Mr. Zorn extracted a single sheet of paper from his briefcase and handed it to the President.
This is crazy, Blaine thought. Why was the President letting this go so easily? Blaine wondered. Why wasn’t Easton questioning it?
“If you wish, we will, of course, give you time to discuss this among yourselves. If you would like, I can call you one hour after we adjourn this meeting.” He glanced at Blaine, his cheeks dimpling. “But it’s imperative, as you know, considering the nature of the storm, that you give us as much time as possible to begin this mitigation.”
The Vice President was looking pointedly at the President and then at Easton, neither of whom would look at him. He lowered his head and began to chuckle.
“Sorry,” he said. “I hate to be the wet blanket in the boardroom, folks, but I’m afraid this is not going to work on your timetable, Mr. Zorn. I mean, I guess you aren’t familiar with the way Washington works.” He grinned broadly. “We would have to go marching down to the other end of Pennsylvania Avenue this afternoon with tin cups in our hands for this thing to fly. Then, before even thinking about signing anything, we’d have to open it up to the bidding process. So, I mean—”
“No. Actually, we wouldn’t,” Easton said, speaking softly but firmly.
Blaine watched the Vice President’s smile fade in the silence.
“He’s correct,” said Harold DeVries, the Director of National Intelligence. “Under normal circumstances, yes, there would have to be an open bidding process. And congressional approval. But we have an emergency provision excluding that. Which would certainly be within our rights to invoke if we decided to move forward.”
The President was nodding soberly. Blaine knew he was right and saw Stanton frown to mask his embarrassment that he’d forgotten the process. She listened as DeVries explained it to the Vice President. In times of emergency, when national security was threatened, the White House could bypass the legally established expenditure procedures and award contracts to a company without competitive bidding. After the invasion of Iraq in 2003, the US gave a no-bid contract to Halliburton, which it later renewed several times.
Garland nodded. “As I recall, Halliburton was at the time considered the only company in the world capable of doing that work.”
“Yes, and the comparison is apt, in at least that respect,” said Mr. Zorn. “This is the only firm—or group of firms, I should say—that can do this.”
Blaine saw an impatience creeping into the President’s expression. “All right,” he said. “I will sign a letter of intent now. And then we will let you know for certain in one hour. Okay? Let’s move forward on this.”
Blaine stared at the President, but he wouldn’t look at her now and there was nothing else she could do. She looked out at the rain and wanted to cry.
THERE WAS ALSO a fifth process, Victor Zorn knew, as he walked out from under the West Wing awning into the rain on West Executive Drive. But it was not one that he could mention. It was, in fact, the process most likely to stop the giant hurricane that was raging across the North Atlantic Ocean. It was simply to turn off the laser-powered heaters and allow Alexander to die a natural death.
AS THE TOWN Car limousine came through the gates onto Fifteenth Street, three unmarked government-owned cars pulled out behind it. Two blocks away, Joseph Chaplin’s SUV emerged from a parking space and followed at a distance behind the government vehicles. There was also surveillance by satellite and airplane, as well as a homing device that had been placed under the car on the White House grounds.
The limousine traveled down Pennsylvania Avenue, then made a hard left onto G Street. Four blocks later, it entered a parking garage in Foggy Bottom.
That was when the surveillance became more problematic. Five minutes after the car entered the garage, a nearly identical Town Car emerged, followed four minutes later by another and then a third, all of them displaying the same Washington, D.C. license plate numbers.
The car that had left the White House with the homing device under its carriage remained in the garage for several more minutes. When it at last re-entered the street, it carried none of the original passengers, nor was it driven by the same man who had taken it through the White House gates. Two additional cars, carrying Dr. Romfo and Mr. Zorn, respectively, came out several minutes later.
By the time Dr. Clayton was delivered to the Taft Hotel and Morgan Garland was let out in front of the Four Seasons, surveillance was no longer tracking them.
And when Victor Zorn arrived in the Virginia countryside that afternoon, he was not on anyone’s radar. Dmitry Petrenko was there, waiting near the entrance to the underground bunker, along with a security detail of four men. They greeted Mr. Zorn warmly, all of them speaking in Russian.
THIRTY-SEVEN
A STEADY AFTERNOON RAIN beat against the windows, glistening in the bare trees and on the circular drive of the South Lawn. Blaine glanced at the four men in the room and felt the silent tension moving like electricity among them; team members, bound to one another by the need to make a joint decision. Five people sharing a raw, undefined sense of history. She thought briefly about these men’s personal lives, their families and ambitions, about what had brought them together to this room, stealing quick glances: Stanton with his open, honest face. DeVries with his sly, knowing look. Easton gazing down gravely at the Weathervane binder, avoiding her. The President of the United States looking absently at the rain. Blaine watched the purple spirals of the storm on the television screen behind Stanton’s shoulder.
“Well.” The President sighed deeply. He suddenly seemed ten years older. “Whatever reservations I have at this point are largely intellectual ones,” he said. “But let’s take it around the table.” He looked at the Secretary of Defense. “Secretary Easton.”
“I don’t see that we have a choice.”
“Harold?”
“Concur.”
“Bill?”
The Vice President cleared his throat unnecessarily. “Um. I must say, I have some reservations. Five billion dollars, for one thing. With no guarantee it’s going to work? I mean, come on—”
The President turned his eyes back to Easton. “Clark? Give that some context, in terms of the Defense budget. What is five billion dollars?”
He shrugged, pushing forward against the table. “It’s what we’ve been spending every two weeks on the war in Afghanistan.”
The President nodded, looking hard at Stanton. “Okay?” he said. “Let’s not get stuck on that right now.”
The Vice President cleared his throat again and moved his hands on the table. “My thought, then, would be, shouldn’t we be focusing more on evacuation management, that kind of thing?” He looked at Blaine, who nodded. “I mean, in case this doesn’t work as well as they’re forecasting.”
“We are,” the President said. “We’ve got ten thousand National Guard troops mobilized. Evacuations are under way in eight states. FEMA has deployed teams up and down the coast. Working with emergency management in ten states. We’re on top of this.”
President Hall seemed annoyed for a moment—the details of the storm management had been in their briefing packet this morning—but then Blaine saw a subtle transformation in his face. What she thought of as “inspiration gathering”—a flicker of some noble idea, charging him with adrenaline. She saw that same look during speeches, between sentences, subtly telegraphing the spirit of what was to come.
“You know,” he said, “I mentioned this the other day, but I think it bears repeating. I’ve been thinking about 1961 recently. May 25, 1961. When President Kennedy made his speech about landing a man on the moon by the end of the decade. We set a goal there and we went after that goal and we accomplished it. And it wasn’t an easy goal. People didn’t think it was possible. It was a remarkable achievement, really—and a remarkably hopeful time for this nation. We don’t set goals like that anymore. And it’s a damn shame.
“I think we could turn this into that kind of moment,
if we handled it right. I really do. Taking the lead on a new global frontier. Showing that we can do something thought unimaginable a generation ago.” He looked at each of them in turn. “And it could be a moment that, I might add, is more clearly useful than a man in a space suit planting an American flag in the Sea of Tranquility. We’re talking about a whole new science here.”
“Not to mention potentially millions of jobs,” said Easton.
“Right.”
“And saving millions of lives in potential future disasters.”
There was subtle assent around the table.
“Looking at this in the long term,” the President continued, “I also see it as an opportunity for us to get into the green energy business. In a big way. Particularly with this geo-engineering thing.” He turned his eyes to Blaine, who fought the urge to nod. “If we don’t, I’m afraid we’re going to be beholden to China, India, and Japan the same way we are now to Saudi Arabia for our oil.”
Blaine felt the consensus gathering in the room, the idea that this move could lift the administration to greatness.
“Cate? Thoughts?”
She locked eyes for a moment with President Hall, not sure how to begin. Or if she should. She glanced down at the folder provided by the Weathervane Group, then looked at him again. “I wonder if I could meet with you privately for a few minutes,” she said, surprised at the sound of her own voice. “I do have some thoughts and concerns.”
“What concerns do you have?” Secretary of Defense Easton asked.
“Well.” Blaine realized that the President wasn’t going to give her an out. “I mean, at the risk of stating the obvious: I’m not comfortable with how quickly we’ve lost sight of the email threats and warnings. Which are, after all, what led us to this meeting.”
The Vice President nodded several times, but said nothing. His fingers moved nervously, straightening his booklet on the table.
Easton inhaled dramatically. “No one’s lost sight of them, Secretary Blaine. I think we’re talking about two separate things. I mean, I don’t think this consortium was behind the email threats.”
“But it’s because of the email threats that we’re here, isn’t it?” Blaine said. She heard in her voice a shrill undercurrent. “I think it’s absolutely absurd that we’re just blithely going forward with this.”
The President looked away again, not wanting to engage her. And Blaine suddenly sensed that for whatever reasons, the deal had been set before she entered the room. She felt a wild current of anger race through her. How is this any different from doing business with terrorists? she wondered.
“Cate, I understand your concern,” the President said. “Although, frankly, I don’t know how relevant it is. We don’t know for certain that the email breaches weren’t just sophisticated hoaxes—as you yourself suggested at the outset of this.”
Of course we do, Blaine thought.
Easton nodded. “For all we know, the emails were from the Chinese to steer us from this. Harry, do you agree?”
DeVries looked down. He didn’t respond.
“Except we wouldn’t be meeting with them if it weren’t for those email breaches,” Blaine said. “They were what set this up.”
Easton breathed slowly through his nose in exasperation. “Well,” he said. “I disagree. I respectfully but categorically disagree.”
Blaine glanced at DeVries; he wouldn’t look at her now. Her heart was still racing. She told herself to calm down.
“Okay.” Deep breath. Think logically. “I will concede that it’s unlikely that Dr. Clayton, Dr. Romfo, or Mr. Garland have any knowledge of the email threats,” she said. “But I don’t necessarily feel that way about Mr. Zorn.”
The President looked to DeVries. “We’ve vetted Zorn, though, haven’t we?”
“As much as we can in eighteen hours. It’s ongoing.”
“Okay,” Blaine said. “And I’ve done some checking, too, actually. Would it matter to anyone if I found some discrepancies in his biography?”
“For example,” said the President.
“I’ve found, for instance, evidence that he was not born in this country, as his official biography states. In fact, he has business ties to Russia going back perhaps a dozen years or more. That he might even be a front for a Russian business consortium that we haven’t vetted. And that he may have organized crime ties.”
To Blaine’s surprise, Easton leaned back and laughed, a series of short, nasally guffaws. DeVries gazed at the table. Blaine felt her face flushing.
“Have you found anything like that?” the President asked DeVries, with feigned innocence.
“No.”
“Are you pulling these allegations out of thin air, Cate? We’re not finding any of this. Or is there some evidence you have that you’d like to share with us?”
“I’d need a little time to pull it together.”
“Well,” he said. “Unfortunately, as you know, we don’t have that luxury right now.”
“That’s why I wanted to talk with you in private,” Blaine said. She felt her voice shaking. The power in the room was overwhelming her.
Easton half turned his chair, and Blaine wondered if he was going to walk out.
“Look, Cate,” the President said. “I do want to hear your piece. But I also want a united front here.” His eyes held hers, and she could see, then, that there was no chance for a different outcome. Why? Surely he wasn’t blind to what was at stake. Is he? No, for whatever reason, the President did not want her to push it anymore. He was saying that with his eyes. And with his silence. Her options were two: she could go along with him or she could resign her position.
Easton inhaled dramatically. “Even if Secretary Blaine’s concerns were legitimate,” he said, still not looking at her, “you don’t damn the whole consortium because of quibbles about a man’s birthplace.” Easton’s mouth went crooked. “Just for the record: Mr. Zorn is not why I would get behind this deal anyway. It’s Jared Clayton and Dr. Romfo and Morgan Garland, and the scientists, contractors, and researchers involved.”
“Cate,” the President said, his tone suddenly condescending. “If we have legitimate concerns about this man, if there’s a potential for embarrassment because of him, then of course we will address that accordingly, I assure you. But for now, I’ve got to go along with the intelligence. With what Harry’s giving me. We’re going to tell them yes.”
There was silence around the table. After a moment, the President’s eyes came back to her. “The immediate concern is that thing out there,” he said and pointed at the multi-colored swirl of the approaching hurricane on the television monitor. “Even if you discount the opportunity that this opens up, for jobs and for emerging science and technologies, we still have one irrefutable problem. They know how to stop this, we don’t. End of story.”
“Okay.” Blaine stood and turned away from them, her eyes misting. Knowing she had to let go. This wasn’t her battle to fight. It was his. President Hall’s. Blaine knew there was nothing she could do inside the circle anymore.
“Thank you,” the President said. “When Mr. Zorn calls, I will tell him we are ready to move forward.”
FOURTEEN MINUTES AFTER speaking with the President, Mr. Zorn pressed a button on his encrypted cell phone. He was feeling good, gazing out at the fast-moving Virginia countryside.
The presentation had gone even better than Zorn had expected. Within four hours, the down payment would be in their account, and Volkov could transfer it to his own account in Switzerland.
“The agreement has been accepted, as you know,” said the man in Washington.
“Yes. And the discussion went smoothly?”
“Yes. Relatively.”
Mr. Zorn heard something troubling in that word, however. A subtle inflection suggesting that something about the discussion, in fact, hadn’t gone smoothly. He had expected the conversation to proceed one way, to be a quick affirmation. But he could tell that his associate was concealing somethin
g. Meaning this conversation would instead have to go another direction.
“Tell me about what happened,” he said. “Tell me what was said.”
THE SECRET SERVICE detail watched from across the street as the garage door lifted and Blaine’s Lexus 250 pulled in.
It was raining heavily, pouring through the trees. The Secret Service officers were parked directly opposite Blaine’s townhouse. Both men reflexively checked the license plate number and tried to make sure that no one seemed to be following.
Then they turned their eyes to the upstairs windows, observing a familiar pattern: the light going on in the hallway and Blaine moving across the living room, cracking open the blinds. Moments later, a cell phone rang in the car. The man in the driver’s seat, a trim, forty-three-year-old man with a buzz-cut hair style, answered. “Hi, Ralph. It’s Cate Blaine. I expect to be in for the afternoon and evening.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“Stay warm.”
“I’ll try. Have a good night.”
“You too.”
Blaine was not required to call the security detail when she arrived home but she usually did. She knew it would have a psychological effect: the officers could relax a little more now. Neither of them had any idea that the person who had entered Blaine’s townhouse was not, in fact, Blaine. Or that the cell phone call had been placed from more than a mile away, not from upstairs in her townhouse.
THIRTY-EIGHT
THE NEXT PLACE JOSEPH Chaplin had found for them was an old rural Maryland motel with a red flickering sign that read pike motel. For Charles Mallory, it had at least one advantage over a hotel—private outdoor entrances, so they could enter and leave discreetly. Mallory had Room 321. Blaine’s room was downstairs, 217.
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