King and Maxwell

by David Baldacci

  managed to get hold of Littlefield, and he got me through to the bridge. I’m looking down at you right now. Dive boats are on their way, but they have to come up from the Anacostia. It’ll take a little bit of time but they’re trying to get them faster. They’ve got a police boat on the surface getting a radar fix on your location. They have choppers coming in with grappling hooks too.”

  “The Beast weighs eight tons.”

  “I know. They’ll need military transport choppers and even then I doubt they could do it. You’ve got tons of water over you.”

  “Then it’s the divers we have to wait on,” she said, the hope in her voice fading. “But if they can attach a cable to the bumper and then winch us out from the riverbank—”

  “Michelle, listen to me very carefully. You don’t have time for them to get you out. You have to get yourself and the president out.”

  “Great, Sean, just tell me how,” she snapped.

  “It’s a long shot, but it’s the only chance you’ve got. How much air do you think you have left?”

  She glanced over at the pale Cole. “If we breathe shallow, a few minutes, max.”

  “Okay, here’s what you have to do.”

  CHAPTER

  79

  ALAN GRANT HAD WATCHED IN uneasy fascination as the presidential limo crashed through Memorial Bridge’s side and plunged into the murky waters of the Potomac. He had clicked some more keys on his laptop disabling the car’s oxygen supply. He didn’t bother with the communications capability of the vehicle. He wanted them to talk to each other. He wanted them to hear the desperation. It wouldn’t do any good. It was too late. It would take thirty minutes to get a rescue operation together. By then the president and anyone else in that limo would be long dead, poisoned by the carbon monoxide released from their own mouths, with no fresh air to replenish it.

  He closed his laptop and watched for another few seconds as utter chaos continued on the bridge and riverbanks. The media trucks were already converging. The public had clustered near the scene as closely as they could. Police and news choppers were in the air, for all the good that would do them.

  The mighty Beast, killed by its own weight, along with the president inside it.

  The FBI, DHS, Secret Service, Metro Police, military, and probably half a dozen other agencies were scrambling around trying to do something. All they were doing was absolutely nothing.

  If it weren’t so pathetic, it might even be funny, he thought.

  Grant put his car in gear and slowly drove off. He had tried to call his men again at the cabin and still had gotten no answer. That was very troublesome. His phone rang. He answered it. It was Trevor Jenkins. He had posted him at the radio station.

  “Have they gotten everything out yet?”

  Jenkins’s voice was strained. “No. And I don’t think they will.”

  “Why?” snapped Grant.

  “Because a convoy of SUVs is flying up the road. I think it’s HRT.”

  “Get yourself out of there, now, Trevor,” yelled Grant.

  He put the phone down, his panic rising.

  His discreet exit from the scene was now gone. They had cracked his nut.

  But he had gotten his man. He had obtained his goal.

  The president was dead. His father was avenged. It had only taken twenty-five years and a son’s nearly lifelong obsession to get it done. But now it was done.

  Finally.

  Michelle had gotten the president into the front seat with her after sliding the bodies of the two dead agents onto the floorboard. She had made him take off his lightweight body armor. In the water, that would be a death sentence.

  She held a Remington shotgun that she had taken from a compartment next to the driver’s seat. Sean had told her about it. He had also told her something else. A plan, one she was just about to execute.

  She had flipped down the forward-facing rear seats, exposing the trunk area. She had explained to the president what she was going to do. He had accepted the strategy as the only chance they had. But she knew what he had been thinking by the look in his eyes.

  She was young, fit, and strong.

  He, on the other hand, was a middle-aged man with a slight paunch. And while he probably engaged in light exercise, what he was going to have to do in order to live was something more than that.

  Michelle had taken all of this into account after Sean had talked to her and built her own plan around his. She went over in her mind what was about to happen. They had light now because of the Beast’s sealed power unit. But once she did what she was about to do, they would be plunged into darkness. So she had to graft onto her brain both the way out with the president and then the way up, to the surface.

  Twenty-four feet, that was how far it was to the surface at this point in the river. It didn’t sound like a long way, but when you were holding your breath and struggling upward, it might as well have been a mile, especially with someone holding on to you.

  She looked over at Cole. She had found some rope, Velcro straps, and an emergency flashlight behind a seat panel that Sean had also told her about. She tied one end of the rope around the president’s waist and then attached the other end to her waist. She purposefully kept the rope length short. They could not afford to get it snagged on something in the dark as they were fleeing the car. The result would be both their deaths. She unlatched the trunk, but the water pressure was keeping it firmly shut. At least it wasn’t locked.

  “Sir, when I fire the lights will probably go out and the water will flood in. Take three deep breaths and hold the last one. Then I’m going to move forward and out and then up. You can kick your feet and move your arms once we’re out of the car. Then we go immediately up. I’ll be right with you the whole way. I will not leave you. I will not let you die. Okay?”

  He nodded as beads of sweat collected on his brow. “Okay.”

  She had Velcroed the flashlight around her head. She prayed it worked underwater.

  “On the count of three,” said Michelle as she aimed the Remington. “One… two… three.”

  She fired at the oxygen tanks. There was an explosion and a flash of light. The gas tank had been sealed against an explosion and its tank was full so very little vapor was present. And while the Beast was designed to withstand an RPG round coming from the outside, an oxygen-fueled explosion coming from the inside had not been contemplated by the architects of the car.

  The unlatched trunk blew off and the water poured in.

  Michelle dropped the shotgun and shot forward, pulling the president behind her. She met the cold water head-on. The light continued to work, although weakly. But it was enough illumination.

  The Potomac had underwater currents as well as surface ones that were surprisingly strong. Many an unwary swimmer had died because of them. But Michelle was not unwary and she was a strong swimmer. She pushed hard through the car’s interior, using the seats and frame to propel forward.

  She stood inside the trunk for only a moment, something she could now do because it no longer had a lid. Then she planted her feet firmly and pushed off strongly, aiming herself and the president upward. The trunk height was about two feet off the river’s floor. That meant twenty-two more feet to go.

  She kicked powerfully with her legs and arms. She could feel the president doing the same right behind her, if somewhat more feebly.

  Twenty-two feet became fifteen. Michelle could feel her arms and legs begin to ache with the cold and the effort it was taking to pull a full-grown man along with her.

  Fifteen feet became ten. She could see a bit of light above her.

  She gave another mighty kick and tried not to think about her lungs bursting.

  Ten feet became less than six. But her head was throbbing so badly she thought a vein would burst. She also felt the president faltering. He was no longer kicking with his feet.

  She could feel herself being pulled downward.

  She gathered all of her strength and pushed upward, kic
k after kick, stroke after stroke. If she was going to die she was going to leave it all on the table, just like she had in the Olympics. Her crew team had lost in the final and gotten the silver, but it had still felt incredible. Well, tonight second place was not good enough. She was going for the gold.

  Six feet became three, then two. She gave a tremendous kick and broke the surface of the water. She grabbed the end of the rope and pulled with all her might. The effort caused her to go under but the president’s limp form shot past her and his head rose above the surface. He coughed and vomited.

  Suddenly, strong hands were grabbing them both. Michelle was pulled nearly out of the water by a grip that felt like steel. She looked around and saw the police diver next to her. Other hands latched on to her and she was pulled cleanly out of the water and into the rescue boat.

  A moment later President Cole slipped into the boat next to her. She coughed up some water, took great gulps of air into her lungs, and sat up on one shoulder.

  “Mr. President? Are you okay?”

  He tried to sit up but two medics kneeling next to him gently pushed him back down. As they worked on him he looked at Michelle and smiled weakly.

  “You can be on my protection detail anytime you want, Ms. Maxwell,” he croaked.

  As blankets were wrapped around her Michelle lay back and closed her eyes. And then she smiled.

  At least I finally got to ride in the Beast, she thought.

  CHAPTER

  80

  IN A PRIVATE WHITE HOUSE ceremony Sean and Michelle received the country’s thanks for saving its leader from certain death. And fortunately for President John Cole, this latest attack on the country’s highest officeholder and his dramatic and heroic escape from death had rallied all around him. Even his most ardent political opponents had dropped their cries for investigation and impeachment, at least for the time being.

  After the ceremony was concluded, Cole shook hands with Sean, thanking him for his quick thinking and sound advice to Michelle. And then Cole broke protocol and gave Michelle a heartfelt hug, while Mrs. Cole did the same to both Michelle and Sean.

  “Thank you,” both the president and First Lady said together.

  Littlefield and McKinney had attended the ceremony. Both agents had been given commendations for their work in busting up the conspiracy to first embarrass the nation and possibly draw it into a war, and then to kill its leader.

  On the downside, the kidnappers had not yet broken their silence. And the team of movers at the AM station did not know anything about what they were moving. Or at least that’s what they claimed. The billion euros, or what was left of it, was still missing. And, most significantly, Alan Grant had not yet been found.

  As they walked to her Land Cruiser after the White House ceremony Michelle said, “You look nice in a suit. You should wear one more often.”

  Sean smiled and shook his head. “Had enough of that in the Service. My battle armor was a Brooks Brothers off-the-rack, tie, and wing tips. And sunglasses. The rest of my life will be spent in casual mode.”

  She held up the medal the president had bestowed on them. “Except when you get one of these, you mean.”

  “Except then. How’re the shots feeling?”

  Michelle and Cole had undergone a series of antibiotic treatments, some of which had been by injection. They had both been in the Potomac and had swallowed some of the water. And while the river was cleaner than it had been decades ago, when it had been semi-radioactive, one still wouldn’t want to drink it.

  “My butt has felt better, let’s leave it at that.”

  They climbed into her truck.

  “Been meaning to ask you something.”

  “Okay,” said Sean.

  “How did you think of blowing the oxygen tanks to get us out of the Beast? I can’t believe you guys practiced that scenario when you were on protection detail.”

  “We didn’t,” Sean admitted as he put on his seat belt. “Nothing close. Air Force One has water-landing scenarios, but not the Beast.”

  “So how, then?”

  “Can we leave it at my brilliantly incisive mind that can size up any critical situation and move like a laser to the solution?”

  Michelle belted up and then started the truck. “Don’t make me get physical with you, Sean.”

  He sighed. “Okay, but this is only for your ears.” He paused. “I remembered it from Jaws.”

  She leaned on the steering wheel and stared at him. “Jaws?”

  “Yeah, the movie Jaws. Roy Scheider’s character is the small-town sheriff stuck in the middle of the ocean and the shark is bearing down on him. But the shark has an oxygen tank wedged in its mouth from where it sank a dive boat. Scheider just happens to have a gun. He shoots, hits the tank. Boom. No more shark.”

  “So I’m sitting here talking to you instead of lying in the morgue because of a Spielberg flick?”

  “What can I tell you? It made an impression on me when I first saw it.”

  She patted him on the shoulder. “Well, thank God it did.”

  Once they got out of the city she said, “So what will happen to Sam Wingo?”

  “Nothing. They know he was set up. They know he’s innocent. They know his son was kidnapped to keep him in line. Hell, the guy deserves a medal like us, and the military knows that. He’ll be just fine. And Tyler got his dad back.”

  “Well, I think Cole is both happy to be alive and thrilled that the missing euro scandal has disappeared at least for now.”

  “All you need is a bigger story to cover. Remember Chandra Levy and the congressman some thought had killed her?”

  “No, not really.”

  “That’s because it was ‘the’ story until nine-eleven happened shortly thereafter.”

  “So the missing piece is—”

  “Alan Grant, yeah. His wife has been questioned, of course. From what Littlefield could tell me she’s as stunned as anyone else. But his guilt is pretty well established.”

  “And Dan Marshall, his presumed leak and partner in this?”

  “He’s been questioned and will no doubt be questioned some more.”

  “By the cops?”

  “Yes. But also by us.”

  “What?”

  “We were hired to do a job, Michelle. We have not finished that job, at least not to my mind.”

  “I didn’t think you wanted any piece of this case to begin with.”

  “It’s grown on me. And I take great exception to anyone who tries to kill the president.” He turned to look at her. “Or you.”

  “So we go and see Marshall?”

  “Yes, but I want to talk to Edgar first.”

  “He figured out how Grant hacked into the satellite used for the Beast.”

  “I know. The stuff they found at that old radio station was state-of-the-art equipment. I bet that’s where some of the billion euros went. In addition to leasing a satellite. And the guy who leased it to him recognized a picture of Grant. He just had no idea what he was going to use it for.”

  “Then he needs to screen his customers better,” she said.

  “I’m betting Grant did not do this alone. He must have had serious computer hacking talent in place. The FBI is checking out movements of known bad guys with computer skills.”

  “They’re probably long gone.”

  “Probably,” conceded Sean. “But I really hope they find Grant. He was the one who shot Kathy. She identified his picture too. And that tells me he had no intention of letting either of them go.”

  “How about our old pal Trevor Jenkins?”

  “Gone like a ghost by the time HRT got to the station.”

  “You think he and Grant are on the run together?”

  “I wouldn’t bet against it. But they’re going to have a hell of a time getting out of the country. Everybody’s looking for them.”

  She put the truck in gear and hit the gas. “God, it’s good to be back