Blink of an Eye

by William S. Cohen

  “I can understand how someone could slip an ounce of explosives into their shoe or their underwear,” a GNN pundit had said in the inevitable analysis after the President’s speech. “But a nuclear bomb? Our government had been guilty of a dereliction of duty. Someone’s head has to roll.”

  The first head, Falcone believed, would be the President’s—unless he acted fast. But if Oxley unleashed the dogs of war, not knowing who was responsible, where would it stop? A holy war between Christians and Muslims?

  Blood lust. The trouble with satisfying a blood lust is that it’s never satisfied.

  The phone rang. Falcone had given Mae a list of people who could break through his telephone blockade. Every one of them could be calling in bad news. He took a deep breath before picking up the phone.

  “Vice President Cunningham, Sean,” Mae said in her stern telephone voice. “He’s here.” Falcone felt his stomach tighten. If Max needed to talk face-to-face, it meant really bad news.

  “Got to talk,” Cunningham said as he entered. He eased himself onto the amber settee that was a couple of steps from Falcone’s desk. Above the settee was a Winslow Homer seascape titled The Gathering Storm. Cunningham pointed to it and said, “How appropriate.”

  “You look bushed, Max,” Falcone said, taking the chair in front of the settee. Cunningham nodded. He had his usual rumpled look: striped tie askew, brown suit coat limply hanging open, exposing a wrinkled blue shirt. Black socks peeked out between the cuffs of his brown trousers and his brown loafers.

  “I think I lost some weight at the goddamn Rock,” Cunningham said wearily, knowing he had not had time to drop an ounce. “It’s a goddamn prison. Did me good, I suppose. Losing weight, I mean. But age is creeping up, Sean. Creeping up.”

  He straightened up and ran a hand through his bushy white hair. “Something’s up in the House, Sean. You know those ‘Presidential Annexes’ that the attorney general told us about? Somebody started a rumor that the President was going to begin using them like a dictator and would make the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida into a Federal Security Zone under martial law.”

  “That’s crazy,” Falcone exclaimed. “Things in Savannah are going better than we could possibly expect. There’s no reason—”

  “Reason isn’t around much in the Congress these days, Sean. Stanfield and his people are pounding drums. There’s impeachment in the air.”

  “Oh, come on, Max. That imbecile Nolan files impeachment resolutions—saying what? The President pushed a U.S.–Russia space treaty or he was somehow responsible for the attack on the Elkton. So what? Jeb Duffy never let them out of committee.”

  “Jeb Duffy may be the chairman of the House Judiciary Committee,” Cunningham said. “But he’s not Speaker of the House.”

  “Meaning what?”

  Cunningham leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Meaning,” he said, “I think Stanfield has convinced Jack Gill to allow a new resolution to go directly to the floor of the House.”

  “Max, with all due respect, you’re out of your fucking mind,” Falcone said, suddenly standing, as if ready to pace the room. “You made Jack Gill the Speaker. He’s one of us, a supporter of Oxley since Day One.”

  “Sit down, Sean, and listen to me. Jack is from Georgia and full of anger over what happened in Savannah. Stanfield and Nolan have been working on him. And so have some others. It’s feeling like a goddamn conspiracy. Some of our own people in the House are smelling blood and hedging their bets by dealing with Stanfield and Nolan because they could win. Sean, face it. Oxley can go down.”

  Falcone sat down at the edge of the chair, as if ready to spring up again. “Okay,” he said, “so another impeachment resolution gets filed. We control the House. It’s all campaign theater.”

  “It’s more than that, Sean. Much worse than that. My predecessor in the House told me what it was like back then when they were smelling Nixon’s blood. An impeachment resolution had been filed against Nixon over his order to bomb Cambodia. It got nowhere. It was theater—but it put the idea of impeachment in the air, and the idea was hovering there when the House Judiciary Committee voted to issue articles of impeachment over Watergate. Then Nixon knew it was over: He was forced to choose resignation or an impeachment trial.”

  “Again, all due respect, Max, but you’re stretching. Oxley is not Nixon. Savannah is not Watergate. Terrorism is not Vietnam. Our side controls the Judiciary Committee and—”

  Cunningham awkwardly squirmed his way out of the settee and stood. So did Falcone. “The House has always been somewhat of a mess,” Cunningham said. “When I was Speaker, there were so many quarrels and dumb ideas that it was always a wonder we ever got anything done.”

  He placed his hands on Falcone’s shoulders. “Sean, we worked in different worlds. Your Senate used to be clubby. Now it’s no different from the House. These days it’s hard to tell them apart. It takes a miracle to get anything done in either chamber. But in some crazy way, the Savannah attack was that miracle—and what is getting done is impeachment.”

  Falcone reached up, grasped Cunningham’s right hand, and shook it. “Thanks for the information, Max. You know more about politics than I’ll ever learn. What should I do?”

  “You can start by watching C-SPAN tonight,” Cunningham said. “The leadership has decided to reconvene. And I’ve heard that Stanfield is about to announce that he will be making a major speech. He’s keeping it secret. When we hear what he has to say, then we’ll know what to do.”

  *

  FEAR and rumors were sweeping across Capitol Hill. Anonymous bomb threats had been phoned in to the Capitol Police. Bomb-sniffing dogs appeared in the hallways of the Capitol and the House and Senate office buildings. Capitol police officers, in SWAT gear and carrying automatic weapons, stood at every entrance. The underground Capitol Visitors Center was evacuated and closed. But members of Congress did not want to be seen hiding out and shirking their responsibilities. Most had suspended their campaigns and returned to Washington. They wanted to been seen in action, particularly because President Oxley had remained in town.

  Around five o’clock, newspaper editors, TV producers, and TV pundits began orchestrating the evening news cycle. At 5:15, in time for six o’clock news shows, congressional leaders announced that both houses were reconvening. And Stanfield’s campaign manager called a press conference to announce that Stanfield would “speak to America” from the floor of the Senate at 8 P.M. that night.

  43

  GENERAL GEORGE William Parker had been awake almost every moment since the news broke about the disaster in Savannah. He had sat before the television set in what he called his den on the first floor of the brick house on East Capitol Street. He had not gone to bed. He had not even lowered the flag at the sunsets that had passed. He had sat here thinking of the past, trying not to think of the present.

  He frequently pulled his special smartphone from the holster on his belt and stared at the narrow screen with its ever-changing six-digit number. As he stared at the screen, he prayed that Isaiah would call. There was no way that Parker could call Isaiah. The phone had no keys. He could only verbally repeat the six digits that appeared on the screen when receiving a call from Isaiah.

  Lying on the small table next to his chair was his own cell phone, delivered to him months before by a Brethren messenger who told him he had been sent by Isaiah. He had, on Isaiah’s orders, given the number only to the others in the op. He understood the vital need for dependable communications on an operation. Botched communications had doomed the Delta op to rescue the hostages in Tehran back in … when was it? Back in 1980. We landed—and every goddamn thing went wrong. Traitors? Maybe.

  He cleared his mind of that dark memory and went over each step, each order as Operation Cyrus progressed. He had gone over it again and again, and still had not discovered what had gone wrong.

  Isaiah had called shortly after Oxley, that asshole Oxley, said that the destruction of Savannah had been caused by a n
uclear device. “You will receive instructions, Amos,” Isaiah had said. “I am working very hard to assemble Plan B, a plan that will provide an explanation. Sit tight. Go about your daily life. Make no calls.”

  He had obeyed. But the calls had come to him. Radio silence, that used to be the rule. He had given strict orders that no one was to call him on his phone except in an emergency during the operation. That was the key part of the order.

  As soon as the operation was over, he was to destroy the cell phone. He was also to destroy it if the operation were aborted. Abort! Abort! At Desert One. He had wanted to fight that order. We could have got them out. Medals all around. But he did not have enough rank to do more than feel rage and shame. He had made a pledge to himself: I will never abort Operation Cyrus. Never.

  Miller—Hosea—was the first to call. Calm. I guess big money keeps you calm. Said he hadn’t signed up for this. But he’ll keep his mouth shut.

  Schiller—Micah—called next. Scared out of his mind. Muttering, making no sense. He could break.

  I’ll never hear from Jonah or Malachi. Nobody will.

  The phone in his hand suddenly quivered. He read the six numbers that appeared on the narrow screen, repeated them, and waited until two tiny screens showed green. The phone had accepted him. Scrambling would begin.

  “Thank you for your patience,” said the robotic voice. “We are ready with Plan B. Your instructions will arrive shortly.”

  “What shall—”

  “Please, Amos. Do not speak. Silence is golden at this time.” The call ended.

  Three hours later, Norman Miller rang Parker’s doorbell. Parker cautiously opened the door, which was held by a chain lock. “Your name, please,” Parker asked. His appearance—unshaven, shirt with what looked like an egg stain, bedroom slippers—surprised Miller.

  “I am Hosea,” Miller said impatiently. He wore a black topcoat, open to reveal his perfectly tailored blue suit, blue shirt, and pale blue tie.

  Parker slipped the chain and fully opened the door. It was a ritual familiar to both men, used when Miller brought a black briefcase filled with hundred-dollar bills. Once inside, Miller stood in the hallway and made no move to enter any farther.

  “I am to hand this to you,” Miller said, passing the briefcase to Parker. “And, Amos, this is my final move for this operation. We meet for the last time.”

  “Don’t be so sure, Hosea,” Parker said. “I command this operation, and I say when it is over.”

  “Well, you better say it’s over because it certainly is,” Miller said, turning smartly, walking to the door, and closing it behind him. As he rounded the corner, with the Capitol looming in front of him, a black Mercedes pulled up. He nodded and got in.

  The briefcase did not contain stacks of hundred-dollar bills. Inside were two plain brown envelopes and a cell phone. AMOS was carefully lettered in black on one; CONFIDENTIAL was similarly lettered on the other.

  Parker went back to the den and opened the AMOS envelope, which contained a single piece of paper containing handwritten instructions:

  Call this number—202-555-6942—using the enclosed cell phone. The person who answers will direct you to a Washington office where you will be met by the person for whom the sealed CONFIDENTIAL envelope is intended. You will recognize each other. Merely tell the recipient that you wish him to have the contents of the envelope. Destroy the phone by smashing it with a hammer. Tonight, drop the pieces in two or more sewer openings.

  Operation Cyrus is ended. Isaiah.

  44

  AFTER USHERING Max Cunningham out, Falcone went to his desk. In a few minutes, on the screen of his small television set, he saw a red-and-yellow BREAKING NEWS logo that GNN had just inserted to announce Stanfield’s forthcoming speech.

  He turned away from the screen and started going through a list of telephone calls, all marked urgent. There was also a red folder with the usual white diagonal stripes indicating Top Secret. Inside he found a note from Sam Stone on his DIRECTOR CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY letterhead and an official White House photograph of President Oxley shaking hands with Rachel Yeager. A caption on the back of the photograph identified her and the time and place.

  He assumed that the photograph was a contribution from the Secret Service to the CIA, which was strictly prohibited by law from conducting intelligence in the United States. But the Secret Service could gather domestic intelligence and pass it on to the CIA or any other agency in the Intelligence Community.

  The note from Stone read, “Enclosed is a decrypted NSA intercept of a cable from Ambassador Yeager’s UN office (code name Velvet) to Mossad HQ. Routing is not indicated, but Mossad officers under UN cover usually send routine messages in low-grade encryption. Interesting. Thought you’d like to see it. Note ref to Brethren.”

  Falcone scanned the cable:

  MET WITH MIDAS, GAVE WARNING RE BRETHREN. THEIR PLANS STILL UNKNOWN. VELVET.

  Falcone did find the terse message even more interesting than Stone had thought: It confirmed Falcone’s suspicion, based on the pages that Dake had given him, that Israel was concerned about The Brethren.

  Next, Falcone looked over the list of telephone-call names—Graham, Kane, Huntington, Stone, Walker, Mason, Cunningham, Dake, Yeager—and called Anna Dabrowski. She entered in a moment and, as usual, stood until he motioned her to a chair. Anticipating the summons, she had a copy of the list clipped to the green loose-leaf notebook she always carried.

  “I know what Graham wants,” Falcone said, looking up from the list. “I’ve been talking to his man Lanier, and Graham is curious. It’s a matter of my violating bureaucratic Department of Energy protocol by not going through Graham. Please call him and just say that I was talking to Lanier while acting as national continuity coordinator. And leave it at that.”

  He paused over the next name, then said, “On to Kane. We have to pay high heed to cabinet members. Hand him off to Hawk to find out what’s on the Pentagon’s mind and say I’ll call him as soon as I’m through with what the President wants me to do.

  “Huntington and Stone. Hmmm. Probably have the same thing to say: no new information but many leads. Tell Stone, thanks for the note. I’ll tell you about it later. Tell both of them that I want memos on the latest leads on responsibility for the bomb. That’ll keep the intel shops busy.

  “What’s left?” Falcone asked, looking down at the list. “Walker, Mason, Cunningham, Dake, Yeager. You call Walker and tell Hawk to call Mason. Tell them that I’m working on urgent matters and want to hear from them: I want each one to send me each morning, through secure channels, a one-page report on conditions. That should hold them.”

  “Okay. And Vice President Cunningham?”

  “I just talked to him in person. He’s celebrating getting out of The Rock. I want him to call a couple of heads of state in the President’s name. I’ll give you the names.”

  “That leaves Phil Dake and Ambassador Yeager,” Dabrowski said. “She’s not just a callback. She requested a meeting. Said it was urgent. Of course, they all say it’s urgent.”

  “Tell Dake I’ll call him as soon as I can. That won’t satisfy him, but it will slow down his next call. As for Rach … Ambassador Yeager … I’ll get Mae to call her at the Israeli Embassy and—”

  “She’s at the Hay-Adams. Room 311. Here’s her cell-phone number,” Dabrowski said, handing Falcone a slip of paper.

  “You took her call?”

  “She called me directly. I guess the Mossad knows the name and number of everybody in the White House. We exchanged pleasantries, and, since she was … is … an ambassador—”

  “Okay. I’ll call her,” Falcone said, deciding that Anna, who knew everything, had slightly hesitated because she knew about the romantic interlude between Falcone and the diplomat who now called herself Rachel Yeager. As soon as Anna left, Falcone dialed the number. Velvet. Intriguing code name.

  She answered immediately, and the sound of her voice kindled a swirl of memories. She had
been a beautiful woman, a lover, and a merciless executioner. Their days had been few but unforgettable.

  “Your voice is as lovely as I remember it,” Falcone said.

  “In some ways, I suppose, we have not changed. Except for our jobs.”

  “And it’s the job that made you call Anna Dabrowski when you were looking for me, wasn’t it? But you weren’t looking for Sean Falcone; you were looking for the President’s national security advisor. Correct?”

  “Your assistant is very bright. And so warmly human,” Rachel said. He remembered her maddening practice of not answering direct questions. “She’s not a bureaucrat. I liked her instantly.”

  “You always were a good judge of people.”

  “Including judging you, Sean. You were … well, you are honest and open. And I must see you as soon as possible, urgently.”

  “I would like to meet you at the Hay-Adams’s grand old bar. I can be there in five minutes. But—”

  “But this is business. Urgent business.”

  “Right. We’ll postpone the bar. You’ll be met at the West Wing entrance, given your badge, and escorted to my office.”

  “It’s absolutely secure?”

  “As secure as the Israeli Embassy. I thought I’d find you there.”

  “Two ambassadors don’t fit there very well. Clashing egos, clashing interests. Besides, I like to keep people guessing. See you shortly.”

  *

  HE was standing outside his door, trying not to look unprofessionally anxious, when he saw her striding down the short hallway from the entrance, a Secret Service agent walking behind her. She wore a blue-and-white knitted scarf loosely tied and a black pants suit, its jacket buttoned over a dark blue blouse. She moved with the grace and confidence he remembered.

  He was tempted to embrace her, but the temptation faded away when he looked into her face and saw an ambassador on an urgent mission. His memories of their past had endured and were quickening his heart. Now, seeing her, he knew that she had put away her memories and felt no need to bring them forth.