Cobra took a bus west along Route 50, dropping off at a used-car dealership that was just opening for business at 6 A.M. He paid cash for a two-vear-old blue Chevy van, and took himself across the Potomac through Maryland into Pennsylvania, ironically following Robert E. Lee’s route of march to the Battle of Gettysburg in 1863. Cobra found a small, run-down motel on Route 30 near Seven Springs and paid cash for a dingy room for two days. Cobra had been prepared to say he intended to visit the battlefield, but the proprietor asked no questions, required no identification, and barely glanced at the signature Cobra scrawled on the register.
He carried his bags to his room. He would move again tomorrow, abandoning his second-night’s payment. He couldn’t help but marvel at how easy it was to travel in America, compared to Europe and especially South Africa. He had plenty of cash and wouldn’t need to show his passport until he was ready to leave the country by air. If he attracted the attention of police, he had the British driving license and another from California, but he had no intention of attracting attention.
Cobra did indeed walk the famous battlefield, following the guide and map he obtained from the visitors’ center. He enjoyed feeling the terrain and imagining the clash of mighty armies in the hot summer of 1863. There were discreet plaques along the walking paths, describing the many small battles within the great one. The most interesting to Cobra was the engagement at a low hill called Little Round Top. The plaque described the charge of Texas cavalry against a Federal artillery battery protected by trees and earthworks. The cavalry had been thrown back with staggering losses, and the battery continued to pound the Confederate lines. Brave boys, those Texans, Cobra thought, but the commander who ordered that attack should have been relieved for sheer stupidity.
There was a copse of trees near the High Water Mark, where Federal troops awaited Pickett as he began his famous charge. Walking north, Cobra reached the Brian Barn, another Union strongpoint. From there he could see the quiet beauty of the cemetery, the site of Lincoln’s dedicating address on November 19, 1863. Cobra watched as workers assembled grandstands to the right and left of a covered platform draped with red, white and blue bunting. The lectern was faced with the blue and gold seal of the President of the United States. Cobra estimated the distance at between seven hundred and seven hundred fifty meters.
The President of the United States was to speak at Gettysburg the day after tomorrow, November 19, the one-hundred-thirty-eighth anniversary of Lincoln’s famous speech. Cobra would be there; it was nice open country.
16
JULIA EARLY RUSHED into her apartment clutching a bottle of cheap champagne. Judith and Hilda laughed as she popped the cork and made a mess, but gladly joined her in the frothy wine served in their odd assortment of glasses. “I’m going to Europe!” Julia whooped. “An escape from the tombs, and a chance to present my own ideas, rather than let those pompous asses of relationship managers fuck them up.”
Judith and Hilda were lavish in their congratulations, although Judith felt more than a twinge of envy. Both Judith and Hilda had been placed in the bank’s Asia Department, the fastest growing in terms of business, but had yet to set foot out of Washington. Hilda, of course, Judith thought bleakly, couldn’t miss. She spoke two Chinese dialects. Judith spoke only English, and Hong Kong was gradually suppressing the language of its success for the Mandarin Chinese of its new owners that even most Cantonese-speaking Hong Kong Chinese had to learn nearly from scratch. “When will you leave?” Judith said, pouring Hilda’s untouched glass into her own and getting a six-pack of Lowenbrau from the fridge.
“Friday night. I get the weekend in London,” Julia said, refusing to lose her ebullient mood to her friends’ lukewarm congratulations. “Business class!”
The phone trilled. Hilda answered. “Charles Taylor, for you,” Hilda whispered, holding her hand over the mouthpiece. “He left about five messages on the machine.”
Julia waved her hands. “Not here,” she whispered. Christ, why had she sent that report to the reporter she had no reason to trust. How she wished she had it back!
Hilda relayed the message, then covered the mouthpiece again. “He says he saw you come in ten minutes ago; he’s calling from his cellphone. He says it’s very urgent and he’ll wait in the lobby until you’ll see him.”
“Call security,” Judith advised. “Have that lard-ass cracker throw him out.”
Julia raised her hands in front of her face. Give me a minute, the gesture pleaded. “All right. Tell him the Brew Pub on the corner; ten minutes.”
“What’s he want?” Judith asked. “He’s a shit.”
Which means he hasn’t called her, Julia thought sourly. The only thing Charles Taylor could want would involve Little Cheyenne Development. Could she get him to drop it? She doubted it. “I’ll just wash my face and go. Shouldn’t be long.”
“Take your time,” Judith said acidly. “Might’s well get fed at least for whatever he wants of you.”
Julia brushed her teeth, ran a comb through her hair, and took the creaky elevator to the lobby. The lard-ass security guard was fast asleep and snoring at his desk. Julia went out into the rain, rounded the corner to the Brew Pub, and went in. Charles Taylor, wet, rumpled, and with two awful black eyes, waved her to a corner booth, and rose to greet her. “Julia, darling, sorry to press, but we need to talk.”
17
THE PRESIDENT OF the United States, flanked by aides and Secret Service agents and carrying his big Bible, rushed into the Cabinet Room and took his seat at the center of the long table. It was after seven P.M., late for formal meetings.
The president never appeared anymore without the Bible, and he had his Secret Service detail close even within the White House itself. Cameras began whirring and popping, and reporters shouted questions. The president heard many queries about his health. There had been much speculation in the press because he appeared frail and disoriented; the president smiled and answered in a firm voice. He’d had a mild flu, but felt fine now. He thanked the press for their concern.
“Mr. President, what about the rebellion in Cuba? It seems to be spreading rapidly westward, and the Cubans insist we are sustaining the rebels who have no popular support.”
“What else would they say?” the president asked, to general laughter. “I’ve said time and again our naval forces in the area of south Florida and Cuba are there for defensive purposes only, to stop Nieto Castro from exporting refugees and drugs to our shores. He jams radio and television signals from the United States, including Free Radio and TV Marti, that seek to tell the Cuban people the truth. His air force shoots down brave Cuban-American pilots flying slow airplanes the Cubans know are unarmed, and does it in international airspace. So we’re showing we cannot be provoked, taunted even, without response. Once the little tyrant begins to behave, we’ll leave, and then let’s see who has the support of the Cuban people.” More questions were shouted, but the president nodded to the usher by the door, the signal that the reporters were to leave so that business could begin. The TV and press reporters and cameramen all knew the signal, and left quickly.
“Well done, boss,” said Big Dog Jonas, from the end of the table.
Carolyn White slipped in past the usher as the last reporters left the hallway. She took her customary seat at the president’s right; the White House media people liked to have her pretty black face in as many shots of the president as possible. The door was firmly closed.
“Mr. President,” Carolyn whispered, leaning close and gripping his arm. “I’ve just left the Russian ambassador. We should have a private word.”
The president turned. He had never been so close to Carolyn, and he marveled as the silky smoothness of her skin and her subtle perfume. “Something the cabinet shouldn’t know?” he said mockingly.
“I’d rather tell you first, then you decide who hears what, when.”
The president understood. The cabinet secretaries, so seldom consulted about anything, leaked whenever they c
ould to try to impress the media. “Ladies, gentlemen,” he said, rising. “Enjoy your coffee for a few minutes more. Carolyn has something urgent for me.” With no further explanation, he strode from the room, Carolyn trotting behind. The president stopped in the middle of the empty hall and turned to the Secretary of Defense. Two Secret Service agents dropped back discreetly out of earshot. “What is it, Madame Secretary? What business have you with the Russians? Isn’t that State’s job?” He smiled.
“The ambassador brought his military attaché. The purpose of the meeting was to avoid any misunderstanding or overreaction on our part or on the part of NATO allies.”
The president’s smile vanished. “What have those bastards done? Invaded Western Europe?”
“They say not, but Russian airborne troops have landed in their enclave on the Baltic around Kaliningrad—do you know it? It’s a piece of Russia surrounded by Poland and Lithuania.”
“I know it.” European history had been a passion of Rupert Justice Tolliver since boyhood. “The ancient Prussian city of Königsberg. What else?”
“Follow-on forces are coming by road and rail through Belarus and Lithuania. The Russians claim they have rights of passage by treaty, but the Lithuanians are screaming.”
“Do the Russians say why they’re doing this?”
“To reinforce the fleet for, as Ambassador Zlotkin put it, ‘defensive operations in southern waters.’”
President Tolliver smoothed his black hair. “Does that mean what I think it means?”
“It means they are sending a naval task force, presumably with heavy ground forces embarked, to Cuba.”
“I won’t allow it.” Tolliver said.
“Mr. President—”
“As soon as that fleet sails, I want to know its composition and strength. Make sure the Atlantic Command has whatever it needs to kick the Russians’ asses if it comes to that. I won’t have a Russian fleet ninety miles from Key West. And where the hell is that old fruit, Japes?”
“The Secretary of State is traveling in the Middle East. Syria today, I believe. The switchboard—”
“I know; the White House switchboard can find anybody, anywhere. Let’s not say anything to the cabinet. You go back to work and plan this thing. I’ll go wrap up that meeting of empty suits, then I’ll speak to Japes, tell him to get his ass up to Moscow and preach the word.”
SECRETARY OF STATE Malcolm Japes flew to Moscow directly from Damascus, arriving at midnight, Moscow time. His aircraft was not met at the airport by any high Russian official, only by the American ambassador, who escorted the exhausted man and his small entourage to the embassy in the center of the city. The President of Russia, Alexandr Lebed, would not receive the American secretary, the ambassador related, but the foreign minister, Dmitri Shepilov, would, at nine o’clock in the morning. The meeting would take place not at the ministry, but at Shepilov’s small office in the presidential complex inside the Kremlin. Japes suspected that might mean Lebed might attend the meeting “unofficially.”
Before Japes could get to bed, there was a call from the Assistant Secretary for Far Eastern Affairs in Washington. “Yes?” Japes said querulously. What couldn’t wait a few hours?
“Sorry to disturb you so late, sir,” the assistant said. “We’ve just received a request, more of a polite demand, actually, from the government of Korea, that we begin withdrawing our troops and aircraft from the country as they are no longer needed with the peninsula united and at peace.”
“Oh, God,” Japes said. “The military will hate that, and so will the president.”
“So he informed me when I called. I would’ve called you first, but CNN is already broadcasting the story as a lead.”
Maybe Tolliver isn’t so crazy after all, Japes thought as he hung up the phone. Maybe the world is unraveling.
18
CHARLES TAYLOR INSISTED that Julia let him take her to a better restaurant. Julia selected a bistro that was only a block away, and they hurried there in the windblown rain. Charles ordered a bottle of white wine, a Muscadet de Sevres et Main he couldn’t really afford, and they looked at menus. Julia had spoken barely a word. Charles tasted the wine, pronounced it good, and they ordered: vichyssoise for both, poached turbot for Julia, and trout almondine for Charles. When the vichyssoise arrived in chilled cups embedded in miniature coolers filled with shaved ice, he began. “Julia, the material you sent me about Little Cheyenne Development could be the basis for the story of the decade, but I need a way to confirm key facts, and I need to get it before anyone else does.”
“What information?” Julia said lamely. “I didn’t send you anything.”
Charles took her hand but she snatched it away. Charles took a deep breath. “OK, maybe we can work it that way. Maybe your name need never come up; I can see why that could be awkward for you.”
Julia almost choked on her soup. “Are you threatening me?”
“Me? No,” Charles said smoothly. “Give me a way to confirm the details of the transaction, and I’ll try to keep you out of it.” This was a bald lie; if the story ran Julia would be getting subpoenas from congressional committees by the basketful, and doubtless from a grand jury as well. Then there would be the interrogations from Treasury and likely the FBI. Julia was in for a rough time.
Julia felt trapped. She believed that the corruption of the campaign, the corrupt money still flowing to the Tolliver administration, had to be exposed. She wondered if her father was right, that knowledge, at least specific knowledge, might stop with the First Lady. She should have let her father handle it. She shouldn’t have lied to him. She should never have thought Charles Taylor wouldn’t have figured out who had such access, even though running into him at the development site was just plain bad luck. “How could you keep me out of it?” she pleaded.
“Remember Watergate? Woodward and Bernstein had a source, unknown to this day, called Deep Throat. You could be my confidential source, talk only to me. Only one other person would have to know your identity and roughly how you got the story.”
Julia didn’t remember Watergate; it had happened before she was born, but she knew the story about Woodward and Bernstein’s expose in the Washington Post. “Who would have to know?”
“My editor. He would never reveal the identity of a confidential source. This is Washington, Julia, the press lives on leaks from never-revealed sources.”
“But I gave you the whole thing. Can’t you check it yourself?”
“I’ll need your help. Banking operations are opaque to me but I need to prove them up to make the meat of the story, the illegal foreign funding of the Tolliver campaign, stand up.”
Julia looked up as her soup was cleared and the fish placed before her. Maybe there was a way, but she needed time to think. “Let me think about it. Maybe I can help.”
Once again Charles took her hand. She didn’t pull it away, but she didn’t return the squeeze either. “We don’t have much time. If some other reporter gets to this before me, I’m dead. Aren’t you better off working with me, who you know you can trust, than risking someone else exposing your involvement?”
Like I trust scorpions and rattlesnakes, Julia thought, withdrawing her hand to pick up her fork. She began eating, barely tasting the perfectly poached turbot, and said no more. Charles could tell she was working out how vulnerable she was, and he said nothing either. He tried a few amusing stories about the foibles of Washington’s giants, but got no rise from Julia, so they finished the meal in near silence.
Charles and Julia left the restaurant early, before ten. The rain had stopped, and Julia said pointedly that Charles needn’t walk her back to her building. He insisted. At the corner, a black van with dark-tinted windows slid to the curb in front of them, and a dark sedan pulled to a stop behind. Two large men in dark clothes and ski masks got out of each vehicle and moved quickly to encircle them. Julia gripped Charles’s arm, but he was pulled away, almost lifted, and shoved into the back of the van as the door was open
ed from the inside. The two men from the van jumped in, the door slammed, and it sped off.
One of the men from the sedan touched her arm gently. “We’ll drive you home, miss.”
“No-no, thank you,” she squeaked. “I live just around the corner.”
The man’s hand on her arm tightened slightly. “Nevertheless, these streets aren’t safe.” He chuckled as he guided her into the backseat of the sedan and the car moved off rapidly, speeding right past her building. “Stop!” she shouted. “I live right there.”
“We mean you no harm, miss,” the man beside her said softly. His accent was like hers before she had shaken most of it off, Texas Hill Country. “Friends of yours—good friends—want you to know that the man you were with is a liar, and anything you do to help him is likely to place you in jeopardy.”
“But he knows—”
“We know what he knows.” The man’s voice took on a menacing edge. “He needs you to make it stick. Don’t help him, miss. Don’t do that at all.”
The car careered around corners in the quiet neighborhood, and soon slid to a rubber-burning stop in front of Julia’s building. “Let your friends look after you, miss,” the man said, his tone soft again. “We’ll always be with you.” He opened the door, got out, and handed her out. Before she even reached the steps to the lobby of the building, the car door slammed and it sped away.
Julia fumbled with her keys as tears ran down her cheeks. If she didn’t help Charles, he would blackmail her. If she did, she’d have those scary men to contend with. Julia had heard the stories; she was almost sure they must be the New Zealots who protected the president by any and all means.
She took the elevator to her floor and let herself into the apartment. Hilda and Judith had gone out, and Julia felt another jolt of fear in the dark and empty place. She turned on every light, then made herself a stiff scotch. She desperately wanted to call her daddy, but she would have to tell him she’d lied to him. She finished her drink and made another. In the morning I’ll decide, she thought.
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