by Brett King
Eyes stinging with tears, she searched for Dillon and found a trail of shattered glass. She spied a man curled on the sidewalk, his arm missing. His shredded coat covered his head like a funeral sheath. She pulled back the coat to find a face bloodied and burned. It wasn’t Dillon. It was a bodyguard, the first out the door of the Lafayette building.
Onlookers scrambled from their Dupont-neighborhood homes. An Arab man crouched over the second bodyguard, hoping to resuscitate him. Her shock began to thaw as she took in the spectacle of destruction. The explosion had flipped a Honda Civic and slammed it onto the sidewalk. Wandering around the block of smoldering metal, she found Dillon trapped beneath the Civic. The car had crushed his legs. She cradled his bloodied head. His eyes were rolled back in his head. His hair reeked of smoke. All at once, she lost the cool reserve that had helped her weather boardroom warfare.
An ambulance and four Metropolitan Police squad cars arrived, bathing the sidewalk in red and blue light. First responders spiraled around the victims, pushing back the crowd. She looked up as a fire engine squealed to a stop. A female firefighter sprinted over.
“Help him,” Deena cried. “He’s Dillon Armstrong. The president’s brother.”
“We’ll do what we can,” she assured. Clutching Deena’s hand, the woman pulled her to her feet. Deena stumbled, leaning on the firefighter for support.
The crowd chattered behind her. One bystander mentioned a car bomb. Another man agreed, guessing that an explosive had detonated inside the Honda Civic. A woman murmured Dillon’s name, then took a picture with her phone. He looked broken, pinned beneath the car. All she wanted was to hold him and hear his voice again and to know he’d be all right.
3:44 A.M.
“You sure you don’t mind me being here when your brother arrives?” Isaac Starr asked. “Maybe I shouldn’t involve myself in a family squabble.”
Armstrong adjusted a picture of a sailboat on the wall of his private study, a room adjacent to the Oval Office. “Your presence will send a message to Dillon—”
His chief of staff, Alan Drake, opened the door and interrupted the conversation. His face was ashen. “Mr. President, I have bad news about your brother.”
Before Drake could finish, Secret Service agents burst into the private study.
“Sir, come with us,” Agent Quick barked.
Three agents surrounded Armstrong. Additional agents grabbed the vice president before hustling them both out the door. They hurried through the Oval Office dining room to a hallway on the first floor of the West Wing.
“What happened to my brother?”
“We’ll brief you on Fortune later, sir,” Agent Quick said. “Our threat level was just elevated from yellow to orange. We’re relocating you to PEOC.”
“Do you have Helena and the children?”
“Affirmative, sir.”
Secret Service escorted Armstrong and Starr down to the White House basement, where additional agents waited. They scrambled through a long tunnel, heading toward a bunker beneath the East Wing. Armstrong knew better than to ask questions now, but he couldn’t ignore a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Outside the Lafayette, a firefighter darted over to Dillon Armstrong. He stuffed high-pressure airbags beneath the Civic’s smoldering frame. It didn’t look as though they could lift a vehicle, but as the rubber airbags began to inflate, the car rose from the sidewalk. Firefighters positioned cribbing two-by-fours beneath the Civic, stabilizing it as the twisted vehicle rose. Two firefighters pulled Dillon from beneath the car.
As Deena watched, a pudgy EMT studied her. “You have glass in your back.”
Deena blinked. She had faced away when the explosion shattered the Lafayette’s windows. Like shrapnel, shards had embedded in her shoulder. Adrenaline had muted the pain until now. She winced as the EMT made a small cut in her blouse to treat her lacerations. Bright pain sliced her shoulder. She recoiled, groaning as the man removed glass.
“Talk to me,” a Metropolitan police officer said. Taller than Deena, he was husky, with a pallid complexion. “What happened tonight?”
Catching her breath, she replayed her conversation with Dillon in the Lafayette’s lobby. She peered around the officer and saw EMTs wheeling Dillon on a gurney toward an ambulance.
“Can I go with him?”
“Not yet,” the cop said. “We’ll make sure you get there.”
Clutching the diamond pendant around her neck, she watched the ambulance race away. Her world had shuddered, tilting from elation to despair in the space of a few terrible minutes.
The Presidential Emergency Operations Center was sequestered far beneath the East Wing of the White House. Designed to withstand blast overpressure from a nuclear detonation, PEOC offered refuge in the circumstance of a direct threat to the White House.
Armstrong and Starr emerged from the tunnel with their Service detail as they headed for the executive briefing room, adjacent to PEOC. Helena and the children had been taken to a nearby room. He hoped to visit them after getting an update from his national-security advisor. A minute later, Wendy Hefner came over from the Situation Room. She walked in with a White House physician, a slender woman with long strawberry blonde hair. Dr. Jenn Shaw wore a white lab coat emblazoned with the presidential seal.
“Mr. President, your brother was targeted by a car bomb less than a half hour ago.” Hefner explained about the explosion outside Dillon’s apartment in the Dupont Circle neighborhood. He was pinned beneath a vehicle until rescue workers could free him.
Armstrong stepped back, rocked by the information.
“What’s Dillon’s condition, Jenn?” Starr asked.
“He’s in an ambulance on its way to George Washington University Hospital. He’ll be rushed into the GW Surgery Center upon arrival. His driver and one of his bodyguards didn’t survive the blast. Another bodyguard is also en route to the hospital.”
“Who is responsible for this?” Armstrong blurted.
“Unknown at this time, sir,” Hefner said. “The FBI believes twenty kilograms of A-4 plastic explosives were used in the bombing. That’s an eyeball estimate. The explosives were planted in a Honda Civic. The device was detonated by remote control. The blast shattered windows in buildings and flipped the Civic onto your brother.”
He winced, taking in the thought. “No one has claimed responsibility?”
“Still early, but we’re mapping every contingency. There’s a chance the same organization may target you and the first family, as well as the vice president. That’s why Secret Service relocated you to PEOC.”
Armstrong opened a cabinet, reaching for a snifter and a bottle of bourbon. He removed the cap and poured himself a drink. “Anyone else?”
No one answered.
“When can I see him?” he said, before tasting the bourbon.
“Not until we get an all clear, sir. The hospital poses a substantial security risk.”
“I know the surgeons at George Washington,” Dr. Shaw assured, patting his arm. “Your brother is in good hands, Alex.”
He nodded, finishing his drink. “Stay in touch, Jenn. Meantime, I want to find out why this happened to Dillon.”
4:05 A.M.
Deena answered an endless round of questions. Glancing at the fence of yellow crime-scene tape, she saw bomb experts examining the ruined car. Crime-scene investigators busied themselves, taking photographs and collecting evidence. Two men in dark suits rushed to them. One flashed his badge.
“United States Secret Service,” the agent announced. “We’ll take it from here.”
The cop sputtered as they escorted Deena to a black sedan. One agent ordered the EMT to follow, then called in an alert to the police.
“I want to see Dillon.”
“Time for that later, ma’am. Don’t worry. Mr. Armstrong will be fine.”
Deena nodded, wishing she could believe it.
4:09 A.M.
President Armstrong slipped into a room in the PEO
C facility beneath the East Wing. His wife and two children slept on cots. Under different circumstances, Helena would be a bundle of frenzied energy, stressing over the security threat that had forced them into the bunker. Despite her migraine, she seemed at peace in her sleep.
Three-year-old Justin had turned sideways on the cot, his arm dangling as if he might tumble to the floor. Armstrong scooped up the fidgety child and returned his head to the pillow. Justin smacked his lips but didn’t wake up. Armstrong knelt beside his daughter’s cot and dragged the blanket to Alysha’s chin. He fumbled it, waking her.
“Um, Daddy?” she asked, rubbing her eyes. “Has Santa Claus come yet?”
“Not yet. I’m sure he’ll visit after you go back to sleep,” he said, working the time-honored tradition of holiday manipulation.
“I’m sad about Santa Claus. He can’t get past Secret Service to come into the bunker.”
He chuckled. “We issued him special security clearance. Right, Kevin?”
At the door, Agent Quick nodded. “Yes, sir. Mr. Claus has been cleared for priority clearance. We’ll escort him into the residence the minute he arrives.”
Alysha pressed it. “But the White House has a no-fly zone. What if the air force sends heat-seeking missiles and shoots down his sleigh and reindeers?”
“Daddy won’t let that happen. Go back to sleep, sweetie.”
She made a hard yawn, then rolled on her pillow.
He lingered at her bedside, running fingers through her sun-washed blonde hair. As she dropped off to sleep, he thought about his brother. He wondered about that secretive purchase Dillon and Deena had discussed during the Christmas party. Did it have anything to do with what had happened to his brother tonight?
Chapter Twenty-one
Los Angeles
1:14 A.M.
Kaylyn Brynstone heard the ringing phone in her dream. Divorcing herself from sleep, she tracked the sound to her bedroom phone. Still groggy, she moved to her nightstand and checked the caller ID. Blocked number. She answered it, expecting her husband. A woman’s voice surprised her.
“Please hold for a call from the president of the United States.”
“What?” she asked, wondering if she was still dreaming. She heard Alexander Armstrong’s warm baritone on the line.
“Mrs. Brynstone, this is the president. We met in March when I presented a medal to your husband.”
“Of course, I remember.”
“I’d like to talk to John.”
“I’m sorry, he’s not here.”
“Is there any chance I could get his number?”
She gave him the number of a phone her husband had purchased before leaving. He bought a new one before every assignment.
“How is your beautiful daughter? What was her name? Shayna?”
“Yeah,” she laughed. “Shayna. Good memory.”
She glanced at the baby monitor as her daughter gave a distressed cry from inside the crib. Despite cutting a tooth, Shay hadn’t made a peep in hours. President Armstrong thanked Kaylyn, then apologized for the late call.
After hanging up, she hurried to the nursery.
She flipped on the Pooh lamp, bathing the nursery in soft light. Leaning over the crib, she met Shay’s blue eyes. Sometimes it gave her goose bumps. Seeing her was like looking into John’s eyes. Shay whimpered and clutched her pink bunny. Kaylyn ran teething gel across her daughter’s sore gums, then fitted the child with a fresh diaper. Kaylyn went to her bedroom, then cuddled beneath the blankets with Shay.
Minutes later, mother and daughter were asleep.
Maryland
4:17 A.M.
Snow danced in the Escalade’s headlights as Brynstone headed south on I-95. Cori had fallen silent again. Maybe she was thinking over the trauma that the Borgias had inspired, from the two murdered hospital attendants to the assault on her roommate. Poor kid.
Banshee cuddled against her, working some feline therapy.
A call came in, but not on his smart phone. It was the phone with a number he had given only to Kaylyn. He took the call, surprised to find that it wasn’t his wife.
“Good morning, Dr. Brynstone. This is the president.” Armstrong’s voice sounded weary but resolute.
“Can you hold a moment, sir? I need a secure place to talk.”
He pulled onto a shoulder, then hit the brakes. As Cori watched, he grabbed the keys and jumped out the Escalade’s door. The interstate was dark and desolate on this early holiday morning. Walking behind the SUV, he cleared his throat, still shaken from Wurm’s message.
“Sorry for the delay, Mr. President. Is this a secure line?”
“Of course. Where are you?”
“I’d rather not say, sir.”
“I’m told you made an uninvited visit to Hala Ranch last evening.”
“That’s correct, sir.”
“Prince Zaki is furious. He thinks that I ordered a break-in.”
“I’m sorry, sir. That’s not—”
“Dr. Brynstone,” Armstrong interrupted. “Did you find the Radix?”
“If I may ask, sir, how do you know about that?”
“General Delgado briefed me on Operation Overshadow. He explained about using the Radix as a bargaining chip to compel Zaki to come clean on the World Islamic Brotherhood.”
“I don’t buy that story,” Brynstone said, his breath visible in the frosty air. “Not anymore. I believe Operation Overshadow was initiated under false pretenses.”
“Explain.”
“Prince Zaki purchased a Renaissance mummy on the black market,” he continued, looking around. “After tonight, I’m convinced Zaki had no idea the Radix was hidden inside. I believe Operation Overshadow has nothing to do with Zaki or the Brotherhood. It’s possible that Delgado used NSA resources to fabricate a link between Zaki and the WIB. I’m starting to suspect that Delgado wants the Radix for himself.”
“Any evidence to back up your suspicions?”
“I’m trying to prove it now, sir. I need to stay dark to accomplish that.”
“Back to my question. Did you recover the Radix?”
“Affirmative, sir.”
“Good. Stay in touch. I have an interest in seeing how this plays out.”
After the president gave him a secure number, Brynstone glanced back. From inside the Escalade, Cori watched him. A minute later, he ended the call, then climbed inside the vehicle.
“That looked like an intense little conversation,” she said. “Who called?”
“President of the United States,” he answered, starting the engine.
“Okay, fine,” Cori sighed. “Don’t tell me.”
Near Washington, D.C.
4:34 A.M.
Preparation. Stealth. Intuition. Infiltrating a high-tech facility was artistry as much as procedure. The same basic principles applied to a residential break and enter. For the second time in ten hours, Brynstone had stolen inside a home. It helped that he knew the place.
He waited and watched.
In the adjoining room, the homeowner exercised on a recumbent bicycle. He switched his television from The Longest Day to the feed from surveillance cameras around his property. A closed-circuit image showed a security person sprawled facedown near the pool. In surprise, the homeowner yanked his feet from the pedals and straddled the bike.
As expected, the man scurried into the billiard room. As he turned the corner, Brynstone moved into action. The syringe came fast, stabbing the man’s arm. Lieutenant General James Delgado flipped on the lights. He gaped in disbelief, as if awakening from a nightmare.
Wincing, he ripped out the syringe.
He spied Brynstone near the billiard table.
“Good lord, soldier. Why did you stick me with that needle?”
“Remember my Beijing op last year? You gave me security clearance to use bichloromethate toxins.”
“You injected me with BT-17?” Hostility colored his words. “Why would you hit me with a classified toxin?”
/> Brynstone glanced at his watch. “We have a one-hour window. After that, the antidote won’t reverse the effects.” In a low voice, he said, “I’m here because you lied to me.”
“And you lied to me, John. You promised to deliver the Radix after touching down in Baltimore. Why didn’t I see you then?”
“I didn’t want to be seen.”
“Glad you came to your senses.”
“I didn’t come here to bring you the Radix.”
“Then you made a critical mistake.” Delgado stepped behind the bar and reached beneath the counter. He brought out a service pistol. “Give me the antidote.”
“Answer my questions first.”
“Let’s try this again.” Racking the slide, Delgado pointed the Beretta M9 in the direction of Brynstone’s head. “Give me the antidote. Now.”
“Forget it.”
Delgado glared and lowered the handgun to aim at Brynstone’s right leg. Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger. A dull clicking sound. The magazine was empty. He stared at the gun. In a resigned voice, he said, “You thought of everything. Didn’t you, John?”
“Zaki didn’t know the Radix was inside the Zanchetti mummy. You lied about the purpose of Operation Overshadow. Why?”
“Obvious, isn’t it?” Delgado placed the empty Beretta on the counter. He moved to a barstool. “I want the Radix. You and Edgar Wurm gave me the best shot at finding it.”
“You said that my father wanted to find the Radix. How could you lie about that?”
“I suspected Wurm might tell you the truth someday. Fear and intimidation only last so long.” Delgado’s eyes brightened with intensity. “You’re the son I never had, John.”