The 14th Colony_A Novel

by Steve Berry

  They ran down a lane identified as Executive Avenue, then cut across more grass, past a monument to General William Sherman that Malone had long known was there. Overhead, ragged clouds kept scuttling across a dim sky. The 15th Street vehicle entrance lay directly ahead.

  “He’s nearly at the gate,” the voice on the phone said. “Local units intercepting.”

  Sirens could now be heard, as the Treasury building no longer shielded anything. Here the roadway ran close and parallel to the White House fence.

  They came to the gate.

  Their government car from earlier, stolen by Zorin, roared into the intersection, braking, rear end sweeping around in nearly a full circle. Then it leaped the curb and vaulted into Pershing Park across the street.

  “There’s an ice rink in there,” Malone said. “Lots of people.”

  The sirens roared into view and blocked the intersection to traffic, blue lights swirling. He and Cassiopeia bolted past the gate into the fray. The stolen car was angled up on a brick-paved walk near the curb, away from the ice rink. Thank goodness. He saw no casualties, which was good.

  Everything went still.

  The three police cars were positioned around the car, fifty feet in between, the officers out with guns unholstered and aimed. He and Cassiopeia approached from behind.

  “Get back,” the officer screamed, keeping his head directed across the street. “Now. Get away.”

  Malone held up the phone.

  “This is the Secret Service,” the voice said through the speaker. “Please do exactly as he says.”

  “Get real,” the officer said.

  Two uniformed Secret Service agents had crossed the street and ran toward them, flashing badges, assuming command, ordering the locals to stand down.

  “You get that,” Malone asked the cop.

  The man lowered his weapon and turned. “Yeah, I got it.”

  “Gentlemen,” Malone called out. “We’re going to handle this. Not you. So everybody stay calm.”

  The driver’s-side door of the stolen car opened.

  A man emerged.

  He recognized the face.

  Kelly.

  * * *

  Zorin removed the sledgehammer from the bag. The basement walls were formed of old brick, held in place with rough mortar. The painted concrete floor seemed much newer. His objective was the south wall, about three meters away from the southwest corner, a rectangle the size and shape of an oversized doorway, its brick a tad different from the rest. Exactly as Kelly had described. The difference, though, was not enough to arouse any suspicion. More like a patch in the wall.

  There. But not important.

  He stepped close, planted his feet, gripped the wooden handle, and swung wide and hard, driving the sledgehammer into the brick.

  Which absorbed the blow with a shiver.

  Another blow sent cracks radiating.

  Two more and chunks dropped away.

  According to Kelly, the basement was not original. It was added years after the church had been completed, when a larger nave above became needed. So a pit was dug beneath to hold a central furnace, replacing old woodstoves that had heated the interior. Prior to that the entire church had sat on solid earth. It still did, except that now, inside its foundation footprint, lay the basement.

  More pounding and a section of the wall crumbled onto itself, crashing down among dust and shards.

  He cleared out a path.

  Sweat moistened his hairline.

  He laid down the hammer.

  Before him, past the wall, opened a dark chasm.

  * * *

  Stephanie climbed into the marine chopper, which immediately powered up and lifted into the midday air. She carried the journal and told the pilot to head for the White House.

  “We’ll need clearance,” he told her.

  “Get it. Let’s go.”

  She had to be absolutely sure, so she gave the journal one last look.

  January 1817. President Madison inspected today and complimented our ingenuity, pleased that his request had been honored. His specifications had called for a concealed escape path from the Executive Mansion that would lead to a defensible point of safety. Our task had been to locate, design, and construct such a route. Several options were considered but the most viable came when we were able to join the reconstructed Executive Mansion with the recently consecrated St. John’s Church. The distance was not unreasonable and the tunnel was easily disguised as a drainage outlet for the North Lawn and a nearby marsh. No questions were raised during its digging. Other similar structures exist throughout the capital city. We chose a brick façade both for longevity and to keep water from flooding in. The entrance from inside the Executive Mansion is concealed beneath a piece of movable furniture. At the church the exit opens through a section of the brick floor near the building’s southwest corner. Only the president and his immediate staff are aware of the precise locations. Three within the society are likewise privy. Reference is made here, along with a map and sketch of its precise location, for future use. Maintenance and repair may be required from time to time and the President has asked us to assume that task. This escape route will provide the chief executive with a measure of protection that has been heretofore lacking. We consider it an honor to be asked to assist.

  So a tunnel once existed between the White House and St. John’s Church. She knew the building, located a few hundred yards away, north of Lafayette Park. The White House itself had been renovated many times, new rooms and basements dug beneath it, yet she could recall reading nothing about anyone ever discovering a brick-encased tunnel.

  But it was there.

  Zorin had to be at St. John’s.

  Her watch read 11:05 A.M.

  She dialed her phone, trying to reach Edwin Davis. No luck. She tried Danny’s phone. Only voice mail. Both were probably now involved with the reception and preparing for the imminent arrival of the president- and vice-president-elect. So why not cut out the middlemen and go straight to the source?

  She dialed Litchfield’s number.

  Two rings and he answered.

  She pressed the phone tight to her ear and over the rotor’s roar yelled, “Bruce, a bomb’s going to be planted beneath the White House. Zorin is at St. John’s Church, across the street. There’s a tunnel there somewhere. Send agents, now. He’s probably shooting for noon on the dot. Find him.”

  “I hear you, Stephanie. Where are you?”

  “On the way, by chopper,” she yelled. “Get everyone out of the White House. There might still be time.”

  “I’ll handle it,” he said.

  She ended the call.

  And dialed Cotton.

  * * *

  Malone laid his cell phone down on the hood of the police car and stepped out, catching Kelly’s attention. Crusty, sooty snow from the street crunched beneath his feet, the cold gusting air sharp with exhaust fumes.

  He found his gun and brought it out. “Can we help you?”

  “Smart-ass,” Kelly said. “Nobody likes one.”

  “His right hand,” he heard one of the Secret Service agents say from behind him.

  He’d already noticed. Kelly’s arm waggling against the thigh, hand out of sight, between him and the open car door, as if it held something.

  “Okay,” Malone said, “let’s try it another way. These policemen would like nothing better than to shoot you dead. Give me one reason why they shouldn’t.”

  Kelly shrugged, a gesture that signaled disdain, disinterest, and dismissal. “Can’t think of one.”

  The right arm swung around and revealed a gun. Malone, though, was a second ahead of Kelly and aimed a shot to the legs. They needed this man alive.

  But the other officers had a different idea.

  A din of gunfire erupted.

  Bullets slammed into Kelly, piercing his coat, plucking him back and forth as if in convulsions. Kelly tried to spring away, but failed, his body slamming the pavers and settlin
g atop the snow.

  Malone shook his head and glanced back at Cassiopeia. Only they realized how bad this had just gotten.

  Their best lead was dead.

  * * *

  Zorin found the flashlight he’d added to the nylon bag and shone its light into the opening. It extended about two meters, to where the floor ended and another black maw opened down. He investigated and saw how the tunnel once came up here, at the church, then extended toward the White House at a level about a meter farther down.

  He grabbed the RA-115, entered, and carefully stepped down. The path ahead was U-shaped, lined with brick and mortar, including the floor. He had to stoop in order to walk, the ceiling less than two meters high. But the path was relatively clear. He’d taken an estimate earlier of the distance from the church to the White House fence. All he had to do now was keep track of his steps. If he was off a little, it didn’t matter. He’d be more than close enough to obliterate everyone.

  Who were all the main adversary.

  He started walking.

  And counting.

  * * *

  Cassiopeia rushed with Cotton to Kelly’s body. The wind swirled loose snow into a crystalized mist. No need to check for any signs of life.

  Cotton was infuriated. “You were told not to fire. What part of that order did you not get?”

  “We saved your ass,” one of the officers said.

  “I didn’t require your saving. I had it under control. We needed him alive.”

  The Secret Service was on the radio reporting in.

  He read his watch.

  11:20.

  Cassiopeia checked the car’s interior.

  Nothing.

  Then she found the lever and released the trunk.

  Cotton moved toward the rear of the car. She followed. Four aluminum cases lay inside. Cotton didn’t hesitate. He lifted one out, laid it on the ground, and opened it, revealing a switch, a battery, and a stainless-steel cylinder lying diagonally. All three items were linked by wires and padded with black foam so they could not move about. The switch was labeled in Cyrillic, which she could read.

  “It’s off,” she said.

  Cotton felt the battery and the cylinder. “Cold.”

  Quickly, they removed the other four and discovered the same thing. None of the RA-115s had been activated.

  “Are those bombs?” one of the cops asked.

  “Get them the hell out of here,” Cotton said to the Secret Service.

  The police were hustled away.

  “Kelly wanted to die,” she said.

  “I know. And he brought these four toys to keep us occupied.”

  She remembered what Stephanie had learned. Five RA-115s were unaccounted for. That meant Zorin had the last one.

  But where?

  “Malone,” someone called out. “Somebody on your phone says its urgent.”

  He’d left the unit on the hood of one of the patrol cars.

  They ran across the street, still blocked to traffic, and Cotton took the call. He listened for a moment, then ended the conversation.

  “It was Stephanie,” he said to her. “Zorin is at St. John’s Church with the fifth bomb. Get back to the White House and make sure they get everyone out fast. Stephanie said she’s already alerted Litchfield. Help him out. I’d say we have maybe twenty to twenty-five minutes tops.”

  “I need this car,” he said to the cop.

  He leaped into the driver’s seat.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “To stop the SOB.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  Zorin had counted his steps and was satisfied that he was now directly beneath the White House grounds. He was smeared in dirt, the confines in the tunnel progressively tightening as he’d ventured farther and farther into the earth.

  But he’d found Kelly’s point of convergence.

  Andropov would be proud.

  His vision was about to become reality.

  He lay flat on his belly, the ceiling here only centimeters high, the flashlight beside him illuminating the aluminum case. He released the catches, only able to open the lid halfway. He knew that once the switch tripped there’d be fifteen or so minutes before the trigger engaged, maybe a little more thanks to the underground chill.

  He checked his watch.

  11:40.

  Kelly should have accomplished his diversion by now, which, for at least a few minutes, would keep people surprised, confused, puzzled, and, most important, inactive. Finding four RA-115s should also calm them long enough for the fifth to strike a blow.

  Everyone should be inside the White House by now, ready for the ceremony that would start promptly at noon. He’d read enough about American tradition to know this one would not be altered. The U.S. Constitution said noon on January 20 so noon, today, it would be.

  A shudder ran through his tired arms and shoulders. His thighs and calves felt weak. Yet lying here, alone, encased by earth, he felt at peace. His end seemed prescribed. Fitting that it all had led right here. Perhaps his ashes would fertilize a new seed, a new fight, maybe even a new nation. The resentment he’d so long harbored seemed to have vanished, replaced by a rush of relief. No more was he a weary, aged, defeated man.

  Instead, he’d succeeded.

  Fool’s Mate.

  Two moves to victory.

  Kelly was probably dead by now.

  One move done.

  His right hand reached inside the case and found the switch.

  How many more would leave this world today? Tens of thousands? More like hundreds of thousands. About time the main adversary felt what Soviets had long ago grown accustomed to experiencing.

  Defeat.

  Two fingers gripped the toggle. A surge of exultation streaked through him. This spark would ignite the world.

  “For the motherland.”

  He flicked the switch.

  * * *

  Malone floored the accelerator and spun the wheel, speeding the police car north on 15th Street past the Treasury building, weaving in and out of traffic, using the siren and lights to clear a path. At H Street, which was one way in the wrong direction, he turned left anyway and sped around a few oncoming cars for quarter a mile to where St. John’s Church sat overlooking Lafayette Park. He wheeled the car up on the curb and partially into the park, as far as he could go before a barrier of in-ground iron pedestals blocked the way. He fled the vehicle. People were everywhere between the park and Pennsylvania Avenue. Stephanie had told him about a tunnel between here and the White House, most likely directly beneath where he now rounded a corner to the church’s front side. The whole site was closed off, under construction, a fence encircling it, but he leaped over. Folks out on the sidewalk gave him a strange look, but he had no time to explain anything.

  And no time to evacuate them either.

  The only chance was to stop the thing before it exploded.

  * * *

  Cassiopeia ran back to the White House, one of the Secret Service agents that had been at the scene of Kelly’s shooting with her. Immediately, she noticed that no one seemed to be leaving. They entered through the East Wing and were told by agents inside that the ceremony was about to begin.

  “Why aren’t they evacuating?” she asked.

  A perplexed look came to the man’s face. “For what?”

  She brushed by him, intent on heading into the main house.

  Two uniformed agents blocked her way.

  “You can’t go in there,” one of them said.

  “We have to get this place cleared out. You’re not aware of anything? The attorney general. Litchfield. Find him.”

  The agent used his radio and called in the name.

  A moment later he faced her and said, “Mr. Litchfield left the building half an hour ago.”

  * * *

  Zorin had wanted just to stay with the device and die as it exploded, but he decided that the smart play was to head back to the church and stand guard, making sure no
thing interrupted. He’d still die, being only a few hundred meters from the epicenter of a nuclear blast, but at least he’d be doing his job to the last.

  He crouched and made his way through the old tunnel, which smelled foul but had held up remarkably for its age. The flashlight beam licked a dim path across the brick floor. Only back where the weapon lay had the tunnel collapsed onto itself, so he doubted that the route all the way to the White House even still existed.

  He came to the end and stood from his haunches, hopping back up into the church basement.

  His watch read 11:47.

  Five minutes since he’d activated the device.

  * * *

  Malone searched the grounds, where a thick scattering of debris and a thin layer of snow registered little trace of any passage. He spotted a set of metal doors that would certainly lead beneath the church. He ran over and saw a hasp lock holding them closed, but as he approached closer he noticed that the lock secured nothing, attached to only one panel.

  He wrenched the handles, felt no resistance, then flung them open, leaping down a steep set of concrete steps. Before him stretched a lit basement full of electrical and HVAC equipment.

  On the far side stood Zorin, carrying a flashlight.

  He rushed forward and heaved his frame against the big man, using his shoulders like a linebacker to lift them both off their feet.

  * * *

  Zorin had at first been surprised, then shocked to see Malone. The American seemed impervious to dying. Twice now a resurrection. The clatter of the metal doors opening had struck him like a call to attention. He did not carry his gun, having left it with his coat that lay a few meters away.

  But Malone gave him no time to react.

  His body slammed the concrete floor.

  * * *

  Cassiopeia stood shocked. Apparently, instead of sounding the alarm, Litchfield had fled, saving only himself.

  It was now too late to do anything here.

  And explanations would waste precious time.

  “Where is St. John’s Church?” she asked.

  One of the agents told her.

  She ran out the door she’d entered, calling, “Tell the north gate I need to be let out.”