The End Game (11 page)

Tuesday

7 a.m.–2
p.m.

24

KNIGHT TAKES C3

Atlantic City, New Jersey

Z
ahir Damari—known to Matthew and his little group of ideologues, fanatics, and crazies as Darius, only Darius—drove his stolen Jeep into Atlantic City before sunrise. The ramshackle abandoned hotel where he was to meet his contact was two blocks off the main drag. There were no lights and the building was falling down. He heard rats scurrying around when his flashlight hit them.

Atlantic City was dying, and soon this whole country would collapse under greed and endless bureaucracy and people so contentious and self-interested that anything needful would never get done, no movement at all until it was too late.

It was too late now, far too late. He should know, since it was his job to give it a big push, and when he and Matthew finished, the U.S. would buckle and collapse under the pressure.

Zahir knew there were no cameras nearby, not in this area, and no tourists, unless they were certifiable. He walked around to the back of the hotel. It was quiet, almost too quiet. He stopped walking,
stood very still. He'd stayed alive this long because he always trusted his instincts. He pulled out his Walther PPK from its battered holster under his arm and began moving forward again, slower this time, his gun at the ready.

There wasn't supposed to be anyone here yet, but as he rounded the edge of the building, he saw a young man, his back to Zahir, standing very quietly. In this dying city, he was simply another shadow, of no consequence.

Wait. Was this his contact? From Colonel Rahbar? Or was he sent by the Hammer? How did this make any sense? Zahir moved, quick as a striking snake, grabbed the young man around the neck, pressed the Walther to his temple.

He whispered in the boy's ear, “Don't turn around, and don't struggle, or I'll have to shoot you, and I'm not in the mood to kill a child.”

The young man stiffened. “I am not a child. I have done my job and done it well for six years now. I am here to give you a message.”

Zahir loosened his hold around his neck. “Speak.”

He drew in a deep breath, and when he spoke Zahir heard cool authority, realized this young man wasn't an amateur, not a simple messenger. Despite his seeming youth, he knew what he was doing, knew the stakes, knew well Zahir could kill him if wanted to, yet he'd come and he seemed calm and in control. Zahir was impressed.

The young man said, “As you can see, I did not bring the plans, I could not.”

“And why do you not have my plans?”

“My asset texted me that since the explosion at Bayway Refinery and the loss of life, he is no longer safe. He thinks he is being watched. He fears that if he provides these plans to you, the FBI
will find out and take him. He claims he must stop everything he is being paid well to do for us and cover his tracks. And, he told me, he is sorry to let us down.” The kid snorted.

“I could not move him because he is hysterical, the weak-kneed ass, and has forgotten what he owes us. Colonel Rahbar has instructed me to tell you that you must find another way to accomplish your mission.”

He leaned against the young man's ear and whispered, “Find another way when this one is so perfect? No, I don't think so. I cannot believe you are allowing this puling coward to tell you what he will and will not do, to give you orders, to give Colonel Rahbar orders.”

“He refuses to act and I cannot obtain the blueprints myself. If I could I would, but I cannot. The Hammer agrees, you must find another way.”

“I see, so Rahbar and the Hammer feel this fool is too valuable to threaten or kill.”

“I believe so.”

Again Zahir whispered against his ear. “Here is what is going to happen. I will see to it myself that your American traitor does as he was paid to do. Paid very, very well, I assume. You will now take a message directly to him from me, from Zahir Damari. Where does this man work?”

“In Baltimore.”

“Excellent. You will tell this asset of yours that if he does not bring the plans to a diner called Silver Corner in the Inner Harbor at precisely ten o'clock tomorrow morning, I will not only destroy him, I will blow up his world. Do you think he will believe me?”

The young man's voice was no longer flat, emotionless; it was filled with eagerness. “I did not agree with Colonel Rahbar or the
Hammer, so I will gladly tell him. If he does not believe you, he is a fool as well as a coward and he would deserve what you will do to him.”

“In case he isn't convinced, tell him I am a great fisherman and that I quite enjoy gutting fish. Now go, do not look over your shoulder. We wouldn't want you turning into a pillar of salt.”

The young man drew a deep breath when Zahir lifted the gun from his temple. He turned and walked away, his footsteps sending the rats scurrying, the only sound in the quiet morning. He did not look back. Did Zahir hear him whistling? A boy after his own heart.

25

PAWN TAKES C3

One Observatory Circle

Washington, D.C.

V
ice President Callan Sloane set her encrypted iPad on the coffee table. It was early, and she needed to mainline some caffeine before digging in to the PDB—President's Daily Brief. Outside the window, her assigned Secret Service agents strolled along the veranda and through the white-latticed gazebo into the gardens, enjoying the beautiful spring morning. Soon it would be hot and humid, everyone sweating, her included, a typical D.C. summer, but for now, the air was clear and cool, the flowers bloomed, and Callan was left to her own devices for another hour. She liked eating alone in the living room, with none of her people sneaking in to get a breath of air-conditioned air, or the cook bustling around preparing for the inevitable twice-weekly dinner parties.

Every day started the same for her. Rise at six; hit the treadmill; shower, feed and play with the cats; then move downstairs; grab the coffee, apple, and granola bar she preferred; and set up shop in the
living room. It was clean and serene, with lush floor-to-ceiling draperies and cool, neutral beige tones, not the cluttered mess of her upstairs office or the formal severity of her two White House offices. It was much more her.

She drank her coffee from a chipped blue mug she'd brought from home when she'd moved into the vice president's mansion. The mug had once read
DODGERS
, a gift from her baseball-loving dad before he'd died of a sudden heart attack five years before. She treasured it, couldn't talk herself into not using it, though it would break one day and then where would she be? Up to her ears in Super Glue.

The PDB was the first thing she looked at once she settled in for breakfast. It was a daily intelligence publication that had started with President Truman, back in the late forties, to brief him on the immediate threats to the United States.

Callan set down her coffee and swiped a finger across her highly encrypted iPad. She knew what was tops on the PDB today—the bombing in New Jersey. It was being attributed to the terror group Celebrants of Earth. There'd also been a major cyber-attack on the oil sector, possibly tied to the Bayway bombing. But the biggest item would be about the current peace talks in Geneva and Israel's balking over Iran's latest claim that they had no plans to launch any nuclear weapons ever, even in the distant future, at Israel. Like anyone would believe that, ever, except for the president.
The world's going to Hell in a
handbasket,
as her grandmother used to say. Callan took some comfort from the knowledge that this was the belief of every generation, probably back to the cavemen. Truman had dealt with far worse than her boss, President Jefferson Bradley, but it was a different world back then. Today the nation's enemies no longer wore uniforms and goose-stepped to cheering crowds. Now their
enemies were faceless. They attacked silently, by land, sea, air, or computer, something Truman couldn't have imagined.

Her cell rang. It was sitting on the table by her half-eaten apple. She went on alert when she saw the number. The president rarely called her directly. That meant he wanted to talk about Israel and how they were trying to destroy his precious Middle East peace talks.

“Good morning, sir.”

No hello, only: “Did you read the PDB?”

“I did, yes.” She said nothing more, waited.

“Callan, I need you to get the Israelis on the right side of this, and do it now. I know your relationship with Mossad; it's one of the reasons I brought you on board as my VP. We can't have anything disrupt the talks this week. When they're not ignoring each other, they're talking about this COE group's brazen cyber-attack, and needless to say all the oil-producing countries are scared after Bayway. I heard one of them claiming it was Israel's fault, that they were behind COE. Perhaps they are, I don't know. I will not allow this group to screw with my legacy. I won't have it, I simply won't.” Bradley sucked in a deep breath. “The Israelis walked out last night. Call that man you know, Ari Mizrahi. Handle this, handle them, or we're going to have a very long talk when I return.”

“Yes, sir.”
Your Eminence.
She wasn't terribly fond of her boss, but she couldn't deny they had made an excellent political team. She'd brought California, and the female vote, which tipped the scales. Their only major disagreement was foreign policy, the Middle East in particular. She knew firsthand the dangers America, Israel, and the rest of the world faced by a saber-rattling nuclear Iran and their enforcers, Hezbollah, and the rest of the undemocratized Middle East. Bradley wanted a lasting legacy of peace in the region, and
he'd made that his number-one priority when he took office. Only a year into his presidency and he'd managed to get all the parties together and actually sitting down at the same table in Geneva. That in itself was quite a coup. He'd even managed to talk Israel into letting the Taliban and the Saudis come to the party. He knew Israel wouldn't come if he invited Hezbollah, no matter what he threatened, but he managed to get the Iranian mullahs and the president, even the fanatical Colonel Vahid Rahbar, always eager and vicious in his denunciation of Israel and the West. Everyone agreed this was a miracle, and prayed.

But Callan knew it wouldn't work just as she knew the glory Bradley was seeking would very likely end up being his downfall. And the world's as well?

No hope for it; at least at this moment, he was her boss. “I'll talk to them immediately, sir.”

“Do that. I'll be back Wednesday night for my speech congratulating the Yorktown facilities for moving to clean energy resources, then I'll go to Camp David for the weekend and get this peace accord written up. It will happen if you do your job, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir, I understand.”

“Good. The heads of state will be in the U.S. next week to do the signing. I want your smiling face both at Yorktown and at the signing, Callan.” He paused for a moment, retrenched a bit. “Look, I know you aren't on board with my approach, but I truly believe this is the right course of action. I'm showing them the right way, showing them how to save face and save their countries, their countries' futures. They will come around to reason; I will guide them.”

How can you be so blind? If leaders do sign a peace accord, it's all
for show, the same show that's been played in the past, to let you preen for a while, let you give them financial incentives, promises that could cripple us, before they strike.
Can't you look at Colonel Rahbar and see the abiding hatred in his eyes
?
Are you content to ignore what he says about the West? That we're a blight, vermin, and should be exterminated?

But she couldn't tell him that, she'd fought with him enough. So he wanted her at Yorktown and at the peace accord signing next week to prove to all the Middle East leaders that the U.S. vice president had finally come to the dark side and agreed America's enemies were their friends. If it happened.

“Understood, sir.” She knew she shouldn't prod the beast with a stick, but she couldn't help herself. “So, otherwise, how are the talks going?”

She knew he hated to say it, but he had no choice. “Not well, even with all my efforts, but still, it will turn around, once you get the Israelis back to the table. I have another twenty-four hours left to get them all on board. Do your job, Callan,” and he hung up. Callan immediately dialed her chief of staff, Quinn Costello, her own personal gold mine, snapped up a decade earlier when Senator Willis Reed of Missouri had conveniently retired, for family reasons, now the current code word for extramarital frolicking.

“Morning, ma'am,” came Quinn's bright voice. “You're on your way?”

“Not yet. Is my schedule insane today? I have some work I'd like to do from here.”

“You have three meet and greets, a photo op with the dairy farmers at ten. We don't need you here until nine at the earliest. I take it Bradley is making you jump?”

“Of course. Gather the security folks. I want a full briefing on COE at ten-fifteen. I'll send word when I'm on my way.”

She hesitated only a moment before dialing a number she knew by heart. When he answered, his deep voice was so familiar, and now so distant, she wanted to chuck it all and set things right between them.

“Mizrahi.”

“Ari? It's Callan.”

“I know. I still recognize your number.” The coldness of his tone broke her heart. At least he'd answered, and that was an improvement. He wouldn't take her calls for months after she'd broken it off, had no choice when she'd joined the campaign. She'd needed him the most then, but he'd cut her off completely, seeing her as a traitor since she'd teamed up with Bradley, a man he distrusted. She understood, all too well. She'd chosen her career over him and he wouldn't get over it. She'd hoped she could break through, but after today, she knew there wouldn't be a chance. Today she had to rattle his cage.

“I'm calling on official business.”

“I would expect nothing else from you.”

Another stab to the heart. “Ari, please. Let's not fight. You know my situation. You know when I accepted this job I could hardly go on the campaign trail with a lover from Mossad.”

He went silent, and she rested her forehead in her hand. “This is temporary, Ari. You know how I feel. That hasn't changed.”

When he spoke again, his voice cool and remote, she knew their personal fight was put back in its bottle for another time.
Please be patient, Ari. Please forgive me for today.

“What do you need, Madam Vice President?”

“I need your people, your government, back at the table in Geneva, to cooperate with President Bradley's talks.”

“Our stance hasn't changed, Callan. We won't capitulate here, we can't afford to, and you of all people know exactly why we can't. Iran has their warheads pointed at us. Any concessions on our part right now will be tantamount to opening the border and letting the dogs through. They stand down, take those reactors offline permanently, then we'll talk, but you know they have no intention of doing that, not in my lifetime.”

“We're working on it, Ari, I promise you we are. If you'd give us one bit of a good-faith showing—”

“I can't believe I'm hearing this, from
you
of all people.
You
, who knows firsthand what we've sacrificed, how we've continued to bend and compromise. Do you wish to ignore that we're under constant attack? That we live daily with death riding on our shoulders and blood in our coffee shops? My own innocent young daughter, slaughtered, moldering in the ground? And yet you,
you
, come to me with Bradley's message, asking my government to accept their lies?”

“I'm asking that you consider the possibility of reaching a lasting peace, Ari. Think of the possibilities, keep an open mind, that's all.”

He laughed once, short and bitter. “A lasting peace. You will never see past the end of your nose. No, it's not your nose, it's his, Bradley's. He doesn't want to see that Iran has no intention of cooperating, or working toward peace, with us, Israel. They want us destroyed. They say it out loud for the world to hear. Even Colonel Rahbar, he's saying all the right things as he sits at the table, pandering to the president. These peace meetings—they're all for show.”

She agreed with him, but she said, “Perhaps this time is different, perhaps—”

He cut her off. “Tell me why there's a contract out?”

Her heart froze. “What? What did you say?”

“We intercepted an e-mail going to Jordan last night. In it were wire transfers to a series of accounts we've been monitoring. We believe it's the Iranians, acting with Hezbollah. We believe they belong to—”

“Don't say it,” she said sharply, all personal animus forgotten. “Not on this line. Do you have any tangible proof of this?”

“He's gone. Three months ago, he flew to Mexico, through London. There was a small slaughter outside of Ciudad Juárez. A group of ISIS jihadists we've been collectively watching. A
pollero
, a local coyote, is missing as well. Official word is a pissed-off drug lord killed them, but I saw the pictures. It's his work, without doubt. He's on the move, Callan, and he's in the United States.”

“And the target?”

Ari said simply, “There may be more than one target, but as yet, it's unverified. The only one we know for sure is you.”