The White House, the next day
The desk in the Oval Office, as well as the coffee table, were scattered with newspapers from around the world, including the U.S. They all carried that same photo, of the summit leaders gathered around an empty chair adorned with the American seal. That’s what the President of the United States had become on the world stage: an empty chair.
“Nothing happened,” the president said. “The summit went off brilliantly. Agreements have been reached. There are new statesmen today.”
“You could go now,” Dennis Wilkerson said. “There’s still lots of work to be done. Everyone would be—”
The president glared him to silence. The glare was more effective because only the two of them were in the room at the moment. When the President started speaking, it was obviously a speech that had been building in him for hours.
“You made me look like a fool on the world stage. Worse, in front of my own people, at a time of the greatest national crisis we have ever faced. You are fired. You will not be allowed to take anything from your office. You will be escorted out of the building and to your apartment where Secret Service agents will watch you pack and take you to the airport. If you are lucky, I will not have your plane blown up in the air. You have one hour to get out of town.”
“Sir! I can still be of value to you. I have contacts no one else has. Secret information—”
“Who? Name one source.”
The NSA thought of his PlayStation2, smashed to pieces on Air Force One. “I’m sorry. I cannot reveal my—”
The President pressed a button on his desk. Two men in very black suits entered the Oval Office. “I was wrong,” the President said. “You have thirty minutes.”
Dennis Wilkerson left under escort, almost whimpering. The President didn’t even watch his departure. He was on the intercom to his assistant. “Get me the chief of staff and the secretary of state. Now.”
Twenty-six Days Later
All the president’s men tried to spin it as a continuation of the summit, this time on American soil. Their motto was “America: where the world comes to finalize agreements,” but no one picked it up. It sounded too much like the work of a committee.
They couldn’t get all the other seven heads of state. They claimed to have countries to run. Surprisingly, the Russian and French presidents agreed to come, while the British and Israeli heads begged off, though promising to come on another occasion.
So the American President’s “peace summit” looked more like a press conference, with the Russian and French presidents smiling behind him, the men clasping hands in three-way clenches, so that the photo looked as if the President had managed to resolve hostilities between France and Russia.
But importantly, it was a coming out party. The riots, the successful summit, Dennis Wilkerson’s making him look like a coward, all had convinced President Witt that his isolationist policy had been wrong. This occasion in Virginia was going to amount to his creeping back out onto the world stage, and he wanted someone holding his hand while he did that.
This was exactly what the Circle would have arranged.
The location was a small college, Galt University, which was actually the alma mater of the Secretary of State, who had suggested the location. The area was semi-rural, semi-suburban, or “bucolic,” as the school billed it, not too far from Washington but not in the shadow of U. Va. Not many presidents would have the nerve to make a major policy announcement with Mr. Jefferson looking over their shoulders. Galt College was perfect: small enough for security to be controlled closely, stately old buildings including the auditorium where the press conference would be held, enthusiastic students, and professors who had told those students that their institution was about to become a historic site. “The place where America reclaimed the world stage,” more than one of them had put it. They hoped this President was up to the job of marking the occasion.
Security offered some problems, because the foreign presidents insisted on having their security forces involved, and the President’s handlers insisted on a big audience for the opening press conference. Students and professors and journalists had credentials, including foreign journalists, but they all had to be checked, usually by more than one security person, and this occasion had been put together so hastily the Secret Service hadn’t had a lot of time to inspect the auditorium. They managed to keep out suspicious strangers, but not the determined assassin with visiting-professor status.
Professor Don Trimble looked so much the part of a professor—which he had been playing for three decades—that hardly anyone bothered to check his ID. He carried a notebook, had a pipe in his mouth, his thinning blond-gray hair was disheveled, his tweed jacket had patches on the elbows. He took so long to find his ID that the impatient guard, a university cop, finally just pushed him through the metal detector. He cleared, that was good enough.
The professor made his way through the crowd, smiling and stopping to chat with colleagues, nod to students. The press conference was due to start in three minutes, which meant he had all the time in the world. He strolled around, enmeshed himself in the crowd, then made his way out to the lobby. There were security people scattered around, some of them obvious, a few not, but they didn’t know the place nearly as well as Trimble did. Behind the box office was a nondescript unmarked door. Trimble made his way to it, not looking around, opened the door with a key, and slipped inside. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness, then started up the narrow stairs inside.
The Secret Service had not entirely neglected this staircase, though. At the top a young man in a nylon jacket turned and looked at the professor in surprise, reaching under his jacket.
“I’m sorry,” Trimble said in his befuddled way, “I’ve got some extra students and wanted to see if there’s any room up here in the extra balcony.”
This was less a balcony than a large private box, above and to the left side of the floor of the auditorium and the stage. It had been reserved for foreign dignitaries who weren’t coming, but no one had bothered to un-reserve it.
“Sir, I’m sorry, we’re not allowing anyone to be seated up here. It’s too un-secured a location. If you’ll just—”
The guard was holding out his hands, because the professor was such a befuddled type that he kept advancing as if he didn’t understand the language. Plus the guy had the obvious appearance of someone who’d been telling people what to do for so long that he didn’t think rules applied to him.
“I understand,” Trimble said in his hazy way. “Plus I’m having a problem with this thing…”
He was fumbling with his pipe. The guard looked down at it, a little surprised the professor had been allowed to bring it in, but the people downstairs were pressed for time and the pipe looked as if it belonged in Trimble’s hands or mouth. As the guard looked down, Trimble brought the pipe up, pressed a switch underneath, and shot a tiny dart into the guard’s throat.
The guard almost got out the syllable “Uh,” but the poison was very fast-acting. Curare. Trimble had always wanted to use it. It paralyzed everything, including the lungs, so that the victim was immobilized as he choked to death, trapped inside the shell of his no-longer-functioning body. Trimble looked curiously into the man’s eyes and saw the panic there. What Trimble had always wondered, in his scholarly way, was whether the victim of curare poisoning went mad with fear before dying. Looking into the security guard’s eyes, he thought the answer was yes.
Trimble eased the man down into a seat, so he was still in a way guarding this private box. Then the professor looked down at the auditorium from his vantage point. The seats below were completely filled, while would-be audience members still clogged the aisles and the space at the back of the auditorium. That wasn’t supposed to happen. The seats had supposedly been precisely allocated. But with the presidential staffs of three countries doing favors for friends, they had overbooked. The floor was a solid carpet of people.
Onstage the show was just getting started. A staff person came out and checked the podium and microphone. There was a bulletproof plastic shield in front of the podium, as always. From this vantage point Don Trimble could see the three presidents in the wings, chatting for a moment as they awaited their entrance.
The professor’s watery blue eyes hardened. A vein at his temple began to pulse. Even his flaky pale skin seemed to be melting away, revealing sharper features. Trimble wasn’t in disguise, but he was shedding the look of indecision he’d worn for years.
But Trimble didn’t stay where he was standing. The box wasn’t his destination. It was too obvious, too John Wilkes Booth. Trimble went back out into the small hallway outside and found the even more secret staircase that went higher.
Behind another nondescript door, this staircase was so tiny he had to turn sideways to go up it. At the top of the stairs was a small catwalk, a space for lighting. The professor walked briskly to a panel on the opposite wall, a panel that looked like the others, but when the professor put a tiny key into a hole two feet above it the panel dropped open. Inside was a sniper’s rifle.
Trimble quickly assembled the rifle, including its silencer, while listening and watching. On this catwalk he could stand up straight, but barely. Banks of small spotlights threatened his head at every step. He had a perfect view of the stage, including the wings if he moved to either side. This workspace had been built when the building was originally put up a hundred years ago, when a student would have to position these spotlights by hand. Everything was automated now, but the space remained.
Someone from the president’s staff came out onto the stage, took the podium, and did a little preliminary throat-clearing, introductory remarks to which no one listened. The crowd’s noise grew even louder. Closer at hand, Professor Trimble heard what he’d been listening for: footsteps coming up those narrow stairs.
This time he wasn’t subtle and didn’t do the befuddled-professor look. No time. The Secret Service agent’s eyes hadn’t had time to adjust. The professor knew that if he stood still he’d be almost invisible in the gloom of this small space.
Sure enough, the agent in his black garb stuck his head up, peered around, then said into the air, “All clear. I’ll check on Stanley again and be back. Craig out.”
As soon as “Craig” was off the air, Professor Trimble shot him. It was a perfect shot, right in the throat, making the man mute before killing him. The agent gasped for air, fell to his knees, then rolled over and didn’t move again.
Trimble checked his watch. There wasn’t much time now. That death would bring other agents to check on the missing one within minutes. But they’d all be preoccupied right now, because the President of the United States was taking the stage.
He strode boldly across—“bold” was the new watchword in the White House—unaccompanied for the moment by the other presidents or any of his own staff. The audience applauded, which was less a sign of approval than gratitude that the show was starting, and the President gave one broad wave. His face remained serious, though.
Trimble moved into position. From up here he could send a bullet either over or around that plastic shield. In moments he would make history in a way the Circle never had. Nor would they have approved. That’s why a new Circle had been needed. One that was not only decisive but prepared to act. Not dropping hints any more, not even subtly guiding others to kill. Once in a while a bolder move was needed. Don Trimble had believed that for a long time before he realized there were others who thought as he did. Once he’d been invited into the inner circle, he’d joined with alacrity.
Their inner security was so tight he wasn’t even sure who the other members were. As with the larger Circle, each member operated fairly independently. So Trimble had been on hand in Salzburg, knowing there was a plan afoot and ready to help out. But as soon as Jack Driscoll had shown up there, Trimble had been afraid things would go awry, as they obviously had. Trimble had quietly slipped away before the end, knowing there would be a next act.
This one he had set up on his own. He had all kinds of contacts in the diplomatic and academic worlds. It hadn’t been very difficult to get early word of what the President was planning and where the announcement would take place. The location had been perfect for Trimble, who could find a colleague at nearly any college in America who would be willing to designate him a visiting professor.
He had been on campus for a week setting up this moment. His escape would be easy too, but even if something went wrong, he was prepared to give up his life for this. The President was about to turn around his own isolationist policy, the policy the inner circle had pursued for years, secretly even from the rest of the Circle. The world was too difficult and unpredictable a place, and had become much too dangerous. Too many centers of power, too many fanatics. It would all blow up soon, that was inevitable. Better for America to be out of that scene completely, staying safe behind its own borders until time to pick up the pieces.
In another few seconds, with one shot, Don Trimble would accomplish that. The President who was about to change course yet again would be murdered at home. There could be no clearer signal that the world was unsafe. The vice president, who had been cultivated for years by inner circle people, would resume the isolationist policy his predecessor had announced. Especially after the lesson had been driven home yet again that foreign involvement was too dangerous.
The President was talking. Making a little self-deprecating joke, from his expression. Professor Trimble raised his rifle and sighted through the scope. It was strange to have just that tiny circle of vantage point, jumping all over: the curtains, a Secret Service agent’s chest, the First Lady’s head, the President’s arm, then his face. Trimble did not look the part, but for years he had been practicing for this moment. He was an excellent shot, as he had proven twice in the last few minutes.
There was a rumble beneath his feet. Trimble lowered the rifle. The metal catwalk on which he stood trembled. Trimble shot a sharp look down at the stage. He couldn’t afford noise until he made the shot. A Secret Service agent was looking up this way, but obviously couldn’t see anything in the dark catwalk area. But he spoke into his shirt cuff, asking a question or giving an order.
The professor started to raise the rifle again, when the source of the vibrations revealed itself. Beneath the catwalk, down on the curving metal floor itself, a panel lifted away. It was set aside quietly, then a human figure sat up. “Phew,” it said, sharply but quietly.
Professor Trimble stood immobilized. He could have killed the interloper immediately, but curiosity got the better of him. Maybe this was one of his own team, ready to help.
But no. The figure rolled completely out of its tiny hiding place, staying below the catwalk, then rolled over and looked up.
It was Jack Driscoll.
Jack moved slowly and stiffly. He had obviously been hidden in his tiny space for some time. Trimble didn’t move. His breathing stopped.
Was Jack on his team after all? The inner circle were all so secretive, no one was sure who was in and who wasn’t. Trimble had been certain in Salzburg that Jack was the enemy, but here he was again, and the pistol in his hand seemed to indicate an intention to carry out the same kind of plan as Trimble. Trimble waited.
Jack crept out to the edge of the space and looked over it, down toward the stage. But then he did nothing. He didn’t take a sniper’s position, he didn’t ready the pistol. From his head movements, he didn’t seem even to be concentrating on the president.
In a moment Trimble understood. Jack wasn’t here to perform an assassination. He was here to prevent one.
But for once he was one step behind. Don Trimble smiled, lowered his rifle, and very deliberately cleared his throat.
It was a small sound, but it went through Jack like electricity. His head swivelled then stopped, as he saw for the first time the tall man looming over him. Jack was in an awkward position, looking back over his right shoulder, his right hand holding the gun. He couldn’t move that arm any further back, he would have to roll onto his back to get a clear shot, and that would give Professor Trimble more than enough time to shoot him dead, since Trimble already had his high-powered rifle pointed at Jack’s back. Somehow he looked as if he knew what he was doing with the gun, too.
“Professor.”
Trimble nodded, still smiling. “Jack.”
They both kept their voices down, but could hear each other clearly in the confined space. Jack said, “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Yes. You never had any inkling I might be part of another design, did you?”
“Oh, I knew you were part of the group that had other plans. I just thought you’d be skilled enough to guide someone else into doing your dirty work.”
Trimble’s smile disappeared. His eyes narrowed. “Bullshit. You didn’t know anything.”
“You’re right,” Jack said, indicating his own position. “I’m just a figment of your imagination.”
He was still stuck in an awkward position, looking over his shoulder. His left hand was out of sight beneath him.
“How long have you been here?” the professor said, curiosity overcoming him.
“Ten days. You wouldn’t happen to have a can of Lysol spray on you, would you?”
“You’ve known about this conference for ten days?” That was two days longer than Trimble had known.
Jack nodded. “Barely in time to get here ahead of all the security and position myself, so I’d already be here before they made their security sweeps. And how did you get in?”
Trimble moved his chin, and Jack glanced down toward the end of the catwalk, seeing the body of the Secret Service agent lying there. In that moment everything changed. Jack had been trying to figure out how to get the President, the professor, and himself all out of here alive, with the professor sedated for later questioning. But when he saw the agent, obviously dead, his plan changed. When he turned his head to look at his old professor again, his eyes were cold.
The eye of the rifle was on him. “I’m afraid I need to take you out first,” Don Trimble said, with both amusement and regret in his voice. “What, by the way, did you think you were going to do with that pistol, which I see has no silencer on it? If you somehow managed to shoot me with it, you’d bring so many Secret Service agents up here, you’d be dead in seconds. Were you going to sacrifice yourself nobly for the sake of the mission?”
Jack shook his head. He moved slowly, pulling his left hand out into view.
“Do you see what I have in my other hand? Not the gun, this hand. It’s the light switch. See, I’m pushing it down now. If I let it go abruptly, such as if you shoot me, all the lights will come on up here. You’ll be spotlighted, with a rifle in your hands. On the other hand, if I let it go very gently, nothing will happen. Your move.”
The professor, in spite of having cast himself as a quick-thinking assassin in control of all the elements, was not very quick on the uptake. He took his eyes off Jack and looked upward and around, suddenly noticing the strategically-placed spotlights. His eyes widened.
While he stood frozen, Jack released the switch. Abruptly. And fired his un-silenced pistol.
The sound of the shot, which went harmlessly into the curtains behind the president, was almost drowned out by all the answering shots. Perhaps 2.8 seconds. Certainly a response time well under five seconds. Those Secret Service agents were good.
One moment Professor Trimble was a tall, efficient-looking man holding a silenced rifle, in the glare of six spotlights. The next he was an emptying bag of cooling meat.
Everything else in the building was chaotic movement. Jack moved as quickly as the agents, switching off the lights as he climbed to Trimble’s level, reaching Trimble’s body and shoving it gently to the edge of the catwalk. For a moment the body turned and Trimble seemed to be looking at him in surprise. Then the body went over the edge.
Jack heard screams, knew people had spotted the falling body, and hoped it didn’t land on anyone. Agents would be rushing toward it. Some would be on their way up here, too, but not as quickly now that they knew the danger was over. Jack dropped his pistol. That gun had a history, and now it would be Don Trimble’s history as well. It would tie him to a well-known extremist group, leading to speculation that terrorists had wanted to keep America isolated. Jack trusted this would steel the President’s, and the country’s, determination to rejoin the world.
He ran the opposite way down the catwalk, opened another door in the wall, revealing a metal ladder. Jack jumped onto it, closed the door behind him, and slid down the ladder, barely touching the rungs. He landed with a thump on the ground floor, behind a door hidden by a heavy curtain. The architect of this building had been inspired by the magicians who were so popular in the early 1900s when this auditorium went up. Jack had read the architectural plans, probably the first person to do so in over a hundred years. It served him well now.
He stepped out from behind the curtain and was immediately engulfed in a throng of students, some rushing to get out of the building, some to get closer to the stage, some just trying to hold their ground and watch the drama. It took twenty minutes, but the security people got them moving out of the building. Jack blended right in. He had one of those faces. No one would remember him.
But Jack would remember. Being herded toward the exit along with all the other civilians, he took a moment to look back, staring toward the spot where his victim lay. Jack hadn’t fired a shot at anyone, but he had quite deliberately committed murder. History would exonerate him, except that history wouldn’t remember at all.
But Jack knew his role. He had done what had to be done, without hesitation and now without remorse. When he had been the only person in a position to act, and only one action would serve, he had done it.
He was the twentieth fanatic. Not the person who had launched the terror attack, but the kind who could. The ruthless kind.
Until today he hadn’t known that about himself.