Root and Branch Page 3

  Kay, his wife of nearly thirty years, whom he had met in graduate school at Wharton during his transition from government service to a career in finance, reclined on the sofa. There she browsed on her laptop while paying intermittent attention to a wall-mounted television whose news broadcast showed images of daytime rioting, cars being set ablaze, and confrontations between helmeted police and black-clad protesters.

  “So where are the riots today? Paris? Marseille? Not Toulouse, I hope. I left there before lunch, so perhaps I missed them.”

  Zorn spoke in English to his wife, as both were American-born, though he was a dual citizen, having been born in Philadelphia to an American mother and a French father. Like Zorn’s mother, Kay had also fallen in love with France as a young woman and decided to stay.

  Kay rose from the sofa to embrace Zorn and offer him a kiss on each cheek. She was dressed in jeans and a knee-length cashmere sweater that flattered her shapely but no longer youthful figure. Zorn stood by while she went to the sideboard and poured a generous portion of wine for him and a more modest one for herself. He swirled the liquid in his glass and gave it a long sniff before picking up the bottle. It was a 2007 Corbières from a vineyard not far from his own. Zorn raised an eyebrow in pleasure and smiled at his wife. Only after each took a first sip did Kay respond to her husband’s question.

  “No riots in France today.” She held her glass by the stem, swirling it without stopping, as if by nervous compulsion. She pointed to the television. “That’s Minneapolis. And the same thing is going on in Detroit and Atlanta and a few other places.”

  “My god,” Zorn muttered. “What’s gotten into those people?” At that moment he spoke as a Frenchman.

  “It’s happening because the U.S. has finally retaliated for the EMP1 attacks.”

  “Aha. So Uncle Sam’s geniuses finally got around to figuring out who popped the nuclear missiles off their coasts?” It was more of a statement than a question.

  “So it seems.” Kay replied as she returned to the sofa. “A few hours ago, America dropped tactical nuclear weapons on military bases in Iran, Pakistan and North Korea.”

  Zorn followed her to the sofa and pulled up a Moroccan leather pouf to rest his feet.

  “What surprises me is how long it took the White House to make up its damned mind. The culprits had to be Iran and the Norks2 all along!” Zorn declared, gesturing with both hands and nearly spilling his wine onto the sofa. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if the Chinese egged them on. The president had no choice but to go nuclear. It’s settled defense doctrine. Anything short of that would invite further attacks.”

  “Well, the Muslims don’t seem to agree,” his wife observed without meeting his gaze. “Riots are breaking out all across the Islamic world. Now even in America.”

  Zorn took another sip, chewing it to assess its balance and structure.

  “Quel dommage,” he said in a low voice. “Or, as they say over there, ‘Welcome to our world.’“

  “Gloating doesn’t become you, Roger.”

  “Oh, come now, Kay,” he replied with a sideways glance. “France has endured an uninterrupted Islamist uprising since 2005, and yet the world blames us for failing to integrate the disaffected Muslim youth who reside in the bainlieues3. Now it’s America’s turn. Let’s see them handle their Muslims better than we do ours.”

  “Feeling French today, are we? How very convenient to be a dual citizen,” Kay observed with a wry smile. “It lets you distance yourself from either country when it makes a mistake, while you champion the other.”

  “Touché,” he replied, returning her smile.

  Until the next commercial break, the couple listened to a series of on-location reporters and talking heads who offered competing accounts of what had led to the rioting. One Washington-based intelligence analyst claimed that Iran had planned an EMP attack for years, even to the extent of test-firing short-range ballistic missiles from freighters in the Caspian Sea and detonating conventional warheads at altitudes above one hundred kilometers to simulate an EMP.

  Another expert reported a hacking outbreak within hours of the U.S. retaliatory strikes, along with scattered sabotage attempts against American oil refineries, pipelines, electric power stations and transmission lines. Some of these attacks had been traced to the Iranian Revolutionary Guards, Hezbollah, Hamas, Al-Qaeda, Islamic State and other alleged Iranian and Pakistani surrogates.

  An impeccably coiffed anchorwoman reminded her viewers that documents seized at Osama bin Laden’s lair in Abbottabad proved that Iran, though its official religion was Shi’a Islam, had been funding Al-Qaeda and other Sunni jihadists for years. The TV screen flashed image after image and one film clip after another to hammer home these claims, until Zorn felt his head would burst. At last he seized the remote and pushed the mute button.

  Kay Zorn tucked her feet under her legs and faced her husband.

  “Roger, why don’t you go back there and help Washington out?” She addressed him in the dry, mordant, slightly languid voice that she used whenever she wished to impress upon him some idea that he was unwilling to entertain. ”Your new Triage technology has helped the Interior Ministry hold down the jihad here in France. Why not in America? Zorn Security could make a lot of money at it, no?”

  Having launched her own sort of missile, Kay Zorn took another sip of wine and waited silently for her husband to raise his defenses. But his face took on an expression more of hurt than of annoyance as he sat upright and cradled his nearly empty wine glass in both hands.

  “We still have an office in D.C.,” he began, staring into the wine. “And we’ve hired the best Washington lobbyists money can buy. But, except for some air logistics work and a pilot project for Triage, our U.S.-based competitors have completely squeezed us out of the American market. Which is a shame, because what America faces today is what France has wrestled with for the past fifteen years. And before that, it’s what Papa faced in Algeria. Hell, it was his paratroopers who invented modern counterinsurgency theory! Believe me, if Papa were over there to advise the president, the riots would be over and done in no time.”

  “Then why don’t you show them how, Roger? You’re an American citizen, after all. And you keep telling me that Zorn Security has the most advanced know-how for this sort of thing. Whatever your father could have done for Washington, you could do just as well.”

  “Of course I could,” Zorn agreed proudly, without proposing anything in particular. “But don’t kid yourself, Kay. Uncle Sam has an enormous counterterrorism establishment at his beck and call. And not just in the FBI, CIA, and the Pentagon. The U.S. has hundreds of private security contractors like Zorn Security, some of which could whip a decent-sized national army without breaking a sweat. Given a choice, I expect the Beltway crowd would prefer to do things their own way, even if it risks defeat, rather than accept help from France.”

  “Then what about that pilot project of yours? Couldn’t you use that to attract their attention? Why not show those Beltway people how the French security services are using Triage to sort out the jihadis from the shabab4?”

  Zorn shook his head and his mouth twisted into a painful frown.

  “I’d like nothing better. But we’ve been field-testing Triage in three U.S. cities for nearly a year without the slightest hint that the program will go national. Clearly, we’re being blocked. And lately I suspect that somebody over there may have lined up the pilot program in order to steal our technology. Maybe we made a mistake in taking it to the U.S. in the first place.”

  Kay Zorn cast a doubting look at her husband and drew a deep sigh but said nothing.

  “Okay, okay,” Zorn replied, not wanting to appear defeatist in his wife’s eyes. “Don’t get me wrong. I’d be happy to hop on a plane to chase a new contract in Washington if one appeared under my nose. But until the bureaucrats over there realize that our technology is head and shoulders above anything our American competitors can come up with, I don’t expect the phone to l
ight up any time soon.”

  Without another word, Zorn gulped his remaining wine and set the empty glass on the table beside him. His wife offered a refresher but he declined. Instead, he rose and stepped behind the sofa to a wet bar concealed within a sliding pocket door. There he uncorked a very expensive bottle of Kentucky rye whiskey and made himself a jumbo Old Fashioned cocktail before retaking his place on the sofa and unmuting the television.

  A few minutes later, he had barely made a dent in the cocktail when his cell phone rang. It was a call from the United States. Not recognizing the number, Zorn pressed a key that allowed him to hear the caller leave a voicemail message.

  “Hi, Roger. It’s Pat Craven. Sorry to disturb you so late in the day over there. Listen, I got your new number from a mutual friend and wanted to reach out.”

  Zorn immediately recognized the voice of a former colleague in the CIA who had worked with him in Cairo. Until Zorn moved back to France to become CEO of Zorn Security after his father’s death, he had kept in touch with Craven via telephone and an occasional dinner whenever he traveled to D.C. But he had lost contact with the man in recent years. Curious why Craven might be calling him in France during a major national security crisis, he put the call through.

  “Pat. Just heard your voice on the line. It’s Roger. How the hell have you been? And whatever induced you to take time out of your busy day to give your old boss a call?”

  “I’m doing just great,” Craven replied with enthusiasm. “And you sound as sharp as ever.”

  Silence followed, and both men knew that it was up to Craven to declare his reason for calling. Kay Zorn cast a questioning glance at her husband, who replied with a shrug before turning away to take a sip of his cocktail.

  “Okay, I won’t beat around the bush, Roger. There’s a lot going on here right now. And it occurred to me that we might be able to help each other.”

  “Is that so? Where are you working these days? Still at Tetra Corp?”

  “Oh, heavens no,” Craven replied. Zorn could imagine his former colleague’s pursed lips and furrowed brow. “I moved on from there three years ago, when the new administration offered me a slot at DHS5.”

  “And what slot would that be?”

  “Director of operations coordination. But I’ve just been promoted to undersecretary for national programs and plans. It’s a big break for me.”

  “Ahh, nice move!” Zorn noted with respect. “Now, how could I have missed hearing about that?”

  Zorn expected some of Craven’s typical self-aggrandizing puffery in response, but none came. Instead, the younger man went straight to business.

  “Have you heard about the new congressional appropriation for emergency security measures? They rammed it through right after the EMPs hit. The program’s huge, and it’s clear we’ll have to outsource huge chunks of it.”

  Zorn raised his eyebrows and flashed his wife a thumbs-up.

  “Sure, that would make sense,” he said, trying his best to sound noncommittal.

  “Is Zorn Security planning to bid on any of the RFPs6 we’ll be issuing under the new program?”

  “I’m not sure yet, Pat. We were waiting for details,” Zorn fibbed. “Why, do you think any of it might be a good match for us?” Here he paused. “Or is the bidding restricted to U.S.-based contractors?” The last comment carried a distinct edge.

  “It’s wide open,” Craven replied. “The administration is pulling out all the stops to crush the jihadis wherever we find them. Look, the White House asked Congress for a declaration of war and got it within twenty-four hours. Then the president sought emergency wartime powers and he got those, too, followed by a major appropriations bill. Believe me, Roger, there’s something in this for everyone who’s willing to lend a hand.”

  Zorn felt his skin tingle and his heart beat faster.

  “Okay, let’s talk about Triage for a moment. Does this mean DHS is ready to move beyond the pilot program?”

  “Absolutely,” Craven agreed. “Triage is by far the best detainee risk assessment technology in its class. I definitely see a fit for us. I’d like you to present Triage to the emergency measures contracts team. Do you want in?”

  “Can you help make it happen, Pat?”

  Here Zorn cocked his head to one side and cast a doubtful glance at his wife.

  “I’ve come up a bit in the world since our last talk, Roger,” Craven said slowly, assuming the air of puffed-up self-importance Zorn knew so well. “Of course I can, or I wouldn’t be on the phone. Can you make it over here a week from now for the dog-and-pony show?”

  “Well, if I’m invited…”

  “You’ll get a bid package by courier before close of business tomorrow. Drop me a line if you intend to compete.”

  “I certainly will.”

  Zorn put the phone down, pondering what had just happened.

  “Who was that?” Kay Zorn asked, her eyes glittering with curiosity.

  “Do you remember Pat Craven, from my Cairo days? He’s a high roller at Homeland Security now. And he just happens to be gatekeeper for a big new security program just approved by Congress. Incroyable!”

  “And just when you were about to give up! Do you intend to submit a bid?”

  “I’ll have to run it by Walter and the board. But I’m sure they’ll want to pursue it.”

  Zorn searched for his cocktail glass and took a long pull from it.

  “Unfortunately,” he pointed out with a grimace, “if I have to be in D.C. a week from now, that means I’ll probably miss our granddaughter’s birth. I could be gone for several weeks. Maybe longer, if this thing pans out.”

  “Well, that’s quite the turn of events, isn’t it?” Kay observed with genuine wonder. “Thirty years ago you quit the U.S. government and swore you’d never work for them again. And now…” Her voice took on a tinge of irony. “Well, are you sure you want to put yourself back in enemy hands?”

  “How delicately put. Yes, I’d do it if I thought we had a fair chance to win a sizeable chunk of business. It might require handing off some of my duties here in Europe, but that could be arranged.”

  “Well, if you do go, feel free to stay as long as you must. Just don’t expect me to go with you. Not with the new baby due. Don’t worry. We’ll all be here when you get back.”

  “So you’re not concerned about my spending a month alone and unsupervised in the D.C. swamp?”

  But before Kay could respond, her own mobile phone rang.

  “It’s Ted,” she announced, her eyes suddenly wide with excitement. “I’ll put him on speaker.”

  Ted was the youngest of Kay’s three brothers, all of whom lived in the States.

  “Oh, Ted, I’m so relieved to hear from you! We’ve been watching footage of the Seattle evacuation. It’s heartbreaking! Where are you calling from?”

  “Missoula,” he replied in a voice heavy with fatigue. “The EMP didn’t reach that far inland, thanks to the Cascades. We managed to drive out to Montana and are staying with friends till we’re allowed to go back in.”

  “Sara and the girls are all safe and well?”

  “Sara’s pretty shaken up, but she’ll be fine once she has time to rest.” He paused and, when he resumed a moment later, he was on the edge of tears. “It could have been a lot worse. People were behaving like wild beasts out there. The mob scenes on the I-90 bridges were beyond anything I could have imagined.” His voice broke and he let the sentence drop.

  “Try not to think about it, Ted. You’re safe now and that’s all that matters.”

  A pained look came into Kay’s eyes and her chin quivered.

  “I just can’t get the past few days out of my head,” her brother went on. “Can you possibly imagine, Kay, the entire Pacific Northwest electrical grid going completely dark in the blink of an eye? With no water, gas or sewage? Experts are saying that Olympia and the southern suburbs may become permanently uninhabitable and have to be bulldozed. We could lose everything.”

&
nbsp; “How can I help, Ted? Do you need money? Do you want to send the kids to us while you sort things out?”

  “We’re okay for now,” Kay’s brother answered, making an effort to pull himself together. “Our investment accounts are frozen because of the bank holiday. But the government lets us withdraw four hundred dollars a day from checking, which is enough for now. God only knows what will happen when the financial markets reopen.”

  “Well, if you need a loan to tide you over…”

  “Actually, Kay, there is one thing.”

  Her brother drew another deep breath and let it out all at once.

  “It may be premature to mention it, but it would mean a lot to us if Zorn Security would consider repurchasing the shares of stock that we bought a while back.”

  Kay Zorn cast a troubled glance at her husband before answering.

  “I understand completely, Ted. I’ll talk to Roger about it first thing. Thanks for giving us some advance notice.”

  “You’re a gem, Kay,” her brother answered above high-pitched children’s voices that bickered and complained in the background. “Listen, I’ve got to go now. I’ll call again later in the week, okay?”

  “Yes, please do. Bye.”

  The line went dead.

  “Thank heavens they’re safe,” Kay remarked after putting down the phone. “But he’s dreaming if he thinks the government will let refugees back into Seattle any time soon.”

  Roger Zorn nodded in agreement, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

  “Under the circumstances, I can’t blame Ted for asking for his investment back,” he observed, gazing out the window into the darkness. “The buy-sell agreement was for five years, but…”

  “Can you manage giving him his cash back?”

  “Not right now. But that might change if we brought in some major new business.”

  “I’m sorry to put you under pressure,” Kay said, a painful frown distorting her lips.

  “All right. Let me ask you this: if we were to get Ted an early buyout, would your other brothers expect the same deal?”

  “Possibly,” she evaded. “But let’s put that aside for now. You’ve got enough to think about.”