by Gene Riehl
He turned and ran for the door instead. His hand was turning the knob when he heard the carts again. Shit. They were here. He had no time to get out the door and back to the bushes.
He sprinted to the window, grabbed the bottom and jerked, but the damned thing wouldn’t open. Through the glass, he saw a cart approaching. He turned back to the dumbwaiter, his stomach clenching as his mind’s eye fixed on the long dark tunnel. He glanced out the window again. The golf cart was closer now. He dashed to the dumbwaiter, grabbed the serving tray and raced to the table to set it there before darting back to the opening. He stared at it.
No way! There’s absolutely no way!
And he was still telling himself that as he crawled inside.
He stretched to reach back through the door to push the button. He was barely able to pull the door down into place before the platform began to descend and he was lowered into the blackness.
FIFTY-EIGHT
“What is it, Mary Anne?” Grace Woods said, her voice impatient, as Sung Kim approached Thomas Franklin’s housekeeper in the kitchen of the mansion. Grace stared at the wreath and tripod Sung Kim was carrying. “I really don’t have a moment to spare right now.”
Sung Kim smiled apologetically. “I know you don’t, but this wreath needs to go to Mr. Franklin’s study before he gets there with the prime minister.” She held the wreath up on its tripod so that Grace Woods could see the banner welcoming Nakamura. “Mr. Franklin’s going to be very angry if it’s not there when he comes in.”
Grace Woods frowned. “So why are you standing here showing it to me?”
“I need a favor, Mrs. Woods.” Sung Kim glanced downward toward the ID badge on her chest. “My badge won’t get me past the agents in Mr. Franklin’s study. They’ll call you to come and vouch for me. Since you’d have to go to the study anyway, I wonder if you’d take the wreath yourself.”
But Grace Woods’s frown only deepened. “Are you sure it has to go in there now? I’d like to help, but I’ve got a hundred things to do before they come in from the golf course.” She looked back in the direction of the kitchen. “For one thing, the president’s due any minute. And I still haven’t—”
“The president?” Sung Kim took a step toward Grace Woods. “What are you talking about? He’s not coming till …” She stopped as she realized what she was saying. “I mean I heard he might be here, but not until later tonight.”
Grace Woods stared at her, and Sung Kim tried to cover her mistake.
“I need this job, ma’am,” she said. Tears filled her eyes, tears she’d been trained to summon at will. “Mr. Franklin was real serious about getting this wreath here in time for his guest. It means a lot to me to keep him happy.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t. I just can’t take the time.”
Tears ran down Sung Kim’s cheeks.
Grace Woods shook her head, then reached out and took the wreath and tripod out of Sung Kim’s hands. “Stop crying, for heaven’s sake. I know what it’s like trying to keep him happy. I’ll take this down to the study right now, before the president gets here. I’ll set it up myself. I’ll make sure the prime minister can’t miss it.”
FIFTY-NINE
Jesus Christ, Monk thought, over and over again.
It was unimaginable.
In every sense of the word, it was unimaginable.
On his hands and knees, on a conveyor belt moving underground in the direction of what he hoped would be the mansion, in a darkness so profound Monk couldn’t even imagine the concept of sight, he hovered on the edge of panic, trying to do nothing more than keep from shrieking.
The pounding of his heart filled his ears. His body was rigid, frozen in place. His hands had turned into claws, his fingers clinging to the hard rubber fabric of the conveyor belt as it bore him farther and farther into the darkness. Although the tunnel had to be lined with concrete, he could almost feel the earth surrounding him. The tunnel wasn’t ventilated, either, there was no reason it should be. Humans were never meant to ride this thing. Monk opened his mouth even wider, began to breathe even faster, to pant like a dog, and his brain was on fire.
I’m going to suffocate!
I’ll be dead when they find me in here!
Suddenly he was dizzy, hyperventilating now. He had to stop gasping for air. Had to force his mind to think about something else. Had to keep himself from going crazy. He would pretend to be somewhere else. He would pull his mind out of this tomb.
Betty Clement’s office.
He would go back to Betty’s files.
One file in particular.
The informant report from a source inside the White House, the rumor about Japanese prime minister Ishii Nakamura’s visit to Washington.
And what Nakamura would be coming to ask for.
Nakamura had been making headlines with his demands for the bomb he was certain would keep peace in the region. But his people were just as adamant about their revulsion for such an idea. With the prime minister out of the way, it might be decades before another Japanese leader asked for the same thing. Clearly the president was using Franklin to keep Nakamura at Battle Valley Farm—away from the media horde—until they could hammer out some kind of deal. Clearly neither party wanted such a critical meeting to turn into a circus.
And it had worked, Monk realized, so far at least.
He hadn’t seen a word about Nakamura’s visit in the newspapers, heard a word about it from the talking heads on television. But that would end when the president arrived, of course. Even the most powerful man on earth didn’t have that kind of power. When Marine One lifted off the White House lawn, the press would go into action. When the big green chopper landed at the farm, they’d be close behind. They’d be … Monk’s mind stopped dead.
When the president landed.
His brain processed the next step, but he couldn’t accept it. Even the thought was ridiculous. He didn’t know the results of his PET scan yet, but to believe he was looking at a presidential assassination would be clear-cut evidence of dementia. Nakamura was a monumental stretch, and the president was way over the top.
But what if it wasn’t?
How did Bethany hope to get away with it?
She couldn’t possibly escape afterward.
There wasn’t a way in hell she could get through the combined security forces of two countries.
And Monk knew one thing for sure. She wasn’t here to commit suicide. Sung Kim was a professional assassin. Her service to Kim Jong Il would continue long after this operation was over. Which meant she wouldn’t actually be here when it happened. Which meant she was going to use a …
A chill enveloped Monk from head to toe.
Suddenly the belt stopped. The hammering in his chest got even worse.
They knew he was in here.
The Secret Service was waiting on the other end for him to come out.
But why did they stop the belt?
He began to crawl forward, his mind leaping closer to panic. He scrambled faster and faster, desperate to get out the tunnel, but hadn’t gone more than a dozen yards when the belt started up again.
SIXTY
After holing out on the last green, Franklin and the prime minister crossed the wide driveway dividing the golf course from the veranda at the southwest corner of the mansion, climbed the short steps to the veranda, and sat together at a large round table under a bright red umbrella. At six-thirty, the sun was low in the sky and the evening unusually cool. One of the assistant housekeepers hurried up. Franklin asked for a gin and tonic. With work still to do tonight, Nakamura wanted a soft drink.
“You have a beautiful home,” Nakamura told him in English. Educated at Oxford, the prime minister’s accent was decidedly British. “But your golf course is too tough for me.”
Franklin forced a laugh. “For both of us today, I’m afraid.”
They fell silent as the housekeeper came back with their drinks, but they began to chat when she went away. Golf talk
—this shot and that shot, the joy of the good ones. Ten minutes later Franklin glanced at his watch.
“We better change out of our golf shoes,” he said. “The president will be here shortly.”
Nakamura nodded. They rose and went together to the locker room off the veranda and changed shoes. On the way back out, Franklin heard Marine One landing on the roof of the mansion.
“That’s him now,” he told Nakamura. “We’ll wait for him in my study.”
He led the way through the veranda to the wide doors leading into the study, which looked out over the golf course. They moved past a half-dozen Secret Service agents and Japanese bodyguards standing at the doors as they went through into the study. Franklin almost bumped into Grace Woods as she was coming out.
“Sorry, Mr. Franklin,” she said. “I was just delivering the wreath.”
She glanced back toward the interior of the study. Franklin followed her eyes to the red and white flowers woven into the wreath hanging on a tripod near the fireplace, the banner welcoming Nakamura.
“I hope that’s where you wanted it,” she said.
He looked at her. Where he wanted it? Why was she bothering him with details he didn’t give a damn about? Before he could tell her that, Nakamura was standing at the wreath, bending to smell the carnations, turning to Grace and smiling.
“They’re beautiful. Thank you so much for bringing them.”
Grace smiled as well. “You are most welcome, Mr. Prime Minister.” She turned and left the study.
“Let’s sit, shall we?” Franklin said to Nakamura. He motioned toward the green leather couch and chairs near the fireplace. “Why don’t you take the chair nearest the wreath. The president can sit in the other one when he gets here.”
Nakamura did so. Franklin sat on the couch. He stared at the prime minister and felt his shoulders tighten. He glanced at his watch. The president would be here in a few minutes. Franklin would be told to disappear while the two leaders talked. His back teeth began to grind. He wouldn’t even be in the room when the two of them fucked away everything he’d spent his life to build.
SIXTY-ONE
“Well, that didn’t take long, Mary Anne.”
Steve Batcholder grinned as he walked over to Sung Kim’s van, bent down so his face was looking directly into the window at her. “An awful lot of hassle,” he added, “for such a short stay.”
“You’re telling me.” Her smile matched his inch for inch. “But you know how the man is. He wants what he wants … and he wants it now.”
“Tell me about it.” Steve looked like he wanted to say more, but Sung Kim cut him short. “Sorry to rush off,” she said, “but I’ve got another delivery halfway to Washington. Gotta keep moving.”
He stepped back and touched his fingers to his forehead in a friendly salute. “Off with you, then.” He grinned. “When will I see you again?”
“Soon,” she said, then glanced back toward the mansion. “The way he is, could be tomorrow.”
She reached for the window button and the window slid up. He gave a little wave, she waved back, then pulled past the gate, past the Secret Service people and the Japanese bodyguards who were still stopping vehicles on the road. In her rearview mirror, she saw Steve smiling as she accelerated away from the farm.
He was a nice guy, Sung Kim told herself. A nothing security guard who went out of his way to make her feel welcome. Steve would be the one who beat himself up the worst when he found out how wrong he’d been.
SIXTY-TWO
And then it was over.
The belt stopped and Monk felt the conveyor lifting him upward. He must be at the kitchen. Now he could hear voices. One much louder than the rest.
“Put your hands on top of your head!” the voice shouted. “Face away from the door while we open it!”
“I’m an FBI agent!” Monk yelled back. “I’m not armed! It’s too tight in here to get my hands on my head! I can’t turn around, either!”
“Then lie on your stomach! Put your hands out in front of you!”
Monk shouted even louder. “Get me out of here! There’s a b—” Monk stopped. Not yet, he told himself. “Get me the hell out of here!”
“The door doesn’t open until you’re on your stomach!”
Monk laid out flat. “Okay, okay! My hands are in plain view! I’m not armed! I’m an FBI agent, for Christ’s sake!”
The door slid upward, but only halfway. Monk was aware of eyes staring at him before it slid up the rest of the way. Suddenly there were hands on him, pulling him through the door, shoving him to the floor of the kitchen. The hands moved over his body, up and down his legs, emptying his pockets.
“He’s not armed,” a second voice said. “And he’s not wearing any explosives.”
“Where’s the prime minister?” Monk asked, his voice muffled against the floor. “Where are Franklin and the president?”
A big hand pressed him harder against the floor. “What are you doing here?” the first voice demanded. “What the hell are you doing inside this dumbwaiter?”
“I’m an FBI agent!” Monk struggled to turn over. “Answer my question! Are they in the house?”
“You really think we’d tell you that? A real FBI agent would know better than to ask.”
“God damn it, answer me! Where are they?”
Silence. Finally he was getting through to them.
But he was wrong.
“Cuff him,” the first voice said. “We’ll sort out the FBI stuff later.”
Shit. Handcuffs. He couldn’t allow that. Monk lifted his head as high as he could. “Franklin!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs. “It’s Puller Monk! I know you can hear me! I know what she’s going to do!”
Monk took a breath.
“I know you can hear me, Franklin! You can still stop this! It’s not too late to stop her!”
The hand holding him to the floor disappeared.
Monk rolled over and stared at the Secret Service agents, half a dozen of them, standing over him with guns in their hands. Their eyes were wide with confusion. Faced with a madman, they had no idea what to do.
SIXTY-THREE
In the study, Franklin bolted straight up in his chair.
Monk was here.
In his house, shouting like a madman!
His eyes darted toward the president and the prime minister, who were both staring at him. She’d failed. Monk had survived.
It was over.
Then he glanced at the door and realized he could be wrong.
Why was Monk shouting?
Why wasn’t he standing at the door with his arrest team?
“What’s going on, Tom?” the president wanted to know. “What’s all the shouting about?”
“It’s nothing, Mr. President. Has to be a demonstrator … some kook who got past security. Your people will take care of him.”
“Franklin!”
Somehow Monk’s voice was even louder this time.
“You can’t let her do this!”
Franklin rose to his feet. “I better look into it myself. I’m sorry for the intrusion, but I’ll take care of this as quickly as possible.”
He left the study before they could say anything, went out into the hall, then turned toward the kitchen, toward Monk’s voice.
“I’m going to stand up,” Monk told the agents in his command voice. Clipped. Brusque. Businesslike. Running the bluff of his life. “I will speak to Thomas Franklin when he gets here.”
Now they were even more confused, looking at one another, then back at him as he rose quickly to his feet. He glanced past them, to the kitchen door.
“Goddammit, Franklin,” he thundered. “I’m waiting!”
But he’d gone too far.
The largest of the agents stepped forward and grabbed his left arm. A second agent took the other one. They spun him around and jerked both arms behind him. He felt the hard bang of a handcuff against his wrist, but before it could be secured he heard Franklin’s an
gry voice from the kitchen doorway.
“What the hell’s going on here?”
The largest agent turned to face him. “Sorry, sir. We had a little problem with this guy. Says he’s an FBI agent.” The Secret Service man paused. “Sounds like he knows you … or thinks he does.”
Franklin stared across the kitchen at Monk, made a show of looking him over before shaking his head. “An FBI agent? Anybody can say that. I’ve met a lot of them over the years, but I don’t remember this one.”
He turned to leave.
“She was here, Franklin,” Monk said. “Sung Kim was here.”
Franklin stopped, turned back.
“Sung Kim? Am I supposed to know what that means?”
“She came here to kill you. Pyongyang sent her to kill all of us. The president, the prime minister, all of us … everybody in this house.”
“Pyongyang?” Franklin looked at the Secret Service people. “Do you have any idea what he’s talking about?”
Monk’s voice turned flat, as unemotional as he could make it. “She left a bomb, Franklin. She’ll be gone by the time it goes off. Sung Kim will be halfway back to Washington when this house disappears.”
Now the Secret Service people’s eyes began to dart around the room. Suddenly everybody seemed to grow taller.
“Jesus, Mr. Franklin,” the largest one said. “You sure you don’t know this guy?”
“Goddammit, I’m telling you I don’t!”
Franklin’s voice was hard with authority, but Monk saw his eyes flicker. It was time to push the bluff.
“The helicopter thing didn’t work, Franklin. I followed her here. I watched her prepare the bomb. I watched her put it in place.” There was no point holding back now. “Take a look around wherever you and Nakamura are going to sit with the president. You’ll see something that wasn’t there before. Something that belongs, but wasn’t there half an hour—”