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investigative branches of the US government were rhymed off.
    When it came to her turn, Frankie stood up and introduced herself, although it was obvious that everybody in the room had been made aware of who she was. They just weren’t aware that she was also a senior and highly respected member of the Secret Service, responsible— ironically, given her murdering boyfriend— for the safety of the President of the United States.
    The door opened as she was speaking and a man entered the room silently, taking a seat against the wall rather than joining the table. Frankie noticed an almost imperceptible nod of recognition to Turner as the man, in his early sixties, took his seat.
    A hand shot up as Frankie sat back down. “Given Miss Franks’ relationship wi—”
    “Miss Franks is here at the request of the President,” interrupted Turner, silencing the man who had recently introduced himself as Brian Jones from ATF.
    However, once again, the tone in Turner’s voice failed to hide his agreement with Jones and his bewilderment at the President’s order. He obviously would have liked nothing better than to get Frankie into an interrogation room and find out every piece of information she had on Geller.
    With Frankie avoiding all eye contact, the remaining members of the group stood up and introduced themselves. The FBI was the most heavily represented of all the agencies with three agents on board, whereas the ATF, CIA, DIA and Homeland had each supplied two agents. The Department of Justice had supplied an attorney that would clear any legal obstacles, while Transportation Security Administration, the Coast Guard Investigative Service, Immigration and Customs had all supplied an agent to ensure Nick Geller wouldn’t escape the confines of the United States.
    Turner stood up when the last attendee finished his introduction. Frankie, along with a number of other attendees, looked at the man seated against the wall at the back of the room. He sat impassively uninterested in their stares. He had no intention of introducing himself.
    “The gentleman some of you are looking at is Mr. Carson,” intervened Turner. “He’s a representative from the Secretary of Defense’s office. He’ll be privy to the investigation but will play no active role in it. He’ll be the Secretary’s liaison on the task force. The Secretary has made it clear to me that the full might of all our forces are at our beck and call.”
    “Whatever you need, I’ll make it happen,” said Carson. A quiet assurance in his demeanor filled everyone with the confidence that he meant exactly what he said. “And please, everyone, just call me Harry,” he added with a smile before leaning further back into his seat, signaling clearly that everybody should move on.
    “Thank you, Mr. Carson. Sorry, Harry,” continued Turner. Frankie had noted Harry’s disproval when Turner had called him Mr. Carson, a simple lift of the eyebrow and Turner had reacted instantly. Frankie read people. Turner may be in charge but the power in the room was the mysterious Harry Carson.
    “Before we begin, here’s a quick update on where we are with the search so far. Within minutes of the shooting, a highest priority alert for the arrest of Nick Geller was issued to every law enforcement agency in the country. Through our colleagues at Transport, Borders and Coast Guard, the United States is effectively on lockdown, certainly for Mr. Geller. We’re currently tracking down leads to residences, family, friends, and so on.”
    Frankie didn’t look up but felt eyes burning into her from around the table.
    A sneeze from Harry Carson drew attention away from Frankie. He extracted his handkerchief and a long, sustained blow into it had everyone in the room turning to the masked Colonel Barnes for signs that Harry may have just contaminated them all.
    Frankie watched Harry, who winked at her as he replaced his handkerchief in his breast pocket.
    “It was just a sneeze people,”