The 4 Phase Man (42 page)

Michael never looked back as he headed into his nearby office.

It took only a few minutes—and two more unanswered calls to Steingarth (and Canvas’s cell phone)—and the statement was ready to be electronically sent out to the nation’s media.

To an extent, he admired DeWitt’s self-confidence. The natural arrogance that served as an understructure of strength to support him in the worst times. It was a large part of what made DeWitt the Chinese’s first choice in the Apple Blossom plan.

But before he entered the sequence that would spread the gospel according to DeWitt out among what the attorney general truly believed were the naive, the ignorant, and the just plain stupid that made up 90 percent of the American people, Michael read a fax that was being received on his private, secured machine.

It appeared to be a revised schedule for Justice Department staffers in the A.G.’s office. A jumble of names, titles, times, and hours. But ten minutes of
unwrapping
the code—which only he and his personal controller knew—left him with quite a different message.

Michael swiveled away from his keyboard, picked up the secure line and dialed a number that only
he
knew.

“Two, eight, one, three.”

“Apple Blossom,” he said softly.

“Countersign?”

Michael looked around to make sure he wasn’t being overheard. “Blossom.”

“One moment, please.”

Thirty seconds later a new voice came on the line. “Blossom, it’s been far too long.”

“I have a problem,” Michael said in a near whisper.

“How well I know, son.”

“You seen the papers?” he asked softly.

“And the television,” the voice responded with a concern and warmth that already made Michael feel a little better.

“He thinks it’s a
good
thing.”

“How so?”

Another furtive glance to be sure he was alone. “He’s giving orders, bizarre stuff, wants to involve the entire chain in them.”

A brief but noticeable silence on the other end of the line. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?”

“No, sir.”

A heavy sigh could be heard. “Michael, what’s your assessment of the damage done him by the Roberts allegations?”

Michael thought about it. “Survivable, so long as we play like its meaningless. Don’t legitimize it or give it any more power than it already has.”

“Yes,” the voice said in a happy tone.

Michael could picture the satisfied smile on the man’s face. The look his real father had never shown him—except in those times when the belt would fly across the young boy’s back and shoulders. “What should I do?”

“For now? Whatever the lunatic says. Do nothing that would personally endanger your position … or yourself, of course.”

“Right.”

“Apple’s instability has been the topic of recent conversations. The cause of growing concerns. His, well,
boldness
of late is a thing that must be corrected. Perhaps he is not the one we need, after all.” A long pause. “Do you understand me, son?”

“I do.” It was said stiffly, reluctantly.

Soldierly.

“We’ll need to consider the new circumstances,” the voice was continuing. “Explore other possibilities.”

“You’ll stay in touch?” Michael’s voice was plaintive, pained, longing.

“I’m only a phone call away, you know that.” Another brief pause. “Help me out, Michael. I’ve been trying to remember something from U.S. history.”

“Anything,” the possible future White House chief of staff said happily. He remembered their discussions of obscure historical events as among the happiest times in his training and life.

“Who
was
the virtually unknown congressman that exposed Alger Hiss as a communist spy?”

“Richard Nixon.”

“Ah! Right you are.” Another, more strategic pause. “And he ended up president,” did he not?

“He did,” Michael said in a suddenly hushed tone.

“Ah.” The voice sounded deeply satisfied. “You always have such a current grasp on history. The briefest pauses.” And what makes it. Good-bye, Michael. We’ll speak again soon, I’m sure. The line went dead.

As Michael’s mind burst to life.

Twenty minutes later—the press release issued and with two hours to himself—he arrived at the offices of Attorney General Designate Rod Buckley.

A large box of tapes, videos, and documents in hand.

The Executive Office Building gate of the White House complex was always the least used on the weekends. Tourists and VIPs used the two gates nearest the impressive South Portico; weekend staff (mostly based in the Executive Mansion) used the west gate. So White House Police
Officer Jack Kreiger was mildly surprised when a well-dressed woman walked up to the guard’s booth.

“May I help you, ma’am?” he said professionally as he sized her up. Deeply tanned, a bruise under her left ear, a large briefcase that almost matched the off-the-rack—but expensive—business suit.

“I’m Congresswoman Valerie Alvarez of New York,” she said as she placed her briefcase on the counter for inspection. “And I want to see the president
… now.”

It was still late at night in the VIP lounge at Hòu-tiän Airport in Beijing. Chronically understaffed, the third and smallest jetport serving the largest city in China, it was filled primarily with traveling military, rich Hong Kong traders, and New Territory settlers seeking to bring family in or out of the People’s Republic.

And, tonight, one other.

Herb sat patiently reading a spy novel—laughing at the absurdities it called fact—waiting for a response to his earlier request. He knew the risks he was taking—politically, personally—but he also realized that Xenos was right.

Only a face-to-face meeting would have the required impact.

Supposing that he wasn’t arrested and deported for not having the required visas, or just arrested and interrogated for the secrets that he held, or just
disappeared
to face an uncertain fate that would never be known.

But it was worth it, somehow. Not so much to stop a war, and even less for the personal glory that would come with that act (in certain corridors of power).

No, he was doing it for one reason and one only.

Xenos had taken the nearly retired, certainly bypassed and forgotten, old man and put him back in the game. The ride had been a wild one, filled with terror and triumph, frustrations and victories galore. And for probably the last time in his life, Herb had meaning.

That was a gift that could never be repaid… except, perhaps, by this lunatic’s mission to the heart of the Dragon.

“Wô jiào Xuan Li. Hé-zhào zài når?”
a uniformed lieutenant asked brusquely.

Herb smiled noncommittally and held up his passport. The man took it, checked it against the contents of a folder, and then closed the folder with the passport in side.

“Qïng,”
the lieutenant said, gesturing at a door across the room.

Herb took his briefcase and overcoat, and started forward, followed closely by the soldier. The door opened as they approached, then closed behind Herb, leaving the lieutenant outside.

“Director Stone, a major from the Long-Range Study Organization said in perfect English,” it is an honor to have you in Beijing. How may I be of service to you?

“You can’t. I asked to speak with General Xi, personally.”

The major shrugged. “Regretfully we can find no record of anyone by that name in the city registers,” he said easily. “Perhaps if you were more specific.”

Herb sat down in the indicated chair. “Shall I tell you about his birthmark, the scar behind his left knee, or his days in Manchuria, first?”

The major was completely placid, a painted smile on a doll’s face. “The reason you wish to see this Xi individual would be sufficient, sir.”

“Son,” let me be completely honest with you.

“Please do.”

Herb took out a cigar, taking long moments to light it. Then he opened his briefcase, rummaged around, finally pulling out a bunch of thin, scraggly twigs. Each with small white and red flowers on them.

He handed them across to the officer. “To General Xi, with my compliments, sir. Tell him… He blew a thick, blue cloud of smoke into the functionary’s face.” Tell him the apple blossoms are in season.

The major suppressed a cough, picked up the thin branchlets, then held them up to the mirror behind his desk. Thirty seconds later his phone rang.

“Wéi?”
A pause.
“Xiè-xie. Duì. Wô dài le…Duì
bu-qì. Xiè-xie!”
He hung up as he grew paler by the second. “Sir,” he said in a chastened voice, “if you will accompany me, General Xi’s car will meet us at the private terminus.”

Herb smiled, took another deep drag, again blowing the smoke in the other man’s face. “I rather thought it might.”

Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia was jammed to capacity. Rising in nearly vertical walls of gray or blue, the competing sounds bounced back and forth like a living thing—a prehistoric bird trapped within the confines of the arena, flailing against the sides in a cacophonous attempt to break free.

“Go Army! Beat Navy!”

“Go Navy! Beat Army!”

The parade of cadets and midshipmen into the stadium—in their perfect unison and barely controlled passions—added yet another element to the maelstrom of combined national pride and tribalism.

Flags were everywhere!

Chants and cheers mixed with the bunting, the mascots’ haws and bays, the raw, heady scent of naked idealistic youth. These were the men and women from whom would be drawn the leaders of the free world in decades to come. They knew it—exalted in it—but put it all aside for the next few hours of unrefined, bold aggression.

Because whatever else happened in their careers, whatever George Pattons or Benedict Arnolds, Lewis Armi-steads, Winfield Hancocks, or George Custers they turned out to be… they would always have the memory of this day in common.

Win or lose, the triumph of American youth!

It was a few minutes before kickoff when DeWitt settled himself into the luxury box with his entourage. He would spend the first half here on the Navy side of the field—the guest of the Annapolis superintendent and senior officers. Then, at halftime, he would perform a ceremony on the field honoring the three best cadets and
midshipmen at each academy, before moving to an equally luxurious box on the Army side.

Never a big fan of football, and personally antimilitary, much of the pomp and splendor of this hallmark of Americanism was lost on the man, however.

But not the symbolism.

The form of the thing—the rigorously adhered-to traditions in the pregame that was timed down to the second the parachutists would enter the stadium with the game balls, trailing brightly colored smoke—it was a link to a thing over a hundred years old. A thing that DeWitt viewed as anachronistic and dumb.

But useful.

For within the rapture of the moment, the passion on the faces in the crowd, the nonstop cheers, the complete celebration of America that the game was, there was a narcofying effect. Not just in the stadium.

The millions who would watch the game on TV would be swept along with the rest, and forever associate
him
with all that was the best in America! It was a bonding that even his Chinese handlers had overlooked.

But at his halftime speech—being covered live by all the networks—he would be once and finally free of his last connections to the Apple Blossom conspiracy.

DeWitt would call his own shots, re-create America in an image to his liking, and the system (Chinese or American, he didn’t really care) would
have to
go along.

He would be a
great
president, he knew, and soon so would the rest of the world.

A cell phone began ringing, and everyone in the box began checking theirs. It rang three times, then stopped… unanswered.

The game kicked off, the box filled with cheers, groans, and the natural excitement that this event always engendered, and DeWitt was surprised by how much the passion—for the teams, of course—affected him.

On the top of the stadium, under a cement-gray tarp behind a large plastic cutout of the Liberty Bell, Fabrè
waited. He’d been in place for over five hours, calmly passing the time listening to Mozart through one ear of his Walkman, the communications net in his other.

If he was caught—he thought without much concern—he would be killed. There was little doubt of that. But he’d been well paid, his insurance was up to date, and he was doing “grand service to the Brotherhood.”

It was enough.

He didn’t need to site in on the luxury box that was his target. He’d done his run-throughs and had grooved the needed physical actions to a fine edge. But he was curious at the source of all the noise.

He peeked out through a less-than-an-inch slit in the tarp at the section just below him.

He could see groups of midshipmen—young men and women sprinting around the end zone in a vain attempt to tear down the taunting banners that the cadets had hung there. He saw the cadets hastily pull up the banners, to frustrate the midshipmen.

Directly below him, the Army band played loud, raucous rock and roll—more noise than music. The fans cheered with a primitive vibration that shook the place as they pressed up against the thin guardrails.

And no one looked up.

Satisfied, he returned to Mozart and waiting.

Late in the second quarter, the cell phone rang again. This time, a navy steward found it—neatly tucked away—in the drawer of a writing desk at the back of the box. After answering it, he smoothly moved through the crowded box, handing it to a surprised Michael.

“Culbertson.”