by Ben Coes
“I don’t either. My honest guess is there’s something larger he’s concerned with. Tell me what he says, will you?”
“Of course,” she said. “I land in an hour.”
They hung up and Jessica sat back in her leather seat, alone in the cabin of the jet.
Less than a minute later, her phone rang. It was Calibrisi.
“Strike that, I was just summoned,” he said. “I’m meeting you at Andrews. See you in an hour.”
* * *
At Andrews, Jessica stepped off the Citation and walked across the tarmac to a waiting helicopter. She climbed the stairs. Calibrisi was already seated inside.
“Welcome home, honey,” he said. “How was your trip? Did you get me something?”
“Not funny,” she said, taking the seat across from him.
“I just got a call from Mike Ober,” said Calibrisi, referring to Vice President Dellenbaugh’s chief of staff.
“What about?”
“He wanted to know what was going on.”
“What did you say?” Jessica asked.
“What could I say?” said Calibrisi. “I have no idea what’s going on.”
“Obviously, it’s something involving the vice president,” said Jessica. “Why else would he call you?”
The chopper moved across the late-afternoon sky toward downtown Washington. After fifteen minutes, the chopper began to arc left and down, descending. Calibrisi glanced out the window. For the first time, he realized they weren’t anywhere near the White House.
“Captain,” said Calibrisi, yelling into the cockpit over the din, “where are you taking us?”
“Bethesda Naval Hospital, sir,” said the pilot.
The chopper moved into a hover, dropping slowly toward the hospital helipad, noted by its large red X.
Jessica shot Calibrisi a look.
“Calm down,” said Calibrisi, reaching out and patting her knee. “Maybe a heart attack. We’ll see. But stay calm.”
Jessica stared at Calibrisi, but her mind flashed to President Allaire. It had been more than two years now since he’d brought her from the FBI, where she’d run counterterrorism, appointing her national security advisor at an age—thirty-six—that was unprecedented. He was, far and away, the best boss she’d ever had. She pictured his block of brown hair, always neatly combed back. Allaire, at sixty years old, looked younger than his age. He was in good shape. He drank, but not too much, and he didn’t smoke.
The door to the chopper swung open, the stairs fell to the helipad, and a uniformed FBI agent waved them down.
“This way, Ms. Tanzer, Mr. Calibrisi,” said the agent, who held a close-quarters combat submachine gun at his side, aimed at the ground.
Jessica felt as if she was floating now. She stared blankly ahead, at the yellow letters on the back of the agent’s black sweater, ignoring the noises around her, focusing on nothing save taking the next step, then the next. She had an overwhelming sense of the fact that the world, her world, was about to change. She tried to breathe.
They stepped onto a waiting elevator, which descended to the fifth floor. When the doors opened, Jessica’s first sight was the grim face of Mark Hastings, chief justice of the Supreme Court. His normally ruddy face appeared gaunt, ashen; haunted.
Behind him, on his cell phone, stood Vice President J. P. Dellenbaugh, who registered the entrance of Jessica and Calibrisi, nodded at the two of them politely, then turned away.
A commotion came from down the hallway as Mary Whitcomb, the White House photographer, approached. A uniformed agent attempted to stop her, but she shouted at him, then was allowed past.
Jessica and Calibrisi were led past Hastings, Dellenbaugh, then through a doorway. Inside, a small sitting room had four chairs, all of which, save one, was empty. Cecily Vincent, the president’s assistant, a woman who had worked for Allaire since the time he was governor of California, sat alone, with tears streaming down her face.
“Oh, Jess,” she whispered through tears, shaking her head, her red eyes revealing utter sadness.
Jessica felt her own tears begin to roll down her cheeks. She stepped to the door and pushed her way inside.
The room was a large, modern operating room. She quickly counted four nurses and a pair of doctors. The walls were lined with plasma screens, displaying digital readouts. The steady monotone of the heart machine seemed familiar.
She felt Calibrisi’s hand on her back, calming her, perhaps even holding her up lest she faint. But she didn’t. Something inside her had already told her what she would see, some premonition before she left Castine that morning, whispered to her as if in a dream: Nothing will be the same.
In the center of the room, on a large, elevated steel table, covered in light blue blankets, was the president of the United States, Rob Allaire. His eyes were closed. An oxygen tube protruded from his mouth, running down his throat. Three separate IVs ran from his arms.
The president’s physician, Lyle Cole, was standing next to Attorney General Rickards and White House Counsel Jack Fish. Cole stepped forward and met Jessica and Calibrisi.
“He had a massive stroke,” said Cole. “Last night, out at Camp David.”
“How bad is it?” asked Jessica. “People recover from strokes—”
“Not this one, Jess,” said Cole, interrupting her. “I’m sorry. It was too big. His vitals are good, but his brain is no longer functioning. It never will.”
Jessica stepped to the operating room table, to the president’s side. She placed her hand on Allaire’s, gripping it as tears fell down her face. The realization of what had happened struck her like a lightning bolt, hitting her with a force she couldn’t tame. She held on to his hand for more than a minute, until she felt an arm on her shoulder. She turned to see Calibrisi. His eyes were red.
“Come on, Jess,” he whispered.
“He had a DNR,” said Fish, referring to a do-not-resuscitate order. “That said, everyone felt it was important for you two to be here.”
“It was me who insisted,” said Rickards, the AG. “I have no idea what the blowback will be, but I think it’s extremely vital that our intelligence and national security infrastructure be prepared for this. Besides, I couldn’t have lived with myself if I hadn’t given you time to say goodbye, Jess.”
Jessica stared blankly into Rickard’s eyes. She realized, then, the very real implications of what was about to happen, and the work she needed to do immediately in terms of calming allies, and doubling down on areas of vulnerability that America’s enemies might seek to exploit in the coming hours and days.
“How has it not leaked?” asked Jessica.
“We haven’t permitted anyone to leave the hospital,” said Fish. “We also haven’t let any politicians in, except, of course, Dellenbaugh.”
“When will you tell the speaker?”
“He’s en route. So is the senate majority leader. But we’re not going to wait. We need to get Dellenbaugh sworn in immediately.”
Jessica looked one last time at the president of the United States, a man she respected, a man she loved like a father. Dazed, she turned and stepped out of the OR.
5
BETHESDA NAVAL HOSPITAL
BETHESDA, MARYLAND
Chief Justice Hastings swore in J. P. Dellenbaugh as the forty-sixth president of the United States as the sun was setting over the nation’s capital. The brief ceremony was performed in the vaulted lobby of Bethesda Naval Hospital, which had been shut down to visitors.
Jessica didn’t want to be there, but she knew she had to be. She stood with Calibrisi, Rickards, Fish, and a few other key figures from Allaire’s administration, as well as the speaker of the house and the senate majority leader.
As Rickards had correctly guessed, the moment the politicians were summoned to Bethesda, the leaks began. By the time Dellenbaugh had placed his hand on the red leather-covered Bible that Hastings held aloft, television trucks and a line of reporters had gathered behind a secure perimeter in fro
nt of the hospital. The scene was chaos.
Dellenbaugh did the best he could to appear confident and presidential as he took the oath of office. Whereas Rob Allaire had a Kennedyesque swagger to his manner, Dellenbaugh’s style was different, a more earnest, small-town charm, like Jimmy Stewart in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. All politicians stay awake at night dreaming of being president. But Dellenbaugh seemed different, almost as if he could take it or leave it, but now that he was president, he would give it his best. Still, the sight of him taking the oath of office was like watching a movie for Jessica; she still couldn’t process what was happening.
Dellenbaugh was a former professional hockey player from Michigan, born into a family of union card–toting GM autoworkers, who happened to be a Republican. When Rob Allaire, the conservative governor of California, had run for president, the presence of a good-looking working-class kid with a slightly crooked nose from one too many fights had been exactly what Allaire needed to beat a popular Democrat in the Rust Belt.
After Dellenbaugh shook Hastings’s hand, he made a beeline for Mike Ober, his chief of staff, and Tim Sokolov, his press secretary.
“Wanna lift?” asked Calibrisi, turning to Jessica.
“Can you drop me by the White House?”
“Yes,” said Calibrisi. “I assume we’ll be sitting down with him at some point tonight?”
“We’ll see,” said Jessica. She turned to leave, then heard her name being called. It was Dellenbaugh.
Dellenbaugh walked to Jessica and Calibrisi. As he approached, he put his hand out.
“I’m very sorry, Jessica,” he said.
She took his hand in hers and shook it; his handshake was powerful. He shook Calibrisi’s hand too.
“I know how close you were to Rob Allaire,” continued Dellenbaugh, looking into Jessica’s eyes. “Like a daughter, everyone said. I’m just very, very sorry. I know you must be in shock. I know I am.”
“Thank you for thinking of me,” said Jessica.
“Please don’t thank me,” he said, looking at Jessica, then Calibrisi.
“If I may say something,” said Jessica.
“Sure,” said Dellenbaugh.
“The American government is incredibly resilient. It was designed so that the loss of one person wouldn’t destroy it. My point is, Mr. President, government will function without President Allaire. It will afford you the time to take your time. I urge you to ease into your role. There are a lot of people, including myself, who will help you in the coming hours and days.”
“Thank you,” said Dellenbaugh. “That was probably the nicest thing anyone has said to me all day. I want us to work together. I need you. I need everyone right now. I have a lot to learn. Will you help me?”
“Of course,” said Jessica. “We need to get you fully up to speed as soon as possible.”
“Could you two sit down with me tomorrow?”
“Yes,” said Calibrisi.
“Let’s meet at the observatory,” said Dellenbaugh, referring to the vice president’s residence at the Naval Observatory in Washington. “I’m going to make a brief statement, then head over there. I think it makes sense for me to reach out to foreign leaders. Let’s meet tomorrow night around nine.”
* * *
Back at her office in the West Wing of the White House, Jessica and Calibrisi watched President Dellenbaugh’s statement, delivered on the front steps of Bethesda Naval Hospital, as a wall of photographers and cameramen surrounded him.
“Today, a great American has died,” said Dellenbaugh. “Rob Allaire was more than just a great man. He was more than just a president. He was, if it’s at all possible, more than just a great American leader. President Allaire was a friend. A mentor. He took strong stands for what he believed in, and he refused to back down. He inspired people from all political backgrounds with his fairness, his sense of righteousness, his wonderful humor, and his kindness. He was as tough as they come. But even the toughest must face their maker, and tonight, God has called Rob Allaire to come home.”
Jessica stared at the screen on her wall, listening to Dellenbaugh’s words. Tears collected in her eyes and she reached up and wiped them away.
“He’s pretty good,” said Calibrisi, looking at Jessica. She said nothing.
“To America’s allies,” continued Dellenbaugh, “I say this to you: nothing has changed. America remains there for you, with you, by your side. And to America’s enemies, I say this: nothing has changed. Do not mistake the grief of a nation, the passing of a warrior, for something it is not. For it is in grief, in tragedy, and in the hard trials of our young democracy that Americans come together, that we become stronger, that we arise in our duty to what is true, what is right, and what is sacred. Thank you, and may God bless President Rob Allaire, and may God bless the United States of America.”
6
CIA HEADQUARTERS
DIRECTOR’S OFFICE
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Back in Calibrisi’s corner office at CIA headquarters, two men sat in chairs in front of his large glass and steel desk: Josh Isler, the head of the CIA’s Intelligence Directorate, and Bill Polk, director of the National Clandestine Service.
It was early afternoon. Calibrisi was quiet, sipping his Starbucks coffee, as he listened to his two top lieutenants brief him on elevated threats in the wake of Rob Allaire’s death.
The phone console suddenly buzzed, and Calibrisi’s assistant came on the intercom.
“Menachem Dayan is on one,” said Jenna, his assistant, referring to the head of Israel Defense Forces.
“Can I call him back?”
“He says it’s urgent.”
“Okay,” said Calibrisi. “Put him through.”
He held up a finger to Isler, instructing him to stop talking.
A second later, the phone chimed. Calibrisi reached out and picked up the black handset.
“General Dayan,” said Calibrisi.
“Hello, Hector,” said Dayan, his deep, gravely voice booming through the handset. “And since when do you call me ‘General’?”
“Sorry, Menachem. It’s been a long day.”
“I can imagine. I am very sorry for your loss. Rob Allaire was a true friend of Israel.”
“Are you coming to the funeral?” asked Calibrisi.
“No,” said Dayan. “The prime minister will be there. There’s too much going on here.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I apologize if I’m imposing during such a difficult time, but I need your help, Hector.”
“Name it.”
“We’re missing a soldier,” said Dayan. “He flew to New York yesterday. He hasn’t been seen or heard from since he landed.”
“Forgive me, Menachem, but how many Israeli soldiers visit the U.S. on any given day? This is a needle in a haystack.”
“It was Kohl Meir, Hector.”
Hector’s mind flashed to a mental picture of Meir. It had been Dayan who ordered the Shayetet 13 team to Beirut to save Dewey’s life.
“Oh,” said Calibrisi, rubbing his eyes.
“He was visiting the parents of Ezra Bohr, one of the boys killed in Beirut.”
“Give me a spelling on that, names too.”
“B-O-H-R. Sylvie and Jonathan.”
“I’ll get on it,” said Calibrisi. “Hopefully he met a cute girl and decided to spend a few extra days over here.”
“I wish you were right,” said Dayan. “But you’re not. I know him. Something has happened.”
“I’ll report back as soon as we have something.”
“Thank you, Hector.”
Calibrisi hung up. He looked at Isler.
“You want me to throw a couple guys at it?”
“Yes,” said Calibrisi. “Quiet. We’re on domestic soil.”
* * *
Within ten minutes, Josh Isler was back at Calibrisi’s door. He held a piece of paper in his hand.
“I’ve already got something,” said Isler.
“Yesterday, a couple was murdered in Boro Park, a Jewish neighborhood in Brooklyn. Slugs to the head, identical, between the eyes.”
“Bohr?”
“Yes.”
Calibrisi sat back, pondering.
“Did you speak with someone at NYPD?”
“Yes. And the FBI, who was unaware of it. NYPD doesn’t have a clue. They assigned a detective to it last night. He hasn’t even come to work yet.”
“What about an autopsy?”
“I think they figured out how they died, Hector.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about, Josh. I’m looking for a time of death.”
“Why?”
“I’m going to call Piper Redgrave at NSA,” said Calibrisi, reaching for the phone, referring to the National Security Agency’s Signals Intelligence Directorate. “We need Jim Bruckheimer at SID to put a couple of his hackers on this and do a little moonlighting for us. They’ll need the time of death.”
“Let me see what I can do,” said Isler.
“Gracias.”
“All kidding aside, Chief, this is on domestic soil,” said Isler. “It’s one thing for us to do a little work on this. Involving Bruckheimer and the SID guys ups the ante. You might want to run it by counsel.”
“It’s Israel,” said Calibrisi. “We bend the rules. As for Bruckheimer, he owes me a favor or three.”
“You going to call General Dayan?” asked Isler.
“Not yet. Let’s see if we can figure out who did it first.”
“You know this means Meir’s probably dead.”
“Yes,” said Calibrisi. “That had crossed my mind.”
7
NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY
SIGNALS INTELLIGENCE DIRECTORATE (SID)
FORT MEADE, MARYLAND
Hector Calibrisi’s black CIA-issue Chevy Suburban exited the Baltimore-Washington Parkway, turning at a sign that read NSA EMPLOYEES ONLY. After a short drive down the private road, it went through two consecutive security gates. Beyond the gates, a cluster of black glass office buildings stood, somewhat menacingly, in a sea of parked cars. The Big Four, they’re called, the glass infused with copper mesh to prevent eavesdropping. This was the headquarters of the world’s foremost cryptologists, eavesdroppers, and hackers: the National Security Agency.
