“Wéi?” A pause. “Xiè-xie. Duì. Wô dài le…Duì bu-qì. Xiè-xie!” He hung up as he grew paler by the second. “Sir,” he said in a chastened voice, “if you will accompany me, General Xi’s car will meet us at the private terminus.”
Herb smiled, took another deep drag, again blowing the smoke in the other man’s face. “I rather thought it might.”
Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia was jammed to capacity. Rising in nearly vertical walls of gray or blue, the competing sounds bounced back and forth like a living thing—a prehistoric bird trapped within the confines of the arena, flailing against the sides in a cacophonous attempt to break free.
“Go Army! Beat Navy!”
“Go Navy! Beat Army!”
The parade of cadets and midshipmen into the stadium—in their perfect unison and barely controlled passions—added yet another element to the maelstrom of combined national pride and tribalism.
Flags were everywhere!
Chants and cheers mixed with the bunting, the mascots’ haws and bays, the raw, heady scent of naked idealistic youth. These were the men and women from whom would be drawn the leaders of the free world in decades to come. They knew it—exalted in it—but put it all aside for the next few hours of unrefined, bold aggression.
Because whatever else happened in their careers, whatever George Pattons or Benedict Arnolds, Lewis Armi-steads, Winfield Hancocks, or George Custers they turned out to be… they would always have the memory of this day in common.
Win or lose, the triumph of American youth!
It was a few minutes before kickoff when DeWitt settled himself into the luxury box with his entourage. He would spend the first half here on the Navy side of the field—the guest of the Annapolis superintendent and senior officers. Then, at halftime, he would perform a ceremony on the field honoring the three best cadets and midshipmen at each academy, before moving to an equally luxurious box on the Army side.
Never a big fan of football, and personally antimilitary, much of the pomp and splendor of this hallmark of Americanism was lost on the man, however.
But not the symbolism.
The form of the thing—the rigorously adhered-to traditions in the pregame that was timed down to the second the parachutists would enter the stadium with the game balls, trailing brightly colored smoke—it was a link to a thing over a hundred years old. A thing that DeWitt viewed as anachronistic and dumb.
But useful.
For within the rapture of the moment, the passion on the faces in the crowd, the nonstop cheers, the complete celebration of America that the game was, there was a narcofying effect. Not just in the stadium.
The millions who would watch the game on TV would be swept along with the rest, and forever associate him with all that was the best in America! It was a bonding that even his Chinese handlers had overlooked.
But at his halftime speech—being covered live by all the networks—he would be once and finally free of his last connections to the Apple Blossom conspiracy.
DeWitt would call his own shots, re-create America in an image to his liking, and the system (Chinese or American, he didn’t really care) would have to go along.
He would be a great president, he knew, and soon so would the rest of the world.
A cell phone began ringing, and everyone in the box began checking theirs. It rang three times, then stopped… unanswered.
The game kicked off, the box filled with cheers, groans, and the natural excitement that this event always engendered, and DeWitt was surprised by how much the passion—for the teams, of course—affected him.
On the top of the stadium, under a cement-gray tarp behind a large plastic cutout of the Liberty Bell, Fabrè waited. He’d been in place for over five hours, calmly passing the time listening to Mozart through one ear of his Walkman, the communications net in his other.
If he was caught—he thought without much concern—he would be killed. There was little doubt of that. But he’d been well paid, his insurance was up to date, and he was doing “grand service to the Brotherhood.”
It was enough.
He didn’t need to site in on the luxury box that was his target. He’d done his run-throughs and had grooved the needed physical actions to a fine edge. But he was curious at the source of all the noise.
He peeked out through a less-than-an-inch slit in the tarp at the section just below him.
He could see groups of midshipmen—young men and women sprinting around the end zone in a vain attempt to tear down the taunting banners that the cadets had hung there. He saw the cadets hastily pull up the banners, to frustrate the midshipmen.
Directly below him, the Army band played loud, raucous rock and roll—more noise than music. The fans cheered with a primitive vibration that shook the place as they pressed up against the thin guardrails.
And no one looked up.
Satisfied, he returned to Mozart and waiting.
Late in the second quarter, the cell phone rang again. This time, a navy steward found it—neatly tucked away—in the drawer of a writing desk at the back of the box. After answering it, he smoothly moved through the crowded box, handing it to a surprised Michael.
“Culbertson.”
“Mr. Culbertson, would you mind moving to the back of the box and retrieving the sunglasses from the bottom drawer of the desk?”
“Who is this?” Michael said in an annoyed voice.
“Well, sufficient to say this is not Canvas.” Michael froze in abject terror. “Please get the sunglasses, Mr. Culbertson. Then sit down again.”
Slowly, surprised that his limbs had the strength to move, he retrieved the glasses and returned to his seat. “I have them.”
“Please put them on.”
Michael did as he was told.
They were dark, the darkest he’d ever worn, almost like welder’s goggles. But there was enough light to barely see around him… and what he did see made his heart stop cold.
Two narrow beams of blue light came through the luxury box’s window, coming to rest in the middle of his chest.
“If you move, or attempt to warn anyone, you’ll die instantly. Do you understand? Answer now.”
“Yes,” Michael said in as natural a tone as he could.
“Look at DeWitt.”
Two beams played on his chest and hairline.
“I see them,” he said as he began sweating despite the coldness of the day.
“Write a note to DeWitt, explain the circumstances to him in an unmistakably clear fashion. Then hand him the glasses and the phone. Do not leave your seat or attempt to communicate with others until DeWitt hangs up. Then do what you like. Do you understand? Answer now.”
“I—I understand. He pulled out his pad and began writing.”
From a concourse behind the upper row on the Army side of the field, Xenos watched the frightened man through binoculars. Standing among pleasantly unaware fans, he waited until he saw the note passed to Apple Blossom. Then he got up and moved to a quieter spot. He put the phone in his jacket pocket and pulled out another, quickly dialing a number. Vedette answered on the first ring.
“So?” Xenos asked casually.
“One, two, three, and four are in position and ready on your command or an unexpected movement. Five and six are in position to exfiltrate one through four, if necessary. Seven and eight have the vehicles in position.” The briefest pause. “We are go in all respects.”
Xenos hung up, then looked down at the field, at two figures there that captured his attention.
A young man—no more than nineteen—was standing in jungle cammies, his face painted up, fully outfitted with pack, night-vision equipment, and multiple weapons. But despite it all, despite his fearsome exterior, he was a clear-eyed, callow youth who—Xenos’s experienced eyes told him as he focused his binoculars—had never fired a shot in anger. Still pure, still clean, still morally alive.
And next to him, one of the Army’s mascots—a man in black medieval armor from head t
o toe. Waving a black sword, with a bright golden plume in his helmet, he was simultaneously malevolent and inspirational. A thing to be feared, as he mockingly menaced Navy fans with his sword; to be admired, as he helped lead cheers in the Army section.
With considerable effort, Xenos turned away from these twin effigies of himself, centering the crosshairs of the binoculars on the frowning visage of Jefferson Wilson DeWitt.
Pressure makes diamonds, DeWitt repeated over and over in his head. Pressure makes diamonds. If he wanted me dead, I’d be dead already. He—whoever he is—wants something other than my life. Pressure makes diamonds. Negotiate, delay, think. Pressure makes diamonds.
“This is the attorney general,” he said firmly.
“There are three minutes and twenty seconds left in the first half,” Xenos replied. “At the halftime gun they will ask you to get up to go down to the field. At that moment we will have reached an arrangement, or you will die. Do you understand? Answer now.”
“What can I do for you?” DeWitt asked casually. “Is there something specific …”
“Answer now. Or die now.” The voice was flat, emotionless, not giving a damn.
“I understand,” DeWitt said calmly, his eyes trying to follow the two beams across the open field to their source.
“Apple Blossom is over. The Alvarez children are safe. The congresswoman is with the president telling him everything. Grimes is dead, along with the command and control center. Canvas is running. The Chinese are about to disavow you. Apple Blossom is over. Do you understand? Answer now.”
DeWitt fought to control himself. His anger was an ogre, pounding on his chest demanding voice. But the tiny blue dots kept it silenced, for now.
“I understand. Even if I don’t entirely agree with you.” He smiled at the superintendent as if in exasperation at the call.
“There is no other interpretation of the events.”
“I think there is.”
“How so?”
He turned to the superintendent, with an embarrassed look. “I’m dreadfully sorry, Admiral Hayland, but could I have a moment alone, it turns out this is a secure call.”
“Of course,” the admiral said as he instantly stood up. “Ladies and gentlemen, would you join me in the corridor for a few minutes, he said to the group.”
Two minutes later DeWitt and Michael were alone in the box.
“I’m back, he said into the phone.”
“You have two minutes, thirty-three seconds.”
“I’m prepared to offer you ten million dollars, American, in any account of your choice. DeWitt looked out across the field as he talked, as if making eye contact with the voice on the other end of the phone.” Take the money and save yourself. You can’t win. He paused, then smiled convulsively. “Answer now.”
“I’ve won already, or hadn’t you noticed?”
DeWitt shook his head. “Not even close. Grimes knew very little. There was little or no paper trail in the command center. As for the resilient congresswoman, well, she’s just another member of the Heisenberg cult, you see. A traitor, trying to save herself by libeling a great American hero.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line.
“They chose you well,” Xenos said sadly. “When you leave the box, you will be escorted to the field for the ceremony. At that ceremony you will announce that you are withdrawing your name from nomination and retiring from public life. The excuse is up to you.” A short silence. “Make it health, if you like. It will be quite true.”
DeWitt laughed. “Go ahead, kill me if you like.”
“What?”
“I’m not suicidal, Mr. Filotimo.” He rolled the name on his tongue. “Merely realistic.”
“Really.”
The attorney general nodded without realizing it. “You’re a patriot, Mr. Filotimo, I’ve read your file. America is going to war—for whatever reason no longer matters—the war will soon be a fact.” He shrugged. “And the old man in the White House is incapable of winning it.”
“There are any number of reasons you might kill me, I think,” DeWitt said matter-of-factly. “But my death leaves the lives of thousands of American men and women in the tender keeping of a half-senile old man who is so gullible that he has nominated a communist spy as his successor.”
“Think of it. The blood of so many”—he looked down at the field—“so many that we are watching today, no doubt, spilled out upon the banner of your own vengeful impatience.” He shook his head. “A waste of your talents and of life, sir.”
Xenos was quiet for a long time. “You have fifty-four seconds to make your proposal. I assume you have one.”
“I do.” He gathered himself.
“Ten million dollars for you, five million dollars compensation to the family of that Satordi boy. Complete vindication of the Alvarez woman and her appointment to the ambassadorial post she chooses. Or my complete overt and covert support in any election bid for any office. And another ten million dollars to rebuild that clinic of yours and pay any compensations you feel I’ve left out.”
“You really think you’ll live long enough to pay out all that?”
“That, Mr. Filotimo, is up to you. I have a speech to make. He shut off the phone with an arrogant snap. But didn’t move until the light beams disappeared from the luxury box.
“Call the Secret Service, DeWitt said as he stood to leave.” Tell them there’s a sniper in the stadium. But tell them I’m making the speech anyway.
“Jeff! Don’t you think—”
“For God’s sake, Michael, he’s not going to shoot! Not today anyway. Maybe after he gets to thinking about it, but not now. That offer’s too damned good to turn down flat. He’s a mercenary and they never turn down money without thinking about it first.”
He started for the door. “Just make the call and join me when you can. He glad-handed his way into the corridor after tossing the cell phone to his aide.”
Michael looked at the closed door, thought about the insanity that was soon to be president. An insanity that would—he was now sure—find him eminently expendable at the slightest fit of pique after he’d gotten what he wanted.
He thought about all that he would never get to do, all the dreams and time that would then be wasted.
He looked out at the stadium, knowing that Filotimo was out there somewhere, but knowing him better than the arrogant shit that had just left possibly could.
He had worked for years, swallowed loads of shit and more self-respect than any man should ever have to, and he would be goddamned if he allowed either man—the preening ass or the outraged weapon—to take it away from him now that he was so close.
He looked down at the phone, dialed *69, and waited.
A moment later Xenos’s voice came over the line—firm and clear.
“What do you propose?”
“A confidential act of amnesty,” Valerie said to the president, his chief counsel, and Buckley.
“Not possible,” the attorney general designate said. “Whatever your motivations, Valerie, you still turned classified documents and information over to a hostile foreign power. That’s treason, maybe a lower degree, but treason nevertheless.”
“And you’ve still only given us hints, snippets, possibilities about DeWitt, nothing we could take to court and get a conviction with,” the White House counsel added. “You’re going to have to do better.”
“What about all that?” She pointed angrily at the box of evidence Michael had turned over to Buckley. “What’s that, if not evidence?”
“That”—Buckley waved at the box—“is incriminating as Hell. Along with your testimony it’s damning as Hell.”
He hesitated, as if the taste of the next soured him. “But they’ll argue everything in there is faked, forged, composited in a smear campaign. And your testimony will be viewed simply as the inadmissible ravings of a cultist coconspirator.” He became uncomfortably quiet.
“Maybe you’re the traitor,” V
alerie growled.
Buckley nodded. “I might’ve been. I do fit the circumstantial profile, but”—he tapped the box—“we now know it’s DeWitt.”
“We need more, Congresswoman,” the president said softly.
For over an hour—since she’d told her story—Valerie had been arguing her case. Desperately trying to find an accommodation that would work for everyone and allow her to remain with her children. Because the one thing she now knew, beyond anything else in this whole muddled mess, was that she would never allow anything to come between them and her again.
“What more can I say?” she asked quietly. “I’ve come here willingly, to try and prevent an American tragedy of hitherto unknown proportions, and you’re quoting the letter of the law at me!”
The president smiled and poured her a drink. “I probably believe you about your children. I’ve known you for years and I know what I would do for mine or my grandkids.” He shivered at the thought. “But I still need more.”
“Mr. President, I’ve told you everything I can. I’ve warned you about DeWitt, about the Chinese, about everything that’s happened or about to happen. What more can I do?”
Buckley answered the phone, spoke quietly for a moment, then nodded at the president.
The old man smiled just then. “Show him in,” he said casually. A moment later the door to the Oval Office opened. “Hello, George. We were just talking about you, he said easily.”
George Steingarth nodded as he entered the room. “Mr. President, my apologies. But I was caught up in a series of international calls this …” He froze as Valerie turned to see who had come into the room.
“Te voy a picar en pedacitos de salchica y dárselos de comer a tu madre,” Valerie muttered in poisoned tones as she slowly stood up.
“Eh, Mr. President, I must …,” Steingarth said as he turned to leave—only to find his way blocked by two Secret Service agents.
Valerie launched herself at the man, her hands closing around his throat as they toppled to the ground.
“Bastard!”
The Secret Service agents started to come forward, but the president waived them off. “Leave her,” he called out.
The 4 Phase Man Page 33
