by Ben Coes
Mike Murphy, the president’s top political advisor, was pacing back and forth in front of the French doors that led out to the Rose Garden, speaking to someone on his cell phone. He hung up when he saw the president come into the room.
“Morning, guys,” said Dellenbaugh. “Make yourselves at home.”
“Mr. President,” said Schmidt without looking up. He was reading over the president’s speech.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” said Tilley. He stood up and handed Dellenbaugh a small stack of papers. “Here’s the final draft of the announcement speech. It’s already been sent to the teleprompter.”
“Thanks, Cory. Have you read it, Mike?”
“Yes,” said Murphy.
“And?”
“It’s fine.”
Tilley shot Murphy an icy stare.
“Fine?” Tilley said. “It’s awesome.”
“It’s pretty good, I must say,” added Schmidt.
“Don’t get all defensive,” said Murphy. “Of course it’s well written. I just think it’s too long. There’ll be plenty of time to lay out your agenda, Mr. President. I really think we want to leave everyone with one or two big ideas here—not twenty.”
“The event starts in a few hours,” Schmidt reminded him.
“Well, you should’ve sent it to me earlier than an hour ago,” snapped Murphy. He handed Dellenbaugh a copy of the speech, with handwritten edits. “I basically got rid of page three to page twelve. I also think you need to wing it a little, sir. That’s why people like you. You’re real.”
Dellenbaugh quickly scanned the document. He handed it to Tilley, who also looked at it quickly.
“Why not?” said Tilley, shrugging. “Brevity is the soul of wit. Did you time it out?”
“With all the interruptions from people clapping and cheering, it’ll go about twenty minutes,” said Murphy.
“How many people do we expect?” said Dellenbaugh.
“It’ll be packed,” said Murphy. “A hundred thousand.” Murphy pointed at the plasma screen on the wall. “In fact, they’re already starting to arrive.”
“Roger,” said Dellenbaugh, looking at Faust. “Is the Secret Service ready?”
“Yes, sir. The field is clean, safe, and protected.”
The door to the Oval Office opened and Cecily Vincent, the president’s executive assistant, poked her head in. She looked at Dellenbaugh.
“Hector is on line one. He says he needs to speak with you.”
“Thanks.” Dellenbaugh walked behind his desk and picked up the phone.
“Hi, Hector. Can this wait?”
“No, it can’t. It’s about the woman.”
“Did she survive the surgery?” asked Dellenbaugh.
“She’s alive but unconscious. Here’s the issue. When she was found in the barn, there was a man with her. Dewey killed him. Dewey believes he was the one who shot Lindsay. He thinks he arrived at the hotel suite where she’d met Lindsay, but she was already gone and so he shot Lindsay.”
“This is interesting, Hector, but can we debrief later? I need to focus on the announcement.”
“The point is, Mr. President, what if the woman told Lindsay something, something worth killing him over?”
“Or they could’ve simply wanted him dead,” said Dellenbaugh. “Have we run down the connections to foreign intelligence agencies?”
“So far there aren’t any.”
“Maybe the woman was from the same agency,” said Dellenbaugh. “She got cold feet, didn’t kill Lindsay, they brought him in to clean it up. Or she was a decoy.”
“You could be right,” said Calibrisi. “She screwed up, they sent in a clean-up man, she ran, they tracked her, tried to kill her. Who knows?”
“So what’s the problem?”
“The problem is, there’s another explanation, and without her being conscious, we don’t know what it is. But we have to consider every possible explanation. Because one of the possible explanations has to do with some sort of attack on the United States,” said Calibrisi. “A bomb at FedEx Field, for example. She didn’t go to the authorities. She went to the United States secretary of state.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“That we hold off on your reelection announcement until we know more.”
“There are going to be a hundred thousand people at FedEx Field. They’re already starting to show up.”
“I know, sir.”
“Have there been any threats? Any chatter?”
“No.”
“And say we did cancel the event,” said Dellenbaugh, “what would that say about me? About the commander in chief? About the country? Are we really going to start allowing threats—which may or may not even exist, and if I had to bet, I would say my explanation is a better one—are we going to just fold up our tent and go home?”
Calibrisi was quiet on the other end of the line.
“I appreciate your concern,” said the president. “The stadium has been swept three times. Every square inch. Every employee on site has been vetted.”
“But there are a hundred thousand people who haven’t been vetted.”
“There’s no way a bomb or any other type of weapon is getting into that stadium,” said Dellenbaugh. “I reviewed the security protocols, so did you.”
“There’s always a way,” said Calibrisi. “You know that.”
“There are three hundred federal agents inside FedEx Field along with a hundred more outside the stadium. There are dogs, scanners, and a variety of other protective measures. We’re not canceling the event, not without something more.”
84
FEDEX FIELD
Ellsbury parked his car in Lot B, Section 4, directed there by parking attendants in bright blue windbreakers. He was early, but the lots were already so filled that he needed to park far away.
FedEx Field usually held around eighty-two thousand people, but today the expectation was closer to one hundred thousand. Tickets were free—first come, first served—and the crowds had started gathering at midnight. In the air was the smell of barbecue; many people were tailgating, as if the occasion was a sporting event. Laughter and yelling created a boisterous din. J. P. Dellenbaugh would’ve loved it.
Banners several stories tall, with the president’s face on them, hung from the side of the stadium. Photos of Dellenbaugh speaking somewhere, sleeves rolled up, finger in the air, his slightly tousled brown hair swept back from his handsome face.
FOUR MORE YEARS!!
DELLENBAUGH FOR RE-ELECTION
J.P. & DANNY FOR AMERICA!
Today, as everyone knew, J. P. Dellenbaugh was announcing his reelection campaign. The event’s popularity highlighted the simple fact that Dellenbaugh was wildly popular. He was a conservative Republican and yet every blue-collar Democrat in America adored him. The son of parents who both worked on the assembly line at General Motors, Dellenbaugh had a certain set of political beliefs—but he also understood what it meant to have calluses on your hands, to worry about how the electric bill was going to get paid, and he appreciated the hardworking men and women who were the backbone of America. Americans understood this about him. They knew he had their backs.
Ellsbury fell into the groups of people heading for the entrance to Redskins Stadium. Long lines stretched from every entrance. It took almost twenty minutes to get to the entrance and through security, which was bolt tight. In addition to two different total body scanners—one for metal, one for chemicals—an agent scanned people with a wand. A line of FBI agents stood just beyond, along with several dogs, scanning every entrant and pulling aside anyone who appeared suspicious and questioning him or her.
Ellsbury passed through everything, but one of the agents was looking at him. As he started to go left, the agent pointed at him.
“Excuse me. Can I have a word?”
Ellsbury stopped and looked at the agent, who was dressed in dark green tactical gear.
“Yeah?” said Ellsbury.
; “Are you a supporter of President Dellenbaugh?”
“Obviously.”
“Where are you from?”
“Bethesda.”
“What’s the name of the high school?” asked the agent, trying to trip up Ellsbury.
“Which one?”
“There’s only one.”
“There are three. That doesn’t include the private ones.”
“What are the names?”
“Walt Whitman, Bethesda–Chevy Chase, and Walter Johnson. Any more questions?”
“Enjoy the event,” said the agent.
Ellsbury pushed his way through the crowded concourse. He found the nearest elevator and fell into a small crowd, waiting for it to take him up.
* * *
Law stood in line at a different entrance just a few minutes after Ellsbury. Law, who was thirty years old, black, and short, looked like an old man. He had colored his hair that morning in a whitish-gray. He had on a Redskins baseball hat and a red windbreaker, and wore baggy slacks and orthopedic shoes. It was a disguise he’d employed before and had fake identification to corroborate the ruse, though as he moved slowly toward the metal detectors he knew he wouldn’t need ID. It was too chaotic. The Secret Service was content to let the metal detectors, the chemical detectors, and a slew of FBI agents and dogs do the trick. He passed through both machines and walked slowly past the FBI agents and dogs without raising so much as an eyebrow.
Inside the stadium, Law went right and walked almost three-quarters of the circumference, stopping at a concession to buy a soft pretzel and a Pepsi. He looked at his watch. It was 1:30. A large crowd was gathered at the elevators, so he took a series of escalators to the suite level. He munched on the pretzel as he ambled along the concourse to Suite 26. He removed the key from his pocket and opened the door, locking it behind him.
Law moved to the glass windows at the front of the suite and looked down at the field. In the center, a large rectangular stage had been erected, with a podium at the center. It faced away from where Law was. He would have to shoot the president in the back.
To the side, a thin, roped-off corridor stretched for the president to move down when he entered. In front of the stage, at the side of the field where the seats began, another stage was crowded with cameramen and reporters. Behind the press area, a scaffolding stood at least twenty feet high. Several cameramen were on top of it, seeking a better angle. The tiers of seats as well as the field were packed. Even with the glass shut, the sound of yelling and cheering filled the air. Country music blared from the PA system.
Law noticed people in the seats of the suite next door to him—a man with three children. He looked at the suite to the other side; there was no one there yet, but there would be.
Law removed his jacket and tossed it on the dining table. He propped one of the chairs behind the door to the suite, jamming it tight beneath the knob. He went to the bathroom and retrieved the rifle from the ceiling. He placed it on the floor in front of the wet bar, checking the weapon over to make sure it was ready.
He looked at his watch: 1:48. He found a remote on the wet bar and turned on the large flat-screen television. He put on CNN. Across the bottom of the screen, the ticker read:
DELLENBAUGH ANNOUNCES RE-ELECTION BID
Anderson Cooper’s smiling face filled the screen. He was standing somewhere down on the field, interviewing a woman in the audience as, behind them, several people waved at the camera and held up signs. Beyond Cooper and the woman stood the stage where Dellenbaugh would soon speak. Law watched for several minutes, his heart racing.
He went to the rifle and removed the scope. At the window, he looked through it, scanning the roofline. He counted a dozen men in black tactical gear walking slowly along the roof concourse. It took him longer to find the snipers; he was able to count eight, though he knew more were there. He scanned the suites as well, again looking for gunmen. He didn’t find any, but he did notice that only four suites were dark and empty. In one of them, he knew, was Ellsbury. Law didn’t worry that the other two might be law enforcement. Instead, what concerned him was the fact that so few suites appeared empty. It meant that he stood out, at least a little.
He couldn’t worry about that now, however. Now was about calming down. It was about getting in position for the optimal moment, when all eyes would be on the stage ten stories below. It was about taking the shot that would change the world.
* * *
Bruner paced in front of the window in his State Department office. Finally, he called his wife. The phone rang several times.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Janie.”
There was a long silence. “Are you there?” he said.
“I’m about to leave.”
“What’s wrong?”
She didn’t reply.
“I wanted to say that I’ll see you later, for dinner.”
“I don’t want to hear about it. Not ever.”
“Are you saying that what I’m doing is wrong?”
“Of course it’s wrong,” she cried. “But I support you. It’s just so … so horrible. Everything. Ever since…”
She stopped talking, but he knew what she was trying to say. Ever since their daughter died.
“I know,” whispered Bruner. “I don’t want to do it. We have to. I have to.”
“I know. And I love you for it. I just don’t ever want to hear about it, not ever again.”
Bruner started to hang up the phone, then stopped.
“There’s a chance it will not go according to plan,” he said. “That … some aspect of the plan will go astray.”
“What are you saying?” she asked, a hint of emotion in her voice.
“If I don’t return … if it fails and we’re discovered … I know how these things work. You’ll never see me or hear from me again. It is imperative that you tell them you knew nothing. Do you understand?”
Bruner heard soft sobs from his wife.
“They’ll kill me,” said Bruner. “But I’ll be waiting for you. I will find our daughter and we will be waiting for you.”
* * *
Bruner left his office. Outside the main entrance on C Street, an idling black Suburban waited for him. He climbed into the back, behind a pair of State Department security agents. The SUV moved down C Street, heading toward Landover.
He thought of Flaherty. He wanted to be seated next to him, like always. But the seat lay empty.
Traffic was light. Bruner was quiet as he stared out the window. He felt slightly rattled by the conversation with his wife. In many ways, he felt the same horror at what he had done—at what he was about to do—as she did. Bruner admired J. P. Dellenbaugh. Like Bruner, Dellenbaugh had grown up in a blue-collar world. Bruner’s father had been killed in Korea and he’d been raised by his mother, who delivered mail in the small Wisconsin town where he grew up. To make ends meet, she worked as a seamstress at a local dry cleaner, going in after coming home from the post office and making dinner for Bruner and his sister. She would toil alone until midnight, sometimes even later, sewing on buttons and putting hems into pants until she was too tired to work any longer. He loved his mother. He watched as she grew old before her time, comforting her when she could no longer carry a mailbag, when arthritis rendered her fingers too clumsy to sew. Yes, Bruner saw in Dellenbaugh the same strength that comes from adversity that has been visited upon one’s parents, the same determination of spirit and inner confidence that is the last refuge—the only refuge—of a poor child.
But whatever respect Bruner held for Dellenbaugh paled in comparison to the anger and hatred he felt for the animals who had killed his daughter. It had been more than three decades since he let her go by herself to the gelato shop in the train station in Madrid. The anger had never subsided. The hatred had, if anything, grown into steel purpose. Every day he thought about how much he wished he’d done something different that fateful morning. He should’ve gone with her, should’ve held her hand one last time. H
e wished he had died with her, alongside her. In a way, he had died that day. It was what made what he was about to do possible. He was already dead. His very soul was a burning trail of embers that no time, no rational thought, could ever douse. Bruner would be called history’s most evil man—worse than bin Laden, worse than Stalin, worse even than Hitler—and yet he didn’t care. He didn’t care that he would be known as the man who wiped out Islam. He didn’t care, not because he cared more about avenging his daughter’s murder, but because he believed his legacy would be a safer world for all daughters, that killing hundreds of millions, even billions, of Muslims would help ensure a world that would be free.
No president could do what Bruner was about to do. But it was the only solution. Now that it was upon him, he felt the weight of his decisions.
“Do you still believe?” he whispered to himself.
As the Suburban approached FedEx Field, it joined a traffic jam of vehicles entering the stadium proper. Every line of cars had to go through a security perimeter, where three security personnel—FBI agents in black tactical gear, clutching rifles—asked for identification from everyone in each vehicle, scanning licenses on a portable electronic screen the size of an iPad. At the same time, one of the other agents opened trunks, scanned the trunks for explosives, and waved a bomb-detecting wand underneath the chassis.
When the Suburban made it to the front of the line, the two men in front handed their identification to an agent, who scanned their IDs. Bruner opened his window and handed over his ID.
“Mr. Bruner,” said the agent, returning the ID. “You have a reserved space near the D entrance.”
“Thank you,” said Bruner.
85
FEDEX FIELD
The president’s limousine entered FedEx Field through the delivery entrance and drove slowly through a phalanx of security, parking well beneath the stadium, where a throng of more than a hundred VIPs were standing. A member of the White House advance team met the limo and opened the back door. Suddenly, the sound from FedEx Field came booming in. Country music—Dellenbaugh’s favorite—was playing, a song by Florida Georgia Line, blasting over the perpetual din of people cheering, shouting “Four more years!” and clapping.
