by Tim Tigner
“I heard that the Secret Service turned your study into a fortress because you refused to have the Proffitt family’s ancestral estate updated with the technology and security advances of the past hundred years.”
Wiley rolled his eyes. “For an organization whose purpose is to protect national icons, the Secret Service has surprisingly little respect for history or tradition. I’m glad that I only had to deal with them that one time. They call it a panic room. It was a compromise.” He reached out and picked up a large universal remote control off the coffee table. “Allow me to demonstrate. First I’ll type in the code to let the system know that this is not an emergency, and then …” He held the square red button down with his thumb. After three seconds of constant pressure the door to the study swung shut. Hidden bolts scraped into place as titanium louvers began to lower over the bulletproof windows with a motorized hum. “Now we’re safe from everything up to and including shoulder fired missiles.”
Stuart looked about the room. “You’ve even got a bar and a bathroom in your bunker. Not bad. What’s through that door?” He pointed to the corner.
“It’s just a closet.”
“What about the cavalry?”
“If I had not told the system that this was a test, then the Hostage Rescue Team would automatically be summoned from Quantico by a beacon hidden in the roof.” Wiley pressed and held the red square again. The lockdown procedure reversed.
Stuart nodded in appreciation and then assumed a contemplative expression.
In that dim light, with his black-clad form framed against the black-leather couch, he appeared as little more than an intense set of eyes. The sight made Wiley think of an alligator in a tar pit. An alligator in a tar pit, he repeated to himself. Now there was the very definition of a Beltway lobbyist.
“I’ve come with news,” Stuart said.
Wiley raised his eyebrows.
“I’ve resigned my job as executive director of the AADC to work full-time on your campaign. We decided that the time had come, now that things are under way.”
Wiley did not want to talk about the American Association of Defense Contractors or the things that were now under way. In fact he had specifically asked The Three Marks to keep him out of that loop. Thus far his only tactical contribution to things had been supplying them with a list of useful names. He hoped to keep it that way. Still, Wiley did not fail to notice that Stuart’s “we” did not include him. “That’s awfully generous of you. Did we agree to give you your old job back after the campaign?”
Wiley saw genuine emotion flash across Stuart’s face in response to his words. That was a first. Despite playing poker for decades to hone exactly that expertise, however, Wiley could not tell which emotion Stuart had shown. Was it disappointment … or anger?
“I won’t need my old job back after the campaign,” Stuart replied.
“Oh? And why is that?”
“Because, after the campaign you are going to be Vice President—and I am going to be your Chief of Staff.”
Stuart’s statement hit Wiley mid-sip and he choked, coughing and spraying latte over the front of his scarlet pajamas. Stuart did not bat an eye at his discomposure, and Wiley figured that the bastard probably had his timing planned. “Is that what you came here to tell me?” Wiley asked, mopping his chin with his sleeve. “Is that why you broke into my home in the middle of the night, drugged my girlfriend and dragged me out of bed—to talk about your career?”
“No.”
“No?”
Stuart shook his head.
Wiley felt his stomach drop.
Chapter 3
Tafriz, Iran
AS THE WOMAN carried her daughter out, Dr. Ayden Archer wiped the sweat from his brow with a soiled rag. He still had a few clean ones left from last night’s wash, but he wanted to save those for the kids. He ventured a peek into the alley before the door swung shut. The line stretched to the far end and disappeared around the corner. He knew it was time to make the mark.
“Please come in,” he said in Farsi, holding open the door. The next woman in line bowed slightly, her baby cradled tight. Though she would not meet his gaze, Ayden knew that there was joy in her eyes.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, grabbing a bottle of iodine and stepping outside. He hated this next part of the daily ritual, but years of experience had taught him that it was the only way.
He walked east down the dusty alley, counting children as he went, offering silent smiles. It always amazed him how orderly they waited. He had not posted rules, yet the configuration never changed. Six days a week the sick children rested side-by-side along the northern wall in the thin ribbon of shade while the mothers stood across from them, baking beneath their chadors in the merciless Iranian sun. If only the women were allowed to rule the country, he mused.
When his count reached thirty children he stopped. Five more hours at six children per hour would take him to eight o’clock. He crouched down before a two-year-old girl. Lily was her name if he remembered correctly. He said, “Hello Beautiful,” and stroked her hot cheek with the back of his hand. He took the cap off the iodine and wet the tip of his index finger. He drew a semicircle on her forehead and added two dots. To him it was a smiley face, but if asked he would say it was a moon and two stars. Turning to the mother he said, “Your daughter will be the last patient of the day.”
He proceeded to mark the remaining foreheads, also with a smiley face but this time adding a third star for a nose. When he first began the practice he had numbered them, but he changed to the friendlier system when he found that no one tried to cheat. Mutual suffering bred solidarity when testosterone was not involved. As he drew he explained to the remaining mothers, “I will not be able to see your children today, but they will be first in line tomorrow. With these marks you need not come early, so let your children rest. I will see the first at eight o’clock.” Ayden knew that this was like the seatbelt announcement on airplanes—everybody present already knew the rules—but he repeated it anyway. By his reckoning, little ceremonies kept you sane.
As he walked back toward the entrance to his one-room one-man free clinic, Ayden felt a chill despite the heat. The day was soon approaching when he would not draw smiley faces with noses. His funds were dwindling. After five wonderful, horrible years, his clinic would have to close.
He felt tears begin to well.
Hope had knocked on his apartment door a few months ago. He had looked through the peephole to see an exceptionally charismatic face beaming from a bush of long tousled hair and punctuated with whirlpool eyes. “Word of your good works has spread far, my friend,” the man who introduced himself as Arvin had confided. “If you had the resources, the backing shall we say, would you be willing to do more?”
Looking at the stoic figures now standing patiently in the sun with sick children clinging to their legs, Ayden knew that he would do anything to keep his clinic afloat. Anything. At this point Arvin’s generous offer appeared to be his best and only chance, but he had not encountered the opportunity to earn that support. Not yet. Stepping back into his clinic, he prayed that someday soon he would …
Chapter 4
Airborne over the Turkish-Iranian Border
“WE’RE THIRTY MINUTES from target,” the pilot’s voice blared over Odi’s headset as the C-141 began banking north. “Potchak has just confirmed that the mission is a go.”
Odi looked around. Only Waslager had heard the announcement. As deputy team leader, he was the only other team member tuned in to both the group and command frequencies. Waslager, deputy team leader, that really fried his bacon. Odi had to struggle not to show his anger to his team. They were tighter than sardines and packed just right, but Potchak had stuffed one more fish into the can. A bad one. Something was rotten in Denmark.
Odi slid his headset switch to enable the whole team to hear his voice and pushed Waslager from his mind. “Listen up. Final reminders for anyone whose thoughts are still stuck on last night’
s girl. That turn you just felt was our little birdie rounding the southern tip of the Turkish-Iranian border. We’re flying north along that border now.
“We hit the wind in approximately twenty-eight minutes. Your chutes are set to deploy automatically at fifteen thousand, but keep your eyes on your altimeter; those puppies have been known to malfunction. You got that O’Brian? Don’t go spacing out on me.”
“Aye, aye, sir. While we’re on the subject, could you remind me: do I pull the black tab or the silver one?”
“Just don’t pull the little fleshy one and you’ll be fine.
“Anyhow, gentlemen, once you’ve checked your canopy, begin steering west. I’ll be the first out the door and will be wearing my infrared flasher. Line up on me. Remember, the longer we ride the wind, the shorter we have to hump. And don’t forget to drop your pack when you hit a hundred feet. If we’ve navigated right, the terrain will be bald as Mitch’s head, so we won’t need to worry about getting hung up in trees. If you do forget, your fifth point of contact will be a dozen grenades. Take my word for it gentlemen, that would be enough to ruin anybody’s day.
“Once you’re safely on the ground, confirm with your codename designator and ‘OK.’ No real names. No chatter. We’ll regroup on my position. Understood?”
“Understood,” came six voices. Waslager just nodded.
“Good. Stick to the plan, and we’ll be back in Incirlik for breakfast. Any questions, now’s the time.”
“What’s the target?” Flint asked, mindlessly shaving the hair on his forearm with the oiled blade of his Ka-Bar knife.
Odi smiled, pleased to be able to share this information with his team at last. “In a move reflective of their devious, scum-sucking nature, our buddies in al-Qaeda have disguised a training camp as a hospital.” The men all jeered—except Waslager. What was it about that guy? Odi wondered. He wished Cassi were there. His twin sister would have Waslager’s number in no time. She could always read people—at least when it wasn’t personal, he thought with a shrug. When it was personal, Cassi was blind as Oedipus.
“Camp al-Qaeda is located on the outskirts of what was a mining town back when there was copper in them thar hills. Now Tafriz is little more than a farming village, although it’s still got more infrastructure than anyplace else around.”
“How similar is the camp to the complex we’ve been training with?” O’Brian interrupted to ask.
“It’s virtually identical. Everything will be just as we practiced. The size and layout are like our mock-ups. Their construction is cinderblock instead of wood, but that’s inconsequential to your grenades.
“You’ll each fire ten modified M441 grenades at ten second intervals, spacing them at ten meters each. I know you guys could pull this off in half that time, but we’ve slowed it down to allow cooler heads to deal with the shit that tends to happen. So remember not to rush. You hear that Derek. No rushing. I would hate to ruin a flawless mission with a casualty from friendly fire.
“Waslager will take out the roving sentry on the western apex of his route. That will be the starting gun, at which point I’ll drop the sentry on the central door and you’ll all commence your runs.
“Each team will use its first salvo to take out their building’s main entrance and the floor directly above. That will seal the building up and minimize any chance for Omar to escape—not that those unlucky few who do wake up are going to have time for more than a rushed Allahu Akbar, but we absolutely cannot have any witnesses, so we’re not taking any chances.”
“Waslager and I will provide covering fire as you move in case anyone shows his toweled head, although I seriously doubt that there will be any need.
“If nobody screws the pooch we should be reassembled at the fallback position just three minutes after go. Once everyone is there, I’ll signal for pickup. Then we’ve got a two-click sprint to the other side of a nearby hill, during which a Blackhawk will skim in from the Turkish border for rapid extraction.”
As Odi finished, Adam pointed over his shoulder to the jump-door lights. Odi looked up to see that the pilot had changed the indicator from red to yellow. He felt the belly-fish begin to thrash. “Everyone on your feet.”
Chapter 5
Asgard Island, Chesapeake Bay
“YOU’RE NOT HERE to talk about your career?” Wiley asked again, trying to maintain a neutral voice.
“No.”
“Then why the devil are you here, Stuart?”
“As I said, we need to talk—unseen, uninterrupted, and alone. There’s something I need to know. Something we need to discuss.”
“Out with it then,” Wiley commanded. He had had enough.
Stuart nodded once. “Very well. Are you in love with Cassi?”
“Pardon me?”
“Are you ... in love ... with Cassi?”
“I am.”
Stuart gave another single solemn nod. “You started seeing Cassi six months ago, shortly after we ... began our collaboration. I didn’t say anything at the time. Perhaps that was a mistake. Frankly, based on her history, and yours, I didn’t think it would last.”
Stuart’s matter-of-fact monotone bothered Wiley, but he kept his mouth shut. The sooner his campaign manager cum chief of staff got to the point, the sooner Wiley could go back to bed.
“I have to admit that this is the first move you’ve made that I simply do not understand.” Stuart paused. He appeared to be weighing how to clarify his statement but then shook his head in surrender. “We are just twelve months out from the election now. Carver’s team finalized the running-mate short-list today. It’s down to three names.” Stuart held up his fist, palm toward Wiley. “Jefferson Wallace.” He raised one finger. “Arthur Hayes.” He raised a second. “And you.” He gave Wiley a gun-barrel point instead of raising the third finger. Then he opened his hand for a shake. “Congratulations, Director Proffitt. You are officially in play.”
Wiley smiled despite himself. He shifted his grip on the latte and took the Washington insider’s cool hand, amazed that Stuart had acquired such a secret. A short list like that would only be known to the President and his top two or three advisors.
After they shook, Stuart continued. “Meanwhile, it’s no secret that Mills will top the other ticket. And I’m ninety-five percent sure that he will select either Anders or Metcalf to run as his VP.” Stuart gave an open-palmed shrug and settled back in his seat, implying with tone and demeanor that Wiley could easily fill-in the rest.
Wiley drew a blank, but he was not about to let the smug SOB get one up on him. Not here. Not in his own house. He took a long sip of latte, inhaling deeply to maximize the punch of the nutty brew. He tried to think. Anders was the two-term Governor of Georgia and Metcalf was a four-term Florida Senator. Both had solid backgrounds, but neither eclipsed his two terms in Congress, four years in the Virginia governor’s mansion, and current service as Director of the FBI. Both Anders and Metcalf were married … Was that it? Wiley wondered. Did Stuart want him engaged? No problem. Why had he gone through all the drama to ask? Stuart was hardly the sentimental type, but then everyone has his quirks. Apparently marriage was the one thing besides power that was sacred to the man. Wiley found that nice to know, and tucked it away for future reference.
Having discovered his reptilian campaign manager’s soft underbelly, Wiley changed his tactics. He wanted the satisfaction of hearing Stuart vocalize his feelings. “Go on, Mister Slider.”
Stuart gave him a direct, icy stare. “Anders is six-foot-four, Metcalf six-five … and Cassi is six-one. You however are a relatively puny five-ten-and-a-half—in heels. You cannot run on a power platform while appearing substantially shorter than everyone else in the game. Try it and you will become a caricature, a political Chihuahua, a late-night joke.”
Hearing those words, Wiley felt as though he had been sucker punched.
Stuart did not give him time to breathe. “I can deal with Anders and Metcalf. You won’t ever have to stand right next to
either of them, although I’m sure their campaign managers will try shamelessly. But Cassi … there’s no way to avoid that money shot. The comparative picture of you will have longer legs than hers. ‘Which Proffitt wears the pants?’ ‘Who’s really on top?’ ‘Wittle Wiley Wannabe.’ The tabloid headlines will be your deathblows.
“It all comes down to this, Director. Either you forget about Cassi Carr, or you forget about the Oval Office. Those are the only two options.” Stuart folded his hands across his chest.
But there weren’t two options. They both knew that.
Wiley closed his eyes. He would have to leave Cassi.
Stuart said, “I’ll give you until Monday to do it.”
When Wiley finally opened his eyes he found that Stuart had vanished. For once he appreciated the man’s magical talent.
Checking over his shoulder more than once, Wiley walked over to the wall safe, spun through the combination, and withdrew a small box. It was robin’s-egg blue and approximately two inches cubed. He untied the white silk ribbon, tilted back the lid and stared. It was beautiful, he thought, as unique and flawless as the woman for whom it was intended.
Wiley had found the perfect engagement ring a month ago. For weeks he had enjoyed the anticipation of a spontaneous proposal. Holding that joyous secret in the palm of his hand made him feel like a Christmas-morning kid. In fact, he had cradled it hopefully in his pocket on six separate occasions, ready to take a knee. But the moment had never been just right. His latest plan was to propose at dinner tomorrow night. He had picked the perfect restaurant and even dropped a few hints. Tomorrow was now out of the question, of course. As was the next five years …
For a fleeting second, Wiley wondered what Stuart would have done if he had already proposed. Then he remembered that Stuart had violated Cassi that very night. He had drugged her in her sleep just so that he could deliver his news with panache. Wiley decided not to pursue that line of thought any further.
