"Who are these 'friends of trust' you are referring to?" he asked.
"Members of an organization who have guaranteed that the people who will be voted to replace the president of France and the chancellor of Germany will wholly support whatever we do."
"I see," the president said finally. There was no point in asking what this "organization" was because they wouldn't tell him. Instead he put his hands in his pockets and walked over to where a large window opened out onto lighted formal gardens. Through it he could see two Secret Service agents standing in the shadows. There would be more he couldn't see.
For a long moment he stood there with his back to them. They were waiting for his answer. They could wait a while longer as he tried to put it together, to understand how all this had happened and what would happen next. As he did, Jake Lowe's words cut through him.
Before, when we went into Iraq, when we had problems with France and Germany and Russia our people were not yet in place. Now they are.
Our people.
Now they are.
Now they are.
Whatever this organization was, it was strikingly clear that they, all of them, were members of it and what they had planned they had been working on for a long time. And now, finally, they had people in every country that counted in position to execute it, himself included. He looked back and then started across the room toward them.
"Does Harry Ivers belong to this 'organization'? You all know Harry Ivers, chairman of the National Transportation Safety Board. The man in charge of investigating the crash of Congressman Parsons's plane." Suddenly he looked to Tom Curran, his chief of staff.
"Congressman Parsons tried to get an appointment to see me. Twice. Once during and once immediately following the close of the subcommittee hearings on intelligence and counterterrorism. You knew he had full access to me at any time. Why didn't those meetings happen?"
"Your schedule was full, Mr. President."
"That's bullshit, Tom." The president looked around the room, stopping at each of the eight men in turn. "Congressman Parsons was onto something, wasn't he? It had to do with his subcommittee looking into the supposedly dead South African bioweapons program and the questioning of this Dr. Merriman Foxx. I'm guessing that that program or some offshoot of it is not dead at all. And whatever it is, somehow we, or rather you and your 'friends of trust,' are involved with it.
"You thought Mike Parsons as a strong conservative would go along with it but he wouldn't and threatened to bring it to me if you didn't back away from it. The result was you killed him."
There was a long silence and then National Security Adviser Marshall spoke. "He couldn't be trusted, Mr. President."
The president suddenly became furious. "And his son and everyone else on board that plane?"
"It was a matter of national security." Marshall was cold and unemotional.
"His wife, too."
"Who knows what he might have told her? Her doctor gave her a little something to take care of the problem."
"Dr. Stephenson."
"Yes, sir."
"Her reward was that somebody cut off her head."
"Unfortunately she became frightened afterward and that put her into the category of 'liability' and she had to be terminated."
The president's eyes left Marshall and swung to the others. Every one of them stared back at him in silence. And that included his long-time political adviser and close friend, Jake Lowe, and his dear host, Evan Byrd.
"Jesus, God," he breathed. He had no friends here, none at all. Again he heard Jake Lowe's words. Before . . . our people were not yet in place. Now they are.
And before they didn't have the weapons they needed.
Now they did.
"What you are planning is some kind of biological warfare. Against what, the Muslim states?"
"Mr. President." Vice President Hamilton Rogers crossed in front of Marshall. Rogers was blond with dark savage eyes, ten years his junior and far more conservative. The truth was he had fought against having him as a running mate, feeling he was much too conservative, but had finally given in to the pressure of Lowe who had convinced him Rogers was the man to push the vote over. Now he knew why. Rogers was one of them. Whoever they were.
"For the security of the nation we are asking you to authorize the physical elimination of the president of France and the chancellor of Germany. Please give us that authorization."
In that instant President Harris knew that if he didn't go along with everything they wanted, they would kill him. And then, by law, the vice president would become president and authorize the killings anyway. Looking at them—who they were, the offices they represented, the vast connections they had—he realized that from top to bottom there was no one he dared trust. No one. Even his private secretary, who had been with him for nearly twenty years, had to be suspect. The same with his Secret Service protectors, and that included his SAIC, Hap Daniels. What he needed was time to find some way out, to find some way to stop them and whatever horrifying Armageddon they were planning.
"Where and when do you want to carry out this 'removal'?" he said.
"At the NATO meeting in Warsaw. When the whole world is watching."
"I see," the president nodded, then once again looked around the room at the faces of the men watching him, waiting for his answer.
"I need time to think about it," he said quietly. "Now, I'm tired. I would like to go back to my hotel and get some sleep."
FRIDAY
APRIL 7
30
• MADRID, HOTEL RITZ, 1:25 A.M.
Jake Lowe took the call in the dark in his private fourth floor suite.
"Yes," he said, moving up on an elbow in bed, then instinctively glancing around, making sure he was alone.
"I have a mosquito that needs swatting," a middle-aged female voice said calmly. "His name is Nicholas Marten. He pretended to be an associate of Representative Baker. How he found us I don't know. He was asking very 'enlightened' questions. He was also with Mrs. Parsons in the last hours before she died."
"Yes, I'm aware of that."
"I would like to find out who he works for, what he knows, and if anyone is working with him before we call in an exterminator."
"Where is he now?" Lowe asked.
"Malta. The Castille Hotel."
"When are you leaving?"
"Shortly."
"I'll be in touch."
There was a click as the caller hung up. Lowe hesitated for a moment, then turned on the bedside lamp and picked up his BlackBerry. The voice had come over a secure phone and had been altered and then digitally scrambled, making it virtually impossible to identify, let alone trace. Only one person had the equipment and the necessary code to use it—Merriman Foxx.
• VALLETTA, MALTA, BRITISH HOTEL, 6:45 A.M
"Come back in five minutes!" Demi Picard barked in answer to a knock on her door. She fastened the last buttons of a blue-striped man-tailored shirt, slipped a woven leather belt through her tan slacks, then, one, two, clipped on a pair of small gold hoop earrings.
The knock came again. She sighed in annoyance, then went to the door.
"I told you to come back in—" she said as she opened it, then stopped in mid-sentence.
Nicholas Marten stood there.
"I was expecting a porter," she snapped in the same infuriated tone she'd used the night before. Immediately she turned and went back into the room to take a blue blazer from the closet. Her all-but-packed suitcase was open on the bed, her camera gear in a hard case next to it.
"You're leaving."
"Like everyone else, thanks to you."
"Me?"
She glared at him. "Yes."
"Who is everyone?"
"Dr. Foxx left early this morning. So did Reverend Beck a short while later. So did Cristina."
"For where?"
"I don't know. I found a note under my door from Reverend Beck saying he had been called away unexpectedly and that our trip to
the Balkans had been canceled."
"What about the other two?"
"I called Cristina's room to see what she knew about it and was told she'd already checked out." Abruptly Demi went into the bathroom. A moment later she came back with a small bag of toiletries. "I made the same call to Foxx's apartment. His housekeeper said he'd gone as well." She put the toiletry bag in her suitcase and deliberately zipped it closed.
"And you have no idea where any of them went."
She glared at him again. "No."
"Porter." A man in hotel uniform stood in the open doorway.
"Just the one bag," she said, then pulled on her blazer, threw her purse over her shoulder, and picked up her camera case. "Good-bye, Mr. Marten," she said, and with that brushed past him and walked out.
"Hey!" Marten said and went after her.
Forty seconds later Demi, Marten, and the porter rode the elevator down in silence. Demi stared at the floor. Marten stared at her. A full minute, two elevator stops, and three hotel guests later, the elevator stopped. The door opened and Demi led the group toward the main lobby. Immediately Marten fell into lockstep with her.
"What did you mean last night when you said to stay away before I 'ruined everything'?"
"Don't you think it's a little late for explanations?"
"Okay, let's change the subject and try 'the witches.' "
Demi ignored him and kept walking. They reached the lobby and started across it.
"What witches? What were you talking about?"
Still she ignored him. They went three strides farther then Marten took her arm and pulled her around. "Please, it's important."
"What do you think you're doing?" she bristled.
"For one thing, asking you to be civil."
"Do you want me to call the police? Because there they are." She nodded toward two black-uniformed, black-booted motorcycle police who stood just outside the front door.
Marten slowly let go of her arm. She fixed him with an irate stare, then walked off. He saw her stop at the concierge desk and chat briefly with a mustachioed gentleman behind it. He smiled knowingly, then reached into his desk, took out an envelope, and handed it to her. She thanked him, glanced briefly back at Marten, then followed the porter to a taxi waiting outside. A moment later she was gone.
31
• MADRID, HOTEL RITZ, 7:05 A.M.
"What do you mean he's not there?" Six-foot four-inch National Security Adviser Dr. James Marshall abruptly stood from his working desk, his papers and electronic message boards scattered across the top of it.
"I mean he's not there. He's gone. Vanished." Jake Lowe was white with disbelief. "I went into his suite to get the answer to what we talked about last night and there was no one there. Pillows were rolled up under the bedcovers to make it look like he was still sleeping."
"The president of the United States is gone? He's missing?"
"Yes."
"Does the Secret Service know?"
"They do now. But it wasn't until I started yelling. Then they freaked."
"Good Lord."
"What the hell's going on?" Hap Daniels came hard into the room. "Is this a joke? Is POTUS (the president of the United States) having fun? Are you guys? If this is a game, say so. I'm not kidding!"
"No game here, Hap," Marshall snapped. "The president is your charge! Where the hell is he?"
Hap Daniels stared, openmouthed, stunned. "You're kidding."
"Nobody's kidding."
"Jesus Christ!"
• THE PRESIDENTIAL SUITE, THIRTY SECONDS LATER
Front door closed. Jake Lowe and James Marshall stood in horrified silence waiting while Hap Daniels made a sweep for the second time. Conference room, bedroom, bathroom. Seconds passed and he came out, crossed the room without a word and went into the hallway. A half minute later he came back in with a six-foot one-inch bulldog of a man, Secret Service agent Bill Strait, his deputy special agent in charge.
"Other than Mr. Lowe, only room service has come or gone from the suite since the president entered at 0020 hours," Daniels said.
"At 0035 hours the president called for a sandwich, a glass of beer, and some ice cream," Strait said. "A hotel employee brought it on a pushcart at 0045. The cart had a vase of fresh flowers, the sandwich, beer, and ice cream—vanilla—cloth napkin, and silverware. At 0132 hours, the president said he was going to shower and then go to bed and asked that the cart be taken away. At 0144 hours the same employee entered the sitting room here and took the cart away as asked. By then the president had closed the door to the sleeping area. The employee left and no one has come or gone since. That was until Mr. Lowe arrived to see the president at 0700 hours."
"Well, gentlemen," National Security Adviser James Marshall said icily, "bottom line, 'Crop Duster' has gone missing."
(CROP DUSTER— the Secret Service's code name for President Harris.)
"It's impossible," Agent Strait protested in shock and chagrin. "I was right outside his door all night. There are monitored surveillance cameras in every hallway, elevator, and stairwell. We have a dozen agents on the floor with a dozen more stationed at every ingress and egress, not to mention the Spanish Secret Service on the grounds. A mouse couldn't get in undetected."
"Well somehow Crop Duster got out!" Lowe snapped. "Who did it, how it was done, who has him now, and what the hell we tell the rest of the world I haven't the damnedest idea."
"Fuck!" Hap Daniels said loudly and to no one, after what had been the longest minutes of his life.
32
Within minutes the entire hotel was under lockdown. A suspected breach of security, hotel and hotel security officials were told, as was the Spanish Secret Service, which, as the host country, was providing the majority of the president's protection. Guests were not allowed in or out of their rooms. Every hallway, closet, room, and possible hiding place was searched. Every employee interrogated, including the room-service waiter who had delivered the president's order at a quarter to one the previous morning.
Yes, he had seen the president, he said. Had been graciously thanked and then left.
"What was he wearing?"
"Dark blue pants and a white dress shirt with no tie."
"You're certain?"
"Yes, sir. You don't forget the president of the United States when you meet him in person in the middle of the night."
"Did you see him when you came back to retrieve the food cart?"
"No, sir. His bedroom door was closed."
"Your food cart is covered with material that goes from the top of the cart to just above the floor."
"Yes, sir. In case we have extra china, utensils, chafing dishes, or the like."
"Is there any way a person could have hidden unseen in that space when you took the cart away?"
"Yes, sir. And no, sir."
"Explain."
"Yes, there is room for someone to hide, if they tucked themselves up. But all I delivered was a sandwich, beverage, and ice cream. I would have noticed the extra weight immediately and checked to see why."
The white dress shirt and dark blue trousers the room-service waiter described matched the white shirt and dark blue suit the president had worn the evening before. His explanation of the extra weight if someone had attempted to hide in the food service cart either on the way into the presidential suite or on the way out of it seemed accurate and correct. His security clearance was verified once again. There was no reason to suspect him of doing anything other than what he had done—deliver room service to a hotel guest.
As the minutes ticked by and the search intensified it became increasingly clear POTUS was not in the building. At the end of an hour it was confirmed without doubt. Yet no one outside the highest levels of the Secret Service agents present or the men there who comprised the president's closest inner circle knew it.
At 9:20 A.M. those men gathered in a highly secured suite on the Ritz's fourth floor: Jake Lowe, National Security Adviser Dr. James Marshall, Secretary of
Defense Terrence Langdon, Chief of Staff Tom Curran, White House Press Secretary Dick Greene, and the president's SAIC Hap Daniels.
The rest—Vice President Hamilton Rogers, Secretary of State David Chaplin, and United States Air Force General Chester Keaton, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff—were en route back to Washington by private jet and in live communication with the others by secure speaker phone.
"We have to go on the premise of foul play," Hap Daniels told them.
"Yes, of course," Marshall said, and looked to the others. "This is not only a monumental catastrophe, there's protocol here. Our ambassador in Madrid needs to be informed immediately. So do the CIA, the FBI, and probably a dozen other agencies. All we can hope to God is that we don't get a tape with him in terrorist custody pleading for his life with some hooded sonofabitch threatening to cut off his head.
"Still, until we learn something, until we see what happens next, we can't afford to have this get out. The world can't think the president of the United States is missing. If that happened God only knows what the hell the financial markets would do and what rumors and power plays would begin and who might try to take advantage of it inside their own countries." Marshall leaned toward the speakerphone. "Mr. Vice President, are you there?"
"Yes, Jim." Vice President Rogers's voice came back clearly.
"You understand what position this puts you in. Until POTUS is found and is safely in our custody, you are put on notice that you may be sworn in as president at any moment."
"I know, Jim, and I take that responsibility gravely."
Jake Lowe crossed the room. "There are a billion questions here," he said. "What's going on? Who's responsible? How did they get in and get out without attracting the attention of any of the Secret Service's rings of security? What power or powers were involved? Which countries do we notify and what do we tell them? Do we set up roadblocks, close down airports? And—how do we do it without the media getting wind of it? As Jim said, we can't have the world thinking the president of the United States has gone missing. We need a cover story and fast. I think this is it." He looked to Hap Daniels. "Tell me if there's a flaw here or why it won't work." He looked to White House Press Secretary Dick Greene. "You tell me if you can pull it off with the media, or you can't." He looked again to the secure speaker phone. "You still there, Mr. Vice President?"