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I
Four Months Later
"THE COMMITTEE WILL come to order."
United States Senator Elizabeth Beechum, a Democrat from South Carolina, tapped a wooden gavel and stared out over S-407, a Capitol hearing room reserved for top secret briefings. The space felt typically quiet this morning, barren of the reporters, pool cameras, and curious tourists common to other congressional forums.
"Good morning, gentlemen," she said, noting that of the twenty-odd people in the room, she was once again the only woman. Typical, she thought. She'd seen progress during her twenty-three years in Washington, but Congress remained the world's most powerful boys' club. The fact that a Republican Senate had elected her to a third consecutive term as committee chair --- the only such cross-party vote in anyone's memory --- had little to do with gender. She was a consummate professional in a world that spoke its own language, handed out secrets grudgingly, and demanded uncompromising allegiance to rules. Even the Republicans knew they needed her.
"Before we get started, I want to read into record that this is the United States Senate Select Committee on Intelligence." The four-term senator spoke loudly and with a refined Southern lilt. "Today's session is a closed hearing on technology matters. All minutes, conversations, and proceedings are classified top secret, in their entirety."
Beechum read in the date, the time, and a list of the witnesses seated in front of her. There were two representatives from CIA and one each from the National Security Agency, the Defense Intelligence Agency, the FBI, and the Department of Homeland Security. She called out the names quickly, like a homeroom teacher reciting the roll. This was rote process, an administrative speed bump she'd bounced over a thousand times before.
"I want to thank you all for coming today," Beechum added, slightly distracted. The committee's six other members settled into their seats as she glanced down at the morning's Washington Post, which lay discreetly propped against her knees.
BEECHUM AND VENABLE LOCKED IN DEAD HEAT, the top headline proclaimed. Despite Democratic efforts to pick a presidential nominee by the end of March, the race still looked too close to call. Connecticut governor David Ray Venable held on to a four-delegate lead, but party officials from California to New Hampshire were vowing to vote their conscience and Washington was awash in speculation. With a month to go before the Democratic National Convention, Beechum knew that the slightest turn in momentum --- just one decent news cycle --- could make her the first woman ever to lead a major party's bid for the White House.
"Let me say that we are particularly honored to have a special guest with us this morning," she said, trying to concentrate on the matters at hand. "Mr. Jordan Mitchell."
She nodded toward an elegantly dressed executive perched at a witness table directly across from her. Mitchell's perfectly groomed shock of white hair, John Dean glasses, and bespoke suit stood out in bold contrast to the lineup of military uniforms and drab, government-grade polyester.
"Welcome, Mr. Mitchell," the senator said. "It's nice of you to join us."
Jordan Mitchell needed no further introduction. As chief executive officer and majority stockholder of Borders Atlantic, the world's largest telecommunications company, he rivaled Bill Gates as the best known of America's billionaires. His How to Succeed in Business books often ranked among the year's bestsellers; his high-profile acquisitions filled financial pages around the world. Magazines often fawned over his triumphs. He'd been profiled by 60 Minutes. Twice.
"Good morning, Madam Chair," he said, smiling. "I want to tell you what an honor it is to testify before your committee. I've long admired your objectivity and foresight in safeguarding this great nation. And I want to add that you look even more . . . engaging in person than on TV."
Charmer, Beechum noted in the margins of her agenda. Fortunately, he wasn't her type. Men like Jordan Mitchell condescended to women, rebuffed oversight, and largely ignored any authority greater than their own. He lived for himself in a secular world of bottom lines, balance sheets, and cost-benefit analyses. She'd seen enough of his kind during her two decades in Congress. His money and power singled him out in the business world, but it would serve him poorly in here.
"Thank you, I'm sure," Beechum replied, trying to sound flattered. "This committee certainly appreciates your cooperation. I understand you canceled a trip to Dubai so you could join us."
Mitchell nodded his head. He saw no need to elaborate.
"I want to assure you, as I said before," Beechum continued, "that our discussions are classified in their entirety and will not leave this room. We all understand the sensitivities of this issue and want to make you feel comfortable being completely candid."
Mitchell smiled politely. He felt comfortable in Washington, but only while clinging to two steadfast tenets: (1) never trust a politician and (2) never say anything you don't want to hear on CNN two hours later. Jordan Mitchell had billions of dollars resting on the new initiative they'd invited him in to discuss, and there was no way he was going to tell Beechum or her cronies anything that would place it in jeopardy.
"If I may . . . ," a voice interrupted.
Oh, hell, here it comes. Beechum winced. She turned toward Marcellus Parsons, the senior Republican from Montana. The tall, lanky cattleman adjusted his bolo tie, cleared his throat, and fired up his Big Sky hubris.
"I want to tell you, sir," Parsons said, "what a distinct honor it is to have a man of your singular accomplishment before this committee. The new Secure Burst Transmission --- or SBT --- phones that your company has developed will reestablish the United States as the preeminent leader in the worldwide telecommunications industry. We're honored by your presence."
Beechum tried not to choke on Parsons's kowtow. He was right, of course, about the technology. That's why they were here: Mitchell's company had developed a totally secure, low-cost encryption system that would allow virtually any subscriber to communicate without fear of interception. It worked as well on cell phones and landlines as it did in cyberspace and would be a boon to businesspeople, Internet marketers, and personal privacy advocates.
Unfortunately, terrorists, criminals, foreign governments --- anyone capable of shelling out $59.99 a month --- would enjoy the same protections. Unless Mitchell shared his secrets with U.S. intelligence agencies, Borders Atlantic would set back signals interception efforts by twenty-five years.
"Why don't we get started, then," Beechum suggested. "Mr. Mitchell, I believe you understand our concerns about this new Secure Burst Transmission technology. The United States government spends tens of billions of dollars each year gathering information on offensive foreign powers. As the rest of our witnesses will attest, signals intelligence accounts for almost eighty percent of our overall information-gathering capability. It's a vital part of our national defense."
The committee's witnesses --- all government scientists and intelligence program managers --- suddenly straightened to bent-leg attention, hoping Beechum would call on them for support. Each of them knew that these hearings carried real consequence. They all wanted to contribute.
"I would like to point out," Parsons fumed, "that not all statements by the chair represent the intentions or opinions of the committee." He cleared his throat again and nodded directly at Mitchell. "I, for one, hold dear the First, Fourth, and Fifth Amendment protections guaranteed in our Constitution and want to remind everyone of this country's proud traditions of innovation and enterprise."
Beechum tossed down her pen and shook her head. She poorly tolerated attempts to grandstand, especially when they implied any lack of respect for the Constitution.
"Senator, this is not about the Bill of Rights . . . ," she replied, but Parsons interrupted.
"Then what is it? How does the United States Senate drag in one of this nation's most prominent businessmen and accuse him of --- "
"I accused him of nothing, Senator," Beechum barked. "I simply --- "
"Please, Madam Chair . . . Senator Parsons." Jordan Mitchell raised his hands like a referee stepping in to break up a clinch. These legislators hadn't even made opening statements yet, and they were already starting to kidney punch and bite.
"I understand both sides of this issue," he said with the same avuncular confidence he used to sell books and cell phones, "but I think it is important to point out that these same objections have been raised with each major communications advance since the telegraph. Every time private industry comes up with something new, the government cries out that it will stymie their efforts to protect the greater good of the people. You cannot expect the technology sector to maintain superiority over foreign competitors then rein us in when our efforts exceed your ability to manage them."
"We are at war, Mr. Mitchell," Beechum chided. "With terrorism. I can't show you the actual intelligence, but the FBI and CIA have credible and specific evidence of plans to strike a major American financial institution within the next few months. These SBT phones you are looking to introduce would give terrorists free lines of communication and make our job much more difficult. It could cost lives."
Parsons bristled at her preaching. Like others on the House and Senate intelligence committees, he had received classified briefings about what was now known informally in Washington as "Matrix 1016" --- an SCI, or Secure Compartmented Information, report regarding efforts by a little-known Saudi fundamentalist cell to attack or disrupt the Federal Reserve. Nothing in what Parsons had read pointed to specific dates, times, or methods for this long-lead plot, and nothing in that report gave Elizabeth Beechum the right to give one of America's leading entrepreneurs a civics lesson.
"This committee's primary concern is oversight, not regulation," Parsons argued. "One of our most important functions is to prevent abuses of power, to make sure this government never oversteps its authority. I see no correlation between any classified intelligence reports and Mr. Mitchell's new phone system."
"Senators, if I may," Mitchell interjected. "I fully understand that we are at war with terrorism and that we all have individual responsibilities. The problem is that we can't stop technological advancement in the name of security. Private industry would never have developed the Internet, microwave-based communications, satellites . . . hundreds of remarkable inventions, if scientists were held to some government-administered litmus test."
"This is different," Beechum argued. She had worked her entire career in the intelligence community and knew its back alleys and mirrored hallways better than anyone else on the Hill. "Signals intelligence is our most effective weapon against terrorism, and you are rendering it obsolete."
"Please," Mitchell said incredulously. "Intelligence agencies have always found ways to defeat sophisticated encryption. Look at the FBI's Carnivore program and the NSA's Echelon system. Both were created to eavesdrop on otherwise secure communications, and both have been very effective. Yet, people have a reasonable expectation of privacy on their phones and computers, and fortunately for the consumer, my company has come up with a way to restore it. That's not treason . . . that's good business."
"We're not trying to infringe on America's right to privacy," Beechum huffed. Two decades on the Hill had given her a rock-steady sense of national security and a keen eye for bull. "We're protecting our responsibility to investigate and gather intelligence."
"I understand that," he said. "But you are an elected public servant, and Borders Atlantic is a private business with shareholders, a board of directors, market analysts, and lawyers --- all of whom tell us that we have the legal and ethical right to develop this technology." He paused for effect. "If you feel it necessary to try to dissect our new SBT technology, jump right in line with our competitors, but please don't make Borders Atlantic a campaign slogan for this year's elections. Do not vilify us for political gain."
Beechum rocked back in her chair, stunned at his strident arrogance. She planned to challenge an increasingly vulnerable president in the fall. Mitchell was taking one hell of a chance in goading her.
"You don't really believe that, do you?" she asked. "You don't really think that the right to make a dollar should override the government's right to protect itself."
"I'm a businessman, Senator, not a spy." Mitchell looked Beechum straight in the eye when he said it, and she felt his power. This man had $47 billion in personal wealth and a huge multinational company behind him. He bowed to no one.
"Mr. Mitchell has a valid point," Parsons interjected. "This new encryption technology will mean thousands of new jobs, billions of dollars in revenue, trade parity, market share . . ."
"And two new factories in your district!" The words jumped from Beechum's mouth before she could gather them back.
Parsons stared at her, as did the other sixteen members of the committee. Politicians often threw mud, but not over pork. Everyone in politics knew that constituents voted their pocketbooks. There wasn't an elected official alive who wouldn't have welcomed factories like Mitchell's into their district.
"I would think," Parsons growled, "that the esteemed senator from South Carolina might consider her advocacy and protection of the tobacco industry before casting stones about factories in Montana."
What had started as a quiet hearing was fast degenerating into a slugfest.
"Borders Atlantic is proud to bring nearly fifteen hundred new jobs to an economically challenged region of the United States." Mitchell nodded, ever the tactician. "We could have built additional plants in Thailand or Mexico or even China, but we chose to stay with the world's most productive workforce. In fact, we pledge to keep all new high-paying technology jobs inside the United States, where they belong."
Bravo, Beechum thought. He had prepared well.
"It's not the factories I object to, Mr. Mitchell; it's the technology behind them. None of these jobs will matter much if the Americans working there have to live in constant fear of terrorism."
She stopped herself short of proselytizing. "Before we nominate Mr. Mitchell for sainthood," Beechum said, "there are still some questions the committee and I would like to ask."
"I have all morning, Senator," Mitchell answered. He nodded to Parsons and the rest of the committee, professional yet almost shamelessly nonchalant.
Beechum's legislative assistant, a Harvard man in a club tie and a wrinkled Lands' End button-down, leaned toward her with a stack of briefing papers, statistics, facts, and accusations. One of the folders --- a top secret national security assessment --- offered her all the ammunition necessary to knock Mitchell right onto the seat of his hand-tailored pants, but there was no point in playing her trump card yet. Without television cameras and politically savvy reporters, these hearings amounted to nothing more than a backroom pose-down.
Senator Beechum laid down her pen and took a drink of water. She was a Democrat in a land ruled by Republicans, and now they were declaring war on her authority. So what? she thought. This bastard was good, but she was better.
"BEEF! BEEF! BEEF!"
Jeremy Waller pushed his way through a crowd of men, trying to find a better view. Fifty HRT operators huddled near a kids' swing set outside a split-level rambler in a Virginia subdivision called Hampton Oaks. All HRT personnel were required to live near the team's training compound on the Quantico Marine Corps Base, facilitating quick response, and this was close enough to walk. Jeremy had just moved his family into a similar house down the street.
"You got 'em, Big Man!" someone yelled.
The focus of everyone's attention seemed to be Albert Devroux, a Charlie Team assaulter, better known among HRT operators as "Beef." At six foot three, 268 pounds, he still looked more like the kid in his Naval Academy football team photo than an FBI agent. His flattop haircut glistened in the withering afternoon sun. Sweat flowed in streams down the back of his pockmarked neck. Dirt and grass stained the knees of his khaki pants. He'd tried this once already.
"What's the course, and what's the record?" one of his teammates demanded.
Beef stared back into the man's eyes, breathing heavily, trying to match his intensity. It was a rhetorical question, of course --- the kind of thing men say to each other when they don't want to admit they're scared.
The "course" looked pretty straightforward. Beef stood behind a starting gate fashioned from croquet wickets and a garden rake. A well-worn path led across his back lawn, between the swing set and the trampoline, to an old hula hoop and a white plastic patio chair. Right in the middle of the seat rested a clear plastic cup filled to the rim with ice-cold Michelob.
The rules were simple: each competitor would get two attempts to run out to the hula hoop, complete a single push-up, then sit in the chair and chug the beer. Each run would be timed. The fastest time would win.
The problem --- and there was always a problem in HRT contests --- amounted to the location of the hoop and the chair. Albert had just recently installed an invisible dog fence around his yard, and the hoop lay dead center atop the underground shock cord.
Everyone would still be eating burgers and corn if one of the wives hadn't complained that electric shock training seemed like a cruel way to treat the family pet. Albert pointed out that he had already tried it on himself and found the shock only mildly uncomfortable. That claim led to challenge. Challenge led to rules. Rules led to competition, and within twenty minutes, every man at the party had poured outside to test himself against the invisible fence.
Jeremy knew that participation in this contest put him in a tough position. As a probationary member of HRT's New Operator Training School (or NOTS), he still hadn't earned full membership in the elite club. The veteran agents standing around him would expect full effort, but they would not appreciate being upstaged by one of the "fucking new guys." With graduation just three days away, Jeremy had to find a way to do his best without antagonizing the men who would control his fate for the next five or six years.
"Come on, baby, you can do it!"
Albert's wife, Priscilla, hollered down to him from the back deck. Most HRT wives wouldn't have interfered at a moment like this, but she stood above the fray like a battle warden, waving a barbecue spatula with one hand and tending Beef Jr. with the other. She couldn't have cared less about decorum; this was a matter of pride.
Jeremy found a place at the edge of the crowd and shook his head. Whatever the contest, HRT operators wielded their survival-of-the-fittest mentality like a broadsword. Perhaps it made sense on some level. Only one person comes in first at a gunfight. Second place rarely matters.
"Are . . . you . . . ready?"
Beef rolled his head around on his broad shoulders, clapped his hands together, and nodded. The smell of crab cakes and pork barbecue floated out over the back lawn. Small packs of kids dashed in and out of the crowd, oblivious to the war brewing around them.
"On your mark . . ."
Quinny, a navy grad himself, stood next to the starter's box with one hand on Albert's shoulder and the other on a stopwatch.
"Get set . . ."
The crowd quieted. Priscilla Devroux lowered her spatula.
"Go!"
The place went nuts. Fifty men and assorted sons called out like spectators at a rock fight. "Beef! Beef! Beef!" they yelled, waving their fists in the air and laughing at his misery.
He moved slowly at first, measuring himself. The first eight or ten steps were easy, but as he got closer, the collar started to growl down low beneath his ears. After that, every step got harder. The growl turned to shock. A steady current of pain shot through his body, overriding natural electric impulses, turning muscles against themselves.
Beef tried to pick up speed. He knew that the big muscle groups would fail first. The legs. The back. They would cramp up and make it tough to continue, no matter how hard his mind pressed him forward.
He leaned all 268 pounds of muscle and bone into the contest. This was it, he told himself. Priscilla was watching. His fellow assaulters were cheering. Hell, all of HRT was counting on him. If Albert didn't make it into the chair, a NOThead might actually lay claim to the Top Dog trophy. In the twenty-one-year history of HRT, that had never happened.
Beef crossed the lawn, dived into the circle, struggled to his knees, and managed to get both hands flat on the ground.
Just one push-up, he coached himself. Just one. The beer drinking would be easy.
TWO HUNDRED THIRTY-FOUR miles south of Quantico, outside Raleigh, North Carolina, seven corporate executives gathered in a professional park for a little game of their own. The D'Artagnon Center looked like a thousand other office parks, a half dozen single-story pods with shingled roofs, big windows, and lots of parking. Dentists and pediatricians liked them for their relaxed atmosphere and easy access. In fact, suite 411 had been leased just a week earlier to Dr. Hernandez and Associates, general practitioners. The sign on the door still smelled of wet paint.
Inside, six men and a woman sat quietly in a sparsely furnished waiting room. Sunlight peeked in through cheap venetian blinds. Crumpled magazines lay on simulated wood grain. Wal-Mart prints hung in black lacquer frames on the walls.
"Cheap damned HMOs," one of the executives groused under his breath. "I've seen better decorated whorehouses." A couple of people nodded and smiled. No one else talked.
Shortly after they arrived, a door opened, and a homely nurse with reading glasses and field-hockey ankles stood in the doorway. The name tag on her uniform read "Debbie."
"Good afternoon," she said. "Dr. Hernandez will be right with you, but in order to expedite things, we need you to strip to your underwear."
"Strip to our underwear!" one of them exclaimed. These were powerful executives from one of the world's top corporations. Who the hell was she to ask them to take off their clothes? Besides, this group included a woman --- a very attractive woman. Things like this didn't happen in corporate America. Not in an era when a casual glance could end up in sexual harassment litigation.
"Please, do as I ask," Nurse Debbie said. "I'll be back shortly." With that, she turned and left.
No one moved at first, but after a couple of tentative glances, a doughy, bespectacled corporate security executive named Dieter Planck self-consciously unfastened his Hermès tie, unbuttoned his shirt, and slipped off his Ferragamo loafers. While five other men and a woman sat in their chairs trying to decide if they really wanted to relinquish their pinstripe armor, this man dropped his pants and folded everything in a neat pile on the carpeted floor.
He sat back down in his chair with rolls of perfectly hairless gut hanging like milky bratwurst into his lap. Silver-rimmed glasses shimmied down his sweaty nose.
After a few moments, the door opened, and Nurse Debbie reappeared.
"The doctor will see . . ."
She stopped in her tracks, obviously perturbed that her patients had failed to follow instructions. "Excuse me," she huffed, "but the doctor has a very busy schedule today, and we won't get through this unless you do as I ask."
Her tone left no room for misunderstanding. These junior scions of American enterprise made ten times her salary, but the first step toward this company's new executive vice presidency passed through the door behind her. She held the key.
"I see you're ready, sir." She nodded toward the German. "This way, please."
With that, Dieter scooped up his neatly folded clothing and waddled after her in bare feet. The door closed behind him with a firm thump.
"Screw it," one of the men said after a moment. He shed his Hugo Boss three-piece and sat down in a bright red thong. A human resources consultant from Orlando stared a moment too long, then grudgingly shed his togs, too. Within a few moments, all of them had stripped. In a corporate world where the color of a designer label could differentiate between strength and vulnerability, these people had just rendered themselves impotent.
WHILE JEREMY WALLER and his mates swam outside in the testosterone pool, Jeremy's wife, Caroline, sat in the house trying to stay cool with the rest of the HRT wives. Patrick, their ten-month-old, had missed his nap and wasn't happy. Maddy and Christopher were running around with all the other kids. She had a presentation due at the office on Monday and no time to take the afternoon off for foolishness like this.
But today had been marked for HRT. No arguments. No excuses. The team's initiation process included a formal graduation ceremony for incoming NOTS graduates, but that was a private affair. Today was for the families. All were expected to attend.
"What a beautiful little boy!" A refined-looking woman reached out to wipe a dribble of formula off the baby's chin. "You must be Caroline Waller. And this must be Patrick."
Patrick started to fuss again. Perfect timing, Caroline thought.
"Louise Cannell, dear," she said, offering a Junior League smile. "I just wanted to take this opportunity to welcome you aboard."
Caroline recognized the name. Her husband, Steve, was one of the assault team leaders.
"Nice to meet you." Caroline smiled. It was the only thing she could think of. How does one thank the wife of a man who sent Jeremy home bleeding, bruised, and exhausted every night?
"You call me any time you need something, OK? We have to stick together while these boys are out doing whatever it is that they do." Louise offered a kind smile and disappeared among the casserole warmers. She didn't strike Caroline as someone she'd confide her deepest secrets to, but then again, any port in this storm might be worth hanging on to.
This sudden change in lifestyle had come as a bit of a surprise to the Waller clan. Their first four years of Bureau life had been wonderful. Springfield, Missouri, was a vibrant, affordable city that allowed them a nice standard of living on an entry salary of $41,370. Northern Virginia, on the other hand, seemed like one boundless subdivision with no sense of community. Housing was much more expensive here, and she'd stayed home with the baby for a year, creating a gap in her résumé that made job hunting tougher than she'd hoped. Even with a master's degree in psychology, she'd had to settle for a low-paying position on a community services board.
Fortunately, Maddy and Chris liked their new school and had found plenty of friends in the neighborhood. The other NOTS wives had formed a close support network, sharing everything from babysitting to an occasional girls' night out. Jeremy seemed genuinely happy in this new job, despite the long hours and sometimes brutal work. This was Jeremy's dream, but she'd get used to it, too.
"Mommy, Mommy, Daddy's up nextht!"
Maddy flashed by, covered in Fudgsicle. Her tongue poked through the hole where two front teeth should have been, translating common English into the second-grade lisp.
Patrick stared up at her from beneath his bottle, sensing that quiet time had ended.
"Caroline!" someone yelled. Priscilla Devroux shuffled in with Beef Jr. dangling from her mansard hip. "Your man's out there thinking he's gonna put all these other boys down. Ain't you even going to watch?"
The thought hadn't occurred to her. But with all the other wives looking on, Caroline didn't really have much choice. HRT wives supported HRT husbands. She knew the rule like a marriage vow.
"Go ahead on out, sweetie," Melissa Tovar said. She reached for Patrick and nodded toward the back deck. "You go and cheer him on."
BY THE TIME Nurse Debbie returned to the waiting room an hour and ten minutes later, the six remaining executives had begun to fume. They sat in their underwear, with no laptops, PDAs, or cell phones to occupy their time. The man in the red thong slumped in his chair with his jacket pulled over his shoulders, withdrawn into embarrassment. The lone woman sat quietly at the end of the line in a frilly bra-and-panty set of Italian design, ignoring the glances.
"OK, look," the nurse said, leaning through the half-open door. "I hate to do this to you, but Dr. Hernandez just got called to an emergency at the hospital. I'm afraid we're going to have to let you go and reschedule for later in the week."
The groans and deep breaths told her everything she needed to know about their feelings. These people wasted time on nothing, particularly while in their underwear.
"If you could just check in with the receptionist on your way out, she'll get you signed up." With that, Nurse Debbie turned and disappeared someplace behind the door.
"You've got to be shitting me!" the man in the thong exclaimed. He stood up, snatched his clothing off the floor, and hopped into his pants. "We sit here all morning for some stupid physical and get treated like a bunch of management trainees? I don't have time for this crap."
"Who do they think they are?" another man asked no one in particular. The others dressed quietly, as if this were just another day at the office. When they were done, the door opened again, and the nurse entered with her clipboard.
"I hate to inconvenience you," she said, "but we just located another doctor to conduct your physicals. If you could just slip out of your clothes, we'll try this again."
"I'm out of here," the man in the red thong announced. One of the other executives followed him out the door. The other four quietly stripped off their clothes again, just as directed.
"I thought I was done with this sort of thing when I processed out of the Navy," one of the men said after a while. He didn't look upset. He was simply trying to make conversation.
The Hispanic lawyer beside him offered a hand and a tentative smile. "Joel Garcia. Office of General Council in New York," he said. "You here for the Quantis gig?"
The navy man nodded. "Fred Hastings. Portland office."
"Mark Den Ouden," the next man said. "I run the Bangkok motherboard plant."
The last candidate, a tall athletic-looking woman of Middle Eastern extract, sat with her knees vised together, hands neatly folded in her lap. Her evenly tanned, well-conditioned body almost glowed at the margins of her expensive lingerie, making it hard for the others not to stare.
The woman could have introduced herself as Sirad Malneaux, vice president of the company's IT division in Atlanta. She might have bragged about her meteoric rise up the corporate ladder or mentioned that corporate in New York had called personally to recruit her for this new position. But she didn't. The quiet, beautiful woman at the end of the row stared straight ahead and said nothing at all.
JEREMY WAITED UNTIL all the veteran operators had tried their luck with the course before moving up to toe the line himself. Everyone crowded around him as Quinny held his hand on Jeremy's shoulder and set the stopwatch for official time. Fritz Lottspeich and the rest of his NOTS class stood three feet off to the side offering various thumbs-ups and winks of encouragement. Everyone knew that Jeremy had the last and only chance of beating Beef's run. Though HRT's big man hadn't actually downed the beer, he had been the first to make it into the hula hoop and complete a push-up. Despite all the bravado, it had been the best effort anyone could muster.
"Are you ready?" Quinny asked. Jeremy leaned forward onto his left leg, held his hands out in front of him, and concentrated on the chair across the lawn.
"On your mark . . . get set . . ."
"Hoo-ah!" Lottspeich yelled, drawing more than a few scowls. New guys were supposed to keep their mouths shut.
"Go!" Quinny yelled.
Jeremy pushed off from the starting line and moved fast, jogging toward the hoop, picking up speed like a long jumper searching for stride. If the men yelled after him, he couldn't hear. The bright afternoon light dimmed around him. Smells of barbecue disappeared. Even Maddy's beautiful little voice faded into distraction.
Unlike most minds, which narrow at times like this to a single focus, Jeremy's began to unfold with possibility. Instead of fixating on a single approach to the problem, his consciousness swelled with variability.
HRT evaluators had noticed it during selection. While most candidates bulled their way through challenges, Jeremy relied on creativity and enterprise. In one hostage scenario, he had avoided violent confrontation by assuming the role of a drunken street person and sneaking in the back door while role-playing HRT evaluators waited for the typical frontal assault. In another he won a twenty-mile overland race by stealing a bicycle from the FBI Academy garage and peddling his way past the rest of the crowd.
What rules? he'd asked when other selectees complained about cheating. He had been given an objective and Global Positioning System coordinates for the finish line. No one said anything about how he was supposed to get there.
HRT's front office agreed and watched him each day with greater interest. Whether planning arrest scenarios, running shooting drills in the Kill House, role-playing, or competing in physical contests, Jeremy distinguished himself with ingenuity. He wasn't always the fastest or the strongest, but he never failed to achieve clarity of thought.
The industrial psychologists that HRT had contracted to evaluate selection detailed this in their test results. Extraordinary, their reports read. Remarkable. HRT's selection coordinators agreed. Team records listed a couple other candidates who came close to Jeremy in terms of IQ, but none of them possessed his psychological profile. With regard to originality, intuitive intelligence, and emotional maturity --- key traits in an HRT operator --- this man stood out as a singularity. He looked perfect.
Jeremy cared nothing about IQ scores or personality types as he closed on the hoop, though. Caroline smiled down at him from the deck. Maddy floated down the slide. The whole team stared on with varying degrees of expectation, but he concentrated on the problem at hand. The only things that stood between him and a cold mouthful of beer were a couple hundred volts of DC current and a gut check.
Jeremy crossed the lawn and started his dive five feet from the hoop. Both hands landed in the circle on the first bounce. He struggled to his knees and propped himself in a forward lean, but his muscles fought back in wrenching spasms. A thick, jagged pain shot up into his skull, then down his spine. Strange sensations stuck in his mind: the smell of marzipan, the taste of lime, a hollow ringing in his ears.
Just one push-up, he thought. He bent his arms, reflex took over, and by the time he pushed himself up and rocked back on his knees, he knew he'd won. Even trembling now under a high-frequency shiver, he started to smile. All he had to do was sit in the chair and drink the beer.
Jeremy slowly climbed to his feet and stood in the circle. He cupped the beer between his paralyzed hands, turned to sit, and lifted his feet off the ground.
And then it was over. Suddenly the pain subsided. Shapes and noises filtered back into his conscious mind. Parts of his body still ached, but only out of recollection. Maddy waved at him from the top of the slide.
Jeremy looked back at the crowd of HRT operators just a stone's-throw away. His NOTS class stood there, hoping he had the will to finish the job. Fritz Lottspeich, his closest friend among them, nodded his head, urging him to chug the damned thing and get it over with.
But it wasn't as simple as that. This was about legacy. Jeremy had a chance to define himself among the operators. Maybe they'd never figure out that once he lifted his feet off the grass and sat in the plastic chair, all the voltage lost its ground. It was high school physics --- the reason birds can roost on power lines. The moment he raised his feet off the well-worn turf, that damned collar became just another piece of leather. Maddy could have worn it herself without bothering her pretty little neck.
The crowd stared at Jeremy as if he were an apparition sitting there in the middle of the circle with his legs crossed beneath him. Twenty seconds had passed, maybe more.
"Holy shit," Beef mumbled. "What's up with this guy?"
When Jeremy had recovered enough for the taste of marzipan to leave his tongue, he raised the cup to the crowd. "To NOTS," he toasted. Anything more would have been a taunt.
NURSE DEBBIE RETURNED to the waiting room after another hour and a half.
"You're not going to believe this," she said. "But the doctor we found had a personal emergency and had to leave. I'm very sorry, but we're going to have to reschedule after all."
Garcia laughed out loud. Hastings shook his head and immediately reached for his pants. "What the hell is up with you people, anyway?" he asked the nurse as she turned to leave.
"I'm just doing my job," Nurse Debbie snipped before storming out.
The Bangkok plant manager buttoned his shirt. "I don't give a damn either way," he said. "As long as I'm on the company dime . . ."
The woman dressed as dutifully as she had disrobed. First the skirt, then the white linen blouse and waistcoat. She buttoned the garments quickly, precisely, turning away from the others to prevent the process from becoming a strip show.
"Can you believe this?" Hastings asked her. He looked a bit put out that she hadn't said a word all morning. "I have two reports waiting on my desk to finish. If I had known that we . . ."
Suddenly the door opened again, and Nurse Debbie reappeared. She stared at the floor and gripped the clipboard tightly against her chest beneath crossed arms.
"Headquarters just called and said they are sending the program director over to conduct your physicals." Her voice began to shake. "They want you to undress again."
"Right." Hastings laughed. "Tell your program director to kiss my ass."
Garcia finished tying his shoes. Den Ouden buckled his belt.
"Come on," the plant manager said, motioning to the woman. "You gonna let these idiots jerk you around like this?"
Nurse Debbie watched as the three men marched out. Only the close-lipped woman stayed behind. She slipped off her jacket and started to undress again, just as directed.
"Actually, that won't be necessary, ma'am," the nurse said, once the others had gone. "The doctor will see you now."
With that, she waited for Sirad to gather herself, then led her out of the waiting room and down a hallway. Nurse Debbie walked quickly, still holding the clipboard to her chest like a shield. "Thank you for your cooperation," she said, stopping at a closed door. "You've been very sweet to put up with all of that."
She knocked twice, then opened the door to reveal a stark white room furnished with nothing but a glass-topped conference table and six low-rent chairs. A handful of men sat quietly around the table, jotting notes on legal pads.
"Congratulations, Ms. Malneaux," the man at the end of the table said. "You've just passed the first hurdle in this application process."
Sirad shook her head in dismay, unable to say a thing. This was no doctor's office. The men sitting in front of her were not giving physicals; they were the same six colleagues who had waited outside with her all afternoon. The man offering congratulations was Dieter.
Excerpted from BLACK © Copyright 2004 by Christopher Whitcomb. Reprinted with permission by Little, Brown and Company, an imprint of Time Warner Bookmark. All rights reserved.
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