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I rewind and play the last few minutes again, from the appearance of the tall man to Henry taking the covered plate he hands over. I can’t make out his face. He keeps his head down. He never looks up.
“It was the ashtray,” I whisper. “That was the signal.”
It wasn’t the conversation between Quentin and Sheridan—that was the distraction.
Quentin passed Sheridan an ashtray forHenry. And then he watched, and waited—
It was Henry lighting up, Henry smoking a cigar, Henry using the ashtray—that was the signal to go ahead with this intelligence pass.
The truth detonates inside me: Henry created a secret line of communication with Quinten. Henry arranged for an intelligence pass in Brennan’s fucking hotel.
What was hidden in that room service tray? Instructions on how to communicate further? A burner phone? A phone number?
My fingers work the laptop, and I bring up the PlayStation system files again. There’s a chat log under Sheridan’s username. I don’t recognize the other user. It’s not Clint Cross. It’s someone else. Quinten?
I understand the context easily enough.
11:46:37 a.m.
USMC1994: Tonight. Zero-one-hundred. 38.953581, -77.046827
I don’t need to look up the GPS numbers. I already know that’s Rock Creek Park, and that’s the time Brennan was scheduled to leave the White House on his clandestine drive to Langley.
There’s just one giant fucking problem: I was eating lunch with Sheridan when this message was sent.
Where was Henry yesterday? I don’t remember seeing him until the start of second shift.
I never thought twice about it.
He could have had all morning once Sheridan left for the White House. All morning to toss his own house. Stage a break-in and blame it on Konstantin with one planted fingerprint to confuse the investigation.
And, of course, if all the rest of the evidence—the PlayStation, the meet in Manhattan, the cell phone records—points to Sheridan, why wouldn’t Sheridan also be the one to plant that print?
The cell records. Sheridan has been living with Henry for months. Henry could have swiped his phone and made those calls when Sheridan was in the shower. When he was sleeping. Behind his back while Sheridan grabbed beers for them when they were hanging out and playing on this very PlayStation.
Who could do a better job kidnapping the president than a member of his own Secret Service detail? Who could throw our investigation so perfectly? Merde, he even planned this crash to throw the scent from the start so we’d get lost in his fake trail.
Henry knew every step we’d take.
More than that, he knows me. He knows exactly how I would run this down.
And he made it hurt.
There are more chat logs.
11:47:13 a.m.
FatalDestiny: You said we need fifteen hours.
11:47:55 a.m.
USMC1994: Don’t worry.
Why fifteen hours? If Quinten and Henry were planning on murdering Brennan, they could do it and be done inside of a minute. What would force them to wait?
What does Henry know? What did he plan for?
After an attack on the president, all air, sea, and ground transportation into and out of Washington, DC, is shut down for a minimum of twelve hours.
