LIGHT SPILLS FROM THE ELEVATOR INTO THE CENTER HALL ON the ground floor of the Residence. Reuben is holding it open with one hand, with his phone in the other. He hangs up as soon as he sees me.
When there is business to attend to, he sleeps in a room next to the east stairwell, across the hallway from the Master Bedroom. He is the only member of the inner circle allowed on the second floor at night.
The three children are looked after by Jennifer’s widowed mother. When the dreams took hold, they were all moved into the East and West Bedrooms on the third floor.
The door slides open. I turn left and immediately right. The drapes in front of the half-moon window in the West Sitting Hall are backlit by the mute glow of the West Wing. The decor is Texan Chic, a reflection of the pastel hues of the Lone Star State.
The President is sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. He seems to be staring at his feet. His chest rises and falls rapidly. His T-shirt is ringed with sweat. The bedclothes lie in a heap on the floor. His head must have barely touched the pillow when it happened. Was his lack of sleep following the flight up a factor in this?
The First Lady emerges from the bathroom, dressed in a red silk robe and holding a glass of water. Her hand is shaking so badly that several drops spill on the carpet by her husband’s feet. Without her make-up, she looks frail, ghostlike and ten years older.
I sit beside Thompson and take hold of his wrist. ‘Mr President? Joshua Cain here. Your physician, sir. Can you hear me?’
I gently raise his head with my free hand. He holds it there like an automaton. His eyes are open, but glazed. The seconds tick by on my watch. His pulse is high, but regular. One hundred forty beats per minute, ten short of ‘severe’.
I listen to his heart, then take a flashlight out of my case and shine it in both eyes. They move from side to side, metronomically. The good news is that the pupils are equally sized, which means his oxygen levels are as they should be. His heart is functioning normally; he has experienced no irregular or missed beats.
I switch off the light and snap my fingers. Thompson remains listless. He stares straight ahead.
‘Mr President? I need you to tell me where you are and who is in this room.’
‘Water,’ he whispers, so softly I barely hear it.
Jennifer raises the glass but his eyes remain unfocused. She lifts it to his lips, but the water dribbles down his chin.
Wherever he is, the drink that he needs is there, not here.
I take the glass and put it on the floor. I then look her in the eye and tell her that, frightening as this is, her husband’s life isn’t in any danger.
I slip a cuff onto his arm and pump up the pressure. I wait till I get a reading. It’s 150 over 100: officially Stage One hypertension, just short of Stage Two. Stage Three is when you call the paramedics.
Thompson is a fit man of forty-three, with little excess weight. His normal BP is 120 over 80. I release the pressure and remove the cuff. I ask him again, but still don’t get a response. His head drops onto his chest. His eyes close.
I take my flashlight again, lift a lid, and get the same rapid eye movement. I glance up when Reuben touches my arm. ‘He’s in REM state – still dreaming.’
Reuben swears softly. The President had been doing well – three months, by my count, of good, solid sleep since the last bout.
I haven’t seen anything like this before. It’s like a night terror – the thing kids get when they are awake but not awake and paralyzed by something only they can see. Night terrors, however, are different from dreams. They occur when you wake abruptly from non-dream sleep. Thompson is very clearly in dream sleep.
Jennifer isn’t handling it well. I’m about to suggest to Reuben that he remove her to the living room when Thompson’s body shudders and his left arm flails so violently that the back of his hand hits my face.
The President throws back his head, his body arches and every muscle goes taut. His eyes open and he stares at the crystal chandelier above the bed. The muscles of his face contort.
He takes down a lungful of air and hurls himself backward, but not before he has expelled a single word at the top of his voice across the room.
‘Bomb!’
I suspect that the dream is an expression of a deep-seated fear playing out with the intensity of a flashback. Flashbacks and dreams are different animals. Flashbacks are predominantly daytime events; dreams rarely, if ever, incorporate flashbacks. There is very little science on the point where the two meet. I have no idea what’s going on, but the clues will be held in the dream itself, so I ask him to describe it – everything he can possibly remember.
Thompson gets to his feet and makes his way to the wing-backed chair to the left of the concealed door that leads to the living room. Jennifer and I remain seated on the edge of the bed. Reuben moves to the stool in front of the dressing table between the windows.
Thompson brushes a strand of his famously jet-black hair away from his startlingly blue eyes. ‘The first time I’m aware of the danger is when this guy stands up. Beard, dark hair. He’s several rows back from the stage. There are hundreds of people in the room, thousands maybe. The dream starts – my memory of it, at any rate – when I’m close to finishing my address.
‘My mouth goes dry. I look at the lectern and I know I’m there. That this is for real. There’s a glass of water in front of me and it’s so cold I can see every drop of condensation. It’s that real. I try to reach for it, but I can’t. I’m frozen to the spot. There’s absolutely nothing I can do.’
He drops his gaze, plays with his wedding ring.
‘Suddenly I’m up near the roof. Everything is laid out below: the auditorium, the audience, the stage, the lectern. I can see me too. But I’m not just an observer. Everything I’m feeling onstage I can sense from that elevated perspective: the air conditioning chilling the sweat on my brow; my mouth bone dry. My fear. Because I know what’s going to happen.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘I’m going to die.’
Jennifer gets to her feet. ‘Does he have to do this now?’
‘It’s better that he does, yes.’
‘Why?’ When she met Thompson, she was a human rights lawyer based a few blocks from here. She flashes me the kind of look that must once have decimated her opponents on the witness stand.
‘The precise memory of a dream doesn’t last.’
Thompson stands up, walks over to his wife and wraps his arms around her.
I ask him what happens next.
‘The guy makes his way down the aisle toward me.’
‘What’s he wearing?’
‘A suit. Open-necked shirt. Loose jacket. I’m fixated on the jacket.’
‘Because of what it might hide?’
He nods slowly.
‘Can you see his face?’
‘No, not at this point, because everything now comes to me from this God’s-eye perspective.’
‘Where’s security?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And the audience?’
‘On their feet. Some don’t seem to notice he’s there. Others are transfixed.’
‘They don’t react?’
‘Not to begin with. Only when it’s too late.’
‘When’s that?’
‘When he gets to the stage. Then everything unfolds in slow-mo.’
‘How so?’
‘There’s shouting, yelling. Panic. I’m just standing there, rooted to the spot, staring at this guy, who’s now no more than a meter and a half away. I want to speak, but I can’t. I’m hypnotized by what I’m seeing – from this view above the stage. The guy looks at me for a moment, then turns to the crowd and spreads his hands wide.’
‘Do you see the bomb?’
‘No. But I’m imagining straps and wires, duct tape. Some kind of device.’
‘Do you get to see his face?’
He nods. ‘The guy has these killer eyes.’
‘Who is he?’
‘I have no idea. I have never seen this man before.’
‘And that’s when you scream.’
He looks embarrassed, but nods. ‘A fraction of a second before he triggers it.’
He takes a step away from his wife and stares into the gilt-framed mirror above the fireplace.
‘What the fuck’s happening to me, Josh?’
‘Nightmares are a survival mechanism, Mr President. Your brain may be running you through a host of imaginative threat scenarios in order to increase your vigilance. It is, in a sense, rehearsing you for something it believes may happen, based on a fear that at present is without form.’
When I look up, the President is facing me again.
‘Is that good?’ His eyes plead with me.
‘It’s not real, sir.’
‘Lincoln dreamed of his assassination. He saw a corpse in the East Bedroom surrounded by a crowd of mourners. The corpse turned out to be his.’
‘It’s a story,’ Reuben says. ‘Nothing more.’
‘He’s right, Mr President. Your dreams are unusual in that they have the qualities of a flashback – the sights, sounds, smells, emotions of a traumatic event – except there’s been no traumatic event: no guy with a bomb-belt, no killer with an assault rifle, no assassin with a knife.’ I pause. ‘These are all projections of your subconscious. We need to know what’s projecting them.’
Physiologically, the President is OK. From a neurological and cardiovascular perspective, no harm has been done.
I give him a mild sedative – five milligrams of benzodiazepine – and advise him to get his head down, and to cancel any appointments he has before lunch. I give the First Lady a half dose of the same good stuff and advise her to do likewise. I inform the President I would like to check on him during the afternoon. Reuben and I confirm that we’ll meet before I do – in his office at three.
I ride the elevator to the first floor and step across the lobby. There’s no sign of Molly in the outer office – she won’t be in for another hour and a half – so I’m surprised to see the light’s on in mine. Hetta is in the chair opposite the window, her back to me. She is scrolling down her iPhone and scribbling in a notebook. A Styrofoam cup rests on the edge of my desk.
She stops writing and looks up. Her eyes narrow. ‘If you don’t mind my saying, Colonel, you look like shit.’
I thank her for her candor. She doesn’t look too good herself, but, unlike Hetta, who seems to filter little between her brain and her mouth, I manage to stop myself from saying anything beyond the obvious. I ask her what she’s doing here.
‘There’ve been some developments overnight. First up, they found a partial list. You were right. I was wrong. I owe you one.’
She owes me one, but she’s not sorry. ‘Where was it?’
I put down my physician’s bag and sit at the desk.
‘In a drain hole two meters below the floor of the janitor’s cupboard. Looks like he set up camp there before he made his move to the tower. They found spots of his blood on the tiles. It was twenty-four to thirty-six hours old. They think he cut himself eating. There was a knife in one of his pockets and, along with the bottle of water and maps of the White House, they found breadcrumbs and what analysis says are strips of deer meat.’
‘Deer meat?’
‘And traces of ash. When they pulled the drain cover off of the dirty water chute, they found more food debris, and the remains of a partially burned piece of paper with writing on it.’
‘What did it say?’
‘The top was destroyed. We may be able to get some of it back through analysis. But the fragment that was left said this …’
She picks her notebook off the desk and hands it to me.
The handwriting is spidery and it has a backward slope.
There are three words on what looks like the hashed lines of a damp and dirty page from a kid’s schoolbook.
Proof.
Mac.
Jerusalem.
‘FISH is running a check on it. If he’s in there, we’ll find him.’
The Forensic Information System for Handwriting database contains the tens of thousands of letters and documents that have outlined any kind of a threat to the Service’s protectees.
‘We can take a stab at the missing piece, based on what you and he discussed: God and Threat.’
She scribbles on a piece of paper: God, Threat, Proof, Mac, Jerusalem.
‘Do Jerusalem and Mac mean anything to you – anything at all?’
‘No.’
‘You’re quite sure?’
I begin to feel my hackles rising. It’s early and I’ve had too little sleep. Lefortz had said something about rescuing Hart from trouble. I should have asked, but can only presume it was her mouth. ‘Quite sure. I’ve got a load of work to catch up on, Agent Hart, and you said that there’d been some other developments.’
‘There have. MPD has formally identified the guy. They’ve also charged two members of its Special Tactics Branch – Anders’ unit – with his death.’
I see Guido lying on the autopsy table, and hear Kate Ottoway’s unambiguous assessment that a single bullet had unzipped his skull.
‘Two?’
‘It’s not yet official, but Anders is going to be charged too.’
Hetta drops her cup into the trash, wipes the ring left on the desk with a Kleenex, and disposes of that too. She takes a bottle of hand gel from her pocket, dabs some on her palm and works it into her fingers. ‘Lefortz has a source on the Feds’ investigation. No names, but you met him.’
DJ.
I ask her to go on.
‘He reckons it’s open and shut. Tactical Officer Jimenez took the shot. Says Anders gave him the order. Anders denies it.’
‘He’s consistently denied it.’ I shared the post-shooting debrief in her boss’s office – Anders, staring into his lap as he repeated his mantra: that no one gave any order to shoot.
‘You saw how he was in the command post. The guy’s an asshole.’
I take a seat behind my desk. ‘There’s audio of this, I presume.’
She nods. ‘Special Tactics just upgraded to an encrypted system. The audio’s clear. Anders tells Jimenez to take the shot. End of. An official memo will go out within the hour stating that –’ she raises her notebook, ‘– the department’s own review process will result in “a thorough assessment of the events that took place so that we may continue to move forward as a professional organization”.’
‘And the jumper?’
‘A guy by the name of Voss. Master Gunnery Sergeant Matthew L. Ex-Marine. Transferred around a decade ago to the Army, where he had been in some kind of special recon unit.’
MPD found him in a DNA trawl on the veterans healthcare register – much quicker than I expected, too.
‘Age thirty-seven. Dropped out after two tours of Afghanistan. We’re looking for next-of-kin, but he was raised in an orphanage. Never featured in any investigation of a protest group. Discharge papers cite the skull fracture and the burn. I’ve asked for his full medical records. I’m guessing you’d like to see them too.’
I would.
Hetta slides a printout across the desk. I study it. Matthew L. Voss wasn’t a good-looking man before the burn, but he had a face, at least.
‘You’re sure you never came across him? Maybe in your clinical work?’
‘Positive.’
‘In the tower, he spoke about your nature, Colonel. Why? Odd turn of phrase.’
I think about this. Being a perfectionist, hard on myself, and an inveterate multi-monitor, was in my nature, Hope used to say.
I rub my temples. ‘I have no idea.’
‘You OK?’
I nod. But I have a headache and it’s threatening to become a migraine. I’m going to need caffeine – preferably intravenously. So I’m only half listening as Hetta starts telling me of a time she worked in some godforsaken field office way down south.
‘When a thing weren’t right there, the locals used to say somethin’ in the milk weren’t clean.’ She gives the local accent her best shot, but she’s no mimic. Her eyes narrow again. ‘Well, somethin’ in our milk definitely ain’t clean, Colonel, ’cos there’s no CCTV footage.’
‘Of what?’
‘Of our guy. Voss.’
The intelligence division, her department, receives feeds via the MPD’s downtown control center from every CCTV network within a fifty-mile radius of the city. From every freeway, every school bus, every Metro and train station, every drug and liquor store – anywhere there’s a camera.
Nowhere is this surveillance more tightly focused than in a two-block grid around the White House, an area that is picked over in real time for unusual activity. You bend down to tie your shoelaces, artificial intelligence is watching you, conducting a rapid facial pattern analysis against the digital imagery. To get to St John’s Church, no matter what direction he came from, Voss would have passed dozens of cameras. Maybe hundreds.
Hetta gives me the name of a sixty-three-year-old preacher she is on her way to see. The Reverend Elliott Hayes is the director of the Georgetown Presbyterian Mission, a charitable shelter.
‘A preacher?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Got any better ideas, Colonel?’
A guy who seems to know about my nature.
Who uses an idiom that’s shorthand for our sick President.
Who never leaves so much as a shimmer on a CCTV frame.
I get to my feet.
Maybe a priest is just the guy we need.