by Tim LaHaye
Phil Rankowitz was tapping his pen on the table with nervous energy, and his face was lit up with the kind of grin that a boy takes with him to the circus. Gesturing toward Joshua he said with an electricity to his voice, "We want to launch this new cell-phone-based news network with a headline series on your RTS story. Get the true facts out on why you won't turn your design over to Congress. And how Congress and the news media has been falsely painting you as some kind of traitor. Also, one more thing on that subject. We want to expose the White House's cover-up about what really happened inside the Oval Office the day those North Korean missiles were heading our way. Something stinks to high heaven about the president's explanation. The Pentagon brass that Rocky Bridger has been talking to privately have given a different story. They say that the White House knew full well that our military was going to use the RTS system to turn those missiles around and never objected. The Corland administration saying otherwise is just plain bull..."
For a few seconds there was a hushed silence. As if it had finally dawned on them how big this really was. In one bold stroke they would be challenging Congress, the White House, and the American news monopoly.
Rocky Bridger called for a vote. "We need to formally approve this so we can start implementation. Now. The waiting is over. Remember, this one needs to be unanimous."
It was immediately seconded. The AmeriNews project was put to a vote.
"All in favor?" Joshua said.
Everyone except Senator Leander raised a hand in favor. He was sitting back with a stone-cold look on his face.
Then, after a moment's hesitation, his hand slowly went up too. Joshua announced what was now apparent to everyone.
"It's finished. AmeriNews is a go. How long, Phil?"
"I'm pushing this as fast as I can. We expect to go live in a week or two. Maybe a little longer."
After some final matters, including setting follow-up dates for the members, the group disbanded. That was when Rocky Bridger strolled over to Joshua.
"So, we're on the first tee time tomorrow?"
Joshua rolled his eyes and chuckled a little when he said, "Yeah, six-thirty in the a.m. But that way I'll still have time to go horseback riding with Abby and Deb."
"Got any plans after that?"
Joshua bowed his head with a patient smile and added, "We're flying back to New York the following day. With enough time for me to join Abby for a lecture at the church she attends. How about you?"
"Oh, I think I'll take an early flight out after our golf outing. I've got to attend a retired officers meeting out in San Diego. I'll be there for a couple days. Then I'm off to Pennsylvania. I'm really looking forward to that. See my daughter, Peg, and my son-in-law, Roger."
Joshua was trying to place the name. "Roger...Roger French?"
"That's it. He's a commercial insurance broker in Philly. A good man. Ever since Dolly died and I've been on my own, family has really become precious to me. Can't wait to see them both--and my granddaughter as well."
Joshua told him he'd see Rocky for an early breakfast in the lodge at 5:30 the next morning; then he'd drive the two of them over to the golf club.
After General Bridger left, Joshua looked over at the judge. Rice, ordinarily an emotionless man, looked pensive, troubled.
He patted Rice on the shoulder and said, "You look like something's on your mind. You're okay with the media project, right?"
"Sure. I've been with you on this from the beginning."
"Great. Just checking..."
"Something is on my mind."
"Anything you want to talk about?"
Fortis Rice gave a little grunt and nodded in a way that struck Joshua as particularly unguarded and open, especially for the judge.
Rice said, "Darley told me last night that she had something she needed to talk with me about. But said it could wait until after our meeting. Just got me thinking..."
Fortis Rice's voice trailed off. But then Rice quickly changed the subject. He said, "Also, I was thinking about that lawyer, Allen Fulsin, that I was going to recommend bringing into the Roundtable to replace Fred Myster, to work in the legal subgroup. Fred's cancer treatments are progressing well, by the way. I'm hoping they got it in time. But the point is that I need to follow up with Allen Fulsin. I've already broached the subject with him personally, about our group. I tried to be as discreet as I could, of course."
"Tell me something about him."
"Super competent. Clerked for a Supreme Court justice. Did a stint in the solicitor general's office before he went into the private sector. That's not the issue. It's more the things I don't know personally about him. Like his character and his political philosophy. I've just had secondhand information. Though it all sounds good. And then I had that one conversation with him..."
Joshua keyed into Rice's concern, so he asked him pointblank: "Did you say anything to him that you regret? About the Roundtable I mean?"
"No. I didn't give him anything specific. I didn't give him the name or the particulars of our members. Just a little about what we do. You know, to feel him out. I think I may have mentioned that we were working on a media project. I did mention World Teleco to see if he had ever represented them. He said he hadn't."
"You think he's shooting straight?"
"I got that impression."
"And his politics?"
"Very gung-ho about our position on things. Says he's been wanting to do something for the future of America."
"So, any concerns?"
"Not really. Though last night I glanced over the CV he'd given me. I noticed that he had omitted something. Maybe just an innocent oversight. But he didn't list his work for a D.C. law firm the year before he joined Cobrin, Cabrezze & Lincoln, where he is working now."
"What was the other law firm?"
"Morgan & Whitaker."
"I don't follow. Why's that important?"
"Morgan, the senior partner in Allen's prior firm, was White House legal counsel to President Corland during the first year of his administration. We're using the Roundtable to attack the reckless policies of the Corland administration head-on. So I'm wondering if Fulsin deliberately omitted from his biography the fact that he'd worked with a pro-Corland law firm. Just need to make sure Allen doesn't have divided loyalties."
Joshua thought about the remote connection between Allen Fulsin working for a Washington lobby firm and that firm's lead partner having worked for President Corland. It sounded like Judge Rice was being nitpicky, but then, that's what lawyers and judges do.
Rice said unprompted, "Anyway, Josh, I'll do some more digging. Just to make sure that Allen's past association with Corland's lawyers won't color his judgment in his work with us."
Joshua thanked him for his diligence. Then Joshua added, "And I hope everything works out with Darley's conversation with you."
Rice smiled with a look that said he appreciated Joshua's kindness. But typical of him, he didn't put any words to that thought. Instead he snatched up his briefcase and turned and left the room.
THIRTY
The phone was ringing in the office of Consolidated Insurance Brokers in the downtown section of Philadelphia. It was bad timing. Everyone had left except for Roger French. He was now hesitating, torn between the guilt of leaving early and the benefit of avoiding rush hour traffic. He'd already been visualizing the route--over to JFK Boulevard and then from there onto the expressway. That would be the fastest way to make it to his daughter's basketball game on time.
Roger's hand reached down, hovering over the network panel button for the office phone system. Murphy's Law told him he ought to let it go to voicemail. But a strong work ethic urged him to pick it up.
As he reached for his briefcase he punched the button on the panel that read Roger--Earpiece.
The man on the other end spoke in a crisp British accent. "Oh, so glad to hear someone is still there. I urgently need to acquire commercial insurance for an international company I represent."
&n
bsp; I knew I shouldn't have answered the call. Roger tried to put off the pushy client. "I'd be glad to meet tomorrow. As early as you'd like. But I have a commitment tonight..."
"Yes. I'm sorry. But you see I only have limited time in the U.S. to set this up. My travel plans have been moved up, you see. I have to return to London tomorrow morning, so I have to discuss this with an insurance broker tonight."
Roger's voice was polite as he explained, "Actually, I am supposed to be at a my daughter's basketball game in a little over an hour--"
"No problem, really," the man said in a voice that had the smooth tone of accommodation to it. "I am just minutes from your office right now. I'm sure we can handle the preliminaries in thirty, forty minutes. I can pay you the fee for the initial binder. Then we can finish the details over the phone. That way you can still make your daughter's basketball event. Would that suffice? It really is very important that I get this started before I leave the country tomorrow."
Roger took a few moments to mull it over. "Sure...as long as it doesn't take any longer than that...Mr., uh...I'm afraid I didn't get your name."
"Toby Arthur. I have a London-based business. And getting a certificate of insurance is the last hair on the dog so to speak, the one detail we still need for our financing so we can wrap up our expansion into the American market."
"Okay. Then, five minutes?"
"Brilliant. I'll be there."
Roger hung up and hit his wife's speed dial. After three or four rings, he was directed to her voicemail.
"Peg, this is Roger. I may be about ten or fifteen minutes late for the game. But don't worry, I'll be there. I promised Terri I'd make it this time. Love you."
Atta Zimler, hair dyed red, wearing an expensive pinstriped suit, and carrying a briefcase, walked toward the offices of Consolidated Insurance Brokers five minutes after finishing his call to Roger. Zimler considered this an irritating side trip. But necessary. The dossier that Dr. Banica had furnished him was superficial at best. The Russian agents who had compiled it had only skimmed the surface of the RTS system. And there was zero personal information about Joshua Jordan that would enable Zimler to track him down to his most vulnerable point. Not that he couldn't do it. He would. And Roger the insurance man was going to help him.
After Zimler entered the building's main lobby, skillfully moving his face away from the video surveillance cameras, he went up to the fifth floor. He rang the buzzer for Consolidated Insurance. Roger opened the door, looking a little distracted, but flashed a quick smile to his customer. Zimler took his hand and shook it firmly. While he greeted Roger, he sized him up.
When Roger turned his back to gather a large manila file, Zimler swung his arm around with lightning speed and delivered a karate blow to the back of Roger's neck.
Roger crumpled, hitting a small table in the lobby and scattering magazines as he collapsed to the floor.
When he regained consciousness, he was in a nightmare.
Disoriented, he tried to remember what had happened. Something covered the bottom of his face. Duct tape. But he couldn't reach over to pull it off. He was tied to one of the office desk chairs, his arms pulled tight behind him and fastened at the wrists--more duct tape.
But there was something else. Wires had been taped to several places on his body including his chest, thighs, and ear lobes. Roger's eyes followed the wires, trying to trace them. They led from his body down to the floor and over to some kind of box that had been plugged into a wall socket.
Atta Zimler waved a document in front of his victim. A copy of Roger's email that he had posted to an antinuclear blog.
"So nice of you, Roger, to defend Joshua Jordan in this web posting; let's see, how did you say it?--oh yes--'a personal friend of my father-in-law, who is a former Pentagon general.' So, I have some questions for you, Roger French. Questions about Joshua Jordan. He is a difficult man to reach, and it is very clear from this email that your father-in-law, General Bridger, may have confided certain information about Jordan to you. So you will tell me everything you know about him and his business, his family, everything."
Zimler came down close to Roger's face so he could deliver his sadistic warning in a quiet, calm voice. Zimler would make his victim understand that his body and his life, and everything about him was now in Zimler's control. No use to struggle. No making plans of escape. Help would not come.
Zimler said, "So, now I am removing the tape. There, it's off. You can breathe better now. Right? Okay. Now I will ask you the questions. And if I think that you are not telling me everything, then I will have to punish you with electricity. So, please tell me everything; don't hold back as you answer my questions. Let's begin with Jordan's family."
THIRTY-ONE
"Hanz, this is disastrous. Give me your take on this, will you? I'm looking at my screen right now, and the American dollar is sinking like a stone..."
Sean, a currency trader in a large brokerage house on Oxford Street in the heart of London was sitting in front of his computer. He was on the phone with the manager of the Munich branch of the same company.
"I was looking over my open positions at the close of the day. The dollar versus the Swiss franc. The dollar versus the yen. The dollar against the pound..."
From his office on Goethestrasse in Munich, Germany, Hanz blurted out, "Yah, we see it too. The dollar trend slipping. Every day. But this is bad...there's still time for trades today. We'll dump our positions in the dollar. We're not waiting..."
The money traders in the Amsterdam office of the same trading house were also watching the debacle with the American currency, and the order went out to sell the U.S. dollar and sell fast. In recent days they had all been making a dizzying number of dollar-carry-trades because U.S. currency had been so cheap to obtain. But that was coming to a screeching halt. The dollar was now just too risky to carry.
It was early morning in Washington, D.C. The sun had not yet hit the top of the Washington monument. An irate federal official was making another call to the White House. This time the president's chief of staff took the call personally.
"Sorry for the delays. I'm very familiar with the treasury secretary's urgent matter. But with the president's schedule, it's been virtually impossible to arrange this earlier..."
The treasury official wasn't going to be sandbagged this time. "Hank, the secretary has to see the president. Today. No more excuses. If we don't do something quick, you're going to see our nation experience a financial Chernobyl. And I'll personally see to it that the whole world knows that Hank Strand, the president's chief of staff, is the one responsible. You'll make Bernie Madoff look like a Boy Scout."
"I don't like threats--"
"And I don't like incompetence. Do your job. Make this happen--today."
The assistant secretary of the treasury had called twice in the last two days to schedule a meeting between the treasury secretary and President Corland. But Strand had given orders for the meeting to be delayed. He knew Corland had been unable to make a decision on the issue. It was clear that once America headed down this road, there would be no turning back.
But time was running out. Today's reports from the monetary markets showed the dollar was no longer treading water--it was drowning. Pretty soon it would be unable to compete even with the Mexican peso. American currency showed signs of a catastrophic failure, and everyone in the Corland administration knew it.
Whether it was because of the unpredictable devastation of U.S. agriculture, the oil crisis, spiraling unemployment, crippling federal taxes, or the gigantic debt that America owed to China and Russia--all of that seemed irrelevant now.
Hank Strand cut the telephone conversation short and told the second-in-command at treasury that he would personally deliver the message to the president.
Thirty minutes later, Strand was in the Oval Office with President Corland, who was on his feet and was pacing like a caged animal. The chairman of his board of economic advisors, who had been seated on the couch, ma
de a gesture of rising to match the president's position. But after a few seconds, Corland impulsively dumped himself back down into an upholstered chair. The chairman thought the president's behavior had been increasingly odd of late. He looked over at Corland's chief of staff, hoping to glean something from his expression. But he should have known better.
Hank Strand was a master of the blank poker face. He continued to sit, his hands open and relaxed on the arms of his chair. He had seen this all before. Corland was a smooth, steady communicator on television, but in moments of crisis, he was a man who couldn't sit still. And then, as Strand knew full well, there was that other issue with the president.
Fewer than a handful of people knew anything about President Corland's strange medical situation. Strand was one of them. He thought if he remained calm, paced and confident, around Corland, that one of the president's "incidents" would be avoided.
The economic chairman finally spoke up.
"Mr. President, this is simply the next inevitable step. Another stage in America's financial evolution."
The president was trying to control his emotions. His face was frozen into a tight-faced grin--trying to look pleasant, but the resulting expression was almost ghoulish.
"I don't want to be the one who goes down in history for...you know...killing the U.S. dollar. Washington's face is still on the one dollar bill, remember? The American public is not going to like this--"
The chairman blurted out, "I think that what the American public wants is an economy that doesn't look like Germany at the end of World War I."
Corland turned to look at his chief of staff.
Hank Strand wanted to interject an attitude of calm. But he knew that the handwriting was on the wall, and so he added soothingly, "Mr. President, the secretary of the treasury wants you to give him the go-ahead for the U.S. to begin the monetary conversion process. It can be gradual, of course."
