Detained, page 24
Three sharp raps on the door sent his heart racing. Thoughts of the threatening e-mail from someone posing as the dead Andy Hart rushed to his mind, along with Rusotto’s repeated warnings of “Watch your back.”
Matt reached over into the drawer beside his bed and pulled out the 9mm pistol and worked the lever, chambering a bullet into firing position. He turned off the safety, making the gun ready to fire.
More raps on the door.
His feet hit the floor and he stood, holding the pistol straight up. Quietly, he moved toward the door. He brought the pistol out front, ready to fire.
Against the dim light out in the passageway, shadows appeared at the base of the door—the shadows of the boots of his assailant.
“Matt.”
The voice from the other side sent his heart thumping.
“Matt.” The second time he heard his name, he put the gun down. He turned the knob and cracked open the door.
Against the full light from the hallway, her figure was stunning, even in a T-shirt, navy running shorts, and white tennis shoes.
“Amy?” he whispered. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see you before tomorrow started.”
“It’s already tomorrow.”
“You know what I mean.” She flashed those same blue eyes that had melted his resistance on his sailboat. “Please.”
“You’re crazy,” he whispered. “Haven’t we gotten into enough trouble already?”
“Somebody’s going to see me out here if you don’t let me in.”
“Did somebody follow you here?”
“I don’t know.” She locked eyes with him. “I don’t care.”
“Man, oh, man.” He looked down the empty hallway both ways. “Come on.” He waved her in and closed the door and locked it.
He wasn’t sure if he had pulled her to him or if she had rushed into his arms. Not that it mattered. Their kiss was long and satisfying.
“Okay, okay. That’s enough.” He pulled away from her. “You’re crazy.”
“Maybe so. If I ever get out of this place, I’m resigning my commission so we don’t have to sneak around in the dark like this and worry about getting prosecuted for fraternization.”
He put his arms around her waist, looked into her face, and leaned in and kissed her again.
“Okay, I’m enjoying this, but this isn’t right.” His heart was pounding for a different reason. “We can’t be doing this. Admiral Brewer would string us up. And if the media caught wind of this . . .” His voice trailed off.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I wanted to see you so bad.”
“I know, Commander,” he said. He pulled her in for a hug but did not kiss her this time. “We both have a job to do.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I want you to know, Matt, that I’ve been ordered to do this.”
“I know.”
“I’ve got to do it,” she said. “I don’t have a choice. I don’t believe in these arguments.”
“I’d almost rather be court-martialed than have to do this,” he said.
“Me too,” she said. “How did we get ourselves into this?”
“I don’t know,” he whispered. “But you’d better go before we both get arrested for aggravated fraternization. I hear the prisons aren’t too inviting in this neck of the woods.” He looked at her, then pulled her to him and kissed her once more. “Okay, ma’am. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“Yes, Lieutenant.” She smiled, and he opened the door.
She stepped out quickly, walking away down the hall, not looking back.
He let his eyes linger a moment, enjoying the outline of her figure until she was out of sight.
CHAPTER 17
EMILY GARDNER’S APARTMENT
HALSTEAD TOWER
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
1:30 A.M.
With her mind swirling like the wall at the eye of a hurricane, thinking about her US Senate confirmation hearings looming, Emily had gotten out of bed, put on a pot of French vanilla roast, and set up office on the coffee table in her living room.
For hours she had pored through the reams of information Porterfield had given her. Of course, anticipating what the senators would ask had proved problematic. She had tried starting with a broad approach, sifting through department position papers on counterterrorism, then border security. Immigration remained a hot topic. Of course, those types of policy questions would be best directed at the secretary, as opposed to a nominee for general counsel. But that wouldn’t stop publicity-hungry senators from asking her anyway.
And then there would be the typical legal questions from senators convinced that the federal government, and particularly Homeland Security, had become increasingly heavy-handed on constitutional issues.
Emily expected to be pounded about her perceived lack of experience, having been suddenly promoted from a deputy general counsel’s position at a subsidiary agency. But the best way to reduce the inexperience factor was to demonstrate command of her subject matter under intense questioning.
Beefing up on all the possible issues on such short notice had proved daunting, if not impossible, like plugging a thousand holes in a dam with three fingers.
As midnight had approached, her knees and back and joints bone-tired, she had decided she needed sleep.
She had crawled into her queen-size bed, pulled the comforter over her, and tried to doze. But the mental mind churning had gotten out of control. By one thirty she was up again. She hit the button on her single-cup coffeemaker and, within a couple of minutes, was back in business.
Porterfield had warned her that she would be hit by a couple of the libertarian, pro-military senators on her legal theory of “fraudulent enlistment” that she had devised to justify prosecuting Najib Makari at Guantánamo instead of before a military jury.
She sat on the couch, sipped her coffee, and leaned over the coffee table, leafing to the next page in the three-ring binder.
The headline on the page caught her eye.
WEB LINK—SECRET
Notes on SITUS Project
Secure Login: www.situsproject.gov/gencounsel/classified
Username 1: hsgencounsel126Loblolly
Username 2: hsgencounsel204Latham
Username 3: hsgencounselusmom0717
Password 1: 3145&ff%54north
Password 2: hampton0717lionspaw
“What? Secret web link? The what project?” Emily put on her reading glasses and reread the strange reference. “What’s that all about?”
Her laptop was on the coffee table beside the three-ring binder. She looked at the laptop, then at the three-ring binder containing 375 pages. She had gotten through about half on the first read through.
She looked at the page again and picked up her laptop.
She started to type: “www.situsproject.g . . .”
Then she glanced at the binder again. “I’ve got to get through that binder before the hearing. This can wait until later. No time to get sidetracked on a wild-goose chase through the Internet.”
She put the laptop back on the coffee table and turned to the next page in the binder.
Summary of Recent Fourth Amendment
Cases Relating to Search-and-Seizure
in National Security Matters
CASE 1. Florida v. Riley, 488 U.S. 445, 109 S. Ct. 693, 102 L. Ed. 2d 835 (1989)
Fact Summary: Based on anonymous tip, a law enforcement helicopter conducts surveillance of a greenhouse at an altitude of 400 feet. No warrant was issued. An officer on board the helicopter spots marijuana growing in the partially covered greenhouse, leading to defendant’s arrest and conviction.
Holding: No search warrant required, conviction affirmed.
Facts: Acting on an anonymous tip . . .
Something made her flip the page back.
Secure Login: www.situsproject.gov/gencounsel/classified
“Oh, what the heck.” She picked up the laptop, opened Google Chrome, and typed in the secure login: “www.situsproject.gov/gencounsel/classified.” “There.” She hit the Enter button.
The computer went into search mode.
A second later, a message popped up:
You have entered a classified website maintained by the US Department of Homeland Security. Access to this website is on an “eyes only” basis and requires a security clearance of TOP SECRET. Unauthorized entrance may result in felony criminal prosecution. To maximize security against cyber-attack, you will be required to enter three different usernames followed by two passwords. These five prompts will come up individually, and you will be required to enter each prompt before proceeding. Remembering that you are subject to criminal prosecution for unauthorized entrance into this site, you may now proceed at your own risk.
“Wow,” she said. “All right, if they want a felony prosecution, then let’s get this show on the road.”
She typed the first username, “hsgencounsel126Loblolly.”
Then the second.
Then the third.
A red message flashed on and off:
Username Sequence Successfully Processed!
Caution—Unauthorized Entry Will Result in Criminal Prosecution!
If You Have Authority to Visit This Site,
Please Enter Password Sequence
“Why do I feel like I’m entering the nuclear launch codes or something?”
She looked back at the first password, then proceeded to type: “3145&ff%54north.”
Then the second: “hampton0717lionspaw.”
Another flashing red sign:
Classified Site Successfully Entered!
Do You Wish to Abort?
Abortion of Site at This Point Will Avert Criminal Prosecution for
Unauthorized Users!
Do You Wish to Abort?
___ Yes, I wish to abort.
___ No, I do not wish to abort. I understand that I may be criminally prosecuted for unauthorized entry of this site.
A thought struck her. She had not yet been confirmed by the Senate. She wasn’t yet general counsel. Was she subjecting herself to prosecution by entering the site?
“Play it safe, Emily.”
She started to click “Yes, I wish to abort.”
But . . . she was handed the binder and ordered to study it to prepare for the hearing. It seemed like explicit access was granted.
On the other hand, she had not been given specific permission to go beyond the physical binder.
Still, the physical binder contained the notification of the site and had specific login instructions, including usernames and passwords.
On impulse, she clicked “No, I do not wish to abort.”
Another flashing warning:
Entering the SITUS Project Website
TOP SECRET
Below that flashing sign, another instructional option: Click Here to Enter.
She had gone this far. Why not continue?
She clicked the Enter button.
Information started scrolling down the screen. A moment later, the screen was filled with information about the top-secret SITUS project.
She put on her reading glasses, took a sip of coffee, and started from the top.
“What?” She squinted and read again. “Wait a minute.”
She reread the first paragraph. Then she read the second paragraph, and the third. Her body felt as if someone had dumped a bag of ice over her head and shoulders.
Her heart quickened and she felt restless, suddenly short of breath.
She got up and walked over to the window to look down on King Street. A few cars zipped by, their headlights and taillights shining off the street.
This had to be a nightmare.
By morning, if not sooner, they would know that she had opened the document.
Maybe that’s what they had planned all along, to expose her to the truth, then test her loyalty. Or perhaps it wasn’t true. Maybe they planted the information to see how she would react.
No, it had to be true. Her predecessor, Jerry Myer, had died from a “heart attack” as much as Andrew Breitbart had died from a “heart attack.”
Maybe Myer had left the log-in instructions to the classified site buried deep within the briefing papers for a reason. Or maybe someone else had slipped the instructions into the binder.
But did Max Porterfield know? How could she know for sure if he knew? Could she trust him? Could she trust anyone?
She turned from the window and eyed the bottle of Argentinian Malbec, unopened, on the kitchen counter. Tempting, but not a good idea.
Maybe she had read it wrong.
That must be it. After all, it was late. Or perhaps early, depending on whether one’s definition of two thirty in the morning was early or late.
She sat down on the couch, rubbed her eyes, and started reading again. “Oh dear.” She put her hand over her mouth.
“Dear Jesus, what have I gotten into?”
Emily stood up. Her body felt clammy. She walked across the room and plopped down on the love seat. She brushed her hand across her forehead, wiping cold sweat from her brow.
What to do?
Where to go?
She felt the sensation of a giant, cold steel fist squeezing her body.
Who to call?
Who could she trust?
“Think, Emily!”
Two names came to mind: Diane and Zack.
She could trust either with her life. Zack was a man of honor. And unlike so many women obsessed with gossip and meaningless chitchat, Diane could be trusted with the deepest secrets. Diane would know what to do.
But Diane remained in critical condition, and this was no time for Zack to have to deal with all this.
Not now.
“Lord! Help me!”
Where were the wise when they were needed? Where were the strong when she needed a shoulder to lean on?
She thought of her Grandma Edna Elyea, a quiet woman of faith known for the world’s best Italian cream cake and affectionately known by everyone as “Mamma E.” Emily remembered Mamma E’s death like it was yesterday. With a host of contraptions around her and needles stuck in her arms, Mamma E was almost comatose, under the influence of morphine. Her breathing had slowed. Then, almost supernaturally, Mamma E raised her head and a beatific smile crossed her face, as if she was witnessing something from another world.
It had been a week since Mamma E had spoken to anybody. But when she raised her head and looked off into space, she began to recite her favorite psalm, “The Lord is my shepherd . . .” She kept reciting the psalm with a supernatural, velvety beauty, as if her words were propped up by the Spirit. And then she reached these words, which were her last words: “He restoreth my soul.”
Emily looked across the room at the old black King James Bible, left to her by “Mamma E, sitting atop the old buffet, also an inherited grandmotherly relic of days gone by.
She walked over and, with reverence, picked up the Bible and held it against her heart. The book was a lifeline in the midst of a tempest. And after she caressed it for a moment, she kissed it and opened it.
“Let’s see. Proverbs. Go back one. Psalms.” She turned back the pages, then two more until she found it. “There. Psalm 23.”
Her eyes fell on these words:
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
She closed the Bible.
What would Mamma E do?
The answer came quickly. Mamma E would pray. Emily closed the Bible and got on her knees in front of her coffee table.
“Lord, I don’t understand any of this. But you’ve brought me into the valley of the shadow of death. I have enemies out there. Or I will soon have enemies. Protect me and give me wisdom.”
CHAPTER 18
PULMONARY INTENSIVE CARE UNIT
BETHESDA NAVAL HOSPITAL
(WALTER REED NATIONAL MILITARY MEDICAL CENTER)
BETHESDA, MARYLAND
2:30 A.M.
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness—”
“Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen.”
Zack and Jeff both looked up. Dr. Berman was smiling.
“Doc, what have you got?” Zack cut to the point.
“Well, she’s not out of the woods, Admiral, but she wants to see you.”
“She’s conscious?”
“Yes, sir. But I don’t know how long she will be alert. If you want to see her, sir, you’d better come now.”
“What do you mean, if I want to see her? Lead the way.”
“Certainly, Admiral.”
Zack turned to Jeff. “Come with me.”
“No, go ahead, Zack. You need this time alone.”
“Jeff, you’re my best friend, and she would want you there. Besides, I may need prayer support.”
Jeff seemed hesitant, half wanting to come, half wanting to hang back.
Zack grabbed the chief of Navy chaplains by the arm and pulled him to his feet. “Come on, man. We don’t have time to lose.”
“Okay,” Jeff said.
They followed Dr. Berman past the nurses’ station, through the swinging doors under the “Intensive Care” sign. Walking down a brightly lit hall, passing a platoon of white-uniformed nurses and orderlies, the doctor pushed open the third door on the left.
A forest of stainless-steel contraptions, dangling IV bags, and beeping and blinking instruments rose above the bed.
A white blanket covered her from the neck down, but the auburn red locks of her hair against the white pillows reminded him of a thousand sunsets he’d seen at sea, like the sunset glistening in a broad orange carpet across rippling wavelets.
The slow beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor proved disconcerting, but thank God, her heart was beating.
