by Saul Herzog
And, of course, there was an opportunity here too.
No politician worth his salt let a crisis go to waste.
Bush and Cheney took 9/11 and used it to invade the country with the second-largest oil reserves in the world.
Ingram Montgomery had always been hawkish on foreign policy. The first thing he read every morning was his national security bulletin. And he didn’t read it for threats. He read it for opportunities. If there were a contained, easily-won, strategically valuable war to be had out of this, he would take it.
Carl von Clausewitz said that war was just a continuation of politics, and Ingram believed that. He was not afraid of war. So long as it was a war he could control. Something along the lines of the Iraq invasion. That, he could handle.
But he could not allow his hand to be forced. Even now, he recognized that having someone like Lance Spector ready to take the fall was essential.
There was a knock on the door.
“Mr. President.”
The door opened. It was his chief of staff holding a phone.
“Not now,” the president said.
“Sir, this is a call you’re going to want to take.”
Ingram sighed.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Kirov, sir.”
The president took the phone and, with a gritted jaw, put it to his ear.
“Kirov,” he said.
Speaking to a Russian was not at the top of his priority list right now, but this was a call he could not refuse. A secret addendum to the Moscow Summit agreed by Nixon and Brezhnev contained rules for situations like this. Kirov was required to call the president and tell him whether this attack was an act of war carried out by the Russian government.
It was a big call.
Perhaps the biggest of his presidency.
And he held his breath.
From the first dulcet word out of Kirov’s mouth, he could tell what it meant.
“Mr. President,” he said, his privileged, Russian accent luxuriating over every syllable. “Allow me to extend the sincerest condolences of the Russian people in the wake of this shocking attack.”
“Kirov, what the hell is going on over there?”
“I assure you, Mr. President, the Russian government is as taken aback as you are.”
“You assure me? You assured me our facilities would be secure when you expelled the marines.”
“Sir, this was nothing we saw coming. You have my word on that.”
“And why the hell isn’t your president telling me this himself? We just suffered the largest terrorist attack since 9/11, and it happened in the center of Moscow, on your watch, on your soil, Kirov.”
“I know, Mr. President. And believe me, our president will be contacting you very shortly himself. I am just calling to discharge Russian obligations under the agreement of 1972.”
“And what is your message, Kirov.”
“My message is that this is not an act of war, Mr. President, and that Russia is not deploying nuclear or conventional forces.”
“You’re goddamn right it’s not an act of war,” the president said.
“Quite right, Mr. President.”
“Because we’d hand your asses to you, Kirov. You’re aware of that, aren’t you?”
“You would be handing a lot of asses, sir.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, Kirov.”
“To us and Beijing at the same time. With all those asses, you would really have your hands full.”
The president hung up the phone. He looked at the screen to make sure the call had dropped.
Then, speaking directly to the screen, he said, “Go fuck yourself, Kirov.”
53
The president walked onto the stage, fully aware that the next two minutes were the most critical of his presidency.
The world was watching. Allies and adversaries. Russia and China.
The slightest sign of weakness, the slightest hesitation, and they would move in for the kill.
And the nation was watching. Congress. The military. The people.
He was the leader of the greatest nation on earth, the most powerful force the planet had ever known. No army, from any empire in any era in human history, came close to its dominance. Two million active and reserve personnel, thirteen thousand aircraft, six thousand tanks, thirty-eight thousand armored vehicles, two thousand artillery vehicles, eleven hundred rocket projectors. In the sea, four-hundred-fifteen vessels, including twenty aircraft carriers.
And always, in the background, unspoken, four thousand armed nuclear warheads. Effective strike range was ten thousand miles from land, seven thousand from sea.
Nowhere was safe. Nowhere out of reach.
Absolute dominance could be projected to any spot on the globe.
There was a comfort in that. A knowledge, deep within every citizen of the country, every citizen of the globe, that someone was in charge. Someone held the reins.
And that comfort, that certainty, had just been shattered.
The US embassies in Moscow and Beijing were smoldering ruins.
What did that say of America’s ability to keep those two rivals in check?
What did that say of America’s role in the international system?
What did it say about who really ruled the planet?
The cameraman gave him the signal.
He looked around the room. Apart from the cameramen, the room was empty.
But no mistake, Ingram Montgomery felt the eyes of a planet on him.
“My fellow Americans,” he began and cleared his throat.
He knew he wasn’t a physically imposing man. He knew the impression he gave. His gift was in his powers of oration. What his body lacked, his deep, booming, New England voice, and its archaic mariner’s undertones would make up for.
“Moments ago, our nation suffered a direct and deliberate attack. The United States embassies in Moscow and Beijing were bombed.”
He paused to let the words sink in.
“The United States is viewing these attacks as an act of all-out aggression, and that is why I am declaring as of this moment, we are at war.”
He paused again.
He’d spoken to no one of this. There would be a frenzy in Congress. But in his soul, he knew it was necessary.
“Have no doubt, whoever is behind these vile, despicable acts will feel the full might of the American military machine.”
If there’d been an audience, he would have been able to gauge its reaction, to modulate his message. In its absence, he had no choice but to follow his instincts and keep going.
“At this moment, we are still uncertain who was behind these attacks, and what motive they possibly could have had. As we speak, the National Security Agency is analyzing data from around the globe to pinpoint exactly who did this, and the moment we find out, war plans will be put into effect.”
Was he going too far?
Was he committing himself too deeply?
“Make no mistake,” he said, his voice growing louder, “I tell you now, and I swear it before the nation and before God, that America will not rest until the full fury of her vengeance, the full wrath of her justice, has been meted out.”
The room was silent. The technicians knew they were witnessing history.
And then a red light came on above the communications panel. The room was sealed, no one could interrupt the president during a moment like this, but that one panel was present to pass in messages if they were deemed important enough to influence the president’s words in real-time.
“No stone,” the president said, distracted by the technician reading the incoming message, “will be left unturned in our search for the perpetrators of this atrocity.”
From the technician’s face, the president knew the information was important.
“I’m getting live updates as I speak,” the president said.
He beckoned for the technician to come forward and hand him the message. The technician looked a
t his colleagues before stepping forward with a small piece of paper.
The president read it.
Footage of Lance Spector killing embassy guards in Moscow has been leaked to all networks.
The president smiled. The information couldn’t have been more opportune if his people had come up with it themselves.
He was talking tough, but he did not want war.
The Spector angle was infinitely preferable.
“I’m being informed that new footage appears to show images of the attacker just moments before the first explosion. Let me say this. If these attacks were carried out by a traitor from within our own ranks, by an operative who swore an oath to protect this nation and its constitution, then there can only be one penalty.”
He deliberately left a pause to heighten the drama of the moment.
“And that penalty is death.”
54
“What the hell do they think they’re doing?” Roth said to his driver, as four secret service vehicles got in front of them and forced the Escalade to the side of the road.
They were headed north on Sixteenth Street, and Roth had hoped to make it back to Laurel and Tatyana before this happened.
The president was going to pin the attacks on Lance. He was going to blame the whole thing on the CIA. And that meant they were going to be arrested too.
Sandra Shrader had her claws so deep into the president he’d arrest his own chief of staff if she told him to.
Roth had little doubt now. Sandra was in league with the Kremlin. There was no other way she could have known what she knew.
It was damning information, that was for sure.
Clarice pregnant.
The only way anyone could have known that was if Clarice had told them. And the only people Clarice spoke to were in the Kremlin.
And if it was true, it meant Roth had killed Lance’s unborn child.
“Drive around them,” Roth said to the driver, his voice rising. “We have to get back to the house.”
The driver tried to get onto the sidewalk to get around the secret service vehicles, but they lurched forward to block his path. He then put the Escalade in reverse, but when he tried to back up, a DC metro police cruiser pulled up tight behind them. The Escalade hit it, and the officers inside got out and drew their weapons.
“I’m sorry, boss,” the driver said.
“It’s not your fault,” Roth muttered as he hastily pulled out his cell phone and dialed Laurel’s number.
Secret service agents, pistols drawn, got out of their vehicles and closed in on the Escalade.
“Pick up, pick up,” Roth said as they opened the doors of the car and pulled the phone from his hand.
“What is the meaning of this?” Roth said, his voice rising in anger as two secret service agents pulled him out of the car.
“Get your hands off me, you son of a bitch.”
“Don’t make this more difficult,” an agent said, pushing Roth up against the side of his vehicle.
“Make this difficult?” Roth said. “Do you know who the hell I am?”
“I’ve been ordered to bring you in, sir,” the agent said.
“On whose authority?”
“It’s an NSA authorization code, sir.”
Roth’s driver was being taken from the vehicle, and Roth said, “Don’t tell me he’s under arrest too?”
“His name’s not on the warrant,” one of the other agents said.
“I should hope not,” Roth barked. “He works for the same agency as you idiots.”
The agents let go of the driver, and Roth said to him, “You need to get back to the house. I have a bad feeling about this. Tell Laurel and Tatyana they’re not safe.”
The driver nodded. He and Roth had worked together a long time, and Roth knew he could trust him.
The secret service agents put him in the back of one of their cruisers.
Roth watched as his driver pulled the Escalade back onto the road.
He hadn’t expected Shrader to move so aggressively, or so quickly. Someone was making a power play, and they had to know that Laurel and Tatyana wouldn’t sit by idly while it happened.
That meant they were in danger.
He should have called them sooner.
The four secret service cruisers started moving in convoy formation, and when they pulled onto the beltway, Roth said, “Can you at least tell me why I’m being taken?”
The two agents in front looked at each other, then one sighed and pulled the warrant from his jacket.
“Sir,” he said, reading the warrant, “you’re being arrested by order of NSA Director Sandra Shrader. The order is to take you to NSA headquarters at Fort Meade immediately.”
“Fort Meade?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Listen to me,” Roth said. “Is this something you’ve ever been ordered to do before?”
Neither of them answered.
“The director of the CIA being brought in at gunpoint to face the NSA director? It’s ludicrous.”
“Sir, there’ll be people waiting to speak to you at Fort Meade.”
“This can’t be legal,” Roth said.
The agent leaned back and held the warrant up for Roth to see for himself. It had been countersigned in the president’s presence by the Attorney General.
“I see,” Roth said when he read the signature.
They drove on, mostly in silence, the rest of the distance to Fort Meade. It wasn’t much more than thirty minutes.
When they got there, they pulled up to the loading bay at the rear of the main building and took him in a service elevator to the second floor. There, in an anonymous conference room, Sandra Shrader and a bunch of other NSA officials were waiting for him around a table.
“Sandra,” Roth said, as soon as he was brought into the room, and before anyone had a chance to speak, “what you’re attempting to do is treason, and everyone in this room knows it.”
From Sandra’s reaction, the look on her face, Roth realized it was true. She wasn’t acting under her own volition. She was under duress. In fact, judging from her face, she was scared to death.
“Whoever’s making you do this,” Roth said, “it’s not too late to stop it.”
“Please stand by for the president,” one of the men at the table said.
There was a screen at the far end of the room, and everyone turned to it.
The president’s face appeared on the screen. Roth saw that he was still in the Emergency Operations Center, surrounded by the same top-level officials.
“Levi Roth,” the president said, reading from a sheet of paper in his hands.
“Mr. President,” Roth began, but the president raised his hand to stop him. “I’m declaring your asset, Lance Spector, a traitor, guilty of high treason, and an enemy of the state.”
“Mr. President,” Roth said again, but again the president stopped him.
“Furthermore, I’m declaring your group officially under investigation for involvement in this attack.”
“Ingram,” Roth protested, but the president kept reading.
“I’m ordering that you, and your two operatives, Laurel Everlane and Tatyana Aleksandrova, be arrested and taken into custody immediately.”
“This is a mistake, sir,” Roth said.
Before he knew what was even happening, he was shoved up against the desk and pushed forward. The agents grabbed him by the wrists and pulled them up behind his back.
He heard the click of the cuffs as they locked shut on his wrists.
55
Sergey sat in his car and lit another cigarette. He was parked in a disused lot in DC’s Navy Yard, and he’d been sitting there so long the ashtray in the car was overflowing. Every few minutes, he turned on the engine to get the heater going.
He’d been told to bring weapons and await orders, and by the time Kirov finally called, he was antsy to get going.
“Sergey Sergeyevich,” he said into the phone.
“Sergey, a
re you in the capital?”
“I’ve been sitting here for hours, Kirov, like you told me.”
Kirov spoke with mock sympathy. “Oh, was it all right, Sergey? Not too uncomfortable, I trust.”
“Fuck off, Kirov.”
“Did you bring the weapons?”
“Of course I brought the weapons.”
“Good, Roth’s just been arrested, and Sandra has given us the location of the safe house.”
“Where is it?”
“Georgetown. Write this down.”
Kirov read an address on Wisconsin Avenue, and Sergey did not write it down but committed it to memory.
“Who’s there?”
“Just Everlane and the traitor.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Reasonably sure. There’s a driver who provides a little extra security, but he was with Roth when they took him in. I doubt you’ll be seeing much of him.”
“Very well,” Sergey said. “I’m going to enjoy this, especially the traitor whore.”
“Hold your horses, Sergey,” Kirov said. “There’s been a slight change of plan.”
“What change?”
“The boss wants them brought in alive if possible.”
“What? That’s too risky. They’re trained professionals.”
“You can manage it,” Kirov said patronizingly. “Medvedev said you’re his best man.”
“I killed his other men,” Sergey said.
“Exactly,” Kirov said. “Anyway, you might have some help.”
“The boss knows I work alone.”
“Not that sort of help. Federal agents are on their way to arrest Everlane and Aleksandrova as we speak. They’re not expected to resist.”
“So take them from the feds?”
“The boss said to bring them in alive if possible. If you see an opportunity, take it.”
Sergey hung up the phone. He did not like changes to the plan. Two bullets, that was what he’d had in mind. Taking the women alive was a whole other ball game.
He stubbed out his cigarette and fired up the engine. Traffic was slow, the streets quiet, and as he crossed the Rock Valley Creek into Georgetown, a light snow began to fall.
