FIFTY-NINE

Jesus Christ, Monk thought, over and over again.

It was unimaginable.

In every sense of the word, it was unimaginable.

On his hands and knees, on a conveyor belt moving underground in the direction of what he hoped would be the mansion, in a darkness so pro\found Monk couldn’t even imagine the concept of sight, he hovered on the edge of panic, trying to do nothing more than keep from shrieking.

The pounding of his heart filled his ears. His body was rigid, frozen in place. His hands had turned into claws, his fingers clinging to the hard rubber fabric of the conveyor belt as it bore him farther and farther into the darkness. Although the tunnel had to be lined with concrete, he could almost feel the earth surrounding him. The tunnel wasn’t ventilated, either, there was no reason it should be. Humans were never meant to ride this thing. Monk opened his mouth even wider, began to breathe even faster, to pant like a dog, and his brain was on fire.

I’m going to suffocate!

I’ll be dead when they find me in here!

Suddenly he was dizzy, hyperventilating now. He had to stop gasping for air. Had to force his mind to think about something else. Had to keep himself from going crazy. He would pretend to be somewhere else. He would pull his mind out of this tomb.

Betty Clement’s office.

He would go back to Betty’s files.

One file in particular.

The informant report from a source inside the White House, the rumor about Japanese prime minister Ishii Nakamura’s visit to Washington.

And what Nakamura would be coming to ask for.

Nakamura had been making headlines with his demands for the bomb he was certain would keep peace in the region. But his people were just as adamant about their revulsion for such an idea. With the prime minister out of the way, it might be decades before another Japanese leader asked for the same thing. Clearly the president was using Franklin to keep Nakamura at Battle Valley Farm—away from the media horde—until they could hammer out some kind of deal. Clearly neither party wanted such a critical meeting to turn into a circus.

And it had worked, Monk realized, so far at least.

He hadn’t seen a word about Nakamura’s visit in the newspapers, heard a word about it from the talking heads on television. But that would end when the president arrived, of course. Even the most powerful man on earth didn’t have that kind of power. When Marine One lifted off the White House lawn, the press would go into action. When the big green chopper landed at the farm, they’d be close behind. They’d be … Monk’s mind stopped dead.

When the president landed.

His brain processed the next step, but he couldn’t accept it. Even the thought was ridiculous. He didn’t know the results of his PET scan yet, but to believe he was looking at a presidential assassination would be clear-cut evidence of dementia. Nakamura was a monumental stretch, and the president was way over the top.

But what if it wasn’t?

How did Bethany hope to get away with it?

She couldn’t possibly escape afterward.

There wasn’t a way in hell she could get through the combined security forces of two countries.

And Monk knew one thing for sure. She wasn’t here to commit suicide. Sung Kim was a professional assassin. Her service to Kim Jong Il would continue long after this operation was over. Which meant she wouldn’t actually be here when it happened. Which meant she was going to use a …

A chill enveloped Monk from head to toe.

Suddenly the belt stopped. The hammering in his chest got even worse.

They knew he was in here.

The Secret Service was waiting on the other end for him to come out.

But why did they stop the belt?

He began to crawl forward, his mind leaping closer to panic. He scrambled faster and faster, desperate to get out the tunnel, but hadn’t gone more than a dozen yards when the belt started up again.