For such a successful and wealthy self-made businessman, the newspapers didn’t have much on Ruben Sandoval. Sunday found a grainy Miami Herald photo of him at a charity gala for marine wildlife protection. In the picture, Sandoval wore a white tuxedo and a much younger woman on each arm. The caption described him only as “a local businessman and two party guests.” The Tampa Bay Times business section reported on the Kinetic Xelaron sale, but had no further details or any mention of Sandoval. The Washington Post’s political gossip column mentioned Sandoval only once, noting that he was a rising political fund-raiser and reporting a rumor that his name was on a short list of potential ambassadorships.
“Fund-raiser?” Sunday muttered to himself. He opened a new window on his computer and logged on to the Federal Election Commission database, which showed that Sandoval was indeed active. He had given the maximum allowable contribution of $2,700 to virtually every prominent politician in Florida and Nevada, and to the President’s reelection campaign. Nothing unusual here, he thought. Rich guy spreading around some cash to make friends. But $2,700 doesn’t buy anyone an ambassadorship. There must be more to Sandoval’s story. More details . . . somewhere.
27.
U.S. STATE DEPARTMENT HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C.
THURSDAY, 2:33 P.M.
The freshly washed pearl-white Lexus LX SUV roared up Constitution Avenue and squealed around the corner toward the dead end of 22nd Street Northwest. The driver whipped tightly around a line of waiting taxicabs and veered up onto the curb, coming to a screeching halt at the steel gate perimeter.
A Diplomatic Security officer stepped on a silent alarm and immediately raised the anti–car bomb barriers. Inside the State Department’s Harry S. Truman Federal Building, all the security gates automatically locked and the reception desk computers froze. The earpieces of dozens of armed guards erupted with emergency instructions to seal all the doors and execute an immediate lockdown. Shelter-in-place orders flashed on every computer screen in the building.
The officer at the front gate unsnapped his sidearm and aimed it at the Lexus. The taxi drivers ducked into their cars as pedestrians shrieked and ran for cover.
“Driver!” the guard shouted. “Exit your vehicle with your hands up!”
He crouched and took a few steps toward the SUV. The engine cut and the door of the Lexus swung open heavily.
“Hands! Hands! Hands!” the officer shouted.
Out of the Lexus stepped a tall blond woman, middle-aged and handsome, wearing a peach-colored designer business suit.
“Driver! Hands now!”
Behind the officer, more guards in heavy Kevlar, matte black helmets, and automatic weapons emerged from the main doors. The woman threw off her sunglasses and squinted in the sun, revealing long black streaks of eyeliner running down her cheeks. She took a step toward the officer.
“Freeze! Hands! Now!”
The other guards fanned out in a perimeter around the woman.
“Down on the ground! Now! Now! Now!”
The woman showed her palms. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, wiping her cheek with her sleeve.
—
At that very moment, up on the seventh floor of the State Department’s headquarters, a security officer burst into the office of the Secretary of State’s chief of staff and slammed the door.
“What the hell’s going on?” Landon Parker howled, holding a phone in each hand.
“Sir, we’ve got a security breach at the front gate. I’m here to lockdown your office.”
“I’ll call you back,” Parker said, and set down both handsets. “Where’s the Secretary?”
“She’s not in the building, sir. She’s over at the West Wing. She’s secure.”
“Is all this really necessary? What kind of breach?” Parker huffed.
“Unknown at this time. I’m checking now,” he said, touching a finger to his earpiece.
Parker walked over to the window, pulling on the blinds.
“Sir, stand away from the window!”
Parker peered out and witnessed a dozen armed guards surrounding a pretty woman with golden hair in an orange suit. He glared as the woman reluctantly raised her hands and took several tentative steps toward the guards, igniting a round of shouting and the appearance of more officers from every direction.
“What the fuck?” Parker said to himself.
“I’m checking now, sir,” the guard repeated.
Parker watched the guards swarm over the woman, force her to the ground, and handcuff her. He could see a second security team secure a pearl-white SUV parked nearby while other officers cleared the area of bystanders.
“Looks like they have it under control,” Parker said. “Doesn’t look like anything serious.”
“Let’s wait for the all clear, sir.”
“I’m going back to work,” Parker said, turning away from the window and eyeing one of his telephones. “Tell me, once you know what happened.”
“I’m in touch with the commanding officer at the front gate right now, sir.”
As Parker started to press redial, something about the woman—her shape, the color of her hair perhaps—suddenly seemed . . . familiar.
Parker set down the phone and returned to the window. The officers were forcing the woman up to her feet. He narrowed his eyes and tried to make out her face. “Officer, I want a full report. Who is . . . that suspect?”
“Sir?”
“I just watched DS detain a woman at the front gate. I want to know who she is.”
“Mr. Parker”—the officer paused and touched his earpiece—“DS is reporting that she’s here to see someone on the seventh floor. She’s insisting she’s here to see . . . you.”