The White House: A Flynn Carroll Thriller

by Whitley Strieber

  “Know what this is?” Greene asked.

  “Yes.”

  He opened the football and laid it on his lap. “I punch in a code and a flight of Minuteman missiles turns somebody into a nuclear cinder. Russia. China. Iran. You name it, they’ve all got codes.”

  “There’s no code for Aeon.”

  “Then I need one.”

  “Aeon is in outer space,” Lorna said.

  “So? We have astronauts, don’t we?” He opened the football.

  “Bill—” Flynn heard the worry in Lorna’s voice.

  “Take a look at this thing, Flynn.”

  “Bill, close it. Everything in there is classified.”

  “Flynn’s a big genius, he wants to see it.”

  “Put it away!” Lorna was now shaking, but not with fear. She was furious. She’d have liked to tear his heart out; you could see it. She’d hated him for years. Despised him, this faithless husband who swung all sorts of ways, but never with her. At the same time, though, here she was in the White House, honored as First Lady. Flynn didn’t envy her that conflict, eating her heart as certainly as cancer eats the gut or the brain.

  Greene snapped the football closed. “You’re talking to the most powerful man in the world about hostile alien entities, Flynn.” He put it back down beside the couch and advanced on Flynn. “Next time, you bring crap like this to a shrink, not to the White House. ‘Aeon.’” He shook his head. “Sweet Jesus.”

  “Don’t be a damn fool,” Lorna blurted.

  “I’m going to need proof. Serious proof. An alien invasion!” He shook his head again in disgust and disbelief. “And how much money do you people spend? Who’s paying you?”

  “Sir, our budget is not large,” Diana said.

  “It better not be.” He lifted his thumb toward the door. “Vamanos! I’m sleepy.”

  Flynn and Diana left, not speaking, not in this captured place.

  If the White House didn’t already belong to Aeon, they sure as hell would have no trouble gaining control over it.

  The last thing Flynn wanted to do was assassinate the poor dumb guy. But if the fate of nation and species was in the balance, he would not hesitate. At least the vice president, Harlon Durward, the former senator from Kentucky, was no fool. Mean as a snake and somewhere to the right of Hitler, but no fool.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE SENSE of urgency that had settled in when Flynn saw Bill Greene with the football, then heard his nonsensical reaction to the news of Aeon, now rendered him silent as he and Diana returned to the Georgetown house. Diana also said nothing, certainly not in a taxicab. They’d been careful to cross the street and hail it well away from the White House.

  But when he saw her house, its elegant façade glowing in the streetlights, a surge of exhaustion swept through him. It was a black wave, the storm returning in all its crushing rage, sucking him downward.

  “Flynn?”

  “Sorry!” Incredibly, even as they were getting out of the cab, he had fallen asleep. He’d slept a little on the carrier, and he’d even less on the plane, not after he’d woken up and found Morris in his face. All of it was imperiled sleep, where the body lies still but the mind remains on watch.

  But the house wasn’t safe, either, obviously.

  “Shit…”

  “Come on, you’re passing out.”

  The interior smelled like his lovely old home in Menard, the family homeplace for four generations—of beeswax coming off the furniture, of the indefinable perfume of a place where a woman lives, of the flowers that stood on the mahogany side table in the sitting room. As had his mother, Diana lived elegantly. Her taste was discreet. Nothing too flashy; no statements. He loved the way she kept this house: the beauty of the rooms, the sense of permanence and peace.

  “I need to shake this.”

  “In the past four days you’ve been tortured, gone through a storm at sea without so much as an inner tube, flown ten thousand miles, been shot at, and discovered not only that the end of the world is at hand, but that the President of the United States is even more of an idiot than you thought. So you’re tired. Bone-tired. And you’re not going to shake it.”

  “I have to! We just got stiffed by the president. He wants proof. We’ve got to get it to him.”

  She took his elbow and directed him toward the stairs.

  “We can’t stay here, it’s too dangerous.”

  “Flynn, it’s dangerous everywhere, and here at least we have one of the most sophisticated security systems on the planet.”

  “A toy.”

  “You have to sleep. You have no choice. You can’t afford not to. You’re losing your edge.”

  “We have to get over to the office, we have to pull the whole team in, and we have to do a massive search of every single bit of UFO lore and alien lore that has been recorded anywhere in the past year.”

  “And?”

  “We’re looking to prepare for some pattern, some clue, that might tell us what the hell they’re doing.”

  “Flynn, you’re asking us to sift through a gigantic dumpster for a single gold button that might not even look like a gold button. Mission impossible.”

  “Then I have to kill Greene. I have to go back there tonight and kill him.”

  “Kill the president in the White House? That’s an ambitious plan, I’ll say that for it. But what does it get us? Next stop, the vice president. Then after that, who? The president pro-tem of the Senate? Then on down the line how far, Flynn?”

  “The veep’s not a fool.”

  “Flynn, tell you what. I’ll get the work going if you get some sleep. I’ll also provide the president the proof he needs.”

  “How will you do that?”

  “That’s my business, but I have the resources we need.”

  “What? Not a body. You know those damn things come back to life.” He thought of Morris. “They’re machines, so they can be fixed.”

  “I don’t have anything physical like that, and I don’t need it.”

  “Greene.” He shook his head. “Di, the man has to go.”

  “I don’t like the way you’re thinking. Some good stuff, but mixed in with some really bad, dumb stuff. Toxic combination.”

  He remembered something Morris had said. “Another thing. Get in a supply of infrared thermometers.”

  “What for?”

  “The humanoid bios might have a lower-than-normal temperature.”

  “You’re kidding. How did you find that out?”

  “Morris. I remembered how cold he was.” He did not tell her about meeting him on the plane. Probably should have, but he was compulsive about not sharing information unless absolutely necessary. You give what you have to give, no more.

  “I’ll do it. Now you get to bed.”

  “I’m going back to the White House.”

  “The hell you are!”

  “We could be talking about the end of the human race, and all because the asshole in the Oval is a pitiful, vulnerable little jerk.”

  “You will not assassinate him! It’s not like you to be so damn dumb. Stubborn, yes, but not dumb.”

  “Assassination is far from dumb. It’s smart. It’s essential.”

  “Sleep is what’s essential here.”

  He knew she was right, and the moment he admitted that to himself, reality took over. Offing Greene would only create chaos at the top, and God knew what Aeon would be able to do with that.

  It was all he could do to get himself up the stairs to the luxurious master suite. The huge marble bath, which he hadn’t really wanted, now looked like a corner of heaven.

  Once the taps were gushing, Diana bustled around, laying out a thick terry cloth robe, mixing a combination of Dead Sea Salt and lavender oil into the steaming water, clucking with wifely concern when she saw the huge bruises, cuts, and burns that covered his body.

  “That bastard Davood was damned enthusiastic,” she said as he slid into the steaming, scented bath, “for one of ours.”<
br />
  “If he is. I have my doubts.”

  “He got you out.”

  “Unless I escaped.”

  The water was wonderful. Lovely. His eyes slid closed, his habitual wariness fading. For just a few minutes, he tried to put aside his watchfulness.

  “I thought I was gonna buy it, Di.”

  “You’re a soldier, Flynn, not a spy.”

  “Too dumb, I guess.”

  “You’re the smartest human being I’ve ever known. Smartest hunk, anyway.” She sat down on the side of the tub and laid a gentle hand on his forehead. “God, you’re beautiful. My great, shining warrior.” She stroked his forehead, then her fingers drifted down his cheek. “I’m glad Davood stayed away from your face.” She leaned over and kissed him. “How does that feel?”

  “Um, good. But—actually…” How could he tell her a man recovering from electroshock torture does not want to become sexually excited.

  She laughed a little. “Maybe you deserve a little pain with your pleasure.”

  “You’re still mad at me.”

  “No, that wouldn’t be accurate. I’m absolutely furious at you.”

  He took her hand and kissed its smoothness. “Forgive?”

  “Damnit, of course I do.”

  The next thing he knew she was naked and in the oversize tub with him. It turned out that not even the intimate injuries that had been inflicted on him were enough to stop him.

  They churned up a storm in the foaming, scented water, but this one was dancing with joyous waves, far from any savage ocean torrent. In fact, given his size and his power, it was fortunate that the bathroom floor was well sealed, or a lot of water would have ended up downstairs.

  Finally they lay in the remains of the bath together, floating in grateful silence.

  “There’s no more time,” he said as he pulled himself to his feet on the gleaming brass handrail that ran along the wall beside the tub. “We gotta get to work on this right now.”

  “Flynn, you’re done in. You can’t work.”

  He stepped out of the tub and grabbed the robe. “I have to work. I have to get some kind of traction on this thing; there’s too much at stake.” He went into the bedroom to get his clothes on. He’d been here an hour. Way too long. There weren’t going to be any second chances.

  He sat down on the bed. He and Abby had shared a queen, but that wasn’t Diana’s style. The senator’s daughter lived large, and this bed was vast. He lay back. It was also damn comfortable. Too comfortable.

  He didn’t know exactly when he drifted into sleep, or when Abby replaced her in his dreams. Abby in the sea long ago, swimming in the blue waters at Port Aransas, then going back to their condo and making love, then driving down Padre to the Padre Isles Country Club for a dinner of redfish and chardonnay, then having sex again, this time on the broad deck of the condo in the moonlight.

  When it came time to wake him up, she had to throw ice water on his face. He felt it like a memory of the storm and it brought him up in bed shouting.

  “What time is it? How long have I been out?”

  “It’s midnight.”

  “Damnit!”

  “The team’s working right now. Anything that looks promising, we’ll see it right here. You have no need to go to Langley. Probably dangerous to be on the streets, anyway.”

  “I have to go to the White House.”

  “Hell no!”

  “Not to kill him. To stand guard.” He got out of bed—and then sat back down. “Damn.”

  “It’s called exhaustion. Something that happens to other people fairly often. To you, not so often.” She drew him back down to a prone position.

  “There’s no time!”

  But there was time. There had to be. He could not rouse himself; it simply was not possible. In fact, all he could do was let his eyes drop closed. He wanted to stay awake, he wanted to get the hell out of here and get moving, but his body would not respond.

  In his uneasy sleep, he called Diana Abby, breathing the word like a sigh from his soul, and she took him in her arms and silently wept. She so wanted Abby to leave him—the memory, the ghost, all of her. Listening to his slow breathing, her arm across his broad chest, she gradually fell asleep, too.

  Flynn was right about the urgency, even more so than he realized. Had they understood the fearsome truth of what was about to happen, they would not have slept for an instant. She certainly would not have. She would have guarded him with a gun, and shot any shadow, no matter how fleeting, that passed into the room.

  She slept on, and the night deepened and the danger grew.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  IN THE places in Washington where night guards patrol, they made their rounds. They walked the halls of the great monuments, the echoing Capitol, the Pentagon and the State Department, the White House, and all the offices that formed the sinew and muscle of government.

  In the White House, Lorna Greene read poetry to Ginny Bowers. Bill Greene, loaded with lorazepam, slept like a dead man, not dreaming, hardly breathing. Cissy, by contrast, lay with a pistol beside her. Her eyes were wide open, as they had been, for the most part, since Al Doxy’s murder. She was watching for movement, and would shoot if she saw it. Where was Flynn? Why hadn’t he stayed? Had Daddy thrown him out or had he left in disgust? What was going to happen next, what terrible thing, in this haunted, awful house?

  Flynn was drawn to full consciousness only slowly, by the pressure of the hand that had been lying on his forehead for some little while. He knew by its weight that it wasn’t Diana’s hand, and then he became aware of its distinct coldness.

  “You wake up very carefully,” Morris said. “I admire that, brother.”

  For the split of an instant, Flynn thought he must be dreaming. But no, that familiar face was actually there, floating in the darkness beside the bed. It was Morris, no question. He had gotten into this house and come right up to this bed without being detected. He was way too good at this sort of thing, clearly.

  “I’m not your brother.”

  “You are. Remember the meteor night.”

  “I come from a long line of Texans going back to pioneer days, and before that to old England. I repeat, I am not like you and I am not your brother.”

  The hand went away. “If we stay here, Diana’s sedative is going to wear off. That would be inconvenient, brother.”

  “Get out.”

  “I’d love to, you shit.”

  Flynn rolled out of bed. Diana lay as if dead. He was familiar with the way this particular kind of sedation worked. It was accomplished with sound, not drugs. When she woke up, it would seem to her that the time she’d spent in this condition simply didn’t exist. Do this to somebody while they’re awake, and it can be very disturbing. Do it while they’re sleeping and they never suspect a thing.

  They went down to the library of the old house. As they descended the elegant central staircase, Flynn noted that the alarms were still armed. The house had deep protection: approach sensitivity, heat and motion detection, facial and voice recognition, and, of course, acoustic monitors to pick up sounds of breakage. Magnetic switches that were installed on every door and window. Even the attic was alarmed.

  They entered the library, filled with Diana’s history collection and his art books. His friend Mac was becoming a serious collector, and Flynn was beginning to consider it.

  “How did you get in here?”

  He wiggled the fingers of his left hand. “Fingerprint reader. You need to face the fact that I’m formed out of you. Flynn’s rib.”

  There was a reader on the service door in the alley, used by Flynn and Diana and the office messenger. It allowed entrance only into the pantry. “We don’t share the same fingerprints.”

  Morris smiled. “Sometimes we do, sometimes we don’t.”

  Flynn was powerfully reminded of how advanced Aeon was. Still, beyond the pantry, facial recognition would be necessary, and Morris did not look like him. “I repeat, how did you get in he
re?”

  “We have at most three days, Flynn.” He went over to the small liquor cabinet that was set into one of the bookshelves, and poured himself a generous bourbon. He sipped it neat. “It’s not a lot of time.”

  “Why three days?”

  “They’ll implant the president tonight, if they haven’t already. They’ll do it from a distance. But the signal will need to be amplified if you’re going to override the target’s core instincts, the strongest of which is survival. So there will be an amplifier installed in the White House, and somebody will need to put it there.”

  “He had the football out while I was there. He was obsessing on it.”

  “I did not know that he was a sportsman.”

  “Do you know what the football is?”

  “Leather-clad sports ball. Pigskin, to be perfectly accurate.”

  “This is a different sort of football. It’s used to order the release of the country’s nuclear missiles.”

  “That wouldn’t be it, then. Nuclear Armageddon would ruin the planet. They want the planet intact.”

  “So what are we looking for?”

  “You tell me. That’s why I’m here.”

  “I don’t believe you. You’ve already tried to have me assassinated. And Di.”

  “No.”

  Flynn sighed. It was remotely possible that the Dumbarton ambush had been set up by the Iranians. “Maybe not, but I don’t trust you.”

  “I don’t trust you.”

  Flynn imagined what it would be like to slam into him, seize his head, and snap his neck.

  “I’d like to kill you, too,” Morris said. He sipped his drink. “What a pleasure that would be.” Morris’s eyes lit for a moment with a surprising inner fire—surprising for somebody who claimed, essentially, to be a program.

  “You can feel anger, I see.”

  “I can feel any damn thing I please.”

  They sensed the approaching presence at the same time and went to their feet at the same moment. They both found themselves looking down the barrel of a Casull Raging Bull at the same second. Diana was handling Flynn’s big pistol expertly. He was silently impressed, and he knew that Morris was, too, because he could feel the fear pouring off him. If she pulled the trigger, his head would be blown apart, an injury too extreme to fix.