Radclyffe - Honor Reclaimed

"Good to see you back, Savard. Are you up to speed yet?"

"Getting there, Commander. And thank you. It's good to be back." She and Stark had taken a night flight and then rented a car, arriving just after dawn. Paula had gone immediately to the main house, and she had sought out Felicia, who briefed her quickly over doughnuts and coffee. Just before the seven a.m. briefing, Valerie had come in through the back door. They hadn't had time to do more than nod to one another.

"We've got our full complement of people back now," Cam said. "So let's hear where we are." She looked first at Valerie. "What do we have on the worldwide situation? Anything to tie in to our four UNSUBs?"

"Nothing specific. Everything points to bin Laden as the mastermind of the WTC attack, although it looks like the terrorists responsible were assembled from an assortment of cells—some from Germany, some from the Middle East, and some who had been living here for at least several years. There's nothing that points to a direct American connection."

"On the other hand," Savard interjected, "there is plenty of evidence to suggest that terrorist groups throughout Europe, the Middle East, and elsewhere have begun to collaborate with one another, putting aside their philosophical differences in favor of combined strength. It's not much of a stretch to imagine that something like that could've happened here."

"It works in theory, I agree," Cam said flatly, "but we need facts. What have we turned up on the domestic front?"

Felicia passed out file folders.

Cam opened the top one, as did everyone else at the table. A computer image of a clean-shaven, white, middle-aged male with a buzz cut was on top. His face was square-jawed, with broad cheekbones and a short, relatively shapeless nose—an average face that reflected the melting-pot characteristics of many Americans of far-distant European descent. She looked up, waiting.

"This is August Kreis," Felicia said, "the Webmaster of the neo-Nazi Sheriff's Posse Comitatus group based in Ulysses, Pennsylvania. On September 11, while the World Trade Center towers stood burning, he posted a message praising the 'Islamic freedom fighters' and calling the attacks 'the first shots in a racial holy war that will topple the US government.'"

"Crazy bastard," Savard muttered.

Cam nodded. "I know who he is. He and his 'brothers' routinely get a mention in our internal security reports. So far, I gather he's come up clean for anything related to the attacks?"

"He's been on the FBI watch list for years," Savard said. "There's nothing to connect him to the WTC, other than the timing of his statement. As far as that goes, he either made a very good guess as to who was behind the attacks or he actually knew something. Unfortunately, no one can prove prior knowledge. But if his group knew, other patriot groups did too."

"What we've got," Felicia picked up the thread, "is a loose association of neo-Nazis, skinheads, white separatists, Christian Patriots, neo-Confederates—and the list goes on and on—who have slowly formed a coalition of paramilitary organizations in this country. They share intelligence and feed each other's fanaticism. And they don't give each other up. Code of silence and all that."

"We're looking into all of these organizations for something that connects to these four men," Savard said. "The problem is, our intelligence on these groups is scattered among all the various agencies. We're literally reduced to combing through internal memos from FBI field offices and interagency communiques trying to put the picture together."

"Have you put Foster into the mix as well?" Cam asked.

The agents nodded.

"And?" Cam leaned forward, still believing the answer would be found with him.

"Foster is a cipher," Felicia said, reading from another file folder. "Twenty-nine years old—six years of government service. Nothing exemplary or problematic about his career. His passport, which is reviewed routinely by our agency, showed three trips to Europe other than for assignment-related travel. Each time to Paris, all three trips in the last five months."

Cam narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. "Girlfriend over there? Boyfriend?"

"No sign of any serious romantic relationship here or abroad. And he appears to be heterosexual."

"Savard, pull up the postings of Egret's travel schedule for the last twelve months." It was common practice for the White House press department to post the first family's schedule on the White House Web site as well as in briefings to the press corps, sometimes months in advance. It made the Secret Service's job more difficult, because it provided advance information to anyone who might be a threat, but it was part of the open communication policy that was at least paid lip service on Capitol Hill.

"Got it," Savard said after a minute of clicking through files on her laptop.

"How far in advance was her trip to Paris posted?"

Savard scrolled through data, then raised her eyes from the screen, a look of consternation creasing her face. "Just under six months ago— right before Foster's trips started."

"I'll see what our field agents have to say about the temperature in Paris," Valerie said quietly as everyone at the table grew still. "It's not normally a hot area for terrorist cells, but now? Who knows."

"Nothing happened in Paris last month," Felicia pointed out, referring to Blair's recent goodwill visit to the French capital.

"No," Cam said, her tone hard-edged. "Nothing that we know about." She stood abruptly and crossed the room to the windows overlooking the dune path. She balled her fists and shoved them into her pants pockets, because she wanted to break something. Foster could have been coordinating the attack on Blair for months, probably had been, right under her nose. She'd worked with the man, trusted Blair's life to him every day, and the entire time he had been plotting to assassinate her. If she had him in front of her now, she would kill him all over again. She turned back to the team, her expression carefully neutral, and sat down again.

"Pull his vouchers from last month. Maybe he got sloppy and included something that wasn't job-related in Paris. A cab ride, phone calls, anything at all. Track it all down."

Felicia nodded and made a note. "We've pretty much exhausted the deep background check on him, Commander. He's the first of two children, both boys. His father, now deceased, was a Navy fighter pilot in Vietnam. Mother a housewife. Raised in North Carolina, educated in the South as well. No criminal record, no reprimands in his file, no red flags anywhere." With a grimace, she closed the slim file. "Like I said, the all-American boy."

"You're missing something," Cam said quietly, with no hint of criticism. "Because he's not the all-American boy. All-American boys may be the privileged class, and they may sometimes be racists and homophobes, but they still don't associate with terrorists. And they don't try to assassinate the president's daughter." She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She thought about Foster, the perfect Secret Service agent. Smart, well-bred, a patriot. And somehow twisted and misguided. What was it that turned a man into something like that. "How old was he when his father died?"

"Uh..." Felicia scrambled with the paperwork.

Savard spoke first. "Almost nine."

"Start there."

"Commander?" Felicia asked uncertainly.

Cam opened her eyes and sat forward. "Find out what, or who; made Foster the man he became." She stood. "Keep looking at the patriot groups. Look back through Egret's files—maybe one of these guys, or one of these groups, sent her a threatening message in the past. Hell, maybe she turned one of these guys down for a date. Get me something."