“Mr. President, the Sons of Jihad did not send that peekaboo,” he says. “And whoever may be sponsoring the Sons of Jihad did not send it, either.”
I stare at him. It takes me a moment. Eventually I get there.
“You sent it,” I say.
“Nina and I, yes. To warn you,” he says. “So you could start preparing mitigation protocols. And so that when Nina and I contacted you, you would take us seriously. Suliman knew nothing of this. The last thing he would ever do is give you an early warning of this virus.”
I work this over. Augie and Nina sent the early warning to us two weeks ago. And then, more than a week later, Nina found Lilly in Paris and whispered the magic words to her.
They came to warn me. To help me.
That’s the good news.
The bad news? That means that Suliman Cindoruk and the foreign agent who is behind him never wanted the United States to know about it in advance.
They aren’t going to ask for something. They aren’t seeking a change in our foreign policy. They don’t want prisoners released. They don’t want money.
They aren’t going to demand a ransom at all.
They’re just going to detonate the virus.
They want to destroy us.
Chapter
42
How long do we have?” I ask Augie. “When does the virus detonate?”
“Saturday in America,” he says. “This is all I know.”
The same thing the director of Mossad said.
“Then we have to go right now,” I say, rushing past Augie, grabbing his arm.
“Go where?”
“I’ll tell you in the—”
I turn too quickly, feeling like I overspun the room, a loss of balance, a sharp pain in my ribs, wood stabbing me—the edge of the couch—the ceiling flashing before my eyes and spinning— I take a step forward, but something doesn’t work, my leg buckling, the ground not where it’s supposed to be—everything sideways— “Mr. President!” Jacobson, his arms under me, catching me, my face only inches from the carpet.
“Dr. Lane,” I whisper, reaching into my pocket.
The room dancing around me.
“Call…Carolyn,” I manage. I hold up my phone, weaving back and forth, before Jacobson takes it from my hand. “She knows…what to do…”
“Ms. Brock!” Jacobson shouts into the phone. Instructions given, orders received, all in a faint echo, not Jacobson’s normal voice, in combat mode.
Not now. It can’t be now.
“He’s gonna be okay, right?”
“How soon?”
Saturday in America. Saturday in America will be very soon.
Mushroom cloud. Searing red heat sweeping the countryside. Where is our leader? Where is the president?
“Not…now…”
“Tell her to hurry!”
We have no ability to respond, Mr. President.
They disabled our systems, Mr. President.
What are we going to do, Mr. President?
What are you going to do, Mr. President?
“Stay down, sir. Help is on the way.”
I’m not ready. Not yet.
No, Rachel, I’m not ready to join you, not yet.
Saturday in America.
Silence, the soft ring of dead, endless, shapeless space.
“Where the hell is the doctor?”
And bright light.
Saturday in
America
Chapter
43
Vice President Katherine Brandt opens her eyes, snatched from the fog of a dream. She hears the sound again, knuckles rapping on her bedroom door.
The door parts slightly, and the knock is louder. The face of Peter Evian, her chief of staff, peering through her door. “Sorry to wake you, Madam Vice President,” he says.
She recognizes nothing around her for a moment, takes a second to get her bearings. She is in the subbasement, sleeping alone, though alone is a relative term, considering that agents are standing outside the door of this small bedroom.
She reaches for her phone on the nightstand and checks the time: 1:03 a.m.
“Yes, Peter, come in.” She speaks calmly. Always be ready. She says it to herself every day. Because it could happen any time, day or night, without notice. A bullet. An aneurysm. A heart attack. Such is the life of a vice president.
She sits up in bed. Peter, dressed in a shirt and tie as always, walks in and hands her his phone, open to a website, a newspaper article.
The headline: THE PRESIDENT IS MISSING.
Sources at the White House, says the article, confirm that the president is not at the White House. And more to the point, they don’t know where he is.
The speculation is all over the place, ranging from plausible to implausible to downright ridiculous: a return of his blood disease, and he’s gravely ill. He left town to prepare for the select committee hearings. He’s huddling with close aides to prepare a resignation speech. He’s running off with ill-gotten money from Suliman Cindoruk, fleeing the country to avoid prosecution.
The president and vice president are secure, the official statement said last night, after the explosion on the bridge, the shoot-out at Nationals Park. That was it. That was probably the right way to go. Tell everyone their leaders are safe and sound, but don’t specify their precise location. Nobody would expect or demand otherwise.
But this article is saying that his own people don’t know where he is.
She doesn’t, either.
“I need Carolyn Brock,” she says.
Chapter
44
Carolyn Brock, notes the vice president, is wearing the same suit as she was wearing yesterday. As if that weren’t enough, her bloodshot eyes confirm her lack of sleep.
It seems the indefatigable chief of staff never went home last night.
They sit inside a conference room in the operations center below the White House, at opposite ends of a long table. The vice president would have preferred to hold the meeting in her private office in the West Wing, but she was sent underground last night as part of the continuity-of-government protocol, and she sees no reason to rock that boat right now.
“Where’s Alex Trimble?” she asks.
“He’s not available, Madam Vice President.”
Her eyes narrow. That squint, her aides used to tell her, was what everyone feared the most, her steely but silent way of communicating her unhappiness with an answer.
“That’s it? He’s ‘not available’?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her blood boils. Technically, Katherine Brandt is the second-most-powerful person in the country. Everyone treats her as such, at least officially. She must admit that, however much she resented Jon Duncan for leapfrogging her and snatching away the nomination that was rightfully hers, and however hard she had to bite her tongue and accept her place as second fiddle, the president has given her the role he promised, seeking her input, giving her a seat at the table for all major decisions. Duncan has kept up his end of the bargain.
Still, they both know that Carolyn is the one with the real power in this room.
“Where’s the president, Carolyn?”
Carolyn opens her hands, ever the diplomat. Brandt can’t resist a grudging respect for the chief of staff, who has twisted arms in Congress, kept the trains running on time, and held the West Wing staff in line, all in service of the president’s agenda. Back when Carolyn was in Congress herself, before that unfortunate stumble she had on a live mike, a lot of people had her pegged as a future Speaker, maybe even a presidential candidate. Well spoken, well prepared, quick on her feet, a solid campaigner, attractive but not beauty-queen gorgeous—the perpetual tightrope women in politics must walk—Carolyn could have been one of the best.
“I asked you where the president is, Carolyn.”
“I can’t answer that, Madam Vice President.”
“Can’t or won’t?” The vice president flips her hand. “Do you know where he is? Can you tell me that much?”
“I know where he is, ma’am.”
“Is he…” She shakes her head. “Is he okay? Is he secure?”
Carolyn’s head leans to one side. “He’s with the Secret Service, if that’s what—”
“Oh, Jesus Christ, Carolyn, can’t you give me a straight answer?”
They lock eyes for a moment. Carolyn Brock is no pushover. And her loyalty to the president transcends all else. If she has to take a few bullets for the man, she’ll do it.
“I am not authorized to tell you where he is,” she says.