Wall of Night

by Grant Blackwood

  All Tanner could do was hope the odds fell in his favor and trust that when they didn’t, his skill and experience would be enough to make up the difference.

  “Why all these questions?” Hsiao asked. “What are you planning?”

  Tanner told him.

  Hsiao’s face went pale. “You … you are not serious, are you?”

  Serious, but not looking forward to it, Briggs thought. “I am. Can you get the things I need?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Be ready. If all goes well, we’ll be on our way tonight.”

  “How? I don’t understand what you’re planning.”

  Tanner smiled. “I’m still working on it. Ask me again in a few hours.”

  67

  White House

  As directed, Howard Bousikaris arranged theirs to be Martin’s last meeting of the day.

  It was nine p.m. when Dutcher, Mason, and Cathermeier were ushered into the Oval Office. The room was dim except for a pair of brass floor lamps casting soft light into the corners, and a green visored banker’s light on Martin’s desk. As always, Bousikaris stood beside Martin’s elbow.

  As they were shown in, the president looked up. “Good, gentlemen, come in. I’m hoping we can make this short; I’ve got a late supper scheduled with Senators Petit and Diaz.”

  Dutcher glanced at Bousikaris, who shook his head: meeting cancelled.

  “Let’s sit by the fire, shall we?”

  Once they were all seated, President Martin gave Dutcher an appraising stare. “The mysterious Leland Dutcher. I understand you helped my predecessor on a few occasions.”

  “Yes, sir. I was honored to serve,” Dutcher replied, and meant it.

  John Haverland had been, and still was, albeit now out of the public eye, a man of integrity. Though Haverland had been too discreet to say as much, Dutcher always suspected he’d regretted not only bringing Martin aboard as his VP, but also positioning him for a run at the White House.

  A terrible mistake, Dutcher thought, but hopefully a correctable one.

  “Speaking of serving,” Martin replied, “I don’t recall seeing your name on the schedule. Did you stow away in Dick’s pocket?”

  “No, sir, I was invited.”

  Martin narrowed his eyes at Dutcher. “Not by me.”

  Too much ego, not enough substance, Dutcher thought. A hollow man squabbling over petty control issues. For a brief moment Leland felt sorry for him. For Martin, every moment of every day, was consumed with worries over his image. It had to be a maddening existence. The problem was, unlike many people who fight similar demons, Martin had sold his own country in pursuit of a legacy his very character would never support.

  “I asked him to come,” Bousikaris said. “Leland has some experience with both China and Russia; his perspective might be useful.”

  “Fine. So, gentlemen, where do we stand? Any change in either country’s posture?”

  “Before we get to that,” Mason said. “I have something you might want to take a look at.” Mason opened his briefcase, withdrew a file folder, and handed it to Martin.

  Frowning, Martin took the folder, flipped it open, and began reading. After thirty seconds, he snatched off his glasses and glared at Mason. “What is this?”

  “That’s an affidavit signed by your chief of staff.”

  Martin turned in his chair and looked at Bousikaris. “Howard, what the hell—”

  Mason broke in: “Currently four copies of that affidavit exist: The one you’re reading and three others, each of them sealed and notarized. One is—”

  “What in God’s name are you doing?” Martin growled. “This is a dangerous game, Dick. One phone call from me and—”

  “Phil,” Bousikaris said. “Listen to what they have to say. If you make the wrong decision now, you’ll regret it.”

  “Are you threatening me, Howard? You little mealy-mouthed asshole! How dare you!”

  “I’m telling you it’s over, Phil Your only chance—our only chance—of not ending up in jail is to listen to what they have to say.”

  Jaw muscles pulsing, Martin said, “Go on, Dick. Keep digging your grave.”

  “One of the affidavits is in the CIA’s chief counsel’s office safe; the second in the safe of an assistant director at the FBI, the third in a safe-deposit box,” Mason said. “If in two hour’s time each of us fails to make a phone call, the affidavits will be distributed.”

  “To whom?”

  “One will go to the attorney general, the other to the director of the FBI, the third to the editor in chief of The Washington Post. In short, the affidavit outlines your collusion with the People’s Republic of China, starting with its donations to your campaign—”

  “I never knew it was them. That was—”

  “To your agreement with China’s ambassador to commit U.S. military assets to further China’s strategic aims. The affidavit also contains a report from a decorated Special Agent with the FBI detailing his investigation into the murder of a Commerce Department official and his family—”

  “What? That’s nonsense. I don’t know anything about—”

  “—who were murdered by agents of China’s Ministry of State Security—the same agents that served as intermediaries between Mr. Bousikaris, yourself, and China’s ambassador.”

  Martin stared at Mason, then chuckled and tossed the folder onto the coffee table. “Wonderful story. Problem is, gentlemen, you’ve forgotten something: If you follow through on your threat, your names will come out as well. You’ll be lucky to survive it. You sink me, you sink yourselves.”

  Dutcher said, “Small price to pay to stop a war. I for one would rather take my chances than to see you stay in this office another day.”

  Martin glanced at Cathermeier. “And you, General? I can’t believe you, of all people, would betray me. I’m your commander in chief, for God’s sake. You’re sworn to follow my orders.”

  “And you’re sworn to uphold the Constitution and to put this country’s welfare above everything else—including yourself,” Cathermeier responded. “I’ve had a good career—a good life—and if in the process of tossing you out on your ass I lose all of it, I’ll still call it a fair trade.”

  “You’re a disgrace! All of you! You’re all traitors, and I swear on my soul I’ll see you pay—”

  “An empty oath,” Mason said. “You’ve got no soul to swear on. The only question that remains is, are you going to go willingly or kicking and screaming?”

  “Go to hell!”

  Mason shrugged. “Once you’re out of here, perhaps, but not before.”

  Martin looked at Bousikaris. “Howard, how could you do this to me? I trusted you. Of all the people who would want to see me fail, I never thought you’d be one of them.”

  Bousikaris looked down at the carpet and Dutcher saw a tear at the corner of his eye. “I’m sorry, Phil,” he whispered. “I am. We made a terrible choice, and there’s no running away from it. We could have done the right thing; we could have told them to go to hell and let the chips fall where they may. But we didn’t.”

  “You little weasel! That’s fine, I don’t need you.” Martin turned back to the others; he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and grinned. “You think you’re ready to take me on? I am the president of the goddamned United States] I’ll have you hauled out of here in handcuffs, and then we’ll see what you’re made of!”

  Martin stood up and started walking toward his desk.

  “Just so we’re clear on this,” Dutcher said. “Whether you have us arrested or not, nothing will change. The affidavits will go out. By tomorrow morning you’ll have the attorney general, the Justice Department, the FBI, and every newspaper and television reporter in the country sitting in your lap. And that’s just day one; day two will be worse still, and so and so forth until you’re drummed out of office and hung in effigy from every tree in every town in this country. You’ll go down in history
as the most corrupt president in our nation’s history—and that’s if you’re lucky. More likely, you’ll end up in jail. So go ahead and make your call. Maybe it’s fitting that you seal your coffin.”

  With one hand hovering over the phone, Martin shook his head and smiled ruefully. “I’ll give you this: You boys know how to tie a good knot.” Martin walked back to his chair and sat down. “So you’ve got me over a barrel. What’s it going to be? You all want influence … special consideration? You’ve got it. What’s your pleasure, gentlemen?”

  Amazing, Dutcher thought. Martin was still trying to play his own game. Despite it all, he truly thought they were just like him.

  Dutcher glanced at Mason and Cathermeier, who both shook their heads sadly.

  “How about it, gentlemen?” Martin said. “You’ve won your little victory. Now it’s time to collect. It’s not often I admit to being bested, so don’t squander it.”

  Bousikaris stepped forward. “Phil—”

  “No, Howard, I know when to bend a little. Let them enjoy their time in the sun.”

  Mason sighed, then looked at Bousikaris and nodded.

  Bousikaris picked up the phone, spoke into it for a few seconds, then hung up. Thirty seconds later the door opened and David Lahey walked in. “Good evening, Phil.”

  “What’re you doing here?” Martin said. “Dick, this is between us. David’s got nothing to do with this.”

  “He’s got everything to do with it. He’s your replacement.”

  “What? Oh Jesus, give it up, gentlemen! You can’t really expect me to simply step down.”

  “That’s exactly what we expect. Next week you’ll hold a press conference. Citing a cancerous brain tumor—a cerebella astrocytomas, to be exact—you have transferred power to Vice President Lahey. While the tumor is not fatal, the doctors have told you it will eventually begin to affect your judgment and therefore your ability to carry out your duties. For the good of the country, you are tendering your resignation.”

  “No one will buy that.”

  “Of course they will,” Dutcher replied. “Most of them gladly.”

  For the first time, Martin lost a bit of his swagger. He spread his hands. “You can’t do this. Please … Don’t do this to me.”

  “You did it to yourself,” Cathermeier replied.

  Mason said, “Make your decision. If you take the option we’re offering, you get to retire to your farm in New Hampshire and write your damned memoirs; if you go against us, your life is over. It’s time to decide, Phil.”

  As though suddenly deflated, Martin leaned back in his chair. He stared at the carpet for nearly a full minute. “Okay,” he whispered. “You win. What do you want me to do?”

  Thirty minutes later they were joined by the White House’s chief counsel and the director of the Secret Service. As they entered, both men were visibly wary. For Martin’s part, he played his role well, sitting tall in his desk chair, the commanding and brave president.

  “Now that we’re all here, I have an announcement to make. What I’m about to tell you is very difficult. Aside from Howard, my wife, and my personal physician, no one else knows about this.”

  Martin went on to explain his condition, the type of tumor involved, and then his prognosis, never once missing a beat. It was a masterful performance, Dutcher thought. It was no wonder how Martin had risen so high in politics; he was a chameleon of the highest order.

  “And so,” Martin concluded, “next week I will be resigning the presidency. Effective immediately, however, I wish to formally turn over my duties and responsibilities to Vice President Lahey.”

  The room was silent. The director of the Secret Service was the first to break the silence. He stepped forward. “Mr. President?”

  Dutcher held his breath. This was the point of no return. If Martin chose to damn the consequences and turn on them, it would happen now. Dutcher had no idea what the duress code word would be, but within seconds of Martin’s using it, they would find themselves surrounded by a dozen Secret Service agents.

  Martin paused a few seconds, then shook his head. “Relax, Roger. I appreciate your concern, but this is my decision, and as painful as it is, it’s the right thing.”

  “Very well, Mr. President.”

  Martin turned to the White House counsel. “Lorne, how do we make this official?”

  Considering the gravity of the event, the transfer of power from Martin to Lahey was surprisingly simple, Dutcher thought. There would be further bureaucratic hoops through which to jump, of course, but an hour after giving the order, Martin was signing the last of the documents transferring the powers of office to David Lahey. The documents were then witnessed and signed by both the chief counsel and the director of the Secret Service.

  “Is that it?” Martin asked.

  “Yes, sir,” said the chief counsel. “That’s it.”

  “Thank you both. Roger, please inform my detail that President Lahey’s personal detail will arrive shortly for a transfer of duties.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s all, then. You can go.”

  Once they were gone, Martin let out a heavy sigh, pushed himself away from the desk, and stood up. He turned to Lahey and gestured to the chair with a flourish. “David, the mantle is yours.”

  Lahey merely nodded.

  Martin looked at Dutcher, Mason, and Cathermeier each in turn. “I assume, gentlemen, that you have no problem with me retiring to my bedroom?”

  Mason shook his head.

  As Martin headed for the door, Mason called, “Phil.”

  “Yes?”

  “Make no mistake: Tomorrow or ten years from now, the affidavits will still be there. Between the three of us, we’ll see to that.”

  Martin nodded wearily. “I know, Dick. I’ll be a good boy, I promise.”

  As the door shut behind him, there was a long, awkward silence in the room. Finally, Lahey walked to one of the wingback chairs and sat down heavily. “Jesus Christ.”

  “Yeah,” Mason said.

  “I actually feel a little sorry for the bastard. I can hardly believe it, but I do.”

  The intercom on the desk buzzed. Everyone glanced at it, but no one moved.

  “I believe that’s for you, Mr. President,” Leland Dutcher said.

  “Yeah, I guess it is.” Lahey walked to his desk, picked up the phone, listened, then nodded to Cathermeier. “For you. I sure hope this isn’t a bad omen.”

  Cathermeier took the phone, listened for a few moments, then hung up.

  Mason said, “What is it, Chuck?”

  “The Chinese have planes in the air. They’re headed toward the Russian border.”

  68

  Laogi 179

  Tanner spent the first half of the day asleep, curled up inside the rotted bole of a black walnut with underbrush and branches piled around him for camouflage.

  A little after noon he woke up, coded a message for the Motorola, and sent it home. He then ate his last remaining rations of trail mix and beef jerky and washed it down with some of Wu’s sweat sock soup spiked with honey; it tasted almost pleasant.

  At two, he left his cave and headed out, crawling deeper into the forest. His destination lay two miles to the south and he had three hours to get there, but without knowing what kind of daylight patrols Xiang had set, he wanted to allow plenty of time.

  It turned out to be the right decision.

  The forest surrounding the camp was thick with Xiang’s paratroopers as roving patrols had been dispatched to augment the OPs. A few hundred yards from his starting point Tanner again found himself playing a nerve-wracking game of hide-and-go-seek.

  The paratroopers were good, but, as before, Tanner used patience to his advantage. Patrols came and went, oftentimes passing within feet of him as he lay under his homemade ghillie cape, holding his breath until their footsteps faded and he could continue on his way.

  At four-thirty he r
eached the edge of the woods. Ahead lay a clearing at the center of which was a wide, sand-filled pit; to his right, back toward the camp, was the road Hsiao had described. Briggs was about to grab his map to confirm his location when the stench of feces filled his nostrils. A spurt of bile filled his mouth; he swallowed it.

  This has to be the right place, he thought.

  Now he waited.

  Thirty-five minutes later he heard the roar of a truck engine echoing through the trees. Tanner peered down the road. The tanker truck, driven by a guard from the camp, chugged around the bend and pulled into the clearing. Black hoses dangled like tentacles from their mounts on the holding tank, bouncing and swaying with each bump in the road. With a grinding of gears, the truck stopped, did a Y-turn and backed toward the pit, stopping a few feet short of the edge.

  The guard shut off the engine and got out. He wore rubber chest waders and elbow-high gloves. He walked to the rear of the truck, unhooked one of the hoses, and dropped it into the pit.

  Tanner got to his feet and sprinted to the truck’s front bumper, where he dropped to his belly. Beneath the length of the truck he could see the guard’s feet shuffling as he readied the vehicle.

  With a whine, the tank’s pump kicked on. The man’s feet backed away from the hose and stopped beside the rear tire. The hose convulsed a few times, then came the sound of gushing water. And then, the odor—the sickly sweet stench of feces, urine, and garbage.

  Tanner felt his belly heave. He set his teeth against it.

  Forget it, he ordered himself. This is your way in.

  He crab-walked around to the passenger side, mounted the access ladder, and climbed to the top of the tank. He laid himself flat and shimmied forward until he could see the guard’s head. The man was smoking as he watched the hose, seemingly transfixed by the effluent gushing into the pit.

  Tanner reached out and lifted open the tank’s hatch. A cloud of fat, blue-backed flies burst from the opening; it took all his self-control to not drop the lid. Don’t think, just do it … Fingers clenched around the strap, he lowered the pack through the hatch until he felt it bump the ladder, then clipped the D-ring to a rung and released it.