by Ben Coes
Mansour stared calmly down at his former mentor. Shakib was still conscious, but moments from death. His left eye was wet, raw, and gutty.
“You were wrong, General,” said Mansour as Shakib took his last breath. “It was you who was the traitor.”
4
1:15 P.M.
OVAL OFFICE
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
President J. P. Dellenbaugh stood with a visiting family of constituents in front of a large cherry desk inside the Oval Office. The family was from South Dakota, a young couple and three small children, all dressed up. Dellenbaugh grinned widely as he stood beside the couple, behind the three children, his arms somehow enveloping them all. She was the cousin of a professional hockey referee Dellenbaugh had gotten to know during his time in the NHL. A favor to a long-forgotten colleague, a man who’d sent Dellenbaugh to the penalty box many a time, usually after yet another of Dellenbaugh’s infamous fights.
In fact, when memories of his former career in the NHL came back, on days like this, it always put the president in a good mood. White House staffers always liked it when events had some sort of hockey tie-in, because it seemed to give Dellenbaugh an extra step or two. It was easy to forget the past, a pair of Stanley Cups, an MVP trophy, too many fights to count … when one’s job was now president of the United States of America.
The Oval Office was warmly lit. The ceiling was a cut-out space and lights were hidden along the inside edges, casting light up, accentuating the oval itself, its detailed, precision woodwork, and shining a honey-yellow light through the room. The sky outside was a shadowy gray as evening encroached. The French doors to the private slate terrace outside the Oval Office were open. The Rose Garden. A faint scent of roses and drying leaves came in through the doors. Though it was chilly in the office, the lightly gusting wind created a sense of invigoration. The coming fall.
Three bronze statues were displayed on a mantel above the fireplace, where a fire now roared, stoked by the winds from outside. One was Abraham Lincoln. Another, Ronald Reagan. The third was Gordie Howe.
At age sixty-four, Dellenbaugh still appeared ten years younger, despite a professional career most people would describe as high stress and physically punishing. He spent more than a decade as a professional ice hockey player, a top-line right-winger for the Detroit Red Wings, before retiring from the NHL and running for United States Senate at the age of thirty-six. Dellenbaugh had been elected to the U.S. Senate on his first try, becoming the state of Michigan’s junior senator by defeating the four-term incumbent, Jake Smith, who, at the time, was widely considered to be the most formidable Democrat in the country and was mulling a run for the White House. The RNC, who had recruited Dellenbaugh to run, had expected Dellenbaugh to do well on his first run for office based almost purely on his popularity as a pro hockey player in a state that loved its Red Wings. But they had not expected him to win, and when he beat Smith he became a national politician. What the RNC didn’t know, what even Dellenbaugh himself didn’t understand, is that when put around people, especially large crowds of people, J. P. Dellenbaugh had a commanding speaking style, filled with fire, a hint of anger at times; a loud, booming voice; and he was able to take crowds large and small into a state of near delirium, when he chose to do so, which was pretty much every time he faced a large crowd of people.
After a few photos were taken, the family was ushered out of the Oval Office. The White House photographer departed as well, and soon Dellenbaugh was alone; well, as alone as you can be when you’re president. He removed his suit coat and his tie and threw them down on one of the large leather sofas in the middle of the room. Already seated on one of the sofas was a large man with a mop of black hair. This was Hector Calibrisi, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency. He was reading papers from a file as the president conducted political business.
A side door opened and Dellenbaugh’s chief of staff, Adrian King, stepped into the Oval Office. He was dressed in a gray pin-striped suit.
“Mr. President,” said King.
Another door opened and two more staff members stepped in. One was dark haired, slightly overweight, in a natty tweed suit. This was John Schmidt, the White House communications director. The other person was tall, thin, bald, and wore thick Coke-bottle glasses. He had taken off his suit coat and had his sleeves rolled up but was still wearing a tie. Cory Tilley, the head of White House speechwriting.
“Where are we on the speech?” said Dellenbaugh as he went to the coffee service and poured himself a cup.
“I’ve submitted two drafts, Mr. President,” said Tilley.
“I read the first. You haven’t nailed it yet, Cory,” said Dellenbaugh, sipping from the coffee cup. “I want to say, fuck you to all you countries trying to help Hezbollah, Hamas, Al Qaeda. I’m sick and tired of hosting countries on our soil that give money and support to terrorists trying to hurt us.”
“Sir, I think both drafts get that message across,” said Schmidt. “The first one is polite, the second one is fairly direct.”
“I don’t think either draft hits hard enough.”
“Mr. President,” said Tilley, “I thought about actually putting a ‘fuck you’ in there, as well as a ‘fuck off’ and a ‘go fuck yourself’ and a ‘screw yourself, bitch,’ but then John reminded me it might not be in the overall image we’re trying to project this close to the election.”
Dellenbaugh and everyone else started laughing.
“The second draft is vicious, Mr. President,” said Tilley. “Sir, you are basically threatening to evict the United Nations from New York City.”
“Mr. President,” said Schmidt, “this is the last United Nations speech before reelection. We’re, or I should say, you are up for reelection. Now is not the time to start driving wedges or scaring people. I have a mortgage, sir.”
Again, Dellenbaugh and everyone else chuckled.
“We’re up by twenty points,” said Dellenbaugh.
“There’s no need to create an international firestorm less than three weeks from the election.”
“I disagree,” said Dellenbaugh. “This speech isn’t about glossing over differences.”
“Mr. President, don’t pull the trigger until you know the gun’s not aimed at your own head,” said Schmidt.
“Don’t give me that Harvard bullshit,” said Dellenbaugh.
“I went to Washington and Lee, sir.”
“Whatever. We’re poking the goddam bear. Set the second draft into the teleprompter.”
Dellenbaugh walked behind his desk. He took another sip of coffee then put the cup down. He glanced at his chief of staff, Adrian King, who was seated in one of two floral-patterned end chairs.
King looked at Tilley and Schmidt. With the faintest of a nod, King shooed them out of the Oval Office.
After they left, Dellenbaugh went to the center of the Oval Office, a seating area with matching eight-foot-long custom-made white leather George Smith chesterfield couches, facing each other across a glass coffee table. Dellenbaugh took a seat across from Calibrisi. King sat down next to Calibrisi, legs crossed.
Dellenbaugh looked at Calibrisi.
“Why are you here, Chief?” said Dellenbaugh.
“GID was closing in on a Hezbollah accountant,” said Calibrisi, referring to Jordanian intelligence. “They found a computer in the basement of a home outside Amman. GID found a file. It was a fresh email stream, just a few days old, indicating there’s some sort of operation under way to attempt to assassinate you, Mr. President.”
“Isn’t there always?” said Dellenbaugh.
“Yes and no,” said Calibrisi. “This time it’s yes.”
“What are the details?” said King.
“I know you’re not going to like this,” said Calibrisi, “but all it shows is fund flows. Payments. There’s no detail on the parameters.”
“I’m flying to New York City in the morning,” said Dellenbaugh. “I’m speaking at the United N
ations.”
“I don’t think the UN speech is a good idea,” said Calibrisi. “Postpone and let me sic some alligators on this.”
King stood up, shaking his head, but Dellenbaugh raised his hand to shut him up.
“Do you have any hard intelligence, Hector?” said King.
“Yes. Eight hundred thousand dollars has been paid over the last two months by Iran, into Hezbollah, through an accountant, in order to do whatever it is they’re going to do. No, I don’t know if it’s going to happen tomorrow or in a week, or ever. But I’d rather be safe than sorry.”
“Did they find the accountant?” said King.
“Yes,” said Calibrisi. “Jordanian intelligence over-toxicologized him before we knew about anything. They told us about the emails after they’d already killed him and before we could get there.”
King’s frustration was visible. Both Dellenbaugh and Calibrisi knew the signs. The White House chief of staff was about to blow his stack.
“You tell that fuck, what’s his name, Sadir, the head of GID, that he’s no longer welcome inside the United States, that miserable fuck!” said King, referring to head of Jordan intel.
He walked in between Dellenbaugh and Calibrisi.
“There’s no fucking way the goddam president of the United States is not traveling to one of his own goddam cities to deliver a fucking speech!” said King, pointing at Calibrisi. “Is that crystal clear, Chief? Bolster up your fucking security! Lock the UN down, but President J. P. Dellenbaugh is not scared to go anywhere in his own country, got it?”
Calibrisi looked at King with a serene stare. He turned to Dellenbaugh.
“Someone is moving in for an attempt on your life,” said Calibrisi calmly. “Well funded. Sophisticated. We’re behind. Domestic security is FBI and local police.”
King threw up his hands.
“Are you seriously suggesting we postpone?” said King. “The speech is tomorrow fucking morning!”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m suggesting,” said Calibrisi. “Give us time to figure out what’s going on.”
Dellenbaugh put his coffee cup down, spilling a little on the table.
“I agree with Adrian,” said Dellenbaugh. “I’m speaking tomorrow, threat or no threat, so clamp down. Keep it secure.”
Calibrisi nodded silently.
“I’ll reach out to Dave McNaughton,” said King, referring to the newly appointed head of the FBI. “I’ll make sure he tees up NYPD. Have Bill Polk put some frogmen offshore,” added King.
“Good defense beats any offense,” said Calibrisi facetiously.
“I’m not going to avoid some so-called terror threat in my own goddam country,” said the president. “If they get to me, maybe they deserved to.”
Calibrisi stood up.
“Fine,” said Calibrisi. “I’m outvoted. I’m putting this on the emergency priority tac list,” he said, looking at Dellenbaugh. “I want legal authority to deploy assets on domestic soil. I want sign-off now.”
“You got it,” said Dellenbaugh.
“I’ll paper it,” said King. “Get moving.”
5
1:45 P.M.
ROCK CREEK PARKWAY
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Dewey took the Hayabusa through downtown D.C., along the Potomac, then cut up Rock Creek Parkway near the Kennedy Center. He flexed his wrist and was soon gone in a wake of burning rubber.
He could handle any motorcycle and he loved Ducati—but the Hayabusa was pure fury and might, and he pushed the bike to the outer reaches of what the machine was capable of.
It was early afternoon and the two northbound lanes were practically empty.
Once clear of the marble apron near the Kennedy Center, Dewey unleashed the motorcycle. He hit sixty in 3.2 seconds and a hundred at 5.6, pulsing the throttle and reading the wind breaks through a tree-lined canyon in order to hit the clear roadway at maximum speed.
Dewey liked cars. He’d driven his share of Ferraris, Lamborghinis, and Hellcats. He loved horses, and by age ten had spent more time traveling on the back of a horse than most equestrians do in a lifetime. He grew up on a farm, and horseback was how they reached the outer fields, costing nothing in fuel, running the stallions and mares because they needed to be run.
But as much as he liked either one, Dewey only met his match when tucked against the danger and heat of a motorcycle.
He didn’t like motorcycles, he didn’t love them—it was beyond that. Somehow, when he was on one, the machine was like an extension of his own body.
He roared the six-hundred-pound monster up the black tar of Rock Creek Parkway, feeling the wind, and at a sharp turn near the Connecticut Avenue exit, he slammed to the left, feeling the faintest scratch of the roadway against his bare elbow. He knew the corner, the motorcycle, and himself so well that even at a hundred and fifteen miles an hour Dewey knew exactly how far he could take it. He straightened, fluttered the gas, and shot fast out of the turn. He looked down, where the digital read “134” in green numbers.
Dewey’s mind went calm as nearby trees became like a green patina and the oncoming air slashed across his face. Then the old familiar sadness washed over him like a slow, powerful wave coming in before a storm.
Dewey’s mind—as he weaved up Rock Creek Parkway—was on a windswept, open field at the edge of a cemetery on the coast of Maine. Brilliant blue sky framed the dark ocean down the hill. Dark pines stood atop ice-crossed rock. Whitecaps framed in bluish black crested, in the distance, under fierce Atlantic winds. An old cemetery on a hill just above Penobscot Bay, a resting place for the dead set aside more than two hundred years ago to honor Castine’s sons and daughters, farmers, sailors, soldiers, and their families, a resting place for a proud American town. Like every town in America, but this was the town Dewey had grown up in, had married his high school sweetheart in, had baptized his only son in—and now he stood at the edge of the cemetery and he was back there, and he revved the Hayabusa, kicking it to 160 and feeling a terrible but very real sense that he was intentionally putting himself in danger, and yet he flexed his hand and watched as the digital in green digits indicated 169 mph. It was the only way he could still find his memories now. He could never explain to anyone, but he needed to find that cliff in order to look out and see the images and memories from his past—memories of his wife and son, of being a father and husband. It had been so long ago, but as he moved at a scary speed, his mind drifted into that long-forgotten period of his life.
* * *
One memory flashed in his mind at that moment. It was the cemetery. Stone and marble so old the names couldn’t be read, covered in lichen. He came to two blocks of granite, one a large slab of pink rock, the other a small, silvery gray square with specks of black.
HOLLY ANDREAS
FAIR DAUGHTER, COME HOME NOW
On the other grave:
ROBERTSON ANDREAS
DEATH BE NOT PROUD
It had been so long ago. He fought to find the memory. More than a decade now, and memories grew old and blurred. Dewey could only find it now at the edge of a chasm—at the place he found only when tearing up a two-lane road at speeds most professional motorcycle racers wouldn’t dare. Wind chopping at the visor, but at this speed his helmet was irrelevant. All that mattered was Dewey’s skill atop a motorcycle, which was elite.
His son, Robbie, had died of leukemia at age six, and, stricken by grief, Holly had killed herself six months later, but now all he remembered was the feeling after her funeral that autumn day.…
How he knelt in front of the graves of what was once his family.
“We used to go sledding over there,” he said out loud in the cemetery that lonesome day when he visited the graves of Holly and Robbie, looking at a steep hill in the distance. “It’s the stuff I never did with you that I miss the most. Like sledding. I’m sorry.”
It was his first time in the United States in almost ten years. He’d been kicked out of Delta, falsely accused of m
urdering Holly, who had shot herself with one of his pistols at their small house near Fort Bragg. After being acquitted, in thirty-one minutes, Dewey representing himself, he’d left the U.S. for the hard world of offshore oil drilling. During a decade of moving country to country, a nomad with no friends or connections, he worked his way to a top job in the oil industry. Gang chief on the largest oil platform in the world, off the western coast of South America. Capitana—now but an asterisk—the target of an attack by Alexander Fortuna and his well-funded jihad. Destroy the largest American energy company, and Fortuna had done just that. But Fortuna knew not the man who ran Capitana, who ran it like a battlefield commander ran brigades of men. Dewey had escaped before the massive $20 billion oil field was destroyed. He’d hunted Fortuna down and killed him.
* * *
Dewey pushed the Hayabusa even harder now, registering 177 on the digital box near his left hand, as thoughts of Jessica entered his mind. He felt water on his cheeks, tears washing down, and they mixed with the wind. He tasted the salty water as he forced himself to remember.
Jessica had guided Dewey from afar, from FBI Headquarters, like a compass, as Dewey hunted and killed the greatest terrorist since Bin Laden.
Jessica Tanzer, the head of the FBI’s office of counterterrorism, came to Castine out of respect, knowing what Dewey had been through, and understanding his sorrow and closure as he finally saw the graves of his lost family.
Dewey pushed the motorcycle harder now, passing a delivery truck at 180 mph, moving north on the Rock Creek Parkway as, in his eyes, he saw not road but rather the vision of Jessica just a year after the funeral, in Argentina, on a perfect summer evening, after a day of riding horses along a cold, beautiful stream.
* * *
They were in their suite, with temperatures in the low eighties and the Andes in the distance. They were to be married in less than a month. Jessica was dressed only in his white button-down, too large, down to her thighs, and she was naked beneath, and the shirt wasn’t buttoned, and he could see her breasts, for she wanted Dewey to see them. Watching as she walked toward him for the completion of the most perfect day ever, and then as she was shot through the back by bullets intended for him …
