She missed her chance. That was him, she is certain now—the scrawny, scraggly-haired man who passed into the cabin after the president. Had she even a few more seconds to confirm, that man would be dead now and she would be on a plane.
But Ranko’s words during that summer, those three months that he taught her: a missed shot is far worse than no shot.
Caution was the better play. He might have come back out sometime over the last several hours, giving her another chance. The fact that he did not, that he has not reemerged from the cabin, does not render her decision at the time unreasonable or even wrong.
Playing gently through her earbuds is the Gavotte in D Major, performed by Wilhelm Friedemann Herzog some twelve years ago, a tutorial for Suzuki students. It is by no means her favorite of Johann Sebastian’s work: truth be told, she never particularly cared for the piece and would rather hear it played with a full ensemble than as a violin solo.
But she cannot let go of the piece. She remembers playing it on her mother’s violin, at first so choppy and awkward, ripening with time, maturing from a series of notes to something graceful and moving. Her mother hovering over her, gently instructing her, correcting every stroke. Bow distribution!…Now big!…First one’s strong—strong, little, little…do it again…balance your bow, draga…slow down your fingers, but not the bow—not the bow! Here, draga, let me show you.
Her mother taking the violin herself, playing the gavotte from memory, her confidence and passion, losing herself in the music, shutting out the bombs and artillery fire outside, the house safe within the gentle spell of the music.
Her brother, so much more talented on the violin, not only because he is two years older, with two more years’ instruction, but also because it came so effortlessly to him, as if it were an extension of him and not a separate musical instrument, as if producing beautiful music was as natural as speaking or breathing.
For him, a violin. For her, a rifle.
Yes, a rifle. One last time.
She checks her watch. It’s time. It’s past time.
Why has nothing happened?
Where is the helicopter?
Chapter
95
I can’t thank you enough,” I say to Chancellor Juergen Richter.
“Well, I am most disappointed by our failure in Berlin.”
“It wasn’t your failure. He knew you were coming.” Then I add, using his first name, a rare thing with him, a man of such formality, “Juergen, your influence on NATO will be critical, if it comes to that.”
“Yes.” He gives a grave nod. He knows that this is the principal reason I brought him here, to look him squarely in the eye and make sure that our NATO partners will stand with the United States should a military conflict become necessary. Article 5, the commitment of NATO itself, will be tested as never before if the traditional roles are reversed and the world’s greatest superpower is the one that needs assistance in what could easily turn into World War III.
“Noya.” I give her a long hug, enjoying the comfort of her warm embrace.
“I could stay, Jonny,” she whispers in my ear.
I pull back. “No. It’s already past seven. I’ve already kept you longer than I planned. If this…happens…if the worst…I don’t want to be responsible for your safety. And you’ll want to be back home anyway.”
She doesn’t argue. She knows I’m right. If this virus activates and does the worst of what we fear, the reverberations will be felt around the world. These leaders will want to be home when that happens.
“My experts could stay,” she offers.
I shake my head. “They’ve done all they can do. My people are doing their work on the Pentagon server now, and we have to keep that work internal, as you can imagine.”
“Of course.”
I shrug. “Besides, this is it, Noya. This is our last chance to stop the virus.”
She takes my hand in hers, wrapping her delicate, wrinkled hands around mine. “Israel has no greater friend,” she says. “And I have no greater friend.”
The best decision I made was bringing Noya here today. Without my aides here with me, I felt her presence and guidance to be a comfort beyond description. But in the end, no number of aides or advice can change the fact that this all comes down to me. This is happening on my watch. This is my responsibility.
“Mr. Prime Minister,” I say, shaking the hand of Ivan Volkov.
“Mr. President, I trust that our experts have been of assistance.”
“They have, yes. Please convey my gratitude to President Chernokev.”
As far as my people can tell, the Russian techs were on the up-and-up. At a minimum, Casey and Devin saw no signs that they were trying to sabotage the process. But that doesn’t mean they couldn’t have withheld something. There’s no way to know.
“My experts tell me that your plan to stop this virus could be successful,” says Volkov. “We are most hopeful this is so.”
I wait for the trace of a smirk, a sense of irony, from the stone-faced, cold-blooded man.
“Everyone should be hopeful,” I say. “Because if we’re hurt, everyone’s hurt. But the people responsible for this should be the most worried, Mr. Prime Minister. Because the United States will retaliate against anyone responsible. And I’m assured by our NATO allies that they will stand with us.”
He nods, the furrowed brow, the look of deep concern. “In the coming days,” he says, “leaders will have to make decisions deliberately and cautiously.”
“In the coming days,” I say, “we will find out who are America’s friends and who are America’s enemies. Nobody will want to be an enemy.”
With that, Volkov takes his leave.
The three leaders, their aides, and their computer experts walk down the back stairs.
A Marine helicopter lands on the helipad in the backyard, preparing to whisk them away.
Chapter
96
Here we go.
From her perch in the white pine, Bach looks through the scope of her rifle at the backyard.
Breathe. Relax. Aim. Squeeze.
The military helicopter, using sound suppression that reduces the roar of the rotating blades to a gentle whisper, sets down on the pad.
The cabin door opens. She steels herself.
The leaders walk out of the cabin, illuminated by the porch lights.
She marks each of them as they exit, sees the opportunity for clean shots to the head.
The Israeli prime minister.
The German chancellor.
The Russian prime minister.
Others walking out, too. She scans their faces. One second, that’s all she will need now that she’s ready— Breathe. Relax. Aim. Squeeze.
A dark-haired man—
—her finger caresses the trigger— Negative.
Adrenaline surging through her body. This is it, and she’s done forever— Long-haired man—
No. Not her target.
The cabin door remains open.
And then it closes.
“Jebi ga,” she curses to herself. He never came out. He’s still inside.
The helicopter lifts. She feels the rush of air as it rises and angles away, quickly disappearing in relative silence.
He won’t leave the cabin. He won’t come to them.
So they’ll have to go to him.
She sets down her rifle and lifts her binoculars. US Secret Service remaining on the lawn, manning the back porch as well. They have laid down flares around the perimeter of the yard to enhance the lighting in the dark.
What happens next will be much riskier.
“Team 1 in position,” she hears in her ear.
“Team 2 in position.”
And much bloodier.
Chapter
97
Hurry,” I say to Devin and Casey in the basement, while Devin, plugged into the Pentagon systems, works to mark all Pentagon files as deleted. Realizing, as I say it, that he’s going as fast as he can and that my badgering doesn’t help matters.
My phone buzzes. “Liz,” I say, answering it.
“Mr. President, we downloaded the contents of Nina’s second phone. You need to see them right away.”
“Okay. How?”
“I’ll send them straight to your phone, right now.”
“Everything? What am I looking for?”