by Ben Coes
“We found Harry Black in Bruner’s basement,” said George Kratovil. “He’s on his way to Guantánamo Bay. Unfortunately, Bobby Largent is still at large.”
For three days, Bruner’s small army of traitors had been hunted down like dogs. With the help of the NSA, the members of Order 6 were relatively easy to find. Dellenbaugh signed a secret presidential order giving the CIA license to kill any members of the conspiracy. A few came forward and confessed. They were sent to Gitmo.
Dellenbaugh held a large photo of the woman, Romy Banker, without whose help the conspirators would have prevailed. It was an old photo of her, taken at her chalet in the French countryside, found by field agents. Her hair was blond and braided in a simple honeycomb atop her head. She was tan, with small freckles. Her beauty was astonishing—she looked like a young Catherine Deneuve. She appeared shy, as if she didn’t want her photo to be taken. But there was the faintest hint of a smile.
“How is Romy doing?” asked Dellenbaugh.
“She’s doing better,” said King, the White House chief of staff. “I visited her yesterday.”
“Does she have any family?” said Dellenbaugh.
“Not that we know of,” said King.
“What do we know about her?”
Several heads turned, wondering who would answer.
“We don’t know much beyond the file,” said Calibrisi. “We’ve scoured her home in France. We found plenty concerning her husband, but very little on her.”
“What is she going to do now?” asked Brubaker, the national security advisor.
“I don’t know,” said Calibrisi. “She needs to recover. Then I suppose she’ll want to go back to France.”
“Do they have children?”
“No.”
Dellenbaugh continued to hold the photo. Then he placed it on the coffee table.
“The answer to ‘What will she do now?’ is ‘Whatever she wants,’” he said, looking at Calibrisi, then around the room. “If it wasn’t for this woman, the United States of America would be gone. It was that close. And the United States of America will never forget it. Romy Banker is going to do whatever she wants and we are going to make sure of that.”
“Does that mean money, sir?”
“It means protecting her,” said Dellenbaugh. “It might mean money too. If she wants to move to someplace, a villa on the coast of New Zealand, a ranch in Montana, it doesn’t matter. It happens. We make it happen. Whoever this woman is, she saved the United States of America.”
“I agree,” said Calibrisi.
“So do I,” said Piper Redgrave, head of the NSA.
“I agree wholeheartedly, Mr. President,” said Brubaker.
“Okay, okay, I get it,” said Adrian King, “I get the picture. No need for everyone to say ‘I agree.’ I really don’t feel like listening to all you say ‘I agree’ for the next half hour.”
The room erupted in laughter.
King grinned ever so slightly. “For what it’s worth, I agree too. In fact, I’ve already put into motion a Presidential Commendation and some sort of congressional honor.”
“I’ll handle setting up the security for her,” said Calibrisi. “It will make sense to coordinate it with local law enforcement, so that they understand her safety is important to the White House and the U.S. government. We’ll also figure out some sort of twenty-four/seven armed envelope as well as an advanced electronic perimeter connected to us.”
The door to the office opened and John Schmidt, the communications director, stuck his head in. Dellenbaugh was giving his first press conference since the events at FedEx Field.
“They’re ready, sir. It’s live.”
“Don’t we have a few more minutes?” said Dellenbaugh.
“Actually, it was supposed to start ten minutes ago, Mr. President.”
Dellenbaugh stood up. “Oops,” he said.
“It’s only half a billion people, sir,” said Schmidt with a sarcastic grin. “I’m sure they don’t mind waiting.”
99
WALTER REED MEDICAL CENTER
BETHESDA, MARYLAND
Dewey stepped out of his town house. He walked down the block until he came to the door of a red Ford F-250, which was covered in dust and dirt. He climbed in and drove to Walter Reed Medical Center, just up the road in Bethesda.
Dewey parked and went inside the massive facility. On the fourth floor, past a team of FBI agents, he came to a door and knocked.
“Come in,” said the person inside in a soft female voice with a French accent.
“Hi, Romy,” he said.
She was in a large bed, with an assortment of tubes and monitors still attached to her. The top of her head was covered in a large white bandage.
“Dewey,” said Romy. “I’m so happy to see you, but I feel bad. You don’t need to come every day, you know. I feel perhaps I am a headache to you.”
Dewey went to the side of Romy’s bed. He smiled at her.
“Quite the opposite,” he said, putting his hand on hers and holding it for a few moments. “How you feeling?”
“A little better.”
Dewey nodded, trying to think of something to say. But she spoke first.
“The news said Bruner was shot.”
“Yes.”
“Did you do it?” Romy said.
Dewey was quiet. For a few seconds he said nothing.
“You can tell me.”
“Yeah.”
Dewey’s eyes went to the bandage atop her head. She noticed.
“It’s not very pretty, is it?”
“It looks fine.”
“Thank you.”
“So, what will you do now?”
Romy looked at Dewey for a long time, saying nothing.
“I don’t know. I don’t have anything, really. Everything I thought I had was a lie. I don’t know.”
“Well, when it’s time to get out of here, I’d be glad to show you around a little. Washington, that sort of thing. I have a truck. We can run over some politicians and lobbyists.”
She giggled. “It’s a plan.”
* * *
Down the hall, Dewey went to another door. He entered without knocking.
Tacoma’s hospital room was bright with lights and filled with state-of-the-art medical equipment. A multitude of low beeps created a constant rhythm. In the middle, a man lay on the bed. A spaghetti plate worth of tubes and wires ran from various pieces of equipment into his body. The right side of his head was bandaged. A spot of blood colored the outer edge.
He was awake, but barely. His neck was in a large white brace.
Dewey sat down next to the bed and put his feet up on the railing.
“Hey, dickhead,” Dewey said. “Bright idea. Trying to stop the train with your head.”
Tacoma didn’t move, but his eyes grew a little wider. His lips spread into a droopy, heavily sedated smile.
“How’s Katie?” he whispered.
“She’s fine,” said Dewey. “You saved her life.”
“No I didn’t.”
“You almost did. If you hadn’t tripped on your shoelaces, I’m guessing you would have saved her.”
Tacoma’s lips moved into a smile and he laughed.
Dewey stood up. “I need to go. I’ll be back in a few days.”
“A few days?” whispered Tacoma. “What for?”
“Business trip.”
“Where you going?”
“West Virginia.”
100
DURBIN, WEST VIRGINIA
Dewey reached Durbin as the sun was setting. He pulled up in front of a small pub called Al’s Upper Inn Club.
The pub was dimly lit and mostly empty. A country tune was playing on the jukebox. Dewey took a seat at the bar.
An old, bearded bartender approached.
“Hey,” he said. “I get you something?”
“Yeah, I’ll take two shots of Jack Daniel’s and a beer.”
The bartender nodded. “Sounds good
.”
A few minutes later, he brought Dewey his drinks.
“I need to talk with your dishwasher,” said Dewey, hoisting one of the shots and downing it.
Dewey placed a twenty on the bar to pay for his drinks.
“Dishwasher? You mean Steve?”
“Kittridge.”
“Can I tell him who’s here to see him?”
“I wouldn’t,” said Dewey.
* * *
It was Samantha Stout who figured out where Largent was.
The theft of the Honda from Capitol Hill had been easy. Largent took it to Dulles because he wanted everyone to spend time trying to figure out how he got away—which flight, under what alias.
Samantha monitored local police reports from Chantilly, the town Dulles was located in. Sure enough, a woman reported that her car was stolen a few hours after the Honda Largent had driven to Dulles was discovered.
Samantha had entered the vehicle’s VIN in a variety of NSA software applications designed to flag activity in real time. Two days after the car—a 1994 Ford Taurus—was reported missing, a seventeen-year-old named Steven Kittridge from Durbin, West Virginia, had attempted to register a 1994 Ford Taurus in his own name. Its VIN was almost exactly the same as the stolen vehicle’s, the only difference being the last digit, which, Samantha guessed, had been altered by Kittridge.
* * *
A skinny kid with greasy brown hair emerged from the back of the restaurant. He looked at Dewey and slowly approached.
“Yeah?” he said.
“You can keep the fucking car,” said Dewey. “But you’re going to tell me exactly where you found it.”
Dewey downed the other shot of whiskey.
Steven looked momentarily shocked.
“Well … I … what car?”
Dewey stared at him. “Let’s go.”
“I’m working,” said Steven. “Who the fuck are—”
Dewey reached over the bar and grabbed his arm, lifted him up onto the bar and dragged him over, then hurled him against the wall.
Steven screamed as he hit the wall.
“I said let’s go. I work for the U.S. government. That’s all you need to know. So you can show me where you found the piece-of-shit Taurus of your own free will, and then keep the piece-of-shit Taurus, or I can make you show me, in which case I guarantee you will not only not keep the fucking car, but you’ll also have two broken arms, not to mention I’ll turn your ass in for altering the VIN, which is against the law.”
* * *
“It was down there,” said Steven, pointing from the railroad bridge at the Greenbrier River. “We were walking right here. I saw it. It was underwater. I borrowed a tow truck from my uncle. We pulled it out. Am I in trouble, mister?”
Dewey ignored the question.
“You fish?”
“Yeah.”
“Are there any old camps along here?”
“Sure, a few.”
“I’m talking about old ones. Abandoned.”
“Yeah. There’s one about a mile from here, down toward Bartow. There’s also a few along near Hosterman.”
Dewey gave Steven a ride back to Al’s. At the bar, he made Steven draw a map, marking the locations of the four camps he could think of.
Dewey had one more beer, one more whiskey, then left.
* * *
Dewey parked his truck along a dirt road off the main road down to Hosterman. He looked at his watch. It was four in the morning.
He should’ve been tired, but he wasn’t.
His hair was drenched in sweat. He had already scouted three of the camps Steven identified. To get to them, Dewey was forced to walk for miles along the roiling waters of the Greenbrier. All three had been empty. This was the last one. Yet Dewey had known from the beginning that it was the one where Largent was hiding. After driving the car into the river, it was the closest. Dewey hadn’t gone to it first not because he doubted his convictions but, rather, because he was certain of them. He used the other three camps to acclimate himself to the West Virginia night. To remind himself of what it meant to travel alone, in the darkness, in the bitter cold, how to read by the ambient light, then, upon sighting one’s target, how to approach, to stalk, to come within a hundred yards without alerting someone, then a hundred feet, and finally a hundred inches. How to make the final silent steps across thrush and bramble, using the patter of the running river to cloak the noise.
Dewey ran in the low grass just above the dark riverbank, his gun at his side, the way a runner grips the baton. Dewey’s Colt M1911A1 was locked and loaded, the safety off.
After fifteen minutes of a slow, quiet run, he caught the angular silhouette of the shack, nestled near a tree in the bend of the river.
He moved with a deathlike silence, each step now in slow motion, each breath a hushed whisper. It had taken Dewey fifteen minutes to run two miles from where he’d parked the truck, but now it took him a full hour to move the final fifty feet to the cabin.
He approached the corner of the decrepit structure, looking at the sky. A spectral gray had overtaken the sky as dawn approached. Dewey extended a finger, touching the wood for a brief moment. He raised the gun and aimed it at the opening into the shack—what had once been a doorway. He waited, listening to the sound of the river, watching as the sky moved from gray to muddy blue then to dark tan. He stood as still as stone, the Colt trained at the door.
The creak of the wood came almost two hours after Dewey took up position. It was followed by another creak, this one louder. The footsteps moved along old boards, and then Largent emerged through the doorway. Slowly, he turned and found himself staring down the muzzle of Dewey’s gun. Largent remained still as his eyes went from the gun to Dewey.
“FBI?” said Largent.
Dewey said nothing.
“Do you want me to put my hands up?” said Largent.
“I don’t care,” said Dewey.
“Are you arresting me?”
Dewey shook his head.
Largent nodded slowly.
“Well, go ahead, then.”
Dewey fired. The bullet struck Largent in the center of his chest, kicking him backward, though he fought to remain standing. His hand went to his chest, pawing at the bullet hole. He lifted his hand and stared at the blood on his fingers.
“Nineteen eleven…” He coughed, the first mouthful of blood coursing over his lips, and he staggered. “That’s a good gun.”
Then he fell to the ground and died.
Dewey moved over Largent. He kept the gun trained on him as he knelt down and put a finger to his neck. Largent had no pulse. His eyes stared out helplessly, seeing nothing.
Dewey holstered the gun. He went inside and picked up the shotgun. He looked briefly around the abandoned cabin. He came back out and stared down at Largent’s corpse, bleeding out all over the ground. After a few moments, Dewey grabbed Largent by the collar of his coat, then hoisted him with a grunt onto his shoulder, fireman style.
Dewey walked back along the river as the sun was just beginning to shine over the blue West Virginia hills to the east. It was a few miles, he knew, and Largent was heavy, and he was a traitor, and he could’ve just left him there. Someone from the FBI could’ve come and gotten the body later, yet Dewey knew that he was the one who needed to do it. He was the one who needed to kill him, and he was the one who needed to carry him out. It had nothing to do with Largent. It didn’t even have anything to with America. No, Dewey needed to do it for himself.
EPILOGUE
GEORGETOWN
Dewey heard the doorbell and went downstairs. He opened the door. Standing on the brick front steps was a tall man, college or high school age, dressed in a dark blue suit with a bright yellow tie. He was holding a thick envelope.
“Mr. Andreas?” the young man said.
“Yeah.”
“I’m Peter Pitchess from the White House. I’m a White House intern. I was sent here to hand-deliver this.”
Pit
chess handed Dewey the envelope. His name was written across the front in fancy calligraphy. The back of the envelope had a raised emblem, done in gold—a drawing of the White House.
Dewey didn’t have a shirt on. His hair was still wet. A drop flipped down onto the envelope, hitting the ink of his name, which immediately started to run.
“What is it?” said Dewey.
“Officially, I’m not supposed to know,” said Pitchess. “But it’s an invitation to the state dinner.”
Dewey nodded, impressed.
“When is it?” Dewey said.
“I think it’s on the twenty-seventh,” said Pitchess. “You, ah, could open it. It’ll probably say the date.”
Dewey handed it to Pitchess.
“You open it.”
Pitchess excitedly took the envelope. Gingerly, he put a finger at the seam of the envelope and opened it. He pulled out a thick piece of paper. The paper was a subtle mint green, with a thin black line around the border, and the White House at the top, again in gold.
* * *
White House
President and Mrs. John Patrick Dellenbaugh cordially invite you to a State Dinner at the White House in honor of our great friends from Great Britain, the Prime Minister the Right Honorable Piers Stanwich and Doctor Stella Hartford of 10 Downing Street, London. The date has been set for Saturday, the Twenty-seventh of May. The honor of your presence is requested.
* * *
Pitchess stared at the invitation, his mouth agape. “Wow. Thanks for letting me see that.”
“No prob,” said Dewey.
“Um, so I’m supposed to ask for an answer. I mean, I’m sure the answer’s yes, but I’m supposed to ask.”
Dewey smiled. “I need to check my schedule.”
“Seriously?”
Dewey grinned. “Yeah, just tell them to tell the president I need to check my schedule.”
* * *
Dewey and Daisy decided to walk from Georgetown to the White House, rather than drive or get an Uber—and rather than accept Hector’s offer of a ride.
