by Jay Brandon
“So forget about your back-up,” Bruno said almost sympathetically. “It’s just you, Jack, and you’re completely stymied. I could release you from here right now and you couldn’t stop me. You could run screaming into that compound that there’s a conspiracy to kill the leaders and they’d shoot you down like a rabid dog before you got three words out. Every security force there has your picture. Your doubles have been doing some nasty things around Europe. Law enforcement officials of a dozen countries know your face and your name.”
Bruno shifted in his chair, making himself more comfortable. “I know what you’re thinking now. You could slip in, infiltrate. Mess with some minds. Tell them you have secret information. They’ll ask what’s your source. I’ve primed everyone, man. Your doubles have done enough to make everyone mistrust you. To counteract that mistrust, you would have to reveal every secret you have. Either you reveal the entire history of your secret information, or you’re a raving lunatic. These are your choices, Jack. You save your group or you save the world. You can’t have it both ways. Either way, I win.”
Jack’s fingers twitched. Bruno saw him considering options. He actually laughed out loud.
“You won’t let me go,” Jack said. “You’re not that confident.”
Bruno considered, then shook his head. “No, you’re probably right about that. Let’s just sit here, enjoy a pleasant evening, watch the show, then when you know how badly you’ve failed—well, I wouldn’t want you to have to live with that pain.”
Bruno saw panic growing on Jack’s face, in his posture. Saw him consider running, saw him realize there was no way out. He dug the knife a little deeper.
“After you’re gone, I may even bring Rachel into the operation. She can help me run the world. In a subordinate capacity, of course. Just wanted you to know that.”
Jack’s breathing was tight, so his voice came thinly. His face was turning red. “Once you kill me, the only sign you’ll ever have of Rachel Greene, maybe, is the sound of her breath behind your back just before you lose consciousness. If you hear anything.”
Bruno laughed with utter confidence. “No one will ever know I did you, Jack. I’ll be the person most ardently out to avenge you. Rachel and I will join forces. I imagine they’ll even bring me in to the group once their forces are so diminished. What do you think, can I make it as a Substitute Legionnaire?”
“I don’t think you can make it as a human being.”
Bruno’s rage suddenly boiled over. He stood up, dropping the pleasant tone. “I could have been anything! I was the best of the lot at school, you know that. I would have been a legend. The legend of the Circle: Bruno of Bruton Hall. I would have been the culmination. I was bred for it. Did you know that?”
“No. And I really don’t have time—”
“Now it’s Bruton Hall Twenty Years After.”
“Not quite.”
“No, it didn’t take me that long. Have a seat, Jack. You’ve got the best view there is for the end of the world.”
CHAPTER 12
The engines of Air Force One shifted as the plane lost altitude slightly, preparing for the long, slow descent to Munich. The changed rumble woke those few people on board who had been dozing. In the conference room, President Witt was huddled with his Secretary of State and a few others, preparing for the summit. There was a subtle sense of relief in the room, career diplomats ready for a big assignment, a chance they’d thought they had already lost. Even the president was throwing himself into the discussion with some enthusiasm. Ever since announcing his new policy of American isolationism, he had missed something, as if some favorite person were gone from his life, or a treasured heirloom. Jefferson Witt was not an introspective man, so he hadn’t explored this feeling, but what he had missed was a sense of being the most powerful person in the world. Now he was going to reassert himself.
“We can concede nothing on Jerusalem,” said Sylvia Rescone, who as ambassador to Italy should have no official position on that subject. But everyone knew that Sylvia had friends and sources all over her half of the world—and opinions on everything.
“Not my job,” the President said confidently. That was going to be his refrain at this conference. America would no longer be the world’s referee. “We’re not going there to talk specifics.”
“Well,” Secretary of State Lawrence Jackson demurred quietly. “Maybe a few specifics, behind the scenes. These people are calling on us, Mr. President. Not just these summit leaders, but the world. As I predicted, demonstrations are erupting all over Europe, re-American demonstrations, the first anyone has seen since World War II. We have to assure the world—”
“I’d call them riots,” said the Commander of NATO. The military shouldn’t have had a place at this table, but the NATO commander was unofficial chief of presidential security on this trip. “And I don’t trust them. Anyone can stage a riot. That doesn’t tell you what’s behind them. They may just be luring us in.”
Except for Secretary of State Larry Jackson, everyone in the room grinned furtively. The President of the United States had the best security in the world, it hadn’t been breached in a long time, and procedures were more thorough now. The summit site was being scoured by security specialists from a dozen countries. The President felt secure on that score.
In a lounge not far away, Dennis Wilkerson stared down at the shattered pieces of his PlayStation2. “Cheater,” he kept muttering. Changing the damned rules in the middle of the game. European edition, what bullshit. Wilkerson had enjoyed playing this opponent more than anything else in his life. Wilkerson could win if he really worked at it, even though his opponent was a very skilled player.
So he’d changed the rules to win. Wilkerson called that cheating.
The cracked little machine still retained some power. Wilkerson could still read the mocking last message. you were playing the game, imperialist. i was playing you What the hell did that mean? You’re always playing against the other player, it wasn’t an automatic game of playing against the machine. Of course the two players had been playing each other.
The shift in air speed and direction of the plane shifted Wilkerson’s thoughts as well. Now that his game was smashed, with its connection to his only companion, he felt more of an outcast than ever on this plane. No one listened to him. The Secretary of State had beaten him in influence with the president once these pro-American riots had started. They were meaningless, Wilkerson knew, possibly contrived by allies of Larry Jackson himself. But they had worked to push Wilkerson aside. The president kept assuring him that he was not abandoning the policy—Dennis Wilkerson’s policy, the Wilkerson Doctrine—of American isolationism. He was just moderating it, taking it in stages.
But this first stage was a world stage. Sitting with other world leaders in smiling unanimity. Wilkerson wanted America watching such an event on television, disdainfully turning it off after a few minutes, not participating. Why had everyone worked so hard to get President Witt here anyway?
The remains of the game flickered and buzzed. A few letters burned brightly, then the whole thing shorted out. The last word he’d seen had been you. I’ve been playing you. But what else had the little screen said? imperialist Where had that come from?
Who had he been playing against all this time? Who had been playing him?
Wilkerson sat back down in furious thought. This final message was a taunt, the kind terrorists gave, when they were so sure of themselves they knew they couldn’t be stopped, that their enemy was too stupid to figure them out.
What had he learned from the game, from the so-called “European edition”? Switching home courts. That the other player had all the time in the world to turn his home court into a deathtrap, where it was impossible to—
Oh, my God.
Secret Service protection went pretty lax aboard Air Force One, where everyone on board had been checked very thoroughly. But the screaming progress of the National Security Advisor brought the president’s detail to ful
l alertness. Dennis Wilkerson was lucky not to die as he burst into the conference room.
“Sir!”
President Witt was on his feet, looking concerned, not alarmed. Everyone else in the room glared at Wilkerson as if he were crazy. “It’s all right, men,” the president said with a calming gesture. “Dennis, you’re not really supposed to be part of this meeting—”
“Sir, we have to turn around! This summit is a trick! It’s a trap.”
Larry Jackson sighed and rolled his eyes. Sylvia Rescone made a disgusted noise.
The president lowered his voice, making the conversation private between himself and his NSA. “Dennis, we’ve worked all this out. Security is being provided by forces from—”
“—from a dozen countries, some of which are hostile to us, and all of which have radical elements who would like nothing better than to pull off a huge terrorist coup like this. Have our people been able to check out all their people?”
The president glanced a question at Jackson, who shrugged angrily. “We can’t intrude into other countries’ militaries. We’ve been assured that all these personnel have been thoroughly vetted.”
“‘Assured’!” Wilkerson scoffed. “By the very people who would love to do this man damage. Sir.” He turned back to President Witt, excluding everyone else. “This is a trap. I promise you. Why did they insist that this summit take place in Europe? Far from home for us. Cut off from the great bulk of our forces. They want to cut off our head, sir. They want to humiliate you and then kill you.”
The president was listening closely. “Dennis, you have specific information?”
Wilkerson drew himself up and managed to sound both calm and stern. “I am your National Security Advisor, Sir. I have operatives in the field. Good operatives, my own people. Yes sir, I have specific information. The three most powerful terrorist organizations in the world have banded together for this one. They will capture you, hold you hostage, humiliate you publicly, then kill you on international television. It is something they have been planning for years.”
President Witt shot a look at Larry Jackson, whose expression was no longer dismissive once the president spoke. “Larry, do we have anything—?”
“Of course not, Sir. If we did you’d know about it. It’s all fabrication.”
To his chief of staff Witt said, “Sandra, get me the CIA chief. If he’s asleep, wake him. I want to know if there’s anything that corroborates what Dennis is saying.”
Dennis Wilkerson began to feel he had the upper hand. “Sure,” he sneered, “let’s check with those wonderful folks who brought you Nine-Eleven.”
“You shut your mouth!” Larry Jackson snapped. Even with all the security present, the scene threatened to break down into a playground scuffle. The president pulled the NSA aside. Almost whispering, he said, “Dennis, you have specific information about this?”
“Yes sir, I do. Deep background chatter. We picked up pieces. Now in the last twenty-four hours these networks have gone absolutely silent. That means they’re in place. These are forces you would never suspect, sir. Sleeper agents buried so deeply their own relatives don’t know about them. Waiting for this one chance. The cusp of history, they call it. They hate the idea of America withdrawing from the world stage, because it takes away their great Satan, the fuel for their recruiting and fundraising. They are convinced by assassinating you, in the most horrible way possible, they will draw a savage response from us that will set the world on fire. That’s what they want, sir. These are not countries. They are wild-eyed firebrands, with no guiding principles at all. They just want anarchy, and this summit is going to be their finest opportunity. As if they decided it themselves.” Wilkerson glanced back over his shoulder. “Which I think may be a possibility.”
The president stared at him. “You have hard proof of this?”
“At home I do, sir. Here on board the plane it’s just electronic transmissions. I couldn’t risk bringing everything on board. But I just received a message from one of my agents that confirmed our fears. Sir, it is horrible. Do you want me to tell you what they plan to do to you, on live television?”
He was making things up wildly now, but Wilkerson was so sure of himself, so sure he’d read the message on his game player correctly, that he felt justified in saying anything. Though he was inventing the details, he was sure he was correct in the essential truth of what he was saying—and that he would be proven right soon.
“Sir!” the Secretary of State called from across the room. “You cannot turn back now, sir. We made promises. We will lose enormous prestige.”
“We don’t want world prestige any more,” Wilkerson snapped. “Remember? Sir, I beg you. It’s not just your safety that’s at stake.”
The president stood silent, everyone staring at him. The plane’s engines rumbled, shifting to a lower speed.
At the summit site, taking a last stroll with Hassan, Rachel Green said, “Shouldn’t the American President be here by now?”
“I like the way you say that,” Hassan chuckled. “As if he means nothing to you. ‘The American President.’” He laughed again.
Rachel didn’t get the joke. “And how is your president doing?”
“Wonderfully. Installed in his suites, with every comfort. It is said of President Hassid that he enjoys a certain delicacy before occasions such as this.”
Rachel was surprised. “Drugs?”
Hassan grinned. She had discovered that he was a great gossip. In the few hours they’d known each other, she had learned more about everyone in the camp than she’d learned through intensive study for weeks. Of course, he could have been making it all up, to impress her. Hassan had made no secret of his desire for her. Rachel actually found his attention flattering rather than disgusting, which hadn’t happened to her in a while. She had no intention of indulging him, but she did enjoy his company.
“I can say no more,” Hassan smiled, imitating a spy in an old movie. “I have said too much already. No, not drugs.”
Rachel was not the gossip her companion was, but she was not without her own sources. “His teenage nephew?”
Hassan gasped. “How can you know such a thing? But no, this scandalous rumor is completely untrue. I know, because I started it myself.”
They both laughed, and resumed their stroll around the square. Rachel was unarmed. She may have been the only person within a square mile in that condition. “You know the hardest part of this summit?” she asked.
Hassan nodded. Together they said, “Which president will come out on stage first.”
She looked toward the American Secret Service detail. They all seemed to be speaking at once, and not to each other. There was some consternation there.
“I think the American president has been delayed,” Hassan said, looking where she was.
Rachel was frowning. Something was happening. She wanted to talk to Jack. “He’ll be here,” she said. “He has to come.” And she walked quickly away from her companion.
“He’ll come,” Bruno said comfortably. “And when he does he will be assassinated. By someone who can be traced back to at least three countries. America will be chasing its tail for the next decade. There will be no revenge it can take. It will retreat back into its shell, headless now.”
“You haven’t been in America for a while, have you, Bruno?” Jack said. He stood tensely at the console, watching the same screens Bruno was watching. One showed the progress of Air Force one, almost to the coast of England.
“I know the historical forces,” Bruno said. “I know what I’ve designed. He will come. All his advisors are telling him so now.”
Jack wondered. From the steady progress of that blip on the screen, it looked like Bruno was right.
President Witt and Dennis Wilkerson shared a special relationship. Bruno had created this relationship without quite being aware he was doing so. In the late stages of his presidential campaign and his first months in office, Witt had completely shared his true agen
da with no one but his NSA. The two men had their great plan to themselves. The night of terror had allowed them to implement it sooner than they had thought they could.
But those months of isolation together had given them a strange bond. Dennis Wilkerson had had no one else in his life; Bruno had seen to that. Witt had had no one else he trusted with his grandest ambition. The two had been like boyhood friends, the only members of a secret club.
That feeling lingered, even now after the president had shared his bold vision with the world. Emotionally, the two men remained connected. Witt stared into Dennis Wilkerson’s eyes and said, “Dennis, are you sure about this?”
“Absolutely, Sir.”
“But I can’t turn back now. I’ll look like—”
“Not after I release my information, sir. Besides, you’re not cancelling the summit, you’re only postponing it. And moving the venue. Let it be on American soil, sir. This will emphasize your message. If the world wants us, the world will have to come to us. Make them come to you, Mr. President. Only your own home turf is safe.”
The NSA had been laying this groundwork of paranoia for a long time. The president looked up at him with the first gleam of optimism he’d shown in a long time. He felt energized. “Home turf.” Somehow he liked the sound of it.
He stepped away from his National Security Advisor, talking to the room at large.
“Turn the plane around.”
“No!” Rachel gasped. She was in the Israeli security headquarters. Word had just come that the American President was bailing out of the summit. Chaos began to reign. She could hear people running across the compound outside.
“Did he say something about a threat?”
