“Mommy!” Katie twisted in her father’s arms, reaching for her mother, who took her away from Jack at once. Sally and Little Jack closed in on the pair, leaving their father standing alone. That didn’t last for long.
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“How you doing?” Arnie van Damm asked quietly.
“Better now, I guess.” His face was still ashen, his body limp but still able to stand. “Do we know any more?”
“Look, first thing, how about we get all of you out of here? Up to Camp David. You can calm down there. Security is airtight. It’s a good place to relax.”
Ryan thought about that. The family hadn’t been up there yet, and he’d only been there twice, most recently on a dreadful January day several years before. “Arnie, we don’t have clothes or–”
“We can take care of that,” the chief of staff assured him.
The President nodded. “Get it set up. Fast,” he added. While Cathy took the kids upstairs, Jack headed back out and over to the West Wing. Two minutes later, he was back in the Situation Room. The mood was better there. The initial shock and fear were gone, replaced with a quiet determination.
“Okay,” Ryan said quietly. “What do we know?”
“Is that you, Mr. President?” It was Dan Murray on the table-mounted speakerphone.
“Talk to me, Dan,” SWORDSMAN commanded.
“We had a guy inside, one of mine. You know him. Pat O’Day, one of my roving inspectors. His daughter– Megan, I think–goes there, too. He got the drop on the subjects and blew ’em both away. The Secret Service people killed the rest–the total count is nine, two by Pat and the rest by Andrea’s people. There are five Service agents dead, plus Mrs. Daggett. No children were wounded, thank God. Price is interviewing Pat right now. I have about ten agents on the scene to assist with the investigation, with a lot of Service people on the way there, too.”
“Who runs the investigation?” POTUS asked.
“Two statutes on this one. An attack on you or any member of your family is under the purview of the Secret Service. Terrorism is our bailiwick. I’d give the Service lead on this one, and we’ll provide all possible assistance,” Murray promised. “No pissin’ contest on this one, my word on it. I’ve already called Justice. Martin will assign us a senior attorney to coordinate the criminal investigation. Jack?” the FBI Director added.
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“What, Dan?”
“Get your family put back together. We know how to do this. I know you’re the President, but for the next day or two, just be a guy, okay?”
“Good advice, Jack,” Admiral Jackson observed.
“Jeff?” Ryan said to Agent Raman. All his friends were saying the same thing. They were probably right.
“Yes, sir?”
“Let’s get us the hell out of town.”
“Yes, Mr. President.” Raman left the room.
“Robby, how about you and Sissy fly up, too. I’ll have a helo waiting for you here.”
“Anything you say, pal.”
“Okay, Dan,” Ryan told the speakerphone. “We’re going to Camp David. Keep me informed.”
“Will do,” the FBI Director promised.
THEY HEARD IT on the radio. Brown and Holbrook were heading north on US Route 287 to join Interstate 90-East. The cement truck drove like a pig, even with its multirange gearbox, top-heavy, slow to accelerate, and almost as slow to brake. Maybe the interstate would be better driving, they hoped. But it did have a decent radio.
“Damn,” Brown said, adjusting the dial.
“Kids.” Holbrook shook his head. “We have to make sure no kids are around, Ernie.”
“I think we can handle that, Pete, assuming we can horse this rig all the way there.”
“What do you figure?”
A grunt. “Five days.”
DARYAEI TOOK IT well, Badrayn saw, especially with the news that all of them were dead.
“Forgive me for saying so, but I did warn you that–”
“I know. I remember,” Mahmoud Haji acknowledged.
“The success of this mission was never really necessary, so
long as the security arrangements were properly looked
after.” With that, the cleric looked closely at his guest.
“They all had false travel documents. None had a crim-
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inal file anywhere in the world, so far as I know. None had anything to connect him with your country. Had one been taken alive, there was a chance, and I warned you about that, but it appears that none were.”
The Ayatollah nodded, and spoke their epitaph: “Yes, they were faithful.”
Faithful to what? Badrayn asked himself. Overtly religious political leaders weren’t exactly uncommon in this part of the world, but it was tiresome to hear. Now, supposedly, all nine of them were in Paradise. He wondered if Daryaei actually believed that. He probably did; he was probably so sure that he believed that he could speak with God’s own voice, or at least had told himself so often that he thought he did. One could do that to himself, Ali knew, just keep repeating any idea enough, and however it had first entered one’s mind–for political advantage, personal revenge, greed, any of the baser motivations–after enough repetitions it became an article of faith, as pure in purpose as the words of the Prophet himself. Daryaei was seventy-two, Badrayn reminded himself, a long life of self-denial, focused on something outside himself, continuing on a journey that had begun in his youth with shining purpose toward a holy goal. He was a long way from the beginning now, and very close to the end. Now the goal could be seen so clearly that the purpose itself could be forgotten, couldn’t it? That was the trap for all such men. At least he knew better, Badrayn told himself. For him it was just business, devoid of illusions and devoid of hypocrisy.
“And the rest?” Daryaei asked, after a prayer for their souls.
“We will know by Monday, perhaps, certainly by Wednesday,” Ali replied.
“And security for that?”
“Perfect.” Badrayn was totally confident. All of the travelers had returned safely, and reported in every case that their missions had been properly carried out. Whatever physical evidence they’d left behind–just the spray cans–would have been collected as trash and carted away. The plague would appear, and there would never be any evidence of how it might have gotten there. And so what had apparently failed today was not a failure at
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all. This Ryan fellow, relieved though he might be at the rescue of his child, was now a weakened man, as America was a weakened country, and Daryaei had a plan. A good one, Badrayn thought, and for his help in implementing it, his life would change forever now. His days as an international terrorist were a thing of the past. He might have some position in the expanding UIR government– security or intelligence, probably, with a comfortable office and a sizable stipend, able finally to settle down in peace and safety. Daryaei had his dream, and might even achieve it. For Badrayn, the dream was closer still, and he need now not do a thing more to make it a reality. Nine men had died to make it so. That was their misfortune. Were they truly in Paradise for their sacrificial act? Perhaps Allah truly was that merciful, enough to forgive any act done in His Name, mistakenly or not. Perhaps. It didn’t really matter, did it?
THEY TRIED TO make the departure look normal. The kids had changed clothes. Bags were packed and would go out on a later flight. Security looked tighter than usual, but not grossly so. That was mistaken. Atop the Treasury Building to the east and the Old Executive Office Building to the west, the Secret Service people who usually crouched were now standing, showing their full profiles as they scanned the area with their binoculars. Beside each was a man with a rifle. Eight agents were on the south perimeter fence, examining the people who were passing by or had come just to be there after hearing the horrid news, for whatever purpose. Most had probably come because they cared to some degree or another, maybe even to offer a prayer for the Ryans’ safety. For those who had some other purpose, the agents watched, and this time, as with all the others, saw nothing unusual.
Jack strapped in, as did the rest of his family. The engines over their heads started whining, and the rotor turning. Inside with them were Agent Raman and another guard, plus the Marine crew chief. The VH-3 helicopter vibrated, then lifted off, climbing rapidly into the westerly wind, first heading toward the OEOB, then south, then
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northwest, its curving flight path designed to confuse someone who might be out there with a surface-to-air missile. Light conditions were good enough that such a person would probably be spotted–it takes a few seconds to make a successful launch–and anyway the helicopter was equipped with the newest variant of the Black Hole IR-suppression system, which made Marine One a hard kill. The pilot–it was Colonel Hank Goodman again–knew all this, took the proper protective measures, and did his best to forget about it as he did so.