The 14th Colony

by Steve Berry

  Not yet, he’d said.

  A partial report, she knew, had been provided on the incident with Jamie Kelly and the four cases that had been found. She imagined that information would have sent shivers through Fox. Luke was doing fine, wanting out of the hospital, but the doctors had told him one more day. The younger Daniels had been informed, though, as to what had happened, and was pleased things worked out.

  The door opened and President Fox entered the office alone, decked out in black tie and tails, looking quite dapper.

  “You know,” Fox said to Danny with a smile, “you do have to leave at some point.”

  The Sunday twitch in things had made the customary departure of the outgoing president a non-newsworthy event. Usually, just after the Capitol ceremony, the former president was seen waving to reporters and flying off from Andrews Air Force Base. Not this time. Danny had watched Fox take the oath yesterday, spending a final night in the White House, then gawking a second time today before retreating here to leave with his things.

  “I’m on the way out the door,” Danny said. “But first we need to have a chat.”

  “I feel a little outnumbered,” Fox said. “Should I ask my staff to join us?”

  “Let’s keep this between the few of us.”

  “I’m sensing that everyone here knows something I should.”

  “We tried to tell you things were bad and you wouldn’t listen,” Danny said. “Instead, your people went behind my back and tried to recruit my girl over there as a spy. And, yes, on my orders, she was playing them.”

  Fox said nothing. But men like him did not appreciate being cornered. In fact, they spent their whole lives avoiding right angles. This was classic Danny Daniels, though. The Tennessee Torture, as members of Congress and the cabinet had called it.

  “Are you referring to the four bombs seized yesterday?” Fox asked. “I was briefed. They weren’t even activated.”

  “They were decoys,” Danny said.

  And the Secret Service had done a good job diverting public attention from them, labeling Jamie Kelly as some sort of exhibitionist, trying to prove a point, who ended up dead. The “bombs” found were fake. “Security teams doing their job” had also been the explanation used for the helicopter landing on the North Lawn.

  “There was a bomb,” Danny said. “Six kilotons, placed directly beneath the White House in an old tunnel.”

  “And I wasn’t told?” Fox asked.

  “I wanted that privilege.”

  “I’m going to have to speak to the Secret Service about their loyalty. Since noon yesterday, I’ve been in charge around here.”

  “Not on this operation. You told us to handle it. We did. Now it’s over, so we’re reporting back, as you requested.”

  Hard to argue with that logic, since it was all true.

  “Okay, Danny. I get your point. As to recruiting Stephanie, that was a clear miscalculation on my attorney general’s part. When he told me what he’d done I was not pleased. That’s not my style.”

  Danny nodded. “I get that. I’ve had Lone Rangers, too.”

  A couple even tried to kill him, she thought.

  “But I am wondering,” Fox said, “how no one knew a tunnel existed beneath this building.”

  Stephanie nearly smiled. Fox was trying to score a few points of his own.

  Danny reached down to the Resolute desk and retrieved the Tallmadge journal that she’d handed over to him yesterday. “This is some interesting reading.”

  And Danny told Fox about the Society of Cincinnati, then said, “It all started with the War of 1812. We wanted Canada to be our 14th colony, to be part of the great United States. But the British didn’t want us to have it. We burned Toronto, so they came and burned DC. We’ve done some checking and discovered that, a long time ago, we did know about the tunnel. Records show it was shut down during the Civil War. By then it had collapsed beneath the White House, so they sealed it on this end, then went over to St. John’s, dug it out from the cellar, and bricked up that side. No one at the church even knew it existed. Not wanting to draw any attention to its presence during a time of civil war, they just quietly got rid of it. If not for the fact that the Cincinnati Society kept a record, it would have stayed forgotten. And if not for the excellent work of the people in this room, along with my nephew who’s in the hospital thanks to all this, we’d be dead. Cotton stopped the bomb maybe seconds before it would have exploded.”

  Fox glanced at Malone, but said nothing.

  Danny went on. “And to top it off, the guy you specifically wanted as the go-between to keep you informed decided he wanted to be president. So he didn’t tell you that a bomb was there. Instead, he ran like a dog on fire and got as far away from here as he could.”

  Surprise now filled Fox’s face. “What do you mean?”

  Stephanie said, “I called from the helicopter and told Litchfield to warn you and everyone else. There was time then to get away. But Litchfield used that time for himself. If we’d all died in a nuclear blast, he’d be president right now. He was at the swearing-in, saw that the secretaries of state, treasury, and defense were all there—each of whom are ahead of him in the line of succession—so when I called and told him what was happening, he just left.”

  The implications hit home.

  “That sorry son of a bitch.”

  “Can you imagine,” Danny said, clearly enjoying this. “The designated survivor comes out from his assigned hiding place, ready to take command, then Litchfield shows up and says, ‘Excuse me, I’m still here and you’re not the one. The AG outranks you on the list, and the succession law says the highest qualified person on the ladder wins.’ I guess he figured he’d pay us both back.”

  “He’s fired.”

  Danny chuckled. “He’s worse than that.”

  Fox seemed puzzled.

  “Cotton found him a few hours ago,” Danny said. “He owed him one for wanting to leave him to rot in Siberia. So I had him pass on both his own and our collective displeasure. How many broken ribs?”

  “More than one,” Cotton said. “We had a spirited discussion on presidential succession. Along the way, Mr. Litchfield decided that he would be pursuing other career opportunities and tendered his resignation. Then he went to find a doctor.”

  “You beat him up?” Fox asked Cotton.

  “Absolutely.”

  The new president seemed pleased. “Then that’s that. Everything is tied up.”

  “Not exactly,” Danny said. “Stephanie here quit yesterday, which you may or may not know.”

  “I was told.”

  “You need her, Warner.”

  Danny’s deep tone had changed. Lower. More conciliatory.

  “This a shakedown?” Fox asked.

  Which she was wondering, too.

  Danny shrugged. “Call it what you want. But I don’t think you want me tellin’ the world that we all came within moments of having hundreds of thousands of people vaporized, all because you wanted to be sworn in on live TV inside the White House at noon. Not to mention that your people actively tried to interfere with an ongoing investigation that was working to reveal the plot. Then, when I add in the conspiracy with Litchfield and his betrayal, wow, we’ve got ourselves a TV series. It’ll run for weeks on every news outlet in the country. What was it you said on Saturday? ‘We’ll never get on message.’”

  Danny hadn’t explained what he planned, but she’d suspected.

  “Cotton,” Danny said, “Litchfield will make himself available for interviews, right?”

  “He gave me every assurance that as soon as the pain subsided, he was at our disposal.”

  “See? There you are. We even have a witness.”

  Fox smiled. “I was told you could be terribly persuasive, when you want to be.”

  “You’re going to learn that’s a valuable skill to have around here.”

  Fox considered things for a moment before saying, “So we’re clear, I didn’t jump on your parade
Saturday because you offered no concrete evidence of anything. I wasn’t oblivious to the risks, I just wasn’t prepared to bet everything on your instincts. But I was ready to move when, and if, you had proof. Now, with Litchfield, that was my mistake. We listened to him. My AG was dead wrong and, as Mr. Malone describes, we had a spirited discussion, just without the violence.” Fox looked at Stephanie. “Litchfield convinced us you were something other than what you clearly are. My apologies for that wrong assumption. The Magellan Billet will be restored, with no interference from me or the new AG. And though we all know this idea was forced onto me, I agree completely with Danny. I want you watching my back.”

  “I’ll do my best, Mr. President,” she said, deciding a little concession of her own was in order. “You’ll find me a loyal soldier.”

  “And who am I to argue with a man leaving office with a 65% approval rating?” Fox said.

  “I didn’t realize you were a fan,” Danny said.

  “Since it’s just us here,” Fox said. “Let me say that I think you did a good job running this country. I even voted for you. Twice. Of course, political correctness prevents me from saying any of that in public. That meeting here Saturday was a show for my people. We all have to do it, from time to time. But I want to keep this country safe, just as it’s been for the past eight years. To me, that’s the number one job of this office. I know I’m new to this league, but I’m a fast learner.”

  She appreciated the mea culpa, unusual for presidents.

  Warner Fox certainly wasn’t Danny Daniels.

  But only time would tell if that was good or bad.

  “To all of you,” Fox said. “Thank you. Great work.” Fox pointed at Cotton and Cassiopeia. “Especially you, Mr. Malone. You should get a medal.”

  Cotton shook his head. “Just pay me for my time, and let me get a few days’ rest. That’ll be more than enough.”

  * * *

  Malone stepped from the White House beneath the north portico. Blades of sharp sunlight stabbed through the retreating cold clouds. The city remained abuzz with inaugural fever, Lafayette Park and the pedestrian-only areas beyond the fence hectic with camera-toting visitors. Cassiopeia stood with him, Danny and Stephanie following quickly behind.

  “I didn’t want to say anything inside,” Danny said, “since this is our little secret. But Stephanie’s pal from the park was right. People are dying fast in Moscow. It started yesterday. Three killings. Another a few hours ago. Various ministers, some at a high level, others midlevel. I imagine the message is ringing there loud and clear.”

  Danny wrapped his arms around both him and Cassiopeia, slapping affectionate blows to their shoulders.

  “Thank you both for what you did. Great work. And I wasn’t bullshittin’ in there. This new administration needs all of you. Help them out, if you can.”

  A dark sedan waited under the portico.

  Danny produced a set of keys. “I borrowed it. I’ve been waiting a long time for this. I finally get to drive.”

  “What will the Secret Service have to say about that?” Stephanie asked. “You have a detail assigned to you, right?”

  “I took a cue from the first George Bush and refused any further protection. Don’t want ’em. Don’t need ’em. Just me from now on.”

  Stephanie shook her head. “God help us. He’s loose on the world with no adult supervision.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” he said. “There’s you.” He motioned to the car. “Shall we?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “The hospital in Virginia, to see Luke. You can start rebuilding the Magellan Billet tomorrow. I also need to shake the hand of a brave navy lieutenant named Sue Begyn.”

  Stephanie held the Tallmadge journal, which he’d told her to bring from the Oval Office. Danny pointed at it and said, “We need to return that to the older Begyn. Our people have gone through it and could find no more secrets to cause us problems.”

  She was relieved to hear that. “And I owe the Society of Cincinnati that library from the Charon estate.”

  “It’s already being handled,” he said. “I’m told that, amazingly, it survived the fire.” Danny reached for the car door. “And I have a present for my nephew. I’m having his car repaired, good as new. On me.”

  She knew Luke would like that.

  They climbed inside and the engine revved. Before motoring off Danny wound down the window and said, “You two take care. And don’t be strangers.”

  The car peeled away and headed toward the south vehicle gates, disappearing around a curve and into the trees.

  “What did he mean,” he asked Cassiopeia, “when he said to Stephanie, ‘There’s you’?”

  “It’s a long story. But I think it’s okay to tell you now.”

  He was intrigued.

  “I doubt we’ve seen or heard the last of Danny Daniels,” she said.

  He agreed. No way.

  They walked from the building toward the pedestrian gate in the north fence. The RA-115 had been retrieved from the tunnel and experts had verified that, as Danny had said inside, it had been only seconds away from triggering. The subterranean cold had prolonged the process for enough extra moments to allow its disarming. Inspection also revealed that the weapon, along with the other four, was totally viable. The Secret Service had already sealed the tunnel entrance beneath the church with tons of concrete and planned to fill in the entire remnants beneath the North Lawn.

  They strolled down the paved lane toward the guard station. He couldn’t help but stare out at the manicured lawn of winter rye. Yesterday, he’d been encased beneath it. Neither one of them had reported anything more than that the bomb had been found and deactivated. So only he and Cassiopeia knew what really happened.

  “You know that you can tell me anything,” she said, “I hope that’s true for me to you.”

  He faced her. “Always.”

  They’d both seen the other at their most vulnerable. He with her in Central Asia, then again in Utah. She, just yesterday, in the ground beneath their feet. Shame coursed through him at the thought. But he was glad that it had been Cassiopeia who’d heard him. He could still feel her reassuring grip on his ankles, the dirt wrapping him like a mummy. Nothing had ever reassured him more. He was surprised at how emotional his thoughts had become. But she had that effect on him.

  As he’d said. He loved her.

  And what was wrong with that?

  He pointed off beyond the gate toward Lafayette Park. “The Hay-Adams hotel is just past the trees, across the street from St. John’s Church. I’ve always wanted to stay there. Robert Ludlum loved to use the place in his novels—some spy always having a drink in the bar at the Hay-Adams. It sounded so mysterious.”

  “I hear hotel makeup sex is pretty good, too.”

  He smiled. She knew just how to work him. But that was okay. He liked being worked by her.

  “How do you plan to get a room?” she asked. “It’s Inauguration Day.”

  “We have friends in high places. As I was leaving the Oval Office, Fox slipped me this.” He displayed a key card for the Hay-Adams. “It opens the Federal Suite. He said it’s the best room in the house. We have it for two nights, compliments of the new president of the United States, who is, as we speak, moving his clothes from there to the White House. The hotel has been his temporary quarters for the past few days.”

  She liked his proposal, but had to say, “You’re pretty sure of yourself, agreeing to all that, without asking me.”

  He offered his arm, which she accepted.

  “That I am.”

  WRITER’S NOTE

  For this novel Elizabeth and I made a memorable journey to Prince Edward Island, Canada, three trips to Washington, DC, and an excursion into rural northwestern Virginia.

  Now it’s time to separate fact from fiction.

  The meeting between Ronald Reagan and John Paul II happened on the date noted in the prologue, the first time a pope and president ever spoke alo
ne. The only twist I added was altering the time frame of John Paul II’s scolding of the Nicaraguan priest, which, in real life, did not happen until after June 1982. Most of the dialogue contained in the prologue accurately portrays these two men’s respective thoughts and feelings. They talked alone for fifty minutes and, to this day, no one knows what was said. As to an active conspiracy between them to bring down the Soviet Union, we have no evidence that such an agreement was ever made. But there is no doubt that tacit cooperation developed, each applying pressure to the USSR in different ways (chapter 30). Special envoys did in fact pass between them, delivering messages, but operation Forward Pass is wholly my invention. And the tens of thousands of nuclear weapons each nation possessed in 1982 (as numbered in the prologue) is correct.

  The An-2 is an actual single-engine biplane, and does possess the ability to fly backward in a strong headwind (chapters 1, 5). Lake Baikal (chapter 1) is the largest freshwater reservoir in the world, and each winter its ice becomes a superhighway for cars and trucks. The deaths of hundreds of soldiers during the Great March and the building of a railway across the winter surface during the Russo-Japanese War happened (chapter 1). The observatory noted in chapter 10 is real, though I moved it from the west to the east shore. The village of Chayaniye is entirely my creation. But Kozliks, nicknamed Goats, are actual Russian military vehicles (chapter 21).

  Cassiopeia’s castle reconstruction (chapter 4) is modeled after two real-life efforts. One is Guedelon in France, the other is the Ozark Medieval Fortress in Arkansas. Both have websites where you can learn more.

  Black baths existed in abundance all across Siberia. The one in chapter 6 is described from a historical account. Abandoned houses are common in Virginia (chapter 8), though Brad Charon’s is purely imaginary.

  There are varied locations throughout the novel: Annapolis, Germantown, St. Andrews by the Sea, Eastport, Maine, and Long Beach, Maryland. Each is described correctly. The Mandarin Oriental is a superb hotel in Washington, DC. Both Stephanie and I enjoy it from time to time. The city of Ulan-Ude sits in Siberia, along with a huge bust of Lenin (chapter 22). Prince Edward Island, Charlottetown, and Stratford are stunning Canadian locales, and a national park does stretch along the island’s north shore (chapter 37, 38). The Confederation Bridge, connecting the island to the mainland (chapters 40 and 45), is likewise real.