Early Warning by Michael Walsh

whining petitioners and diminishes the morals of the public is not one to be admired. The First Amendment does not protect sedition.”
    “But it sounds to me like you’re arguing in favor of American exceptionalism. Isn’t that a form of elitism?”
    “On the contrary. I’m arguing in favor of results. Which, in my world, are the only things that count.” He shuffled his papers, reassembling in an unmistakable sign that the talk was over. These days, all of the reporters’ questions emanated from a mountain of moral certitude, which crumbled the second it was assailed.
    Principessa reddened, sat down, seethed. “This all sounds rather jingoistic to me,” she said.
    Mr. Grant looked at her with all the pity in world. “Who cares what it sounds like to you?” he said, and left the stage.
    That went well he thought to himself as he stepped into the wings, to the sound of applause. He moved swiftly, glancing down at his secure BlackBerry. A quick glance at the screen caused him to double his speed. He exited by an emergency door.
    There was a car waiting, a nondescript black sedan with four tinted windows. He got into the back seat, closed the door and hit: AUTO-START.
    Driverless, the car started up and moved forward. He could control the steering from a console on the back of the driver’s seat. He wasn’t going far.
    He glanced in the rearview mirror: a door was opening, and he could see a woman’s head peeking out. It was Ms. Stanley, eyeballing the car and talking into her cell phone. It was too bad he couldn’t treat reporters the way he treated enemies of the Republic…
    As the car moved, Mr. Grant underwent a remarkable transformation. His teeth fell out of his head; his midsection slid away, a hairpiece came off. And all the while he was wondering whether the raw data he was receiving was as sinister as it seemed, or worse.
    The car reached the far end of the parking lot and slid into a reserved, covered space. He ran a brush through his hair, popped a pair of brown contact lenses from his eyes. He had to hurry.
    He opened the door and, keeping low, slid into the adjoining Mercedes, its engine purring, as the front passenger door opened.
    “Not bad,” came a voice from the driver’s seat. He didn’t turn to look at her, but he didn’t have to. He knew every line of her lovely face. “But that reporter sure was a bitch.”
    “You were watching?”
    “And listening. Every word, every gesture…”
    Jealous. He liked that in a woman. Especially one he hardly knew, but trusted with his life. “You know there’s—”
    She turned toward him and, as usual, he fell in love with her all over again. His mouth covered hers.
    “Really, Frank, I think you’re slipping,” she said, breaking away. “Why put yourself in—”
    He reclined and, for the first time in two hours, stretched. They both knew the answer to that question, which was: there was no answer. “My name’s not Frank.”
    “You’re telling me.” She pulled the car out of the lot and into traffic. “How bad is it?”
    “Hard to say. Cyber attack, maybe a security breach.”
    “Against us?”
    Mr. Grant shook his head. “Worse—NYPD. Fort Meade is still monitoring, but the situation is unclear. And you know how tough it is to get any information out of the cops. They’d rather see the city nuked than share anything with us. We need to get to Teterboro A-sap.”
    “So I guess Arnaud’s is out of the question.”
    He smiled. “Arnaud’s, Galatoire’s Brennan’s, Congo Square, Exchange Alley—the whole nine yards.”
    Maryam hit the radio button twice and nodded to Devlin. He took the cigarette lighter out of its holder and pressed it against his thumb. The biometric reader vetted him, and suddenly the navigator screen leaped to life. He punched in his instructions.
    “Go.”
    The car leaped forward, speeding west out of town and toward Louis Armstrong Airport. There would be a private plane there, fully equipped, on the