by Churton, Alex; Churton, Toby; Locke, John; Lustbader, Eric van; van Lustbader, Eric
An engine of anxiety thrummed in the pit of her stomach. She’d given her iPod to the driver to plug into the stereo. A wash of fuzzed-out guitars, thumping bass, and steaming vocals from a band called Kill Hannah made the air shimmer and sweat.
“I wanna be a Kennedy,” the singer chanted, and Alli laughed despite herself. How many times had she had to endure the same question: “Are the Carsons the new Kennedys? Are you the political dynasty of the future?”
To which Alli would reply: “A Kennedy? Are you kidding? I don’t want to die young.” She’d said it so often, in fact, that it had become an iconic line, repeated both on hard news shows and late-night TV. It had even led to an appearance on Saturday Night Live, where they’d dressed her up like Caroline Kennedy. These antics didn’t exactly thrill anyone else in the Carson family, most of whom were seriously deficient in the sense-of-humor department.
They turned west onto Constitution Avenue NW, heading for the Capitol, where, as convention dictated, the swearing in of Edward Carson and his vice president would take place.
“What about Random House?” Nina, on her right, said suddenly. She had to raise her voice over the music.
“What about it?” Alli said.
Sam, on her left, leaned slightly toward her. “What she means is, are you going to take the deal?”
Sam wore a dark suit of a conservative cut, starched white shirt, striped tie. He had thinning brown hair, soft eyes, and an oddly monkish air, was broad, tall, and powerful. Nina had a long, rather somber face with an agressive nose and large blue eyes. She wore a charcoal gray worsted suit, sensible shoes with low heels, a pale blue oxford shirt buttoned to the collar. Both Secret Service agents had earbuds so they could communicate with their brethren in the presidential motorcade.
“The memoirs of the First Daughter. Well, in this age, public humiliation is a badge of courage, isn’t it?” Alli put her head back against the seat. “Ah, yes, the spellbinding saga of me. I can’t wait to read that, so I can only imagine how everyone else will be clamoring for it.”
“She’s not going to take the deal,” Nina said to Sam over her head.
“You think?” Sam said sardonically. Then he allowed a smile to creep onto his pock-cheeked face. “Right. She’s no Paris Hilton.”
Alli said: “Hey, listen, what Paris Hilton got before anyone else was the difference between exposing things about herself and being exposed. Why fight our tabloid culture, she asked herself, when I can make a mint from it? And that’s just what she did. She made exposing yourself cool.”
“You’re not going to make a liar out of Nina. You’re not going to take the deal.” Sam frowned. “Are you?”
Alli screwed up her mouth. “Real men would take bets.” She didn’t like being so predictable.
The limo made a dogleg to the right, onto Pennsylvania Avenue NW, passing under the four lanes of Route 395, and onto the ring road that swung around the sprawling Capitol building.
Another song came on, “Neon Bible” by Arcade Fire, shaking the interior of the limo, and, strangely, Alli found herself looking at Sam’s hands. They were square, callused, vaguely intimidating hands, reminding her of Jack McClure. She felt a quick stab deep inside her, and a darkness swept across her consciousness, like a veil lowered for a funeral. And just like that, the engine of anxiety morphed into a singular sense of purpose. She was looking at the world now as if through a telescope.
They were almost at the Capitol, rolling slowly, as if in thick, churning surf. She became aware of the press of people—dignitaries, politicians, security guards, military men from all the armed services, newscasters, celebrities, paparazzi—their heaving mass impressing itself on the smoked glass.
She was aware of the tenseness of her body. “Where’s Jack?”
“My old buddy’s on assignment,” Sam said. But something in his voice alerted her.
“His assignment is here, with me,” she said. “My father made me a promise.”
“That may be,” Nina said.
“You know how these things go, Alli.” Sam leaned forward, grasping the inner door handle as they rolled to a stop.
“No, I don’t,” she said. “Not about this.” She felt a sudden inexplicable fear invade her, and she felt the brush of the funeral veil. “I want to talk to my father.”
“Your father is busy, Alli,” Nina said. “You know that.”
From out of her fear came a surge of outrage. Nina was right, of course, and this made her feel helpless. “Then tell me where Jack is,” she demanded. Her green eyes were luminous in the sidelights. “And don’t tell me you don’t know.”
Nina sighed, looked at Sam, who nodded.
“The fact is,” Nina said, “we don’t know where Jack is.”
“He didn’t check in this morning,” Sam added.
Alli felt a small pulse beating in the hollow of her throat. “Why haven’t you found him?”
“We’ve made inquiries, of course,” Sam said.
“The truth is, Alli …” Nina paused. “He’s vanished off the radar screen.”
Alli felt a tiny scream gathering in her throat. She rolled the gold-and-platinum ring around her finger nervously. “Find him,” she said tersely. “I want him with me.” But even as she spoke, she understood the futility of her words. Jack was gone. If the Secret Service couldn’t find him, no one could.
Sam smiled reassuringly. “Jack handpicked us to protect you. There’s nothing to be concerned about.”
“Alli, it’s time to go,” Nina said gently.
Sam opened the door, stepped out into the wan January sunshine. Alli could hear him whispering into his mike, listening intently to security updates.
Nina, half out of her seat, held Alli by the elbow. Alli smoothed down the skirt of the suit her mother had bought for her and insisted she wear. It was a mid-blue tweed with a hint of green in it that matched the color of her eyes. If she wore anything like this on campus, she’d never hear the end of it. As it was, her image would be plastered all over the papers and the evening news. She wriggled inside the suit, itchy and overheated. As was her custom, she wore a minimum amount of makeup—she had not given in on that one—and her nails were cut almost as short as a man’s.
When Sam nodded, Nina urged her charge forward, and Alli emerged from the plush cocoon of the limo. She saw the Unites States Marine and Air Force bands standing at attention to either side of the inaugural platform and, on it, the Speaker of the House, who would make the Call to Order and the opening remarks; the Reverend Dr. Fred Grimes, from whom the invocation and the benediction would come; and two mezzo-sopranos from the Metropolitan Opera, who would sing arias during the musical interludes. There was the vice president and his family. And her father, chatting with the Speaker of the House while her mother, head slightly bowed, spoke in hushed tones with Grimes, who had married them.
Then, Alli was inundated by a swirl of people, voices, microphones, hundreds of camera shutters clicking like a field of crickets. Sam and Nina cut a protective swath through the straining throng, guiding her at long last up the steps of the inaugural platform, draped in the American flag, the blue-and-gold symbol of the president’s office affixed to the center podium, where the speeches would be made, the swearing in would take place.
She kissed her mother as she was embraced; her father turned, smiled at her, nodding.
Her mother said, “Are you okay?” as they pulled away.
“I’m fine,” Alli said in a knee-jerk reaction that she didn’t quite understand. The breeze picked up and she shivered a little. As the marine band struck up its first tune, she put her hands in the pockets of her long wool coat.
Sunlight shone like beaten brass on the faces of the most important men in the Western world. She moved a step closer to her father, and he gave her that smile again. The I’m-proud-of-you smile, which meant he didn’t see her at all.
The last bars of the fanfare had faded and the Speaker of the House took the podium for the Call
to Order. Behind him rose the facade of the Capitol, symbol of government and freedom, its dome glimmering as if with Edward Carson’s promise of a new tomorrow. Down below, among the pale fluted columns, hung three huge American flags, the Stars and Stripes billowing as gently as fields of wheat glowing in sunset.
Alli’s right hand found the stitches in the satin lining of her coat, her nail opening the basting until there was a small rent. Her two fingers encountered the small glass vial that had been secreted there. As if in a dream, she lifted out the vial, closed her fist around it in her pocket. There was a ticking in her head as she counted to herself: 180 seconds. Then she would open the vial of specially prepared anthrax.
And like the contents of Pandora’s box, out would come death in amber waves of grain.
Part 1
One Month Ago
1
Exhausted light from a winter sun swooned onto the black Ford Explorer as the vehicle crunched down the gravel drive toward the porte cochere of an impressive colonial mansion. A blaze of headlights from the armored vehicle momentarily sent a shiver of anticipation through the knot of reporters clustered around the mansion’s columned entrance. They leaned forward, but could see nothing behind the bulletproof smoked-glass windows. News vans sprouting satellite feeds were drawn up as close as the squad of Secret Service agents would allow. These men—young, crew-cut, square-jawed individuals from Texas, Iowa, Nebraska—looked as sturdy as grain-fed steers.
The Explorer rolled to a stop. From its rear door, a Secret Service agent alighted, turned, tensely watched the crowd with hawk eyes as the POTUS, the President of the United States, emerged. As he climbed the brick steps, the front door opened and a distinguished-looking man emerged to vigorously shake his hand. At this moment, the news crush started, moving forward, the reporters trailing crews in their wake. Flashbulbs went off, reporters began calling out questions to the president, voices cawing urgently like crows discovering roadkill.
One of the reporters holding his microphone out toward the president had worked his way to the front of the press’s storm surge, ostensibly to get himself heard over the rising din. No one took notice of him until he lunged forward. Pressing a button caused the fake mike to fall away, revealing a switchblade. Instantly, the alert agents converged on him, two of them disarming him, wrestling him to the top step before he could attack the president. Another had drawn the president into the relative safety of the open doorway, the man the president had come to see having retreated indoors and into the shadows.
All at once, shots rang out; the agent who had hold of the president instantly shielded his charge. Too late. Three, four red stains appeared on the president’s shirt and lapels.
“I’d be a goner,” the actual POTUS said, picking his way across the colonial mansion’s reverse side in his small, quick, emblematic strides.
At his side, Dennis Paull, the Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security, who had also witnessed this latest Secret Service training session, said, “It’s an unfortunate factor of the aftermath of the election, sir. The Service was obliged to hire an additional two hundred fifty agents to protect the candidates. There was very little time to train them to the depth usually required.”
The president made a face. “Thank the good Lord none of them are in my detail.”
“I’d never allow that to happen, sir.”
The president was tall, silver-haired, possessed of the intangible trappings accruing from power. He had successfully faced down many a political opponent both at home and, increasingly, abroad. The secretary, barrel-chested, bearded, with ears as whorled as a cowrie shell, was the president’s most trusted advisor. At least once a week, most often two or three times, the president saw to it that they spent private time together, chewing over both the increasingly slippery political climate and delicate matters known only to the two of them.
In companionable silence, they passed through the facade of the colonial mansion mock-up via the fiberboard front door. On the top step, the agent who had played the president was rising to his feet. The red paintball “hits” to his chest had ruined his shirt and suit. He was otherwise unharmed. His “assassin” came walking along the lawn, holding what looked like an assault weapon but was in fact a BT-4 Pathfinder paintball rifle.
“Assumptions kill,” one of the Service instructors boomed to his charges with terrifying authority. “The lone assassin theory is antiquated. In this networked day and age, we have to prepare for cadres, coordinated attacks, tined and vibrating like tuning forks.”
While the squad of Secret Service personnel was being debriefed—perhaps criticized was a better word for the severe dressing-down—by its chief instructor, the president and Secretary Paull, followed by their contingent of Secret Service personnel handpicked by Paull himself, moved off down the driveway. They were in Beltsville, Maryland, at the main Secret Service sanctuary, far away from everything and everyone—especially prying eyes and ears.
“I was afraid of this response, which is why I insisted on seeing the scenario myself,” the president said. “When I meet with the Russian president, I want to be absolutely certain our people are prepared for anything, including whatever E-Two might throw in our faces.”
“The latest manifesto we received from E-Two was a laundry list of the administration’s so-called sins: lies, distortions, coercions, and extortions,” Secretary Paull said. “They’ve also trotted out evidence of our ties to big oil and certain private defense contractors. Our counter has been to whip our usual mass media outlets and individual pundits into discrediting that laundry list as the ravings of a lunatic left-wing fringe.”
“Don’t make the mistake of taking this organization lightly,” the president said. “They’re terrorists—damnably clever ones.”
“The relevant point as far as this discussion is concerned is that the manifesto didn’t even hint at assassination.”
The POTUS snorted. “Would you if you were planning to assassinate the President of the United States?”
“Sir, let me point out that terrorists thrive on taking credit for their disruptions of normal life. So I would think, yes, at the very least they’d hint at the violence to come.”
The hubbub from the Secret Service debriefing had dispersed. Behind them, the elaborate state set was deserted, awaiting its next scenario. Their shoes crunched cleanly against the gravel. They kept to the wanly lit center, a narrow aisle between the massive bare-branched oaks and horse chestnuts that lined the driveway.
“The Service can do better,” Paull said decisively, knowing what the president expected of him. “It will do better.”
“I take that promise extremely seriously,” the president said.
A bird twittered happily on a branch above their heads. Higher still, a parchment cloud floated away without a care. The early morning was free of mist, waxy as a spit-polished shoe. They navigated a turning and now, save for the Secret Service bodyguards, were absolutely alone.
“Dennis, on a personal note, how is Louise?”
“About as well as can be expected,” Paull said stoically.
“Will she recognize me if I come to see her?”
Paull looked up at the bird and it flew off. “Truthfully, sir, I can’t say. Sometimes, she thinks I’m her father, not her husband.”
The president reached out, squeezed the secretary’s arm. “Still, I want to visit her, Dennis. Today.”
“Your calendar’s full, sir. You have to prep for your meeting with President Yukin.”
“I’ll make time, Dennis. She’s a good woman. I know inside she’s fighting the good fight. We must strive to be inspired by her courage.”
“Thank you, sir.” Paull’s head bent. “Your concern means the world to both of us.”
“Martha and I say a prayer for her every night, Dennis. She’s always in our thoughts, and our hearts. God has her in his hands.”
They moved toward an old stone cottage, the gravel clicking under the soles of th
eir shoes. The Secret Service detail, discreetly out of earshot, moved with them. The two men were like lightning bolts within a passing cloud.
“About Yukin.”
The president shook his head, and they continued on in silence. At the president’s behest, Paull unlocked the door of the stone cottage and they went inside. The praetorian guard took up station outside, backs toward the stone walls.
The president turned on lamps in the small stuffy room. The cottage was the original structure on the property. The government had turned it into a guesthouse for senior staff of other branches of the military intelligence community who were occasionally asked to lecture or teach a course here. The living room, low-ceilinged, bound by beams, was furnished simply, tastefully, masculinely in blacks and umbers. A leather sofa and easy chairs were arranged around a stone fireplace. A wooden Shaker sideboard held crystal decanters filled with a variety of liquors. Historical etchings were hung on the walls. There was no carpet to soften the colonial wide-plank floors.
It was cold inside. Both men kept their topcoats on.
“Yukin is a thieving, lying sonovabitch, if ever there was one,” the president said with considerable venom. “It galls me no end to have to make nice to him, but these days it’s all about commodities: oil, natural gas, uranium. Russia has them in spades.” He turned to his secretary. “So what do you have for me?”
The president needed leverage in his upcoming meeting with Yukin. Paull had been tasked with providing it. “It’s common knowledge within the intelligence community that Yukin’s appointees are former KGB apparatchiks who once served under him, but what isn’t common knowledge is that his new head of the newly state-owned RussOil used to be Yukin’s personal assassin.”
The president’s head jerked around; his statesman’s gaze bored into Paull. This was the look that had gotten him elected, that had bonded Britain’s prime minister and France’s new president to him. “Mikilin! You have proof of this?”
