"I'll let Dr. Marshall tell you."
Marshall sat down across from the president. "These are some of the most disturbing times we've ever encountered in our history, maybe even more worrying than at the height of the Cold War. I've been increasingly concerned about our ability to act quickly and decisively in a major emergency."
"I'm not sure I follow you," Harris said.
"Suppose something happened in the next hours and we had to take immediate and significant action somewhere in the world. We would need the French and German votes backing us in the UN right then, and you know now, from personal experience, it's highly unlikely we would get them.
"Let's play a what-if, Mr. President. For the moment forget about the present big-picture politics in the Middle East. Forget about Iraq, Israel, Palestine, Lebanon, even Iran. This is a deeper, simpler 'what-if.' Suppose al Qaeda or some other zealous group of jihadists, and there are hundreds of them, were to strike Saudi Arabia at midnight tonight. With enough fanatical force, by dawn they could wipe out the entire Saudi royal family. The government would collapse and the fundamentalist movement would explode over the entire region. Moderates would fall by the wayside and be slaughtered or join in the religious fervor that would rage like a wildfire. Within hours Arabia would fall, then Kuwait, then Iraq and Iran, Syria and probably Jordan. In less than thirty-six hours al Qaeda would control everything and the flow of oil to the West would stop, just like that. Then what?"
"What do you mean 'then what?'" The president was staring directly at his national security adviser. "Is this a what-if, or do you have something from intelligence and this is real? Don't screw around here, Jim. If it's real I want to know. And right now."
Marshall glanced at Jake Lowe, then looked back to the president. "What it is, Mr. President, is a bona fide scenario that comes from any number of collective sources and should be taken very seriously. If it happened it would be all but impossible for us to respond quickly or massively enough to contain it. Immediate nuclear response might be our only option. One we wouldn't have time to argue through the Security Council. We would need every member already up and on the same page and moving within hours. It means we have to know beforehand that we have every member nation one hundred percent behind us. And as we well know, Germany might not be on the Security Council but from its influence, it might just as well be."
"What Jim means, Mr. President," Lowe added quietly, "is that we must have an arrangement that will guarantee America instant, ongoing, and unquestioned support in the UN. And as I said before, the way things stand now we don't have it."
President Harris looked from one man to the other. These were longtime members of his inner circle, close friends and trusted advisers, men whom he had known for years, trying to make him understand the importance and relevance of his just-concluded meetings with the leaders of France and Germany. Moreover, it wasn't just the French and Germans they would need, it was also the Russians and Chinese. They all knew that if they had France and Germany behind them, especially if the matter had to do with the Middle East, the Russians would come along as well. So would the Chinese.
"Fellas," he said, in the homey style he used in the company of friends, "the picture you draw may be accurate, and God help us if it is. But I seriously doubt the French and Germans haven't considered some version of it themselves and what they would do in response. In the same breath I can guarantee you that suddenly dropping their stance over a scenario without hard intelligence behind it and giving us a blank check overnight for whatever we want to do isn't one of them."
"That's not necessarily so," Dr. Marshall leaned back and folded his hands in his lap.
"I don't follow you."
"Suppose the leaders of those two countries were people who would give us a blank check."
The president raised his eyebrows, "What the hell does that mean?"
"You won't like it."
"Try me."
"The physical removal from office of the president of France and the chancellor of Germany."
"Physical removal?"
"Assassination, Mr. President, of both. To be replaced with leaders who we can trust, now and in the future."
Harris hesitated, then slowly grinned. It was a joke, he knew. "What do you fellas want to do, get in the video-game business? Set up a frightening situation, find the troublemakers who won't cooperate, then hit the 'assassinate' button and afterward insert whoever you want and write your own ending?"
"It's not a game, Mr. President." Marshall's eyes were locked on the president's. "I'm deadly serious. Remove Géroux and Bohlen and make certain the people we want in power are elected in their place."
"Just like that." The president was stunned.
"Yes, sir."
The president looked to Jake Lowe, "I suspect you agree."
"Yes, Mr. President, I do."
For a moment Harris stood frozen in silence as the weight of what had been presented sank in. Suddenly he flashed with anger. "I'll tell you fellas something. Nothing like that is going to happen on my watch. First, because under no circumstance will I be party to murder. Second, political assassination is forbidden by law and I am sworn to uphold the law.
"Moreover, even if you had your way and the assassinations were carried out, what would you expect to gain? Exactly which people would you want in power and how could you make certain they were elected? And even if they were, what makes you think we could trust them to do what we wanted, whenever we wanted and for as long as we wanted?"
"There are such people, Mr. President," Lowe said quietly.
"It can be done, sir," Marshall added, "and rather quickly. You'd be surprised."
Harris's eyes darted angrily from one man to the other. "Gentlemen, let me say this one more time. There will be no political assassinations on the part of the United States, not while I'm president. And if the subject comes up again you can both dig out your golf clubs and call for a tee time because you will no longer be part of this administration."
For the longest moment neither Marshall nor Lowe took his eyes from the president. Finally Marshall spoke, and in a tone that rang with condescension. "I think we understand your position, Mr. President."
"Good," Harris held their gaze, giving them no ground. "Now," he said brusquely, "if you don't mind there are a few things I'd like to go over on my own before we touch down in Rome."
16
• MR. HENRY'S RESTAURANT, PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE, 11:50 A.M.
Marten and Peter Fadden sat in a back booth in the dark-wood-and-authentic-retro atmosphere of this Capitol Hill saloon where the lunchtime crowd was just beginning to make noise and where decades earlier Roberta Flack was first crooning "Killing Me Softly" upstairs.
"Your friend Dan Ford was a heck of a reporter, a very special kind of guy, and—" Peter Fadden leaned in across the table when he talked. It was a manner, studied or not, that accentuated his presence. "His future was bright as hell. To be murdered the way he was? It was all wrong. Nobody should ever die like that. I still miss him."
Fadden, thickset with gray hair and a trimmed gray beard and ruddy complexion, was closer to fifty than seventy and looked even younger. A byline reporter with an old-timer's rough demeanor, he wore brown slacks with a tattersall shirt and worn herringbone jacket. His eyes were sparkling blue and piercing as he watched Marten take a sip of coffee or a bite of tuna sandwich.
"So do I, every day," Marten said genuinely. Nearly five years had passed since Ford's murder in the French countryside, and even now Marten was plagued by the thought that Dan's death was somehow his fault. There was another level too, especially now, because, as with Caroline, they'd been best friends since childhood and all those memories, all their history, compounded his death even more.
It had been Dan Ford the professional journalist with his never-ending string of connections who had made it possible for John Barron to become Nicholas Marten, thereby enabling him to make a new life in the north of England, one far fro
m the reach of the Gunslinger, the deadly LAPD detective Gene VerMeer, and his equally vengeful associates still on the force.
"You said you had a story. What is it?" The sentiment was done. Peter Fadden took a sip of coffee.
"I said I might have a story," Marten said, then lowered his voice. "It has to do with Caroline Parsons."
"What about her?"
"What I tell you has to be off the record."
"Off the record is not a story, period," Fadden snapped. "You either have something or you don't. Otherwise we're wasting each other's time."
"Mr. Fadden, at this point I don't know if there is a story or if there isn't. I'm looking for help about something that's very personal to me. But if it turns out to be true, it's a blockbuster, in which case it's all yours."
"Oh for chrissakes!" Fadden sat back. "You want to sell me a used car too?"
"I want some help, nothing more." Marten's eyes came up to meet Fadden's and held there.
Fadden judged, then let out a sigh. "Okay, off the record. What the hell is it?"
"Caroline Parsons believed her husband and son were murdered. That the plane crash was no accident."
"Now we're back to the used cars. Marten, in this town there's a goddamn conspiracy theory in every toe-nail clipping. If that's all you have, forget it."
"Would it make any difference if I said she told me that on her deathbed? Or that she was convinced the staph infection that killed her in so short a time had been deliberately administered?"
"What?" Fadden's interest was suddenly piqued.
"I realize she'd just lost her husband and only child and was dying herself. The whole thing could have been in her mind, the rantings of a terrified, hysterical widow. And maybe they were, but I promised her I'd do what I could to find out and that's what I'm doing."
"Why? Who were you to her?"
"Let's just say that at some point in our lives we—" Marten paused, then went on, "—loved each other very much and leave it at that."
Fadden studied him. "She give you anything real? Specifics? Why she believed it?"
"As in hard evidence? No. But she was supposed to have been on the same plane with her son and husband. She told me, or tried to tell me, that 'they' were responsible for the crash. When I asked her who 'they' were, she said 'the ca,' but that was all she got out. She couldn't finish it and never did. In thinking it over and tying it to her husband's death, the only thing that made sense was that maybe she was trying to say 'the ca-mmittee.'
"The last committee meeting Mike Parsons attended before he died was the House Subcommittee on Intelligence and Counterterrorism. It took place on Tuesday, March 7, at the Rayburn House Office Building. Its subject was 'Progress in Consolidating Terrorist Watch Lists.' The thing about it is, there are no lists of witnesses who were to appear before the committee. Now I don't know much about how these things work, but scanning the Congressional Record for other committees over a two-week period I never found another that didn't have at least one witness to be presented. And that's why I need you, not just to walk me through the high school algebra of how all this works, but because you're a Washington insider who Dan Ford trusted. You know what goes on in these committees even if you don't write about it. Well, I want to know what was going on in Parsons's committee. What it was about. Why there were no witnesses. What might have happened there that could have made Caroline's suspicions real."
"You're pursuing this emotionally, you know that," Fadden said quietly.
Marten stared at him. "You weren't there. You didn't hear the fear in her voice or see it in her eyes. In her whole being."
"Did it ever occur to you that you might be pissing in the wind?"
"I didn't ask for your opinion, I asked for your help."
Fadden picked up his coffee cup, held it for a moment, then drained it and stood up. "Let's take a walk."
17
Marten and Peter Fadden came out of Mr. Henry's under a partly cloudy sky. Crossing Seward Square, they started up Pennsylvania Avenue toward the U.S. Capitol.
"Caroline Parsons thought her staph infection had been deliberately administered," Fadden said.
"Yes."
"She say by who?"
"We're still off the record," Marten said guardedly.
"You want my help, answer the damn question."
"Her doctor."
"Lorraine Stephenson?" Fadden was clearly surprised.
"Yes."
"She's dead."
Marten half smiled. So at least somebody else did know. "She was murdered."
"How the hell do you know? That information hasn't been made public."
"Because the police told me. I'd called Stephenson several times to ask her about Caroline's death. She refused to discuss it. The police went over her phone records and found me. They thought I might have been angry enough to do something about it."
"Were you?"
"Yes, but I didn't kill her." Suddenly Marten found an opening. If Fadden knew Lorraine Stephenson had been killed, he might also know something of what the police had found, why they were so convinced it had been murder, and why they were still holding the information back. "Fadden, the police talked to me yesterday. Her murder has still not been made public. Why?"
"Notification of next of kin."
"What else?"
"What makes you think there's anything else?"
"She was a name in this town. She was the longtime doctor to a number of people in Congress. Moreover, she was Caroline Parsons's personal physician. Caroline's memorial service is this afternoon. Maybe someone is afraid someone else might see a coincidence and start looking a little further."
"Who might that be?"
"No idea."
"Look, Marten, as far as I know you're the only one who thinks Caroline Parsons was deliberately killed. Nobody else has even suggested it."
"Then why has the murder of a prominent physician been kept so hush-hush?"
"Marten"—they walked by several people, and Fadden waited until they were past—"Lorraine Stephenson was decapitated. It took them that long to find out whose body they had. Her head was nowhere around. Nobody's found it yet. The police want some time to poke around on the quiet."
Decapitated? Marten was stunned. So that was the reason there'd been no publicity. It also meant someone had been there only moments after he'd fled, seen what had happened and decided to change the makeup of the entire thing. And they had, quickly and efficiently. It made him think what he had before, that the suicide of a woman of Dr. Stephenson's prominence would be far more carefully scrutinized than if she had been simply murdered. The decapitation naturally removed any suspicion of suicide, but to him, the only person who knew the truth of what had happened, it raised the specter of conspiracy. That someone wanted to cover up one crime with another brought the whole Mike Parsons committee thing back in a rush.
"Fadden," he said, "let's get back to Mike Parsons. His subcommittee on intelligence and counterterrorism. What was it focused on? Why no formal witnesses?"
"Because it was a classified investigation."
"Classified?"
"Yes."
"About what?"
"A top-secret apartheid-era South African biological and chemical weapons program long thought to have been dismantled. The CIA had given the committee a checklist of covert weapons programs that foreign governments had previously had in development so in the future, if push came to shove, they wouldn't commit the WMD mistakes we did before the war on Iraq. The South African program was one of them. The committee wanted to be certain it was as dead as the government claimed."
"Was it?"
"From what my sources tell me, yes. They had the top chemical and biological scientist who headed it on the hot seat for three days and finally concluded that the program had been abandoned as officially declared years ago."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning that all the weapons, pathogen strains, documents, and anything else pertinent had been destroy
ed. That there was no longer anything there."
"What was the man's name, the scientist who headed it?"
"Merriman Foxx. Why, did Caroline Parsons mention him?"
"No."
Marten looked away and they walked on in silence, the domed Capitol looming in front of them, the pedestrian and motorized traffic around them picking up, the daily activity of the seat of the federal government growing exponentially as the lunch hour ended. A moment later Marten thought of two separate things in rapid order.
The first was what Stephenson had said in the dark, icy seconds on Dumbarton Street before she shot herself, apparently taking him for one of the conspirators. You want to send me to the doctor. But you never will. None of you ever will. Never. Ever.
The second was what Caroline had uttered in her sleep—I don't like the white-haired man, she'd said, fearfully ranting about a white-haired man who had come to the clinic where she had been taken after her breakdown following the funerals of her husband and son and the subsequent injection by Dr. Stephenson.
"This scientist, Merriman Foxx," Marten said abruptly, "is he also a medical doctor, a physician?"
"Yeah. Why?"
Marten took a deep breath and then asked, "Does he have white hair?"
"What's that got to do with anything?"
"Does he have white hair?" Marten was emphatic.
Fadden raised his eyebrows. "Yeah. A lot of it. He's sixty years old and has a mop like Albert Einstein's."
"My God," Marten breathed. Immediately the thought came. "Is he still here? Still in Washington?" he asked with urgency.
"For chrissakes, I don't know."
"Can you find when he first came to Washington? How long he was here?"
"Why?"
Marten stopped and took Fadden by the arm. "Can you find out where he is now and the day and date he came to Washington?"
"Who the hell is he in this?"
"I'm not sure, but I want to talk to him. Can you get that information for me?"