after-hours meetings with callers must be attended by two agents. For security reasons."
"And Miller didn't follow that policy?"
"No, he did not," Donahue said. "Agent Miller met Mr. Favreau at a diner about six blocks from the White House. From what I understand, Miller was en route to meet some friends at a football game. To save time, he decided to violate Bureau policy and attend the meeting alone." Donahue pointed to Blackstone. "His men apparently had Mr. Favreau under surveillance and monitored the meeting. When they moved in to take the fugitive into custody, Miller reacted poorly. He's a young, inexperienced agent, but I think what happened was at least partially due to the extremely heavy-handed approach of Mr. Blackstone's agents. I honestly don't think Miller had any idea what was going on." Donahue paused, then said, "I think his involvement was random chance."
"Favreau is a meticulous planner," Garcia said. "Nothing he does is random. He has some connection to your agent."
"That's not possible."
"Who's the female?"
"Stacy Chapman," Donahue said. "One of our intelligence analysts. She and Miller seem to have a...thing."
"You keep up with office romances?"
"We don't condone relationships among employees, but we don't expressly forbid them either," Donahue said with a note of defensiveness in his tone. "Frontline supervisors are asked to monitor, on an unofficial basis, any fraternization among personnel. It's not written policy. More like a suggestion, for the good of the Bureau."
"It sounds exactly like J. Edgar Hoover policy."
"Director Hoover died when I was in eighth grade," Donahue said. "So I never had the pleasure of meeting him."
"I did," Garcia said. "Several times. And let me assure you, meeting J. Edgar was never a pleasure."
Donahue looked like he was about to get snippy, but he swallowed whatever response he was going to make.
"Where would Miller run if he got into trouble?" Garcia asked.
"I have no idea," Donahue said.
"His father is retired FBI, right?"
Donahue nodded.
"Where does he live?"
"Bethesda," Donahue said.
"Do you know him?"
"We play golf a couple times a year."
Garcia checked his watch. It was 6:30 a.m. "Let's pay him a visit."
Chapter 22
President Noah Omar stepped out of the second-floor residence at the White House at seven o'clock and quietly closed the door behind him, more out of habit than necessity. There was no real need to be quiet. His wife had her own bedroom, as did their two teenage daughters. They were probably all up anyway, the girls getting ready for school and Mona getting ready for whatever it was she had scheduled this morning.
A pair Secret Service agents were waiting for the president in the hallway outside his bedroom, as was Richard Finch, his deputy chief of staff. Finch held an open leather portfolio with several printed pages crammed on top of a yellow legal pad.
"Anything happen last night?" the president asked.
Finch walked beside the president toward the stairs with the Secret Service agents trailing them. "Pretty quiet," Finch said. "Nothing that needs immediate attention."
"What about today?"
Finch scanned the first of his printed pages, the summary of the president's daily agenda. "This morning is fairly light. After the intelligence briefing, you have three meetings, one hour each with a ten minute break between. Lunch with the Saudi ambassador at 11:45. Then we leave for Dallas at two o'clock."
"Why so early?" the president said.
"You have the Petroleum Club dinner tonight."
The president shook his head. "I forgot about that."
"I can promise you they haven't."
"Fat-cat oil executives are not exactly my favorite dinner companions."
"Three hundred guests at ten thousand a plate."
"I doubt even an extra three million will make the DNC happy," the president said. "But for that kind of money, I can break bread with Texas oilmen."
"The midterms are going to be brutal, so every dollar helps."
"Million here, million there,
"And Miller didn't follow that policy?"
"No, he did not," Donahue said. "Agent Miller met Mr. Favreau at a diner about six blocks from the White House. From what I understand, Miller was en route to meet some friends at a football game. To save time, he decided to violate Bureau policy and attend the meeting alone." Donahue pointed to Blackstone. "His men apparently had Mr. Favreau under surveillance and monitored the meeting. When they moved in to take the fugitive into custody, Miller reacted poorly. He's a young, inexperienced agent, but I think what happened was at least partially due to the extremely heavy-handed approach of Mr. Blackstone's agents. I honestly don't think Miller had any idea what was going on." Donahue paused, then said, "I think his involvement was random chance."
"Favreau is a meticulous planner," Garcia said. "Nothing he does is random. He has some connection to your agent."
"That's not possible."
"Who's the female?"
"Stacy Chapman," Donahue said. "One of our intelligence analysts. She and Miller seem to have a...thing."
"You keep up with office romances?"
"We don't condone relationships among employees, but we don't expressly forbid them either," Donahue said with a note of defensiveness in his tone. "Frontline supervisors are asked to monitor, on an unofficial basis, any fraternization among personnel. It's not written policy. More like a suggestion, for the good of the Bureau."
"It sounds exactly like J. Edgar Hoover policy."
"Director Hoover died when I was in eighth grade," Donahue said. "So I never had the pleasure of meeting him."
"I did," Garcia said. "Several times. And let me assure you, meeting J. Edgar was never a pleasure."
Donahue looked like he was about to get snippy, but he swallowed whatever response he was going to make.
"Where would Miller run if he got into trouble?" Garcia asked.
"I have no idea," Donahue said.
"His father is retired FBI, right?"
Donahue nodded.
"Where does he live?"
"Bethesda," Donahue said.
"Do you know him?"
"We play golf a couple times a year."
Garcia checked his watch. It was 6:30 a.m. "Let's pay him a visit."
Chapter 22
President Noah Omar stepped out of the second-floor residence at the White House at seven o'clock and quietly closed the door behind him, more out of habit than necessity. There was no real need to be quiet. His wife had her own bedroom, as did their two teenage daughters. They were probably all up anyway, the girls getting ready for school and Mona getting ready for whatever it was she had scheduled this morning.
A pair Secret Service agents were waiting for the president in the hallway outside his bedroom, as was Richard Finch, his deputy chief of staff. Finch held an open leather portfolio with several printed pages crammed on top of a yellow legal pad.
"Anything happen last night?" the president asked.
Finch walked beside the president toward the stairs with the Secret Service agents trailing them. "Pretty quiet," Finch said. "Nothing that needs immediate attention."
"What about today?"
Finch scanned the first of his printed pages, the summary of the president's daily agenda. "This morning is fairly light. After the intelligence briefing, you have three meetings, one hour each with a ten minute break between. Lunch with the Saudi ambassador at 11:45. Then we leave for Dallas at two o'clock."
"Why so early?" the president said.
"You have the Petroleum Club dinner tonight."
The president shook his head. "I forgot about that."
"I can promise you they haven't."
"Fat-cat oil executives are not exactly my favorite dinner companions."
"Three hundred guests at ten thousand a plate."
"I doubt even an extra three million will make the DNC happy," the president said. "But for that kind of money, I can break bread with Texas oilmen."
"The midterms are going to be brutal, so every dollar helps."
"Million here, million there,
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