will come as a shock to no one that I’m not one to duck and cover in the meantime,” he said. A few polite smiles showed on the group’s tired faces. “I intend to carry on with the business of this country, and I suggest you all do the same.”

“Yes, sir,” they said in chorus.

“Let me rephrase that. I expect you to do the same.”

Then everyone stood with the president as he rose and left through the West Colonnade doors.

Certainly there had been any number of mixed opinions in the room, Coyle thought, as he headed back toward the residence. He had no delusions of lockstep agreement on these matters, or even the desire for it.

But what he did have was confidence where it mattered most. Every man and woman in that meeting, he had no doubt, carried an unwavering respect for the country they served, for the presidency itself, and for the job before them all.

To lead.