Deception Point (39 page)

William Pickering had been devastated. The anguish overwhelmed him for weeks. When the terrorist attack was traced to a known cell whom the CIA had been tracking unsuccessfully for years, Pickering’s sadness turned into rage. He had marched into CIA headquarters and demanded answers.

The answers he got were hard to swallow.

Apparently the CIA had been prepared to move on this cell months before and was simply waiting for the high-res satellite photos so that they could plan a pinpoint attack on the terrorists’ mountain hideout in Afghanistan. Those photos were scheduled to be taken by the $1.2 billion NRO satellite codenamed
Vortex 2, the same satellite that had been blown up on the launchpad by its NASA launch vehicle. Because of the NASA accident, the CIA strike had been postponed, and now Diana Pickering had died.

Pickering’s mind told him that NASA had not been directly responsible, but his heart found it hard to forgive. The investigation of the rocket explosion revealed that the NASA engineers responsible for the fuel injections system had been forced to use second-rate materials in an effort to stay on budget.

“For nonmanned flights,” Lawrence Ekstrom explained in a press conference, “NASA strives for cost-effectiveness above all. In this case, the results were admittedly not optimal. We will be looking into it.”

Not optimal.
Diana Pickering was dead.

Furthermore, because the spy satellite was classified, the public never learned that NASA had disintegrated a $1.2 billion NRO project, and along with it, indirectly, numerous American lives.

“Sir?” Pickering’s secretary’s voice came over his intercom, startling him. “Line one. It’s Marjorie Tench.”

Pickering shook himself out of his daze and looked at his telephone.
Again?
The blinking light on line one seemed to pulse with an irate urgency. Pickering frowned and took the call.

“Pickering here.”

Tench’s voice was seething mad. “What did she tell you?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Rachel Sexton contacted you. What did she tell you? She was on a submarine, for God’s sake! Explain that!”

Pickering could tell immediately that denying the fact was not an option; Tench had been doing her homework. Pickering was surprised she’d found out about the
Charlotte,
but she’d apparently thrown her weight around until she got some answers. “Ms. Sexton contacted me, yes.”

“You arranged a pickup. And you didn’t contact me?”

“I arranged transport. That is correct.” Two hours remained until Rachel Sexton, Michael Tolland, and Corky Marlinson were scheduled to arrive at the nearby Bolling Air Force Base.

“And yet you chose not to inform me?”

“Rachel Sexton has made some very disturbing accusations.”

“Regarding the authenticity of the meteorite . . . and some kind of attack on her life?”

“Among other things.”

“Obviously, she is lying.”

“You are aware she is with two others who corroborate her story?”

Tench paused. “Yes. Most disturbing. The White House is very concerned by their claims.”

“The White House? Or you personally?”

Her tone turned razor sharp. “As far as you are concerned, director, there is no difference tonight.”

Pickering was unimpressed. He was no stranger to blustering politicians and support staff trying to establish footholds over the intel community. Few put up as strong a front as Marjorie Tench. “Does the President know you’re calling me?”

“Frankly, director, I’m shocked that you would even entertain these lunatic ravings.”

You didn’t answer my question.
“I see no logical reason for these people to lie. I have to assume they are either telling the truth, or they have made an honest mistake.”

“Mistake? Claims of attacks? Flaws in the meteorite data that NASA never saw? Please! This is an obvious political ploy.”

“If so, the motives escape me.”

Tench sighed heavily and lowered her voice. “Director, there are forces at work here of which you might not be aware. We can speak about that at length later, but at the moment I need to know where Ms. Sexton and the others are. I need to get to the bottom of this before they do any lasting damage. Where are they?”

“That is not information I am comfortable sharing. I will contact you after they arrive.”

“Wrong. I will be there to greet them when they arrive.”

You and how many Secret Service agents?
Pickering wondered. “If I inform you of their arrival time and location, will we all have a chance to chat like friends, or do you intend to have a private army take them into custody?”

“These people pose a direct threat to the President. The White House has every right to detain and question them.”

Pickering knew she was right. Under Title 18, Section 3056 of the United States Code, agents of the U.S. Secret Service can carry firearms, use deadly force, and make “un-warranted” arrests simply on suspicion that a person has committed or is intending to commit a felony or any act of aggression against the president. The service possessed carte blanche. Regular detainees included unsavory loiterers outside the White House and school kids who sent threatening e-mail pranks.

Pickering had no doubt the service could justify dragging Rachel Sexton and the others into the basement of the White House and keeping them there indefinitely. It would be a dangerous play, but Tench clearly realized the stakes were huge. The question was what would happen next if Pickering allowed Tench to take control. He had no intention of finding out.

“I will do whatever is necessary,” Tench declared, “to protect the President from false accusations. The mere implication of foul play will cast a heavy shadow on the White House and NASA. Rachel Sexton has abused the trust the President gave her, and I have no intention of seeing the President pay the price.”

“And if I request that Ms. Sexton be permitted to present her case to an official panel of inquiry?”

“Then you would be disregarding a direct presidential order and giving her a platform from which to make a goddamn political mess! I will ask you one more time, director. Where are you flying them?”

Pickering exhaled a long breath. Whether or not he told Marjorie Tench that the plane was coming into Bolling Air Force Base, he knew she had the means to find out. The question was whether or not she would do it. He sensed from the determination in her voice that she would not rest. Marjorie Tench was scared.

“Marjorie,” Pickering said, with unmistakable clarity of tone. “Someone is lying to me. Of this I am certain. Either it is Rachel Sexton and two civilian scientists—or it is you. I believe it is you.”

Tench exploded. “How dare—”

“Your indignity has no resonance with me, so save it. You would be wise to know that I have absolute proof NASA and the White House broadcast untruths tonight.”

Tench fell suddenly silent.

Pickering let her reel a moment. “I’m not looking for a political meltdown any more than you are. But there have been lies. Lies that cannot stand. If you want me to help you, you’ve got to start by being honest with me.”

Tench sounded tempted but wary. “If you’re so certain there were lies, why haven’t you stepped forward?”

“I don’t interfere in political matters.”

Tench muttered something that sounded a lot like “bullshit.”

“Are you trying to tell me, Marjorie, that the President’s announcement tonight was entirely accurate?”

There was a long silence on the line.

Pickering knew he had her. “Listen, we both know this is a time bomb waiting to explode. But it’s not too late. There are compromises we can make.”

Tench said nothing for several seconds. Finally she sighed. “We should meet.”

Touchdown,
Pickering thought.

“I have something to show you,” Tench said. “And I believe it will shed some light on this matter.”

“I’ll come to your office.”

“No,” she said hurriedly. “It’s late. Your presence here would raise concerns. I’d prefer to keep this matter between us.”

Pickering read between the lines.
The President knows nothing about this.
“You’re welcome to come here,” he said.

Tench sounded distrusting. “Let’s meet somewhere discreet.”

Pickering had expected as much.

“The FDR Memorial is convenient to the White House,” Tench said. “It will be empty at this time of night.”

Pickering considered it. The FDR Memorial sat midway between the Jefferson and Lincoln memorials, in an extremely safe part of town. After a long beat, Pickering agreed.

“One hour,” Tench said, signing off. “And come alone.”

•   •   •

Immediately upon hanging up, Marjorie Tench phoned NASA administrator Ekstrom. Her voice was tight as she relayed the bad news.

“Pickering could be a problem.”

G
abrielle Ashe was brimming with new hope as she stood at Yolanda Cole’s desk in the ABC production room and dialed directory assistance.

The allegations Sexton had just conveyed to her, if confirmed, had shocking potential.
NASA lied about PODS?
Gabrielle had seen the press conference in question and recalled thinking it was odd, and yet she’d forgotten all about it; PODS was not a critical issue a few weeks ago. Tonight, however, PODS had become
the
issue.

Now Sexton needed inside information, and he needed it fast. He was relying on Gabrielle’s “informant” to get the information. Gabrielle had assured the senator she would do her best. The problem, of course, was that her informant was Marjorie Tench, who would be no help at all. So Gabrielle would have to get the information another way.

“Directory assistance,” the voice on the phone said.

Gabrielle told them what she needed. The operator came back with three listings for a Chris Harper in Washington. Gabrielle tried them all.

The first number was a law firm. The second had no answer. The third was now ringing.

A woman answered on the first ring. “Harper residence.”

“Mrs. Harper?” Gabrielle said as politely as possible. “I hope I haven’t woken you?”

“Heavens no! I don’t think anyone’s asleep tonight.” She sounded excited. Gabrielle could hear the television in the
background. Meteorite coverage. “You’re calling for Chris, I assume?”

Gabrielle’s pulse quickened. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m afraid Chris isn’t here. He raced off to work as soon as the President’s address was over.” The woman chuckled to herself. “Of course, I doubt there’s any work going on. Most likely a party. The announcement came as quite a surprise to him, you know. To everyone. Our phone’s been ringing all night. I bet the whole NASA crew’s over there by now.”

“E Street complex?” Gabrielle asked, assuming the woman meant NASA headquarters.

“Righto. Take a party hat.”

“Thanks. I’ll track him down over there.”

Gabrielle hung up. She hurried out onto the production room floor and found Yolanda, who was just finishing prepping a group of space experts who were about to give enthusiastic commentary on the meteorite.

Yolanda smiled when she saw Gabrielle coming. “You look better,” she said. “Starting to see the silver lining here?”

“I just talked to the senator. His meeting tonight wasn’t what I thought.”

“I told you Tench was playing you. How’s the senator taking the meteorite news?”

“Better than expected.”

Yolanda looked surprised. “I figured he’d jumped in front of a bus by now.”

“He thinks there may be a snag in the NASA data.”

Yolanda let out a dubious snort. “Did he see the same press conference I just saw? How much more confirmation and re-confirmation can anyone need?”

“I’m going over to NASA to check on something.”

Yolanda’s penciled eyebrows raised in cautionary arches. “Senator Sexton’s right-hand aide is going to march into NASA headquarters? Tonight? Can you say ‘public stoning’?”

Gabrielle told Yolanda about Sexton’s suspicion that the PODS section manager Chris Harper had lied about fixing the anomaly software.

Yolanda clearly wasn’t buying it. “We covered that press
conference, Gabs, and I’ll admit, Harper was not himself that night, but NASA said he was sick as a dog.”

“Senator Sexton is convinced he lied. Others are convinced too. Powerful people.”

“If the PODS anomaly-detection software wasn’t fixed, how did PODS spot the meteorite?”

Sexton’s point exactly,
Gabrielle thought. “I don’t know. But the senator wants me to get him some answers.”

Yolanda shook her head. “Sexton is sending you into a hornet’s nest on a desperate pipe dream. Don’t go. You don’t owe him a thing.”

“I totally screwed up his campaign.”

“Rotten luck screwed up his campaign.”

“But if the senator is right and the PODS section manager actually lied—”

“Honey, if the PODS section manager lied to the world, what makes you think he’ll tell
you
the truth.”

Gabrielle had considered that and was already formulating her plan. “If I find a story over there, I’ll call you.”

Yolanda gave a skeptical laugh. “If you find a story over there, I’ll eat my hat.”

E
rase everything you know about this rock sample.

Michael Tolland had been struggling with his own disquieting ruminations about the meteorite, but now, with Rachel’s probing questions, he was feeling an added unease over the issue. He looked down at the rock slice in his hand.

Pretend someone handed it to you with no explanation of where it was found or what it is. What would your analysis be?

Rachel’s question, Tolland knew, was loaded, and yet as an analytical exercise, it proved powerful. By discarding all the data he
had been given on his arrival at the habisphere, Tolland had to admit that his analysis of the fossils was profoundly biased by a singular premise—that the rock in which the fossils were found was a meteorite.

What if I had NOT been told about the meteorite?
he asked himself. Although still unable to fathom any other explanation, Tolland allowed himself the leeway of hypothetically removing “the meteorite” as a presupposition, and when he did, the results were somewhat unsettling. Now Tolland and Rachel, joined by a groggy Corky Marlinson, were discussing the ideas.