Nearly a decade after September 11, the American security apparatus had come a long way. Plenty of attacks had been foiled, some—especially early on, when al-Qaeda had the tactical advantage—particularly horrific. There was the Arab cell that had come down from Canada, trying to pass themselves off as American Indians on one of the upstate New York reservations while they waited for the activation codes on a low-yield nuclear device they had smuggled from the former Soviet Union to Halifax, financing the operation by bootlegging cigarettes from the reservation to the outside world and pocketing a fortune in tax avoidance.
The good guys had lucked out on that one: an alert cop in Watertown had noticed the ink on the phony tax stamp rubbing off on his hand, and grabbed the “Indian,” who had led him to the other cell members. The cop was shot and killed during the rendezvous, but he had been smart enough to order backup and so the group was rounded up and sent to some especially nasty rendition prisons in Egypt and Slovakia. The cop’s widow got a handsome payout from the feds; he got buried at Arlington and the public was never the wiser.
The phone stayed stubbornly silent. Just as well, probably.
Tom Powers stood up and stepped out of the secure room. The rest of his house on North West Street was equally secure, although less dramatically, so he didn’t seal the room as he did when he left home.
To enter the front door, for example, he inserted the key into the lock, but rather than aligning a series of tumblers, the key’s real work was done by his fresh thumbprint on the head of the key, which was read by the scanner in the door to allow entry.
Once inside, he would glance at the mirror/retinal scanner, which flashed his eyeballs. Anyone who somehow had gained unauthorized entry via the front door—an intruder who forced him to open the door at gunpoint, for example—would miss that beat, with the result that a security gate would descend from the ceiling and trap him in the antechamber, where he could easily be neutralized or dispatched. Video cameras connected directly by dedicated fiber-optic cable to NSA/CSS headquarters in Maryland could be called up on any video screen in the house, and the giant wall-mounted flat screen in the den doubled as a backup, fail-safe control module in a worst-case scenario. Even an EMP (electromagnetic pulse) blast couldn’t knock out his communications.
He looked out the window, into his backyard, at one of his favorite sights. From the street, the house was just another postwar brick two-story structure, indistinguishable from thousands of others in this part of northern Virginia. But what almost nobody knew was that, at the edge of the backyard, a small marker, buried in the brush, once marked the southern tip of the District of Columbia. Originally laid out on land ceded by Maryland and Virginia, the District was conceived as a diamond, bisected by the Potomac. Virginia got its land back when the federal district stopped at the river. But there the marker was—a signpost to what might have been—surveyed, the local legend had it, by none other than George Washington himself.
He looked through the doorway at the black phone and wondered again whether he really wanted to hear it ring.
Chapter Eight
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Marine One had barely hit the South Lawn when President Tyler bounded out. Pam Dobson, Senator Hartley, General Seelye, and Augie Willson bounded behind him in his wake. He really was very fit.
The media jackals were shouting at him—he thought he caught something about “saving kids” and “will you convert to Islam for the children?”—but he ripped a page out of Reagan’s playbook and feigned a sudden, inexplicable attack of deafness. Hand cupped behind his ear, pearly whites flashing, Jeb Tyler was the very image of a modern American president: deaf, dumb, and blind to everything he didn’t wish to register.
“What’s our readiness status?” he snapped at Colonel Al Grizzard, his principal military attaché and the man who controlled the football. Jeb Tyler mistrusted the military and tried to keep “Grizzy” as far away from him as possible and as close to the vice president, Norman Snowden, as constitutionally permissible. Snowden had been a brigadier general in his earlier life, with just enough combat action to make him seems a plausible running mate for a man whose military credentials were, charitably, nonexistent. As far as Tyler was concerned, all military men were trigger-happy maniacs until proven otherwise. He certainly never let the Veep sit in on important affairs of state.
“FBI’s in place, sir, and we have special ops airborne now. Delta, Rangers, SEALS, Xe—”
“No Xe,” barked the president. “We can’t take the hit if this thing goes tits over teacups.”
“No Xe,” repeated Grizzy, barking into his cell phone.
“And get the FBI and everybody else the hell away. You heard the man.”
This time, Colonel Grizzard didn’t bark into his cell phone. He couldn’t believe his ears: the president of the United States adhering to a terrorist’s demand? “Sir?” he said softly.
“You heard me, Colonel. Until we can get a handle on this thing, I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to let these bastards harm a single hair on any child’s head.”
“Special ops, stand down,” said Grizzard into his phone. “All cops, FBI, get well away from the perimeter.” Then back to the president, “What now, sir?” His mien and tone of voice both bordered on insubordination.
President Tyler turned to Dobson and held out his hand for his statements as he surveyed the press corps. A sea of anxious faces, mostly female, some with tears already in their eyes. Tears! And nothing bad had really happened yet, if you didn’t count that poor reporter. Well, tough luck; he hated the press anyway.
General Seelye spoke up. “Sir, if I may…”
The president paid no attention to him. Instead he looked at the two statements she had prepared on the plane, read them both over, then handed one back to her. “This one,” he said, crumpling the other up in a ball and letting it fall at his feet.
Pam hopped to, rushing the statement off to key it into the teleprompter. “We’ll be live in five, Mr. President,” she said.
President Tyler moved smoothly and easily toward the Oval Office, hair and makeup people trailing in his wake.
“Live in two,” Mr. President,” said Pam Dobson.
“I’m going to reassure the country that everything is under control,” Tyler said, as much to himself as to the press secretary.
“Counting down,” said Pam Dobson. “Four, three, two—we’re live.”
The camera light blinked red and the president was on.
“My fellow Americans,” he said. “This morning, shortly before nine o’clock Central Standard Time, a group of armed men commandeered a middle school in Edwardsville, Illinois. As soon as I learned of this, I immediately ordered all public schools in the country to be locked down. So far there have been no reports of any other incidents. Mothers and fathers of America, your children are safe.”
General Seelye rolled his eyes, but said nothing as the president continued. “As you know, the terrorists—and make no mistake about it, these people, whatever their real or imaginary grievances, are terrorists—have murdered a reporter and announced a series of demands. I won’t dignify them by repeating them here, but suffice it to say that under no circumstances does the United States government negotiate with terrorists. This has long been the established policy of our country, and it will not be changed on my watch.”
The president took a deep breath and smiled. “That said, however—”
“Oh, Jesus,” sighed General Seelye to himself. “Here we go…”
“We will do everything in our power to ensure the safe release of the some two hundred fifty pupils and teachers at the school.”
General Seelye shook his head as inconspicuously as possible.
“I have ordered all our embassies and consulates around the world to be put on the highest alert until this crisis is resolved. The safety of Americans everywhere always has been, and will continue to be, my administration’s highest priority.”
He misted u
p for a moment, then regained his composure. It was all an act, but it played well on TV. “One thing I can assure you all—we will bring these men to justice. Thank you, and may God bless America.”
The cameras switched off. President Tyler stood up and looked around the Oval Office. His face grew visibly redder, and then he exploded, “God fucking damn it, how the fuck did something like this fucking happen?”
Chapter Nine
VADUZ, LIECHTENSTEIN
Paul Pilier switched off the president of the United States, then laid the remote gently upon the polished-crystal table, next to the vase of white roses, careful not to muss the surface in the slightest. “Sir?” he asked.
The man to whom the question was addressed didn’t so much as look up from the banks of laptops purring in front of him. They were neatly arrayed on his teak desk, each one tracking a different international financial market in which he had an interest—which was to say, all of them. As was his habitual wont, he was sipping a glass of Russian tea, the red-hot glass protectively surrounded by a burnished silver holder that was probably worth five thousand American dollars all by itself.
Emanuel Skorzeny was past seventy, but he had the physical vigor of a man half his age and the intellectual firepower of two of them combined. His longstanding talent for multitasking had not deserted him, and so it was that he could listen to the president’s speech, monitor its effect on the Nikei, the Dow, the Dax, and the Bourse, make trades, and play a game of simultaneous chess (anonymously, of course) against twelve other players from around the world and still find time to polish his nails. He was very vain about his appearance. “What other news?”
Pilier looked at him from across the room. “May I approach?”
“You may.”
The aide placed a sheaf of papers on the desk, printouts of e-mail communications with one of Skorzeny’s most trusted lieutenants, being careful not to so much as brush the wood with his fingers or the vase of white roses that adorned the boss’s desk as well. Skorzeny had an abhorrence of body oils, and anyone who left so much a trace of his DNA on anything he owned was summarily fired.
Skorzeny glanced through the papers—he was a speed-reader, and could memorize anything on sight. He nodded and then said, “Shred them.”
“Yes sir,” said Pilier, immediately feeding the documents into an NSA-strength security shredder that sat concealed within a sideboard. He had been with Skorzeny for nearly three years, and was the only one who didn’t have to wear gloves at all times. This was a very great sign of trust indeed.
“Have the board members arrived?”
Instinctively, Pilier took three respectful steps backward. “Yes, sir, in the antechamber.”
“Show them in, please.”
As he awaited his board members, Skorzeny roamed around the room, making sure everything was in its exact place. The furniture, the rugs, and, most important of all, his peerless collection of the art of William Blake that adorned the walls—the finest collection in private hands in the world. Unlike many men of his wealth and taste, Skorzeny was not an indiscriminate buyer; he knew what he liked and what he wanted and he was prepared to pay whatever it took to get it.
Take, for example, the work of Blake’s that caught his eye now, his favorite. The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun. Not the one made famous from that sensational novel in which the psychopath ate it. That painting was still hanging in the Brooklyn Museum: The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed in Sun. Different title, different work.
True, his painting was only on loan from the National Gallery of Art in Washington, DC. And the number of chits he had had to call in to get it was almost higher than he was willing to pay. But when it came to Blake, there was almost no such thing as almost. Because Blake understood, as no one else did until Emanuel Skorzeny came along, the misery and mystery of man. That was why his temporary acquisition of it had made headlines around the world. It also reminded people how rich and powerful he was.
Regretfully, his gaze traveled from Blake’s masterpiece, out the window and over the mountain-ringed city. Skorzeny International occupied the top three floors of the Tiefen-thaler building, which Skorzeny himself owned via one of his many subsidiary companies, and boasted a spectacular view of the Alps in every direction. The boardroom was on the penultimate floor, a state-of-the-art conference chamber from which Skorzeny could rule his vast multinational financial and philanthropic empire. Below were the staff offices. Skorzeny’s personal chambers were on the top floor, the penthouse, where only he and a few selected guests were ever allowed entré.
Skorzeny moved the short distance from his desk to the chairman’s seat, at the head of the mahogany table, which also boasted a crystal vase of white roses—refilled daily, like all the others—as its centerpiece. The table had been a gift from the Sultan of Brunei, in gratitude for some particularly astute investment advice Skorzeny had given him. The rest of the gifts, including the women, Skorzeny had parceled out among his lieutenants: his appetites generally ran to less earthy pleasures.
The board members trooped in and took their seats. No one said a word.
Skorzeny let the silence speak for him. It was, he knew, a subtle but telling way to exercise and display power. No one could speak until he spoke; no one could speak unless spoken to; and every conversation began and ended with Emanuel Skorzeny.
“Gentlemen, thank you for coming. As you know, there’s been an incident in America that I believe will affect all of us. It will certainly affect the Skorzeny Foundation, as the New York Stock Exchange is quite sensitive to these sorts of dislocations, especially these days. Monsieur Pilier?”
Pilier snapped on the huge flat-screen television, which instantly divided into multiple quadrants, broadcasting news networks from around the world: CNN, Fox, SKY, BBC1, ARD, ZDF, and others.
“A representative sample,” noted Skorzeny who, from time to time glanced at a laptop and tapped a few keys. “Pick one, please.”
Pilier turned up the volume on CNN, where the female reporter was busy interviewing some of the parents of the children. Worried, anxious, well-fed midwestern faces filled the screen, their braying American accents falling harshly upon the ears of the sophisticated Europeans watching from thousands of miles away.
Skorzeny gestured to Pilier. The sound was muted.
Skorzeny spoke, “This is the United States of America, Anno Domini 2009. Excuse me, Common Era, 2009. The Lord is not much in our minds these days.” A flicker of a smile crossed his lips, signaling to the others that they were permitted a brief display of inaudible mirth. “Not the fearsome warrior it once was. Instead, a country ruled by women and eunuchs. Some call what is happening in Illinois a tragedy. We, however, here at Skorzeny International, call it something else. And what is it that we call it, gentlemen?”
As one: “An opportunity.”
“Precisely. An opportunity. After the first Gulf War, the first President Bush proclaimed the dawn of a New World Order. Even though he was ahead of his time, how right he was. By dint of careful, selected and…targeted…investments, we have been able to treble our operating capital. For you see, gentlemen, it is not true that the race belongs to the swift, or that the future belongs to the strong. Indeed not. The future belongs to the rich and the rich belong to the future. It is a symbiotic relationship, and one that will serve us all very handsomely in the coming days and weeks.”
Skorzeny indicated the slender manila folders in front of each board member. On his signal, each man opened his folder, read the contents of the single sheet enclosed therein, then dropped it into the shredder slot next to each seat.
Skorzeny watched them all intently as they digested his action plan. There was one among them who clearly demurred. “Signor Tignanello has a problem,” said Skorzeny.
Tignanello was not the man’s real name, of course, but was rather his favorite kind of Italian wine. No one but Skorzeny used his real name here; such was the volume of entreaties for foun
dation support that the board members would never know a moment’s peace should their true identities be revealed.
And, of course, Skorzeny’s name was not really “Skorzeny,” either, but no one needed to know that.
Tignanello looked around the room, trying to avoid Skorzeny’s basilisk glare. All eyes turned to him.
“Monsieur Skorzeny,” he began, “I have nothing against making money. None of us here does. We are, after all, all rich men.” He emitted a brief chuckle, hoping to bring his fellow board members around to his side via a small dollop of humor. In this he was immediately disappointed. “Still, what you are proposing here…I cannot, in good conscience…”
Skorzeny let Tignanello’s words trail off, “conscience” hanging in midair and gradually fading away into silence. It was not a word heard often in this boardroom, and it seemed to foul the air.
“So it’s not unanimous then?” asked Skorzeny, although it wasn’t a question. “I am disappointed. As you all know, we make no decisions here without complete and utter unanimity.”
A glance from Skorzeny to Pilier, and the secretary took up a position just behind the Italian.
“Far be it from me to…” Tignanello’s head was wrestling with his heart, and his heart was starting to lose when Pilier put his hands on Tignanello’s upper trapezius shoulder muscles, the one on either side of the neck, and started massaging them.
“Perhaps you’d like to relax and reconsider,” suggested Skorzeny as Pilier’s hands moved up the sides of Tignanello’s neck. Both his index fingers found the indentation below the Adam’s apple and began to press, softly at first, then with increasing pressure.
It was like slow-boiling a frog. Unable to breathe, unable to resist, Tignanello turned the color of his favorite wine. As he lost consciousness, Pilier gently rested the man’s head on the table.
Michael Walsh Bundle Page 4
