Free Hostile Intent by Michael Walsh Page B

flush out the traitors. Which, come to think of it, was how he met her .
    An old-fashioned “ring,” just like real phones used to ring before they started playing snatches of 50 Cent, took him out of his reverie and back to reality. The black phone.
    His hand picked up the receiver. Fingerprints scanned, the line was uplinked via satphone to one of the NSA’s birds, scrambled with level three remodulation logarithms. A stealth-encryption field descended, so that even the most adept or malicious hacker would be left trying to apprehend emptiness.
    Now “Tom Powers” looked into the receiver. His iris scan was digitalized, encoded, and flashed over the separate T-3 line to Fort Meade for confirmation.
    “Devlin,” he said.
    He knew who it was right away. “This is DIRNSA,” said Seelye. “You’re on with POTUS and the SecDef. You’re fully up to speed on the sit in Edwardsville.” A statement, not a question. Typical Seelye.
    “Who else is there with you?” His voice had an otherworldly quality as it crackled over the hidden speakers.
    Seelye looked at Hartley, then to the president, who shook his head. “Nobody,” he lied.
    “Wrong answer.”
    “We don’t have time for games.”
    “Neither do I. I’ll speak to you, the secretary, and the president. That’s the way it is, and it’s non-negotiable. You’ve got ten seconds to get whoever I hear breathing in there the hell out.”
    Rubin saw that Tyler had that look on his face that he got whenever he was about to blow his stack. He shot him a warning look: don’t do it . The president controlled his temper. Hartley got the message and slipped out the door.
    “This is President Tyler. I’m—”
    Devlin didn’t care that he was talking to the president of the United States. He interrupted him anyway. “Not recommending direct Branch 4 involvement at this time.”
    “Why not?” barked Tyler.
    “Because something about this stinks, Mr. President.”
    President Tyler’s eyes flashed. “Are you saying we should just sit back and do nothing?”
    “No, I’m saying we need to observe.”
    “Those kids need to be rescued.”
    “Yes, sir, they do. We know it—and the terrorists know it. But I don’t think this is really about the kids.”
    The president was irritated at this display of independence. Who was commander in chief around here? “Then what do you think it is?”
    “Not sure yet. Some kind of feint, or probe, to see how we react.”
    “You’re talking about children’s lives,” Tyler said.
    “If I’m right, sir—and that’s what you pay me to be—then we’re talking about much more than children’s lives. Getting me involved now could potentially make things more difficult for all of us in the end.”
    “That’s a chance I’m willing to take,” said the president. “Where are you now?”
    “That’s classified, sir. And even your authorization doesn’t reach that high.”
    Tyler exploded, “Goddamnit, I’m the fucking president of the United States!”
    Even with the electronic scrambling, Devlin’s voice came across low and clear and confident. “Yes, sir,” he said, “you are. At least until the next election.”
    Inwardly, General Seelye smiled. Rubin kept a poker face, badly. Devlin paused for a moment, then continued, “I’ve got your feed on my screen, General. Run the reporter’s tape again. I’ll show you what I’m talking about.”
    “Cueing it up now,” said Seelye. Once again the tape: the kids, the bombs, the teachers, the shotguns—.
    “Hold it. Right there,” said Devlin. “See it?” Seelye paused the feed. What was Devlin talking about? “The guy on the bench there, at click 4,156.07.” A blond man in a sport coat and tie, lying on the bench with the tied-up teachers, his face only partially visible.
    “One of the teachers, obviously,” said the president.
    “Why, obviously? Look at the way he’s dressed. Look at that sport coat—it’s an Armani, costs two thousand bucks. Middle