[FOUR]
The Oval Office The White House 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW Washington, D.C. 1910 9 June 2005
Fifteen minutes after Natalie Cohen, the national security advisor, had telephoned John Powell, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, to tell him “the president would like you to come to the White House as soon as you can,” the director’s Yukon XL was passed onto the White House grounds by the Secret Service.
As he got out of the vehicle at the side door of the White House, he heard the familiar sound of Marine One, the President ’s Sikorsky VH-3D “Sea King” helicopter, on its final approach to the South Lawn.
He reached the outer office of the Oval Office before the president did. Natalie Cohen was there.
“Natalie,” Powell said, nodding at her, and then he asked, “Where’s he been?”
“At Camp David,” she said.
“What’s going on?”
“I think we’re both about to find out, John,” she said.
The president came into the outer office just over a minute later.
“John,” he said. “Good. You’re here.”
“Good evening, Mr. President.”
Beiderman, Hall, and Powell nodded at each other but didn’t speak.
“I’d like a moment with the DCI before we start this,” the president said. “And I just remembered: Natalie, did you call Fort Bragg?”
“No, sir. I thought you were going to.”
“How about doing that right now?” the president ordered.
The president waved Powell ahead of him into the Oval Office, closed the door, and waved him into one of the chairs before his desk. The president remained standing, looking out the window onto the meticulously manicured lawn, as he composed his thoughts.
“Yes, Mr. President?” DCI Powell asked.
After a moment, the president turned and spoke. “I was hoping you’d be prepared to tell me whether the missing 727 is in Chad or not. Or, if it’s not, where it might be.”
“There will be satellites over Abéché at first light, Mr. President. Actually, there are—have been—satellites over that site for some time, but the heat-seeking, metallic-mass-seeking sensors haven’t come up with anything we can rely on. With daylight . . .”
“In other words, you don’t know?” the president interrupted.
“I’m afraid I don’t, Mr. President.”
“I don’t know where it is,” the president said, “but I know it’s not in Abéché, Chad.”
“Then Matt Hall’s information was not reliable, Mr. President? ”
“Matt Hall’s information was right on the money,” he replied, meeting Powell’s eyes. “We have confirmation that the airplane was there, that the seats have been removed, fuel bladders loaded aboard, and that after new registration numbers were painted on it, that it took off for an unknown destination.”
Powell shifted uncomfortably in his chair and after a moment said, “I have to ask, Mr. President, why you think that information is credible?”
“Because I authorized a Gray Fox insertion and that’s what they reported.” The president let that sink in and then went on: “Our problem now is to find where the airplane is now, something more precise than on its way to Philadelphia. ”
Powell raised his eyebrows but didn’t respond.
“I wasn’t sure whether I should get into this with you now, John, but I think I will. If nothing else, it will clear the air between us before the others come in here.”
“Yes, Mr. President?”