The President Is Missing

by James Patterson

  “What?” I grab him by the shoulder, as if shaking him will produce a different answer. “You said you could, Augie. You said that before.”

  “I did, yes.” He nods, looks at me with shiny eyes. “Nina was alive before.”

  I release him, walk over to the wall, and pound my fist against it. It’s always one step forward, two steps back.

  I take a deep breath. What Augie’s saying makes sense. Nina was the superstar. That’s why she was the sniper’s first target. From a practical standpoint, it would have made more sense to shoot Augie first, because he was mobile, and then go for Nina, who was seated in a parked car. Nina was clearly the highest priority.

  “I will do my best to help,” he says.

  “Okay, well, who attacked us?” I ask for the second time. “Can you at least help me with that?”

  “Mr. President,” he says, “the Sons of Jihad is not a…democracy. This kind of information Suli would not have shared with me. I can only tell you two things. One, obviously, is that Suli knows that Nina and I broke away from him, and he clearly tracked us somehow to the United States.”

  “Obviously,” I say.

  “And the second thing,” he says, “is that as far as I am aware, Suli’s capabilities are limited to computers. He is formidable. He can do considerable damage, as you well know. But he does not have at his disposal trained mercenaries.”

  I put my hand against the wall. “Meaning…”

  “Meaning he is working with someone else,” says Augie. “A nation-state, some country that wishes to bring the United States to its knees.”

  “And one that compromised someone in my inner circle,” I add.

  Chapter

  41

  Okay, Augie, next question,” I say. “What does Suliman want? He must want something. Or they—whoever’s working with him. What do they want?”

  Augie cocks his head. “Why do you say this?”

  “Why do I say that? Well, why else would they have shown us the virus in advance?” I put out my hand. “Augie, two weeks ago, a virus suddenly popped up on our systems inside the Pentagon. It appeared, then it disappeared. You know this. You said it to me yourself at the baseball stadium. It suddenly appeared and then just as suddenly disappeared”—I snap my fingers—“like that.”

  “A peekaboo.”

  “A peekaboo, yes, that’s what my experts called it. A peekaboo. Without any warning, without triggering any of our state-of-the-art security alerts, suddenly this virus flashed all over our internal Defense Department systems then disappeared just as quickly, without a trace. That’s how this whole thing started. We called it Dark Ages and formed a task force. Our best cyberspecialists have been working around the clock trying to find it, trying to stop it, but they can’t.”

  Augie nods. “And it terrifies you.”

  “Of course it does.”

  “Because it infiltrated your system without any warning and evaporated into thin air just as quickly. You realize that it might come back again, or it might never have left. And you have no idea what it’s capable of doing to your systems.”

  “All those things, yes,” I say. “But there was a reason for this sneak preview, this peekaboo. If whoever did this simply wanted to take down our systems, they would’ve just done it. They wouldn’t have warned us first. You only warn someone first if you want something, if you’re going to make a ransom demand.”

  “Ransomware,” he says. “Yes, I understand your reasoning. When you saw the warning, you expected it to be followed by a demand of some kind.”

  “Right.”

  “Ah, so this—this is why you made that phone call to Suli.” Augie nods. “To ask him what his demand was.”

  “Yes. He was trying to get my attention. So I let him know he did. I wanted to hear his demand without directly asking him for it, without intimating that the United States would give in to blackmail.”

  “But he did not give you a demand.”

  “No, he didn’t,” I say. “He played coy. He seemed…at a loss for words. Like he hadn’t expected my call. Oh, he made disparaging comments about my country, the usual type of stuff—but no demand. No acknowledgment of the peekaboo. So all I could do was threaten him. I told him that if his virus hurt our country, I’d come after him with every resource I could muster.”

  “It must have seemed like…an odd conversation.”

  “It was,” I said in agreement. “My tech people were certain this was the work of the SOJ. And they said the peekaboo was no glitch; it was intentional. So where was the ransom demand? Why would he go to the trouble of the peekaboo without demanding anything?”

  Augie nods. “And then Nina came along. You thought she was going to deliver the ransom demand.”

  “I did. You or Nina. So?” I throw up my hands, exasperation getting the better of me. “Where the hell is the goddamn ransom demand?”

  Augie draws a deep breath. “There is not going to be a ransom demand,” he says.

  “There’s—why not? Then why’d they send the warning?”

  “Mr. President, the Sons of Jihad did not send that peekaboo,” he says. “And whoever may be sponsoring the Sons of Jihad did not send it, either.”

  I stare at him. It takes me a moment. Eventually I get there.

  “You sent it,” I say.

  “Nina and I, yes. To warn you,” he says. “So you could start preparing mitigation protocols. And so that when Nina and I contacted you, you would take us seriously. Suliman knew nothing of this. The last thing he would ever do is give you an early warning of this virus.”

  I work this over. Augie and Nina sent the early warning to us two weeks ago. And then, more than a week later, Nina found Lilly in Paris and whispered the magic words to her.

  They came to warn me. To help me.

  That’s the good news.

  The bad news? That means that Suliman Cindoruk and the foreign agent who is behind him never wanted the United States to know about it in advance.

  They aren’t going to ask for something. They aren’t seeking a change in our foreign policy. They don’t want prisoners released. They don’t want money.

  They aren’t going to demand a ransom at all.

  They’re just going to detonate the virus.

  They want to destroy us.

  Chapter

  42

  How long do we have?” I ask Augie. “When does the virus detonate?”

  “Saturday in America,” he says. “This is all I know.”

  The same thing the director of Mossad said.

  “Then we have to go right now,” I say, rushing past Augie, grabbing his arm.

  “Go where?”

  “I’ll tell you in the—”

  I turn too quickly, feeling like I overspun the room, a loss of balance, a sharp pain in my ribs, wood stabbing me—the edge of the couch—the ceiling flashing before my eyes and spinning—

  I take a step forward, but something doesn’t work, my leg buckling, the ground not where it’s supposed to be—everything sideways—

  “Mr. President!” Jacobson, his arms under me, catching me, my face only inches from the carpet.

  “Dr. Lane,” I whisper, reaching into my pocket.

  The room dancing around me.

  “Call…Carolyn,” I manage. I hold up my phone, weaving back and forth, before Jacobson takes it from my hand. “She knows…what to do…”

  “Ms. Brock!” Jacobson shouts into the phone. Instructions given, orders received, all in a faint echo, not Jacobson’s normal voice, in combat mode.

  Not now. It can’t be now.

  “He’s gonna be okay, right?”

  “How soon?”

  Saturday in America. Saturday in America will be very soon.

  Mushroom cloud. Searing red heat sweeping the countryside. Where is our leader? Where is the president?

  “Not…now…”

  “Tell her to hurry!”

  We have no ability to respond, Mr. President.
<
br />   They disabled our systems, Mr. President.

  What are we going to do, Mr. President?

  What are you going to do, Mr. President?

  “Stay down, sir. Help is on the way.”

  I’m not ready. Not yet.

  No, Rachel, I’m not ready to join you, not yet.

  Saturday in America.

  Silence, the soft ring of dead, endless, shapeless space.

  “Where the hell is the doctor?”

  And bright light.

  Saturday in

  America

  Chapter

  43

  Vice President Katherine Brandt opens her eyes, snatched from the fog of a dream. She hears the sound again, knuckles rapping on her bedroom door.

  The door parts slightly, and the knock is louder. The face of Peter Evian, her chief of staff, peering through her door. “Sorry to wake you, Madam Vice President,” he says.

  She recognizes nothing around her for a moment, takes a second to get her bearings. She is in the subbasement, sleeping alone, though alone is a relative term, considering that agents are standing outside the door of this small bedroom.

  She reaches for her phone on the nightstand and checks the time: 1:03 a.m.

  “Yes, Peter, come in.” She speaks calmly. Always be ready. She says it to herself every day. Because it could happen any time, day or night, without notice. A bullet. An aneurysm. A heart attack. Such is the life of a vice president.

  She sits up in bed. Peter, dressed in a shirt and tie as always, walks in and hands her his phone, open to a website, a newspaper article.

  The headline: THE PRESIDENT IS MISSING.

  Sources at the White House, says the article, confirm that the president is not at the White House. And more to the point, they don’t know where he is.

  The speculation is all over the place, ranging from plausible to implausible to downright ridiculous: a return of his blood disease, and he’s gravely ill. He left town to prepare for the select committee hearings. He’s huddling with close aides to prepare a resignation speech. He’s running off with ill-gotten money from Suliman Cindoruk, fleeing the country to avoid prosecution.

  The president and vice president are secure, the official statement said last night, after the explosion on the bridge, the shoot-out at Nationals Park. That was it. That was probably the right way to go. Tell everyone their leaders are safe and sound, but don’t specify their precise location. Nobody would expect or demand otherwise.

  But this article is saying that his own people don’t know where he is.

  She doesn’t, either.

  “I need Carolyn Brock,” she says.

  Chapter

  44

  Carolyn Brock, notes the vice president, is wearing the same suit as she was wearing yesterday. As if that weren’t enough, her bloodshot eyes confirm her lack of sleep.

  It seems the indefatigable chief of staff never went home last night.

  They sit inside a conference room in the operations center below the White House, at opposite ends of a long table. The vice president would have preferred to hold the meeting in her private office in the West Wing, but she was sent underground last night as part of the continuity-of-government protocol, and she sees no reason to rock that boat right now.

  “Where’s Alex Trimble?” she asks.

  “He’s not available, Madam Vice President.”

  Her eyes narrow. That squint, her aides used to tell her, was what everyone feared the most, her steely but silent way of communicating her unhappiness with an answer.

  “That’s it? He’s ‘not available’?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Her blood boils. Technically, Katherine Brandt is the second-most-powerful person in the country. Everyone treats her as such, at least officially. She must admit that, however much she resented Jon Duncan for leapfrogging her and snatching away the nomination that was rightfully hers, and however hard she had to bite her tongue and accept her place as second fiddle, the president has given her the role he promised, seeking her input, giving her a seat at the table for all major decisions. Duncan has kept up his end of the bargain.

  Still, they both know that Carolyn is the one with the real power in this room.

  “Where’s the president, Carolyn?”

  Carolyn opens her hands, ever the diplomat. Brandt can’t resist a grudging respect for the chief of staff, who has twisted arms in Congress, kept the trains running on time, and held the West Wing staff in line, all in service of the president’s agenda. Back when Carolyn was in Congress herself, before that unfortunate stumble she had on a live mike, a lot of people had her pegged as a future Speaker, maybe even a presidential candidate. Well spoken, well prepared, quick on her feet, a solid campaigner, attractive but not beauty-queen gorgeous—the perpetual tightrope women in politics must walk—Carolyn could have been one of the best.

  “I asked you where the president is, Carolyn.”

  “I can’t answer that, Madam Vice President.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” The vice president flips her hand. “Do you know where he is? Can you tell me that much?”

  “I know where he is, ma’am.”

  “Is he…” She shakes her head. “Is he okay? Is he secure?”

  Carolyn’s head leans to one side. “He’s with the Secret Service, if that’s what—”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ, Carolyn, can’t you give me a straight answer?”

  They lock eyes for a moment. Carolyn Brock is no pushover. And her loyalty to the president transcends all else. If she has to take a few bullets for the man, she’ll do it.

  “I am not authorized to tell you where he is,” she says.

  “The president said that. He said you can’t tell me.”

  “The order wasn’t specific to you, of course, ma’am.”

  “But it includes me.”

  “I can’t give you the information you want, Madam Vice President.”

  The vice president slams her hands down on the table, pushes herself out of her chair. “Since when,” she says after a moment, “does the president go into hiding from us?”

  Carolyn stands, too, and they stare at each other again. She doesn’t expect Carolyn to respond, and Carolyn doesn’t disappoint her. Most people would wilt under the gaze, under the discomfort of silence, but Brandt is pretty sure that Carolyn will stare back at her all night if that’s what it takes.

  “Is there anything else, Madam Vice President?” That same cool efficiency in her voice, which only unnerves the vice president all the more.

  “Why are we on lockdown?” she asks.

  “The violence last night,” says Carolyn. “Just a precau—”

  “No,” she says. “The violence last night was an FBI and Secret Service investigation, right? A counterfeiting investigation? That’s what was announced publicly, at least.”

  The chief of staff doesn’t speak, doesn’t move. That story always sounded bogus to Brandt.

  “That violence—it might require a brief lockdown initially,” she continues. “A few minutes, an hour, while we sort it all out. But I’ve been down here all night. Am I supposed to remain down here?”

  “For the time being, yes, ma’am.”

  She walks toward Carolyn and stops just short. “Then don’t tell me it’s because of the violence in the capital last night. Tell me why we’re really on lockdown. Tell me why we’re in a continuity-of-government protocol. Tell me why the president fears for his life right now.”

  Carolyn blinks hard a few times but otherwise remains stoic. “Ma’am, I was given a direct order by the president for a lockdown, for COG protocol. It’s not my place to question that order. It’s not my place to ask why. And it’s not—” She looks away, curls her lips inside her mouth.

  “And it’s not my place, either—is that what you were going to say, Carolyn?”

  Carolyn turns and looks her in the eye. “Yes, ma’am. That’s what I was going to say.”

  The vice president sl
owly nods, doing a slow burn.

  “Is this about impeachment?” she asks, though she couldn’t imagine how.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Is this a matter of national security?”

  Carolyn doesn’t answer, makes a point of remaining still.

  “Is this about Dark Ages?”

  Carolyn flinches but doesn’t, won’t, answer that question.

  “Well, Ms. Brock,” she says, “I may not be president—”

  Yet.

  “—but I am the vice president. I don’t take orders from you. And I haven’t heard a lockdown order from the president. He knows how to reach me. I’m in the phone book. Anytime he wants to ring me and tell me what the hell is going on.”

  She turns and heads for the door.

  “Where are you going?” Carolyn asks, her voice different, stronger, less deferential.

  “Where do you think I’m going? I have a full day. Including an interview with Meet the Press, whose first question I’m sure will be ‘Where’s the president?’”

  And more important, and before that: the meeting she scheduled last night, after receiving the phone call in her personal residence. It could be one of the most interesting meetings of her life.

  “You aren’t leaving the operations center.”

  The vice president stops at the doorway. She turns to face the White House chief of staff, who just spoke to her in a way that nobody ever has since the election—since long before that, actually. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard what I said.” The chief of staff is done, apparently, with any semblance of deference. “The president wants you in the operations center.”

  “And you hear me, you unelected flunky. I only take orders from the president. Until I hear from him, I’ll be in my office in the West Wing.”

  She walks out of the room into the hallway, where her chief of staff, Peter Evian, looks up from his phone.

  “What’s happening?” he asks, keeping pace with her.

  “I’ll tell you what’s not happening,” she says. “I’m not going down with this ship.”