I dial Carolyn, my chief of staff, with whom I’ve spoken dozens of times today, but it feels like ages since we last talked, what with everything that’s happened in the interim—the “play-dead” test run, the FBI unlocking Nina’s other phone, the attack on the cabin, the discovery of the stopper Nina installed along with the keyword.
“Mr. President! Thank God! I’ve been—”
“Listen, Carrie, listen. I don’t have time to explain. We have less than six minutes before the virus goes off.”
I hear Carolyn suck in her breath.
“There’s a keyword,” I continue. “Nina created a keyword to stop the virus. If we can figure out the keyword, we disable it across all systems. If we don’t, it detonates across all systems—it’s Dark Ages. I’ve tried everything with our tech experts. We’re down to simply guessing. I need the smartest people I know. I need our national security team. Get everyone together.”
“Everyone?” she asks. “Including the vice president?”
“Especially the vice president,” I say.
“Yes, sir.”
“It was her, Carrie. I’ll explain later. You should know, too. I just ordered a search of the vice president’s office in the West Wing. When the FBI shows up, someone will probably tell you. Just let them do it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get everyone on the conference, and patch me in through Marine One, which is where I am now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do it now, Carrie. We’re at…five minutes.”
Chapter
111
I walk past Devin and Casey, who have all but collapsed in the plush leather chairs in the center cabin of Marine One, their expressions washed out, their hair matted with sweat, their eyes staring upward. They’ve been through a pressure cooker, and they’ve done everything they could. I don’t need them anymore. Now it’s up to me and the national security team.
And Augie, the closest connection we have to Nina.
I walk into the rear cabin and close the door behind me after letting Augie through. My hands are shaking as I lift the remote on the flat-screen TV and push the button, the faces of eight people immediately popping on—Liz, Carolyn, and the “circle of six.”
Augie sits in one of the leather chairs, the laptop in his lap, ready to type.
“Carolyn briefed you?” I say to my team on the television. “We have a keyword, and we have…”
I look at my phone, which has a timer of its own that I synced up with the virus’s timer.
4:26
4:25
“…four and a half minutes to figure it out. We tried every variation of her name, of Augie’s name, of Suliman Cindoruk’s name, of ‘Abkhazia’ and ‘Georgia’ and ‘Sons of Jihad.’ I need ideas, people, and I need them now.”
“What’s her birthday?” asks the CIA director, Erica Beatty.
Liz, holding Nina’s dossier, answers: “We believe it’s August 11, 1992.”
I point to Augie. “Try it. ‘August 11.’ ‘August 11, 1992,’ or ‘8-11-92.’”
“No,” says Erica. “Europeans would put the day before the month: ‘11-8-92.’”
“Right.” I turn to Augie, my heart kicking up. “Try it both ways, I guess.”
He types quickly, head down, brow furrowed in concentration. “No,” he says on the first try.
“No” on the second one.
“No” on the third one.
“No” on the fourth.
3:57
3:54
My eyes on Vice President Kathy Brandt, who so far has remained silent.
Then Kathy lifts her head. “What about her family? Family names. Mother, father, siblings.”
“Liz?”
“Mother is Nadya, n-a-d-y-a, maiden name unknown. Father is Mikhail, m-i-k-h-a-i-l.”
“Try it, Augie, all variations—all caps, all lowercase, normal, whatever. Try their names together, too,” which of course means every combination of spacing and caps. Every guess has multiple permutations. Every permutation takes more time off the clock.
“Keep going while he types, people. Siblings are good. What about—”
I snap my fingers, interrupting myself. “Nina had a niece, right? Nina told me she was killed in a bombing. Nina caught shrapnel in her head. Do we know the niece’s name? Liz? Augie?”
“I don’t have that information,” says Liz.
“The family names didn’t work,” says Augie. “I tried every combination.”
3:14
3:11
“What about the niece, Augie? Did she ever tell you about the niece?”
“I…believe her name started with an r…”
“Started with an r? I need more than ‘started with an r.’ Come on, people!”
“What moved her?” asks Carolyn. “What was most important to her?”
I look at Augie. “Freedom? Try that.”
Augie types it in, shakes his head.
“Her passport number,” says the defense secretary, Dominick Dayton.
Liz has it. Augie types it in. No.
“Where was she born?” asks Rod Sanchez, chairman of the Joint Chiefs.
“A pet—a dog or cat,” says Sam Haber of Homeland Security.
“The name of the train station she blew up,” says Brendan Mohan, national security adviser.
“How about ‘virus,’ ‘time bomb,’ ‘boom.’”
“Armageddon.”
“Dark Ages.”
“Your name, Mr. President.”
“USA. United States.”
All of them good ideas. All of them typed into the computer in their various iterations of all caps and the like.
All of them coming up empty.
2:01
1:58
As best I can see her, the vice president stares forward in steely concentration. What is going through that mind right now?
“She was on the run—isn’t that what we know?” Carolyn again.
“Yes.”
“So can we work with that? What was most important to her?”
I look at Augie and nod my head.
“She wanted to go home,” says Augie.
“That’s right,” I say. “But we’ve tried that.”
“Maybe…Abkhazia’s on the Black Sea, right?” says Carolyn. “Did she miss the Black Sea? Anything like that?”
I point to Augie. “That’s good. Try ‘Black Sea,’ all variations.”
As Augie types, as everyone joins in with another idea, I watch only my vice president, the person I selected to be my running mate over many other people who gladly would have accepted, who would have loyally served me and this country.
She is stoic, but her eyes are moving around the room she’s in, within the operations center below the White House. I wish I could see her face better. I wish I could know if, at the very least, this is weighing on her.
“No on ‘Black Sea,’” says Augie.
More suggestions come:
“Amnesty.”
“Liberty.”
“Family.”
“But where is home, specifically?” Carolyn asks. “If that’s all she thought about, if that was her whole goal…what city is she from?”
“She’s right,” I say. “We should look at that. Where did she live, Augie? Where specifically? Or Liz. Anyone? Do we know where the hell she lived?”
Liz says, “Her parents lived in the city of Sokhumi. It’s considered the capital of the Abkhazian republic.”
“Good. Spell it, Liz.”
“S-o-k-h-u-m-i.”
“Go, Augie—‘Sokhumi.’”
“Are you sure?” Carolyn asks.
I check my phone, my heartbeat pounding in my throat.
0:55
0:52
Watching the vice president, her lips parting. She says something, but it’s drowned out by other suggestions being thrown out— “Stop, everyone stop,” I say. “Kathy, what did you say?”
She seems to steel herself, surprised at my focus on her. “I said, try ‘Lilly.’”
I deflate. I shouldn’t be surprised, but for some reason I am.
I point to Augie. “Do it. Try my daughter’s name.”
0:32
0:28
Augie types it in. Shakes his head. Tries it a different way, all caps. Shakes his head. Tries it another way— “Mr. President,” says Carolyn. “Sokhumi can be spelled more than one way. When I was on the intelligence committee, I always saw it with two u’s, no o.”
I drop my head and close my eyes. That’s how I remember it being spelled, too.
“No on ‘Lilly,’” says Augie.
“S-u-k-h-u-m-i,” I tell him.
He types it in. The room goes silent.
0:10
0:09
Augie’s fingers lift off the keypad. He raises his hands as he watches the monitor.
0:04
0:03
“The keyword has been accepted,” he says. “The virus is disabled.”
Chapter
112