Marten watched her for a moment and then turned away, certain that if he didn't he would start weeping himself. The feeling was not just a release of emotion from what they had been through but for something else.
Over cava and lunch at the Four Cats in Barcelona Demi had asked him about Caroline and why he had followed Foxx, first to Malta and then to Spain. When he'd told her she'd half smiled and said, "Then you are here because of love."
Now he realized she had been talking as much about herself and her mother as she was referring to himself and Caroline. They had both done what they had because of love.
That was the thing here as she slept beside him, physically and emotionally wounded, dressed in a hospital gown and holding his hand. The closeness, the intimacy, was an all-but-unbearable reminder of Caroline at the hospital in Washington as she slept with her hand in his during the last hours of her life.
Demi he had known for little more than a week. Caroline he had loved most all of his life.
And still did.
167
• 6:10 A.M.
A knock on Marten's door woke him from deep sleep. A second knock brought him around.
"Yes," he said with no idea where he was.
The door opened and the president came in alone and closed the door behind him. "Sorry to wake you," he said quietly.
"What is it?" Marten got up on an elbow. "Cousin Jack" was still without his hairpiece and still wore the nonprescription eyeglasses he'd bought in Madrid to help change his appearance. To this moment no one, unless they had been alerted and were looking, would recognize him as John Henry Harris, president of the United States. That he wore a pair of borrowed, ill-fitting light blue pajamas wouldn't have done much to clue them in either.
"We're leaving for the NATO meeting at Auschwitz in an hour. Taking the Chinook."
Marten threw back the covers and got out of bed. "Then this is it, the formal good-bye."
"Not good-bye at all. I want you to come with me, to be there when I give my speech."
"Me?"
"Yes."
"Mr. President, that's your stage not mine. I was planning to go home to Manchester. I've got a lot of work to catch up on. That is, if I haven't been fired."
The president smiled. "I'll write you a note. 'Nicholas Marten couldn't come to work last week because he was saving the world.'"
"Mr. President, I . . ." He hesitated, uncomfortable with what he had to say and unsure not only how to put it, but how it would be taken. "I can't be seen with you in public. There will be too many people, too many cameras. It's not just me. I have a sister living in Switzerland, I can't risk putting her in . . . danger . . ." his voice trailed off.
The president studied him. "Someone's trying to find you."
"Yes."
"What Foxx said about you once being a policeman. Were you?"
Marten hesitated; almost no one knew who he really was, but if he couldn't trust this man now, there was no one anywhere he could trust. "Yes," he said finally, "Los Angeles Police Department. I was a homicide investigator. I was involved in a situation where most of my squad were killed."
"Why?"
"I was asked to kill a prisoner in custody. I refused. It went against the credo of the squad. A few veteran detectives wanted to even the score. I changed my name, my identity and the name and identity of my sister. I wanted nothing more to do with law enforcement or violence. We left the U.S. and started another life."
"This would have been about six years ago."
Marten was amazed. "How would you know that?"
"The time frame fits. Red McClatchy."
"What?" Marten suddenly perked.
"Commander of the legendary 5-2 Squad. Half the population of California knew what it was and who he was. I met him once when I was a senator. The mayor invited me to his funeral."
"I was his partner when he was killed."
"The detectives blame you."
"For that and the rest of it. The 5-2 was disbanded afterward."
"So at this point none of them know your name or where you live or what you do."
"They keep trying to find me on the Internet. They have their own Web site for cops around the world. At least once a month they put out a query asking if anyone's seen me, playing it as if I were a lost friend and they want to know where I can be found. Nobody knows what they're really up to except me and them. It's bad enough for me but I don't want them going after my sister."
"You said she's in Switzerland."
"Her name is Rebecca, she works as governess to the children of a wealthy family in a town near Geneva," Marten half-smiled. "Someday I'll tell you her story. It's something else."
The president studied him for a long moment. "Come to Auschwitz. I'll keep you out of camera range. I promise. Afterward you can go home."
"I—" Marten was hesitant.
"Cousin, you were there step by step. You saw everything that I did. If I start to falter or have doubts about what I'm saying I'll look at you and remember the truth."
"I don't understand."
"I'm going to say some things that diplomatically might be better left unsaid, all the while knowing the reaction around the world might and probably will be ugly. But I'm going to say them anyway because I think we've reached a point in time where the people elected to serve need to tell the truth to the people who elected them, whether they like what they hear or not. None of us anywhere can afford to go on with politics as usual," the president paused. "I'm not one man alone, Nicholas. Come with me, please. I want—I need—your presence, your moral support."
"It's that important."
"Yes, it's that important."
Marten smiled, "And you'll write me the note saying I missed work because I was saving the world."
"You can frame it."
"And then I can go home?"
"And then we can all go home."
168
• HOTEL VICTORIA WARSAW. WARSAW, POLAND. 6:20 A.M.
"Hello, Victor. Did you sleep well? Have you had breakfast?"
Victor turned off the television, then took his cell phone and began to pace the room in his boxer shorts. "Yes, Richard, at five thirty. I didn't sleep at all. You didn't call last night as you promised. I didn't know what had happened. I was afraid something had gone wrong."
"I'm sorry, Victor, I apologize. Things have been a little hectic. That's why I was delayed in getting to you. There's been a change in our agenda."
"What change? What's going on?" The paranoia that had been working on Victor for hours shot through him. Suddenly they had reservations, he knew it. At the last minute they were concerned about his ability and decided to bring in someone else. Richard was going to fire him just like that. Tell him to go home. Then what? He had no money; they had paid for everything. He didn't even have plane fare back to the States.
"Victor, are you still there?"
"Yes, Richard, I am. What is this—this," he paused, terrified to say it, "change of agenda? You want me to leave Warsaw, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Why? I can do it. You know I can do it. I did the man in Washington. I did the jockeys, didn't I? Who else can shoot like that? Who else, Richard, tell me! No, let me tell you. No one, that's who. No one is as good as I am."
"Victor, Victor. Calm down. I have all the faith in the world in you. Yes I want you to leave Warsaw, but it's for the change of plan I was talking about. You don't need to worry. Everything is in order. When you get there, everything will be ready for you as always."
Victor let out a breath, then suddenly stood straighter, prouder. He felt better. "Where am I going?"
"It's a short train ride, less than three hours."
"First class?"
"Of course. Train number 13412 for Krakow. You will depart at 8:05 this morning and arrive at 10:54. Go directly to the taxi area and look for cab number 7121. The driver will have further instructions and take you the rest of the way, about a forty-minute ride."
&nbs
p; "Forty-minute ride to where?"
"Auschwitz."
169
• AUSCHWITZ, POLAND, 11:40 P.M.
Surrounded by security and followed all the way by a dozen camera crews, the tall, somber, and distinguished president of Poland, Roman Janicki, led the twenty-six heads of NATO member countries through the grim corridors of the former World War II Nazi death camp.
Outside under a gray sky they had passed beneath Auschwitz's infamous welcoming gates and its wrought-iron sign emblazoned with the motto Arbeit Macht Frei, Work Shall Make You Free. Afterward Janicki had taken them past the weed-covered, rusting tracks arriving trains had used to deposit the estimated one and a half to four million Jews who were exterminated here and at nearby camps, most notably Auschwitz II and Birkenau. Moments later they walked in silence past the stilled gas chambers and the crematory, with its furnaces and iron body carts. Past the remains of the wooden barracks that housed prisoners overseen by the camp's horrific Nazi guards, the dreaded Schutzstaffel, the SS.
Toupee on, cosmetic glasses removed, dressed in a dark blue suit, and with Hap Daniels at his side, fully recognizable as president of the United States, John Henry Harris walked side by side with the chancellor of Germany, Anna Bohlen, and French president, Jacques Géroux, his thoughts on the speech he would make while standing on a hastily constructed platform outside what remained of the rows of former prisoners' barracks.
• 11:50 P.M.
A taxi drove past a fenced-in area containing a sea of media satellite trucks and up to the press gate. The door opened and a middle-aged man wearing a suit and tie got out, then the taxi pulled away.
Immediately he went to the highly secured press gate, where a dozen heavily armed Polish army commandos waited with members of the Polish and U.S. Secret Services.
"Victor Young, Associated Press. My name is on your list," Victor said calmly and produced an AP identification card and his United States passport.
A USSS special agent examined both IDs and handed them to a uniformed woman in a bulletproof glass enclosure. She took them, matched them against a list, then pressed a button and took his picture.
"Alright," she nodded and handed the IDs back along with the appropriate security press tag which Victor put around his neck.
"Hands over your head, please?" another special agent said and Victor complied. Another moment and he had been patted down for weapons.
"Go ahead, sir."
"Thank you," Victor said and unmolested went inside.
In a way he amazed himself. How terribly nervous and upset he always was when he waited for Richard to call, and how calm and easygoing he was when he was face-to-face with the enemy. Of course they knew that; along with his excellent marksmanship, it was the reason they had recruited him and stayed with him.
• 11:52 P.M.
Nicholas Marten stood back watching as the hour drew closer to one o'clock, the scheduled time of the president's speech. Everywhere were representatives of the world press. Equally impressive was the number of invited guests who jostled with security details for space in front of the long platformlike dais where world leaders would gather to hear the president speak.
His speech, as White House Press Secretary Dick Greene had informed the press corps earlier, would be, among other things, an explanation of the last minute shift of venue from Warsaw to Auschwitz and an elaboration on the "terrorist threat" that had seen him removed from his hotel in Madrid by the Secret Service in the middle of the night and taken to the "undisclosed location" where he had been until earlier today.
The fact that his speech would be carried live worldwide by all of the major broadcast organizations, coupled with the promise of getting the facts on the past days from the president himself, both intrigued and frightened, and put an already anxious world further on edge. In addition, something else made the moment even more immediate and compelling. Earlier that morning the president had called for "a special session of Congress" to be convened at 7:00 A.M. Washington time, where a live telecast of the Auschwitz proceedings would be shown on a large-screen television. The special session, the early hour, and the fact that what the president would say couldn't wait until he returned to Washington added a level of urgency to everything.
• 11:55 P.M.
Marten, like the president, was dressed in a hastily found but well-enough-fitting dark blue suit with white shirt and dark tie. Like everyone else he had been issued a security clearance badge that hung around his neck. To protect his image from the public and from accidental pickup by the hordes of media cameras, he had been given a Secret Service buzz haircut and the accompanying requisite Secret Service sunglasses, giving him the appearance, if not the authority, of a USSS special agent.
Marten crossed toward the podium, watching the final pieces being put into place. All around he could feel the intensity growing as the clock ticked down and people waited for the president and the other NATO dignitaries to arrive and take their place. He stopped near the back of the twenty or so rows of folding chairs set up in front of the podium to watch the media crews inspecting camera equipment and making sound checks on the microphones at the podium. A hundred yards away he could see the press gates and the area beyond it, where the media's satellite trucks were parked. Here and there Polish security teams patrolled with dogs.
Marten shaded his eyes from the glare of the high overcast and looked up. Nearby were several old two-story buildings. On the roof of each were two two-man sniper teams, Polish or U.S. Secret Service or maybe NATO, he couldn't tell. Security everywhere was immense.
He turned back and walked on. As he did, a troubling thought passed over him. From what he could see the dais was set up in three distinct levels: the first, the podium where the president of Poland would introduce President Harris; the second, a raised level immediately behind it where the president, the chancellor of Germany, and the president of France would stand, and then a third level behind that, where the rest of the NATO representatives would stand before a sea of waving flags of the twenty-six member nations.
All to the good, except for one thing. There would be a short period of time when the president of Poland made his opening remarks and then introduced President Harris. Harris, the chancellor of Germany, and the president of France would be standing shoulder to shoulder in a perfect line behind him. That perfect line was what troubled him because it brought to mind the single-shot killings of the two jockeys at the Chantilly race track outside Paris just days before.
The president had told him the Covenant had planned to assassinate the chancellor of Germany and the president of France at the NATO meeting. More chillingly, he remembered the president's harsh words after Foxx's death—His plan isn't dead. Neither is theirs!
The president had survived everything to stand here today. He also knew everything. The heavy security aside, if a sharpshooter could hide in the woods and kill two jockeys on running horses from a hundred yards with one shot why couldn't he do the same here? Only instead of taking out two people he could take out three, especially if they were standing shoulder to shoulder in a line for the two or three minutes it would take for the president of Poland to make his introduction.
Marten looked quickly around. They were surrounded by old buildings and trees. And beyond those trees, more trees, like the forest bordering the Chantilly race track. Suddenly he remembered the weapon that had been used was an M14, the same type of gun used to kill the man at Union Station in Washington; both times the weapon had been left behind. The M14 was not only powerful and extremely accurate from even four hundred yards, it was probably one of the easiest weapons in the world for anyone to get hold of. Marten looked at his watch. It was 11:54.
"Jesus God," he breathed. He needed to find Hap and right now!
170
• 11:56 P.M.
Marten entered the Secret Service command post and alerted Bill Strait to his fears. In seconds Strait had contacted Hap, who was with the president.
T
wo minutes later, Hap, Marten, and Bill Strait were deep in the Secret Service command post, surrounded by a dozen agents and tech specialists and three commanders of the Polish Secret Service. They had no idea if Marten was right or, if he was, whom they might be looking for—man, woman, young, middle-aged, old—and how that person might have been able to smuggle an M14 or other rifle past the heavy security and onto the grounds. One thing was certain: whoever that person was, if they existed at all, had to have security clearance. No one else was inside the compound. Of that they were doubly certain.
• 12:00 NOON
Collecting the M14 was easy. Brought onto the grounds inside a television satellite truck and hidden among literally tons of broadcast equipment inside a long black tubular case used to carry camera tripods, it had been left in a pile of other camera equipment outside the truck. Victor's AP press pass gave him easy access to the media area and to the huge gaggle of satellite vans. The tripod case holding the rifle was to the left and near the bottom of the pile and marked with a singular piece of light blue masking tape. All Victor had to do was pick up the case and retreat to the cover of nearby trees as had been explained in the instruction packet the driver of taxicab #7121 had given him when he'd picked him up from the Warsaw train in Krakow.
• 12:10 P.M.
Inside the Secret Service command post Marten, Hap, and Bill Strait sat in front of computer screens, scanning the photo IDs of everyone who had been given security clearance and photographed upon entry—all six hundred and seventy-two of them—and that included the heads of state themselves, their families and entourages, other invited guests, every member of the security force, every member of the media.