Free White: A Novel by Christopher Whitcomb Page B

storm.
    Daddy’s home!
Jeremy could hear his kids yelling as he played out the homecoming in a slow-moving daydream.
Daddy’s home!
    Caroline and the kids would be there at the front door when he walked in. He’d called them with a flight number and an ETA, hoping to make it somewhat close to on-time. He’d missed so many of these welcome-home parties, flying off from one mission to another without even stopping for a hug and change of clothes.
    Daddy’s home!
he heard himself calling out. The 747’s landing gear whistled as the pilot alternately throttled up and back, trying to gauge the miserable conditions.
    Jeremy watched snow streak his frosted window, imagining that his suburban DC home lay out there beneath him. The roads would be a nightmare, he knew, but that would barely slow him down. Tonight, nothing was going to come between this endlessly traveling FBI agent and a family that still found ways to love him.
    VENABLE LOOKED BRAVE yet caring; angry yet composed. Like the best of politicians, he made up for in appearance what he lacked in ability, but according to the FBI and CIA, the government, this series of bombings may be just the beginning of something much worse.
    “You know, it’s damn scary to sit here behind the curtains, watching the Wizard pull the levers,” James said as he and Beechum watched the speech. “You want to believe in your government and all its resources, but then you see what really goes on behind the scenes and wonder what in hell keeps it all together.”
    James had worked in Washington long enough to understand that no one person ever had all the answers. The “big picture” was a myth; to chase it, folly. “He looks good, but when it comes right down to it, this guy is way out over his skis. We’re in trouble here, aren’t we?”
    “There’s something you need to know, James,” Beechum said. She stood up from her chair, still focused on the television screen. “Something that stays between us. Something the president himself doesn’t know.”
    This man had served her for more than ten years and had led her through a scandal that almost ruined her life. She knew no closer confidant.
    “Mahar is dead.”
    James lifted his shoulders.
    “I know. I saw that in the Blue Thing forty minutes ago. I’m sure the president plans to announce it during the speech.”
    “Hear me out,” Beechum said. She began to pace as she so often did. “There’s more that you’re not going to read in any intelligence briefing.”
    “Are you sure you want to tell me this?” James asked. He well remembered his boss’s iron-fisted adherence to security protocols. “I don’t have the proper clearances for matters this sensitive.”
    “There are no clearances for matters this sensitive,” she said in a soft but direct tone. “It happened Sunday morning near a little hut compound in the jungles of Indonesia.”
    “Agency?” James asked. “The CIA seems to get most of these gigs, nowadays.”
    “They had an element in the assault team, but several different entities played a role. None of them will ever admit to it, but . . .”
    “A black op,” James assumed. He decided to let further inquiry pass.
    Beechum nodded. She looked deep in thought.
    “Mahar had three Americans with him when he died.”
    She spit out the words as if they tasted bad in her mouth.
    “Americans?” James reacted. “Are you sure?”
    “Good ol’ boy, Wonder Bread white, catfish jiggin’, tobacco-chewing Billy Bob rednecks. Saw them with my own eyes.”
    “My God.”
    “I know. We’ve never seen any intelligence suggesting that al Qaeda or any of its surrogates had recruited American players. Not Anglos, anyway.”
    “Who?” James asked. “John Walker Lindh types?”
    “No.” Beechum shook her head. “Something more . . .”
    Her voice trailed off.
    “Have we interrogated these men? Surely we can get some answers out of them.”
    Beechum stopped pacing and turned toward her top aide.
    “What