“How did you get back into the house?” Caruso demanded, looking back over his shoulder as they entered the garage.
Harry snorted, opening the door of his sedan. “Wouldn’t you just love to know. Get in, you’re driving.”
A man in the treeline across the road watched through binoculars as the garage door opened and the two men drove out onto the road. “Get Director Haskel on the phone. Agent Caruso is in CIA custody.”
“What is the Bureau doing running an investigation of our operators?” David Lay wondered aloud, looking up from his desk into the eyes of Ron Carter.
“I don’t know, sir. Nichols and this Agent Caruso just arrived at the main gate, so we may get some answers soon.”
“He brought him here?”
“Yes, sir. I authorized the visitor’s pass for Caruso, although I’m told Nichols has him in handcuffs.”
The DCIA chuckled. “An FBI agent in irons. That alone should be worth the price of admission.”
The phone on his desk buzzed and he picked it up. “Sir,” his secretary began, “I have Director Eric Haskel on line 4.”
Lay rolled his eyes. “That didn’t take long. Put him through.”
The phone beeped twice and then the transfer was complete. “Good morning, Eric,” Lay greeted cheerfully.
The FBI director did not reciprocate. “I’m informed that you have one of my people, Lay. An agent named Victor Caruso.”
“Your sources are good, Eric. I was only told fifteen minutes ago myself.”
“I want him released. At once.”
The congeniality went out of Lay’s voice. “ And I’d like to know why your agents have been pulling black bag jobs on my men. Any answers?”
A long silence. “Let me place a call.”
“To whom? Blast it, Eric, who authorized this operation?”
“Let’s set up a video-conference for nine o’clock,” Director Haskel said after a moment. “I will then read you in on the operation, if I am authorized to do so.”
Lay looked up at Ron and shook his head, puzzled by the words of the Bureau chief. “I want Ron Carter and Harold Nichols read in as well.”
When Haskel responded, there was uncertainty in his voice. “I’ll get back to you.”
“That’s where we stand, Mr. President,” Cahill announced, moving back from the whiteboard he had been writing on. “As of today. With a month to go.”
“Problem areas, Ian?” Hancock asked, leaning forward on the couch. He covered a yawn with his hand. Late nights and early mornings would be the death of him, but she had made him feel young again.
“A number of them, Mr. President, and regrettably, many of them are beyond our control.”
“Such as?”
“The price of oil, for example,” Cahill responded, taking the red marker in his hand and underlining an item on the board. The chief of staff was old school and avoided powerpoint presentations as though they were the work of the devil. “It’s hitting Americans below the belt every time they fuel up. And they’re going to remember this on Election Day. I have the Gallup poll here on your handling of the economy. Thirty-two percent approval, Mr. President. I don’t have to tell you how bad that is. And while your latest stimulus package met with a mixed reception on Main Street, there’s not a thing you can do regarding the price of oil.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Hancock said, his voice quiet.
Cahill turned toward him. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean things may turn around in the Middle East.” The President shrugged. “There’s always that possibility.”
A snort came from the Chicago strategist. “As long as those Jews squat on the Muslim promised land? Not very likely. I’ll tell you what you
“And that would be?”
“Stop bedding young staffers and spend some time with your wife, take her on a romantic weekend getaway, anything-I’m telling you, Roger, if any of this gets out, this close to the election…you are
Hancock chuckled. “I know you were a top student in parochial school, Ian, but your Latin is less than impressive.”
“You’re not taking this seriously,” Cahill retorted, disbelief in his tones.
The President rose and crossed the room to place his finger on the whiteboard. “Oil, Ian. If the price of oil went through the floor, if Americans could fill up their cars for what they could six, even seven years ago-what would you give our chances?”
“The economy’s just a part of it, but with a drop in gasoline prices and barring a sex scandal, I’d say we had it in the bag. Norton’s good, but he doesn’t have anything to beat that.”
“Consider it done,” Hancock responded, enjoying the incredulous look on Cahill’s face. It was a rare sight.
The phone rang before the chief of staff could pose the question forming on his lips. “FBI Director Eric Haskel on line 2, Mr. President.”
“Put him through.”
