The POTUS Papers

The Potus Papers

Bryan Mooney

(An excerpt)

Nick Ryan is one of the FBI's top investigators before he takes a temporary leave to track down his wife's killer. A former agency friend hires him to verify a simple suicide claim for his insurance company. Nick sees it as an open and shut case, until he meets the victim's beautiful daughter, Adriana. She convinces him that her father would never commit suicide and asks him to investigate further. Nick soon discovers that everyone her father had talked to prior to his death is turning up dead.

The headstrong investigator pursues every lead across three continents, until the trail ends with the President of the United States, POTUS as he is called by the Secret Service. No one is who they appear to be. Suddenly, Nick Ryan finds he is next on the list to die. Nick is running out of time. He must solve the mystery of, The POTUS Papers…

Chapter One

The Arabic message he texted was short and to the point. Yasim did not like texting about such sensitive matters but time was of the essence. He had to let his father know quickly.

FATHER-

THE VIRUS IS LOOSE!

KITMAN MAY BE IN JEOPARDY.

URGENTLY NEED GLOBAL SPECIALISTS TO CONTAIN AND INNOCULATE.

THREE HAVE BEEN INFECTED BUT HAVE ALREADY BEEN INNOCULATED.

WILL PREPARE AN INNOCULATION LIST.

WILL SANITIZE HERE.

I AWAIT YOUR RESPONSE.

YASIM

He looked down at the lifeless body lying at his feet in the center of the room. Blood pooled from the head, seeping into the rug.

Yasim searched the entire apartment again and once more found nothing. He was desperate. The more people that came in contact with what he was looking for meant more people would die. He did not care how many people died but the damage it could do to the Kingdom, to their world and more importantly to his father's project, would be irreparable. It was imperative that he find it before it was too late.

He was going to need help, lots of help, but for now he must keep searching. That was his job, the reason his father dispatched him to Baltimore from the embassy in DC.

The dead man, Joseph Santino provided no clues. Yasim scoured the hallway before leaving apartment number 802 and hurried passed number 805, the former apartment of Hakim Maheed the neighbor and close friend of Joseph Santino. Yellow and black police tape still flapped from the wall across the apartment entry door. Lifting the lifeless tape, he opened the door to Maheed's apartment for one last search. He had to find what he'd been sent to retrieve or find some clues as to where it was. He had to, for he knew his father was depending on him.

*****

The message had its predictable responses and some unanticipated consequences as it hit the airwaves on its way to Yasim's father, Prince Rashid, in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia.

"Jarim," Prince Rashid called out to his most trusted bodyguard, "get me a secure line. My son may wish to share this information with the Americans at the NSA but I do not wish to give them anymore than what they may already have. I am sure they have this information already, thanks to my son. And if they have this information, I guarantee you that the Israelis have it as well."

He shook his head in anguish. "How many times have I told my son not to use text to communicate such sensitive information as this? He tries to code information thinking he will fool people. The Americans are not stupid, brash and vulgar yes, but stupid, no. And this information of all things, the most sensitive information to our cause. What am I going to do with him?"

"He is young," responded Jarim, "he will learn our ways, I am sure of it." Jarim liked the Prince's youngest son and always stood up for him whenever his father spoke ill of him.

"In battles you have only one chance to defeat your enemy, to be a man, if not you perish. He has worked in our Washington Embassy for too long. My son has been softened by Western ways and has grown accustomed to them, lax. I will need to handle it."

Jarim started to respond and the Prince raised his hand to silence him.
"I know, Jarim, you love him as do I, but he must learn." The Prince waved his hand for privacy, and Jarim left the palatial suite.

Taking a deep breath, Rashid smelled the scent of the sweet desert flowers wafting through his high palace windows reminding him of his youth and the times that he spent in the sands with his own father. He remembered the hunts, the raids, the battles and the wild victory celebrations that followed. But today was no day to celebrate, today was a day to make decisions.

He placed his phone calls and set his plan into motion. It must be stopped and stopped now. They had come too far. They must not be defeated.

Chapter Two

Returning from lunch, Luke Garrison showed his National Security Agency badge to the first of three security guards at the NSA Fort Meade Headquarters. They always surveyed his ID photo longer than anyone else's badge. The picture on his badge showed him with shorter hair and clean shaven whereas he now had long, curly locks of blond beachcomber hair and a full reddish, black beard. He was a sight to behold for these security officials, who had no sense of humor whatsoever.

After running his corn beef and rye sandwich, mp3 player and backpack through the ultraviolet scanner, he was ready to return to his subterranean office to finish his work and hopefully get a jump on the weekend. Today he would like to get out of work at a decent hour, see his fiancé, spend some time with her.

He pressed the elevator key thumbprint pad and inserted his badge into the security slot, then boarded the express elevator for a quick ride. The elevator felt as if it hardly moved when in fact it had traveled the thirteen floors underground in record time.

Jerry West was at his desk poring through a pile of intercepts. "Did you bring me my Ham N' Swiss on Rye?" he asked of his co-worker. "Jesus Luke, don't tell me you forgot again. You forgot my sandwich. Well, you are just going to have to sit here and cover for me while I run out and get my own lunch. Thanks a lot. I'll remember this the next time you want something from Epstein's Deli."

Luke Garrison left his jacket on his chair because he did not need it outside on the unusually warm May afternoon in suburban Maryland. The cavernous computer room was another story. Luke swore that he had seen it snow at times when the machines were running at top speed and the air-conditioning rose to the challenge to keep the computers cool.

Deep in the heart of the building in suburban Maryland just outside of Baltimore, Luke wondered what he was doing here. He had never anticipated that he would use his Computer Science degree from Cal Tech sitting in a huge computer warehouse poring over suspect telephone and text messages from around the globe.

Any moron could do this, he thought disgustedly. In his six years here, nothing exciting had ever happened, other than the time a mouse got into the computer room. The rodent drove everyone crazy setting off the motion detectors until they caught it, luckily before it did any damage to the delicate equipment.

He leaned back in his chair, popped open his soda and unwrapped his sandwich. He was alone in this cavernous room other than the multi-billion dollar pieces of hardware to keep him company.

What another day of drudge, he thought as he tasted the same old corn beef and rye that he'd been ordering since Christmas. After the Fourth of July he would change to ordering something different, maybe he would go with Ham 'n Swiss but skip the mayo. But he had two months to think about it before making up his mind. Suddenly the chatter box display screen began to hum and the control panel lit up with all of the computers talking to each other in their rapid response format.

"What's going on?" he said to no one. He tossed his unfinished sandwich into the trash. The machines increased their tempo. The red lights flashed on his control board. He spun his chair around and moved under his keyboard to take command. This is what he had been trained for and this was when the rubber met the proverbial road. He was ready.

The machines continued at a fever pitch, before beginning to collate and then assimilate the information and produce an intelligence report. This process used to take two to three weeks when he first came here six years ago and now it was done in a matter of seconds. He retrieved the sheet from the high speed printer and read the message:

Classified Agency Top Secret

Director Eyes Only—Level Six

FATHER—

THE VIRUS IS LOOSE!

KITMAN MAY BE IN JEOPARDY.

URGENTLY NEED GLOBAL SPECIALISTS TO CONTAIN AND INNOCULATE.

THREE HAVE BEEN INFECTED BUT HAVE ALREADY BEEN INNOCULATED.

WILL PREPARE AN INNOCUALTION LIST.

WILL SANITIZE HERE.

I AWAIT YOUR RESPONSE.

YASIM

Process Immediately according to Protocol Level Six.

Message sent from CONUS (Continental United States) TO KOSA (Kingdom Of Saudi Arabia) — Unscrambled message from Crown Prince Yasim in Suburban Maryland to his father, Saudi Prince Rashid, Jeddah Saudi Arabia. Of note, origination point is same building as residence of the late Hakim Maheed.

Message transcribed from Yasim at 13:52 Zulu time — via Motorola text phone model #2034A, non-secured communications tool. — End

Wow, what a hot potato! Luke wished he had gotten Jerry his sandwich because he could really use his help and input. After a few moments deliberation he finally picked up his phone and followed protocol, calling the Intelligence Director, Jack Drury a Staff Naval Commander.

"Commander Drury please, Analyst Garrison calling with a Level Six message." This was the highest level message Luke had ever seen. He had level twos before but never a level six. Protocol required that all Level Six Communiqués have an immediate response to the highest levels, rather than in the Blue Book that was collected at the end of the day.

"Bring that to me now," was the immediate response when Drury's aide, Colonel Parker Johnston picked up the phone. "Mark it Level Six, ROTC—Reporting of Terrorist Communications—Directors Eyes Only. Bring it to me STAT."

Luke grabbed his tie off the coat rack in the corner of the tiny office he shared with Jerry and sprinted towards the elevator, tying his tie in the process. After three attempts he finally completed the procedure as the door opened on the executive floor of the building. He was greeted at the elevator by Colonel Parker Johnston. Luke shook the big man's hand in silence and they started their long walk down the green carpeted hallway.

Drury and Johnston had been in the CIA together during the wild days of Intelligence gathering before being removed from the field and assigned a desk job at NSA headquarters. They had crossed the line in using unauthorized interrogation techniques on prisoners to gather information to save the life of one of their field operatives who'd been kidnapped. They got the information one hour too late. Their associate was found dead two days later, beheaded.

Drury and Johnston were still in the doghouse with the bureaucrats because of the way they got the information. Now they were both looking for something that would redeem them and get them back in the field.

"Walk with me," commanded Johnston, while he reviewed the contents of the intercept. When he finished reading, he stopped walking and turned to Garrison asking, "Has anyone else seen this?"

"No sir, no one." Luke straightened his crooked tie.

"Keep it that way. Do not mention it to anyone. Do you understand? No one."

"Yes, sir."

"Okay, you are free to return to your office but remember, do not tell anyone of this document. Am I clear?"

"Yes sir, perfectly clear."

Commander Johnston turned and left the young computer scientist to find his way back down the long hallway, preparing to discuss the Intercept Report with his boss, Jack Drury.

He closed the door behind him, not really wanting to interrupt his long time friend today, not this day of all days. Today was the beginning of Drury's annual hearings in front of the closed Congressional Committee on Intelligence Funding. Never a good day for Jack Drury.

But he had to bring him up to date. They talked for over fifteen minutes until NSA Director Drury finally asked his trusted aide, "PJ, what's your take on all of this?"

Johnston leaned back in the worn brown leather sofa and studied his friend. "The same as you, Jack, its not what it appears to be. Somebody has an overactive imagination but I detect the same undercurrent as you, and I don't like it one bit. We need to send this to the CIA and FBI, now."

"What about…?"

"Yeah, get your coat, we're going for a little ride to the White House. The President needs to see this. I'll have Mary call over and tell them we're on our way."

He pressed the intercom button and immediately his loyal assistant came on the line, "Yes, sir?"

"Mary, please contact the White House and tell them I need five minutes with the President."

"Yes, sir."

He grabbed his coat and called down for a car. He was on his way to see POTUS, the President of The United States, Cerab Hussein.

Chapter Three

Clarisse Dubois stepped out of the taxi, her short cocktail dress riding high up her thigh, and paid the leering driver. She liked to walk the last couple of blocks towards her apartment in the Montparnasse section of Paris, especially now, this early May morning, when the air was filled with the scent of jasmines and roses. Her apartment was on a one way side street and it added Euros to the taxi fare to go around the block to drop her directly in front of her building.

It was brisk when the sun went down but she loved this time of year. She was happy that at four a.m. her day was finally over. The previous evening, as many times before, she had been in the company of dull, boring rich men but last night was worse than she ever remembered. She was used to them standing taller and leering down her dress, trying to catch a glimpse of her cleavage and well shaped young breasts.

Clarisse was not familiar with the Arab custom of constantly talking business in Egyptian, Sudanese, Farsi language or whatever else they were speaking. Continuing to smile, she waited for them to finish so she could leave and go home.

Not too bad, she thought, reviewing the evening in her mind, at least they had great food. The evening had been worth it, for she had made some good money, just smiling and laughing with these old men—and not on her back, which was fine with her.

So distracted in thought, she did not notice the man who had followed her from the corner where the taxi dropped her.

She missed her Hakim and was excited to talk with him earlier in the week after he arrived back in Washington, DC on his way home to Baltimore. She had to only wait another three weeks before he would return to Paris. Perhaps they could then picnic again in the park by the Seine. She so enjoyed a picnic by the slow river that ran through Paris, lying underneath the tall dragging branches of the willow trees on the isle in the middle of the scenic river.

A shuffling noise sounded behind her, interrupting her thoughts of an idyllic picnic by the river. She walked a little faster, shot a glance over her shoulder, checking, while she fumbled for the tear gas spray-gun in her purse. A man in a dark business suit, tall and slight, with hair the color of night and carrying a briefcase, walked rather intently but he did not seem to be paying much attention to her.

He crossed to the other side of the street and she made her way inside her iron gate, running up the steps of her apartment building. The outside of her building was full of deep shadows. The streetlight was flickering off and on in front of her building and she made a mental note to call the building manager the next day to have it fixed.

She pulled the house keys from the outside pocket of her purse and was soon safe inside. Once there, Clarisse breathed a sigh of relief for she had remembered that some of the other girls had encountered many over eager "clients." They would follow them home to offer them more money for massages or extended pleasures.

Clarisse was tired and only wanted to soak in the tub, it had been a very long day. She sat at her desk and pulled out the business cards she'd accumulated over the last two days and decided to file them tomorrow. Never know when you may need a contact or two.

She checked for messages. No message from Hakim on either her machine or her cell phone, but then she remembered the time zone difference. He was probably still in bed, hopefully alone, she chuckled to herself. She unbuttoned her sheer silk blouse in the hallway, while making her way towards the kitchen refrigerator to pour some wine before running her bath water and relaxing. Tomorrow she would sleep in, what a relief.

She did not bother turning on other lights, for she knew the layout of the apartment by heart. The light from the moon and the flickering streetlight shone its whitish yellow light through her front windows, allowing her to navigate her way.

Her apartment was large and rather lavish by Parisian standards, with four tall front windows, one large bedroom with ornate wall panels lining the hallway to the bedroom. Hakim fell in love with it the first day he saw it and signed the papers for her on the spot. It had become his home away from home when not in the States or traveling in the Mideast. She missed him more than she cared to admit.

The young, part-time model perused the contents of the fridge and was pleased to see that she still had some red wine left over from her visitor evenings before. She poured a large glass and re-corked the vintage wine bottle, shoving it into the rear of the fridge, then grabbed the last orange off the shelf.

She did not see or hear him until she closed the refrigerator door. It was the man who followed her to her building. She gasped and dropped her wine and orange at the sight of him, both crashing to the floor. Before she could scream, the knife was quickly at her throat and his hand gripped the hair at the back of her head.

"My money is in my purse, there on the chair in the foyer. Take it all! Just leave me alone, please." She wanted to cry but she was afraid that was just what he wanted. She held her tears and her fear in check. He raised the knife, glistening from the soft light of the moon outside coming through the side window and pointed it at her, motioning her toward the bedroom.

She did not recognize him from tonight's affair or any other for that matter. She thought hard trying to remember if she had seen him somewhere but no luck. Her pace quickened as she looked for a place to run and hide. The bathroom, but it was at the other end of the hall, behind her.

His silence was unusual for they all seemed to want to talk. He was different. Her fears grew as they walked quietly through her apartment. She could yell but that would only enrage him.

Clarisse led the way into the bedroom and felt this was the one place she was in control, even though he had the knife, and still held her by her hair. He watched her every move. She recognized the long knife as one from her kitchen.

When they reached the bed she turned to face him, her blouse totally unbuttoned and her breasts swaying in the soft light of the room. It did not seem to catch his attention. At age twenty-nine, sexy, pretty and well built, she was in the flower of her youth. She had men pretty well figured out—they were all the same. She knew what he wanted.

He pointed toward the bed, now dangling four yellow silk ropes from the serrated knife blade. He motioned her to lie down. Now she knew exactly what he wanted, he wanted control. She knew his type. Most times they would tie you up, sit in a chair and be pleasured by the mere fact of having a woman lying helpless before him. She caressed the bright cutting edge with her finger as she pulled the yellow silk ties from his weapon. She knew the drill.

She tied both of her ankles to the posts at the foot of the bed, and then she tied one of her wrists to the headboard. The other wrist she left untied waiting for him to complete his fantasy. She faked a moan, trying to get this over with as quickly as possible, so he would leave and she could finish her warm bath and pour another glass of wine. He tied the last rope then put duct tape over her mouth. It was only then she noticed he wore light green surgical gloves.

He came close and sat next to her on the bed, stroking her hair, parting her blouse with the knife tip, admiring her well endowed female anatomy. A red crescent star tattoo graced his right wrist at the base. She had seen many of those tattoos this evening on the bodyguards of the guests tonight but she dare not ask its meaning.

She searched his eyes and was terrified to see staring back at her, eyes containing no emotion or passion. His eyes were black, like a shark's before an attack. Fear rose in her throat again as she approached unknown territory. He was not like the others.

His hand slid down her stomach and parted her legs, slowly cutting off her lace panties before he laid the knife on the bedside table. She tensed her body and he moved closer to her, reached under her head as if to kiss her. She lay there beneath him, helpless, but acting like she wanted him when in reality what she wanted was for it all to be over. She had difficulty breathing only through her nose. Her breaths were coming to her quicker, shallower.

He was still fully dressed when he removed a pillow from beneath her head, he leaned closer, so close he could smell the Chanel perfume she'd dabbed between her breasts. She raised her hips slightly from the bed, waiting, resigned to her fate. Smiling, totally in control, he took the pillow from beneath her head and suddenly pressed it over her face, pushing down hard. She shook her body to the left then to the right, trying to get free. She tried to scream but her voice was muffled. She tried to call out for help but the screams were trapped from release by the heavy tape. She tried to get free. She needed air, fresh air, heavenly air.

Her body twisted while she squirmed fiercely to be rid of the pillow that was drawing the life from her. She couldn't breathe. His strong arms held the pillow firmly in place. Her nose and mouth were covered, she'd lost all control and panicked as she realized what was happening. She was bound tight with the silk strands by her own hand. How stupid she was!

She was gasping for air but found none. She tried to take a breath through her nose but no matter how she tried she could not get away from the smothering pillow. She was too young to die! Her last thoughts were of Hakim and how she missed him. Then, spent, her body went limp.

Jasara left the pillow on her lifeless body. His pulse rate never raised, he was calm as if he were sitting reading. He surveyed the room, seeking any telltale signs of his presence or clues that he'd ever been there. When he found none, he walked towards the front door of the apartment, peeling the abandoned orange, no longer needed by its former owner. When police found the body they would think the obvious, a sex play gone wrong and not an execution or as his employer liked to call it, an inoculation.

He strolled past the just opening crepe restaurants, raising their shutters releasing the sweet smell of crepes lofting just so in the air. The street cleaners hummed their relentless task of keeping the streets of Paris clean. The tall thin man hailed a taxi at Rue de Rennes and headed for the airport, just as a light rain began to sprinkle the early morning streets of Paris.

He headed to the airport. He'd been busy the last couple of days, flying in from Istanbul the day before, Cairo the day before that and Indonesia before that, where it all started. He was on his way to Washington, DC and the next name on his list. He knew that time was money as he hurried to his next rendezvous. He unfolded the heavy blue paper containing his list while the taxi made quick headway to Charles de Gaulle Airport in the early morning traffic. The next name on the list was Palmer, Richard Palmer in Baltimore. He was next on the list to die.

The POTUS Papers

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