The 4 Phase Man

by Richard Steinberg

  For a full minute he considered continuing. Stealthily making his way forward—aware of the danger, but taking precautions. All for the chance to finally take out the man who haunted his dreams. When he did sleep.

  Then he exhaled deeply, shook his head, and started toward the south.

  To fight another day.

  Valerie looked toward the sound of gunshots and running men, desperately trying to pierce the dark and see what she knew there was no hope of seeing.

  Somewhere out ahead—in the heart of the thick woods—a fierce battle was taking place. No longer centered in the distance, it seemed to move toward her, groping through the black to reach the rear guard of the only way out that night. She fought to keep from running out, meeting it halfway, and ending her thirty minutes, her weeks, of waiting.

  Then, without warning, the first of the assault teams appeared. Some were wounded, others bruised, all on the dead run.

  None with what she needed.

  Forcing back tears, she helped them over the wall, then froze. A thin voice called out from the dark—maybe, must be, imagined—and the voice melted all her defenses, her fears, her torment.

  “Mom!”

  She rushed forward as Drake and she collided in an ecstatic embrace.

  “Baby,” my baby! Thank you, God. Thank you, God. Mi hijo! Gracias Dios por mi hijo,” she cried. “Oh thank you,” God. She smothered him with kisses. “Oh, Drake, baby… Valerie cut herself off.” Where’s Cathy?

  In answer, Drake looked back into the dark, just before he was grabbed by one of the Corsicans and almost thrown over the fence. They urged her to follow, but—satisfied that her son was safe—she turned and began jogging toward the nearest gunfire.

  There were muzzle flashes everywhere in the fanged darkness. The reports filled the air like a typewriter’s clatter. One hundred and fifty meters in, she stopped, not sure which way to go. Then she saw them.

  Franco, bent over and running full speed in a randomly zigzagging pattern, his arms wrapped around something clutched tightly to his chest.

  With her heart bursting through muscle and bone that could no longer contain it, Valerie realized that the something was her little girl.

  “Here!” she screamed above the violence in the air. “Over here!”

  Franco looked up, saw her, and immediately altered his course in her direction. As one of the guards rose up behind him—unseen or heard—and pointed an automatic rifle at his back.

  The Corsican fell to the ground, cushioning the child as he felt the shot whiz by his right ear. Then heard three shots in automatic-fire succession fly over him. A long moment later he looked behind him, seeing the guard with a neat hole in the middle of his forehead and three evenly spaced wounds stitched across his chest.

  Valerie pulled her daughter from his arms, tossing him her gun in exchange.

  Franco grinned—an insane sight amid the madness—as he looked at the smoking gun and Valerie’s retreating form. Then, with a satisfied nod of his head, he followed them out of the battle zone.

  As the first police cars arrived at the main gate, Xenos dropped out of a tree near the east fence.

  He’d already heard that the children were safe and the Corsicans evacuated from the scene. They’d taken some hits—two were dead, three wounded. But the toll was less than he’d expected.

  How would they explain the shooting and explosions? he wondered vacantly. Did Canvas have some contingency in place for it? Or would he have to improvise? It was an interesting problem.

  And where was Canvas?

  He hadn’t been hit in the initial attack, hadn’t been seen or heard from since he’d jumped into the woods in the first moments. And he’d obviously turned down Xenos’s complex invitation. So he was still out there.

  Somewhere.

  As he climbed over the east fence, he put the thought aside.

  Time enough to deal with Canvas after the immediate insanity was over.

  The time for Apple Blossom, however, was now.

  Sixteen

  Sitting in a bathrobe, calmly sipping his coffee while watching the morning news reports, DeWitt was the picture of calm and cool. His hand was rock-steady as he poured. His expression placid. His manner aloof.

  But Michael had known the man for ten years. Men like him for much longer than that. So he remained cautious, and out of easy reach.

  “The media’s been all over it since it broke. They’re camped out in front of the estate like the Simpson trial. The neighbors aren’t talking, but the press is getting nice gory shots each time a body is carried out.”

  “How many?” DeWitt asked as he changed to a different channel’s coverage of Massacre Among the Cotton-woods: Murder in Virginia.

  “Press knows about six so far. My sources say the final total will be more than three times that.” He shook his head. “It’s a bloody mess.”

  DeWitt looked up and smiled. “You’re developing a sense of humor late in life, Michael.” He returned to the broadcast. “Tony Grimes?”

  “Dead.”

  “Canvas?”

  “Missing.” Michael shook his head. “The police are confused, asking for help from the Virginia Department of Justice and McLean Homicide Special. Also Quantico behaviorists. They suspect some kind of cult murder/suicide thing. He looked exhausted.” For now, anyway.

  “Steingarth?” DeWitt asked as he shut the TV.

  “Unaccounted for and unreachable.” He hesitated. “Not connected to it … so far.”

  “My name come up?”

  Michael sighed. “Not yet, but it’s early.”

  The vice president designate nodded simply.

  Oddly the destruction and death of the night before—first learned of at three in the morning by a panicked call from Michael—seemed to have quieted and strengthened the man. As if the combined blows of the Senate suspicions and the attack on the command center had loosed him from some bonds he’d been struggling against.

  He poured himself some more coffee. “Since the children aren’t there, we have to assume they were rescued and that the reports of the congresswoman’s demise are less than thorough.” He got up and started pacing, calmly. “What we need to do is act, get out ahead of all this before more silly accusations start flying.”

  Michael appeared less certain. “I think we should wait until we hear from Steingarth or Canvas.”

  “Don’t think,” Michael, DeWitt said without rancor. “You’re no good at it.” He opened a window and breathed in the dew-scented air. “We didn’t get this close just because of foreign investment. He lightly tossed a pad over to his aide.” Take this down.

  “For immediate release,” he began after five minutes of an intense silence. “Attorney General Jefferson DeWitt is saddened by the death of national treasure and personal friend Anthony Grimes. But not completely surprised by it.”

  “In recent weeks,” it has come to the attorney general’s attention that Mr. Grimes was involved with an extremist cult called”—he paused, trying out different names—“the Heisenberg Effect. An organization linked to missing and feared mentally unbalanced Congresswoman Valerie Alvarez.”

  Michael looked up. “Linked by who?”

  DeWitt shrugged. “Us. Continuing…

  “As recently as several days ago, Attorney General DeWitt visited Mr. Grimes at his home to attempt to convince him to abandon this cult which had suicidal and murderous tendencies, along with reactionary political beliefs. The cult—which had been exerting more and more influence on Mr. Grimes in recent months—was suspected by the attorney general of attempting to engage in espionage against Western governments, not unlike the Aum Shoko Ritai in Japan.

  “In retrospect,” it appears that Mr. Grimes—who was educated in England—may well be this Apple Blossom whom the Senate Judiciary Committee has asked the attorney general to assist in identifying.

  “Attorney General DeWitt prays that he is wrong, but fears he is not.”

  Michael looked
up from the statement. “I thought he was your friend.”

  DeWitt shrugged. “No such thing as a dead friend.”

  His aide studied him, then started out of the room. “I’ll try to reach Steingarth again before issuing it.”

  “Fuck the Nazi. Canvas too. We don’t need them anymore.”

  Michael nodded reluctantly. “I’d still like to try.” “As long as it gets out before the ten o’clock talk shows.” DeWitt started toward his bedroom to dress for the day. “What’s on the schedule … besides damage control?” He chuckled.

  “Filling in for the president at the Army-Navy game in Philadelphia this afternoon. Situation briefing at the White House and dinner with the national security staff at 7:30.”

  “Fine. Get the statement out, then contact as many of the others in the chain as you can. We’ve got to get them going on this cult idea.” He pulled off his robe, admiring himself in a mirror. “Time they see who’s really in charge.”

  Michael never looked back as he headed into his nearby office.

  It took only a few minutes—and two more unanswered calls to Steingarth (and Canvas’s cell phone)—and the statement was ready to be electronically sent out to the nation’s media.

  To an extent, he admired DeWitt’s self-confidence. The natural arrogance that served as an understructure of strength to support him in the worst times. It was a large part of what made DeWitt the Chinese’s first choice in the Apple Blossom plan.

  But before he entered the sequence that would spread the gospel according to DeWitt out among what the attorney general truly believed were the naive, the ignorant, and the just plain stupid that made up 90 percent of the American people, Michael read a fax that was being received on his private, secured machine.

  It appeared to be a revised schedule for Justice Department staffers in the A.G.’s office. A jumble of names, titles, times, and hours. But ten minutes of unwrapping the code—which only he and his personal controller knew—left him with quite a different message.

  Adieu O soldier

  You of the rude campaign (which we shared)

  The rapid march, the life of the camp,

  The hot contention of opposing fronts, the long maneuver,

  Red hot battles with their slaughter, the stimulus, the strong, terrific game.

  Spell of all brave and manly hearts, the trains of time through you

  And like you all fill’d,

  With war and war’s expression.

  Adieu, dear comrade.

  Your mission is fulfill’d.

  Michael swiveled away from his keyboard, picked up the secure line and dialed a number that only he knew.

  “Two, eight, one, three.”

  “Apple Blossom,” he said softly.

  “Countersign?”

  Michael looked around to make sure he wasn’t being overheard. “Blossom.”

  “One moment, please.”

  Thirty seconds later a new voice came on the line. “Blossom, it’s been far too long.”

  “I have a problem,” Michael said in a near whisper.

  “How well I know, son.”

  “You seen the papers?” he asked softly.

  “And the television,” the voice responded with a concern and warmth that already made Michael feel a little better.

  “He thinks it’s a good thing.”

  “How so?”

  Another furtive glance to be sure he was alone. “He’s giving orders, bizarre stuff, wants to involve the entire chain in them.”

  A brief but noticeable silence on the other end of the line. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?”

  “No, sir.”

  A heavy sigh could be heard. “Michael, what’s your assessment of the damage done him by the Roberts allegations?”

  Michael thought about it. “Survivable, so long as we play like its meaningless. Don’t legitimize it or give it any more power than it already has.”

  “Yes,” the voice said in a happy tone.

  Michael could picture the satisfied smile on the man’s face. The look his real father had never shown him—except in those times when the belt would fly across the young boy’s back and shoulders. “What should I do?”

  “For now? Whatever the lunatic says. Do nothing that would personally endanger your position … or yourself, of course.”

  “Right.”

  “Apple’s instability has been the topic of recent conversations. The cause of growing concerns. His, well, boldness of late is a thing that must be corrected. Perhaps he is not the one we need, after all.” A long pause. “Do you understand me, son?”

  “I do.” It was said stiffly, reluctantly.

  Soldierly.

  “We’ll need to consider the new circumstances,” the voice was continuing. “Explore other possibilities.”

  “You’ll stay in touch?” Michael’s voice was plaintive, pained, longing.

  “I’m only a phone call away, you know that.” Another brief pause. “Help me out, Michael. I’ve been trying to remember something from U.S. history.”

  “Anything,” the possible future White House chief of staff said happily. He remembered their discussions of obscure historical events as among the happiest times in his training and life.

  “Who was the virtually unknown congressman that exposed Alger Hiss as a communist spy?”

  “Richard Nixon.”

  “Ah! Right you are.” Another, more strategic pause. “And he ended up president,” did he not?

  “He did,” Michael said in a suddenly hushed tone.

  “Ah.” The voice sounded deeply satisfied. “You always have such a current grasp on history. The briefest pauses.” And what makes it. Good-bye, Michael. We’ll speak again soon, I’m sure. The line went dead.

  As Michael’s mind burst to life.

  Twenty minutes later—the press release issued and with two hours to himself—he arrived at the offices of Attorney General Designate Rod Buckley.

  A large box of tapes, videos, and documents in hand.

  The Executive Office Building gate of the White House complex was always the least used on the weekends. Tourists and VIPs used the two gates nearest the impressive South Portico; weekend staff (mostly based in the Executive Mansion) used the west gate. So White House Police Officer Jack Kreiger was mildly surprised when a well-dressed woman walked up to the guard’s booth.

  “May I help you, ma’am?” he said professionally as he sized her up. Deeply tanned, a bruise under her left ear, a large briefcase that almost matched the off-the-rack—but expensive—business suit.

  “I’m Congresswoman Valerie Alvarez of New York,” she said as she placed her briefcase on the counter for inspection. “And I want to see the president … now.”

  It was still late at night in the VIP lounge at Hòu-tiän Airport in Beijing. Chronically understaffed, the third and smallest jetport serving the largest city in China, it was filled primarily with traveling military, rich Hong Kong traders, and New Territory settlers seeking to bring family in or out of the People’s Republic.

  And, tonight, one other.

  Herb sat patiently reading a spy novel—laughing at the absurdities it called fact—waiting for a response to his earlier request. He knew the risks he was taking—politically, personally—but he also realized that Xenos was right.

  Only a face-to-face meeting would have the required impact.

  Supposing that he wasn’t arrested and deported for not having the required visas, or just arrested and interrogated for the secrets that he held, or just disappeared to face an uncertain fate that would never be known.

  But it was worth it, somehow. Not so much to stop a war, and even less for the personal glory that would come with that act (in certain corridors of power).

  No, he was doing it for one reason and one only.

  Xenos had taken the nearly retired, certainly bypassed and forgotten, old man and put him back in the game. The ride had been a wild one, filled with terror and triumph, frustrations
and victories galore. And for probably the last time in his life, Herb had meaning.

  That was a gift that could never be repaid… except, perhaps, by this lunatic’s mission to the heart of the Dragon.

  “Wô jiào Xuan Li. Hé-zhào zài når?” a uniformed lieutenant asked brusquely.

  Herb smiled noncommittally and held up his passport. The man took it, checked it against the contents of a folder, and then closed the folder with the passport in side.

  “Qïng,” the lieutenant said, gesturing at a door across the room.

  Herb took his briefcase and overcoat, and started forward, followed closely by the soldier. The door opened as they approached, then closed behind Herb, leaving the lieutenant outside.

  “Director Stone, a major from the Long-Range Study Organization said in perfect English,” it is an honor to have you in Beijing. How may I be of service to you?

  “You can’t. I asked to speak with General Xi, personally.”

  The major shrugged. “Regretfully we can find no record of anyone by that name in the city registers,” he said easily. “Perhaps if you were more specific.”

  Herb sat down in the indicated chair. “Shall I tell you about his birthmark, the scar behind his left knee, or his days in Manchuria, first?”

  The major was completely placid, a painted smile on a doll’s face. “The reason you wish to see this Xi individual would be sufficient, sir.”

  “Son,” let me be completely honest with you.

  “Please do.”

  Herb took out a cigar, taking long moments to light it. Then he opened his briefcase, rummaged around, finally pulling out a bunch of thin, scraggly twigs. Each with small white and red flowers on them.

  He handed them across to the officer. “To General Xi, with my compliments, sir. Tell him… He blew a thick, blue cloud of smoke into the functionary’s face.” Tell him the apple blossoms are in season.

  The major suppressed a cough, picked up the thin branchlets, then held them up to the mirror behind his desk. Thirty seconds later his phone rang.