The Warren Omissions Page 9

  ***

  IVAN SAT STILL IN THE DARKNESS. His back ached even more as he remained perfectly positioned out of view. If he survived the morning security sweep, nothing would stop him from accomplishing his mission. Less than 24 hours and it would be over with.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “We’ve got a problem.”

  “I’m sure we can handle it. What is it?”

  “We’re going to need to get that leverage on Flynn after all. He just went on national television and said that the Kuklovod was going to kill the President tomorrow.”

  “Well, he’s right. We are. And he won’t say another word about it.”

  “Just handle it.”

  Ivan ended the call and then began texting another operative. It was a simple message:

  “Get the girl.”

  CHAPTER 19

  TODD OSBORNE ARRIVED at his office in Langley, Virginia, earlier than usual. He needed to check on the results of the photo the Vice President had sent him of Sydney. Deep down, he hoped it was real. While he never was involved romantically with Sydney, Osborne often considered asking her out. They were playful in their flirting, but neither one of them made a move. He hadn’t even kissed her, though he’d wanted to on several occasions. When he found out she died, Osborne entered a depressed state for a couple of months. Hearing the news of a loved one dying is always difficult to take—but the toll of losing someone with whom you had unfinished business can create a chasm of regret in the heart. Osborne felt himself slipping into it before snapping back. He knew he might not ever find out who was behind her death, but he vowed to use every resource at his disposal if he ever had the opportunity to investigate. Yet in sixteen years, Osborne never had the chance. Seeing the image of her on his screen made him wonder if he’d lost his humanity since joining the agency.

  One of the new analysts eager to curry favor with Osborne left a note on his desk. It simply read: “It’s real.”

  Osborne sat down and sent a short note to Sandford’s secret email address, alerting him to the image’s authenticity. In some ways, he thought Sandford would be excited. In others, it might dredge up tortured memories best left buried. There was no telling how someone might react to the news of a loved one once believed to be dead now found alive. Osborne took the news as he might have an opportunity to tell Sydney what he always wished he had told her before she left for the Peace Corps.

  A light tapping on his office doorjamb made Osborne spin around in his chair. It was Bill Barkdale. If there was one person who made Osborne’s stomach turn, it was Barkdale. When Flynn uncovered what that one rogue Marine had done, Barkdale sought to silence him, claiming that it was in the interest of national security not to say anything. But Flynn kept pushing back, contending that the truth kept people more responsible and honest. Barkdale refused to back down, launching a personal vendetta against Flynn. In the end, Barkdale won—and had worked his way up to Deputy Directory of the CIA.

  “What are you doing in here so early, Osborne?” Barkdale asked. His tone more accusatory than inquisitive.

  “I’ve got a lot do, sir. Just trying to catch up on some work.”

  “You’re not trying to help Flynn, are you?”

  Osborne evaded the question. “What makes you think I would do a thing like that?”

  “Did you see him on television last night, banging the drum of fear? He needs to realize he’s not an operative any more.”

  “True, but he might have a point.”

  “That nut job wouldn’t know a point if it poked him in the eye. He’s just trying to sell magazines and get hits on his website. Besides, have you heard any chatter that anyone—much less the Kuklovod—is planning an attack on the President?”

  Osborne decided that sharing Flynn’s photo with Barkdale wouldn’t be the smartest move given his aggressive tone.

  “No, we haven’t heard anything.”

  “That proves my point—Flynn is just an attention whore. He doesn’t care about what’s best for this country anymore. It’s quite obvious to me what he’s concerned with—and it’s not national security.”

  Osborne bit his tongue. He knew Flynn was a true patriot, more so than Barkdale. But if the better part of valor is discretion, Osborne was one incredibly courageous man.

  “I’ll keep you posted if we hear any chatter,” Osborne replied.

  Barkdale left Osborne’s office, heading down the hall to torture some other poor soul. The man was insufferable and wore his grudge against Flynn on his sleeve like a military decoration. It sickened Osborne—and for the moment, it put the President’s life at risk.

  ***

  SANDFORD PERUSED HIS ITINERARY for the day. It was full of boring meetings with members of congress trying to use him to get the President’s ear. He hated being used. Maybe I won’t have to be Briggs’ lapdog much longer.

  He also looked at the President’s schedule. The two o’clock speech to the U.N.’s general assembly was his only public appearance of the day. Sandford suspected if anything was going to happen to the President, it was going to be then.

  Suddenly, his phone buzzed, alerting him to the arrival of a new text message:

  How does President Sandford sound?

  Sandford immediately deleted the message. He stared out the window and smiled. “President Sandford” sounded great. Maybe he could actually get something done in this godforsaken town. If nobody else there had the guts to do what was best for the country, he did. No constituents to pay back, no donors’ backs to scratch. He could govern the way a president should govern—willfully and confidently. Sandford was going to restore faith in the republic both at home and abroad. And Russia was going to fear the U.S.

  With his thoughts drifting toward Russia, he remembered that he needed to check his secret email account. He was anxiously awaiting Osborne’s verification as to the authenticity of the photo he received of Syndey.

  Sandford didn’t even need to open the message. The subject line read: It’s real.

  Now Sandford hoped more than ever that he would be the President by the end of the day. He paused for a moment. The thought of losing his friend, Arthur Briggs, was not a happy one. Despite their political differences, Sandford still considered the President his friend. But sometimes love for country trumps friendships. For Sandford, this was one of those times.

  All he could do was sit and wait—and hope.

  CHAPTER 20

  FLYNN SPENT THE BETTER PART of Friday morning returning emails and phone calls regarding his bombshell interview from the night before. The news outlets had scoured all the juicy details from his blog post and were hashing and rehashing the details. Critics decried Flynn as an attention seeker, who was “devoid of depth” in his reporting. Others skewered the FBI for failing to reveal what a normal journalist could find. However, Flynn also had his fans, people who upheld his findings as “spectacular” and “earth shattering.” He noticed that his subscribers to his monthly newsletter highlighting the latest conspiracy had grown by 20,000 over night. Though putting together the pieces to uncover the truth was reward enough, Flynn didn’t mind reading his fan mail either.

  Take that CIA. See if you can keep the American people in the dark with me around. If only I could see Barkdale’s face this morning.

  Flynn muttered more zingers under his breath, directed at all his detractors. It was one thing to uncover a conspiracy—one that haunted American politics for over fifty years. But more than uncovering conspiracies, Flynn loved to be right, especially when everyone was trying to prove him wrong. Yet deep down, he hoped he was wrong about the threat on the President’s life. Despite his best efforts, Flynn couldn’t shake it.

  Natalie!

  In the tidal waves of messages, he hadn’t seen anything from Natalie. Surely she had heard about the newscast or seen his blog by now. Flynn imagined it had to be the topic of discussion around the water cooler at the National Archives this m
orning. Everyone he ever met there while researching the JFK Assassination papers freely shared their theories with him. And they were as varied as a field of snowflakes. It was almost as if each person felt the need to take widely known theories and add his or her own little twist to it. Unfortunately, Flynn ruined that fun sport by uncovering the truth, though he suspected there would still be legions of doubters who imagined the conspirators differently.

  Flynn dialed Natalie’s number, hoping to hear from her. Straight to voice mail. He then texted her. Five minutes passed. Nothing. Maybe she’s in a meeting. Flynn didn’t want to create doomsday scenarios in his head just yet, but he started to feel uneasy about her lack of communication—if not for her safety, for the future of their newly kindled relationship.

  By lunchtime, Flynn still hadn’t heard from her. He told himself that Natalie was probably busy and she’d call or text him later. Instead of worrying about it, he needed to focus his energy on preparing to cover the President’s speech in a couple of hours.

  ***

  AS FLYNN MADE HIS WAY down the street toward the U.N. building, his phone buzzed again. It was Osborne.

  “So were you able to convince anyone at the agency that the President’s life is in danger today?” Flynn said, skipping the formalities.

  “No, but I’m convinced something is up.”

  “How come?”

  “Listen, nobody knows about this, but I just got a call from the Vice President. He wanted me to authenticate a proof of life picture of Sydney.”

  Flynn didn’t know he could be stunned by such news and remained silent.

  “Flynn? You still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. I ... I just can’t believe that. I thought she died when those rebels attacked the school she was teaching at.”

  “We all did. But this photo is real,” Osborne paused for a moment before continuing. “And she looks as good as ever.”

  “So what do you think this all means?”

  “I’m not sure, but I wouldn’t be surprised if something was up today.”

  “You mean, you think I’m right?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Did you tell Barksdale about this?”

  “I told him this morning that I thought you were right and we needed to take the potential threat seriously. He rolled his eyes and blasted you, as usual.”

  “That jerk.”

  “Yeah, but as much as he hated to admit that you might be right, he at least ordered an extra security sweep this morning.”

  “So, what do you want me to do? Anything?”

  “I don’t know. If you were going to kill the President in front of the U.N. general assembly, how would you do it?”

  “I’d lie in wait. That place is like a fortress. Nobody is sneaking weapons into that place today.”

  “Where would you hide?”

  “Where no one could find me.”

  “Good answer, genius. Got any ideas exactly where that location might be?”

  “Not off the top of my head. But once I get there, I’ll scout it out.”

  “The Secret Service will be there today in force, so be discreet. You know how they hate getting shown up by civilians.”

  “You still think of me as a civilian?”

  “Of course not, but they will. Just be careful.”

  “I will—you know me.”

  “Exactly. I know you—so be careful.”

  Flynn tried to pretend like Osborne’s words hurt, but they didn’t. Osborne served as Flynn’s handler long enough to know that if there was trouble to be made, Flynn would make it.

  Flynn slipped his phone into his pocket and joined the crush of people trying to get through the tight security checkpoints leading into the U.N.’s general assembly hall. He wondered if he could still stop an assassin—and if he could tie the Kuklovod to JFK’s assassination plot, capture them in the same day, and save the President’s life, then his assignment at today’s event just became far more interesting.

  CHAPTER 21

  PERHAPS THE MERE SUGGESTION that the President might get shot motivated the press corps to attend the Friday afternoon speech more than usual. Though Flynn didn’t regularly attend U.N. speeches, he couldn’t imagine this was the regular crush of reporters. Bodies jammed tightly together, shoving and pushing toward the closest entrance near press seating. Most would never see the inside of the general assembly hall, instead relegated to overflow rooms. For the lucky ones who grabbed seating inside, they sat a long distance from the podium. The U.N. placed diplomacy far above accommodating the media.

  Despite his assignment to cover the speech, Flynn considered his unofficial assignment more important. He squirmed through the crush of reporters vying for the few seats in a high stakes game of musical chairs. Where he decided to watch the speech from required no seating.

  Flynn walked into the room for a moment to scout it out. The U.N.’s general assembly hall was cavernous if anything. What it lacked in character it made up for with volume and innovative technology. The fact that 1,800 people could sit in this room and listen to a speech—and each person hear it in their native tongue—was remarkable if anything. Dozens of translator booths lined the back wall of the room. It was also heavily guarded and easily swept. Flynn doubted the Kuklovod had the ability to infiltrate such a guarded area that allowed only heavily vetted and credentialed translators.

  The only other place that seemed more easily penetrable was the domed ceiling. Though Flynn suspected it had been swept, his CIA training taught him that hiding in such a place wasn’t impossible. If the Kuklovod contained the world’s best covert operatives, Flynn recognized the dome as being a possible location for a shooter—if that’s how they intended to kill President Briggs.

  Now Flynn only had one problem: getting past security.

  He scurried around the outside of the room, looking for access to the top. Security looked tight and he needed some luck if he was going to get by. And he had to do it fast. The speech was scheduled to begin in fifteen minutes.

  To get to the catwalk area inside the dome, Flynn needed to get to the roof. No other location seemed more daunting as it was always heavily guarded. On his way he needed to think of something fast.

  Away from the main entrance to the room, security was more lax if not non-existent. Flynn eyed a service stairwell entrance accessed only with a security card. With a drinking fountain nearby, he began gulping down water. Flynn kept an eye fixed on the door located just ten feet away, ready to grab it once a staff worker opened it. He didn’t have to wait long before someone opened the door. The heavy door nearly flung shut before Flynn could grab it, but he slipped his fingers in just in time. Before opening it all the way, he looked around to see if anyone noticed him. Everyone was too busy, lost in the minutiae of the day, to even notice him. That was the easy part.

  Flynn waited until the person who opened the door disappeared through a door leading to the third floor, the highest floor adjacent to the main assembly hall. He causally walked up the steps while listening for the door. Once he passed the third floor, only two doors remained—one to the catwalk and one to the roof. He was all in now.

  As Flynn continued to climb, he noticed a member of the Secret Service guarding the door to the catwalk. This isn’t going to be easy. He climbed quietly, looking up, until the agent heard his footsteps about one flight away from the landing.

  “Hey, you can’t be up here!” the agent said.

  “Relax, I’m CIA. Just came up here to check out what you’re doing,” Flynn said.

  Once his face came into full view, the agent immediately recognized him.

  “I know who you are and you’re not CIA!”

  Before the agent could alert the rest of the team what was happening, Flynn struck the man’s throat before landing a left and right haymaker along each of his temples. He crumpled to the ground and tumbled down several steps before coming to a stop.

  “Well, I used to be CIA,” Flynn said as
he lifted the agent’s gun and walked back up the stairs. The agent was out cold.

  Flynn checked the clip of the Sig Sauer P229 .357 handgun. The last thing he wanted was to get in a gunfight atop the general assembly hall, though it would make for great theater. He simply wanted to stop the Kuklovod—if he was right. And since he had just neutralized a Secret Service agent, Flynn was betting his career that he was right.

  He quietly pulled open the door leading to the catwalk. Here we go.

  CHAPTER 22

  SANDFORD WATCHED CNN’s live coverage of President Briggs’ speech from the U.N. He felt somewhat guilty for not caring about the content. A famine in Central Africa? Really? We’ve got Russia constructing missile silos along its eastern coast—just miles away from Alaska—and we’re worried about starving Africans. Gimme a break. Sandford took the President’s compassion as weakness.

  President Briggs wore a tailored black suit with a non-descript blue tie. He clearly wanted the focus of his speech to be on the content, not on his appearance. It was a welcome change from the previous President who treated his position in the White House as if it were more about celebrity than statesmanship. Nevertheless, Sandford thought President Briggs had lost his way. Small points became large points of emphasis for his administration, yet he ignored the looming threat from Russia.

  There was a time when African famines mattered to Sandford, too. His compassion ran deep for those in need. When he first sought to run for office, such issues drove him. He wanted to be the kind of statesman who leveraged American money and power into a force of global goodwill. It’s something he learned from his compassionate-hearted daughter.

  When Sydney was six years old, she heard about an orphanage in India that would be shuttered if enough generous donations didn’t pour in. More than $40,000 was needed to keep the orphanage from sending its children back to the impoverished streets all alone. Sydney begged her father to build a lemonade stand so she could help. She raised $37 one Saturday and had her father mail off every penny to the orphanage. So moved by his daughter’s compassion, he added $1,000 of his own money. Along with a few other generous donors she had inspired to give as well, it was all just enough to keep the orphanage open. That was the kind of effect Sydney had on people, especially Sandford. Yet he realized that she was likely going to die in captivity—where she had been for the past sixteen years—if he couldn’t figure out a way to bring her home.