Kicking the Can (6 page)

21

J
ay Zuckerman, the director of central intelligence, D/CIA, was seated in the Oval Office next to President Cannon, his secretary of state, and John Sebastian. Zuckerman was on the hot seat. The foursome was discussing how to respond to accusations made by a whistleblower charged with espionage. Numerous documents had been leaked to a prominent newspaper revealing the US had hacked into Chinese mobile phone companies, gaining unauthorized access to millions of private communications.

“Why wasn’t I briefed,” President Cannon asked. “This incident undermines the trust my administration has been trying to build with the Chinese.”

“This surveillance isn’t new. It was initiated by President Jackson’s CIA director and has been ongoing for more than thirty-eight months. My advice is to downplay the situation and argue that we haven’t read all of the private communications,” Zuckerman said.

“So what you’re telling me is that your agency is breaking international privacy laws by stealing the information but isn’t actually analyzing it?” President Cannon said. Zuckerman didn’t respond.

“Mr. President, I’ll contact President Jinfu and try to smooth things over. The press likes to inflate these incidents, but with some diplomatic wrangling, I’m of the opinion we can sweep it under the carpet. It’s a setback, but it won’t be fatal.”

Sebastian voiced his mind after Zuckerman and the secretary left. “Mr. President, our intelligence community is out in left field. I may be Pollyannaish, but if we allocated just ten percent of the resources we spend on ‘cloak and dagger’ to cooperative ventures with the Chinese, we might discover we’d be well ahead.”

22

C
hris Drummond found Barbara in Sarah’s room changing bed sheets and straightening things up.

“She likes a clean room,” Barbara said, sensing Drummond’s presence behind her.

“They offered me a million dollars to lead a team in Donald’s Contest to balance the federal budget. They selected me because of my health care thesis. They believe my ideas to reform the health care industry have merit, and without entitlement reforms, there’s no way to reduce the deficits.”

“What did you decide?”

“I told them my family was more important and that for personal reasons the timing was not good. I declined their offer.”

Barbara continued, straightening the plush animals on Sarah’s bed.

“When you were pregnant with Sarah and we found out she had CF, I did something I’m ashamed of…I’ve hidden it from you for twenty-one years. I met with a divorce lawyer. I was confused and felt violated—you were making all the decisions for both of us—I didn’t have any say. I had no idea Sarah would be our greatest treasure.
It was a selfish act…one I’ll regret for the rest of my life. I’m sorry.”

Barbara dusted around Sarah’s childhood pictures with her back still turned.

“I found the letter. What was the attorney’s name, Goldsworthy? I’m not surprised you went to an attorney. I was prepared to hire my own, if necessary, to fight for my daughter’s rights. I felt a wedge between us the moment I insisted. It’s been there festering. I give you credit…for never verbalizing your true feelings.”

“You’ve known all this time?”

Barbara folded a sweater and put it in Sarah’s bottom drawer. She stood to face Drummond.

“I’ve spent my adult life as her caregiver. I am blessed to serve in that role. Sarah’s been the bond that held our family together. When she passes, I intend to file for divorce. I’ve made up my mind. The papers are in a manila folder on your desk in the study. I don’t care whether you participate in the contest or not. And I don’t want your money—just enough to get by until I can get back on my feet.”

23

C
hris Drummond’s conference call with Matson lasted twelve minutes, including a thumbnail description of his bizarre conversation with the man at the airport. Thirty minutes later, Drummond received a one-page addendum by fax. He vetted the document and requested one change. Drummond would agree to lead a team in Donald’s Contest. In return for his services, he agreed to forfeit his pro rata share of $10 million in exchange for a lung transplant for Sarah. He signed the documents marked in the binder, including the addendum, and faxed them back to Matson. Matson had instructed him to pack his suitcase and proceed to the airport. A private jet would be flying him from SeaTac to his final destination. Drummond forced himself to concentrate. Packing for a thirty-day trip was daunting. Forty minutes later he placed his suitcase in the trunk of his car and closed the lid.

Drummond backed out of the driveway and pulled onto the street. He punched the button on his cell phone. Barbara had called three times before leaving a voicemail. The situation was urgent. Sarah had a medical emergency. He pressed “call return,” and after four rings Barbara picked up.

“Where are you?”

“I’m leaving the house for the airport.”

“Sarah was admitted to Mercy Hospital, infective exacerbations of airway…severe acute respiratory insufficiency…she’s in ICU—it’s bad.”

Barbara was hysterical, making it difficult to understand her words and the medical jargon.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

24

B
arbara Drummond was bowed in prayer, her back to Drummond, holding Sarah’s hand and stroking her hair. A blue breathing tube was taped to Sarah’s mouth, her body inundated with tubes and wires. Drummond braced himself, leaning against the wall, trying to steady his wobbly legs.

After several minutes, Barbara raised her head and dabbed her eyes. She had been the bedrock: a stalwart with a sense of hope and optimism that carried their family through all the treatments, setbacks, and disappointments. There every step of the way, never once did she cry out in anger or bitterness. Drummond walked over and squeezed Barbara’s hand.

“End stage—there’s nothing more the doctors can do.” Faint tracks of eyeliner ran down her cheeks. “They’ve given her sedation to make her more comfortable. She’s been in and out of consciousness. She’s tired. She told me she’s ready to go home. I’ve been preparing for this moment all of her life, but it’s so hard to say good-bye. I wish I could go with her. She’s still my baby.”

Barbara couldn’t contain her emotion and broke down sobbing. Drummond searched through his pockets
and gave her his white handkerchief. Barbara pushed him away when Drummond tried to hold her.

Sarah awoke once and squeezed his hand. He complied with Barbara’s request to be alone with Sarah. He stood outside ICU, staring out the window. It was overcast and gray. There was no assurance the doctors could keep Sarah alive on a breathing tube long enough to find a transplant candidate. Every bit of him wanted to go back in the room and cradle her in his arms, pulling her close, holding on, until she took her last breath. But that was not his nature, not his destiny.

Two men in dark suits approached Drummond and identified themselves as associates of Mr. Donald.

“The plane’s waiting at the terminal, Mr. Drummond. You need to say your good-byes and depart. We’ll take care of things from here.”

25

M
ick Schilling and his boss, Jay Zuckerman, were having a private meeting with the president. They had been asked to augment the OSi search to add an individual with ex-military or ex-CIA credentials—someone with allegiance to the country…a true patriot. The president was demanding a soldier be tasked to protect Drummond’s team and their work product. Don’t make it obvious—give him an alibi, President Cannon had said.

Cannon didn’t have proof, nobody did, but his gut feeling was Bennett was a dirty politician—a dangerous man with an insatiable thirst for power and money. The mole in Donald’s organization only raised his suspicions.

“Bennett’s a zealot. We still don’t know what happened to the journalist who was gunned down in broad daylight,” Zuckerman said. “The FBI’s leads have come up empty. So far our inquiries have not returned anything specific, but unanswered questions linger, and Bennett’s name has come up on more than one occasion. You’re right to fear for the contestants’ safety—we can’t protect them if their physical location is a secret.

“What do you have for me?”

Schilling handed the president a file. Cannon broke the seal and began scanning its contents. He continued
reading, folding back word-processed pages and pictures ACCO clipped to the brown legal file. When he finished, he looked up.

“Damn, did this really happen?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Is he stable?”

“That’s a qualified question. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Most soldiers experiencing the living hell he survived would lose their sanity.”

“I want to meet him.”

“I thought so; he’s here. I’ll ask the agent to bring him in.”

Jack Dain blinked repeatedly, his eyes moving rapidly, scanning his surroundings. His brain processed stimuli, and he remembered he was in Washington, accompanied by CIA agents. The flashbacks were occurring much less frequently now. Therapy and fourteen years had brought closure to the physical and mental scarring—but it lurked just beneath the surface. He wondered if the impending meeting with the president and D/CIA had triggered the nightmare he just relived. Even Dain wasn’t convinced he could ever be combat-ready again. The little voice inside had convinced him he needed to deploy one more time. The scenario Schilling described sounded riveting.

“The president and D/CIA will see you now.”

Dain stood and followed the CIA agent into the Oval Office. He was introduced to the president and was asked to take a seat.

“I’ve reviewed your file, but I want to hear what happened in your own words,” Cannon said.

“Me and two other SAD operatives were taken prisoner by Iraqi militants before the US invasion. Our reconnaissance laid the groundwork to identify Iraqi troop fortifications. Iraqi agents we believed the CIA had turned as allies decided they needed barter to flee the country alive. We were captured and turned over to the Republican Guard.”

“What do you know about House Speaker Bennett?”

“He’s a corrupt politician who aims to take your job, and he’s prepared to kill to get it.”

“Where did your information come from?”

“I’m not at liberty to say. And if I could, you wouldn’t be able to convict him with it. Mr. President, I don’t want your money, and I don’t want your commendations. What I want is your word that if I agree to serve you’ll stand by the team with the full resources of the presidency…that you won’t cut them loose if the shit hits the fan.”

President Cannon looked at Dain. There was no trace of arrogance or indignation in his statement.

“You have my word.”

Dain reached out his hand to President Cannon.

“Let’s shake on it, sir.”

After Dain left the office, President Cannon reflected on Dain’s unjust treatment by the intelligence agency. “CIA’s abandonment was a disservice to him and country…bloody shame when politics destroy the lives of our servicemen and women. We need to make it right,” President Cannon said.

26

C
hris Drummond felt inward pain, the umbilical cord to all he knew cut, when the outer door of the jet was secured and locked. The pilot was wearing a navy blue flight suit with no insignia.

“Stow your gear and buckle in, sir; we’ll be airborne in a few minutes.” He disappeared behind the door to the flight deck, stooping to avoid hitting his head on the bulkhead. A “sliding-click” indicated the door had been locked. Drummond scanned the interior of the corporate jet—luxurious. Alone, except for the pilots, the plane felt constricted. It had a lower ceiling, and the window covers had been secured, making it impossible to see outside. The jet’s seating configuration included a fully reclining chair aft and table-seating. In between a galley was stocked with an assortment of snacks, prepackaged meals, liquor cabinet, and refrigerator—juices, soda, and beer.

Drummond secured his leather briefcase containing his laptop and a five-inch legal-size accordion folder in the closet, next to his suitcase. Six dossiers, a file for each member of Drummond’s team, were secured in the folder. He didn’t have the energy to break the wax seal, although his curiosity had been steadily rising. There would be
time to read on the long flight. What Drummond needed was shut-eye. For thirty days he would be unable to make contact with the outside world. Thirteen days, his longest vacation. A month was a lifetime…a lifetime of agony not knowing Sarah’s fate. The plane jerked forward, making its way to the runway at SeaTac Airport. Drummond felt the flow of warm air in the cabin. In fifteen hours he would be united with his team at an unknown destination. Drummond adjusted his seat for takeoff. He sensed dullness, precipitated by an anti-anxiety pill he took thirty minutes earlier, actuating. Buckling his seat belt required concentration. He closed his eyes. He felt his body being sucked into the seat, the plane accelerating to take-off speed before it leapt off the runway. He hoped they would find smooth air. He did not relish the idea of fifteen hours of motion sickness perched over a stainless toilet—his last thoughts before dropping off to sleep.

He awoke to the whine of jet engines and the sound of air passing over the fuselage at six hundred miles an hour. Drummond went to the head and splashed water onto his face. He stopped at the galley for a snack. Armed with a cup of hot tea, toasted bagel and cream cheese, and a banana, Drummond sat in the table-seat and laid the accordion folder on the table. He slid out the files. The names printed on the tabs were Natalya Baturina, Pan Jiang, Sheryl Vogel, Peter Lowsley, Rakesh Gupta, and Jack Dain.

DRUMMOND’S TEAM
MEMBERS (MONTHS
AND YEARS EARLIER)

27

N
atalya Baturina slipped her key into the door of their luxury apartment in the Kropotkinskaya District of Moscow, made possible by the compensation she earned as a senior executive at IBM Russia. The Soviet Union was history, and Russian women were asserting themselves, breaking the glass ceiling to many high-powered positions in a new global economy. Less ambitious, Boris Baturina, Natalya’s husband of twenty-one years, seemed content to allow her to toil, climbing the corporate ladder. He had managed to muddle in a state banking job for most of their marriage, never differentiating himself professionally, or otherwise. He was supportive of Natalya’s burgeoning career and their wealth and readily adapted to her frequent and lengthy business meeting absences by filling the hours with wine and television. It was eight fifteen on Tuesday. Natalya had clocked twenty-seven hours, and the week was still young. She was tired, hungry, and craving a hot bath. She opened the door and frowned. The television was blaring. An empty wine bottle sat on the kitchen island. She laid her briefcase and keys on a built-in desk. A long counter separated the kitchen from the great room. She
could hear her husband clear his throat and spit before flushing the toilet.