Four Secret Service agents, members of the Presidential Protective Division (PPD), poured into the Oval Office, their Glock 19s out. Simon backed away and pointed at the president. A second agent shouldered his service weapon, whipped Simon around, spread his legs apart and forced him face first against the wall while a third agent held him at gunpoint. The fourth Secret Service agent radioed, “Eagle down. Eagle down. Home base. Medic!”
Simon attempted to turn his face and explain. Agent Two would have none of it. Simon didn’t try it again; there would be time to explain later.
Within a minute the president’s doctor, Kay Balue, rushed in with a black leather medical bag containing more than the basics. Twenty seconds later, staff nurses followed with crash carts including oxygen and a defibrillator. Balue, dressed in a blue pantsuit and loafers, bent down and administered to the president. She’d been the Crowe family primary care physician long before he became president. Now his life was in her hands. No one spoke as she worked.
She found his pulse, but pursed her lips at the sight of white foam dripping from his mouth. The oxygen was ready, but first she needed to clear his throat. She bent over and quickly swabbed his mouth. Another fifteen seconds—fifteen seconds she didn’t know if she had. A nurse bagged the swabs.
“We need to airlift him!” Balue commanded. It was her decision to make. The President required care beyond the capabilities of the White House Medical Unit (WHMU). A gurney arrived by minute two. If the White House drills proved effective, a medical helicopter would be on the lawn in three minutes. Three critical minutes.
Balue looked at the president’s dog.
“Dead,” said Secret Service Agent One.
“I want a necropsy,” she told the nurse with the gurney. She saw the dog dish on the floor. “And take that,” she indicated with a downward nod of her head.
“What do we know?” Balue asked the room.
“I found him,” Chief of Staff Simon said, straining to turn his head. Secret Service Agent Two released his grip. “Just as you see him. I thought he was napping. He has…had a conference coming up with the Speaker.”
At that moment they heard commotion in the hallway. The Speaker of the House had arrived. The Secret Service detail barred him. There was shouting.
“Quiet!” Balue yelled. “And?”
“I pressed the alarm. I have no idea what happened.”
“I do,” Balue said gravely. “Poison.” She motioned again to the dog and back to President Crowe.
By minute five the president was wheeled out to the medevac helicopter for the short flight to Walter Reed National Military Medical Center. Dr. Balue accompanied him, along with a contingent of Secret Service agents and armed Marines.
Minute six, the Director of the Secret Service called Vice President Ryan Battaglio and Supreme Court Justice Justin Shultz to come to the White House. He instructed, without further explanation, “Now!”
KIEV
Volosin finished studying the map of Kiev with Lazlo’s four routes.
“No,” he said.
“No? No what?” Lazlo replied.
“These routes won’t work. We’ll get bogged down in minutes.” He took a marker and wrote a new route. “This way, and we’ll need extra cash,” Volosin said. “We’re likely to be stopped by soldiers or gangs. Good, bad, they’ll all be on the take. A caravan of buses offers appealing possibilities.”
“Done,” Reilly said. He looked at Lazlo for confirmation. Lazlo blanched.
“How do we know your men won’t be any different?”
“Really?” Major Volosin replied. “Alright, a fair enough question.” He smiled.
Reilly recognized the tone. Polite. Patient. The kind of smile he had often used trying to explain something simple to a general who couldn’t comprehend a field decision called in the moment that contradicted orders. It was the kind of smile that said, I’ll tell you, but you still won’t fucking understand.
“There are many dangers, Mr. Lazlo. But I’m not one of them. Mr. Reilly was fortunate to meet me. I know the streets, I know the gangs. I know who to pay and how much. Right now you have no better friend.”
“Well, I just met you,” Lazlo said dismissively.
“We meet new people every day. Some are good. Some not so.”
Volosin addressed Reilly now. “You just met me, Reilly. What am I to you?”
“My new best friend.”
“Well then, we understand one another.”
At that moment an ear-blasting jet flew over. It set off alarms on the few cars that were in the area. Next, sirens in the square blared, followed by an explosion.
It was no longer a matter of even twenty-four hours.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
“Mr. Vice President, we have to do this now,” Chief Justice Justin Shultz declared. So far, the president’s National Security Advisor, Secretary of State Elizabeth Matthews, the Speaker of the House, two cabinet members, and three Secret Service agents were present for the swearing in ceremony. Unceremonious, but necessary. Others were informed and would either arrive in time or not.
Also present was Chief of Staff Lou Simon. The Secret Service had released him—no one really believed that Simon, a trusted friend of the president’s, would attempt to assassinate him, let alone his dog. Crowe and Simon had known each other since Simon, a nationwide radio host, first interviewed Crowe. In the years since, he became a member of Crowe’s staff in Congress, moving up to press secretary, and now the president’s powerful Chief of Staff.
They assembled in the Cabinet Room since the Oval Office was now an active crime scene.
“Wait.” The vice president was still working on understanding the gravity of the news. “Alex is still alive,” Ryan Battaglio said. He somehow felt that using the president’s first name would help him make it through the crisis.
“He’s in a coma,” Pierce Kimball said. “At this moment, the nation is without a president. Accept your responsibility, Ryan.” The first name helped the National Security Advisor as well.
The vice president was visibly shaken, unprepared for his ascension. As a second-term Florida senator he had run for president in the primaries, but only hoped to win a cabinet position. But Crowe picked him as his running mate to help bring in southern votes and now, at forty-eight, five years under the average age of a newly inaugurated chief executive, Ryan Battaglio was about to become president—or more precisely, Acting President of the United States.
“I want my wife and kids here,” Battaglio said.
“Sir, I understand, but we can’t wait,” Simon implored.
“They have to be here before I put my hand on the Bible.”
“Yes, sir.”
For the next twenty minutes the country had no leader. Finally, Carolyn Battaglio and the Battaglio teenage twins, Samantha and Sydney, were led into the Cabinet Room, unaware of the situation. It quickly became apparent.
“Okay, now, Mr. Vice President?” Chief of Staff Simon asked.
“Give me another minute.”
Battaglio explained what had happened to his family, what was going to happen. The children were excited. His wife was nervous.
Battaglio walked forward to stand next to the Chief Justice. He straightened to maximize his full five-eight for the cameras. He wore a dark blue suit, white shirt and red tie. At the last minute, President Crowe’s secretary stepped forward. She tearfully attached a flag pin to his lapel and withdrew.
“Alright. I’m ready,” Battaglio said. But he clearly wasn’t. He was nervous, unprepared, and at this moment, everyone could see it.
55
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Section 4 of the 25th Amendment to the United States Constitution, ratified after the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, stipulates the process. President Crowe was alive, but incapacitated. Now the law dictated what had to be done.
Whenever the Vice President and a majority of either the principal officers of the executive departments or
of such other body as Congress may by law provide, transmit to the President pro-tempore of the Senate and the Speaker of the House of Representatives their written declaration that the President is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office, the Vice President shall immediately assume the powers and duties of the office as Acting President.
White House photographers memorialized the moment. Battaglio’s wife to his left, the twins flanking him. The Speaker of the House, the President Pro Tempore of the Senate, majority and minority party leaders, Lou Simon, Pierce Kimball, and the four cabinet members who made it in time spread out in both directions, all wondering how they would work with the new commander in chief.
Battaglio raised his right hand and placed his left on the Bible. The Chief Justice of the Supreme Court read thirty-five words from the United States Constitution. He concluded with, “So help me God.”
Thirty photographs, but no handshakes. It didn’t feel right. As people were beginning to leave, Acting President Battaglio cleared his throat.
“Of course, Mr. Vice President,” Secretary of State Elizabeth Matthews replied.
Battaglio shot a stern look to the forty-three-year-old cabinet secretary. “It’s Acting President Battaglio,” he said sharply.
“Apologies,” Matthews couldn’t quite say the words. “Yes, sir.”
Now he had everyone’s attention.
“As of a few minutes ago President Crowe was reported in critical condition.” He paused. “President Crowe has given so much to this country. I pray that will not include his life.” Heads bowed in agreement. Battaglio continued, “I’m going to Walter Reed on Marine One to see him and talk to his doctors. When I return I want a briefing on how the hell this happened. And call in the president’s speech writers. Have them get me something profound to read.” He swallowed hard, realizing he had just made the same mistake the Secretary of State had. He was president for the moment—and possibly for longer.
56
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Phones rang around the globe. Bulletins set off alerts. The cable news channels cut in with Breaking News graphics and hot musical cues. Dan Reilly got word in Kiev, Marnie Babbitt in Madrid. Bob Heath in Langley. Vincent Moore in Nevada. Nikolai Gorshkov in Russia.
Dan Reilly used his sat phone to contact Heath. The CIA officer had little information, but what he did know he shared.
“Poison, Dan. That’s what the White House doc thinks. Unknown who or how.”
Reilly didn’t say anything. He was thinking. This wasn’t in his State Department report, but it should have been. He should have seen it.
Inspired, tactical, impressive.
“What kind of poison?” Acting President Battaglio demanded. “And how does a president and his dog get poisoned in his own office?”
FBI Director Reese McCafferty stood facing the new commander in chief with Pierce Kimball and Lou Simon to his right, and the Director of the Secret Service to his left. No one had either the time or the desire to sit. Battaglio wanted precise answers. McCafferty only had possibilities, not even probabilities.
“According to the log, the last group in was from the Chamber of Commerce. Everyone cleared. That was at 1530. Lou found him twenty minutes later at 1550. Dr. Balue is working with President Crowe’s physicians at Walter Reed. They’re running toxicological test so we’ll know more soon. In the meantime, agents have been dispatched to each of the chamber members who met with the president.”
“To talk with them?” Battaglio asked.
“To detain then.”
“What else do we know?”
McCafferty stood. He looked pale, like one of the statues at a Washington memorial. The former Denver chief of police and twenty-year FBI agent was widely recognized for never leaving a stone unturned. But now he was stymied. At this hour, with the country under attack and President Crowe poisoned, McCafferty was in charge of the biggest investigation of his life.
“Calculated. Coordinated. Expensive.”
“A fringe group or a nation?”
“Too early to determine,” he said.
“Well, then you have nothing,” Battaglio said acidly.
“Mr. President, we will find out but we have to do this systematically. Do it wrong and it’s the stuff wars are made of, sir.” Battaglio shrank into his chair in the Cabinet Room and looked around.
“When can I get into the Oval Office?”
“A day, maybe two. We’re pulling prints, checking for DNA, anything that might be in carpet fibers.”
“I want the office by tomorrow.”
It was an unreasonable request, but the director didn’t push it. Battaglio was nervous; overwhelmed. He wanted answers. McCafferty switched gears.
“Some news I was due to give President Crowe today, sir: we are tracking operatives who crossed the border from Canada.”
“Crossed?” Battaglio asked.
“Parachuted into Maine, likely to carry out the attacks. Others slipped in, possibly by sea. The Northern borders are porous, especially for those with real money to fund operations. Of course, some might have been here legitimately—sleepers, waiting. And we can’t discount others on work or student visas. We have teams working on parts of the explosive devices recovered in the Potomac, the Mississippi, the Lincoln Tunnel, and on the Pittsburg bridges. We could get lucky yet.”
The director wished he hadn’t said lucky. He had to give this president, this acting president, concrete information to settle him down.
Battaglio, once Chair of the Senate Intelligence Committee, picked up on McCafferty’s usage.
“Mr. Director, thinking like a terrorist, why would we have chosen these targets?”
The FBI Director took in a deep breath. His cheeks puffed out. He exhaled audibly and looked at CIA Director Watts. Watts took the cue and stepped forward.
“Actually, we did choose those targets. Each of them and more.” Battaglio blanched.
“What?”
“There was a study,” Watt continued, “A joint paper that bubbled up from State, with Homeland Security, CIA, and NSA input. Classified. Top Secret. SCI.” Battaglio understood the designation: Sensitive Compartmented Information.
“And?”
“Under lock and key, never to see the light of day,” the CIA director explained.
“Let me guess,” Battaglio said, “Somebody broke the lock.”
“Quite possibly, yes.”
“Director McCafferty, not to state the obvious, but you are talking to the paper’s authors?”
“Author. Single. And yes. He’s out of government now, works in international.”
“International what?”
“Hotels. President of the Kensington Royal International chain.”
Secretary of State Elizabeth Matthews cleared her throat. Battaglio automatically turned to her.
“Mr. President, I can add some clarity. He worked for me in the State Department. He’s dedicated and thorough. I can assure you the leak was not his doing.”
“Are you absolutely sure?” Matthews began to respond—but McCafferty interrupted.
“We have questioned him thoroughly.”
“And?”
“Questioned and released.”
Battaglio shrugged off the answer.
“He passed all the tests,” Matthews interrupted. “A decorated vet. A State Department resource. Now an international player.”
“Players play,” Battaglio insisted. “Money talks. Offshore money talks the loudest.”
Here Battaglio spoke with some knowledge. He was familiar with Senate intelligence committee reports on Russian spies operating in the U.S., who curried favor with political parties and members of Congress.
“What is this so-called research paper of his?” the acting president asked.
“Major targets. Many are fairly obvious—it wouldn’t take a stolen paper to put them on terrorists’ lists.”
“And other targets?”
“Right out of his rese
arch. Chapter and verse.”
“Where is he now?”
“Ukraine, Mr. President,” Watts said. “He’s working on getting people out of Kiev. We’re in touch.”
“Christ. Is he a hotel exec or some sort of State operative?”
No one volunteered an answer. Battaglio looked disgusted with the team he had just inherited.
“Sir,” McCafferty finally said, “under the circumstances, we must limit your exposure. The Bureau’s best recommendation is that you remain in the White House, meet only with those with the highest security clearance, and have us test everything you eat. No matter where you go, White House chefs will either cook your food or supervise its preparation. More than usual, you’re in lockdown.”
More silence until the FBI Director’s phone buzzed. McCafferty looked at the display: FBI agent Moore’s name came up.
“Excuse me for a moment.” The FBI chief backed away and answered. “Yes,” he said quietly.
“We have all of the Chamber of Commerce members who went to the White House except one.”
“Who?”
“A man named Michael Lu. Mid-thirties, from Chino, California. New to the national conference. He cleared his security check but now he’s disappeared. Not at any functions, not answering his phone which, by the way, was in his hotel room.”
“Family?”
“Concerned,” Moore said. “His wife talked to him last night. She said they have a standing evening phone call. He missed it today. But here’s the real rub.”
“Go on.”
“According to a hotel bell captain, Lu was last seen leaving the hotel, rolling a large duffle bag. The bellman asked if he wanted a cab. He didn’t. Instead, he walked down the street. Later he was seen at the convention center where he met up with his group and boarded the scheduled bus to the White House. No one reported him traveling with a duffle.”
“You’re about to propose a theory, Vincent.”
“Yes, sir. My team believes we’ll locate the duffle bag, probably in a dumpster. Inside will be Michael Lu. The real Michael Lu. Dead. We’re looking for someone who assumed his identity for the sole purpose of gaining access to the president.”
Red Deception Page 21
