Power Down

by Ben Coes

  “I don’t speak for my government.” Dewey tried to anticipate where Fortuna’s mind was drifting. As much as he wanted to shoot him, it would almost surely result in at least one detonation. He tried to buy time. “Who do you speak for?”

  Still keeping the detonator in front of him, Fortuna smiled faintly. “When I was four, my mother took me to the sea, the beaches near Costa Brava,” said Fortuna. “It’s the only memory I have of her. Her name was Rhianne.” He inclined his head slightly toward the wall behind Dewey, where a tall oil painting hung. A stunning, dark-haired beauty standing in a white sundress, holding the hand of a small boy.

  “Your soldiers patrolled that part of my country,” continued Fortuna, anger seemingly fueling his strength. “That day, we walked all the way home. She bought me ice cream at the beach near Costa Brava. One of your soldiers whistled at her. She—” Fortuna stopped abruptly, then continued. “She . . . pulled my hand, quickly, toward home. They told her to stop. She was scared. There was nothing in her bag. There was nothing in her bag!”

  Fortuna stopped. He pulled his hand up from his stomach. He stared for several moments at the thick red that coated his gloves.

  “They shot her,” he whispered. “Just . . . shot her. My mother. Do you understand now?”

  “Yes, I understand,” said Dewey calmly, eyes locked on Fortuna’s. “We all have losses. I lost my boy, a woman I loved. But killing doesn’t bring them back. I wish it would. I’ve killed a lot of people. When you see the life go out in someone’s eyes, someone you just killed, maybe someone who deserves to die even, you hope the life will go out in you too. But it doesn’t.” Dewey paused. “Did taking down Capitana and murdering my crew, did that bring your mother home? Did killing all those people, destroying those places, did that bring her back? Is she here right now?”

  Fortuna’s eyes took on a glazed aspect. “It helps,” he said simply. “Maybe another little boy won’t lose his mother. Maybe those soldiers won’t be standing there anymore. If I cripple you, you’ll keep your armies here.” He struggled against the pain again. “If I destroy enough, then perhaps you can worry about your own. You can stay here, worrying about your own streets, your own buildings, and maybe some little boy in a country that you have no right to be in, maybe his mother won’t be gunned down in front of his eyes.”

  “And right now,” Dewey asked, anger in his voice, “at O’Hare? What about the little boy standing in line holding his own mother’s hand?”

  Fortuna stared back in silence. Suddenly, the detonator dropped to the ground.

  Dewey fingered the trigger of the UMP.

  “What did I do?” asked Fortuna, looking at Dewey. His eyes fluttered. On the ground, the pool of blood had grown wider.

  Dewey gripped the cold steel of UMP in both hands now. Slowly, he raised the weapon level with his sternum. Bending at his knees just slightly, Dewey unloaded the UMP into the terrorist.

  “I’ll tell you what you did,” said Dewey. “You picked the wrong country to fuck with.”

  57

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  THREE DAYS LATER

  The small mahogany door cracked open and Cecily Vincent, the president’s assistant, leaned into the Oval Office. “They’re here, Mr. President.”

  The president, who was sitting with his boots up on his desk, leaned back and said nothing. He was reading the first draft of the State of the Union speech he would give later in the week.

  “When you finish, Marine One’s ready to leave.”

  “Are they all here?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  It was Saturday afternoon in early January, a rare snow falling on Washington. He wore blue jeans and a Navy blue chamois shirt that his father had bought him at L.L. Bean’s when he was in college, a senior at Columbia, more than forty years ago. It had numerous patches sewn onto it. It was in terrible shape and the Salvation Army probably wouldn’t have taken it. But it was his favorite shirt.

  “Send in Chiles and Putnam. I want to get this over with. Tell the young lady to wait.”

  The president took his boots from on top of the desk and sat up. He stood behind the large cherry desk as the door opened.

  Louis Chiles, the director of the FBI, and Roger Putnam, the secretary of state, walked in. Putnam was dressed in tan, wide-wale corduroys and a heavy sweater. He looked like someone’s grandfather, dignified and professorial. Chiles wore a suit, looking more like a corporate executive than the nation’s top law enforcement officer.

  The two men had been here many, many times before. Today, Putnam looked mildly inconvenienced. Normally, a Saturday in January would find him at his ski house in Jackson Hole, but he’d canceled all his winter trips the day he returned from Saudi Arabia. Chiles had the demeanor of a Boy Scout at his first camp out: excited, surprised, elated, still blown away by the experience of actually being allowed to come into the Oval Office.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. President,” said Chiles as he walked in. Putnam simply nodded when he made eye contact with the president. The president said nothing, and didn’t return Putnam’s gesture. He watched as the two men sat down.

  The two men sat down across from each other on the two large Chesterfield sofas in the middle of the Oval Office. The president remained standing behind his desk.

  Putnam knew what was coming. He probably could’ve written the words the president was about to say.

  Chiles was about to be blindsided.

  “Mr. President, I have a complete debrief on ‘the Fortuna affair,’ as the press has dubbed it,” said Chiles.

  “I’ll keep this short,” said the president, pointedly ignoring Chiles. “Because I have to keep it short. Because I have to get on a goddamn plane and fly for seven and a half hours so I can go and kiss King Fahd’s ass for a day and a half and clean up the fucking mess you two made.”

  “But, Mr. President—” said Chiles.

  “Shut the hell up, Lou,” interrupted Putnam quietly.

  But Chiles forged ahead. “Mistakes were certainly made, but it was the FBI that ultimately broke the plot.”

  “The FBI?” said the president incredulously. “The same FBI that failed to foresee the destruction of Capitana, Savage Island, Long Beach, Bath Iron Works? The attempted assassination of Teddy Marks? The FBI that jumped to incorrect conclusions and helped drive this man”—he nodded toward the secretary of state—“to make accusations against a staunch American ally, accusations that created what is now a full-blown energy crisis?”

  Chiles somehow continued to maintain his positive glow, smiling and nodding his head as the president spoke. “I understand, Mr. President, and I want you to know it won’t happen again. We’ve all learned—I’ve learned—some very valuable lessons. Already, we’ve convened an interagency group—”

  “You’re fired,” interrupted the president.

  “But . . . I’ve got four and a half years left in my term—” said Chiles.

  “You’ll resign today. I want a resignation letter signed before you leave the White House.”

  Chiles was silent. For the first time, his smile dissipated and a look of shock overtook his face. He sat back. He reached up and loosened his tie. He rubbed his eyes.

  “You worked hard,” said the president. “Resign and go out, if not a winner, at least with dignity. I won’t say a bad thing about you and I’ll do everything in my power to prevent an investigation of your conduct as FBI chief. I’ll help you land somewhere, some professorship somewhere, private equity, a law firm, whatever.”

  Chiles continued to rub his eyes. Milton Academy, Harvard College, Harvard Law School, Debevoise & Plimpton, the District Attorney’s office for the Southern District of Manhattan, the U.S. Attorney General’s office, Assistant Director of the FBI, Director of the FBI. He stood face-to-face with his first failure, a big failure, a failure for the ages.

  “I understand, Mr. President,” he whispered, looking up. He stood up and walked to the president’s desk. “It’s bee
n a pleasure and an honor to serve you, sir.” Chiles extended his hand. The president reached out and shook his hand.

  “Thank you, Lou.”

  Chiles walked to the door and left.

  Putnam leaned back in the couch. He reached his arm up and stretched it across the back of the big Chesterfield, toward the president. “Well . . .”

  The president continued standing.

  He’d known Roger Putnam for more than two decades now. The first time the president ran for governor of California, the time he lost, Putnam had been the junior senator from the state. Putnam had endorsed him, despite the fact that the president was only thirty-four years old and had no political experience.

  “You know,” said the president, “I only wanted you here in case Lou went psycho on me.”

  The two old friends laughed. The president walked to the sofa and sat across from Putnam. He reached out and poured a cup of coffee for himself. The laughter quickly ended and the silence came again.

  “I wasn’t aware you were going to Saudi Arabia,” said Putnam.

  “Do I need your permission?” asked the president.

  “No, of course not. That’s not my point. Mr. President, I’m an old man. We’ve known each other a while now. You don’t need to ask me for anything, and you don’t have to explain a thing to me.”

  “I know I don’t. You can’t resign yet, Roger. But this spring, after we clean up this Saudi mess, you’ll retire. You fucked up. You fucked up not just because you threw that coffee cup against the wall and got pissed. You didn’t listen to me. You disobeyed a direct order. And worst of all, you were wrong.”

  Putnam smiled. “I agree with you. Every word. I’m sorry.”

  “Before you leave, I want you to help me find your replacement. I don’t want it to end this way, not between you and me.”

  Putnam stood up. His eyes were red. He smiled. “You can count on it. Good luck over there.”

  “I’ll call you on the way home. Will you be in Jackson Hole?”

  “No. Call the switchboard. I’m heading to Venezuela to see if we can’t get some oil from those crazy bastards in Caracas.”

  “Good luck.”

  The secretary of state walked toward the door of the Oval Office.

  “Do me a favor,” said the president. “Tell Cecily to send in the young lady waiting in the Cabinet Room.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The president walked back to his desk and began packing his briefcase.

  After a few minutes, the door opened.

  “Mr. President?” asked a young, freckled, pretty, auburn-haired woman as she stepped into the Oval Office.

  “Jessica,” said the president. “Come in.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said. She walked toward the president and stood in front of his desk. He looked at her, stepped to the side of the desk, and walked toward her. He reached his hand out and shook her hand. She looked around the Oval Office.

  “Is this your first time here?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ve been to the White House several times, of course. Just never in here, sir.”

  “Well, get used to it. I’d like you to be my national security advisor.”

  “Myron Kratovil—”

  “FBI. Lou’s out.”

  Jessica was silent. After a few moments, moments in which she stood silently in shock and disbelief, she smiled. “I’m honored. But I’m not qualified. That is, there are people a lot more qualified than me.”

  “I agree,” said the president. “There are a few people who, on paper, are more qualified than you. But I don’t care. We need creativity, courage, intuition, guts, the ability to keep asking the hard questions. We need some luck, some faith even. We’ve been through the worst attack on U.S. soil in our history, but you prevented it from escalating into something much worse. There are plenty of resumés in this town. I want them working for you, not the other way around.”

  “I’m honored, Mr. President. I wholeheartedly accept. When do you want me to start? I can start tomorrow. I have an appointment this afternoon.”

  The president smiled and closed his briefcase. “I want you to take a vacation. Go away.”

  “Victor Buck hasn’t been caught, sir. I’m not going to go on vacation until he’s apprehended.”

  “That can wait. If you’re not willing to take a vacation, the offer is rescinded.”

  “I understand,” said Jessica. “Thank you. I’ll do that.”

  “I have to go,” said the president. He picked up his briefcase and walked toward the door. “By the way, how is Dewey Andreas?”

  “He’s at Bethesda,” said Jessica. “He suffered some bruising on the brain. His shoulder was badly infected. He was in tough shape. But he’ll be okay. He’s strong.”

  “So are we, thanks to him. The Supreme Court. California Aqueduct. The largest paper mill in North America. Half a dozen refineries, universities. O’Hare, Sears Tower, Notre Dame Stadium. The list goes on. We have much to thank Dewey for.”

  “Yes, I agree.”

  “You seem to know him a bit,” said the president. “What do you think he’ll do now?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Maybe you can pass something along to him, Jess, next time you see him?” asked the president.

  “Sure. Anything, sir.”

  “This morning, I asked Senator Bowman, from his home state of Maine, to nominate him for the Congressional Gold Medal,” said the president. “She was happy to do it. I’m also going to nominate Dewey for the Presidential Medal of Freedom. When he’s better, we’ll have a big to-do at the White House.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear that, Mr. President.”

  The president glanced at his watch.

  “You know what, I have a few minutes,” the president said. “Let’s tell him together.”

  Room 717 at Bethesda Naval Hospital was austere and small. The one special feature was the spectacular view, which took in the Washington skyline in the distance, including the Capitol Building and the Washington Monument.

  A knock came at the door.

  “Dewey?” asked Jessica from outside. There was no response.

  Jessica went to the door and slowly opened it. She was followed by the president. Two Secret Service agents waited outside the door.

  Inside the room, the bed was empty.

  “Maybe he’s in here,” said the president.

  He knocked at the bathroom door. No answer.

  Jessica went to the bed and pressed the nurse call button. A few moments later, the door opened and a nurse stepped into the room. The nurse, a thin, short woman with gray hair and glasses, did a double take when she saw the president.

  “Do you know where Dewey is?” asked Jessica.

  “He left an hour ago,” said the nurse. “He checked himself out. Dr. Bartholomew tried to get him to stay for a few more days. Brain injuries, you know? He’s far from fully recovered. But he refused.”

  “Did he say where he was going?” asked Jessica, incredulous.

  “No,” the nurse said. “I’m sorry, he didn’t.”

  Jessica turned to the president. “Let me get a few agents—”

  “No,” interrupted the president, smiling calmly. He looked at the empty hospital bed, then turned back to Jessica, reached his hand out, and patted her softly on the shoulder. “Let him go.”

  58

  THE SANDPIPER HOTEL

  BARBADOS

  FIVE WEEKS LATER

  More than 1,500 miles to the south, in a luxurious suite at the Sandpiper Hotel in Barbados, midnight approached.

  Dewey sat up in bed. He felt burning in his shoulder. It was a pain that would probably never go away, a piece of shrapnel so small two surgeries had been unable to find it. But he could feel it. He slowly removed the sheets from his legs and stood up.

  He dressed quietly in the living room of the large hotel suite. It was a clear night. He glanced for a moment out the window. The moon created a s
helf of reflected silver light on top of the black Caribbean water. He walked to the dresser. In the top drawer of the dresser, he reached in and took out a black, light-duty tactical wet suit. He felt for the handgun he’d placed inside the drawer, a Colt M1911 .45-caliber semiautomatic. Quickly, he placed it in the watertight pocket on the right calf of the wet suit. He tied a small ankle sheath to his right leg that held a long, black combat knife, Gerber, double serrated, fixed blade, the word “Gauntlet” engraved on the side. Sharp as a razor, small traces of dried blood still caked into the teeth.

  He walked down the deserted beach a half mile to the docks, also empty. He saw a boat berthed at a mooring, about a quarter mile from the dock, a dark blue Mako he’d noted earlier that day. He dove in the water, swam to the boat, climbed aboard. He pulled the plastic casing off the starter unit. He pulled two wires from the ignition block and tied them together, then touched them to the jack. The pair of Evinrude 250 horsepower engines rumbled to life. He untied the boat from the slip and backed it out from the dock, guided only by the light of the full moon. Glancing about, he saw no one.

  Within a few minutes, he had the Mako at full throttle and was firing across the calm waters at more than sixty knots. He would be in Mustique in a little more than an hour.

  Mustique, the most exclusive island in the Caribbean, perhaps the world, had its own charter of government, tax laws, and justice system, largely unnecessary since the only residents were wealthy Europeans and Americans. The only natives were hired hands: chefs; housecleaners; laborers; garden and landscaping crews; workers at the small hotel on the island, the Cotton House; or at Basal’s, the island’s sole restaurant. There was no unemployment; if you were fired, they escorted you from the island back to Barbados, where most of the workers came from.