by David Poyer
One of the three sitting with him was most likely the killer.
Guldulla, of course, was the likeliest successor to the sheykh for overall leadership. Teddy had always figured him for a straight shooter, but ambition couldn’t be ruled out. Nasrullah, the spymaster, ran the asset who’d brought the gift chocolates. The girl had eaten some, but only one would have had to contain poison. And Qurban had been with the imam earlier, drinking tea. Nothing easier than to drop a little something into the pot.
Before he could speak Qurban raised his hand. “May I?”
Teddy looked to Guldulla, who hesitated, then nodded.
“I have fought in many lands, but I am not an Uighur,” the Arab said smoothly. “I will happily follow the leadership of our brave commander, Lingxiù Teddy al-Amriki, friend from over the seas, who has joined the Umma of the Faithful.”
Teddy forced something he hoped resembled a modest smile. A great opening move. One there was only one response to. “I appreciate the honor, Hajji. And I too have fought in many lands. But neither can I lead you. ITIM is a movement of the Turkics. It should be led by one.” He nodded to Guldulla. “Like Tokarev. Brave in battle, wise in counsel. Also, the second most handsome of us.”
They looked disbelieving, then got it. There, a chuckle or two. Good.
“Yes, a wise proposal,” the ex-al-Qaeda fighter said.
Guldulla stroked his two-tone mustache. “I wish we weren’t discussing this. But we must. You would acknowledge me as commander? And the Lingxiù as our military chief?”
Qurban bowed to the ground. “You will be our honored amir al-mumineen. The Commander of the Faithful. All I ask is to be allowed to lead the prayers.”
Teddy kept his eyes on the rug. He didn’t believe a word of it. The guy was dying to be alpha wolf. Had made that plain since he arrived.
Raising his gaze, Teddy said evenly, “Of course, the hajji must lead our prayers. There must be peace between us, and understanding. Let us trust one another, go forward together, and strike the enemy as one fist.”
Their eyes met across the carpet, and Teddy Oberg understood.
No matter what was said aloud, sooner or later, two of them would have to die.
10
Anacostia, District of Columbia
BLAIR paused on the sidewalk after stepping out of the car, as the escorting vehicles slewed in. Her guards muttered into headsets, aiming short rifles at possible ambush points as they trotted toward overwatch positions.
Black SUVs had preceded and followed her through the scruffy, narrow, nearly deserted streets of Southeast DC. After the bombing in Indianapolis, all federal officers Executive Schedule III and above had to be escorted by the Federal Protective Service. But these guards wore black shooting gloves, ballistic helmets, and short jackets embroidered with Velociraptor Systems’ snarling dinosaur head. More and more, it seemed, private security was taking over what had once been basic government functions.
And milking away profit instead of providing services … Anyway. She brushed back her hair, deciding to worry about that later, and handed the documents she’d been reading to her aide. “Stay with the car, Erika. And boil this down to talking points. I’ll try not to be too long.”
Striding forward and lifting her gaze, she marveled at the antique crenellations of the old building. Its central structure rose to a five-story Gothic red-brick tower. So like the Smithsonian … The sun threw dappled shadows through the maples, and a breeze from the direction of the river stirred the sunny drops of light like golden flakes in a vodka martini.
A vodka martini … sounded good, actually. “Really, such a nice day,” she muttered. At the very least, she was getting away from briefings and screens for a few hours.
The Government Hospital for the Insane—later called St. Elizabeths Hospital, without an apostrophe, for some reason—dated from before the Civil War. Midwived by Dorothea Dix, this gloomy brickpile had specialized in treating, or at least confining, patients with mental disorders. During World War II the OSS had tested truth serums and mescaline here. Ezra Pound had been locked up inside. The CIA had conducted experiments here too. The shady, tree-dotted campus still served its dual functions of treating insanity and housing intelligence activities. The eastern half held a high-security facility for the criminally insane. The western hundred acres, including the original building, was owned by the federal government. The Department of Homeland Security and its daughter agencies were being moved here, into the refurbished hospital and other, new buildings. Some of which were still under construction, to judge by the trucks, cranes, and hoardings, the torn-up, muddy street.
“Ms. Titus?” A fresh-faced young woman waved. “The chief of staff’s office is this way. Please follow me. But your people”—she glanced at Blair’s bodyguards—“will have to stay out here.”
* * *
SHE’d sought this meeting for weeks. Operation Causeway, the liberation of Taiwan, had succeeded, though at a heavy cost. To judge by the administration’s press releases, and their echo chamber in the controlled media, victory was in the air. But as the undersecretary of defense for strategy, plans, and forces, she’d been privy to disquieting reports. Which she now planned to surface with someone she’d once known well.
Or thought she had. But these days, you could never be completely sure of anyone.
To her surprise, once she got past the nineteenth-century facade the interior was modern. White walls, white tile floors, white overheads, still sour-milk redolent of fresh latex paint. The aide led her past a checkpoint, waving off the guards. Funny, that the DHS, supposedly in charge of security for the whole country, with nearly half a million personnel, didn’t even wand her. But maybe that was a good sign.
Into an elevator. Spotless. Stainless. New. Another corridor, and on into an office with a breathtaking view of what looked like all of the Southeast District. And in the distance, the cupola’d snow-mountain of the Capitol.
“Blair Titus. How great to see you.”
“Nice to see you too, Sol. This looks much more comfortable than Nebraska Avenue.”
Laughing, Solomon Bischoff, chief of staff to the secretary of homeland security, came around his desk. They shook hands warmly, the old-pols’ two-handed grip. “Yeah, six hundred million in congressional funding, another matching six hundred through GSA. We’ll get this done. ICE and CBP, the Coast Guard and everybody else right here. No more chasing around the city. Long overdue.”
She and Bischoff had been lowly GS-9 analysts together at the Congressional Research Service, ages ago. They’d had dinner together a couple of times, gone dancing, but nothing had clicked. They’d stopped seeing each other before she’d gone to work for Senator Talmadge, and then she’d met Dan. Since it had been so long, she’d looked Bischoff up on LinkedIn and Google. Since the CRS, he’d gone from researching hedge funds into setting them up, leveraging a modest family fortune into major holdings in FANGs and defense stocks. His nomination hearing had featured a partisan grilling over the extent of his divestitures, and at last he’d been disapproved for the deputy position. Instead he’d become chief of staff, which didn’t require confirmation, but by all accounts he still made the decisions.
“You look great, Blair, just great. Not a day older.”
“All this gray says differently. You’re married, right? Kids?”
“Daughter and son.” He’d gained weight and lost hair, but still had the same crooked smile. Actually, he kind of looked like Dick Cheney now. “You’re married to that Navy commander, right?”
“He’s an admiral now. In the Pacific.”
“Really? Good on ya both. Yeah, I followed your campaign in the Times. I’d say I was sorry you lost, but really, we needed a fiscal conservative in Maryland. Whatever his … sexual preferences. And all in all, you can do more for us at Defense.” He showed her to a chair. “Coffee? Tea?”
“Coffee. Thanks.”
“Alexa: coffee. Large. Two, please.”
�
��Coming up, Mr. Bischoff.”
Blair was surprised to hear an active digital assistant in what she hoped was a secure office. But no doubt DHS had anticipated any possible leaks. Sol settled behind the desk. “Usually we don’t do things this way. It’s the old memo, meeting routine. Not that I’m not glad to see you! But I assume this is about defense business.”
“In part. So thanks for the meeting. In my position, I get wind of developments across the country. And some of them lately disquiet me. From the point of view of workforce morale, primarily.”
“Ready,” Alexa said.
Bischoff got up and fetched the brews. “Cream? Sugar?”
She took cream. They sipped and were silent for a moment. Then she murmured, “Shall I continue?”
“If it impacts defense research, production, I need to hear it,” he said. “Absolutely.”
“All right, then. Some of my scientists suspect their offices are being monitored. That some of their assistants even report back to you.”
He sighed. “I’m not privy to the specifics, but I wouldn’t deny it. This is wartime, Blair. The enemy continually probes our cyberdefenses. Tries to intercept communications. You were on that plane that almost hit Los Alamos, correct? Someone slipped that Trojan horse into the flight control software. And they’re still out there. So I shouldn’t have to convince you of the danger.”
“But … are you monitoring their families? Their personal computers?”
Bischoff shrugged. “If they give us reason to. Really, Blair, if we can penetrate their data clouds, the enemy can too. Rest assured, when we find a hole that could be exploited, we notify the agencies concerned.”
She touched her lips lightly with a knuckle. Proceed carefully, Blair. “Um, some of that’s justified, Sol, I’m sure. And maybe we can justify drafting and expropriating anyone found without documents. But I also hear you’re using the Defense of Freedom Act to round up political opponents. Are there really black prisons in Kansas and Indiana?”
Bischoff’s eyebrows went up. He snorted. “Fake news, Blair. There’s nothing like that going on. Rationing’s working perfectly. Okay, scattered riots and minor looting here and there—but isolated, minor issues. This country’s marching forward together.”
Right, in lock-step, she thought. “And the Loyalty League. They aren’t suppressing peaceful dissent?”
“The Leaguers are solid citizens,” Bischoff said. “They accepted our confiscating their private weapons without objection.”
“Which were then returned to them under federal deputization.”
“The Mobilized Militia is constitutional. The Supreme Court says so. What’s your objection?”
“That only League members got the weapons back. No one else.”
“Because we can count on them.” Bischoff shrugged again. “The M&Ms do useful work. Guarding defense plants. Enemy alien and D class ethnicity camps. The Zones of Concentration. And I’ll underline once more that it’s conducted under the president’s war powers as granted by the Constitution. Passed in the DOFA, implemented in consultation with Congress, and approved by the courts.”
“Yes, but—”
“Here’s how it works.” Bischoff sat forward, spread his hands. His tone went earnest. “Our fusion centers at DHS identify persons and organizations that may become inimical to the war effort. Oppositionists. Active seditionists. Hostile ethnic elements. The first step’s the watch list. Once on the list, there’s no employment in sensitive positions, no firearms, computer, or car purchases, no driver’s licenses, and limited access to travel. Second step, the members and their families are taken into custody. They’re assigned to remunerative, productive work in public-private partnerships, in locations that assure their security.”
She tilted her head. “That may become inimical?”
“The exact wording of the Freedom Act. Or would you rather we left them at large until disaffection progresses to active treason? Work slowdowns? Sabotage? Bombings, like Indianapolis?” His face was turning red. “You do know there’ve been over three hundred domestic bombings so far this year? More than any year since 1968. If we hadn’t kept the lid hammered down, some parts of this country would be in open revolt.”
Perhaps that was true. But Blair couldn’t help reflecting that this was how other governments, some of them infamous, had explained away their mass clampdowns, their targeting and elimination of anyone who disagreed. “Well, Sol, I’d feel more comfortable with some of these measures, if I really could be sure it was only for the duration.”
“I see.” Bischoff swiveled away to look out his window. The trees were a nearly solid canopy, a speckle of gold and green stretching away down to the Potomac. “Can I share my feelings about that? We’ve known each other a long time. I think you know you can trust me.”
“Of course I can, Sol. I’m just not sure about some others in this administration.”
“Including yourself?” He chuckled, then turned serious. “This country has been heading down the wrong road for a long time. Remember De Bari? His fucking firefighter buddies … his mistresses … it’s been us against them ever since. And nothing ever got done, you know?”
She had to agree, at least in theory. “It’s true, very little ever seemed to happen.”
“And why? Because if any of our many problems actually got solved, there wouldn’t be money flowing in anymore to push the ball this way or that. We were stuck at top dead center for a long time. Until this president.”
“So what are you actually saying?”
He grimaced. “I’m saying, we can’t go back to that kind of … free-for-all after this war. We have to march together, to get anywhere. And if that means snipping off the fringe elements, the nut jobs, the activists, well, so be it. The broad middle path, that’s where this country has to go. All together. Forward as one.”
Forward as One was that month’s slogan. Taught in the schools, postered on billboards, flashed on every computer screen, repeated every five minutes on every talk and news show and government-approved blog. “Forward as one,” she murmured.
“That’s the spirit!” Bischoff beamed. “And seriously, Blair, if you want to keep playing … you need to reconsider your own position.”
She gave him her most polite smile. “What exactly do you mean, Sol?”
He ticked points off on his fingers. “You’re a smart girl, but you’re still rooting for the wrong team. The president sees you as a holdover from the previous administration. Yeah, you’re effective, hardworking. You contribute to victory, I guess. But really you’re only on board because of Ed Szerenci. He brought you in, and he’s the guy keeping you there. Now, this is only to be perfectly frank with you about what I hear. So when Ed goes in the dumpster, you’ll go too.”
“Is he headed there? I hadn’t heard that.”
“Nobody lasts forever, sweetheart. There are those who blame him for this war.”
Blair couldn’t contradict that; she’d been one of them, though she didn’t think so now. Or at least, saw his share of blame as smaller than she once had. “So what are you telling me, really?”
Bischoff rolled his eyes, as if any fool could connect the dots. “Cross the aisle, Blair! You’re pro-defense, right? Move from the right wing of your party to the left wing of ours. There’s only really going to be one left after this war, anyway.”
She said carefully, “But that sounds like what we’re fighting, Sol. In China. Iran. Pakistan. The other one-party states.”
Bischoff smiled. “History, Blair. Remember yours? Someone’s raised the same old alarms in every war we’ve had. They called Lincoln a tyrant. Wilson, a dictator. When Roosevelt ran for a fourth term, they said he was becoming another Caesar. And FDR ran concentration camps too. Remember that.”
Blair had to nod. “I do. Touché.”
“If we’re all rooting for the country, we need to work together. To win this war, then rebuild bigger and better. Forward as one?”
She almost s
aid “As one,” but stopped herself at the last moment. “It’s certainly one philosophy, Sol. But I’ve always believed that the more noise and fuss, the more things are working the way they’re supposed to. That when everything’s quiet and serene, usually it just means someone’s getting away with something.”
The soft voice from the little speaker said, “Time for your call with the secretary, Mr. Bischoff. I’ll dial.”
“I used to believe that too.” Bischoff gazed out the window again. “Back in high school. But seeing the way we can actually get things done now, it’s changed my mind. Come over to us, Blair. Look to the future.”
He cleared his throat. Pushed up, and came around the desk. He was shorter than she now. Had he always been? She couldn’t remember. But the way he put his hand on her arm seemed all too familiar. He murmured, voice husky, “And, you know, we used to be—close. Your husband. You say he’s … away?”
She took her arm back, out of reach. “Yes. He’s overseas. Fighting.”
He looked away. “Uh-huh. Sure. Well, just thought I’d ask. So, was there anything else?”
“I guess not.” She stood, and suddenly wished for gloves, so she could pull them on. Or some other sweeping gesture, to draw a line. “I guess not. Thanks again for the meeting, Sol. If you can ask someone to see me out, I’ll get off your desk.”
* * *
HER aide briefed her on the report as they drove the narrow streets to the Suitland Parkway, then headed back toward center city. She made appropriate noises, but found it hard to concentrate. She tapped her knuckles to her lips as she stared out the green leafiness of the parkway. They tore across town on 695, through a ghostly emptiness where traffic had once roared. Before the refineries burned and the Cloud exploded. Before war had desolated the economy, and chopped the country apart like a cleaver.
She was wrestling with her angels.
