by Lee Goldberg
“Selling stories is my business,” Ian said. “Leave it to me.”
“I’d rather leave it to the CIA.”
“You should know better than that,” he said, but he went along with her without putting up a fight.
They walked two miles up the boulevard, over the Seine at the Pont de la Concorde, past the Ferris wheel at Place de la Concorde, and to the US embassy on Avenue Gabriel. The building was on high alert, marines scrambling all over the grounds, and the only reason they got past the front gate was because Margo gave some magic code word to the guards.
Once they got inside the building, Ian began shivering. He wasn’t sure whether it was because he was soaked or whether it was from the fear he’d held back during those crucial minutes in Tour Montparnasse.
Margo gave another code word to the harried young female bureaucrat who met them at the door and they were immediately hustled to a command center in the basement, where dozens of people were working phones and computer keyboards. A wall of flat screens monitored local and international news programs as well as live surveillance feeds from outside the embassy, from the Eiffel Tower, and from choppers following the presidential motorcade that was speeding on the freeway to Orly, where Air Force One was waiting.
Ian and Margo were led to a frantic, disheveled man in his forties who was giving orders left and right and took a good two minutes before he acknowledged the two wet, bloody, and dusty Americans standing behind him.
“I’m Markham, the fucking CIA station chief,” the man said. “Who the fuck are you and what the fuck do you have to do with this clusterfuck?”
Margo got right in his face. “You know the fucking rocket that nearly hit the fucking president? We’re the fucking reason it fucking didn’t, so go fuck yourself.”
“It was a Chinese plot,” Ian said. “You’ll find the assassin on the forty-fifth floor of Tour Montparnasse. He’s the gore splattered everywhere.”
Markham ordered a couple of marines to separate Ian and Margo and take them away. They were individually debriefed over the next four hours by interrogators. The more Ian talked about the experience of the last forty-eight hours, the less real and more fictional it became in his mind. That’s because he was telling a story, and when he did that, he found himself narrowing the focus, highlighting the drama, downplaying the details, exaggerating the action, and speeding up the pace for maximum entertainment.
Ian and Margo were given dry clothes and flown back to Washington, DC, on a private jet that same night.
Classified Location, Kangbashi District, Ordos, Inner Mongolia, China. July 8. 10:37 p.m. China Standard Time.
Pang Bao sat in the vacant control room, unable to tear himself away from the hundreds of video streams of TV news broadcasts from around the world on the big screen. His console was splattered with vomit. He didn’t care to clean up his involuntary reaction to the day’s events. All of the broadcasts said essentially the same thing:
A lone assassin attempted to kill the presidents of France and the United States while they were dining at the Eiffel Tower by firing a modified Russian-made antitank missile at the restaurant from an office building two miles away. The missile fell short of the target, slamming into the grass of the Champ de Mars. The presidents were unharmed but dozens of officers on the ground suffered minor injuries in the blast. The assassin blew himself up with an improvised explosive.
ISIS claimed responsibility for the attack.
The botched assassination was definitely a disappointment and a lost opportunity but Pang could argue, at least to himself, that it wasn’t a disaster for China. They still could spy on millions of Americans through their electronic devices and could readily access enormous amounts of their private medical, financial, and social data. They still owned major American companies in vital industries. And they still controlled the vice president of the United States, who could win the Oval Office in a few years.
Not only that, but ISIS did them a big, unexpected favor by proudly taking credit for their failure, ensuring that the investigation and retaliation would be directed far away from China.
But Pang was aware that none of that logic would spare him. His superiors knew the truth. It didn’t matter if their assassin bungled the kill or was thwarted by the police. Someone had to be held responsible for the fiasco. With Yat Fu gone, Pang was the obvious scapegoat.
That’s why everyone had gradually slipped out of the control room over the course of the last few hours, leaving the pariah alone to vomit until there was nothing left in him but regrets. Shek Jia was probably talking to Beijing now, arranging for his detention or immediate execution.
Pang was resigned to his fate. There was nowhere to run. He was in a ghost city in the middle of a barren desert.
Soon he would be a ghost himself.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
The White House, Washington, DC. July 11. 10:00 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time.
Ian arrived at the White House in a Jos. A. Bank two-for-one dark-blue suit and carrying a hardcover copy of Death in the Sky. The suit and the book were provided by the CIA, who’d been holding him “incommunicado” at a safe house in Charlottesville, Virginia, since his return to the United States.
All he’d been told was that, in the aftermath of the Paris assassination attempt, the president had tweeted that America could use a man like Clint Straker in our nation’s fight against ISIS and other enemies of freedom.
It was an odd tweet, but no stranger than the one, for example, that the president had sent months earlier calling a couple on HGTV’s Love It or List It “dimwits who don’t have the mental capacity of an amoeba” for choosing to live in their renovated house rather than sell it.
This time, however, the tweet was all part of a carefully orchestrated publicity stunt to justify Ian’s presence at the White House. It was also a tangible expression of the president’s gratitude. Ian was there to give the president a signed copy of the latest Straker novel, which the tweet had instantly propelled to number one on every bestseller list, earning Ian hundreds of thousands of dollars in royalties.
Ian was led by a Secret Service agent to the Oval Office, where he was greeted at the door by the president with a campaigner’s smile and a hearty handshake.
“It’s an honor to meet you, Ian. Thank you for saving me, my wife, and our country from a shocking act of Chinese aggression.”
“You’re welcome, sir,” Ian said and stepped into the office. Margo and CIA director Michael Healy were sitting on one of the two facing couches. He hadn’t seen Margo since they’d landed at Andrews Air Force Base.
“Please sit down, Ian.” The president closed the door. Ian took a seat on the other couch. “I’m sure you’re wondering what’s been going on in the world since you left Paris.”
“It’s crossed my mind,” Ian said and looked at Healy, “though I’ve enjoyed catching up on the last three seasons of The Walking Dead.”
“First, let me take care of two formalities.” The president picked up one of two slim leather boxes from his desk. He brought it over to Ian and opened it for him to see what was inside. The box contained a blue ribbon with white edges attached to a ring of five golden eagles around a white enamel star with thirteen gold stars in the center. “I’m secretly awarding you the Presidential Medal of Freedom, our highest national honor, for your heroism.”
Ian smiled at Margo. “I wasn’t alone, sir. Margo deserves as much, if not more, credit for what we did.”
“She’s already received her medal,” the president said.
“I’m glad to hear that.” Ian reached for the medal and the president snapped the box shut.
“It’s a secret award. It will be declassified in seventy-five years.”
“I’ll be sure to save a spot on my mantel for it,” Ian said.
The president went back to his desk, picked up the other box, and brought it over to Ian.
“The French president has secretly presented you with the Legion of Honour,
their highest award.” He opened the box and Ian admired the red ribbon and the gold medal, which resembled a royal crown. “You may view this again in private, for as long as you live, at the Élysée Palace, where it will remain in perpetuity.”
“I suppose it’s the thought that counts,” Ian said.
“They’ve been very thoughtful,” the president said, closing the box and returning it to his desk. “They’ve completely erased, through the destruction and suppression of evidence, your entire involvement in the incident.”
“What about the psychologist we assaulted?” Ian asked.
Healy spoke up. “The doctor is very appreciative of what you and Margo did for his country. In fact, he invoked doctor-client confidentiality to protect you before he was even asked to keep quiet.”
“He also got a secret Legion of Honour,” Margo added.
“It’s nice that every contestant is getting a prize,” Ian said. “But why hide what we did?”
“It doesn’t serve our national interest.” The president sat down in an armchair that faced the two couches. “There are other narratives that offer us more benefits.”
In other words, Ian thought, they had a better story. That was a way of thinking that he understood. They were rewriting history like it was a novel that needed work.
“While you were flying home,” Healy said, “ISIS claimed responsibility for the assassination attempt.”
“You mean you claimed it for them,” Ian said.
Healy shrugged. “They aren’t denying it. They’re running with it because it makes their capabilities seem far greater than they actually are.”
“The dumb shits,” the president said. “They’re doing it even though it justifies us going nuclear on them and any nation that ever supported them, directly or indirectly.”
Margo went pale. “You’re going to use nuclear weapons?”
“It’s a figure of speech,” the president said. “I simply mean we can be far more aggressive militarily than Congress, the United Nations, or the EU ever had the guts to be before. It’s freed up billions in defense spending.”
That was one of the benefits of the new narrative, but Ian thought it ignored the real threat. “What about retaliating against China? They’re the ones who actually tried to kill you and put their puppet in this office. It was the last step in their ongoing plot to take over our country.”
“As far as the Chinese know,” the president said, “we are completely unaware of all of that.”
“We’re opting to take a more covert approach,” Healy said. “We confronted the vice president with the tape.”
“That was one titanic fart,” the president said. “Worse than the one at the debate.”
“Now he’s working for us,” Healy said. “He’ll be feeding false intelligence to the Chinese that will impact every aspect of their foreign policy.”
Margo looked at the president. “What if something happens to you? He’s still next in line for the presidency.”
“If I’m forced to leave office for any reason, Penny will immediately resign or Mike will release the tape and reveal his decades of collusion with the Chinese.”
“What happens if he decides to run for president when your term expires?”
“Same thing,” Healy said. “He’ll never occupy the Oval Office, not even for a minute.”
“I don’t even want the gasbag in the White House,” the president said. “That’s why he left today on a friendship tour of Madagascar, to be followed by an extended diplomatic visit to Antarctica. We’ve neglected the people living on our ice caps for too long. I might even send him to the International Space Station. His farts could actually keep the Goddamn thing in orbit.”
It wasn’t how Ian would have handled the situation, but he wasn’t running the country or the CIA. It would be different in his book. On the page, he was God.
“What about the rest of China’s plot against the United States?”
“Now that we know what they are doing,” Healy said, “we can leverage that to our benefit, too. Their ignorance of how much we know gives us a huge tactical advantage and a means to manipulate them.”
“You’ll be using their own weapons against them,” Ian said. “You’ll put Trojan horses into the data they’re mining and get a back door into their global surveillance system. You’ll see what they see.”
Healy smiled. “You should be a spy.”
“That brings us to the real point of this get-together, Ian,” the president said. “I didn’t invite you here just to show you your medals, give you an intelligence briefing, and do a photo op with your book. Your country needs you.”
Ian looked at Healy. “You’re offering me a job again?”
“This is the second time you’ve uncovered and destroyed a conspiracy to cripple our democracy,” Healy said. “You have a gift.”
“It feels more like a curse,” Ian said.
“You love it,” Margo said. “Maybe even more than I do.”
“We want you to keep writing thrillers and traveling the world researching and promoting your work,” Healy said. “While spying for us at the same time.”
The idea was exciting, but it was also terrifying. He’d barely survived these last two experiences. Seeking out this kind of danger might be pushing his luck. “I don’t think I’m cut out to be an action hero. I’d never survive the training.”
“That’s where I come in,” Margo said. “I’ll be the tough guy.”
She’d be his full-time author escort . . . with a license to kill. The idea amused him even if the reality would be very different.
“We want you to use your imagination to uncover plots we might not otherwise see,” Healy said. “Your role with us will be loosely defined to allow your creativity to guide you. It’s worked so far. You’ll report directly to me.”
“And Mike will keep me in the loop,” the president said. “Nobody else will know that you’re a spy.”
It was dangerous. On the other hand, he’d be a spy.
The name is Ludlow, Ian Ludlow.
“Will I get an Aston Martin with an ejector seat?”
“No,” Healy said, “but you’ll get a Hertz Gold Plus membership card.”
“I’m in,” Ian said.
“Thank you, Ian.” The president stood up and everyone rose with him. “I need a word with Mike. I’ll meet you and Margo in the Rose Garden in a few minutes for that photo shoot.”
The president opened the patio doors to the garden. Ian and Margo walked out onto the grass.
It was hard for Ian to believe he’d just met the president of the United States and that he was now strolling through the White House Rose Garden as a newly minted secret agent.
“I guess this makes us partners,” Margo said.
“Except I’m in charge.”
“No,” she said. “I am.”
“I have the imagination.”
“But I have the actual professional training to do this shit.”
“It was literally my books that saved our lives in Paris,” Ian said.
“I’m sure John Grisham’s would’ve done just as well.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ian said. “He writes legal thrillers.”
“What difference does that make?”
“How long do you think we would have survived if we’d been thinking like a lawyer instead of Clint Straker?”
“You may have a point,” she said and reached for his hand.
He took her hand and they kept walking.
AUTHOR’S NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to thank Hunter Rawlings, Chuck Knief, and Rich Colabella for sharing their expertise. I’m responsible for any technical and geographical errors you may have noticed and there’s a good chance I made them on purpose to serve the needs of my story.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © Roland Scarpa
Lee Goldberg is a two-time Edgar Award and two-time Shamus Award nominee and the #1 New York Times bestsellin
g author of more than thirty novels, including the Washington Post bestseller True Fiction, King City, The Walk, fifteen Monk mysteries, and the internationally bestselling Fox & O’Hare books (The Heist, The Chase, The Job, The Scam, and The Pursuit), cowritten with Janet Evanovich. He has also written and/or produced scores of TV shows, including Diagnosis Murder, SeaQuest, Monk, and The Glades. As an international television consultant, he has advised networks and studios in Canada, France, Germany, Spain, China, Sweden, and the Netherlands on the creation, writing, and production of episodic television series. You can find more information about Lee and his work at www.leegoldberg.com.