The Hand of Christ (69 page)

The President held up his hand signaling for the DHS to stop speaking, but the silent command gestured by the President was lost on the DHS.

“
Sir, I was only doing what I thought was best for the country! I work only to serve you.”

“
John!” boomed the President’s voice. “Let me give you a small lesson in politics; when the President of the United States holds up his hand, indicating that he would like to say something, it is best that you learn that it means to shut the hell up!”

The DHS’s mouth looked ready to close, but for a quite explicable reason it could not and hung widely agape.

“
And,” continued the President, “you do not serve me, you serve only yourself, and if you think your actions over the past forty-eight hours worked to serve this country, then you are, not only downright delusional, but just plain stupid.”

“
But, Mr. President,” the DHS interjected; the President had long grown tired of the man.

“
John, shut up! From this moment forward, you are no longer the Director of Homeland Security. You have been nothing short of a dismal failure; every question, remark, and statement from your mouth during this crisis was wrong, ignorant, borderline racist, and showed extremely poor judgment. If I had put any weight into your suggestions or credence to your actions, this country would have been enveloped in chaos. People’s lives would have been lost, John! Normally, this wouldn’t be easy for me to do, but with you it is: I expect your letter of resignation on my desk within the hour.”

The DHS stood limp and with his mouth still unable to close; his face appeared drained of any color. He wanted to speak but could not muster the words.

The President looked at him and said, “That will be all,” and pointed to the door.

Through a small peephole in the door to the Oval Office, the Special Assistant to the President, Carlton P. Hastings, watches everything that happens in the Oval Office in order to keep the President on schedule, or to look for any visual cues that the President wanted to be interrupted. He saw the President point to the door, and, without hesitation, he opened it.

“
Carlton,” ordered the President, “please have the ex-DHS escorted from the White House and to his office. Confiscate his identification badges and accompany him along with a Security detail. He has one hour to clean out his desk and office of his personal effects. Do not let him use his computer. At the end of the hour, I expect that the ex-DHS will hand you his hand-written letter of resignation that you will personally deliver to me. Have I made myself clear?”

“
Yes, Mr. President,” responded Carlton.

Carlton motioned to the ex-DHS and said, “Please come with me, sir.”

Without any need to be told, two Secret Service Officers entered the Oval Office, walked over to the ex-DHS, and stood behind him.”

Sheepishly, the ex-DHS began to ask, “Please, Mr. President, I know that I…”

The President held up his hand; this time the DHS acted correctly to the visual cue to stop speaking.

The President ordered, “Get out, John.”

The two Secret Service Officers moved closer; one firmly grasped the ex-DHS by his elbow and led him toward the door of the Oval Office.

“
Oh, and John,” the President said. “Do not attempt to find any position of employment within a measurable radius of government. I think you will find that one doesn’t exist.”

The President returned to the Resolute and sat down. Leaning over to his telephone, he pushed the intercom button.

“
Yes, Mr. President?” answered Mrs. Childs.

“
Is the Director of the NRO here yet?”

“
No, Mr. President, I found him in Room 4C-1000 at the Pentagon, he was in the middle of a briefing. I instructed him to leave immediately; he should be here momentarily.”

“
Good; when he arrives, send him in.”
One down, one to go,
thought the President.

Two Months Later

Keystone Ski Resort

Keystone, Colorado

At the top of the snow-capped mountain, Michael stopped next to a white sign that was adorned with a large, ominous black diamond indicating that the mogul run was for expert skiers only. Smiling, he read the name on the sign, looked over the edge of the steep run, and said to no one in particular, “‘Cat Dancer’ – how she loves to ski the bumps.”

Michael adjusted his goggles, let out a deep breath, pushed off with his ski poles, and worked his way down the expert terrain of, arguably, America’s longest mogul ski run. Michael worked hard to keep his parabolic skis together as he sliced through every jarring bump of the wide, undulating, and steep slope. Quite soon he felt bits of sweat droplets trickling down the sides of his cheeks and the lactic burn of his quads as he skied from and over one mogul to the next. His lungs struggled for more of the thin mountain air;
hypoxia
, he thought, as his breathing became even more labored.

Just below Michael and further down Cat Dancer, Sonia was waving her ski poles at him. Michael skied down to her and, coming to an abrupt stop next to her, sprayed her with some of the new, fresh snow.

Brushing the shower of snow from her ski jacket, she gazed wickedly at her husband, and laughingly asked, “Michael; how is it that a super-duper, top-secret agent for the CIA can’t keep up with his little-ole wife on the slopes?”

Michael was bent over at the waist to catch his breath and thinking about pushing his sarcastic wife into the powder when his CIA-issued cell phone rang.

Before reaching for the phone, Michael breathlessly muttered, “Officer, honey. We are called officers.”

He pulled the phone from his pocket and tapped the black screen, which illuminated the phone, and answered, “Hello.”

Sonia eyed him curiously; Michael offered her a crooked smile and just shrugged his shoulders as he answered, “This is Michael. Oh, hello, Mr. President, to what do I owe the honor?”

“
Oh, give me a break, Michael; do you expect me to fall for that?” asked Sonia as she rolled her eyes back into her head.

Michael put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and mouthed, “It is the President!” and then he did push her into the thick powder of the freshly fallen snow.

“
Yes, sir, I have enjoyed my vacation.”

Michael looked at Sonia who was growing increasingly curious about the conversation.

“
Yes, I understand, sir. May I take some time; I would like to speak with my wife about this if that’s all right? Thank you, sir.” Michael tapped the screen of the phone and slipped it back into his pocket. He looked at his wife who was lying comfortably in the snow, and held out his hand.

Grabbing her husband’s outreached hand, instead of allowing him to pull her up, Sonia pulled him down on top of her and asked, “Okay, Michael, what was that about; what did the President of the United States want with my husband?”

Michael smiled and replied, “I think you are looking at the new Deputy Director of the CIA.”

Sonia looked at her husband, smiled, and then kissed him.

A Few Weeks Later

Denver, Colorado

Michael was sitting in his front room watching the Denver Nuggets lose, again, to the Lakers in the first round of the playoffs. Pointing his remote control at the television, he hit the power button turning it off.

“
They need to get rid of Iverson, he’s so overrated,” a frustrated Michael said to no one in particular.

Sonia was on-call and was at the hospital, which meant that Michael was left to the desperate plight of the half-rate Nuggets and a mound of paper work. As the new Deputy Director of the CIA, Michael still hadn’t become accustomed to the mundane back office aspects of the job and stared at the pile of work on his coffee table. Scattered about the room were boxes of household items: the new job meant that they would have to move closer to Langley and Washington D.C.

Letting out a shallow sigh, Michael was about to grab another file to work on when the doorbell rang.

Standing abruptly, Michael walked around the boxes – filled with his life – and to the door; he looked through the peephole. On the other side was a Fed-Ex deliveryman. Instantly, Michael’s instincts fired up; something didn’t feel right. Next to the door was an antique wooden carving that hung at face level on the wall. Michael and Sonia had picked up the one hundred and fifty year-old artifact while traveling in India. At the base of the wooden carving was a small hidden compartment, and the main reason Michael had bought the hand-carved sculpture. Michael reached over to it and depressed an unseen button. A small door flipped open exposing the small compartment. Michael put his hand into it and pulled out a Kel-tec P32 pistol.

The door shielded Michael’s left arm as he opened it, and in his left hand was the P32 pointed at the deliveryman and through the door. Looking at the man in uniform Michael said, “It’s a little late to be making deliveries isn’t it?”

“
Sorry, sir, I am running way behind schedule,” replied the Fed-Ex deliveryman.

In his hand, the deliveryman was holding a small envelope. He extended it out to Michael and said, “There’s no need to sign, have a good night, sir.”

Michael grabbed the envelope from the deliveryman and noticed a golden ring on the man’s index finger. He saw the ring only for a fraction of a second, but that was all he needed. The ring had a golden bee engraved on its top.

The deliveryman nodded, smiled, and then he turned and walked away.

He watched as the deliveryman climbed into a Fed Ex truck and drove off. Michael closed the door, walked back to his front room, and sat down.

Turning the envelope over a few times, Michael saw that on its front it had his name, but no address. He opened the envelope; inside there was one sheet of paper and a photo. Michael looked at the photo; when he saw the man in it, he felt his temperature begin to rise. On the photo was the plump face of the Handler, the face of the man that had tried to kill Michael and his wife. Turning the photo over, on the back were the grid coordinates: 40º 43’ 42” N 73º 53’ 39” W.

Michael set down the photo and picked up the handwritten note; at its top was the Papal seal. He read the note, “A gift from a mutual friend; he will be missed. Take care, Michael. CC.”

Michael recognized the initials of Colonel Camini, smiled, and then set the note down. From his inside coat pocket, Michael pulled out his cell phone and tapped the black screen. This would be one call that he would enjoy making.

The End.