by Steve Berry
“Last I looked Litchfield works for me. And your bird dog was all over things, issuing orders to stand down. Contrary, I might add, to my direct instructions.”
Litchfield sat confident in his chair.
“He did what I told him to do,” the AG-designee said. “I would have terminated her next week anyway.”
“Go screw yourself,” Stephanie said.
Fox, Litchfield, and the new AG looked her way. Even Cotton seemed a little shocked. Cassiopeia just smiled.
“I assume wounds heal better when not constantly reopened,” Fox said to her. “My apology for that comment.”
And if her disrespect offended him, Fox did not show it. Instead, he turned his attention back across the table to his equal. “Why are we here?”
Danny explained everything he knew about Zorin, Fool’s Mate, and the 20th Amendment. She added what she’d learned at Kris Cox’s house, and Cotton filled in what had happened in Siberia and Canada. Since Danny had said nothing about what had just happened in the park, she followed his lead and kept that to herself.
Fox sat back in his chair when they finished. “None of that sounds good.”
“Welcome to my world,” Danny said.
Fox glanced at his AG-designee, then at Litchfield, asking either for his opinion.
“We don’t know a whole lot,” Litchfield said. “Most of it is speculation. Seems the most important questions are first, whether thirty-year-old nuclear devices are still here, and second, whether they’re viable.”
“The Russians definitely think the bombs are here,” she said. “They designed the things to last. So we can’t take the chance that they’re not workable.”
“But you don’t know they exist,” the new AG said. “It could all be nothing, a wild-goose chase. A misdirection by Moscow for something else.”
“We can’t take that chance,” Danny said.
Fox seemed intrigued. “What do you want me to do?”
“Let’s move the inauguration to an undisclosed location. You take the oath there at noon, as the Constitution requires, then we don’t have a problem.”
No one said a word.
Finally, Fox shook his head. “I appreciate what you’re saying. I really do. But moving the swearing-in at this late hour would only raise a million questions, and there’s no way we could keep this under wraps. At this point we don’t even know if it’s a credible threat. The first month of my administration would be consumed with the cable news channels analyzing, speculating, and guessing about what we did. We’d never get on message. I can’t start my presidency with that hanging over me.”
“Would you rather be dead?” Edwin asked.
Which was a fair question, and coming from a man with a mind that cut like a diamond, the question should be taken seriously.
“Is everyone who works for you insubordinate?” Fox asked Danny.
“Not to me.”
Fox smiled.
“At a minimum,” Danny said, “move the vice president’s swearing-in to another location. That way you’re not both in the same spot.”
“And how do we do that without raising the same questions? Everything is set for noon tomorrow with both of us taking the oath together.”
Cotton had sat uncharacteristically quiet, watching the two giants spar. She realized that the decisions Danny wanted made suffered from the weakness of no hard evidence to support them. Fox, and rightly so, would want details to persuade him to follow the plan without adding variations of his own. But she wanted Cotton’s assessment, so she asked him, “You’ve spoken to Zorin. You were there with Vadim Belchenko. Is this real?”
“These men are on a mission. No question.”
“Then by all means,” Fox said, “play this out. Do your job. But we’re not delaying or changing the inauguration until you have something concrete. A true, genuine, verifiable threat. Surely all of you can see the wisdom in that? And besides it all happens tomorrow right here, in the White House. Where else would any of us be safer?”
She knew what he meant.
The Constitution mandated that the outgoing president’s term end precisely at noon on January 20. Usually, that wasn’t a problem. The ceremony occurred in public, outside the Capitol, high on scaffolding, with millions watching. But when January 20 fell on Sunday things had long been different. The new president and vice president would take the oath on Sunday, as required by the Constitution, and then a public celebration, which included a retaking of the oath in the more familiar public setting outside the Capitol, took place the next day.
“I checked,” Fox said. “Since 1937, when the 20th Amendment took effect, three times this has happened on a Sunday. Tomorrow will be number four. I can’t control the calendar or change the Constitution, but I can stick to the plan. And that we’ll do, unless something drastic is discovered.”
“Is that show so important to you?” Danny asked.
“That’s not fair. You had two inaugurals, both extravaganzas I might add. Now it’s my turn.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“But that assumes you’re right about this. What if you’re wrong and I go along with it. Then I look like a fool, following your lead, chasing shadows. Surely you can see that. And by the way, you’re not all that popular with my supporters.”
Stephanie was proud of Danny. He hadn’t lost his temper or his cool. Understandable, given he’d moved with darting ease through political mazes for most of his life. Never had she seen him troubled by confrontation. Instead, he thrived under pressure, seeming to draw strength from it.
“I will do this, though,” Fox said. “Bruce, prepare me some legal background on the 20th Amendment and the Presidential Succession Act. I confess to not being an expert on either. That way, if this materializes into something credible we’ll be ready to make informed decisions.”
Litchfield nodded.
“In the meantime, the rest of you keep working at what you’re doing,” Fox said, “and let’s see what develops. I’m not oblivious to what you’re saying. I just want more before I act. And we have time to make changes, if need be.”
Fox pushed back his chair and he and his AG-designee stood.
Danny pointed at Litchfield. “Take this one with you. The sight of him makes me sick.”
Litchfield stood.
“But before you go,” Danny said. “You need to remedy something.”
Litchfield glanced at Fox.
“What the hell are you lookin’ at him for?” Danny said. “Don’t think for one moment I won’t fire your ass right here, right now. Talk about drawing attention to things.”
Litchfield bristled at the insulting tone, but wisely held his tongue.
“Think about that press conference,” Danny said to Fox. “It’d be a doozy.”
White House reporters were a different breed, the last of the intelligent and tenacious. Definitely not a good place for a new president to be challenged on the eve of inauguration.
So Fox wisely nodded his assent.
Litchfield faced her. “You’re reinstated.” He reached into his pocket, found her badge, and walked it over to her.
Then the three men left the Cabinet Room.
“I told him to bring it,” Danny said to her.
“I’m glad I live in Denmark,” Cotton said. “Those people are foolish.”
“What was asked of them was entirely reasonable,” Edwin said, “given the possible threat.”
“First thing a wing walker wants to know is who’s drivin’ the plane,” Danny said. “Fox came to find that out, and he’s right about one thing. We don’t have spit for proof. Last I heard, Zorin and his pal were still on I-95 headed south. They’re comin’ our way, but for what and where?”
“They’ll all be in one place tomorrow,” Edwin said. “President-elect, vice-president-elect, Speaker of the House, president of the Senate, and all of the cabinet, except one. Right here, in the White House at noon. Let’s just say the unthinkable happens an
d they’re all blown to bits, that means the designated survivor would take command.”
“Who is it this time?” Danny asked.
She knew the White House chief of staff made the selection.
“The secretary of transportation.”
“Who’s great at building highways, but doesn’t know beans about leading this country,” Danny said. “Not to mention the constitutional problems with that succession law. I had it checked out.”
“Litchfield?” Stephanie asked him.
“Hell, no. The White House counsel handled it. That 20th Amendment and the succession law are a train wreck. Once the dust settled from a bomb, there’d be court challenges, political fights, chaos.”
She remembered what the voice on the phone at Kris’s house had cautioned. “And more, possibly fueled by the SVR in a misinformation campaign.”
“That they would,” Danny said.
She glanced at him and he nodded. “We also have an added complication.”
And she reported to Cotton, Cassiopeia, and Edwin what had happened in a northern DC park.
“I thought it best to keep that to ourselves,” Danny said.
“He confirmed that the bombs exist,” she said. “But we have no way of knowing if that’s true. No way at all.”
“Not yet, anyway,” Cotton said. “But Zorin is coming closer. With Kelly, and they’re surely headed straight for them.”
“The Russian government is about to get some chaos of its own,” she said. “The people making money over there like things exactly the way they are. They have no dreams of a new Soviet Union.”
Danny turned to Edwin. “Get State working on this. I want an assessment of who they might take out. Have the CIA advised and see if they can pick up anything. Since we’ve been given a heads-up, let’s not get caught crapping by the creek.”
Edwin nodded and left the room.
“Going to be quite a party here tomorrow,” she said.
“My last. They’re setting up the Blue Room now with cameras. It won’t take long. Maybe thirty minutes. We’re having a small reception for the bigwigs starting at 10:30. They’ll all be out of here by 1:00.”
“So there’s a two-and-a-half-hour period where the whole Fool’s Mate scenario could play out,” Cotton said.
“Not really. Fox and his VP won’t arrive until 11:30. So there’s ninety minutes, at best, we have to worry about. But 12:00 noon is the perfect time. Everyone is guaranteed to be front and center.”
She knew that other festivities around town would not get under way until Monday after the noontime public ceremony. On leaving the podium, finished with his inaugural address, Fox would head inside the Capitol and sign the necessary documents submitting nominations for his cabinet so the Senate could go to work on confirmation. He would then have lunch with leaders of Congress before enjoying the inaugural parade. In the evening would be celebration balls, the new president and vice president making the rounds.
“Once they’re all out of here,” Danny said, “it won’t matter. Everybody is too scattered. No. Our Achilles’ heel is noon tomorrow. Where’s Luke?”
The sudden shift in topic caught her off guard.
“Checking out more leads with the Society of Cincinnati,” she said. “Zorin sent Anya Petrova there for a reason. I want to know what that is.”
‘‘So do I,” Danny said. “Which brings up a fascinating question. What does a two-hundred-plus-year-old Revolutionary War social club have to do with the USSR?”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Luke sat at the kitchen table. Water bubbled in a kettle on the stove where Begyn was preparing hot tea. Sue sat with him and Luke wondered how much of this she knew and how much she was discovering for the first time. Her comments earlier seemed to indicate that she was more than a passive observer. He wondered about her mother, but knew better than to ask. He’d noticed some family pictures in the other rooms—father and daughter only—which made him wonder about divorce as opposed to being a widower.
An antique brass chronometer on the wall showed that it was approaching 5:00 P.M. The day had gone by fast. Snow had begun to sift down from an ever-darkening sky, and the wind continued to rattle the panes. A fire still burned in the grate, casting warmth and a golden glow. But no more logs lay in the wood box and anything outside would be too wet to burn. He’d already noticed a thermostat, which indicated that the house came with central heating.
Begyn brought the kettle to the table and poured them all a cup of hot water. Luke liked green tea, a taste acquired in the army from a fellow Ranger. Nothing fancy for him, though. No fruit or spices or cream. He preferred a simple blend, plain, nothing added, decaffeinated if available. Which Begyn had on hand.
His host sat at the table. Stacked before them were the plastic bundles from the box in the mudroom. He’d discovered that they were vacuum-sealed bags, the contents obscured thanks to the opaque covering.
“This may not seem important to you,” Begyn said. “But some things relative to the Society of Cincinnati are important to me. I’ve been a member my entire adult life. One of our ancestors fought in the Revolutionary War and was a founding member.”
“Are you the first to be its leader?”
The older man nodded. “That’s right.”
“And let me guess. You’re the last, until Ms. Jim Bowie here gets married and has a son, since women aren’t allowed as members.”
“Are you always such a prick?” Sue asked.
“Only when I’m being played which, by the way, both of you seem to be doing.”
“Peter Hedlund told you about the 14th Colony,” Begyn said.
He nodded. “America’s plans to conquer Canada. That was a long time ago. Who cares?”
“We do.”
Begyn’s voice rose several notches, which seemed to surprise the older man. So Luke backed off and listened about how things had been just after the Revolutionary War. A new country emerging into turmoil. Leadership at a minimum. A virtually nonexistent economy. Thirteen states fighting among themselves. No uniformity. No centralization. Both officers and regular army soldiers had been sent home unpaid after years of loyal service. There was talk of another revolution, this time a civil war.
The Society of Cincinnati, first formed in 1793, emerged from that turmoil. At first, no one paid it any mind. But when chapters organized in all thirteen states and its treasury swelled to over $200,000, people became frightened. The society had more money than the country, and soldiers organizing raised alarm bells. The fact that membership passed hereditarily stunk of a new nobility and a nation divided by classes.
“Patricians and plebeians,” Begyn said. “That’s how critics saw the new nation. Like ancient Rome, where the same thing happened. Between 1783, the end of the Revolution, and 1787, the start of the Constitution, this country stayed afraid. Those were difficult years the history books gloss over.”
Then, as Begyn explained, when French officers, who’d been allowed to join the society, began to donate money a new worry began—foreign influence and monarchal leanings. Finally, when the society started to exercise control over both state legislatures and Congress, lobbying for causes it believed in, calls for its abolishment grew loud.
“They labeled us ‘contrary to the spirit of free government. A violation of the Articles of Confederation. A threat to the peace, liberty, safety of the United States.’ If not for George Washington’s personal intervention, the society would have dissolved. But in 1784 Washington proposed massive changes, which were ultimately accepted, and the threat level diminished.”
Henceforth, no more lobbying. No more politics or hereditary titles. No more foreigners or foreign money. And, to quell fears of collusion, general meetings would be held only once every three years.
“Everybody seemed satisfied with the new and improved society and we were forgotten.”
“So why is that not the end of the story?”
“During the War of 1812 we were called upon
to help the country,” Begyn said. “In a capacity that was … in conflict with our new charter. Many of our members had fought in the Revolution. James Madison was president of the United States. He wanted a war with Great Britain and he got it. Then he wanted Canada invaded. That was the closest British territory, so he asked the society to draw up an invasion plan.”
As Hedlund had recounted. “That didn’t turn out well.”
“You could say that. Some of the journals here on the table, sealed away, detail those 1812 war plans. Called, as you know, the 14th Colony. They’re quite detailed. The men who drew them knew what they were doing. Unfortunately, the men running the war were incompetent. The invasion was a disaster. Afterward, we hid these plans away. About thirty years ago we purged them from our official archives. It was thought best that no one ever know what we’d done. I was told to destroy them, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Embarrassing or not, contradictory or not, they’re still part of history.”
He was recalling more of what Hedlund had said. “Charon knew about these journals?”
“Of course, he was the Keeper of Secrets at the time. He had them in his possession. But he violated his duty and allowed an outsider to see them.”
Finally, the good part. “Do you know who?”
Begyn sipped his tea. “Only that he was a Soviet, working out of the DC embassy. I don’t remember his name or position. It was back in the late 1970s or early 1980s. Brad allowed him access to our sealed archives, which was an absolute breach in protocol. We let it go the first time, but when it happened a second time, about ten years later with another man, an American this time, the president general removed him.”
“You got a name there?”
Begyn shook his head. “I was never told.”
“So if we open these packets up, all we’re going to find is our Canadian invasion plans from the War of 1812?”
Begyn laid down his cup and began to shuffle through the ten or so bundles on the table. “It’s amazing these things survived. These vacuum bags work. I remember buying the device, used for food, and adapting it. I haven’t thought about any of this in a long time.”
