by Ben Coes
“Hi, Dewey,” she said, a surprised look on her face. “He’s with—”
Dewey swept by her and pushed in the door. Calibrisi was standing, clutching a cane. On two leather sofas sat three men, all in suits.
The room went silent. Dewey was dressed in a navy blue Lacoste polo with a slight tear at the midriff, alongside a white paint stain. He had on an old pair of jeans that made the shirt look new by comparison.
“Dewey,” said Calibrisi. “Thanks for joining us.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Dewey, these are the three senior members of the Senate Intelligence Committee, our oversight committee. Can this wait?”
Dewey glanced at the men.
“No.”
Calibrisi turned to the three senators.
“Give me a minute,” he said.
Calibrisi led Dewey down the hall to the CIA director’s private office, known by only a few. He shut the door behind them.
Dewey stood, arms crossed, staring at him. After almost half a minute, Dewey looked away. He scanned the small office. One wall was books. The other was framed photos of friends and family; Vivian, Vivian and Calibrisi, Vivian, Calibrisi, and Daisy, and then mostly Daisy at every possible age, baby pictures, toddler. Fourth grader, high school, college. Near the window at the far side of the room, a large photo was in a black frame. It showed him and Jessica. They were seated next to each other at an outdoor dinner party. The photo captured the soft light of candles against the summer night. It was before they’d dated, before she’d said yes when he asked her to marry him. But he already loved her, even then.
Dewey stared at it for an extra moment. His arms relaxed and he moved them down to his side.
“What is it?”
“I saw Dr. Peck,” said Dewey. “This is about Daisy, isn’t it?”
Calibrisi was silent for a second or two.
“It’s about you.”
Calibrisi moved behind the desk. He stared at Dewey but said nothing.
“Look I get the point,” said Dewey. “You think I’m reckless. You think if your daughter likes me, that I’ll somehow get her killed. Is that it?”
Calibrisi paused. “Yes.”
“Why don’t you just forbid me from seeing her?” barked Dewey. “Or fire me?”
“Because it’s your choice, Dewey, and her choice. And I would never fire someone for dating my daughter, even someone I didn’t like, and the truth is, I…”
Calibrisi paused.
“Well, I just think it might be time for you to consider dialing it back a little. I want you to understand the implications of the risks you take, that’s all.”
“What exactly does that mean?” said Dewey. “I take a desk job? Are you fucking joking? I’m not meant to sit behind a desk, Hector. You know it and I know it.”
“That’s why Jessica died.”
“Fuck you.”
“Dewey,” Calibrisi said gently, “I want to know you when you’re fifty. Sixty. Seventy. Strategy is just as important as tactical. Maybe more important. I’ll make you a deputy director. Your office will be next to mine.”
Dewey shot him a look. “Great. Can I get a foosball table too? Maybe I can get a dog and bring it to work with me.”
Calibrisi grinned.
“I made my point,” he said. “I can see I’m not going to talk you into a job.”
“No, you’re not.”
Calibrisi shook his head.
“You’re a stubborn son of a bitch,” he said. “Fine. But until that shoulder heals you’re doing light duty. The secretary of state called me this morning. He’s going to Paris for secret talks with Iran and France. He’ll have his State Department security team with him.”
“So why are you sending me?”
“There’s chatter,” said Calibrisi. “He’s received a number of death threats. I told him I would send someone to provide an extra layer of protection. You’ll be in Paris for a day or two. You’re staying at the George Cinq. Hang out, drink some wine, keep an eye on the secretary. Your plane leaves from Andrews at six A.M. tomorrow.”
12
INDIAN PURCHASE FARM
POOLESVILLE, MARYLAND
An hour and a half west of Washington, D.C., a black sedan moved along a winding rural road through empty, rolling Maryland farmland. The sedan abruptly slowed and turned left, past a sign that said NO TRESPASSING.
It was Sunday afternoon, and a yellow dusk was settling in over the expansive countryside, green and brown with late autumn’s cold.
The car moved down a long gravel driveway, each side lined with a white horse fence. It was a private driveway, its rustic appearance masking the fact that it was embedded with a state-of-the-art security system. The security perimeter was invisible and utilized a variety of technological defenses, including motion detection, visual spectography and, at several demarcation points beneath the surface of the mile-long road, weight sensitivity.
The vehicle passed a thick oak a quarter mile down the driveway and came to a set of steel gates. The driver pulled up to a small black screen attached to a steel pole and lowered the window. He reached out and entered a six-digit code, then stared into an ocular scanner. After a few seconds, the gates swept slowly inward. The driver hit the gas, watching in the rearview mirror as the gates shut.
Two men sat in the backseat. They didn’t talk. One of them, Andrew Flaherty, was reading a document, jotting notes on it every few moments. The other man, Harry Black, the U.S. secretary of defense, stared out the window, deep in thought.
A few minutes later, the sedan came to a sprawling farmhouse. It was gray clapboard with light blue shutters, a slate roof, copper gutters, and gardens tucked perfectly across a sweeping front entrance. It was surrounded by waist-high fields that ran far into the distance.
As the sedan came to a stop in the circular driveway before the home’s central portico, Flaherty looked up. He tucked the document into the leather pocket on the back of the seat in front of him. He glanced at Black and climbed out.
Black followed Flaherty toward the front door.
Flaherty was in his late fifties, bald, with a bushy mustache. Black was sixty-two, slightly overweight, with thick, black hair.
At the front door, Flaherty knocked. A few moments later, a tall, thin black man opened the door.
“Hello, Mr. Flaherty.”
“Good afternoon, Abe.”
The two men went inside, passing a middle-aged woman who was cleaning up dishes in the kitchen. The wife of the man Flaherty had come to see.
“Hi, Janie,” he said. “How are you?”
She gave him a cold look and didn’t answer. She nodded toward the back of the house, indicating that the man Flaherty had come to see—her husband—was out back.
Flaherty and Black found Bruner behind the barn, next to a large pile of wood.
Bruner was older than Flaherty by more than a decade. Yet despite his age, he was chopping wood. Bruner had on jeans and a blue-and-white flannel shirt, tucked in neatly. But even in this attire he looked distinguished.
“Lowell Trappe is dead,” said Flaherty.
Bruner said nothing. He registered Black, standing near the barn. Bruner slammed the axe into a large stump and took off his work gloves.
“Were there any complications?” said Bruner.
“No,” said Flaherty. “The story hasn’t broken yet. The body drifted. They didn’t find it until an hour ago. By all accounts it was an accidental drowning. Lynch is back in Atlanta. He’ll fly to D.C. tomorrow morning.”
“What about Toronto?” said Bruner, wiping sweat from his forehead.
“Flawless. Al-Amin, the forger, all of them were eliminated.”
“Have you spoken to Kyrie?”
“No.”
Bruner paused.
“Well, that’s nothing unusual, is it?” said Bruner. “All that matters is that both operations succeeded. Let’s go inside and celebrate.”
Flaherty smiled nervo
usly.
“With all due respect, Charles, I’ll celebrate when we’re done.”
Bruner patted the diminutive Flaherty on the shoulder.
“That’s your prerogative, Andrew,” he said. “But I’ve learned you have to stop and smell the flowers along the way.”
Bruner walked to the barn, where Harry Black was standing.
“Hi, Harry,” said Bruner. “Thanks for coming out.”
“Charles.”
The three men walked to the back door of the large house.
Flaherty and Black followed Bruner to the living room, where a roaring fire crackled. The room was big, with old beams spanning the ceiling and a shiny mahogany floor, golden with age. The walls were lined with bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes. Two large leather sofas were across from a trio of comfortable-looking, linen-covered club chairs. In the middle of the room was a tufted hassock, a few piles of books sitting on top of it.
Bruner shut the door and flipped a switch near the door whose purpose was to jam any electronic eavesdropping, either inside or outside the room.
“Whiskey, Harry?” asked Bruner as he made his way to a tray in the corner and poured himself a bourbon.
“Yes, please.”
“Andrew?”
“No, thanks.”
Bruner poured another bourbon and handed it to Black. Bruner sat down in the club chair closest to the fireplace. He took a sip of his bourbon, then looked at Black.
“Well?” he said.
“Last night, I authorized the deployment of eleven Ohio-class nuclear-powered ballistic missile submarines into the North Atlantic, Arabian Sea, and Mediterranean as part of a Prompt Global Strike simulation exercise,” said Black. “By the end of the week, the submarines will be in position to strike targets across the Middle East, Africa, and Europe as well as create a preemptive shield in the aftermath of our attack.”
“How many missiles are we talking about?” asked Flaherty.
“Each submarine is equipped with twenty-four Trident D5 ballistic missiles. Each missile is carrying four individual nuclear warheads, capable of being independently targeted. That’s ninety-six nukes per sub. So by week’s end, we’ll have more than a thousand nuclear warheads in-theater.”
“One thousand fifty-six, to be exact,” said Bruner.
“Correct,” said Black. “Your target list, Charles, calls for a total of seven hundred and forty missiles.”
“Our target list, Mr. Secretary.”
Black shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“Yes, of course. Our target list. That means the fleet will be left with about three hundred warheads to discourage any counterattacks and respond if necessary. Because London and Paris will both be hit, we certainly should expect either country to counterstrike. It will be incumbent upon us to engage in direct, high-level communications immediately after the attack with the leaders of those countries to not only explain our actions but, more important, to make very clear that any counterstrike by them will result in further damage to their countries.”
“What about the targets?” said Flaherty.
“The parameters will be uploaded as part of the simulation exercise,” said Black. “Once the president—the new president—orders the strike, the targeting manifest automatically assigns, programs, and targets the individual warheads.”
Bruner took a sip of bourbon and smiled. “Excellent.”
Black nodded. A thin sheen of perspiration was visible on his forehead. He started to say something, then retreated.
“What is it?” said Bruner.
Black stared icily at Bruner.
“It has to do with Toronto.”
“What about it?”
“Federal agents were killed,” said Black. “Honestly, did you authorize the killing of FBI agents, Charles? Was it really necessary? After all, we’re going to wipe out most of the Muslim world in less than a week. Do we really need to draw suspicion at this hour?”
Tension filled the air. Black was visibly upset. Flaherty shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Bruner glanced at Flaherty, then moved his eyes back to Black.
“Yes, I authorized the operation,” Bruner said matter-of-factly. “There will be casualties, Harry. Innocent people will die. The agents were collateral damage. The purpose of the operation was to kill Al-Amin and anyone around him. Did the agents deserve to die? No, of course not. But then they shouldn’t have been there. We shouldn’t have had to go up there. The U.S. government should have done long ago what we did in Toronto. Kill the Muslims. If we’re going to succeed in the larger objective, if we are going to wipe Islam from the face of the earth, we cannot think about trivial things like innocent people dying. We’re on a mission. We are saving the United States of America.” Bruner paused. “We’re saving the world.”
Black stared at Bruner as he spoke. When Bruner was done, Black looked at the fire.
“I don’t give a fuck about the dead agents,” said Black. “I care about getting caught. I’m sure Kyrie covered his tracks, but there are always clues left behind.”
Flaherty, who was on the other sofa, across from Bruner, cleared his throat. He started to refute Black, but Bruner held up his hand, quieting him.
“Are you having second thoughts, Harry?”
Black gulped down the rest of the whiskey. He stood up and went to the bar, pouring the glass half full with bourbon.
“No,” said Black. He leaned toward Bruner, reaching out with his right hand and pointing at him, a hint of frustration on his face. “I’m the one who’s been saying we need to act. I just don’t see why we need to obliterate half of Europe.”
Bruner stood up. Despite his age, there was speed, even strength in the way he arose from the chair. He took a menacing step toward Black, his teeth flaring.
“Don’t raise your voice with me, Mr. Secretary,” seethed Bruner, leaning toward him, so that their faces were just a few inches apart.
Black didn’t budge.
“I’ll raise my voice with whoever the hell I choose!” barked Black, taking his index finger and pressing it into Bruner’s chest. “Don’t forget, I’m the secretary of defense. I’m one of two people on this earth who have the Gold Codes. You seem to forget that fact! When I’m gone, it’s all gone!”
The Gold Codes enabled the president of the United States to use nuclear weapons. It was the defense secretary’s job to verify that the person using the codes was in fact the president. It was the president’s decision to launch nuclear weapons—but the secretary of defense had to authenticate his identity.
Bruner seized Black’s wrist with his right hand in the same moment he grabbed his tie with his left. In one fluid motion, Bruner twisted Black’s wrist as he clutched the tie, preventing him from escaping or even falling. A dull snap echoed, though it was drowned out by Black’s deep-throated scream. Bruner let him fall to the floor.
“I think we all appreciate the importance of the Gold Codes,” said Bruner. He stared down at Black, who was on his knees, holding his broken wrist. “Now tell me, Harry, is that why you came out here, to remind us how important the Gold Codes are?”
“No,” said Black, panting and grimacing in pain. “I came to tell you the submarines will be in place by this weekend. Every nuclear-armed submarine the U.S. has will be within firing range of the Middle East.”
“Good,” said Bruner. He walked to the fireplace and lifted a log, then threw it into the hearth. He grabbed a long iron poker and pushed the log farther into the fire.
A door at the end of the room opened. Two large men entered.
Bruner turned and looked at them.
“Take Mr. Black to the basement,” said Bruner. “Put a cast on his wrist. Remove his cell phone and any other devices on his person.”
The men lifted Black, grasping his arms. Flaherty went to him and patted him down, finding a small, thick plastic case. Bruner nodded to the guards, who dragged Black from the room.
“Only I know the codes,” groan
ed Black as he was pulled through the door.
“We know, Harry,” said Bruner.
When he was gone, Bruner looked to Flaherty, who had a fearful look on his face.
“What’s wrong, Andrew?”
“Noth … ah … nothing,” he replied meekly.
“Are you getting nervous?” said Bruner.
“Maybe a little,” said Flaherty.
“You should be nervous,” said Bruner. “Personally, I give it a one-in-three chance of succeeding.” A maniacal smile crept across his lips. “Then again, with Lowell Trappe dead and the nuclear codes in hand, perhaps it’s now closer to fifty-fifty.”
13
FACILITÉ AU PLEIN-DU-MONTS
LAUTERBRUNNEN, SWITZERLAND
Romy clutched the knife in her left hand, behind her back, keeping the blade tucked inside the sleeve of the straitjacket. The sharp edge of the steel pressed uncomfortably against her skin.
It wasn’t actually a knife, but she had to believe it was a knife. It was a spoon. A spoon she’d scraped to a dangerously sharp point. For the two hours each day she was allowed out of the straitjacket, she would sit on the ceramic toilet in her cell. She found the small aperture in the underside of the toilet one day and the idea had come to her. A day later she’d taken the spoon from Dr. Courtemanche’s desk. Every day since, she sat and slowly scraped the spoon against the concrete wall until it became a weapon.
Your husband is a monster.
Romy knew that now, but had she known it earlier? Had she known what he was capable of?
She closed her eyes, pretending to be asleep. She could hear the soft footsteps of the orderlies as they moved down the rubber-floored hallway of the sanitarium.
For strength, she forced herself to remember the phone call. The one she’d accidentally overheard that day. The one that changed everything.
She’d heard the phone ringing while drying the lavender. She picked up the extension in the greenhouse and heard her husband, Kyrie. At that point, she should’ve hung up. Why didn’t she? Now she was the only one who could stop him, stop the man with the deep voice named Charles.
