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  A loud voice called out, “Present arms!” and at each grave, a team of soldiers with crisp, sharp movements initiated a rifle volley that echoed through the cemetery. When the salute was complete, a single bugler played taps. It was a haunting sound, stirring emotions that Paige didn’t even know she had.

  Two soldiers at each grave then lifted the flag from the casket and began the precise and exacting folding ceremony, every movement perfectly timed across the twenty graves, so that the flags were all reduced into neat, compact triangles in the same way at the same precise moment. The two soldiers in front of Patrick’s grave handed the flag to a captain and saluted sharply. The captain turned and knelt in front of Bill Harris, presenting him with the flag, telling him how much the country was indebted to him and to Patrick for their sacrifice. Bill thanked the man, remaining stoic, but Paige felt tears running from behind her sunglasses, and she didn’t even care.

  The chaplain then said a few words of comfort and offered a prayer of commitment. Friends stepped forward, one at a time, to place a single rose on the casket. Paige watched as Patrick’s grandfather approached the casket and placed his right hand on it, bowing his head in prayer. It was perhaps the saddest sight she had ever seen. The man had already lost his daughter and son-in-law in an accident. His wife had died from cancer. And now the pride of his life had been snuffed out before he reached his thirtieth birthday.

  Paige felt overwhelming sympathy for this man whom she already loved. She rose from her seat and joined him, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. He looked over at her and straightened, an old man gathering strength to leave a graveside one more time.

  “He belongs to the nation now,” Bill Harris said. “God gave him to me for a season. But he belongs to the nation now.”

  And with that, he gave Paige a squeeze on the shoulder and walked away from the empty casket.

  23

  Paige spent that night at the Hilton Garden Inn in Alexandria, Virginia. She had agreed to meet Bill Harris for breakfast the next morning before she returned to Virginia Beach and made an effort to reclaim some type of normal life.

  She woke the next morning and squinted when she turned on the hotel room lights, heading toward the bathroom. That’s when she noticed it—a manila envelope that someone had slid under the door. It was thicker than the hotel room bill lying next to it and had Paige’s name typed on the label.

  She picked it up and opened it, sliding the contents out one document at a time. She furrowed her brow and studied the papers. She walked to the desk, moved some of her stuff to the side, and spread out the sheets.

  She opened the curtains, flooding the room with light. Then she returned to the desk, pushing her hair out of her face, and sat down in her thin cotton pajamas to inspect the documents more carefully.

  There was no letter here to explain things, and nothing to identify whom the documents were from. There was, however, a grainy photo of a poorly lit prison cell with a life-size cardboard cutout of President Amanda Hamilton. At the bottom of the picture, somebody had pasted a caption that read: Sana’a Central Prison, March 30.

  Whoever left the package had also paper-clipped together three documents that appeared to be three separate drafts of a speech by President Hamilton. The first announced a successful mission to free Cameron Holloman and Abdullah Fahd bin Abdulaziz. The second announced that those same prisoners had been freed but that the U.S. Special Forces had suffered casualties. This speech contained a section offering condolences to the families. It was obviously prepared before the raid because there were blanks for the names and number of men killed.

  The third draft, the only one that had handwritten edits, informed the American public that Operation Exodus had been unsuccessful. Paige recognized the language from when she had watched the speech at Kristen’s house. She assumed she was looking at a copy of that speech with the president’s handwritten revisions.

  Paige opened her computer and searched for a video of the president’s speech. She watched for a few moments, checking the president’s language against the words written on the page in front of her. It was pretty much a final draft. Still, Paige didn’t really see the point.

  The other documents were photocopied articles about the president’s Mideast policies. There was an interesting piece from Foreign Affairs, discussing the “disastrous” Iranian agreement President Hamilton had inherited from her predecessor. It outlined the same types of criticisms of the Iranian deal that Paige had heard in the presidential election eighteen months earlier. Inspectors had to give twenty-four days’ notice before they viewed Iran’s uranium enrichment facilities. The only punishment for Iranian violations was a “snapback” of international sanctions, but first the U.N. Security Council had to agree. In addition, the U.S. and Iran were prohibited from reintroducing alternative sanctions unilaterally, meaning that the U.S. had its hands tied to the United Nations from then on. From following the news, Paige knew President Hamilton was now ignoring this part of the deal based on Iran’s failure to act in good faith when it had funded the Houthis but failed to help the U.S. negotiate Holloman’s release.

  But the article also discussed some aspects of the Iranian deal that Paige had never heard about or at least had never understood. The deal not only tied the hands of the United States with regard to sanctions, but it committed the United States to assist Iran in the development of “energy, finance, technology, and trade.” The author said the agreement was “truly historic,” a turning point in America’s Mideast policies from one that supported Israel and the Sunni Arab states, such as Saudi Arabia, to one that would now equally support a longtime enemy like Iran. In essence, the agreement committed the United States to help build Iran into a regional military and economic superpower.

  Prior to her involvement with Patrick, Paige had never cared much about U.S. policies in the Mideast. The whole thing was a mess, and she could never keep the Shiite and Sunni Muslims straight. She knew the U.S. needed to support Israel and get troops out of the Muslim countries, but that was about as deep as she got. Even when Patrick was deployed and Paige started researching the sectarian violence in the Mideast countries, it still seemed like a maze.

  So she couldn’t understand why anyone would take the time to copy these articles and slide them under her door. Who even knew she was in this room?

  The answers would undoubtedly be found in the last item that she had shaken out of the manila envelope. It was an unmarked thumb drive, and against her better judgment, Paige plugged it into her computer.

  There were only two items on the drive. The first was a PDF that expressed condolences for Patrick’s death but then claimed there were some disturbing things that Paige and Bill Harris should know. It said a similar package of materials had been delivered to Bill’s room. The writer, without identifying himself or herself, asked for a meeting at the Falls Church Marriott hotel at three o’clock that afternoon, executive suite 301.

  Patrick and his team were good men and deserve the truth to be known. I’m sorry if what I must tell you adds to your grief. However, if I were in your place, I would want to know. Please do not talk to anyone else except Mr. Harris about this information. If you decide not to come to the Marriott, I will understand and will never contact you again.

  The video on this thumb drive shows a meeting between Philip Kilpatrick, the president’s chief of staff, and John Marcano, the director of the CIA. That meeting occurred less than twenty-four hours before the SEAL team was sent into Sana’a. If you come to the Marriott later today, I will tell you why that meeting is important.

  Paige opened the video and watched as the two men sat on a park bench and talked, both holding umbrellas. One kept a hand over his mouth most of the time. There was no audio, and it was impossible for Paige to understand anything either of the men was saying.

  When the meeting was over, the men stood and walked to a black sedan at the curb. They shook hands, and one of them climbed into the car. The other watched as the
sedan pulled away, then turned and walked in the opposite direction.

  Paige knew immediately that she would be showing up at the Marriott that afternoon. She thought about contacting the authorities but worried about scaring this person off. Paige wasn’t into conspiracy theories, yet when she searched the Internet, she wasn’t able to find the picture of the cardboard cutout of the president. Somebody had access to inside information.

  The implication was that the mission in Yemen was not for the purpose she and the rest of the American public had been led to believe. Paige thought about her meeting yesterday with the president. She instinctively trusted the woman, another crusader who had come up through the ranks as a prosecuting attorney. Yet how could Paige not show up at the Marriott? She would spend the rest of her life wondering what this had all been about.

  She pulled up a picture of Patrick on her laptop. If for no other reason, she owed it to him to at least check this out.

  24

  Bill Harris met Paige for breakfast wearing jeans, work boots, and a tucked-in short-sleeved button-down shirt. His gray hair was combed over, and he smelled of an old man’s cologne. Paige caught glimpses of Patrick in his grandfather’s mannerisms and a few of his figures of speech. It made her feel closer to Patrick just being around this guy.

  They took Uber to the Falls Church Marriott. It was the first time Bill had used Uber, so he hopped up front with the driver and asked an endless series of questions. By the time they reached Falls Church, Bill had told the Uber driver all about Patrick and the services from the prior day. The driver told them the ride was on the house.

  The hotel was an elegant building that bore a slight resemblance to the White House. It featured a large fountain in the middle of a circular drive, perfectly trimmed hedges, and a Southern porch with white oval columns. Whoever this source might be apparently liked to go first-class.

  Paige and Bill walked through the revolving glass doors, nodded at the bellboys, and headed straight for the elevators. Bill had received a room key in his package, and Paige was anxious to meet the person feeding them this information.

  They entered executive suite 301, turned on the light, and realized they were the first to arrive. Bill looked around, even checking out the bathroom, as if he were some kind of trained detective. There was a note in the middle of a conference table with a computer next to it. Following the instructions on the note, they turned on the computer and entered the password. A video screen that resembled Skype popped up. The instructions said that a video call would start at precisely 3:00.

  They pulled two chairs to the same side of the table, looked at their watches, and waited.

  “This place is prob’ly bugged,” Bill said softly as he surveyed the ceiling, apparently looking for video cameras.

  “Probably,” Paige said.

  A few minutes later, just before three, they heard someone else insert a key to the room. They both hopped up and turned around, and Paige felt her jaw drop as Wyatt Jackson entered the room, followed by Kristen Anderson.

  Wyatt Jackson?

  “Paige!” Kristen said. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m not sure,” Paige said. “I suppose the same thing you’re doing.” The two ladies hugged, and Wyatt shook hands with Bill.

  “This is Mr. Jackson,” Kristen said to Paige. “He represented Troy on some . . .” Kristen hesitated for a moment as if she didn’t want to spill the details of Troy’s former troubles. “Some legal matters.”

  “We’ve met before,” Paige said icily. She shook Wyatt’s hand but wanted to knock the arrogant smirk off his face. It was the same haughty look from that day in the Virginia Court of Appeals, when Wyatt knew he would spring another rapist on a technicality. Paige would need to tell Kristen to stay away from the guy.

  “Did you get an envelope too?” Kristen asked.

  The four compared notes. Kristen had received the same information. She’d called Wyatt because he had represented Troy in the past. Wyatt, intrigued by what Kristen told him, came to D.C. for the meeting.

  Paige wondered whether some of the other SEAL families had received envelopes and would be joining them momentarily, but when three o’clock rolled around, they were the only ones in the room. They all took a seat at the conference table, and when the call started, Paige clicked the icon to answer.

  The figure on the other end was a silhouette, a black shadow against a white screen. The outline seemed to suggest a man wearing a hat and sunglasses. His voice was distorted and mechanical.

  “Thank you for coming,” he said. “Sorry for all the cloak-and-dagger stuff. I know my voice sounds like Darth Vader.”

  For a second, nobody spoke. What do you say to a silhouette?

  “Don’t worry about it,” Bill said. “If what you tell us makes sense, we don’t necessarily need to know who you are.”

  As a lawyer, Paige didn’t agree with that for a second. But this was no time to argue.

  “Who’s the older gentleman sitting next to Mrs. Anderson?” the man on the screen asked.

  “Wyatt Jackson. I represent the Anderson family.”

  “Welcome, Mr. Jackson.”

  Wyatt stood up and moved behind the others. Paige couldn’t tell if the camera on the laptop was picking him up or not.

  “I know you didn’t come here for small talk,” the man on the screen began, “so I’ll get right down to it. But first I want you to know how sorry I am for your loss.”

  Kristen and Bill thanked him, and the source began a stilted monologue. He apologized for being anonymous but said he might have to provide classified information that could cost him his job if his identity became known. He explained that he had chosen each of them, with the exception of Wyatt Jackson, for a reason. Kristen, Bill, and Paige were the only ones who had received the manila envelopes.

  He called himself the Patriot and said he was concerned that the president and her cabinet were misleading the American people. He hoped that he was wrong, and he didn’t want to add any more grief to the families, but he had dedicated his life to serving his country, and he couldn’t stand idly by if U.S. Special Forces had been sent on a mission by a government that knew ahead of time that they would fail.

  As he talked, Paige felt a growing uneasiness in the pit of her stomach. The Patriot’s distorted voice made the whole thing seem eerie, and a shadowy figure on a computer screen was hard to trust. Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced at Kristen, who had a sideways tilt of her head that telegraphed her skepticism. Bill had grabbed some hotel stationery and a pen so he could take notes. Wyatt Jackson paced behind them, making Paige even more nervous. She didn’t like having a man like that at her back.

  “I want to make one thing clear,” the Patriot continued. “I do not know for a fact that the president knew this mission was compromised. The worst case is that she intentionally sent the SEALs into battle knowing they would be killed so that the country would support what she wanted to do in the Mideast. But at the very least, she probably knew the mission was at great risk and decided to proceed anyway.”

  “What’s your evidence?” Wyatt asked abruptly.

  “Of course,” the Patriot said calmly. And for the next ten minutes he laid out his case.

  25

  He began by reviewing the evidence he had already provided. He started with the video of Philip Kilpatrick and John Marcano.

  The director of the CIA had learned the most important lesson of D.C. politics, the Patriot said: cover your butt. Like others at the CIA, he had learned it the hard way. During the Obama administration, when the CIA’s waterboarding program became the focus of congressional hearings and investigations, the White House stood idly by even though the Bush Justice Department had earlier authorized the interrogation technique. In the military, when you followed a legal order, you were protected. But the CIA was a civilian agency, and it had a history of operating under justification from one president’s Justice Department only to be questioned by the next.
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  So John Marcano had learned a valuable lesson.

  “You’ll notice,” said the Patriot, “that in the video, Director Marcano is covering his lips with his hand, but Philip Kilpatrick isn’t.”

  “What’s the significance of that?” Paige asked.

  “Marcano is protecting himself. My guess is he was recording the entire conversation on a hidden audio recorder. But even if not, with this video a good lip-reader can still tell exactly what Philip Kilpatrick is saying.”

  “Which is?” Wyatt Jackson asked.

  The Patriot nodded, as if his guests had finally asked the right question. “Kilpatrick asks if the source is compromised. He asks Marcano to put a figure on it—what level of confidence does Marcano still have. He asks Marcano if the director has independent corroboration. Remember, all of this occurred roughly twelve hours before the mission took place.”

  The Patriot paused, giving that a second to sink in, and Paige immediately understood the implications. Marcano was making sure he had video evidence that the president’s chief of staff had been informed that the mission might be in jeopardy. But he was obviously not sharing this same information in the cabinet-level meetings with other officials, or this park-bench meeting would not have been necessary.

  “I have sources who know what happened in the Situation Room later that day,” the Patriot claimed. “Marcano said he had a 95 percent confidence level in the intel. He didn’t raise any cautions. I can also tell you that the president was handed three speeches that day before the mission started. I included copies of the drafts in your envelopes. She only made changes to the one that would be given if the mission was a total disaster.”

  The Patriot then turned to a lesson in Mideast politics. He explained that the president had grown increasingly frustrated with Iran’s activities in violation of its treaty and was looking for a reason to get tough with President Rouhani. “Think about it. First Hamilton wants to crack down on Iran. Then this failed mission takes place—hours after the director of the CIA informs the White House chief of staff that the mission intel is likely compromised. After the mission, the president gives a speech—the only speech she edited—calling for renewed sanctions against Iran. Is it all just coincidence? Maybe, but I don’t think so. At the very least, it makes you wonder.”