Exhausted light from a winter sun swooned onto the black Ford Explorer as the vehicle crunched down the gravel drive toward the porte cochere of an impressive colonial mansion. A blaze of headlights from the armored vehicle momentarily sent a shiver of anticipation through the knot of reporters clustered around the mansion’s columned entrance. They leaned forward, but could see nothing behind the bulletproof smoked-glass windows. News vans sprouting satellite feeds were drawn up as close as the squad of Secret Service agents would allow. These men—young, crew-cut, square-jawed individuals from Texas, Iowa, Nebraska—looked as sturdy as grain-fed steers.
The Explorer rolled to a stop. From its rear door, a Secret Service agent alighted, turned, tensely watched the crowd with hawk eyes as the POTUS, the President of the United States, emerged. As he climbed the brick steps, the front door opened and a distinguished-looking man emerged to vigorously shake his hand. At this moment, the news crush started, moving forward, the reporters trailing crews in their wake. Flashbulbs went off, reporters began calling out questions to the president, voices cawing urgently like crows discovering roadkill.
One of the reporters holding his microphone out toward the president had worked his way to the front of the press’s storm surge, ostensibly to get himself heard over the rising din. No one took notice of him until he lunged forward. Pressing a button caused the fake mike to fall away, revealing a switchblade. Instantly, the alert agents converged on him, two of them disarming him, wrestling him to the top step before he could attack the president. Another had drawn the president into the relative safety of the open doorway, the man the president had come to see having retreated indoors and into the shadows.
All at once, shots rang out; the agent who had hold of the president instantly shielded his charge. Too late. Three, four red stains appeared on the president’s shirt and lapels.
“I’d be a goner,” the actual POTUS said, picking his way across the colonial mansion’s reverse side in his small, quick, emblematic strides.
At his side, Dennis Paull, the Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security, who had also witnessed this latest Secret Service training session, said, “It’s an unfortunate factor of the aftermath of the election, sir. The Service was obliged to hire an additional two hundred fifty agents to protect the candidates. There was very little time to train them to the depth usually required.”
The president made a face. “Thank the good Lord none of them are in my detail.”
“I’d never allow that to happen, sir.”
The president was tall, silver-haired, possessed of the intangible trappings accruing from power. He had successfully faced down many a political opponent both at home and, increasingly, abroad. The secretary, barrel-chested, bearded, with ears as whorled as a cowrie shell, was the president’s most trusted advisor. At least once a week, most often two or three times, the president saw to it that they spent private time together, chewing over both the increasingly slippery political climate and delicate matters known only to the two of them.
In companionable silence, they passed through the facade of the colonial mansion mock-up via the fiberboard front door. On the top step, the agent who had played the president was rising to his feet. The red paintball “hits” to his chest had ruined his shirt and suit. He was otherwise unharmed. His “assassin” came walking along the lawn, holding what looked like an assault weapon but was in fact a BT-4 Pathfinder paintball rifle.
“Assumptions kill,” one of the Service instructors boomed to his charges with terrifying authority. “The lone assassin theory is antiquated. In this networked day and age, we have to prepare for cadres, coordinated attacks, tined and vibrating like tuning forks.”
While the squad of Secret Service personnel was being debriefed—perhaps criticized was a better word for the severe dressing-down—by its chief instructor, the president and Secretary Paull, followed by their contingent of Secret Service personnel handpicked by Paull himself, moved off down the driveway. They were in Beltsville, Maryland, at the main Secret Service sanctuary, far away from everything and everyone—especially prying eyes and ears.
“I was afraid of this response, which is why I insisted on seeing the scenario myself,” the president said. “When I meet with the Russian president, I want to be absolutely certain our people are prepared for anything, including whatever E-Two might throw in our faces.”
“The latest manifesto we received from E-Two was a laundry list of the administration’s so-called sins: lies, distortions, coercions, and extortions,” Secretary Paull said. “They’ve also trotted out evidence of our ties to big oil and certain private defense contractors. Our counter has been to whip our usual mass media outlets and individual pundits into discrediting that laundry list as the ravings of a lunatic left-wing fringe.”
“Don’t make the mistake of taking this organization lightly,” the president said. “They’re terrorists—damnably clever ones.”
“The relevant point as far as this discussion is concerned is that the manifesto didn’t even hint at assassination.”
The POTUS snorted. “Would you if you were planning to assassinate the President of the United States?”
“Sir, let me point out that terrorists thrive on taking credit for their disruptions of normal life. So I would think, yes, at the very least they’d hint at the violence to come.”
The hubbub from the Secret Service debriefing had dispersed. Behind them, the elaborate state set was deserted, awaiting its next scenario. Their shoes crunched cleanly against the gravel. They kept to the wanly lit center, a narrow aisle between the massive bare-branched oaks and horse chestnuts that lined the driveway.
“The Service can do better,” Paull said decisively, knowing what the president expected of him. “It will do better.”
“I take that promise extremely seriously,” the president said.
A bird twittered happily on a branch above their heads. Higher still, a parchment cloud floated away without a care. The early morning was free of mist, waxy as a spit-polished shoe. They navigated a turning and now, save for the Secret Service bodyguards, were absolutely alone.
“Dennis, on a personal note, how is Louise?”
“About as well as can be expected,” Paull said stoically.
“Will she recognize me if I come to see her?”
Paull looked up at the bird and it flew off. “Truthfully, sir, I can’t say. Sometimes, she thinks I’m her father, not her husband.”
The president reached out, squeezed the secretary’s arm. “Still, I want to visit her, Dennis. Today.”
“Your calendar’s full, sir. You have to prep for your meeting with President Yukin.”
“I’ll make time, Dennis. She’s a good woman. I know inside she’s fighting the good fight. We must strive to be inspired by her courage.”
“Thank you, sir.” Paull’s head bent. “Your concern means the world to both of us.”
“Martha and I say a prayer for her every night, Dennis. She’s always in our thoughts, and our hearts. God has her in his hands.”
They moved toward an old stone cottage, the gravel clicking under the soles of their shoes. The Secret Service detail, discreetly out of earshot, moved with them. The two men were like lightning bolts within a passing cloud.
“About Yukin.”
The president shook his head, and they continued on in silence. At the president’s behest, Paull unlocked the door of the stone cottage and they went inside. The praetorian guard took up station outside, backs toward the stone walls.
The president turned on lamps in the small stuffy room. The cottage was the original structure on the property. The government had turned it into a guesthouse for senior staff of other branches of the military intelligence community who were occasionally asked to lecture or teach a course here. The living room, low-ceilinged, bound by beams, was furnished simply, tastefully, masculinely in blacks and umbers. A leather sofa and easy chairs were arranged around a stone fireplace. A wooden Shaker sideboard held crystal decanters filled with a variety of liquors. Historical etchings were hung on the walls. There was no carpet to soften the colonial wide-plank floors.
It was cold inside. Both men kept their topcoats on.
“Yukin is a thieving, lying sonovabitch, if ever there was one,” the president said with considerable venom. “It galls me no end to have to make nice to him, but these days it’s all about commodities: oil, natural gas, uranium. Russia has them in spades.” He turned to his secretary. “So what do you have for me?”
The president needed leverage in his upcoming meeting with Yukin. Paull had been tasked with providing it. “It’s common knowledge within the intelligence community that Yukin’s appointees are former KGB apparatchiks who once served under him, but what isn’t common knowledge is that his new head of the newly state-owned RussOil used to be Yukin’s personal assassin.”
The president’s head jerked around; his statesman’s gaze bored into Paull. This was the look that had gotten him elected, that had bonded Britain’s prime minister and France’s new president to him. “Mikilin! You have proof of this?”
Reaching inside his coat, Paull produced a Black File. Across its top right-hand corner was a diagonal red stripe, a sign of its Most Top Secret status. “The fruits of six months of work. Your hunch about Mikilin was right on the money.”
As he scanned the contents of the file, the president’s face broke out into a huge smile. “So Mikilin ordered the poisoning of that ex-KGB agent because the agent had acquired a copy of Mikilin’s KGB dossier and was about to sell it to the highest bidder in London.” He smacked the file with the back of his hand, satisfaction in his voice. “Now I have Yukin—and Mikilin—just where I want them.”
He tucked away the file, shook Paull’s hand. “You did a stellar job on this, Dennis. I appreciate your support, especially in these waning days.”
“I despise and mistrust Yukin as much as you do, sir. It’s time he was taken down a peg or two.” Paull’s hand strayed to a bust of President Lincoln. “Speaking of which, have you read the brief I gave you regarding China?”
“Not yet. I was saving it for the long plane ride.”
“I’d be grateful if we discussed it now, sir. Behind the scenes, there’s a profound shift going on in the heart of mainland China. The regime in Beijing, having had to abandon communism in the new economy-driven international marketplace, has nevertheless decided that they dare not openly embrace capitalism. Yet they are in need of an ideology, because, as Mao showed them, a single ideology is the only way to unite an enormous nation with such a disparate population. Our veteran China watchers have had hints that Beijing has decided that ideology should be national atheism.”
“But that’s monstrous,” the president said. “We’ve got to nip that in the bud.”
“What worries our China-watchers, sir, is that the adoption of a new ideology may signal other changes in Beijing’s policies—specifically an assault on Taiwan, which is why it’s imperative for you to bring up the subject with Yukin. He has no love of Beijing or its aspirations.”
“Thank you for that, Dennis. Beijing will be topic one once I get Yukin under my thumb.” The president moved a curtain slightly, glanced out the window at their escort. “My praetorian guard,” he said.
“The cream of the crop,” Paull acknowledged.
“But what about afterward?” the president said softly. “What happens in twenty-one days, when I hand the reins of power over to Godless Edward Carson?”
“Begging your pardon, sir. Intelligence reports tell me that Edward Carson and his wife attend church every Sunday.”
“A joke, surely.” The president pursed his lips as he did when events ran away from him. “This is a man who has pledged to fund stem-cell research, stem cells from fetuses.” He shuddered. “Well, what do you expect? He believes in abortion, in the murder of helpless innocents. Who’s going to protect them if not us? And it gets worse. He doesn’t understand, God help us all, the fundamental danger same-sex marriage poses to the moral fiber of the country. It undermines the very principles of family we as Americans hold dear.” The president shook his noble head and quoted Yeats, “‘What rough beast … slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?’”
“Sir—”
“No, no, Dennis, he might as well be one of those First American Secular Revivalists or E-Twos.” The president gestured. “Those missionary secularists, who have what they call—can you believe this?—a zealous disbelief in God. Where in hell did they come from?”
Paull tried not to wince. No one else in the Administration was brave enough to tell the president, so as usual it fell to him to deliver the bad news reality was sending the president’s way. Therefore, the guillotine was always hovering six inches above his neck. “I’m afraid we don’t know, sir.”
The president stopped in his tracks, turned to Paull. “Well, find out, damnit. That’s your new assignment, Dennis. We need to wipe out this cancer of homegrown traitors PDQ because they’re not simply atheists. Atheists, thank the good Lord, have a long history of keeping their traps firmly shut. They know their place, which is outside the clear-cut boundaries of God-fearing society. Are we not a Christian nation?” The president’s eyes narrowed. “No, these sonsabitches can’t stop yowling about the evils of religion, about how they’re engaged in the final battle against theological hocus-pocus. Good Lord, if that isn’t a sign that the devil walks among us, I just don’t know what is!”
“Time is running out, sir.” As he often did, laboring against the monolithic born-again tide of the Secretary of State and the National Security Advisor, Paull was trying to get the president to focus on reality-based decisions. “So far, E-Two has remained completely invisible, and as for the visible First American Secular Revivalists and other like-minded organizations who aren’t radical—”
“Not radical?” The president was irate.“All those hell-bent bastards are radical. Goddamnit, Dennis, I won’t countenance a bunch of homegrown terrorists. Find a way to wipe ’em out, find it pronto.”
The president, hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat, stared up at the ceiling. Paull knew that look only too well. He’d seen it an increasing number of times over the past year as, one by one, members of the president’s inner council had left the Administration, as the enemy took over Congress, as opposition mounted to the president’s aggressive foreign policy. No matter. The president stood fast. There were times when Paull forgot how long ago the president had sunk into a bunker mentality, circling what wagons were left, refusing to listen to any form of change. And why should he? He was convinced that the success of his legacy depended on his unwavering belief that he was carrying out the will of God. “I’m like a rock, pounded by the sea,” he’d often say. “Yet steadfast, immovable.” In these latter days, he’d taken to calling himself the Lonely Guardian.
“To think that it’s almost Christmas.” The president made a noise in the back of his throat. “Time, Dennis. Time betrays us all, remember that.”
The president gripped the back of the sofa as if it were the neck of his worst enemy. “I’ve spent eight years doing my level best to pull America out of the pit of immorality into which the previous Administration had sunk it. I’ve spent eight years protecting America from the most heinous threat it’s every faced, and if that meant exercising the power of this hallowed office, if it meant turning the country around so that it would know its roots, know itself, see itself as the righteous Christian nation it is, then so be it.” His eyes were filled with righteous pain. “But what do I get for my hard labor, Dennis? Do I get the thanks of a nation? Do I get accolades in the press? I do not. I get protests, I get excoriated in the liberal press, I get blasphemous videos on YouTube. Does no one understand the lengths I’ve gone to to protect this nation? Does no one understand the importance of my legacy as president?” He rubbed the end of his nose. “But they will, Dennis. Mark my words, I will be redeemed by history.” He regarded his companion. “I’ve made sure that we’ve become Fortress America, Dennis, a stalwart redoubt against the fundamentalist Islamic terrorists. But now we have to contend with traitors from within. I won’t have it, I tell you!” By way of punctuation, the president added his no-nonsense nod.
“Now let’s pray.” He got down on his knees and the Secretary followed suit while their cadre of bodyguards turned their backs. The two men bowed their heads, clasped their hands against their striped rep ties. Sunlight glittered off the president’s polyurethane hair. My hair’s gone white, my beard is shot with gray. I feel the weight of the world crushing me, Paull thought. The expectation of greatness, the dread of making a mistake, of missing a vital piece of intel, of being one step late to the dance of death. Jesus, if he only knew. We’ve all aged a century since we came into power, all except him. He looks younger now than when he took office.
“Lord, we humbly beg thee to come to our aid in our hour of need, so that we can continue your work and hold back the turning of the tide that threatens to overrun all that we’ve labored so hard for these past eight years.”
A moment of silence ensued as the two men regained their feet. Before they took their leave of the guesthouse, the president touched his secretary’s sleeve, said in a low but distinct voice, “Dennis, when on January twentieth of next year I step aside, I want to know that everything is in place for us to retain our grip on Congress and on the media.”
Paull was about to respond when the sound of a helicopter sliced into the pellucid morning like a knife, exposing in him a sense of foreboding. And with that his cell phone rang.
It had to be important; his office knew whom he was with. He connected, listened to the voice of one of his chief lieutenants, his stomach spewing out acid in pulsarlike bursts. At length, he handed the phone to the president.
The president waved it away, clearly annoyed at having been interrupted. “Good Lord, just give me the gist, Dennis, like you always do.”
This is why he hasn’t aged, Paull thought. “I think you’d better hear this yourself.”
The president’s voice was querulous. “Why?”
“Sir, it’s about Alli Carson.”
The president reached for the phone.