“I do mean it. I’m telling you… look it’d be a lot easier if I had a name—even a first name…” he hesitated, waiting to see if there would be a reaction.
“No deal. Call me mister. That’ll do. And stop trying to trick me here with your smart-ass ‘I want to be your friend’ shit.”
“Hey, it’s no trick. And okay, maybe I don’t want to be your friend. But I do want to be able to negotiate with you. I want us to be able to trust each other.”
“Well, okay, maybe we could do a little something to establish trust. I’ll tell you what, you can call me Roger.”
“Hey, that’s fine,” said Colby. “Now we’re getting somewhere, Roger.”
“Glad you think so, Dent,” the other man replied, laying a sarcastic emphasis on the name. “Now you can do a little something for me to show we can trust you.”
“Name it. If I can do it, it’s yours,” said Colby.
“Good. Well here’s the pitch, Denton: the British government has just arrested four Irish freedom fighters in Liverpool.”
For a second or two, Colby was speechless. The night before, the TV news had carried an item about a bomb squad from an ultra right Irish breakaway group being caught in the British seaport city. He hurried to regain his composure.
“Yeah… right… I saw that on the news last night, Roger,” he said, wondering where the hell this was going.
“They’re our comrades in arms. We want them set free. See what you can do or you can kiss four of these hostages good-bye.”
“See what I can do? They’re in Britain for Chrissake—” Colby began desperately. But the loudspeaker above the desk was silent. The other man had broken the connection.
TWENTY-SIX
THE OVAL OFFICE
WASHINGTON D.C.
1750 HOURS, EASTERN TIME
SUNDAY, DAY 2
President Gorton swept an angry gaze around the assembled group.
“Irish patriots?” he asked, the sarcasm thick in his voice. “A bunch of bog stupid fucking Irish thugs and none of you had the slightest idea who we were dealing with? Gentlemen, I am speechless, totally speechless, with the absolute lack of meaningful intelligence coming to this office from your organizations.”
He paused, waiting to see if any of them might choose to defend themselves. There seemed to be nobody willing to say anything so he continued, belying his earlier claim to be totally speechless. “Now if any of you think for one minute that I am going to go cap in hand to the British Prime Minister and beg his help in this matter, you have another think coming. So when you finally collect your wits and decide to suggest some course of action to me, don’t make the mistake of including that one. Do I make myself clear?”
Again, his eyes swept the room and again he was greeted by silence. Even Haddenrich, he noticed with a small thrill of pleasure, who usually maintained an unruffled and sardonic demeanor in these meetings, seemed chastened by the failure of her organization to have seen the hand of the Irish rebel group behind the attempted extortion bid.
He had been leaning forward in his chair as his voice flailed them. Now he sat back abruptly, the springs and leather creaking under the sudden impact.
“If any of you have any ideas, any ideas at all, I’d be willing to listen to them.”
Linus Benjamin cleared his throat. It was, after all, his principle responsibility. “Mr. President,” he said. “We can’t be totally sure that these people are aligned to the Irish situation—”
The president’s sharp voice cut him off before he could finish the statement. “Is that right, Director Benjamin? We can’t be sure? Well, I’d say a message that says ‘Give us nine point seven million dollars and turn loose our Irish comrades’ might give us a pretty broad hint that they are, wouldn’t you? It also tells us what they want the money for. They’ll have it earmarked to buy weapons.”
He glanced down the table and singled out the smooth-cheeked face of the Harvard professor. “Which also seems to blow your ridiculous ‘message’ theory out of the water, Mr. Emery.”
Emery shrugged. He knew there was no point arguing. Benjamin, however, felt that he should make another attempt.
“Mr. President,” he said. “It’s not unusual in these situations for the terrorists to try to muddy the waters on us. After reflection, that’s what our man on the spot thinks is happening. This is the first time any mention has been made of any link to the Irish. Besides, this group in Liverpool are a one-off bunch of crazies. The IRA has given up on that sort of thing these days.”
“Jesus Christ, Mr. Director, will you have the grace to admit you are wrong! These people have slipped under the guard of the FBI, the CIA, the NSA and just about everybody else with a set of initials to identify them as intelligence experts, and you choose to simply deny their existence?”
“Sir, that’s not exactly—” Benjamin began but again he was cut off.
“Now I’m sorry if your collective egos have been bruised here. But so far, the only knowledge we have of these people is that they hold the whip hand, they are demanding money and they are aligned to the Irish…” he paused, looking down at the notes on his desk.
“Irish Action Group” Pohlsen reminded him quietly and he nodded quickly in acknowledgment.
“Exactly. Now, until we find out that they are not so aligned, we will proceed on the assumption that they are! Is that a reasonable course of action?”
“Yes, sir,” Benjamin answered, speaking for the group. “I was merely saying that we should keep our options—”
“Thank you, Mr. Director. I’ll give that advice the consideration it deserves. By tomorrow morning, I want your recommendations as to what course we should follow in this matter. And we will proceed on the assumption that we are dealing with representatives of the IAG. Is anyone among you too distressed with that premise to continue?” He glared at them all, challenging them. Nobody spoke. He noticed, with some anger, that the special adviser, Emery, met his gaze coolly, refusing to let his eyes drop before the president’s anger, refusing to try to mask the hint of scarcely veiled criticism in his expression.
“That will be all,” Gorton said shortly and, as the group began to gather papers together and prepare to leave, he added, “Emery: I’ll trouble you to stay for a moment.” Several of the others exchanged glances. Truscott Emery inclined his head gracefully in a half-bow.
“Of course, Mr. President,” he replied.
Gorton waited impatiently, fidgeting with a mother-of-pearl-handled letter opener while the others left the office. When he, his chief of staff and Truscott Emery were the only ones remaining, he spoke. “Mr. Emery,” he said, refusing to give the man his academic title of doctor, “I was willing to retain you on my staff in memory of my predecessor, and in accordance with what I am sure his wishes would have been.”
Emery noticed the conditional nature of the opening statement. He nodded, watching the president closely, seeing the barely concealed satisfaction that underpinned his words.
“However,” Gorton said, “your attitude has left me with no alternative but to discontinue your activities in the White House.”
“My attitude, Mr. President?” Emery said, with a look of feigned surprise that served only to goad the small-minded man opposite him.
“I demand loyalty, Mr. Emery, as I’m sure President Couch would have. And I’m afraid I’m not getting it from you. You’ve shown your utter disregard for this office, in your attitude and in your words.”
He reached for a control console on the side of the desk and pressed a switch. There was a brief hiss from hidden loudspeakers in the room, then Emery’s voice, clear and unmistakable, after the electronic filtering and digital enhancement that had been carried out on the original tape could be heard.
“It doesn’t bother me who’s eavesdropping on this. After all, it may be the only way to get an idea heard at top levels these days.”
Gorton hit the switch again and the tape stopped. He raised one eyebrow at the
academic.
“Well?” he said.
Emery shrugged. “I see no disrespect there,” he said evenly.
“Well, that’s where we differ, Mr. Emery. How dare you accuse the President of the United States of eavesdropping? You make it sound as if I were kneeling with my ear to the keyhole. You made reference to me making a ‘simplistic suggestion,’ I think the term was. Not only that, but you disobeyed my explicit wish, in promulgating your ridiculous ‘message’ theory to my senior advisers.
“And I’ll point out, Mr. Emery, that subsequent events have demonstrated how mistaken that theory was, and how correct I was in directing you to stop wasting your time and the time of my council with it. You see no disrespect, do you? Well let me tell you, I have seen little from you but disrespect for this office since I assumed the presidency.”
Gorton stopped, leaning forward in his chair, stabbing the air with one forefinger to emphasize his words. Emery held his ground, his head tilted slightly to one side as he regarded the seething man across the desk from him. He realized that his time in the White House was finally at an end and, with a sense of surprise, he recognized the fact that he was relieved that it was.
“Believe me, Mr. President,” he said calmly, “my respect for the office of the presidency is unwavering—regardless of how I might feel about some of the people who have filled that office.”
The words hung in the air between them, their meaning all too clear. Gorton regarded the smooth-cheeked, harmless looking little academic with something very close to hatred.
“You’re finished in this office, Emery. Get out. Get out now!” he spat. Emery rose, and again gave that half-bow.
“You’ll have my resignation by the end of the day, sir,” he said calmly.
“I don’t need it!” Gorton spat back at him. “You’re fired. Terence, make sure his security passes are invalidated as of this moment. He is out.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” the chief of staff murmured. He had seen this moment coming and felt no sympathy for Emery, whom, he had always felt, looked upon him with a kind of intellectual contempt.
“I’ll be gone as soon as I clean out my desk,” Truscott Emery said, addressing the remark to the chief of staff.
But it was the president who answered. “You’ll be gone right now! As of this moment, you have no security clearance here and you no longer have any business in the White House. Your files are government property. Any personal items you may have will be sent to your apartment.”
He felt a savage stab of satisfaction as Emery raised his eyebrows in surprise. Finally, thought Gorton, he had cut through that imperturbable facade. Then Emery recovered his poise and, turning his back on the President of the United States, he left the Oval Office for the last time.
TWENTY-SEVEN
BASE OF THE WHITE EAGLE CHAIRLIFT
SNOW EAGLES RESORT
WASATCH COUNTY
0840 HOURS, MOUNTAIN TIME
MONDAY, DAY 3
It had been a long, uncomfortable night. Jesse had left the shelter of the hotel around 11:40, a few minutes after the moon had set over White Eagle Ridge.
He had decided that moving across the open ground between the hotel and the chairlift system during daylight was simply too risky. He had no idea what sort of lookout was being kept from the roof and all it needed was one man looking down and seeing a figure moving in the open to give the entire game away.
Consequently, he had decided to make his move in darkness, spend the rest of the night in the chairlift terminal building and take the first chair up the mountain once they started running in the morning.
He’d collected some food from the pantry and used Tina’s pass card to let himself into several of the other rooms on the fifth floor, where he helped himself to the minibars, taking a few bottles of soda and as many of water as he could lay his hands on. He’d loaded his supplies into a small skier’s backpack that he found in one of the rooms, then spent the remaining time fashioning a poncho-like garment from one of the hotel’s white bedcovers. With the white poncho draped over his head and shoulders, his dark-colored ski clothes would be less visible as he moved across the snow-covered ground to the chairlift terminal.
That nerve-racking journey was one of the longest in Jesse’s life. He pushed off from the sheltering bulk of the hotel building, gliding smoothly on his skis across the flat, white ground. It was about one hundred and fifty yards to the terminal and for every inch of it, Jesse’s shoulders twitched expectantly, waiting for the shout to come from above and behind him, followed by a hail of automatic fire. Even without a moon, the snow-covered ground provided a terrifyingly bright light. The white camouflage provided by the poncho seemed pitifully inadequate. It was only when he finally glided into the dark shadow of the terminal building that Jesse realized he had been holding his breath, in a ridiculous attempt to make himself less conspicuous. His upper body was soaked with nervous sweat.
The terminal was simply a large metal shed, open at either end, where the chairlift ran in from the mountain, disconnected onto a slow speed bullwheel while skiers took their seats, then reconnected to the fast-moving cable to speed away up the mountain again. The sides and roof were intended to provide a certain amount of cover for the skiers and the lift attendants during bad weather. But it definitely wasn’t designed as a place to spend the night in below-freezing conditions. There was a small, enclosed cabin for the lift attendants. The door was locked but Jesse rammed an elbow through the glass window and let himself in. He huddled down on the floor of the little cabin, wrapping the poncho around him, cursing the sweat that was now clammy and freezing on his body.
Eventually, he slept, cramped and uncomfortable. He was roused with a jerk by the sudden clash of gears as the timer cut in and the chairlift’s giant electric motor came to life a few yards from him. He groaned and tried to move, his cramped muscles protesting. He’d slept with his head twisted to one side and he could barely turn his neck. That was going to make skiing a lot of fun, he thought ruefully and then gingerly moved his head in a circle to try to loosen the muscles.
Outside, the chairs were slowly parading past the hut, then connecting onto the drive cable to go dancing away up the mountain as the impetus of the sudden start-up sent the whole system bouncing against the spring of the cable. Jesse took a swig from one of his water bottles, and ate a Hershey bar. Along with his cell phone, he’d collected a small pair of folding binoculars from his car the previous night. Taking them now, he moved to the edge of the terminal shed to a spot where he could see the hotel building.
Staying back in the shadows, he focused the binoculars on the rooftop, scanning for any sight of a sentry or a watcher looking in his direction. Nothing was visible, but that didn’t mean nobody was watching. They could be in any of the top floor rooms, he realized. There was no need for them to stay out in the cold to keep watch. Only the gun and missile crews would need to be actually at their posts through the night.
Still, there was no point worrying about observers who might or might not be there. He waited for a gap between chairs and made his way back to the hut. He slung the backpack once more, then draped the white poncho over his head and shoulders. He clipped his skis together. He didn’t plan to ride the chairlift sitting up with his legs dangling. The quad chair was long enough to accommodate him lying down, and the perspex bubble should shield him from view as he made his way up the mountain.
A chair clattered past the hut and he stepped out behind it, waiting for the next in line. It moved smoothly up to him and he blessed the fact that this was a detachable chairlift. It gave him time to get settled and out of sight before he was out in the open. Clutching the skis to his chest, he lay sideways on the chair, feeling the jolt as it moved from the bullwheel to the high-speed cable, and whipped away from the station in a series of giant swoops. He glanced back over his shoulder, his neck muscles protesting fiercely at the movement. As he had foreseen, the perspex weather cover, which was automatically t
ripped open when the chair reached the station, lay open behind him, effectively screening him from view. He settled back and made himself as comfortable as possible, listening to the hum of the cable and the repetitive rattle of the chair passing over the pylons en route.
He’d ridden this chair many times in the previous week and when he judged he was nearly at the top, he swung himself upright in the seat. The hotel was far below him now and the chance that he might be seen was a very small one. He stretched his neck again, moving his head in ever larger circles, despite the pain that screeched at him. Then the chair was passing the last marker and sliding into the top terminal. He felt the jerk of deceleration as it disconnected onto another bullwheel, then he stepped off and walked clear.
His cell phone was in his parka’s inside pocket and he checked it now, only to read the message “No signal” in the tiny screen. He shrugged. Obviously, he would have to climb the last hundred and fifty yards to the summit, and ski around to the top of the cable car station to get a clear line to a cell aerial.
Getting to the top of the ridge took him another twenty minutes, side-stepping up the slope through the deep, soft powder, and often having to detour to get around thick-growing groves of trees. At least now there was no fear that he might be seen from below, as the hotel was well and truly screened from view by an intervening ridge. Fit as he was, he paused, breathing heavily, at the top. His legs felt like lead and the muscles were on fire. Later, he knew, they’d warm up and the pain would lessen. But for now, the lactic acid in his muscles was torture. He had a breather at the top of the ridge and took another swig of water. Ridiculous how, surrounded by millions of gallons, frozen in the form of snow, a man’s throat and mouth could become so dry and parched in this atmosphere. Again he checked the phone, but the same message was still glowing on the screen. He hadn’t expected otherwise.