“And what do you base this on?”
“Stuffed animals.”
Battaglio raised an eyebrow, not understanding.
“Sir, we found two expensive stuffed animals in Lu’s room. His wife said that was his routine whenever he traveled. Toys for his children. That’s not something someone does who intends to disappear. He bought them, fully planning on seeing his family. The Bureau does not believe he is the assassin.”
“Ladies and Gentlemen, it is with a heavy heart that I address you tonight, as Acting President of the United States,” Ryan Battaglio began. He was on a head-to-toe shot in the Lincoln Room. He wore a dark blue suit, a white shirt, and a black tie. The camera slowly zoomed, stopping at the two-button medium shot. His voice was steady; his demeanor, at least for the camera, was commanding. “I was sworn in three hours ago, soon after President Alexander Crowe was found unresponsive in the Oval Office. The cause of his illness is being investigated by the FBI. We have not ruled out the possibility that he was poisoned.”
Battaglio lowered his eyes and shook his head to let the word sink in. Poisoned.
“At this hour, President Alexander Crowe remains in a coma at Walter Reed National Military Medical Center here in Washington, D.C. He is alive, but the Constitution is clear: if the incumbent president becomes incapacitated,” he didn’t continue to quote the other conditions, “then the succession order must be invoked. According to the 25th Amendment, it became my duty to assume the job as acting president. The oath of office was administered by Supreme Court Justice Justin Schultz. While I serve you tonight as Chief Executive and Commander in Chief, I pray that President Crowe will make it through his greatest challenge to reassume his post. Over the coming days many theories will fill the airwaves. I urge you not to let fringe conspiracies or what you may perceive as silence from the White House lead you to false conclusions. We will share information as we can, but we will not compromise our investigation—an investigation already underway by the FBI.”
Battaglio did not point to the suggestion of an international plot. Now was the time to speak with expected presidential confidence as his writers had crafted.
“To the people behind this heinous, criminal act, listen well: America’s voters determine the direction of the nation. You do not. Elected officers, chosen every two, four, or six years set the course of our great country. You have no power over us. You may grab headlines, you may even create chaos, but the United States of America will not be brought down by your cowardly actions.”
Battaglio leaned forward, as if to talk directly to the perpetrators. It was a cold, unmistakable look. “And you better pray along with us that President Crowe lives.”
The new president nodded slowly. It further emphasized his determination to viewers. Most of the country had never heard Ryan Battaglio speak; now they would never forget him.
“America has suffered this month. The lives of hundreds of loved ones have tragically been taken. Admittedly, we must gird ourselves against greater threats. And while we will not live within the shadow of fear, we cannot afford to be complacent in the sunlight. Not in our house. Not in the White House. God Bless America, and have trust that all quarters are at work while you sleep.”
Acting President Ryan Battaglio delivered the prepared speech perfectly. He held his gaze until the stage manager called, “Clear.” In those two seconds he decided he would be a visible, confident presence for the American people. He would rise to the responsibility and, believing that he had the power to change things, he decided his next act as president was to set up a series of international telephone calls. He was determined to emerge as a leader on the world stage.
57
KIEV
Reilly always seemed to be crossing one hotel lobby or another—watching, judging. This time it was all the more urgent. He checked the security measures, all active and manned. The scanners were overseen and operated by security officers in blue jackets, white shirts, and black pants. Weapons—Glocks, metal batons, handcuffs and pepper spray—were all visible. The guards were charged with scanning all incoming suitcases and packages, but there was nothing to scan. People were simply milling about, no one leaving and no one entering.
Reilly noted that guests at the elevators were, per heightened security procedure, being asked to show their room keys. They were also required to sign a register, and before entering their names were wirelessly communicated to the front desk for verification.
He stepped outside through the revolving door into sheets of driving rain. In the last few hours, a heavy downpour had taken the fight out of most protestors, patriots and scoundrels, free Ukrainians and Gorshkov’s paid thugs. Keep raining, Reilly thought. Rain could do him good tomorrow; it might even delay what seemed like the inevitable. But just as the rain drove away the crowds, any comfort he felt was drowned out by the roar of more low-flying jets.
Back to his survey.
Vehicle-stopping bollards had been drilled into the cement, probably unnecessarily considering cars and trucks were already blocked from Independence Square. Moreover, they wouldn’t stop tanks—certainly not Russian tanks.
Reilly nodded to the private guards at the main entrance. They were a bigger version of the security team inside, just as Lazlo had explained. But none of them carried guns, per Reilly’s orders; guns could escalate a situation and put guests and staff in further jeopardy.
Reilly returned inside. Things were as they should be…except for the woman in a green hoodie and black jeans. He’d missed her before. Her back was to him. Now she confidently walked toward the elevator, rolling her suitcase with an attached computer bag, and clutching her purse. Reilly walked forward.
“Ms. Flanders,” he said. “What a surprise.”
The New York Times reporter stopped and smiled. She shifted the room key in her right hand to her left and offered to shake Reilly’s hand.
“Just following my story, Mr. Reilly.”
THE KENSINGTON ROYAL NORDISKA HÔTEL
STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN
THE SAME TIME
Another city. Another hotel. Another woman.
She wore all black. A designer leather jacket, low-cut black silk blouse, tight jeans, and chic over-the-knee boots. She held back in the check-in line, waiting for the right station to open up. She let two businessmen and one couple pass as she eyed a handsome blond twenty-something hotel clerk.
“Nästa,” he said. Next.
She acknowledged the attention with a shy smile. A deception; there was nothing shy about the woman now facing the young man. The clerk smiled the kind of smile that hardly hid his interest.
“Hello,” she replied softly in English, with a distinct Russian accent. He switched from Swedish, immediately captivated by her sensuality.
“May I assist you?” He forced himself to maintain eye contact and not drop his gaze to what he wanted to see.
She read his nametag and replied, “I certainly hope so, Herr Karlsson.”
Karlsson smiled. She had him.
MADRID
THE SAME TIME
And another city. Another hotel. Another woman.
Marnie Babbitt hailed a cab outside the Marriott where she was staying, her business successfully wrapped—a new 980-million-dollar construction loan signed with Vista Superior, one of Spain’s biggest office developers. She had the fully executed papers in her Coach attaché case. Photocopies went to her Barclays London team; they’d generate seed funds within forty-eight hours.
She undressed, took a robe from the closet, and lounged on the bed. A much better way to talk with Dan, if he was available.
She dialed.
“Hello.” Reilly answered on the third ring.
“Hi darling.”
She heard loud noise in the background. Rumbling, like at an airport.
“Did you just land, sounds like….”
“I’m not at the airport, in the city now. Kiev—” A formation of fighters drowned out the rest of what Reilly was sa
ying.
“You okay?” she asked.
“As along as those jets are Ukrainian. But can I call you back?”
Marnie heard what she thought was another person saying, “Here you go. Two Lillet on the rocks.”
Marnie realized she wasn’t going to have a sexy conversation.
“Sorry, I guess I caught you at a bad time.”
“It’s okay,” Reilly said. “I’m with a very persistent reporter.”
“A she reporter?”
“Yes,” Reilly declared.
“I hope she’s ugly as sin,” Marnie said.
“Sure is,” he chuckled. “I’ll get you later.”
“You better. And you sure she’s ugly?”
“Very,” he lied.
Marnie Babbitt hung up, frustrated.
58
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Moore reviewed the latest results from the FBI labs at Quantico with disappointment. No matches on the prints that came back from the batteries discovered by the hotel maid. No fingerprint matches on the rental car signatures. Negative as well on pieces recovered from the trucks in the Potomac: the perpetrators were either foreign with no record, or they slid in under customs and had been hiding in plain sight.
The lab was still working on tracking down the origin of the electronics in the autonomous cars. The parts were not standard for any commercial models, which made it all the more difficult.
Nothing was coming easy, including how the poison was administered to the president. Yet, this is where Moore shined. It was all a process of elimination: consider all the possibilities, discard the obvious, place high value on the unlikely because it just might turn out to be true. Follow every lead. Listen to others, but don’t doubt yourself.
The obvious facts: The attacks were well-funded, well-rehearsed. That meant they needed places to train without being observed. Or, he reasoned, where observations were controlled. That meant a secure location, one with bridges to practice on. He ruled out Americans off the grid: planning at this level required a foreign base.
Moore, a former New York detective known for his obsessive-compulsive nature, shifted his focus from the attackers to their targets: America’s infrastructure and the presidency itself–a blow to America’s emotional resolve. His thinking brought him to a conclusion that the attacks were intended to inflict more psychological damage than their physical toll. Certainly, they were crippling, but what was the impact? A transportation standstill, yes. But more than that: political gridlock.
Focus, his inner voice told him. Focus harder. Then he realized the inner voice wasn’t his. It was Reilly’s.
CIA Director Gerald Watts entered the Oval Office accompanied by his lead investigator, Bob Heath.
“Good morning, sir,” Watts said.
“Let’s reserve the adjectives until we see how the day goes,” the acting president replied.
“Sir,” Watts said, “I want to introduce you to Case Officer Heath.”
Battaglio nodded. The acting president, known for his economy of words, proved himself true to his reputation. “Help yourself to coffee and then let’s have it.”
They passed on the coffee.
“What do you have and how bad off are we? Even more important, how they hell did they get to Crowe? And why the damned dog?”
“We’re working with Bureau to find out who they—”
“On that point, Case Officer Heath, who the hell are they?”
“They,” Heath said, “are a skilled team. Military-trained. Tech-savvy. Loyal. Willing to obey orders, work as a unit to achieve their goal and get out. That’s key. They’re trained to walk away alive. In fact, time after time, that’s precisely what they’ve done: walk away. That means they’re confident, duty-bound. Soldiers. Foreign, able to pass as Americans, as evidenced by making it all the way into the Oval Office. Therefore, proficient in English. Skilled in explosives and electronics. Make that expert in both. Able to communicate without exposing themselves. Smart enough to use stolen credit cards to throw off investigators. And probably as deadly in hand-to-hand combat as mass murder.”
Battaglio showed his impatience. “Again, the they, Heath? Names, countries.”
Heath glanced at Watts. He hadn’t made up his mind on Battaglio, but his first impression was not positive.
Battaglio rose and walked to the windows. He pushed the gold curtains to the side and peered out onto the garden. Flowers moving gently in the summer breeze. Orioles and robins on the lush trees, oblivious to the Secret Service snipers on the White House roof. Two squirrels chasing each other and scrambling up a tree. Nature doing its thing while terrorists did theirs.
“Well, this is a total waste of time,” Battaglio said side-stepping Heath. “This meeting is over.”
Something bothered Heath. It was the same thing that gnawed at Vincent Moore and Dan Reilly. Battaglio wasn’t seeing it, but he did.
Distraction.
59
FBI LABORATORIES
QUANTICO, VIRGINIA
Ruth Ann Joslen loved solving puzzles. She’d been honing her skills for more than thirty years: a Rubik’s cube at age nine, the New York Times Saturday crossword puzzle, the hardest of the week, beginning in middle school. In high school she turned to chemistry, which presented her with new and more complex puzzles. Molecular, cellular, right down to atomic levels.
Joslen lived for it. Colleges competed with offers of a full ride. She chose the University of Rochester, where she excelled as an undergraduate in biology. She earned two more degrees in quick succession: a Masters in Biological Engineering from MIT, and a PhD in Molecular and Cellular Biology from NYU. FBI recruiters were at graduation to meet her. Now three decades later, she was still solving puzzles as Unit Chief, and often consulting with HAMMER, the Hazardous Agent Mitigation Medical Response team run by the Secret Service Technical Support Division (TSDF). Her present assignment was to determine how President Alexander Crowe was poisoned, and send her findings as quickly as possible to the White House Medical Unit.
The best clue was the dead dog. Whatever the president ingested, Chipper did, too. But why poison the dog? And how? Joslen was stymied. She hated being stymied. Stymied didn’t solve puzzles. Clear thinking did. Somehow Crowe was poisoned. Somehow the poison ended up in the dog’s bowl behind his desk. There were no traces of poison in the water glass on Crowe’s desk. And yet, somehow…
A pill? A poison-tipped pen? Neither possibility would explain the dead dog.
The timeline: Crowe was fine before the visit by the Chamber of Commerce. He collapsed onto his desk sometime between the time the photo op was over and when the Chief of Staff found him.
She paused. The photo op. The White House photograph documented the session.
Joslen wove her shoulder-length gray hair into a bun. Her husband loved the look, but he hadn’t seen her since this new assignment began. She kicked off her flats, sipped a fresh cup of black coffee–she lost count of how many she’d had at six–and called for the photographs from the White House. It took twenty minutes, but she got them via email. Photographic analysis wasn’t her skill set, but eliminating possibilities was another way of getting to the possible.
Two hours squinting at the computer proved nothing. A series of wide shots had been snapped as Chamber of Commerce members were getting into place for the actual photo of record; the visitors gathered in two rough lines of the twenty with Alexander Crowe front and center. One picture. Then another few with ever-better smiles. She examined the photos and automatically counted: twenty including the president.
Joslen stopped. Twenty people including President Crowe. Twenty? She counted everyone again. Three times. Each time, twenty. But the White House log indicated there should have been twenty guests plus the president. Twenty-one with the Secret Service agents out of camera view.
Someone was missing.
The FBI agent’s heart pounded. She reviewed the sequence of photographs more carefully, identifying each partici
pant on her screen by number. In a corner of one of the first photographs in the sequence, she spotted a man at the side of the group turned away from the camera, kneeling to tie a shoe. Or as if to tie a shoe. She’d taken him as Secret Service at first. She now realized he wasn’t.
She blew up the photograph 300 percent. The man, one of the Chamber of Commerce delegation, wore loafers—there were no laces for him to tie.
60
KIEV, UKRAINE
Savannah Flanders offered her hand. “Agreed,” she said. Reilly took it and sealed the deal. A compromise. Not what the New York Times reporter originally wanted, but a first-person story of some sort—still front page news. Reilly would allow Flanders to chronicle the hotel evacuation as long as she didn’t ID or photograph him or the Ukrainian team members. The reason, security. Same for the identity of their plane out and the crew on board. But in that case, his company’s security. He failed to explain that the crew was actually comprised of hand-picked mercenaries.
She further agreed to hold the story until everyone was out, on the plane, and clear of Ukrainian airspace. No tweets prior. She would have to follow orders, without argument, as if she were one of the regular hotel evacuees which, for Reilly’s purposes, she was.
Reilly had positioned them at a table along a wall in the lobby, facing out. Their conversation had taken them through forty minutes, two pours of their drinks and the only appetizers still available: Varenyky, moon-shaped dumplings filled with pickled fish and cream cheese. Before the food was cleared away, Reilly’s phone rang.
“Hey, buddy,” Reilly said, careful not to identify Bob Heath by name. “What’s up?”
Reilly turned away from the reporter as Heath told him. It was a short talk. He hung up and his mind raced.
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