by Ben Coes
14
JOINT BASE ANDREWS
MARYLAND
Dewey parked his car—a black 2006 Ferrari 575 Superamerica—inside a maintenance hangar near the outer rim of Andrews’s labyrinthine set of runways, buildings, and land. He locked it and set the key on the back left tire.
He found Steve Owen inside the main building. Owen was dressed in flight gear. He politely but firmly grabbed Dewey’s elbow and pushed him back out through the door. In the distance, a shiny black F-18/A loomed in the middle of the tarmac.
“You sure this is okay?” said Dewey.
“It’s fine. I need hours if I want to keep my license. To be perfectly honest, I might be a little rusty.”
“When was the last time you flew?” said Dewey as they walked toward the jet.
“A month or two,” said Owen. “It didn’t go very well. Do you have life insurance?”
Dewey didn’t laugh. He followed Owen across the tarmac. He climbed up the ladder and strapped into the backseat. Owen followed him up the ladder and strapped into the pilot seat, then fired up the engine and prepared to take off as he went through a quick systems protocol with the Andrews flight deck as, at the same time, he powered up the F-18/A and started taxiing toward the runway. By the time he hit the beginning of the long runway, Owen had the jet speeding forward. He turned into the barrel of the runway then slammed it forward. Dewey’s head was pushed backwards for a moment as the F-18/A roared down the tarmac. In a few seconds they were airborne. Owen slammed the jet harder, ripping toward the blue sky like a missile. Dewey was again throttled back into the seat, his stomach suddenly churning. He felt like he was going to vomit. In seconds they were scorching across the sky.
“Can you slow down?” said Dewey over commo.
A giddy laugh came from Owen.
“Sorry about that,” said Owen. “I forgot you haven’t had extensive training in this stuff. I’ll slow down and take you over to Newark. You can catch a commercial flight. I’m sure they must have hourly flights to Bangor, Maine.”
Another laugh emanated from Owen as Dewey clenched his teeth and closed his eyes, trying to hold it in.
“You better hope I don’t throw up—” Dewey started, just as Owen rotated the jet 360 degrees in a little over a second.
“What was that?” said Owen.
* * *
Owen torched the fighter up the seaboard, moving a few hundred feet above the jaggedy-edged coast of New England. Dewey stared out the window, looking at Boston, and then above, trying to guess where Massachusetts ended and New Hampshire began. The ocean was a beautiful shelf of dark blue, with spatters of white where the wind topped the violent currents.
Twenty minutes later, Owen brought the jet into Bangor International Airport.
As Dewey climbed down the ladder, he looked at Owen. Dewey’s eyes were still slightly wavering, like marbles, as he eyed Owen.
“I should punch you,” said Dewey.
Owen smiled, then acted offended, even though he was still smiling.
“What?” he said. “I thought you needed a ride?”
Dewey shook his head. He climbed down to the tarmac. He pulled the backpack off his back and unzipped it. He looked up at Owen.
“When do you need me to pick you up?” said Owen.
“I don’t,” said Dewey.
15
OVAL OFFICE
WHITE HOUSE
President Dellenbaugh was seated on one of two tan leather chesterfield couches at the center of the Oval Office. Across from him, on the opposite sofa, sat the governor of New York, Judy Brown.
Dellenbaugh was in his first term as president, having been elevated to the post following the untimely death of President Rob Allaire, for whom he’d served as VP. A month ago, Dellenbaugh’s vice president, Danny Donato, was assassinated, killed after his plane was shot down near Hawaii. Faced with the challenge of selecting a new vice president, Dellenbaugh was close to selecting Brown.
Brown was forty-six years old, with medium-length brown hair and a voluptuous frame. She was attractive, though her looks were cut with a tough aspect, a look that made her appear as if she was ready for an argument. Brown had served as U.S. district attorney for the Southern District of New York, where she focused her prosecutors on terror cells, human traffickers, and Russian mobsters. She became a celebrity, a folk hero in New York, and she rode that popularity to the governor’s mansion in Albany.
Brown was from western New York, outside of Buffalo, the only child of a Buffalo policeman who was killed in the line of duty when she was ten. She was pro-life, pro-gun, pro–death penalty, and a fiscal conservative, the kind of politician who had no place in the liberal bastion of New York politics. Yet, she’d been elected governor with more than 60 percent of the vote. Brown was a hard-core conservative who nevertheless had won the trust of moderates and even some liberals with her plainspoken manner and her toughness. Some would even say her fearlessness.
“How did the meeting with Hector go?” said Dellenbaugh.
“Fine,” said Brown.
“Do you still think he’s too old to be running the CIA?” asked Dellenbaugh.
“Yes,” said Brown, “and no.”
“What does that mean?”
“Mr. President, what I said was taken out of context,” said Governor Brown, referring to a now well-known comment Brown had made on CNN. “What I said originally was that when I’m sixty-four I don’t think I’d be able to run the CIA. It wasn’t a knock on Hector Calibrisi. The assholes at CNN cut it that way.”
“Judy, if I ask you to be vice president, you’ll be, let’s see—”
“Fifty after your second term, Mr. President. Fifty-eight after my second term, all hypothetically speaking.”
“Which is young.”
“Anderson Cooper took it out of context. When I’m sixty-four I want to be in Tuscany, cooking my family all the great meals I never got to cook all these years. I don’t want to be doing anything when I’m sixty-four. That being said, Langley has failed to stop several material threats coming from outside our borders. I’ve seen the aftereffects firsthand. Russian mafia. Human traffic. Terror. The time to stop these threats is when they’re still outside our borders. You can blame the FBI all you want but they’re just doing cleanup by the time things metastasize inside the U.S.”
Dellenbaugh smiled.
“That’s the most naïve thing I’ve heard today.”
“You disagree?” said Brown.
“You might have a good idea about the war we’re fighting in New York City, Governor,” said the president, “but it’s nothing compared to the wars we’re fighting in about ten countries scattered all over this world. You have no idea.”
Brown started to say something, but stopped herself. She leaned back and crossed her legs.
“I’m actually glad to hear that,” she said.
“Why?”
“It makes me feel safer knowing it’s not incompetence.”
“It’s not,” said the president. “It’s us, Great Britain, and Israel. That is the final wall. We are the final wall. It’s constant and it’s frightening.”
Dellenbaugh leaned forward and poured a cup of coffee from a silver coffee service on the table between them. He didn’t offer Brown a cup. He sat back and took a sip.
Brown stared calmly at Dellenbaugh without speaking.
“Would you get rid of him?” asked Dellenbaugh.
“If I were vice president?”
“Yes.”
“If I’m vice president, I will support you and your decisions as they relate to Langley and everywhere else. Who runs the CIA would not be my decision. If it was, I probably wouldn’t just fire him. I voted for you, President Dellenbaugh, and I support you even if I’m not asked to be VP. If you’re saying there’s more here than meets the eye, then I’d want to learn more and spend more time with Hector and his team. Who knows, maybe I have some good ideas that can help? I’m ruthless when it comes to people tryin
g to hurt this country.”
“I appreciate your honesty,” said Dellenbaugh.
“Thank you.”
A knock came at the door. Cecily Vincent, the president’s assistant, looked in.
“They’re here, sir,” said Cecily.
Dellenbaugh stood up, followed by Governor Brown.
“I’m afraid I have to cut this a little short, Judy.”
“No problem. If you’d like to continue our discussion, I’m glad to stay in town,” said Brown.
“That might not be a bad idea.”
Cecily led Brown out through a different door, what was considered the main door, though true insiders seldom used it. Cecily returned and opened the door to her office. Hector Calibrisi, Bill Polk, Josh Brubaker, and Jenna Hartford entered the Oval Office and sat down.
Dellenbaugh looked at Jenna.
“You must be new.”
“I’m Jenna Hartford,” she said in a clipped British accent, stepping forward to meet Dellenbaugh.
“Nice to meet you,” said Dellenbaugh, smiling.
“She worked at British intelligence,” said Calibrisi.
“I couldn’t tell,” said Dellenbaugh sarcastically. He sat down, as did the others. “What’s the latest?”
“Langley has completed the design of an operation,” said Brubaker. “This is the North Korean general I discussed with you earlier.”
“Yong-sik,” said Dellenbaugh. “Why do you need me?”
* * *
Over the next ten minutes, Jenna, Polk, and Calibrisi briefed the president on the details of the Macau operation. When they were finished, Dellenbaugh walked behind his desk, deep in thought. He paced back and forth in front of the window.
“What more do we know about the Iranian plane?” he asked.
Calibrisi, who’d been scanning his phone for updates, looked up.
“It’s Abu Paria’s, sir.”
Dellenbaugh’s eyes met Calibrisi’s.
“It can’t be a coincidence,” said Dellenbaugh.
“I agree.”
“So why are they meeting?”
“We don’t know if they are, Mr. President,” said Calibrisi.
“Yes we do,” said Dellenbaugh. “This just became a bigger situation.”
16
BANGOR INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
BANGOR, MAINE
A silver Dodge Ram pickup pulled up at the terminal as Dewey walked out. The pickup lurched slightly a few times, until it came to a screeching stop just a few inches in front of Dewey. He chucked his duffel in the back and reached for the passenger door. Sitting in the driver’s seat was a teenage boy, with longish, messy brown hair parted in the middle, a handsome face, wearing a white sweater with red and blue stripes around the collar and several visible holes as well as brown areas with large dirt stains. The boy smiled.
“Hi, Uncle Dewey,” said Sam.
Dewey paused a few moments, standing in the door. Cautiously, he climbed into the truck and shut the door.
“When the hell did you get your license?” said Dewey. “Aren’t you like fifteen?”
“Fourteen,” said Sam. “Besides, it’s easy.”
“What happens if you get pulled over?”
“I’ve never gotten pulled over,” said Sam. “The key to not getting pulled over, Uncle Dewey, is to lose them right when they start coming after you. It’s easy.”
Sam hit the gas and the pickup took off.
“Where’s your dad? I thought he was picking me up.”
“I volunteered,” said Sam.
“Volunteered?”
“I took his truck. He’s going to be pissed off as hell. Can you sort of cover for me? Cushion the blow a little? I mean, I am here, aren’t I? I did in fact pick you up.”
Dewey started laughing.
“All right, I’ll cover for you,” said Dewey, leaning back in the seat and looking out at the countryside as they drove. “Just try not to hit a telephone pole or a tree. Or another car. Just don’t get in an accident, otherwise all bets are off.”
Sam waved his hand dismissively through the air as he slammed the gas and weaved into the oncoming lane, passing a few cars, then zigzagging back into the right lane.
“I’ve been driving since I was twelve,” said Sam. “Don’t worry, I got it. Just sit back and enjoy the ride.”
* * *
Dewey shut his eyes. He still felt a sense of guilt for walking away from the operation. But the truth was, he was tired. Four separate operations had occurred over a span of only two months. First, Cloud, the Russian terrorist, who’d nearly detonated a nuclear bomb in the busiest port in the world, just a hundred yards away from the Statue of Liberty. Then there was Damascus, and Isolda, the leader of ISIS. Destroying the cell at Columbia University, getting stabbed. When he needed the rest the most was after Columbia, and Calibrisi had sent him to Paris as a reward, a three-day junket guarding the U.S. secretary of state. A no-brainer job. Then the secretary was murdered—the blame put on Dewey—part of a massive inside conspiracy to kill the president and vice president and take over the U.S. government. It had nearly succeeded, but Dewey stopped it. He didn’t care about the thanks, the accolades, the medals and honors bestowed on him for each event. He sent them all to Maine, to his mother, who he knew would store them away someplace in the barn where the squirrels wouldn’t get to them.
Dewey didn’t care about the honors. He cared about his country. He cared about his perception of himself. How would he feel during the few moments that human beings feel just before dying? From a bullet or old age, all would someday know that moment. Dewey thought about that moment. How would he feel about himself? Would he be proud? That was why he took risks. He’d been given the physical gifts, but no one knew where that other element came from, that part of Dewey that also had the spirit of America’s founders, the men and women who fought for independence and risked their lives so long ago. Dewey viewed himself as the modern version of the early American settler, fighting for his country.
But he was tired. He wanted a family. That much he knew. He wanted the feeling of holding a child again, a child of his own. He wanted that feeling and often woke up clutching his pillow, having dreamt about the feeling he’d once had. Maybe it was Castine. It’s not that he was opposed to living on the coast of Maine, in the middle of nowhere. He just wondered if he could find someone he could love, a woman who would give him the gift of fatherhood, the feeling of holding a small child and kissing its cheek in the sun, or the rain, protecting that girl or boy from a hard world.
Sam nudged Dewey, awakening him from his thoughts.
“We’re here,” said Sam. “You owe me fifty bucks.”
“Fifty bucks?”
“Uber woulda been a hundred,” said Sam. “Can you make it cash?”
17
ASSOCIATED PRESS
PYONGYANG, NORTH KOREA
As usual, Talmadge’s weekly package arrived from Seoul. Kae Myung Bin, Talmadge’s North Korean assistant, placed the cardboard box on Talmadge’s desk. His eyes shot to the shipping label. Usually, the box’s return address said:
Karry McCafferty
AP—Seoul
3009008 Fikitake North
SEOUL KOREA
Today, the label was different, off by one letter:
Karry Mcafferty
AP—Seoul
3009008 Fikitake North
SEOUL KOREA
It was the type of small typo the North Koreans were unlikely to pick up, and if they did, was easily explained away, but Talmadge knew what it meant.
MI6 had intercepted Kerry’s normal care package and sent their own. Which meant a message of some sort was hidden inside.
Talmadge, the Associated Press Pyongyang bureau chief, was one of only three Western reporters stationed in North Korea, the result of an agreement between the North Korean government and the Associated Press, an international news organization based in New York City and owned by its member newspapers in the U.S.
Talmadge was also an agent for British intelligence, MI6.
The AP’s North Korean offices were housed inside the headquarters of the state-run Korean Central News Agency (KCNA) in downtown Pyongyang. Talmadge was one of three AP employees, and the only non–North Korean. Officially, Talmadge had editorial independence over his articles. But of course his presence in Pyongyang was dependent on his articles being devoid of anything controversial or critical of the North Korean government. Every word Talmadge wrote was read and reread by KCNA censors, though that was just the tip of the iceberg. In fact, everything Talmadge wrote—or read—news articles, emails, letters, books, newspapers, magazines, and anything else that came by mail or over the internet was also read and reread by government officials, who were not only deeply suspicious and wary of the possibility that Talmadge might be a spy, but oftentimes had nothing better to do.
“Did they find anything?” asked Talmadge.
Kae Myung Bin grinned.
“I saw a jar of jam on Cheol’s desk,” said Kae Myung Bin.
Cheol was one of several military officials stationed at KCNA for the sole purpose of watching Talmadge and inspecting any mail that was sent by him or that he received.
The box was damaged in several places. Several small holes had been punched through the top and sides, North Korean customs agents having examined the box for anything that might have been embedded inside the cardboard itself. The box had been taped and retaped several times. A large red sticker was on the side: GEOM-YEOL DOEN.
It meant “inspected,” and scrawled across the sticker was a handwritten date and three different sets of handwritten initials.
After three years in Pyongyang, Talmadge’s weekly care packages from Kerry, his former assistant in Seoul, were expected. Still, they received as much scrutiny as ever. Nevertheless, Talmadge’s minders, as well as Kae Myung Bin, looked forward to the packages. The minders because they often stole items from the packages, Kae Myung Bin because some of what the minders hadn’t taken, Talmadge gave to him.
Talmadge opened up the box as Kae Myung Bin looked on. The box was filled with several boxes of cookies and crackers, along with cans containing various food items, including artichoke hearts, peach halves, fruit cocktail, coffee beans, condensed milk, and soup. Several paperback books were stacked on one side of the box, along with a National Geographic magazine.
