Paris

The trip to Corsica had done Craig a world of good, he believed. Though he and Elizabeth had cut the vacation short and though he was monitoring every bit of information he could get from China, looking for President Zhou’s next predatory action, Craig had regained his mental balance. He slept at night. His mind was clear and analytical. President Zhou was his target. Not his obsession.

This Friday evening, Craig and Elizabeth were having a quiet dinner at Le Voltaire, an elegant dark wood paneled restaurant with a clubby atmosphere on Rue du Bac along the Seine. The restaurant attracted an elegantly dressed celebrity crowd. Before they ordered, while they were sipping champagne, Elizabeth had pointed out an actress to Craig, and they both recognized Jean Claude, French Interior Minister, in the doorway who stopped to say hello to both of them on his way to a table. He had in tow a gorgeous black-haired woman, whom he didn’t introduce. When they were seated across the room and out of hearing range, Elizabeth said, “That’s not Jean Claude’s wife.”

“I’ll never tell.”

She slapped him on the wrist. “You men are all the same.”

He laughed. “Hey. What’d I do?”

Two hours later, Craig was finishing a delicious rack of lamb. He sipped some of the ’99 Vosne Romanee Le Beaux Monts from Rion and looked across the table at Elizabeth. “When your book’s finished,
I want to take you to Sardinia, to Hotel Cala di Volpe. Giuseppe told me it’s the most incredible resort in the world.”

“I didn’t think Giuseppe was the type for that sort of thing.”

“He’s not, but the Italian Prime Minister has a house nearby. He hauled Giuseppe down there for a briefing and installed him at Cala di Volpe.”

She raised her wine glass. “Good. Count me in.”

“What’s your targeted completion date?”

“I won’t answer that. I don’t like pressure.”

Before Craig could respond, he felt his cell phone vibrating in his pocket. Craig took it out and looked at caller ID. It was Jacques. He wouldn’t be calling at eleven thirty on a Friday evening if it wasn’t urgent.

Craig glanced around. The diners on each side had departed; many of the tables were vacant. The Interior Minister and his girlfriend were engaged in an intense conversation. As long as he kept his voice low, no one could overhear him. “Yes, Jacques.”

“President Dalton has been assassinated.”

Craig’s heart was thumping. “Where did it happen?”

Craig saw Elizabeth staring at him.

“He was in a helicopter en route from the White House to Camp David. A rocket from the ground brought it down.”

“Thanks for letting me know. Elizabeth and I will go back to my office right now. Want to join us?”

“I can’t. We’re now frantically checking security for President Duquesne in case this is a multipronged attack to take out more than one Western leader.”

Craig powered off the phone, gave a deep sigh, and whispered to Elizabeth what Jacques had told him.

“Dinner’s over,” he said and signaled the waiter for the check. From across the room, he heard the Interior Minister’s phone ringing. The man’s romantic evening had just ended. Craig passed the Minister on the way out of the restaurant. “I already heard,” Craig said to the grim-faced man.

“I’m sorry,” he replied. “For all you Americans.”

In Craig’s office, they turned on two televisions, one displaying CNN and the other a French news channel.

Both kept replaying the ghastly attack, showing the missile hitting the president’s helicopter and turning it into a ball of fire. Craig guessed that one of the reporters traveling in a following chopper or in the motorcade on the ground had a video camera.

Craig thought about his last encounter with Dalton, the president being so pig-headed and difficult before he ultimately agreed to provide American Air Force assistance to thwart the attack on the Vatican. Craig believed Dalton’s political agenda was ridiculous and his judgment absurd. But still, he was the President of the United States. This should not have happened.

He glanced over at Elizabeth. Though she didn’t like Dalton
anymore more than he did, she looked troubled.

CNN cut to Vice President David Treadwell being sworn in as president. Treadwell was standing in the Vice President’s house on the grounds of the Naval Observatory along Massachusetts Avenue. He had his hand on a bible. The Chief Justice was administering the oath of office.

“Call your friend Betty at the CIA,” Elizabeth said. “See what they know.”

Craig placed the call on a secure phone and put Betty on the speaker so Elizabeth could hear.

“It’s pretty chaotic over here,” Betty said.

“Any idea who’s responsible?”

“Personally, I think it’s Al Qaeda or one of the other Jihadist groups. The FBI found a Pakistani man dead in a nearby hunting cabin. Appears to have taken his own life with a cyanide capsule. They found a copy of the Koran concealed in the cabin. None of those facts have been released to the media or the public.”

“Who took the video of the assassination?”

“A CBS reporter traveling in a following chopper.”

“Does Norris agree with your assessment about a Jihadist being responsible?”

“This is weird. He’s holed up in his office. Not talking to anyone. He must be expecting to be blamed for this horrific event. He’s mumbling that it wasn’t his fault. That he can’t possibly uncover every planned attack on the president. The assassination pushed him off the deep end.”

“He is responsible,” Craig said.

“What do you mean?” a startled Betty asked.

“About a week ago I called Norris and told him that Dimitri Orlov, a former KGB agent, had met with President Zhou in Beijing, that Zhou’s mistress was Orlov’s brother, and that I was fearful Orlov might be coming to the United States to launch some type of attack being engineered by Zhou. All I asked Norris to do was to distribute Orlov’s bio and photo to all INS agents at U.S. international airports and border crossing points, and to arrest Orlov when he appeared. Norris refused.”

Craig paused to take a breath. “Wait, I remember exactly what he said. That I could stick the photo and bio up my ass. Then he hung up. So he is responsible. If he had given the order, we would’ve arrested Orlov and Dalton would be alive.”

“That’s a hell of a big leap,” Betty said.

“Is it? Really? That bastard Zhou hates the Americans. Dalton was threatening trade sanctions unless China liberalized on personal freedom, which Zhou would never do. You want to reconsider?”

“You remind me of a teenage boy who sees sex in everything.”

“Don’t dismiss my idea so quickly. Has any Jihad group claimed responsibility?”

“Not yet.”

“Don’t they always? And very quickly?”

“True, but…”

He recognized the doubt in her voice.

“Keep me posted,” Craig said

“For sure.”

When he hung up the phone, he turned to Elizabeth, “What do you think of my theory about President Zhou being responsible? And using Orlov?”

“Same as Betty. Wild and unsupported speculation.”

“The sisterhood at work.”

“Do you know Treadwell?”

“Only met him once. When I thwarted the Madison Square Garden bombing, Brewster was president at the time. He kept the incident out of the press, but he told Treadwell who was then a Senator from California and Chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee. Treadwell called me into his office for a private briefing.”

“How did that go?”

“Couldn’t have been better. I was tremendously impressed with Treadwell. He’s like Brewster was. Smart. No nonsense. Listens to
people. Respects expertise. He’s a good man. The country is definitely better off with Treadwell in the Oval office.”

Craig suddenly recalled that he’d had a second meeting with Treadwell. “Sorry,” he said. “I also met him one other time.”

“When was that?”

“The day after I turned down Brewster’s offer to be CIA Director in favor of the EU job. Treadwell called me down to his office on the Hill and asked me to reconsider.”

“You never told me that.”

“It didn’t matter. I was moving to Paris with you. That was a done deal.”

She ran a hand through her hair. “Oh. Oh,” she said and sighed.

“What’s that mean?”

“We better go home and start packing. I’ll bet we’re moving to Washington.”

“You think Treadwell will ask me to be CIA Director?”

“Of course.”

“Yeah. Right. Then we’ll buy a house in a Washington suburb with a white picket fence and a dog and live happily ever after.”

“I’m telling you he’ll offer you the job. It’s okay with me. I’m willing to live in Washington even without the white picket fence. It’s time to go home.”

“But what about your work?”

“I’m far enough along on the book that I can do it anywhere. I’m confident the paper would let me operate from Washington. The important thing is that this is something you would want to do. Something at which you could make a difference to the United States and the world.”

“I think you’re wrong. Treadwell won’t ask me to become Director. He’ll stick with Norris.”

She reached into her bag, pulled out a hundred euro note and plunked it down on his desk. “You want to cover that?”

He thought about it some more and left her money sitting alone on the desk.