The End Game

by Catherine Coulter

  69

  KING TO G1

  Vanessa’s voice, weak but steady: “Matthew, you need to tell them everything, where you planted the bomb in Yorktown, where Darius is, what he plans.

  “He wasn’t ever who you believed he was, Matthew. We believe now that Iran and Hezbollah hired him, the very people you hate. He’s been using you. They’ve been using you.

  “Please cooperate with Drummond and Caine. They’ll make sure you’re treated fairly.”

  Vanessa’s voice stopped. The only sound in the room was Matthew’s hoarse breathing.

  Mike kept her Glock trained on him as she took a step toward him. “Vanessa told you the truth, Mr. Spenser. We will treat you fairly, but you must help us, you must tell us where Darius is. Did you know his real name is Zahir Damari? He’s an assassin, not a comrade in arms. He used you, simple as that. Does he intend to kill the vice president? Or the president? Did he manage to get one of your bombs to Tehran?”

  Matthew began to laugh again, and Mike edged a little closer, her weapon steady.

  Matthew looked from Nicholas in the doorway, to the three agents crowded in behind him, to the woman who shot him, to the woman with the red hair. The pain in his arm and hand was immense, thudding and pounding, making him want to scream, but he didn’t. When he spoke, his voice was steady, firm. “Darius, or Damari, whatever, I don’t care, what he’s going to do is just, it’s righteous, no matter his motives. You’re lying about Iran and Hezbollah, Darius was English, and like me, he understood loss and pain. As for the bombs, he doesn’t have any.” He stopped cold, then slowly shook his head.

  So Damari had stolen one.

  Spenser looked from her to Nicholas and down at Carrie. “You people don’t understand. Vanessa never understood. I know there isn’t a single person in this world who thinks clearly when it comes to the terrorists. They aren’t one country, one group, they’re an entire section of the world stuck in the Middle Ages, and their sole purpose is to kill us. Our current administration believes we can work with them, show them how we respect their beliefs, their religions, regardless of their sects.

  “We’re told we should be tolerant, we should excuse what they do to women, do to anyone who disagrees with them, and then, if we do, we’re assured they’ll stop hating us and wanting to kill us. What a joke that is.

  “Our own president wants to placate them, appease them, give them endless concessions, drop sanctions, let them come and go as they please. And the minute we agree to do these things, they will smile at the peace table and drink a toast to peace with us, then parade in and slit our throats, chop off our heads, burn us to death.

  “They hate us, they hate everything we stand for. We are a pestilence to them, nothing more.

  “They must be stopped, to be shown once and for all that we will stand up for ourselves, that we will not let them murder us. I’m taking the first step. I’m killing that idiot who would hand us over to the terrorists on a silver platter.” His voice rose to a yell. “No more appeasement!”

  He smiled at each of them in turn, a triumphant smile, one that scared Mike to her toes. His hand came away from his wounded arm. He was holding a cell phone.

  He paused only a brief instant, then, “I’m the beginning!”

  He pressed a button on the cell phone an instant before Mike pulled the trigger.

  Spenser went down hard. The phone spun away out of his hand, hit the floor, and rolled out into the hall.

  Everyone dove for cover, bracing for the explosion.

  It didn’t happen.

  Nicholas was out the door, scooped up the phone, and began to frantically search. Mike stood at his elbow, leaving Carrie to see to Spenser.

  “No bomb,” Carrie called out.

  “Nicholas, what’s on there?”

  “I don’t know yet. It has to be some sort of trigger. There’s a countdown going. We better clear out of here in case he dropped something in a trash can on his way in.”

  The agent who’d spoken to them over their comms, shouted, “I didn’t see him put anything anywhere. He walked in, didn’t stop, didn’t toss anything. He never took his hands out of his pocket except to pull out the knife, so I think we’re okay.”

  A huge relief, Mike thought, since clearing an ICU would be a nightmare.

  Nicholas pulled out his laptop, set it on the counter. “I’m going to plug it in, see if I can override the program.”

  The phone was an Android and he had a cord for it in his bag. It didn’t look like it could do much, yet the countdown was still going on.

  He plugged it in, set his code to override the countdown and break into the phone’s software.

  After a few minutes, he said, “I’m in. Phone was encrypted, but I have it now.”

  “Where’s the bomb?” Mike asked.

  Nicholas was staring at the screen of his laptop.

  “Nicholas, what is it?”

  He turned the screen. She saw silver metal, a complicated control system, half-moons in blacks and oranges, blues and greens. An altimeter, a horizon, engine loads.

  “It’s a plane. Spenser planted a bomb on a plane.”

  “It’s not just any plane,” Nicholas said. “See the insignia in the middle top? It’s bloody Air Force One.”

  Wednesday

  Noon–4 p.m.

  70

  BISHOP TO C5 CHECK

  Air Force One

  Over the North Atlantic

  President Jefferson Bradley was alone, finally, in his private office in the upstairs of Air Force One. They’d gotten a late start, a threat there was a sniper on a building near Air Force One, and wasn’t that just par for the course? Everyone was on edge until they took off.

  Now, six hours later, he was nursing a lovely single-barrel Blanton’s bourbon and all his aides were elsewhere, either talking about the aborted peace talks, or maybe about what they were going to do Saturday night, who knew? At least he no longer had to deal with those treacherous two-faced fools who’d supposedly come to talk peace. He consigned the lot of them to the deepest pit of Hell.

  He sighed. Those small undetectable bombs Callan had told him about. Were they real? If so, that was a worry. What was going on?

  Calm, he wanted calm, and distraction. He picked up a new biography of Churchill, wished it was a thriller instead, something to distract him, and had flipped a page when alarms began to sound. He slapped at the conference button on his speakerphone. “What’s happening?”

  The pilot—Air Force colonel Simon Moore—came over the speaker. “Sir, we’re experiencing some computer issues down here. We’ll be fixed up in a moment, we’re waiting for an upload from Command.”

  “Turn off the alarm, then. No sense freaking out the whole plane.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  There was buzzing behind the alarm. For the briefest of moments, he could hear the faraway squelch of the copilot on the radio speaking to their air recon planes, telling them they’d lost an electrical port, then the alarm turned off and the pilot released the speaker button.

  It was suddenly deathly quiet. Bradley shrugged it off, set down the book on the table in front of him. He closed his eyes, and there they were, all pomp and circumstance—the Iranian negotiators, and look what they’d done. At crunch time, they’d thrown it all away, with smug smiles, and lies pouring out of their mouths. The reactors lit up? Soldiers massing? All a misunderstanding, only their normal scheduled tests.

  He felt unutterably depressed. All his hopes, his plans for his legacy, nothing now. What was wrong with these people? Was Callan right? Was this all meant to play him along until they’d stolen the bombs? Until they had copied them? Tiny undetectable bombs, as small as gold coins? He didn’t know if he even believed it.

  When Callan had told him Iran had moved several of their missile batteries, turned on thei
r blasted refineries, he’d believed it their usual posturing, their usual middle finger to the West. But now he supposed he had to believe it was more, like Callan said, given the unguarded last look he’d seen on the lead negotiator’s face in a mirror the man wasn’t aware of. He’d looked—pleased. Excited. And then he’d known it was no use.

  Bradley felt rage building. All their petty arguing, fighting over an inch of land, a camel here and an oil derrick there, whose God was more important. They couldn’t agree where the sun rose, hadn’t since the dawn of time. Fighting and killing, and watching with hatred and distrust a world that had moved on without them. It was exhausting. He said to his glass of Blanton’s, “If only they could see a future that embraced other beliefs, other races, not death, always death.” And he sighed. He doubted they ever would change, their boundless hatred seemed hardwired over more than a thousand years. He remembered telling Callan they were like children, all they needed was a firm hand to guide them, his hand, but he hadn’t said that aloud, and she’d laughed.

  “No, you’re wrong there, Jeff. They’re like drunk teenagers ready to run away from home after burning their parents to death.”

  He tried to pound his hopes and beliefs back into place. Surely Callan was wrong, the CIA was wrong, the military was wrong. It was Iran’s leadership at fault, he had to believe that, crushing their people under the intolerable weight of intolerance and ancient rules and commandments. He’d desperately wanted to give the next generation a chance. They were the only hope.

  But no amount of pounding would do it. Iran had tossed it all in the fire, rejoicing as they did so. He realized now he’d never met Iran’s lead negotiator before these talks. Was Colonel Vahid Rahbar the one behind this insanity? Along with his Hezbollah bullies?

  And now Yorktown was canceled. For heaven’s sake, he was used to threats—he was the leader of the free world, they happened daily. Still, Callan had been adamant the threat was real, and Mossad, the FBI, and the CIA agreed. He may not like the woman, but he did respect her. She wasn’t reactionary; she’d been out in the real, dirty, nasty world, and no agency was more real, dirtier, or nastier than the CIA. He knew her bringing him California in the election had really turned the tide in his favor. It rankled, particularly if she turned out to be right.

  He took a deep drink of the bourbon, feeling the fire burn all the way to his belly.

  He set the glass back on the table, glanced over at the flight map. They were closing in on land, coming in above Maine. The flight tracker said he’d be back in D.C. within two hours. When he landed, the very first thing he was going to do—

  The plane jolted. His bourbon started to slide. Bradley grabbed it.

  A shudder ran the long line of the plane, then it banked suddenly, hard left, like a fighter jet coming about. Bradley knew the feeling—he’d flown F-16s in the war. The Boeing 747-200B wasn’t capable of making such a sharp turn.

  They went slightly sideways, and a small frisson of panic went through him.

  Colonel Moore came over the intercom. His voice was remarkably calm—not a surprise, since Moore had been a fighter pilot for years before taking on this position.

  “Sir, we have a problem. Someone has hacked into our flight computer. They have taken over the controls and engaged the autoland.”

  “Well, take it back from them.”

  “I can’t, sir. There’s a bug in the system of some kind. When we uploaded the new software for the electrical issues, we also uploaded a worm embedded inside the software. I don’t know how it happened, but we can’t get into it to change course, heading, altitude, nothing. Someone outside is flying the plane now. Sir, I’m sorry.”

  The plane executed another hard turn. Bradley could hear people running. The door from the communications room burst open, smashing back into the wall and hurling his chief of staff, Ellen Star, nearly into his lap. She grabbed his arms. “Sir, we’re being attacked! We’re under attack!”

  Bradley steadied her. “It will be all right, Ellen.” The plane rattled and heaved and he pulled her to his side and held her tight. “We’ll be just fine, you’ll see.”

  And he said into the intercom, “Get this plane under control immediately, Colonel Moore. That’s an order.”

  The down angle of the plane’s nose shifted suddenly, and they began to lose altitude. Star screamed. He heard shouts, calls, screams throughout the plane, and then thumps and bangs as luggage fell and people toppled.

  Moore said, his voice still calm, “Sir, I regret to tell you that we have no control of the plane. Repeat, we have no control. You’re going to want to put on your life vest, sir. We’re going down.”

  71

  KING TO F1

  George Washington University Hospital

  Nicholas watched, helpless. The glide slope of the plane had changed dramatically. The horizon shifted hard, and he realized what was happening. No, he couldn’t let the plane go down, couldn’t. He had to do something. Adrenaline burst through him, and there was Mike beside him, asking, “So it was Matthew’s job to assassinate the president. What exactly is happening, Nicholas?”

  “Someone has control of the autoland. I don’t know if they’re trying to land the plane somewhere, or crash it into the ocean. We need to find a way to override the system, but this bastard has shut down all the electronic controls. I don’t know how to stop it.”

  She said, all calm certainty, “Yes, you do, Nicholas. What do you need to do first?”

  He looked up at Mike. “I need to find a route in through their wireless system before the plane lands or crashes. From the heading, it’s the latter, and I have about two minutes before it’s in the water.”

  She cleared the space, waving people back, then came back, hunkered down beside him, saw the fierce concentration. “Tell me what you need.”

  And it hit him. “I need secure comms with the plane. Get me through, Mike. Now. They’ll need to be ready to take over if I can dismantle the attack.”

  He closed his eyes in a brief prayer. Seventy-eight souls were in the palm of his hand.

  Mike didn’t hesitate, she pulled out the private card and called the vice president directly.

  Callan answered, “Agent Caine, what’s going on there—”

  “Ma’am, we need immediate access to Air Force One. It’s being attacked. Audio, cell, radio. Anything we can get, and we need it right now.”

  Callan said, “Hold.” The phone went quiet. Ten long seconds later, she came back on. “You’re being patched through.”

  Mike put the phone on speaker, set it by Nicholas’s left hand.

  “This is Special Operations Command, Captain Reynolds here. Who am I talking to?”

  “Agent Nicholas Drummond, FBI. Air Force One has been compromised. I need to overtake their flight controls.”

  “Can’t be done.”

  “Someone already has done it, mate. Did you alter the software for the controls in the last thirty days?”

  Silence, the man disappeared for a minute. “Come on, come on,” Nicholas said under his breath, typing hard and fast on the computer. Mike watched code stream from his fingers onto the screen like he was something from the Matrix.

  Captain Reynolds came back. “Yes, about ten minutes ago, in flight. They had an electrical issue, we pushed an update to get them back online.”

  “We need to push a new update. The one they pushed in was compromised.”

  “Can’t do it, the controls are down. Wait, wait, the readings are offline. Drummond, the plane is going down!”

  “I know this, Captain Reynolds. We have less than a minute left. Lift the firewall. I can break through it, but we can’t waste any more time. I’ll take it from there.”

  “This is Vice President Sloane. Captain, do as he asks. Right now. That is a direct order.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The
screen in front of Nicholas changed. Mike saw him take a deep breath and she gripped his shoulder. “Go, Nicholas.”

  “Captain Reynolds, listen carefully. I’m going to create a new wireless network, and we’re going to log off Air Force One and put the plane’s communications onto the new network. Then you’ll push a fresh update. Backdate to the one prior to the one you sent.”

  Reynolds said, “Are you crazy? I don’t have enough time—”

  “Do it,” Nicholas said. “I’ve already founded the new wireless and I’m ready to override the attack.” And to Mike, “What’s my countdown?”

  “You have forty-five seconds.”

  He clicked on his other screen and the plane’s cockpit came up. The altimeter read eighteen thousand feet. They were going down fast.

  “Are you ready?” he said to Captain Reynolds.

  Reynolds stressed voice, “I need thirty more seconds.”

  “This is over in twenty. Get the bloody firewall down now! Crash the system, don’t be nice to it. Force it!”

  A pause. “It’s down, it’s down. Go!”

  Nicholas started to type fast, strings of numbers. Everyone in the immediate area was creeping close again to watch. It was so quiet, Mike could hear herself breathe. She watched the clock over Nicholas’s shoulder, and she prayed.

  “Nicholas, twenty seconds,” she said.

  “I know, I know.”

  The code was done. The altimeter still spun crazily downward. “I need the pilot now, please,” he said, more calmly than he felt. If he’d missed one letter, one number, one iota of code, the plane and all the people inside were dead.

  “This is Colonel Moore. You’re the one trying to fix this?” The man’s voice was steady as a rock.

  “Yes. When I say now, I want you to take the plane back, execute all evasive maneuvers. Three, two, one, now!”

  He typed EXE and hit return. Stopped. Didn’t move an inch.

  There was nothing more he could do.