“The safeguards on the computers?”
“They worked. The banks will cease operations for three hours. I’ll address the people when we arrive at the airport. Colonel, your father was right again. Are you on board, son?”
“Yes, Mr. President.” Giacomo didn’t understand why he said yes. Was it a commitment to country and freedom or fear of the unknown?
“Very well, General.”
“General?”
“Yes. I promoted you.”
The cars swept into Tweed Airport. An aged F-22 Raptor leapt off the runway to circle the airspace as it waited to escort Air Force One back to Washington. A podium with the presidential seal was positioned in front of the stairs of the government’s aging Gulfstream G550. Television cameras and reporters were corralled to the side. The SUV parked. Waldron took a deep breath before he addressed the crowd—his presidency and nation struck with yet another death blow.
Chapter 20
The following morning, the Chinese ambassador to the United States, Xiao Chin, sat alone in a booth at a McLean, Virginia, diner. The morning sun rose. Rays of light traveled across the eatery, lingering at the doorway. The air conditioner groaned as it struggled to cool the sweltering summer air. Xiao’s jet-black hair highlighted his round face that reflected his no-nonsense personality as he waited for his guest to arrive. The clandestine meeting had been arranged outside of the normal diplomatic channels.
Xiao had been educated in China, Hong Kong, and America. His father, an influential Communist Party leader, had overseen the governmental transfer of Hong Kong from England to the Chinese in 2000. He’d insisted his son attend a university in the States. He stressed the importance of understanding life in America—it would be of benefit to Xiao in the future. And so, he graduated from Dartmouth with a degree in economics. Now, at fifty-two, he longed to be home in the city where he was raised—Hong Kong. The diplomat had grown tired of the political wrangling among the countries of the world, but even so, today’s discussion would be interesting.
The sunlight hid the face of a thin man entering the restaurant. Secretary of State Clifton Webb wore a blue pin-striped gabardine suit. His polished black Italian leather shoes scuffed the floor as he passed an old white-and-black Formica counter with round red stools. The smell of bacon and brewed coffee permeated the establishment. Webb sat opposite Xiao.
Their pleasantries were strained. An older waitress, her hair pulled back in a bun, approached the booth with a coffeepot in hand. She poured the brown liquid into the stained ceramic cups. Xiao drank his black. Webb added milk and three sugars, then tapped his spoon against the saucer.
“You understand, Xiao, Waldron will give the order today?”
“Cliff, what your president proposes to do makes no sense. Our government cannot allow this to happen.”
“Then your premier needs to step in, or by tomorrow morning there will be a new landscape. There is no choice. The US government is in shambles—you’re well aware of that. Shit . . . the whole world knows. The political bickering and backstabbing on the Hill is unbelievable. I wish I had never taken this job . . .” His voice trailed off. Webb spun the tabs on the antique jukebox fastened to the wall and changed the subject. “Did you have these in Hong Kong when you grew up?”
“No. I first saw them at Dartmouth.”
“Yeah, the good old days. We need to address the North Korea problem. I don’t like it, but the United States has reached its tipping point.”
“It is not our fault or responsibility that North Korea hacked your computer systems.”
“True, but your country has the most to lose.”
Xiao sat back and then leaned forward, his hands folded. “Is it China’s fault that America continues to borrow from our financial institutions? Or that your electoral college overturned the presidential election four years ago? The indictment of your politicians? America is ripe for a revolution. Your border security is useless. Your attempts to build a wall were a waste of money. You worry that Hispanics are crossing your southern border?” Xiao’s dark eyes grew wide, his left eyebrow raised as he said, “For the past twenty years, you ignored the terrorists who infiltrated the US through Canada. That, my friend, will bite you in the ass.”
As in a game of chess, Webb’s king had been put into check. The secretary of state sat back in astonishment. He had recently read a CIA report that acknowledged the same thing.
Xiao continued his diatribe. “Your new, revised health care initiative and your taxes on imports will lead your administration back to our banks. Like fools, we will continue to extend loans to your failed government. Your country would be better named the United States of China.”
Webb’s anger was on the cusp of causing a diplomatic incident. He was tired of the rhetoric. “I’m aware of the plight that faces our country, Mr. Ambassador. This is a bigger problem. Action needs to be taken soon. We might not be able to stop the next cyberattack. At that point, it will be a lose-lose proposition for both of our countries.” Webb sighed. “At midnight, we will launch three nuclear strikes against North Korea.” He registered the shock on the ambassador’s face. Checkmate? I don’t think so.
Xiao sat back. “This is stupid. Why would Waldron do this?”
“For reasons I can’t discuss. Only the Chinese can stop this. We can’t rely on the Russians.” Webb glanced at his watch. “Time for me to go. Thanks for meeting me here.” He dropped two dollars by the coffee cup, buttoned his jacket, and left the diner as he dodged checkmate. He left Xiao shaking his head. Webb reached for his cell phone and dialed the vice president of the United States.
“How did it go, Cliff?”
“The ruse of a nuclear strike shocked him.”
“It should’ve. Well, I cleaned up another one of Waldron’s messes.”
“You realize we can have our asses thrown in jail for what we did?”
“Not my ass, Cliff—yours.” The conversation ended.
Chapter 21
Arthur Waldron was exhausted as he unbuttoned his white shirt. The weary man had spent the last twenty-four hours in the situation room, followed by a press conference on the financial condition of the country. The New York Stock Exchange had ceased trading. The economy was at a standstill. Waldron couldn’t stop the onslaught of consumers who rushed to withdraw their money. Financial institutions locked the doors as panic devoured the nation.
The frustrated American people had been goaded by an antagonistic news media, and they’d reacted. On the night of the cyberattack, angry citizens rioted in the streets. One thousand and three American lives were lost in the hours of seething blackness. Local police, unable to control the mobs, were powerless as they observed the carnage. At the media briefing, Waldron announced banks would reopen within twenty-four hours. There was an underlying sense of doubt and doom—the people were disillusioned. To the surprise of many, according to the newscasters, only a small number of people removed all their money from the banks—if you consider over half a million to be small. Americans wanted revenge on the North Koreans.
The Joint Chiefs of Staff argued vehemently for a military strike against North Korea as a response to the cyberattacks. Waldron weighed the options and rejected their proposal.
Waldron wandered the hallways of his private residence. The house phone chimed.
“Mr. President, the secretary of state.” The Secret Service agent handed him the phone.
“Yes, Clifton. Dead? How? Cliff, I expect you to represent the country at the funeral.”
Waldron handed the phone back to the agent as he said, “Natural causes, I doubt it.”
Before his election, the forty-eighth president of the United States had served three terms as a senator from Colorado. He knew how to play the political game. Although a Democrat, he was neither liberal nor conservative and had been praised for his ability to listen to the residents of his state
. He cast his ballots per the wishes of the citizens.
Waldron had even overseen the development of a software program that allowed his constituents to vote for any bill before the Senate through computers, cell phones, and personal devices. Colorado was the only state that quantifiably listened to the voice of the people.
Another Secret Service agent escorted Waldron to his bedroom. His wife, Amy, was in bed, watching a movie on the wide-screen television.
“Hello, stranger,” she said as she muted the sound. Married for five decades, Amy was the soothing voice that kept him calm.
“I hate this job.” Waldron gazed at his spouse. “The North Korean leader is dead.”
“Good. You don’t need that worry. What a lunatic.”
“Is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Ignore me. How’s the new bed?”
“Too hard.”
“I’m sure we can replace it.”
“I would hope so! You are the president, the most powerful man in the world.”
“Yeah, right.”
Arthur continued to undress. He sat on the bed as his childhood sweetheart rubbed his back.
“Who attacked the San Francisco Bridge?”
“Per the FBI, it was the Fighters for Freedom Brigade.” With his hands, he cupped his face. “Tom Maro can have this job.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I should’ve listened to you and not run again. The electoral college should never have overturned the election. Our country betrayed the founders because I won the popular vote. I can’t do it anymore. It’s a constant battle with the fools on the Hill.” Waldron let out a sigh. “Rio DeLaurentis is right—our government is being run by a group of moronic a-holes. Myself included.”
“Not true, Arthur. You’re doing the best you can.”
“Yeah, sure.” He deflected the statement. “You’re right about the bed, Amy.” The president lay his head on the pillow and wished he could sleep forever.
Chapter 22
Three Days Later
Giacomo had just finished a conversation with Rio’s physician. Rio was resting comfortably, he’d been told. He sat on a black leather couch in his father’s former study and gazed out the bay window. The sun kissed the tall evergreen trees. Their shadows darkened the freshly cut lawn. The yard hadn’t changed much in the past forty years. The swimming pool was now covered, the greenish-blue tarp littered with brown leaves. A brick wall surrounded the two-acre property. Things had seemed simple when he was young and oblivious to the problems of the world. Another era, long ago, when life was uncomplicated by cameras on street corners and computer screens and the need for them in the first place.
General DeLaurentis ambled over to his desk where he managed his surveillance company, Remote, LLC. He had an office in Rome, which Sergio managed. Giacomo trusted his dad’s longtime friend to oversee the European “theater,” as it was called. There were four secret facilities that housed drones and pilot stations—two in the United States, one on the island of Corsica, one in the Italian capital. The lucrative multi-government contracts provided a steady flow of income. Giacomo read a document from his attorney regarding the potential ethical issues if he accepted Waldron’s offer.
Across the front of his massive maple desk were five twenty-one-inch monitors. Images flowed from unmanned aircraft to the displays. Giacomo’s company had the capabilities to tap into almost any surveillance camera in any town, city, or country. Remote, LLC could be the roving eye of any government that wished to pay for the shadowing services. The computers housed an elaborate array of software that could recognize any individual or vehicle without the aid of tracking devices.
Giacomo set the legal document down and grasped the black remote for the fifty-inch TV monitor mounted on the wall. He pressed the mute button as the news scrolled on the screen. The nation’s banks had reopened.
His mind traveled to the words his dad had sent. He wrote the riddle on a piece of paper. What are you telling me? What did you mean by “Time continues, not like a clock that can stop—time will reveal the prophecy. When the key finds its rightful place, the third trumpet will protect the angels born of man?” Giacomo twirled his green Waterman pen between his fingers as he studied the words.
“Mon ami?”
“Si, mi amore.”
“Dinner at six?”
“Sure.”
“What are you staring at?” Emily went to her husband.
“I’m trying to figure out what Dad meant. Why didn’t he tell us? Why the secrets? And this prophecy crap . . .” Giacomo shook his head and let out a sigh.
“You’ll put the pieces together, love. Remember, your father was never wrong. He had a reason.”
“Yeah, sure.”
He turned and faced his wife. Emily leaned over and buttoned the second button of Giacomo’s yellow shirt.
“Much better now. Did you hear from your mom yet?”
“The report from the Vatican is unchanged. Rio is sleeping, the normal blah, blah, blah.” Giacomo changed the subject. “You should go stay with your father in Corsica.”
“Why?”
“It’ll be safer. Once I delve into the assassinations, the missile strike, and these latest attacks, life might get a little dicey. I would rather you and the boys be—” he rubbed Emily’s belly “—safe and out of the country.”
“Does my opinion count for anything?”
“Of course it does. A vacation in the warmth of Corsica? Not bad, if you ask me.” He tried to make the visit sound inviting.
Emily began to cry.
“Why are you crying?”
“I just am.” She started to leave, then turned. “Did you ever consider that the boys and I want a husband and a father?”
“Honey, honey, honey . . .” He walked to Emily and wrapped his arms around her. She sniffled. “I’m going to be all right. Nothing will happen to me. I want to make sure my family is safe while I’m working.” He gazed into her eyes and kissed her salty lips. “Please don’t worry.”
Chapter 23
The Third Week in September
With Emily on her way to Corsica, Giacomo chartered a Falcon 2000EX EASy to take him to Washington. His meeting with the president and Thomas Maro was scheduled for early afternoon. He drove his Land Rover on Route 67 on his way to Oxford Airport as he listened to the satellite news station.
“In a joint announcement, Eten Trivette, president of the European Union and the Securities Exchange Commission, announced today that the United States would recommence trading as early as tomorrow. Leaders of the financial markets agreed that the collaboration with the EU will stabilize the nation’s economy. According to close government sources, Congress is weighing the option of abolishing the dollar standard and replacing it with the euro. The militant group FFB stated that the treasonous Congress will be held accountable for their actions.”
Giacomo’s secured satellite phone warbled. “Hello, Sergio?”
“Buongiorno, my friend. I’m told you are a general now.”
“Boy—word travels fast.”
“Your wife told me.”
“Glad it wasn’t a secret. Anything turn up yet?”
“Two dead bodies.”
“Let me guess. The helicopter pilots?”
“Yes, but not the ones you are thinking of.”
“Really?”
“They were the original pilots; the other two were imposters. The good news. The two who broke into Rio’s house are back in Italy.”
“How did we find out?”
“Facial recognition program. One of our drones recorded a car accident along the Amalfi coast. The men happened to be in the vehicle. We followed them to the small village of Erchie, where we apprehended them. They’re in an isolated location. I spoke with Alessio. He’s arranged
for you to watch the interrogation.”
“Excellent. How is your son? Doing well as head of the AISI?” The AISI was the government intelligence agency equivalent to the CIA in the United States.
“Very well. He and his wife are expecting their third child.”
“Great—your sixteenth grandchild, right?”
“Yes. We are happy.”
“I take it the two pilots didn’t have the journal?”
“Correct. They said it was stolen prior to their return to Italy.”
“Sergio, check the drone images from the day of the missile attack. Maybe we can place those two in the vicinity. I’ll fly out tonight, meet you in Rome tomorrow.”
“Will do. Giacomo?”
“Yeah?”
“How did you know it was me on the phone?”
“I just knew.”
“Ciao.”
Giacomo unmuted the radio. “The financial markets around the world rose 25 percent with the news of the EU bailout of the American stock exchanges.”
Chapter 24
The two men sat opposite Vice President Jerry Richardson. Perspiration marks were visible on his blue oxford-cloth shirt. An insider to Washington politics known for his arm-twisting tactics akin to those of a car salesman, people either liked him or hated him.
He had represented the state of Georgia in the Senate for eighteen years. Richardson detested Arthur Waldron and believed he was meant to be the leader of the free world. To his dismay, the country continued to fall apart. Although he had distanced himself, he was now associated with the downfall of the American government. The good ol’ boy network had collapsed. Jerry Richardson was trapped in a world where right was wrong and wrong was right.
He bellowed through his tobacco-stained yellow teeth at the men, “Damn it, gentlemen.” Richardson’s southern drawl was raspy from many years of smoking cigars. “What the hell were you thinking?” He coughed. His face reddened, and he shoved his chair into the wall. “Damn. You attempted to kill the Italians? You stupid jackasses.”
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