“I’ve got to go home,” I say. “I should never have got involved in all this.”
I have just come out of the shower. It took twenty minutes of standing under the warm water for the shaking to slowly subside, and it wasn’t because of the cold. I am wearing a white teeshirt and black trackpants that Robin gave me. They are a close enough fit.
I am standing at the window of a hotel room, looking out across the East River, at a scene of devastation. Everywhere are the red and blue flashing lights of fire trucks, police cars and ambulances.
The Brooklyn Bridge is a broken thing. When the western tower collapsed the strain on the cables must have been too great and the entire structure fell. Only the lower half of the Brooklyn tower still stands, swathed in cables like a tangled fishing net. Parts of the bridge can be seen protruding from the waters of the river, lit by helicopter floodlights and the kaleidoscope colours of the emergency responders.
“I’ve got to go home,” I say again, feeling just as broken as the bridge.
“Suck it up with a straw, soldier,” Robin says, her mouth drawn tightly.
I stare at her, not expecting sympathy, but expecting, well, not that.
“I’m not a soldier,” I manage.
“Give her a break,” Mullins says. “She’s just been through a hell of an experience.”
“Yeah, and I crawled out of my overturned truck holding my face on with my hand after we got hit by an IED in Afghan,” Robin says. “But I still picked out a weapon and took down three insurgents.”
“That’s because you’re a bad-ass mother,” Mullins says. “She’s just a kid.”
“I was a year older than she is,” Robin says.
“But I’m not…” I start.
“No, you sure ain’t,” Robin says.
I say nothing because it’s true.
I am sobbing now, and I don’t understand it. All my life I have been the calm, emotionless one. Here it is all flooding out of me like a broken pipe.
“Why didn’t you tell us about this?” Robin demands, pointing out of the window.
“I didn’t know,” I say.
“You must have known something,” Robin says. “You didn’t fly to New York for no reason.”
“I knew there was a meeting, or there was supposed to be a meeting,” I say. “That’s all.”
“If you had told us we might have had a chance to stop this,” Robin says.
“You should have said something,” Mullins agrees.
I look out of the window and wonder how many lives have been lost. Needlessly. My fault, because I didn’t trust Mr Abel. How many mothers and fathers were not going home to their children today, because of me? It is too painful a thought to dwell on.
“How did you know where I was?” I ask.
“That silly trick with the cellphones in LA?” Robin asks. “You really thought that would fool us?”
I guess I did. Stupid of me.
Then it hits me.
“You were using me as bait,” I say.
Mullins and Robin glance at each other and I know it’s true.
“You’re here, you’re alive,” Mullins says. “That’s all that matters.”
“What do you know that you’re not telling me?” I ask.
“That liquid, that spray sample that you recovered at Stamp’s house,” Mullins says.
I wait.
“Water with just a trace of RDX,” he says.
“Which is?”
“The active ingredient in C4,” Robin says. “The same chemical signature as the stuff that was stolen from McAlester.”
I spin around to face them. “That proves it. That ties the Puppetmasters to the theft. Which ties them to the bombing of the Hoover Dam. Which ties them to this!”
I stab a finger at the scene of horror outside the window.
“Almost certainly,” Mullins says.
“But why?” I ask. “This doesn’t make sense.”
“They’re building up to something,” Robin says.
“Wasn’t this bad enough?” I ask.
“This didn’t achieve anything,” Robin says. “Neither did Hoover.”
Mullins nods. “It’s a smokescreen. When they carry out their real attack, it will look like just one in a series of terrorist incidents.”
“But what?” I ask.
“An oil platform, most likely,” Mullins says. “That’s always worked for them in the past.”
“Blow up an oil rig, terrorists get blamed, and Bateman shuts down offshore drilling,” Robin says.
“But that still doesn’t make sense,” I say. “What does any of this have to do with my father?”
“Because he found out what was going on,” Robin says. “From that reporter.”
“It’s the only reasonable explanation,” Mullins says. “How else could they stop the new oil legislation?”
“Bateman could veto it,” I say.
“Would Bateman do that?” Mullins asks.
“Not a chance,” Robin says.
“What if he disappeared?” I ask. “Like my father.”
“Killing Bateman wouldn’t stop it,” Robin says. “Reinhardt would become President and she wouldn’t veto it either.”
“What if they assassinated them both?” Mullins asks. “Who gets the job then?”
“My dad,” I say, “He would’ve been third in line.”
Everything starts suddenly, horrifyingly to fall into place.
“Who’s fourth?” Robin asks.
Mullins is already googling it. “Julia Dodson,” he says. “President pro tempore of the Senate.”
Robin shakes her head. “She has a reputation as a straight shooter. It’s hard to imagine her being involved in anything like this.”
“Wait,” Mullins says. “She was born in Australia. She’s a US citizen now, but she wasn’t when she was born. Doesn’t that count her out?”
“It does,” I say. “To be US President, even acting US President, you must have been born a US citizen.”
“Who’s next?” Robin asks.
“Secretary of State,” Mullins says, reading it off the screen. “Bob Kurtz.”
Robin and Mullins exchange glances.
“You know him?” I ask.
“We’ve been investigating him already,” Robin says. “He has definite links to the Puppetmasters.”
“Then that’s it,” Mullins says. “Take out Bateman and Reinhardt, and Kurtz becomes President. He vetoes the bill, the Puppetmasters win. And they have a puppet President in the White House for the next few years.”
“But they’d still have to take out Bateman and Reinhardt,” Robin says. “Do you know how hard it would be to assassinate either of those people, let alone both? And forget the White House. That’s a fortress.”
“We need to know if Bateman and Reinhardt are going to be in the same place at the same time somewhere in the next few days,” Mullins says.
“I might just be able to find out,” I say.
I take out my phone. Amazingly it still works, even after a dip in the East River. Maybe there is something to be said for simple, chunky phones. I am sure the fancy new smartphone that Abel bought me would not have survived the immersion.
I dial Cam’s number from memory as I don’t have any contacts saved in this phone. It is the middle of the night but I know Cam will answer. He does, with a curt “Hello?”
“It’s Cassie,” I say.
“Jesus,” Cam says.
“No, Cassie,” I say.
“You’re making jokes?” he asks. “You’re on the FBI most wanted list and you’re making jokes?”
“I never did anything, and you know that,” I say. “The drugs, the charges, it was all trumped up to take me out of the picture because I found out why my dad was killed.”
There is a silence. He is probably digesting the fact that I know my dad is dead.
“I told you already,” he says. “It doesn’t matter if I believe you. You have to give yourself up and fight this through legal channels.”
“That would never happen,” I say. “I know who I am up against, and I can’t win legally, because they control the legal system.”
“That’s paranoid,” he says.
“Turns out it’s not,” I say. “Look I don’t have time to discuss it, but I know what’s going on. The President is in danger.”
“You know this for a fact?” he asks.
“Almost certainly,” I say. “And not just the President, but the Vice President as well. There will be an assassination attempt on both of them.”
There is silence on the phone. Mullins and Robin are watching me. I no longer feel like a stupid little girl under their gaze. They have begun to respect me, just a little, I think.
“Did you hear me?” I ask.
“Why?” Cam asks.
“Line of succession,” I say. “The people behind this want to elevate Bob Kurtz to the Presidency.”
More silence.
“They have to kill Bateman and Reinhardt at the same time,” I say. “Or they’ll put Reinhardt into lockdown.”
Still silence. I can’t tell what he is thinking.
“You must be able to check Secret Service rosters or something,” I say. “Check their itineraries. Find out if the two of them will be appearing somewhere together. Somewhere they might be vulnerable.”
“I can’t reveal that kind of information to a civilian,” Cam says. “And especially not to a fugitive.”
“I’m not asking you to,” I say. “Just check it. Do their paths cross anywhere in the next few days? If they do, cancel it.”
“What do you actually know?” Cam asks. “I need more information if I am to present a credible threat.”
“So, they do meet up somewhere!” I say.
“I can’t reveal that information,” Cam says again.
“You just did,” I say. “Wherever they are meeting, that’s where the attack will happen. Get it cancelled.”
“It is a very secure location,” Cam says. “There is no chance of an attack.”
“Secure, not secure. Chance, no chance. The people who killed my father don’t care about any of that, they are planning an attack anyway,” I say. “I guarantee it. Do nothing and the blood of President Bateman is on your hands. And Reinhardt too.”
“Then get me some details,” he says. “Credible information, not vague warnings.”
“I don’t know any more,” I say. “I’m trying to figure it out, but I don’t have enough data.”
“What kind of data?” he asks.
“I need to know the location of the meeting,” I say. “If I knew that, I might be able to piece all the fragments together.”
He hesitates.
“You talked to me once before about trust,” I say. “Do you trust me?”
“I trust Cassie Clark,” he says. “How do I even know for sure that this is you?”
“Pialli,” I say. Hello in Aztec.
“Terve,” he says.
“Finnish,” I say.
“All I will tell you is that they are meeting this afternoon,” he says. “You work out the rest.”
“Get that meeting cancelled,” I say but he has already gone.
“What did you find out?” Robin asks.
“The meeting is this afternoon,” I say. “He wouldn’t tell me where. Told me to work it out for myself.”
“Not very helpful,” Mullins says.
“Maybe,” I say. “He wouldn’t have said that if he thought I couldn’t figure it out.” A thought hits me. “It’s summer. Could he be on vacation?”
He is, according to the Washington Post. And unlike President Obama who spent every vacation with his family at Martha’s Vineyard, President Bateman prefers the traditional Presidential retreat at Camp David.