CHAPTER SEVEN
“An Unlikely Choice”
The President turned to Brubaker. “What about him?”
“Otto White was given a medical discharge last year after displaying symptoms of paranoia and acute schizophrenia. He was part of a six-man team inserted into Libya in April ‘11. Due to faulty intelligence they walked into an ambush. White was one of four survivors and managed to escape into the desert where he survived eating ants.
“White had an excellent record. He’d been in the field for nine years--that’s too long for anybody. We should have seen the signs. He never should have been sent into Libya.” Brubaker would know. He had been in the field ten years.
“Was that Operation Firebrand?” the President said.
“Yes sir,” Brubaker replied.
“Mr. President,” Yee said, “White has an uncanny ability to think outside the box and do the unexpected, often with very positive results. That’s why he’s the best man for the job. He’s also an arson investigator. And lucky.”
“What do you mean, lucky?”
“Just that. He’s phenomenally lucky. He wins at slots. He wins at roulette. It’s not something that can be taught. You’ve either got it or you don’t.”
The President turned to his right. “Rolf?”
“It’s Margaret’s call.”
Chief of Staff Murray Compton said, “I’ll have his casebook and profile on your desk this morning, Mr. President.”
Brubaker pushed the bridge of his glasses up with a forefinger. “There’s a good chance he’ll turn us down. If we can find him. My understanding is that he went off the grid. Lives in the mountains somewhere like Liver Eater Johnson.”
“After his return to the U.S. and until shortly after his discharge,” Yee said, “White had an affair with Senator Darling’s daughter Stella. I’ve been in contact with Stella and she’s willing to bring him in.”
“Stella Darling,” the President said. “Why does that ring a bell?”
“She’s defending the Below the Beltline Sniper, Mr. President,” Yee said.
“That’s right.”
The sniper, so-dubbed because he’d committed most of his crimes just south of the 395, had murdered six people in a week-long shooting spree, most of them in their cars. The victims had all been persons of substance: lawyers, lobbyists, venture capitalists. Two of their vehicles had burst into flames and incinerated their occupants. The police believed shots had ignited the fuel tanks.
When apprehended Lester Durant claimed that he had been aiming at “the spiders.”
“Isn’t she in the middle of a trial?” Brubaker said.
“Court’s adjourned until next week.”
“Do you know the daughter?” the President said.
Yee gave a tight little nod. “I’ve met her. I liked and admired Sen. Darling despite his rebarbative political predilections. I’ll ask her today.”
Compton, who resembled a dot-com millionaire with his Beatle hair and tinted glasses, cocked his head as his headset spoke softly. He looked up. All eyes were on the President. He caught the President’s eye and tapped his headset twice.
“Murray?”
“Folks, if you’ll tune your laptops to the in-house feed.”
All turned their attention to their computers. Within seconds they had tuned to the Situation Room news feed. On screen: dozens of police and first responder vehicles arrayed in front of a nondescript office building in a commercial strip. One end was ablaze as firefighters maneuvered their hoses.
The news scroll along the bottom streamed: “Office attack leaves four dead…building set on fire…Volt Media President Lewis Stark allegedly pulled a gun and began shooting his employees…developing…”
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