by Alton Gansky
Henry Sachs noticed his hands were shaking.
Jeter stepped from the limo that had pulled up the long drive of his Georgetown home. It was a home he saw less and less, spending up to sixteen hours a day in the West Wing.
He gave the driver a cursory wave and plodded up the steps of the colonial home. The sun had set hours before, and the moonless night matched the darkness in his soul. He was a man caught between two ideals, two commitments, two loves. On one hand he had made a promise to his father two days before the old man died; on the other, he had made a commitment to the president and to his country.
“Hey, stranger,” a sweet voice said from the sitting room. Jeter walked in and kissed his wife gently on the lips. The kiss felt good; it reminded him that someone in his very confused world loved him unconditionally.
If Nobel Prizes were given for patience and understanding, then Martha Jeter would have a closetful of them. Being married to a man entrenched in the halls of government was no easy task. His hours were long, his frustrations high, and his absences frequent. Martha bore the burden of household and family, almost single-handedly raising their daughter Courtney.
“You look wrung out, baby,” she said. Middle age had been kind to her. She was slim, dark-eyed, and had a mane of auburn hair that caught the eye of both men and women.
“I’m beat, and I have to be at the office early.”
“That’s not new. You’re always at the office early.” She patted the seat next to her and set aside the book she was reading. Martha seldom watched television and avoided the news as much as possible. “I live with the news,” she had said many times.
“Yeah, I know. I’m thinking of quitting and going into real estate.” That made her laugh. “What? You don’t think I can sell town homes to freshman congressmen?”
“You’d be the best at whatever you did. I just had you figured for the speaking circuit. Can I fix you a drink?”
“A highball,” he said.
“Uh-oh, the drink choice of a bad day.” She rose and made her way to the wet bar situated in the corner.
“Some days are worse than others. It comes with the territory. Did you hear from Courtney today?”
“She sent me an e-mail. She’s planning a weekend trip to San Francisco.”
“Why she chose to go to Stanford University is beyond me. A California school of all things. I could have gotten her into George Washington.”
“That’s your alma mater,” Martha said, returning with the mixed drink in one hand and a bottled water in the other.
“And just what is wrong with my alma mater?”
“Nothing. It’s just your alma mater. You know how independent Courtney is.”
“I’ve got the gray hairs to prove it.” He took a sip of the drink and set the glass aside. He ran his hand through her hair. “How come I got all the gray?”
“Who said you did? You can buy magic in boxes these days. You find them in the cosmetic aisle.”
Jeter chuckled. He couldn’t remember the last time he had walked into a neighborhood store. “A weekend in San Francisco, eh? Ah, to be young.”
“Oh. A messenger brought this by about an hour ago.”
“What is it?”
“A package—that’s what messengers bring.”
“Very funny. Hand it here.”
She reached forward to the wide, walnut coffee table at their feet and picked up a brown envelope. Jeter saw his name and ad-dress neatly penned on the front, but no return address. He opened the envelope and removed a picture.
“So what is it? More love notes from political groupies?” He didn’t answer. “Robert?”
“It’s a picture.”
“Of what?”
“Of Courtney.”
“Really? Maybe a friend sent it.”
Jeter knew the photo didn’t come from friend. That was made clear by the crosshairs drawn over the image of his daughter’s head.
Chapter 22
Sarah watched the monitor closely. “It should be soon,” she said. “Maybe a meter or two.” She pulled the joystick control closer.
Perry watched her carefully, hoping the stress of being confined in the Chamber with a ruthless woman and her henchmen holding guns wouldn’t trigger an episode of narcolepsy. He had no idea how Tia would respond or if she would believe it was anything more than a trick.
Tia had brought the rest of the crew into the Chamber. Jack sat on one of the folding chairs. The left sleeve of his parka was dyed dark red with his own blood. Tia had allowed Gwen to examine the arm. He had been fortunate; the round that had been redirected by Perry’s quick reflexes had torn a ragged hole in the upper arm. Gwen had been forced to suture the wound. Jack didn’t complain. Instead, he had taken the additional pain stoically.
Griffin stood next to his sister and near the monitor. The thought of seeing a lake no one had ever seen apparently had enlivened him from his emotional catatonia.
Larimore was bracketed by two of the gunmen. He had endured a beating for lying about Gwen and Sarah. Why Tia had let him live, Perry couldn’t fathom. She didn’t seem the forgiving type.
Gleason and Dr. Curtis huddled nearby, and another guard watched them from a step or two away.
The room seemed to chill even more, something Perry didn’t think was possible. He gazed at the open maw of ice through which a metal cable and thickly insulated fiber optics descended. The support cable was slack, allowing the weight of Hairy to pull it through the freshly melted ice. When it broke through, the cable would pull taut.
“What happens next?” Tia demanded. She was looking at Perry.
Perry was in no mood to explain anything. He was a package of anger and frustration, both of which he kept in check. They were good for emotional fuel, but such emotions could cloud the thinking if given too much sway. He took a moment to weigh the price of silence. He decided that he was willing to pay it but doubted that he would be the object of the woman’s wrath. Most likely she would hurt someone else to get Perry’s cooperation.
“At some point, the ice beneath Hairy will give way, unable to support its weight. When that happens, the feed line will snap tight. That will be the first indication. We should also see something on the monitor. Though not immediately, because the onboard lights won’t have come on.”
“Why not turn them on now?” she wondered.
“Power and protection. Most of the power is being used to heat the head that melts the ice. The lights are hidden behind protective panels. Ice is hard and sharp. It may be made of water, but it can easily rip a hole in metal.”
“Just ask the owners of the Titanic,” Jack said.
Tia turned to him and frowned. “I would think you’ve had enough pain for one day.”
Jack shrugged.
“Go on,” Tia prompted.
“The cryobot will fall a few inches,” Perry said, “and a gush of air will probably shoot out of the hole.”
“Air?”
Griffin spoke up. “Yeah, air. There’s a good chance that some air is trapped between the lake and the ice sheet above. Of course, that’s just speculation.”
“Your science can’t tell you for certain,” Tia sneered.
“No, my science can’t tell me, and neither can anyone else’s. We think we know what’s going on down there, but we won’t know for sure until we look. Not that I approve of any of this.”
“Your approval isn’t needed,” Tia said.
“Tell her about the water, Sachs,” Griffin snapped. “I’m sure she’ll find that captivating.”
Perry worried about Griffin. He had lost control once, and now it looked like he might do so again. He was emotionally sensitive, something that was apparent the moment they landed and Griffin greeted them with the news that he was team leader. He had been pouting ever since. Now, under the weight of impending injury and probably death, under the constant gaze of gun barrels, he looked like an earthen dam with ever-widening cracks.
“Water?” Tia said.
“Yes, water,” Perry explained. “The lake is under pressure. It should be; it has a couple of miles of ice resting on most of its surface. There may be areas of ice bridging, but the lake is far too large for us to think that the ice sheet hovers over the water.”
“This thing is going to gush like a geyser?”
“Of course not,” Griffin chimed in. “We’re over ten thousand feet above the surface.”
“Someone had better clear this up for me,” Tia demanded. “Someone without the attitude.” She raised an eyebrow at Griffin.
Perry spoke quickly, pulling her attention back to him. “We don’t know how much pressure the water is under. There are many variables to consider: the density of the water, the ability of the ice sheet to float on the surface, the compressive strength of the ice sheet, the fact that water cannot be compressed—”
“Cut to the chase.”
“Best guess is that a column of water will rise up the shaft as much as a third of the distance.”
“So no shower,” Griffin said.
“What will that do to the probe?” Tia wondered.
“We don’t know. It’s another reason we have the larger cryobot. Not only will it widen the shaft, but it will serve as a backup should Hairy take a beating and cease to function. Ideally, the pressure will break through the last couple of feet of ice in the shaft and push the probe back up. If it does, we have to be ready to take up the slack in the support cable. Then Hairy will begin to sink through the water.”
“There’s no chance water is going to come shooting out of the shaft?”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say no chance,” Perry said. “I assume you’ve seen film of oil gushing out of the ground. Bottom line is: We don’t know. The lake has been expanding, so that may have increased the pressure. Then again, it may have an outlet that serves as a release valve.”
“What precautions have you taken?”
Perry shrugged. “Dr. James doesn’t think it will rise more than a third, and that’s good enough for me.”
“And if he’s wrong?”
“Then we all take a really cold shower,” Griffin said.
“We don’t know what’s down there,” Perry admitted.
The sound of the air lock opening pulled everyone’s attention to the door. Perry was confused. By his count, everyone at the site was already in the Chamber. Then he remembered Tia’s comment about “the man who is going to kill you.”
The door opened, and a tall, deeply tanned man stepped in. His head was held high, his stride long, and he wore a white parka. Behind him streamed armed men, who quickly surrounded Perry and the others. Having five people with guns was bad enough; now Perry was looking at fifty or more. What little glimmer of optimism he held for escape flickered and burned low like a candle flame, leaving only a red ember at the wick’s tip.
Tia suddenly stood erect, walked to the man in white, and kneeled before him, bowing her head. “My lord,” she intoned.
“Oh brother,” Jack said.
Once again Jeter was the last into the room, this time by choice. He closed the door to the Oval Office behind him. He faced the president and the security team, the same men he had met with the night before and the morning before that. Unlike the previous night, when the president had made them all sit around his desk, they were in their usual seats on the sofas and comfortable chairs. A silver coffee urn sat on a mahogany serving tray, which rested on the ornate cherry coffee table.
“You sick?” the president asked. “You look like warmed-over death.”
“I didn’t sleep well last night,” Jeter said. Thoughts ricocheted in his mind. He thought of the last meeting, when he had been unable to conceal the fact that he had known of the C-5 incident and hadn’t told the president; of the photo of his daughter with the crosshairs drawn over her beautiful face; of his wife’s tearful response; of the phone calls made to locate his daughter, all to no avail, only to have her call at 11:00 that night to say she had arrived safely and been at a loud party. Only after she went into the quiet restroom had she noticed that she missed a call on her cell phone. He had demanded she stay at the party until picked up by a man he would send. He had even given a password: “pickles.” It was all he could think of at that hour. Pickles had been her childhood dog. The moment he hung up, he called the director of the Secret Service, rousing him from bed, and told him of his fears. Ten minutes later, an agent from the San Francisco office had taken Courtney from the party to a private residence, and he and three other agents had stayed with her.
Jeter also thought of his father and the commitment he had made that day in the Watergate Hotel and the car he had been given.
“What’s eating you?” the president said. “I know it wasn’t yesterday’s criticism. You’re not that thin-skinned.”
“I have a statement to make, sir.” He paused. “If I may.”
“Does it have to do with this meeting?”
“It has to do with everything.” Jeter saw a puzzled look paint the president’s face. He reached into the pocket of his suit coat and removed his keys. He set them on the coffee table. On the silver key ring was the clay cylinder.
“Hey, I’ve seen that before,” the CIA director said. “The deputy director has one of those.”
Steve Belanger, looking every bit the prime FBI agent, agreed. “So does the director of the DC office. Come to think of it, so does the director of the LA bureau.”
Jeter pulled up a chair and fell into it. His mouth was dry, his stomach burned, his neck felt as if it were petrifying. He rubbed his weary eyes and explained about his ties to the group. “It has been a family thing for generations, going back to my Irish great-great-grandfather. Probably further than that. My father told me about it when I was in college. It has been nothing more than tradition to me, but it became more the other day.” He explained about Sachs’s call, his own conversation with the man named Enkian, and the photo of his daughter he had received. “I didn’t sleep last night because I have to make a choice. I have to choose between my country and my religion.”
“You mean like Presbyterian or Baptist?” the president wondered.
“No,” Jeter explained. “Much, much older and something far more different than you can imagine.” He paused. “We are in danger, gentlemen—as a nation and as individuals. Whoever has one of these—” he pointed at the clay ornament—“is a physical danger to you.” He paused again, lowered his head, then said, “May I see your keys—all of you—please?”
“What is this?” General McDivett asked. “You want to see if we’re carrying some kind of Masonic charm?”
“Not Masonic, General. This group is unlike any other.”
“They’re terrorists?”
“I don’t know what they are, but I do know they have great wealth, tremendous power, and have had operatives in government for decades. Now, may I see your key rings?”
“Fine with me,” Jannot said. The CIA man pulled out a leather key case, opened it, and set it on the table.
Belanger did the same.
“This is nuts,” McDivett said. “I’ve given my life to this country and served in its military for over thirty years.”
“Everyone in this room can say the same thing,” the president remarked, his words sharpening to an edge. “We’ve all served and are serving our country. Show your keys.”
McDivett looked at Larry Shomer. Jeter caught the exchange. The homeland security boss fidgeted. McDivett stood and pulled the keys from his pocket. Shomer did the same. A clay cylinder dangled from each. A tsunami of nausea washed over Jeter.
“Well, isn’t this interesting,” President Calvert said. Jeter saw the color drain from the chief executive’s face. “I assume you each received a call last night?” No one said anything. “Tell me, Robert. This late night call you got from . . . What was his name?”
“I only know him as Mr. Enkian.”
“What did he ask you to do?”
“My job today,
” Jeter said, “is to kill you all.”
Jeter reached into his pocket.
Chapter 23
“Point five meters,” Sarah announced. “Assuming our sonar apparatus is measuring the ice correctly.”
Perry felt every muscle tense. He surveyed the others. Jack was now on his feet, still holding his injured left arm. With busted ribs and a gun wound, it was a wonder he could stand at all. Sarah’s eyes were glued to the monitor, as were Gleason’s. The three academics had huddled together. Griffin looked like a man teetering on the narrow ledge of a tall building; his sister had both hands raised to her mouth. Dr. Curtis stood as still as a statue, as if any movement would ruin it all. Tia stood to the side, her eyes fixed on the one she called lord.
“History is soon to be made,” the regal-looking man said. He turned to Perry. “I’ve been learning all about you, Mr. Sachs—you and your team. I feel as if we are old friends.”
“My friends don’t hold me captive and kill my people.”
“Hyperbole, Mr. Sachs. Nothing more. I have no friends.” He stepped to Tia and eyed her for a moment. He returned his attention to Perry. “Just loyal followers. I’ve been getting reports about you. You have been very resourceful. Putting the C-4 on the snowmobile was creative.”
“A desperate act by a desperate man.”
“It doesn’t matter. It was never meant to go off.”
“What?” Larimore said. “I know C-4 when I see it, and that was the real McCoy.”
“Oh, it was real explosive all right,” Enkian said. “Didn’t you find it strange that the counter reached zero, but there was no explosion?”
It had struck Perry as strange. “Something went wrong with the clock mechanism, or there was a short in the electronics.”
Enkian shook his head. “There was no short. You were meant to find it. It doesn’t strike you as strange that only one bomb was found, and that it was found at the back of your living quarters?”
