The engines of Air Force One shifted as the plane lost altitude slightly, preparing for the long, slow descent to Munich. The changed rumble woke those few people on board who had been dozing. In the conference room, President Witt was huddled with his Secretary of State and a few others, preparing for the summit. There was a subtle sense of relief in the room, career diplomats ready for a big assignment, a chance they’d thought they had already lost. Even the president was throwing himself into the discussion with some enthusiasm. Ever since announcing his new policy of American isolationism, he had missed something, as if some favorite person were gone from his life, or a treasured heirloom. Jefferson Witt was not an introspective man, so he hadn’t explored this feeling, but what he had missed was a sense of being the most powerful person in the world. Now he was going to reassert himself.
“We can concede nothing on Jerusalem,” said Sylvia Rescone, who as ambassador to Italy should have no official position on that subject. But everyone knew that Sylvia had friends and sources all over her half of the world—and opinions on everything.
“Not my job,” the President said confidently. That was going to be his refrain at this conference. America would no longer be the world’s referee. “We’re not going there to talk specifics.”
“Well,” Secretary of State Lawrence Jackson demurred quietly. “Maybe a few specifics, behind the scenes. These people are calling on us, Mr. President. Not just these summit leaders, but the world. As I predicted, demonstrations are erupting all over Europe, re-American demonstrations, the first anyone has seen since World War II. We have to assure the world—”
“I’d call them riots,” said the Commander of NATO. The military shouldn’t have had a place at this table, but the NATO commander was unofficial chief of presidential security on this trip. “And I don’t trust them. Anyone can stage a riot. That doesn’t tell you what’s behind them. They may just be luring us in.”
Except for Secretary of State Larry Jackson, everyone in the room grinned furtively. The President of the United States had the best security in the world, it hadn’t been breached in a long time, and procedures were more thorough now. The summit site was being scoured by security specialists from a dozen countries. The President felt secure on that score.
In a lounge not far away, Dennis Wilkerson stared down at the shattered pieces of his PlayStation2. “Cheater,” he kept muttering. Changing the damned rules in the middle of the game. European edition, what bullshit. Wilkerson had enjoyed playing this opponent more than anything else in his life. Wilkerson could win if he really worked at it, even though his opponent was a very skilled player.
So he’d changed the rules to win. Wilkerson called that cheating.
The cracked little machine still retained some power. Wilkerson could still read the mocking last message. you were playing the game, imperialist. i was playing you What the hell did that mean? You’re always playing against the other player, it wasn’t an automatic game of playing against the machine. Of course the two players had been playing each other.
The shift in air speed and direction of the plane shifted Wilkerson’s thoughts as well. Now that his game was smashed, with its connection to his only companion, he felt more of an outcast than ever on this plane. No one listened to him. The Secretary of State had beaten him in influence with the president once these pro-American riots had started. They were meaningless, Wilkerson knew, possibly contrived by allies of Larry Jackson himself. But they had worked to push Wilkerson aside. The president kept assuring him that he was not abandoning the policy—Dennis Wilkerson’s policy, the Wilkerson Doctrine—of American isolationism. He was just moderating it, taking it in stages.
But this first stage was a world stage. Sitting with other world leaders in smiling unanimity. Wilkerson wanted America watching such an event on television, disdainfully turning it off after a few minutes, not participating. Why had everyone worked so hard to get President Witt here anyway?
The remains of the game flickered and buzzed. A few letters burned brightly, then the whole thing shorted out. The last word he’d seen had been you. I’ve been playing you. But what else had the little screen said? imperialist Where had that come from?
Who had he been playing against all this time? Who had been playing him?
Wilkerson sat back down in furious thought. This final message was a taunt, the kind terrorists gave, when they were so sure of themselves they knew they couldn’t be stopped, that their enemy was too stupid to figure them out.
What had he learned from the game, from the so-called “European edition”? Switching home courts. That the other player had all the time in the world to turn his home court into a deathtrap, where it was impossible to—
Oh, my God.
Secret Service protection went pretty lax aboard Air Force One, where everyone on board had been checked very thoroughly. But the screaming progress of the National Security Advisor brought the president’s detail to full alertness. Dennis Wilkerson was lucky not to die as he burst into the conference room.
“Sir!”
President Witt was on his feet, looking concerned, not alarmed. Everyone else in the room glared at Wilkerson as if he were crazy. “It’s all right, men,” the president said with a calming gesture. “Dennis, you’re not really supposed to be part of this meeting—”
“Sir, we have to turn around! This summit is a trick! It’s a trap.”
Larry Jackson sighed and rolled his eyes. Sylvia Rescone made a disgusted noise.
The president lowered his voice, making the conversation private between himself and his NSA. “Dennis, we’ve worked all this out. Security is being provided by forces from—”
“—from a dozen countries, some of which are hostile to us, and all of which have radical elements who would like nothing better than to pull off a huge terrorist coup like this. Have our people been able to check out all their people?”
The president glanced a question at Jackson, who shrugged angrily. “We can’t intrude into other countries’ militaries. We’ve been assured that all these personnel have been thoroughly vetted.”
“‘Assured’!” Wilkerson scoffed. “By the very people who would love to do this man damage. Sir.” He turned back to President Witt, excluding everyone else. “This is a trap. I promise you. Why did they insist that this summit take place in Europe? Far from home for us. Cut off from the great bulk of our forces. They want to cut off our head, sir. They want to humiliate you and then kill you.”
The president was listening closely. “Dennis, you have specific information?”
Wilkerson drew himself up and managed to sound both calm and stern. “I am your National Security Advisor, Sir. I have operatives in the field. Good operatives, my own people. Yes sir, I have specific information. The three most powerful terrorist organizations in the world have banded together for this one. They will capture you, hold you hostage, humiliate you publicly, then kill you on international television. It is something they have been planning for years.”
President Witt shot a look at Larry Jackson, whose expression was no longer dismissive once the president spoke. “Larry, do we have anything—?”
“Of course not, Sir. If we did you’d know about it. It’s all fabrication.”
To his chief of staff Witt said, “Sandra, get me the CIA chief. If he’s asleep, wake him. I want to know if there’s anything that corroborates what Dennis is saying.”
Dennis Wilkerson began to feel he had the upper hand. “Sure,” he sneered, “let’s check with those wonderful folks who brought you Nine-Eleven.”
“You shut your mouth!” Larry Jackson snapped. Even with all the security present, the scene threatened to break down into a playground scuffle. The president pulled the NSA aside. Almost whispering, he said, “Dennis, you have specific information about this?”
“Yes sir, I do. Deep background chatter. We picked up pieces. Now in the last twenty-four hours these networks have gone absolutely silent. That means they’re in place. These are forces you would never suspect, sir. Sleeper agents buried so deeply their own relatives don’t know about them. Waiting for this one chance. The cusp of history, they call it. They hate the idea of America withdrawing from the world stage, because it takes away their great Satan, the fuel for their recruiting and fundraising. They are convinced by assassinating you, in the most horrible way possible, they will draw a savage response from us that will set the world on fire. That’s what they want, sir. These are not countries. They are wild-eyed firebrands, with no guiding principles at all. They just want anarchy, and this summit is going to be their finest opportunity. As if they decided it themselves.” Wilkerson glanced back over his shoulder. “Which I think may be a possibility.”
The president stared at him. “You have hard proof of this?”
“At home I do, sir. Here on board the plane it’s just electronic transmissions. I couldn’t risk bringing everything on board. But I just received a message from one of my agents that confirmed our fears. Sir, it is horrible. Do you want me to tell you what they plan to do to you, on live television?”
He was making things up wildly now, but Wilkerson was so sure of himself, so sure he’d read the message on his game player correctly, that he felt justified in saying anything. Though he was inventing the details, he was sure he was correct in the essential truth of what he was saying—and that he would be proven right soon.
“Sir!” the Secretary of State called from across the room. “You cannot turn back now, sir. We made promises. We will lose enormous prestige.”
“We don’t want world prestige any more,” Wilkerson snapped. “Remember? Sir, I beg you. It’s not just your safety that’s at stake.”
The president stood silent, everyone staring at him. The plane’s engines rumbled, shifting to a lower speed.
At the summit site, taking a last stroll with Hassan, Rachel Green said, “Shouldn’t the American President be here by now?”
“I like the way you say that,” Hassan chuckled. “As if he means nothing to you. ‘The American President.’” He laughed again.
Rachel didn’t get the joke. “And how is your president doing?”
“Wonderfully. Installed in his suites, with every comfort. It is said of President Hassid that he enjoys a certain delicacy before occasions such as this.”
Rachel was surprised. “Drugs?”
Hassan grinned. She had discovered that he was a great gossip. In the few hours they’d known each other, she had learned more about everyone in the camp than she’d learned through intensive study for weeks. Of course, he could have been making it all up, to impress her. Hassan had made no secret of his desire for her. Rachel actually found his attention flattering rather than disgusting, which hadn’t happened to her in a while. She had no intention of indulging him, but she did enjoy his company.
“I can say no more,” Hassan smiled, imitating a spy in an old movie. “I have said too much already. No, not drugs.”
Rachel was not the gossip her companion was, but she was not without her own sources. “His teenage nephew?”
Hassan gasped. “How can you know such a thing? But no, this scandalous rumor is completely untrue. I know, because I started it myself.”
They both laughed, and resumed their stroll around the square. Rachel was unarmed. She may have been the only person within a square mile in that condition. “You know the hardest part of this summit?” she asked.
Hassan nodded. Together they said, “Which president will come out on stage first.”
She looked toward the American Secret Service detail. They all seemed to be speaking at once, and not to each other. There was some consternation there.
“I think the American president has been delayed,” Hassan said, looking where she was.
Rachel was frowning. Something was happening. She wanted to talk to Jack. “He’ll be here,” she said. “He has to come.” And she walked quickly away from her companion.
“He’ll come,” Bruno said comfortably. “And when he does he will be assassinated. By someone who can be traced back to at least three countries. America will be chasing its tail for the next decade. There will be no revenge it can take. It will retreat back into its shell, headless now.”
“You haven’t been in America for a while, have you, Bruno?” Jack said. He stood tensely at the console, watching the same screens Bruno was watching. One showed the progress of Air Force one, almost to the coast of England.
“I know the historical forces,” Bruno said. “I know what I’ve designed. He will come. All his advisors are telling him so now.”
Jack wondered. From the steady progress of that blip on the screen, it looked like Bruno was right.
President Witt and Dennis Wilkerson shared a special relationship. Bruno had created this relationship without quite being aware he was doing so. In the late stages of his presidential campaign and his first months in office, Witt had completely shared his true agenda with no one but his NSA. The two men had their great plan to themselves. The night of terror had allowed them to implement it sooner than they had thought they could.
But those months of isolation together had given them a strange bond. Dennis Wilkerson had had no one else in his life; Bruno had seen to that. Witt had had no one else he trusted with his grandest ambition. The two had been like boyhood friends, the only members of a secret club.
That feeling lingered, even now after the president had shared his bold vision with the world. Emotionally, the two men remained connected. Witt stared into Dennis Wilkerson’s eyes and said, “Dennis, are you sure about this?”
“Absolutely, Sir.”
“But I can’t turn back now. I’ll look like—”
“Not after I release my information, sir. Besides, you’re not cancelling the summit, you’re only postponing it. And moving the venue. Let it be on American soil, sir. This will emphasize your message. If the world wants us, the world will have to come to us. Make them come to you, Mr. President. Only your own home turf is safe.”
The NSA had been laying this groundwork of paranoia for a long time. The president looked up at him with the first gleam of optimism he’d shown in a long time. He felt energized. “Home turf.” Somehow he liked the sound of it.
He stepped away from his National Security Advisor, talking to the room at large.
“Turn the plane around.”
“No!” Rachel gasped. She was in the Israeli security headquarters. Word had just come that the American President was bailing out of the summit. Chaos began to reign. She could hear people running across the compound outside.
“Did he say something about a threat?”
“Not specifically,” Captain Lowenstein answered. “The president’s message just said he had urgent business at home and he prefers that this summit be conducted there.”
“This is dissing the whole world,” someone said. “Pack up. Our premier is not going to play second string.”
“No!” Rachel said urgently. She wasn’t sure why. “Wait. Wait. We’re not going to run. Let us wait and see.”
“NO!” Bruno screamed, watching the blip of Air Force One make a wide half-circle and begin heading for home. He leaped to his console and began throwing switches frantically. “I’ll blow it out of the air! Where are my missiles?”
“Missiles,” Jack sneered quietly.
Very, very slowly, Bruno Benjamin turned. In his black outfit he looked like an animated piece of the night, the part that could move. He seemed bulkier now. He seemed to grow taller as he stared at Jack. Jack saw his old classmate’s face change. It darkened as blood rushed into it, but more than that. Bruno looked older, with creases in his cheeks. He looked like a man consumed by a lifetime of passion. But his eyes were dead and black.
“We never use missiles,” Jack boasted. “Not even Hornets.” He laughed at his little inside joke. Bruno didn’t even look puzzled.
“You did this,” he said.
“I told you I’d already beaten you.”
Bruno’s chest moved as he made himself breathe. He began walking slowly toward Jack. “You are so far from beating me you are like a child throwing toys. I have so many back-up plans you couldn’t count them. This is nothing.”
“I think it’s something,” Jack said, glancing at the screen. He made his voice sound calm, but he was beginning to worry. In addition to Bruno’s other character flaws, he had been something of a bully. Good with his fists. This might not remain an intellectual exercise much longer.
“You’ve become just like our teachers. So smug, so sure of yourself. You kept me out, didn’t you? Because I was your only real rival. The only one who might have competed with you for the leadership. Stop that!”
Jack was shaking his head. Bruno’s face went even darker. His fists clenched.
“They steered me back to the stupid track,” he said. “They taught me that George Washington was the first president of the United States.”
“Technically true,” Jack said soothingly.
“Technically, technically. They thought I couldn’t handle the real truth. The secret history. The real history.”
Jack snapped, “Of course they knew you could handle the secret history, Bruno. You longed for it. You lusted after it. The secrets known only to the precious few. That’s not why you washed out. You know why.”
Bruno’s advance had stopped. His forehead crinkled with thought. “Yes, I know. Because I wanted real power. They thought I couldn’t be trusted.”
Jack shook his head sadly. “What’s your mother’s phone number, Bruno?”
“My mother? Is she a member—?”
“What’s her phone number?” Jack asked again, sounding like an impatient teacher calling on a slow student.
“I don’t know. It’s in my Blackberry.”
“I bet it’s not. What were the first rules? What was the first thing we were taught at Bruton Hall?”
Bruno’s anger was tempered by puzzlement, as if he were being annoyed by gnats. “Always look behind the scenes. Be two steps ahead. No, three, I know—STOP DOING THAT.”
Jack was shaking his head again. “The very first things they told us, they told everyone, on the first day. What were the primary rules?” He waited and got no answer. He answered his own question, slowly, as if for the mentally disqualified. “Talk to your mother every week. Listen to your father. When you’re not sure what to do, think what your family—”
“That summer camp shit? I know, I know. But the real rules—”
“Those were the real rules, Bruno. Keep in touch with your family. Know the real world. Love, Bruno. Stay grounded in the real world. That’s why you washed out. From the first day, you wanted to lift off the ground and commune with the gods on Olympus. But there are no gods. No great men. There are only mothers and sons, and fathers and daughters. There are only families and friends. If you don’t know that, then you have no business—”
“You don’t know people, Bruno. You only know machines. You think you can program people the way you can computers. You never consider—”
“Shut up!” Bruno screamed, and he began to rise.
Jack stared. Bruno’s rage seemed to be blowing him up. His head was ten feet above Jack’s in an instant. Then Jack realized that Bruno’s legs were elongating. An extra set of arms ripped out of Bruno’s black shirt. Mechanical arms, like the ones that had dragged Jack out of the ceiling.
He had made himself into a machine. He had wanted to be all-powerful, and this was how he had done it.
Jack jumped back as one of those arms snaked at him, missed him, and smashed one of the screens.
“Bruno!” Jack yelled, having nothing to say, just trying to appeal to his old acquaintance’s humanity.
But it seemed to have vanished. In one step Bruno was towering over Jack, then reached down and lifted him off the ground.
His face had calmed now, in his power. He said, “I wanted you to see the end, but now I realize you’re too dangerous. That’s a tribute, Jack. I have to kill you. Take it as a compliment.”
And he flung him across the room. Jack’s arms and legs flailed and only luck kept him from being disabled by the throw. He slammed into a chair, rolled back over it, and fell onto the couch. He scrambled to his feet, looking for a weapon.
Arden had saved him from this kind of situation before. Jack knew now that she had only been with him to steer him to this scene of destruction, but somehow he still expected her to appear. She had been here with Bruno. He had schooled her. He hadn’t revealed all his plans to her, Jack was sure of that, but he would have boasted of his power. He would have shown her how things worked.
Jack kicked a desk chair on wheels across the floor. Bruno didn’t even bother to step over it, just let it hit his mechanical legs and roll away. Then he started forward again.
Jack dodged aside, tried to make it to the door, but Bruno cut off his escape, moving easily. He stumbled a little, but righted himself.
Bruno was not the kind to practice at something. He considered himself the master of anything he attempted. He had given himself this mechanical power, but he wouldn’t have worked to master it. Jack ran hard, right at him. Bruno shuffled on his legs, then stood firm and reached with the mechanical arms to grab Jack again.
Jack let himself be picked up. He had an idea, but it involved pain, and he suddenly realized he might not survive one more throw. He struggled. The arms gripped him tightly, then raised him over Bruno’s head and hurled him.
Jack shot through the air even faster than last time, and this time there was no soft landing. He managed to turn in the air and cover his head with his arms, but he smashed into the console, his elbows shattering another screen. Already bruised from his slide down the roof earlier, his body began throbbing. Jack rolled off the console and shook his head.
Bruno just stood there, waiting to see if he’d killed him. His face turned grimmer when he realized he hadn’t. His face was pale now. Bruno’s mechanical arms and legs were powerful, but his flesh and blood body still had to manipulate them. Jack climbed to his feet. He kicked another chair at Bruno. The giant figure let it bounce off him again.
Arden had left him a way out. He felt sure of it. Jack knew he wasn’t such a wonderful lover that one night of passion with him would make a woman his love slave. But he had made a human connection with her, and Bruno couldn’t have. He didn’t have that capacity. Arden had betrayed Jack, she had led him here, but she would have had doubts, too. She would have given him a clue, if he was smart enough to think of it. She would have made it a test.
Jack ran forward again. But he stopped before he got within five feet of Bruno, and skipped to the side. Bruno lifted one long leg to cut him off and Jack skipped to the other side. Bruno’s legs moved again, crossing each other. Failing the dance step, he almost tripped over his legs.
Jack picked up the end table beside the wing chair and threw it at his host’s head. Instinctively, Bruno ducked. The long arms moved, but sluggishly and too slowly. The table glanced off Bruno’s shoulder. He partially blocked it with his own human arm. Next Jack threw the lamp. This time one of the mechanical arms caught it. The strain showed on Bruno’s face.
What had Arden said just before she’d let Jack out of the car? Something about approaching the seat of power. Strange phrase. Jack looked frantically around the room and realized that Bruno had stayed in one chair during their whole encounter. The thronelike chair close to the console. Even now he stood in front of it, blocking it.
There was only one door to this room. But Bruno wouldn’t leave himself only one way out of anywhere. Two steps ahead, he had said. Or three. He would protect his escape. The way he was protecting that chair now.
The arms reached for Jack. They elongated. Bruno could reach him without ever giving up his position in front of the chair. Jack skittered backward, then to the side. Sure enough, Bruno turned but didn’t move.
One arm grabbed Jack’s ankle, and he fell to the ground, then jerked free. But the arms had him blocked. Jack scooted forward on hands and knees, but he reached the wall and the arms were still within reach.
“Lazy bastard,” he snarled. Bruno had contrived a way to be in power without moving.
Over there close to Bruno the metal struts still dangled where Jack had been ripped out of the ceiling. They almost formed a ladderwork.
This was a terrible idea, but Jack had no choice. He scrambled up and ran, again right at Bruno. Bruno braced himself, pulling his arms back defensively, and waited.
And Jack grabbed the struts and swung himself upward. They started pulling loose, coming down, but somewhere above his head the metal strips remained attached. Jack kept pulling himself upward, and the thin metal held.
Bruno realized what he was doing, and the arms went toward the ceiling, trying to block Jack or pull loose his improvised ladder. Both arms gripped the metal.
And Jack swung on the last strut holding. He was almost to the ceiling now, and when he let go with his feet he swung fast. Jack pulled himself as hard as he could with his arms, swung in an arc, and let go.
He smashed feet first into Bruno’s chest. The mechanical arms remained otherwise occupied, and Bruno couldn’t manipulate them well enough to protect himself. He put up his own arms, but Jack slammed into them. Atop the long metal legs, Bruno’s balance was delicate to begin with. And he was tired. Jack had seen that in his face. All his arms flailing, Bruno went over backwards.
Jack dropped off as they fell. Bruno tried to right himself, and tripped over his chair. He went over it and fell hard.
And Jack dropped into the chair.
“NO!” Bruno screamed, even louder than before. Jack frantically looked for controls. His fingers skittered uselessly over the chair’s arms as he heard Bruno heaving himself upward.
Nothing worked. Jack forced himself to stop and think for a moment. Was there a code phrase? This was Bruno. He had already said his own name aloud and nothing had happened. What else would he do?
This was Bruno. Jack tried to place himself in that life. He only had moments to do so. Bruno, who had labored in hatred and hiding for most of his life. Angry, manic, enraged. Jack slammed his fists down on the chair’s padded arms and thought he felt something click. But nothing happened.
Bruno. Furtive, secretive, trusting no one.
The chair faced outward into the room, the way Bruno had been sitting in it during his conversation with Jack. Jack put his feet down and spun the chair around, so its back was to the room, hiding the occupant.
This time something definitely clicked. The chair locked into place.
Bruno had regained his feet, two yards away. He lunged forward, his face completely contorted with hatred. Jack screamed defensively and put up his arms over his face.
But a panel had opened on the arm of the chair. Glancing down, Jack saw buttons and a switch. There were no labels, he had no idea what the controls did.
The switch was the most prominent control, the one a person could trip without looking at the buttons. Jack’s hand shot downward and he pushed the switch.
Nothing happened. Now Bruno’s mechanical arms gripped the chair, trapping Jack in place. Bruno pulled himself forward. Now his real arms were within reach of Jack. Bruno pulled back a fist. Jack had nowhere to duck. The mechanical arms held him in place like a small, tight cage.
Then there was a rumble beneath him. Some force had been building, silently, since he’d thrown the switch. Padded restraints came out of the chair’s wings, holding Jack in place even more tightly than the mechanical arms had. There was a quiet explosion and the floor of the small dais opened beneath him.
Jack in the chair was falling. Bruno screamed again. He tumbled forward as Jack fell down a large tube, chair and all.
Bruno must have had no trace of claustrophobia. Jack did. The tunnel was just big enough to accommodate the chair. If Jack hadn’t been held in place he would have been clawing at the tube’s metal walls. He was crying, whimpering, his flesh contorted by the speed of his fall. There was faint light at first, then complete darkness and falling.
And Jack thought, Maybe this wasn’t a way out. Maybe it was a way for Bruno to dispose of an enemy, in some horrible fashion.
Day had broken in the public square where the world leaders were to appear, revealing what appeared to be an antbed, tiny figures scurrying everywhere. It had been confirmed now that the American President wasn’t coming. No one knew what to do. America wasn’t the host, but was there any point to the summit without them? At least two countries were already packing up to go home.
Rachel knew that shouldn’t happen. She didn’t know how she knew, but she trusted her instincts. Hurrying to her own president’s suites, she passed Hassan. He made an elaborate shrug. Rachel stopped. “Are we all his supporting players?” she asked. “Is there no show without him?”
She stared at the Syrian. He saw her determination. As he walked away, his own shoulders lifted and squared.
Along her way she scattered as many such comments as she could, hoping they would spread. She didn’t have time to start a whispering campaign properly, because she had to talk to her own president.
That went badly. “I am not dealing with Syria in this fashion,” the president said sternly. “The American President has as good as said this is a plot of terrorists. I am not condoning it. I am going home.”
“Slinking home,” Rachel said, and he glared at her. Immediately she said, “I apologize, sir. That was not my thought. I was just thinking how it would be reported.” As she went out she muttered to an aide, “Snow White didn’t come so the seven dwarfs couldn’t have a party.”
She went out again. What could she do? She was one young person surrounded by soldiers and diplomats. How could she—?
Across the compound she saw something odd. A small disturbance in a scene of many disturbances. But Rachel was drawn to this one. She walked that way, then began running.
A young woman was trying to get past a knot of security people. Rachel recognized her as Jack’s friend, the one she had met on the beach. “Arden,” she said quietly, and the girl’s eyes fastened on her.
“I told you!” Arden said to the man restraining her. “She has my credential.” And she pushed past the man, who let her go. Rachel waved her own security clearance from the chain around her neck, and reached into her belly pack for another one. The man didn’t even wait for her to produce it. He knew Rachel. After all, she had been here for three days. She had made connections. “Whatever,” he said, and went back to harassing another group. Security was growing rapidly more lax as it began to appear the summit wasn’t going to happen.
Rachel pulled Arden away from the perimeter. The young woman looked slight, but Rachel felt a steeliness in her arm she wouldn’t have expected. “What are you doing here? Where’s Jack?”
“He can’t be here. Everyone is looking for him. Besides, he’s—” She stopped herself. “And what are you doing, Rachel Greene?”
She sounded odd. Well, they all did. “Trying to keep this tent from folding,” Rachel answered.
“Why?” Arden looked around at all the scurrying activity curiously. Over there across the way was a small American contingent of functionaries. They looked especially lost, their president having pulled the rug out from under them abruptly, when they had been somewhat confused to begin with, their German ambassador having been murdered shortly before the summit. Did that have something to do with why the President had pulled out?
“I don’t know,” Rachel answered Arden’s question. “I just feel like if this falls apart someone bad has won.”
She was watching Arden closely as she spoke. The young woman looked confused. Rachel had only seen her once, but she had exchanged emails with Jack about her, and he had spoken of her enormous self-possession. What had happened to her?
Rachel just kept staring. Arden caught her, looked away, then her eyes snapped back. “What?!”
Rachel just looked at her. A very young woman, who had grown up virtually parentless, then thrust into the heart of the most secret society that had ever existed. A woman of complete self-control, who could almost read minds. Rachel’s expression was open and curious, inviting reading.
Arden studied her for a moment, then blushed.
“You betrayed him,” Rachel said wonderingly.
Arden didn’t deny it. She put her arms around herself, holding tightly. She couldn’t hold Rachel’s eyes, and looked away across the compound.
“And what are you here to do now?” Rachel asked in a harsher voice.
Don’t let it be water, Jack thought. Please God don’t let the chair splash down into a deep pool, with Jack still restrained. The thought of drowning terrified him, and somehow he feared Bruno would know that.
The chair seemed to fall faster. Jack had no reference points, because he couldn’t see anything. His arms were held firmly against his chest. He sensed a huge obstacle out there ahead of him, and was certain that the chair’s fall was going to end by slamming into a wall. Jack was screaming without knowing it. The chair accelerated faster and faster, eager to smash him. Things seemed to brush at him in the darkness. Every moment felt like his last.
Then his fall began to slow. The chair suddenly took a steep turn, which slowed it further, and it was sliding forward, to come to a stop. The chair fell over sideways, which completely terrified him, then its constraints popped free of his arms. Jack pushed against the wall in front of him and it gave way. He stumbled up and out into an alley. On the outside the walls looked like one of those old-fashioned freight elevators that come out of the ground. Jack staggered free of it and the doors closed, leaving him alone and completely disoriented.
He walked away a few steps, rubbed his hands over his face. It was November in northern Europe, and colder than January where he came from. Thin sunlight didn’t help. Jack had been up all night, most of it spent in Bruno’s sanctuary. He turned in a slow circle, trying to find a landmark.
A couple of blocks away a three- or four-story building, the tallest structure in this suburb, caught his eye. It was the most modern building in sight, glass walls rising out of the old, old town. The windows reflected the sights around them, so the building appeared to be wearing a coat of older architecture. It was an interesting effect, as if the building were hiding in plain sight. At night it would be nearly invisible.
The building held him. Three stories. Had he climbed that high through the ceiling? Somehow the building looked to him like Bruno, intrusive and secretive at the same time. The building was narrower at the top, in what could have been a penthouse. Or a control room.
As Jack watched, the top floor of the building exploded. It was a quiet explosion, self-contained, and if Jack hadn’t been staring right at it, he wouldn’t have known where the sound came from. The walls didn’t shatter and send glass flying. One window burst, but the others just collapsed inward, an implosion that collapsed that whole top floor in a matter of seconds.
That hadn’t just been an eject button Jack had hit. It had been a self-destruct switch. An emergency escape from Bruno’s sky bunker in case he was invaded by overwhelming force, and needed to get away and destroy his attackers.
Jack’s mouth fell open as he stared. The explosion would have been most thorough, he felt sure, destroying all traces of his old classmate’s renegade operation.
“Goodbye, Bruno,” Jack whispered.
He felt sure Bruno would have wanted it this way. He wouldn’t have wanted to live with defeat. In fact, this whole scheme might have been an elaborate suicide plot.
But Bruno had said something ominous. I have more back-up plans than you can count. Something like that. And at least one of those schemes might already have been set in motion.
Jack started running, looking for a phone and a car.
Rachel Greene’s eyes kept returning to the American contingent, standing befuddled. One woman was holding a drape of the presidential seal, the kind that would hang on a podium. “Stay here,” Rachel said softly, and walked across the square. The middle-aged woman holding the presidential drape began to watch her as Rachel drew closer. The woman was a little frumpy, but with efficient-looking arms and wrists. There was something familiar about her eyes, an insightful determination. She was the kind who would make the perfect executive secretary. While everyone else had lost their heads, she had remembered the seal, but now couldn’t think of anything to do with it.
“May I?” Rachel asked, holding out her hands. The woman’s faded blue eyes stared into Rachel’s soft brown ones. She looked puzzled and even a little angry, but she was used to taking orders. Her fingers eased their grip and she let Rachel gently pull the cloth from her hands.
“Thank you,” Rachel said, and walked on. She glanced back over her shoulder and saw Arden watching her. Are you so smart, girl?, Rachel thought. Do you know what I’m going to do? Jack had trusted this girl, at least to an extent, but Rachel did not.
The stage was already set up in front of her. There was no central podium, just eight chairs on the stage. A great deal of planning had gone into that arrangement. If the chairs were put in a line, two people would be on the ends, shuffled off to the sides. Someone would be central, someone not. There were other considerations. Israel could not be next to Syria, the U.S. not next to Britain. (They didn’t want to look too insider-ish.) War had almost broken out at the peace summit over the arrangement of the chairs. In the end—Rachel’s subtle suggestion to a chief of protocol—the chairs had been arranged in a horseshoe shape, with two up high and the others in two arms circling around, so that the ones on “top” were farthest from the audience and the two on the ends were closest, positions of prominence. This had satisfied everyone, and the various presidents pretended it had been a tempest over nothing, that they couldn’t care less where they sat.
Rachel mounted the steps beside the stage, walking slowly. Two Secret Service agents in the wings, along with security personnel from other countries, watched her closely, but there were no presidents on the stage, so who cared about a young woman providing window dressing?
Rachel chose one of the chairs near the top of the horseshoe and carefully draped the American presidential seal over its back, facing the audience. Now the chair was more prominent than all the others. It was dressed and they were naked. The chair also looked expectant. Let’s get on with the show. Rachel backed away, checked to make sure the seal was on straight, then walked quickly away.
She had done everything she could.
As Rachel walked back toward Arden, the character of the square changed. The American contingent looked pleased: a small victory for American diplomacy. The woman from whom Rachel had taken the drape smiled at her, then kept her eyes on her. Photographers from dozens of news organizations watched curiously, unlimbering their cameras.
The effect on the members of other nations’ representatives was most pronounced. The aides and attaches in the square began whispering to each other, then getting on phones and walkie-talkies. The confused, almost idle air of the square, a place where obviously nothing was about to happen, became purposeful.
The first head of state to appear on the stage, three minutes and forty-three seconds after Rachel had placed the presidential seal, was the French president. President DeVinces almost skidded to a stop in his haste, then checked himself to make sure his dignity was intact. An aide followed closely, but the president waved him away. With great deliberation, the French president seated himself in a chair across from the presidential seal, smiled out at the crowd, and waited.
The president of Israel was next, followed very closely by the president of Syria. The men exchanged words, apparently not unpleasant ones, and took their seats on either side of the chair adorned by the American presidential seal.
Within ten minutes all the chairs except one were filled. The British prime minister was the last one to take the stage, but he did so talking on a cell phone, perhaps as if in intimate conversation with his friend the American president. The P.M. seemed nonplussed for a moment to have only one chair to choose from, but then took the chair on one end of the horseshoe with good grace.
For a moment they all sat, smiling , posing. That’s when all the cameras went off. The next day the front page of every newspaper in the world would carry that picture: the most important heads of state in the world coming together to try to solve the world’s problems, with one empty seat among them, that seat prominently displaying the American presidential seal.
Then the presidents and prime ministers and premiers stopped posing and started talking. The Syrian and Israeli presidents leaned across the empty chair to chat amiably. England and Russia got into an animated discussion, the Russian president sweeping back her long blond hair at one point. Germany, France, and China leaned close to each other, chatting and nodding as if they were all multilingual.
The conversations began to look less chatty and more purposeful. There were undisguised frowns, but no apparent angry words. Clearly positions were being taken, then changed. The conversational groups shifted. The heads looked thoughtful, forceful, flexible. Watching them—and the whole world was watching—anyone would have longed to be part of that conversation. It shifted and flowed. Apparently hearing something he liked, the British prime minister nodded, then got up and walked a few steps to the chair displaying the American presidential seal, sat in it, and engaged the Syrian and Israeli presidents in animated discussions, obviously conveying information, or perhaps an offer.
Now the American contingent was not pleased at all. The executive secretary frowned at Rachel. Then her gaze shifted and she looked puzzled for a moment.
Rachel took her place beside Arden and stood quietly, ignored by everyone else.
“My God,” Arden muttered. A compliment. Rachel nodded in acceptance.
“May I sit at your feet and be your disciple?” Arden added after a moment, looking around in awe.
Rachel turned to her with her hard look back in place. “No. And let me tell you why—”
Her cell phone rang.
Rachel answered, holding the phone tightly to her ear.
“Rachel,” Jack said, out of breath. “I got away. I’m on my way. I don’t know where Arden is, she was supposed to—”
“Don’t worry,” Rachel said tightly, not wanting to give anything away. But she could tell from the girl’s pleading eyes that she had known who was calling from the moment Rachel answered the phone.
Rachel started to tell Jack what had happened, but somehow he knew about the American president’s change of heart. “Something else is going to happen,” he said quickly. Obviously Jack was running as he talked. “Something to make it look like the president was right to leave. Some plot—”
“Jack, this is the most thoroughly checked-out site on earth. Unless there’s a missile strike on the way, there’s no way—”
“Then it’s something else. Bruno said he had back-ups, and I believe him.”
“Bruno? From school?”
Rachel looked at Arden as she talked. Arden appeared unsurprised by anything.
After a quick explanation, Jack said, “I’ll be there as fast as I can. We’ve got—”
“No!” Rachel and Arden said simultaneously. Rachel stared at the girl again. Either she had extraordinary hearing or she could read minds. Either way, it seemed useless to try to keep the conversation from her. Rachel eased the phone away from her head so they could both hear.
Then she told Jack, “You’re still extremely persona non wanted around here. If you rush over here now, it will look like you’re the security threat the president was warned about.”
“Damn.” Miles away, Jack skidded to a halt. When Rachel said something, he believed it instantly. There had been times in the past when he had failed to believe her, and he regretted nearly all of them now. “Then what can I—?” he looked around helplessly. “Where’s Arden?” he muttered. “Bruno thought she’d be here. Maybe if I could—”
“She’s here,” Rachel said quietly. Into the phone’s speaker Arden said, “Hello, Jack,” very softly. Then all three were silent for a moment. Arden cleared her throat, about to say something like, I’m glad you got away, but knew before she said it how lame it would be. The other two heard what she’d thought about saying and knew the same thing.
After a long moment Jack’s voice said from the phone’s speaker, “All right. Rachel, there’s something lethal there. You have to find it, stop it, and leave no sign that there was ever any danger.”
Rachel’s eyes swept the square. There was activity everywhere now, people moving, speaking, with dozens of security agents watching everything better than she possibly could. “Okay,” she said slowly, “and you can offer me—”
“I don’t have a clue.”
Arden chimed in, “He’s not good with people. Bruno, I mean. It couldn’t be someone he’s induced to do something. It must be a machine.”
“He was pretty good with you,” Jack said, with some bitterness, but it sounded feigned to Rachel. She looked again at the girl, in a different appraising kind of way.
“I never really—”
“Oh, right, you never bought into his—”
“Really I didn’t, Jack. I just wanted to find out what he was—”
“Sure. Arden the spy. And you didn’t bother to tell me what I was walking into because that would have…”
Their bickering sounded familiar to Rachel. And it gave her an idea. Speaking of Bruno, she said, “He’s good with the excluded.”
“And orphans,” Arden chimed in.
Jack had fallen silent.
“Outcasts,” Arden and Rachel said together, beginning to look around the square again. But how, out of all these people, could they spot the person Bruno had planted here?
“What? What?” Jack was saying into his phone. He felt very excluded himself.
A block away from him, those below-ground elevator doors opened again. A battered figure, stripped of mechanical arms and legs, crawled out into the alley. Then he fell onto his back and lay there, breathing in the free air.
“Give me a hint, Jack,” Rachel said into her phone. She and Arden were standing shoulder to shoulder, slowly turning in a circle, taking in everyone. “By land or sea or air? A bomb, you think? I’m telling you, there can’t be anything on or under that stage. It’s been checked so thoroughly, and I sealed off underground access to it myself. If there’s another killer plane on the way, surely the Air Force will give us some warning. Besides, if it’s one of these people, Jack there are too many. We can’t possibly—”
Wait, wait. Jack ducked his head, pinched the bridge of his nose, and thought. How, from miles away, could he stop a plan that Bruno had been brooding over for years? And do it so efficiently and quietly no one would ever know there had been a problem?
Because that was the way the Circle operated. More smoothly than the most accomplished magician. They vanished not only the lady but themselves, and any memory that there had even been a performance.
There was nothing. He had nothing. Bruno had too many back-ups. Someone there was either under his influence or perhaps even acting on a post-hypnotic suggestion, that would be triggered by an event bound to occur at the summit, such as the playing of a certain national anthem. But if Rachel and Arden disturbed the ceremonies, the president could use that to spin his retreat. And Jack wanted that retreat to have no justification at all, to be an utter whimpering flight in panic.
Well, maybe he couldn’t have everything he wanted. “Arden,” he said resignedly, about to tell her maybe to try to stop the band, or something else to disrupt the ceremonies.
Then he stopped. “What is it, Jack?” Rachel’s voice crackled out of his cell phone.
“Arden,” he said again, then more forcefully: “You’re not supposed to be there, Arden. Bruno thought you’d be here. He wasn’t sure he had you completely, but he damned sure thought he could predict you well enough to know you’d come in with me. In fact, maybe he never thought he’d turned you at all. Maybe he was convinced of your secret loyalty to me. So he counted on your being here.” Jack’s mind was spinning wildly now. He thought he understood Bruno. Bruno would never have confidence in any other human being; his face had told Jack that. He had manipulated Arden, yes, but how? Toward what end?
He started talking again. “There are only two ‘seats of power’—thank you, Arden—in this town. He wanted you to be here. That means—”
“He didn’t want me to be here,” Arden said. She looked around wonderingly. “But why not? What could I possibly—? Oh my God.”
She was staring at that executive secretary, as the woman turned to look out over the crowd. Her eyes didn’t settle on Arden, but Arden got a good look at her for the first time.
“Orphans,” she muttered. “Outcasts.”
Arden was staring across the compound. She and Rachel were on a small rise, so they could see over the heads of the milling reporters, civilians, and security people. The middle-aged secretary from the American crowd was moving toward the stage. Her posture had changed. She no longer looked frumpy, or aged. She stood very straight, staring at the presidents on the stage. Her hands clenched and unclenched.
“There was something familiar about her,” Rachel muttered.
“Because you’ve met me,” Arden answered dreamily. “It’s my mother.”
Arden swayed as she stood. She couldn’t have been more stunned if a meteor had landed on her. She hadn’t seen her mother in years, but she knew this was she. Her young, slender, always a little frantic mother had turned into this slightly overweight, competent-looking professional. She had come to resemble her own mother, Gladys Leaphorn, the Chair of the Circle.
The group from which Arden’s mother had been excluded her whole life.
Arden hadn’t realized it at the time, but her mother Alice had spent years on the run trying to fill the craving she could never satisfy, the craving to belong, to be part of something important. Maybe she didn’t know the whole truth, but she felt its loss. Somehow Bruno had figured this out and had gotten to Alice. Arden knew it. He had tried to get to Arden, and had to a certain extent, but she had been prepared for him. Granny had rescued her from her feelings of being left out. She was not such easy prey for Bruno Benjamin as he had thought. But her mother had been.
The woman was no longer staring at the stage. She was moving purposefully, in her efficient executive secretary mode.
“They’ll stop her,” Arden whispered. “They won’t let her get near—”
“It doesn’t matter if they stop her!” Jack yelled into the phone. “If she looks like a legitimate assassin the president can say he knew about her. This is why he left. Rachel, there can’t be any disturbance! Do you understand?”
Rachel had an inkling of what Jack meant, but more to the point she took him at his word no matter what.
“All right, Jack, but what do you want me to do?” Rachel just stared as the woman started to make her way toward the side of the stage. She was harmless enough anyway. What was she going to do, stab someone with an earring? There was nothing remotely dangerous on that stage. Even the microphones were wireless. Rachel and all the other security forces had made sure there couldn’t be even an improvised weapon—
Rachel gasped. Oh, she was an idiot.
There was one new thing on that stage. One thing that hadn’t been checked out by anybody. It was deep blue with yellow fringe, and it featured an eagle with a very determined expression.
“Damn it! I’m the fool,” Rachel said, as the other two questioned her. For a moment Rachel wondered if she herself was under the influence of a post-hypnotic suggestion. But no, if she hadn’t placed the seal the executive secretary would have. Arden’s mother. Because she was a deeply-imbedded, probably longstanding functionary of the American diplomatic contingent. Which is why no one would question her now as she walked across that stage. Probably just wanted to straighten the seal, the guards would think. Or remove it. What harm could she be?
But Rachel understood. The seal was flammable. Maybe even explosive. And the woman must have a detonator, or simply a book of matches. She was up on the side of the stage now. In seconds she would be there. Maybe she was close enough already.
Rachel saw standing nearby sharpshooters who could take the woman down from here. And at least two of them would do it at a word from Rachel. She had developed that much trust in the last few days. But then everything would be shattered. The woman’s body would be examined, then the seal. The plot would be uncovered, the plot that could have destroyed seven heads of state. And the American president would be able to say he’d been warned about it in advance. His not being here would be explained. And Jack didn’t want that. She wasn’t sure why, but she believed him.
Rachel stood frozen. Arden stared at her mother. She must not have seen her in years. Rachel glanced at her, then back to the woman on the stage. Her eyes widened. Her frustration peaked. Rachel took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
Then she screamed.
Rachel was not a screamer. She seldom even raised her voice. She was known among her friends, in fact, for her repression. A raised eyebrow on Rachel’s face was the equivalent of someone else’s launching into a shouting tirade. People cringed at her mutter.
So perhaps this had been building in her for a long time. Because this was a world-class scream. It froze everyone around her, raising hairs on arms and the backs of necks. Everyone turned and stared. And because Rachel and Arden were on that slight rise, everyone saw her.
Jack heard the scream clearly through his cell phone and wondered if his old friend had lost her mind. The tension had made her snap. He started saying, “Rachel, when I said you can’t disrupt the ceremonies, what I meant was—,” but no one was listening to him.
With everyone staring, and hands reaching for guns, Rachel said quietly to Arden, “Don’t look at me. Look at her.”
Arden understood. She stood straight, as if in a spotlight, and stared across that crowded square at the woman who was now on the stage.
The woman stared back.
Rachel began stamping her feet. “Bugs,” she said loudly. “Is it an ant bed? No.” She reached down and picked up a small, befuddled lizard, holding it high, then tossing it away. “Yuck,” she said, shivered all over, and indulged in other such girlish behaviors, things she had never done in her life. She was brushing off her clothing, looking distressed. More than one man started toward her aid. Guns were eased back into holsters. Eyes rolled. Hand signals told security personnel everything was okay. Just a silly girl overreacting to local reptilian life. A few people chuckled. That was the most notice Rachel’s scream would draw. It was the kind of small, foolish event that seemed enormous for a few seconds, but wouldn’t be reported by any news outlet. Rachel quickly slipped out of sight in the crowd. Within minutes, no one would even be able to say who had screamed.
So Arden stood alone on the rise, with no one looking at her any more. No one except that woman on the stage. Their eyes remained locked. The woman put her fist to her mouth. Her eyes watered. Arden lifted one pale hand in greeting to her and the woman forgot everything else she’d been doing or planning. She hurried down from the stage and into the crowd.
Rachel started leading Arden away, over to the edge. The woman would follow. They would draw her completely out of the square. Rachel felt like a fly fisher, flicking Arden across the surface of the crowd, letting her continue to be seen. A ripple through the crowd showed the rapid advance of the executive secretary.
Rachel said into her phone, “Jack, I have to say I was brilliant. I think things are okay here now. We’ll—”
“That’s great,” Jack said quickly, as if he hadn’t harbored any doubts about her ability to handle the small problem of stopping a mass assassination without anyone’s knowing. “Just one more question, Rache. Is Professor Trimble there?”
“Professor—? No, I haven’t seen him here at all, Jack. Why? Why should he—?”
“Damn,” Jack said. “Good job. I’ll see you two later.”
And he clicked off. Moments later the woman from the American delegation caught up to them, and the way the two women threw themselves on each other, the way they clung and wept, held Rachel’s attention for minutes. She had tears in her own eyes as Arden said “Mommy” and the older woman whispered “my baby.” Obviously whatever influence or post-hypnotic suggestion had been guiding the woman had fallen away completely at her first sight in years of her child. They didn’t offer each other any explanations, they wouldn’t start talking for some time to come, but they hugged and whispered and cried. It was one of the sweetest moments Rachel had ever seen. She just stood and watched, a spectator to familial joy.
When she tried to call Jack back ten minutes later she couldn’t reach him.