by Steve Berry
“Then World War One changed everything?” Sue asked.
“That’s right. Canada became an ally, not a threat or a prize. We all had a common enemy. Germany. But you need to know something else.”
Luke listened as Begyn explained that, in the 1930s, the War College once again turned its attention to Canada. War Plan Red was approved in May 1930, similar in many ways to what had been formulated years earlier. Incredibly, in 1934, that plan was amended to authorize the use of poison gas against Canadians and the strategic bombing of Halifax, if the port could not be captured by land forces.
“Then,” Begyn said, “in February 1935, the War Department arranged a congressional appropriation of $57 million to build three border air bases from which preemptive surprise attacks on Canadian airfields could be launched. The base in the Great Lakes region was to be camouflaged as a civilian airport capable of striking the industrial heart of Canada and the Ontario Peninsula. Those aren’t my words. I read them in the minutes from the 1935 hearings of the House Committee on Military Affairs. That testimony was to have been secret, but it was published by mistake.”
“I’ve never heard of any of this,” Luke said.
“That’s because it was top secret until 1974. The society was mentioned in those House hearings, since they analyzed our 1903 report. I was tasked with reviewing all the declassified materials to make sure there was nothing that could cause us problems.”
Luke felt he had to say, “You do realize that the War College engages in a lot of hypothetical exercises, most of which are never meant to be real.”
Begyn seemed unfazed. “In August 1935 we held what were, till then, the largest peacetime military maneuvers in history. Thirty-six thousand troops converged at the Canadian border, south of Ottawa. Another 15,000 were held in reserve in Pennsylvania. It was billed as a war game scenario, a staged motorized invasion of Canada.”
“Which is probably what it was,” Luke said.
“No, it wasn’t. What that war game became was the operational basis for the final Canadian invasion plan. Once France fell to Germany in 1940 our isolationism went out the door. In August 1940 Roosevelt made a mutual defense pact with Canada. If Hitler had taken Britain in the fall of 1940, his first foray into North America would have been Canada. Our objective was to defend Canada by occupying it. So our 1903 plan, the War College’s plan, and more was added to create the last operational directive they also code-named the 14th Colony. The society thought that was interesting—how they went back to our original label from the War of 1812—but the intent and symbolism cannot be denied. That plan remains classified to this day. But I talked to some of our older members who were there and helped formulate it. The idea was clear. Once we arrived in Canada to defend it, we weren’t leaving.”
Outside was dark. The wind had subsided, and things had grown much calmer and more quiet. Including Sue. She’d sat at the table like a dutiful daughter, keeping her thoughts to herself. Most of the women he attracted were the exact opposite. Bold, loud, and aggressive. Truth be known he liked them that way, but there was also something about the silent ones. Especially those who could handle themselves as deftly as this attractive Riverine.
“You always this attentive?” he asked her.
“You learn so much more with your mouth shut.”
He chuckled. “That’s not a lesson I ever took to heart.”
The time was approaching 8:00 P.M. and he hadn’t reported in all day. He should find out what was happening. But first he had to know one more thing. “How does this figure in with Brad Charon and his big mouth?”
“That’s the rub,” Begyn said. “Brad was aware of all this when he served as the Keeper of Secrets. This is what he allowed the Soviet diplomat and that other outsider to read, along with something else.”
Now he knew. “That Tallmadge journal.”
Begyn nodded. “Exactly. And whether you believe me or not, I don’t know what’s in it. Brad kept that journal to himself.”
Not entirely, though, as the Soviets, the Russians, and Anya Petrova knew all about it.
Begyn sat back in his chair. “Brad considered these secrets more silly than anything else. Ancient history, he liked to say. He never seemed to grasp that we considered them important and would prefer they stay among us. I know a little about the journal. Tallmadge headed up drafting the original 14th Colony plan for the War of 1812. He also oversaw other favors we did for the government in the early part of the 19th century. He kept a record of those in the journal. When Brad was dismissed, it was not found in the archives. He was confronted and never admitted that he had it, but he did.”
“Why keep it?” Sue asked.
“That was Brad. His way of paying us back. Difficult, like I said. We decided to let it pass. A way to keep the peace. When he died, we thought about retrieving it, but the probate fight made that impossible. Fritz Strobl told me you discovered a hidden archive at Brad’s house. We knew about it. Brad had promised to leave those books to the society, but that was before the trouble. It was not mentioned in the gift he gave us of his main library, so we just assumed he changed his mind. Again, we made no effort to retrieve any of it. I understand, though, your superior has promised to help.”
Which might now be harder to do than first imagined since Stephanie Nelle was unemployed and her remaining benefactor would shortly no longer be president of the United States.
He silently reviewed what he knew.
The Society of Cincinnati had been involved with an early plan to invade Canada, a plan that was later expanded upon and made operational during the Second World War. The 14th Colony. Nothing ever came of it, except some Soviet interest in the late 1970s, then another peek by an American in the 1980s, both of which led to the dismissal of the society’s Keeper of Secrets. That same man kept in his possession an old record, the Tallmadge journal, which detailed more of what the society may have done covertly in the early years of the United States. Again, as Charon himself said, more ancient history than anything else. Or was it? Anya Petrova had come specifically in search of it, going straight to the Charon estate and smashing into that concealed room.
Finding nothing.
Which sent her to Peter Hedlund.
And led him here to Lawrence Begyn.
He stood from the table and approached one of the windows. Security lights mounted along the eaves cast purple-tinged shadows on the falling snow.
“You said the men back at the house, before you killed them, mentioned the Tallmadge journal,” he said to Sue.
“They did.”
Which meant Moscow knew about this supposed secret, too.
“I know for a fact that the journal was not in the secret room at Charon’s estate,” he told them.
“But it could be there, in the house,” Begyn noted.
“What makes you say that?”
“I know Brad.”
He saw it in the older man’s eyes. “You know where, don’t you?”
“I think so. He had another hiding place.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Malone negotiated the backroads. He and Cassiopeia had left the White House over an hour ago, driving west into Virginia toward Front Royal, then north off I-66 into rural Warren County. The Secret Service had GPS tracked Zorin’s rental car to a point nearby, where it had stopped. A drone with night-vision capability would have been great, but weather made that next to impossible. A winter storm had arrived, snow clinging to the windshield, the headlights receding into the unlit darkness and gold-edging the falling flakes.
“This is going to be a nasty night,” Cassiopeia said from the passenger seat.
He was still bothered by the encounter with the new president. Certainly Warner Fox was no idiot—after all, he’d managed to gain election to the most powerful political position in the world. Not making any bold moves until they were sure seemed reasonable, but refusing to even shift the vice president’s swearing-in to another location smacked of pettiness,
arrogance, or stupidity.
Hard to say which.
He and Cassiopeia had received a thorough briefing from both Daniels and Stephanie before the Secret Service alerted them that Zorin and Kelly had turned west off I-95 onto I-66 and headed into Virginia. That had been an hour ago. Now they were driving to a rendezvous with the agents who’d been tailing Zorin for most of the afternoon.
“We need this to end here,” he said. “Where we have it contained.”
That was their one advantage. Zorin had no idea anyone was watching, especially not the American who should be dead beside Lake Baikal.
They’d also managed a quick bite to eat and a shower. He was beginning to feel a little grimy and a shave had helped, all courtesy of the White House. Cassiopeia, too, looked refreshed. At least they were facing this together, which he liked.
“You and I both like to avoid emotions,” she said to him.
That they did.
“How about this. Let’s have a no-bullshit rule. From now on, between you and me. None. Okay?”
He liked it. “Deal.”
“All right. I’ll start. I’ve been stuffed into enough supersonic planes over the past twenty-four hours to last me a lifetime.”
He smiled. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“What if it were reversed and you’d been trapped underground in a teeny, tiny little space where you couldn’t move?”
He shuddered just at the thought.
Everyone had their fears. He could take pretty much anything, except what she’d just described. He often had a recurring dream where he was caught in just such a place, no way out, encased on all sides by solid earth. The tighter the confines the worse the nightmare. Once the dream even placed him inside a sealed box where he could not stand or stretch, and could hardly breathe. That had been the worst his subconscious had ever meted out. Luckily, he’d been alone that night when he awoke in a cold sweat. He rarely spoke of the phobia, preferring simply not to think about it. From time to time he’d found himself enclosed, but thankfully never to an extreme, always with some room to maneuver. He’d never told Stephanie about his fear and, luckily, Magellan Billet agents had never been required to submit to extensive psychological profiles. Stephanie never cared for them. She preferred her own assessments.
“You know how to cut to the chase, don’t you?” he said.
“You get my point?”
“Yes, ma’am. I got it.”
“I didn’t tell you this earlier,” she said. “But when you took that fighter into a dive and let Zorin get away, there was a lot of chatter on the radio about what to do. Our pilots wanted to eject both you and me.”
“And what stopped them?”
“An order from the ground. They were told to deliver us and not let on that what happened even bothered them.”
“So that faction within the government was already in control.”
“It would seem so. They knew exactly where this Kelly man lived. And once they realized where Zorin was headed, they went straight there, too.”
And now they knew, thanks to Stephanie and her newfound friend Ishmael, that the goal had been to kill Zorin, then take Kelly alive so he could lead them to the cache.
“Just because they failed in Canada,” he said, “doesn’t mean they won’t be here.”
“I’m betting they know about a cache around here somewhere, maybe even more than one. They might even know the properties where they’re located, but they don’t know exactly where on those properties. A lot of time has gone by since those places were deemed useful. Not to mention any booby traps.”
“So you’re thinking they may have locations staked out?”
“It’s a reasonable assumption.”
He agreed.
Which meant they needed to stay on their toes.
“Taking out the inauguration of a new president,” she said. “That borders on insane. Not even hard-liners would be that stupid. The U.S. would annihilate them. The smart play is they want this contained, kept to themselves, and those bombs held by them for the future.”
Ahead, he saw the McDonald’s he’d been directed to and pulled into the parking lot. Inside, two Secret Service agents, dressed like men about to head out on a winter’s hunt, nursed steaming cups of coffee.
“The car stopped a few minutes ago,” one of the agents said. “About ten miles from here.”
“Are we it?” Malone asked.
“As you requested. Just the four of us.”
The last thing he wanted was for every intelligence and law enforcement agency within a hundred miles converging here, spooking Zorin, each one intent on taking the credit for stopping the threat.
This was not about accolades.
It was about results.
“We’ve been tailing them since Pennsylvania,” the agent said. “They made one stop, at a Target in Maryland. We sent agents in after they were long gone. From the security footage and register records we know they bought a shovel, sledgehammer, two flashlights, bolt cutters, a hasp lock, and five heavy-duty six-volt batteries.”
An interesting list, the last item grabbing his attention. Edwin Davis had briefed them on the RA-115s. They needed battery power to be portable. Zorin was certainly coming prepared.
“We have a chopper on standby at Dulles. It can be here fast,” one of the agents told him.
“Keep it there, for now. It won’t be much help in this weather.”
“You two going to handle this all by yourself?” the agent asked, sounding skeptical.
“That’s the plan. We’ll keep it simple. We need them to lead us to whatever there is to find, then we’ll take them both down. Preferably, alive, as we have lots of questions.”
“What exactly are we looking for?”
The fewer who knew anything the better, especially considering the widespread panic information like this might cause. Foreign nukes on American soil? Talk about a bad news day.
So he ignored the question.
“Tell me where Zorin is.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Zorin sat in the parked car, listening to the patter of sleet against the roof. With the rain earlier he wondered about ice, as some had already sheeted on the windshield, the wipers scraping hard over its rough surface. He needed to stretch his legs from the ride, but was waiting for Kelly to make some decisions. Ever since they’d arrived, Kelly had been studying a map that he’d brought inside his travel bag. He liked this scenario. No high-tech gadgets. No electronics. Nothing to lead anyone to where there were. Just proven tradecraft, the kind he’d made a reputation performing.
“What are we waiting for?” he asked.
“You’re becoming impatient in your old age.”
“The weather is deteriorating.”
“Which is to our advantage.” Kelly folded the map. “When Backward Pawn told me the weapons had arrived, I wasn’t fully prepared. I told the officer I was, but I wasn’t. The parameters Andropov laid out were tough to meet. My orders were to be ready in time for the 1985 presidential inauguration. But Andropov died a year before that. After, everything went quiet. Then, three years later, in 1988, the call suddenly came that the bombs were in America. I was shocked that things were still moving forward. I had to hustle to have my part ready.”
“Maybe things would have been different, if Andropov had lived.”
Kelly shook his head. “That was not the time.”
He wondered about the observation. “Why do you say that?”
“The response from the world would have been unanimous and devastating. Killing an American president? Setting off a nuclear explosion in Washington, DC? Soviet leaders far overestimated both their power and their importance. They could not have defeated the entire world.”
He hated hearing about more weakness.
“History has confirmed that, Aleksandr. By the late 1980s the USSR was over. It was simply a matter of time before everything collapsed. Then in 1991 it finally did.”
And he saw
the other difference between then and now. “This time it’s just you and me. There will be no retaliation since there is no one to retaliate against. We will achieve the effect of what Andropov wanted, but without global repercussions.”
“Exactly. The timing is perfect. Like you, I’ve thought about this for a long time, never acting on it, just thinking. The United States emerged from the Cold War as the dominant world power, and over the past thirty years it’s grown into an arrogant monster. We will finally put it in its place. Do you remember the oath we took as KGB?”
Vaguely. Such a long time ago.
Kelly found his wallet. From inside, he slipped out a folded scrap of paper, whose creases and color showed that he’d carried it a long time.
In the din of the cabin light Zorin silently read the printed words.
Of being a Soviet citizen and joining the ranks of the Workers’ and Peasants’ Red Army, pledging to be an honest, brave, disciplined, and vigilant fighter, to guard all secrets and obey all orders.
Then, the important part.
To be prepared to come to the defense of the motherland and defend her courageously, skillfully, creditably, and honorably, without sparing life or blood to achieve victory.
And the final sentence.
If through evil intent I break this solemn oath, then let the stern punishment of the Soviet law and the universal hatred and contempt of the working people fall upon me.
His comrade offered a hand to shake, which he gladly accepted. Pride swelled inside him as that sense of duty, of purpose, thought lost, returned. He’d long known fear and isolation, both of which had worn him down, leaving only a blind desire for some kind of action.
