Free Sabotage by Dale Wiley Page A

do.”
    “If you’re in Chesterfield, go in the mall there. It’s right off Highway 40. If you’re coming east, you’ll see it on your right. Exit 19. There’s a massage place inside. Bottom floor. I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes or half an hour. Tell the man there that you are meeting me, and he will put you in a back room.”
    Naseem didn’t like it as a meeting place and thought about asking Grant how he knew this man, but he thought better of it. It would give him his first opportunity to begin cataloging his thoughts. If Grant turned out to no longer be the greatest of agents, he could always use that to his advantage as well.

 
     

     

Nineteen
     
     
    P resident Alexander Morgan had no idea what to do. There were not many times in his long and story-filled life this was the case. No one to name and blame, which was almost never true, and, apparently, there was no end in sight. Seventeen attacks, and the only lead whatsoever was from a disgraced agent more famous than some of his cabinet members. An agent supposedly getting tips from one of the terrorists sounded like the worst Trojan Horse scenario since, well, the first Trojan Horse.
    It was dry throat, sweats, and heart pains—all-or-nothing—time. It was a Cuban Missile Crisis, a Pearl Harbor, a 9/11. The time never really came in his first seven years in office, and now it was the time that would define him.
    There was no historical precedent for this and no presidential model he could turn to. Information changed the presidency more than anything else. It crippled Clinton. It befuddled Bush. Now, he had the first truly post-modern presidency in which the terrorist owned the same press opportunities as the president. Morgan was scheduled to speak to the nation in twenty minutes, and he had absolutely nothing to say. He bankrolled speechwriters who normally allowed him to say nothing very well, but, today, in his opinion, nothing seemed good enough.
    The master of the political game, now toward the end of his second term, quit being quite so divisive, always his suit in trade. He wanted to strike a different tone in this situation in particular, being very careful now to craft a certain image for history to remember him by. He wanted to be bold and presidential and well aware of how these strikes, if they continued, would spur terror into the hearts of his people. The strikes were everywhere, and they were not limited to the coasts. They seemed, at this point, to be limitless, and they didn’t seem to be a political statement, unless the statement was of coercing utter anarchy.
    They were in the situation room, a sleek and modern room that was in direct opposition to the staid nature of most of the White House. The vice president had been shuffled off to parts unknown, and Morgan was left with his core staff, version 2.0. He still missed the grizzled veterans he put out of their misery after the first term. He wished they were here now. He really wished for their counsel.
    “What do we do with Miller?” the press secretary, a handsome dolt named Steve Sanders, asked.
    Dear God, who invited him? What a stupid question. The man was talking to the terrorists and was the only one to have a nibble. He was saving lives. The president knew every PR angle known to man and knew how to spin a story, but there was clearly nothing that they could “do with Miller.” He would have to be watched closely, but, unless he unveiled a dynamite vest, they weren’t about to do a damn thing.
    “We don’t have to do anything right now. He’s supposed to make contact in a short time,” he clipped his words dismissively, hoping this piss-ant would get the hint.
    Sanders didn’t. “You know how this is going to look if it gets out that he’s the lead.”
    The president started to open his mouth, but Vanessa stepped in, like she always did.
    “I really don’t think you can worry about that right now, Steve,” said Chief of Staff Vanessa Jones, who always