Critical Mass (16 page)

From the high places all around, henceforth this is ordered: that the prayers be proclaimed in loud voice at the appointed times, in performance of the
salah
, the five prayers of each day.

This must be done at once, or there will be a serious consequence. Your savior loves you, and will be pleased to communicate further with God’s people, when God wills.

A LOST WORLD

The president was still in his helicopter when news of the latest Mahdi communi
cation came in the form of an urgent bulletin from the Director of National Intelligence. The president took one look at it and picked up the phone. “Logan?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Is Matt safe?”

“They’re in their bunker.”

“Thank God.” So the vice president could reconstruct the government if he had to. Or rather, when. “I’m coming back.”

“Sir, you can’t—”

He hung up, then communicated with the flight deck. “Take us back,” he said.

Immediately the chopper banked and began its churning return to the White House. A headwind made it bounce. Outside, dawn burst forth in shades of pink and red. They flew low over the glowing trees of Bethesda, so low that he could see autumn leaves running along the streets.

His secure phone rang. Webb Morgath, Director of National Intelligence. The president snatched it up. “Webb?”

“This document
requires
the entire U.S. government to remain undispersed.”

“Make sure that no media says anything about the Fifty-one activation. And nobody—I repeat,
nobody
—is to know that I left the White House at all. If there’s any media awareness, invoke national security and suppress it. It can’t look like we came back with our tail between our legs.”

The chopper circled and came in for a landing on the lawn. He saw that the entire damn press corps was swarming outside the closed gates, waiting to be let in.

As he stepped out, Tom Logan met him. “Sir, we have evidence of deep penetration of the FBI and probably the operational infrastructure of the CIA. There is an agent coming in with more detail.”

“Reliable?”

“You’re never sure, are you?”

“What’s his résumé?”

“He’s a counterproliferation expert. The deputy director says he’s the best there is.”

“Is he reliable or not? Come on, goddamn it, evaluate the man!”

“Reliable!”

“Okay, hit me.”

“He won’t disclose anything over the phone.”

“Crap!”

“What else can he do?”

“Yeah, if they’re out there, they’re gonna be after White House communications, for sure.”

The president’s thoughts went to Leandro Aragoncillo, living proof of White House vulnerability. He’d been in the Office of the Vice President for years. Because of that case, an effort was being made to establish an effective internal security program that would cover all sensitive services.

Two months ago, in response to Fitz’s request, the inspector general of the Justice Department had reported that their efforts were “progressing,” which he knew was bureaucratese for “nothing doing.”

Aragoncillo, a Secret Service agent, had worked in the offices of Al Gore and Dick Cheney, and had been reporting to the Philippines, for the love of God. And who the hell had those bastards been selling the information to?

That, plus Brewster Jennings and other situations—who knew how deep the problem might be? One thing was very clear: Fitz was master of a ship with a broken rudder, and they were in shoal waters.

As he walked toward the White House, breathing the cool, tart air of a
smoggy morning, Tom continued, “The pope and the prime minister are both holding. France is scheduled in twenty minutes, then Germany, Japan, and Italy. Russia—”

“No Russia.”

“Israel?”

“I want Webb Morgath, Wally Benton, and the generals on a conference call in my office in fifteen minutes.” That would be the Director of National Intelligence, the CIA director, and the Joint Chiefs. “I want the statutories on call.” That was the National Security Council and its statutory advisers. “I want
no
support personnel on the line whatsoever. I want a Marine guard around the White House and around my person. The Secret Service is going to have to withdraw.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me. Do it, Tommy.”

“Sir, the Secret Service?”

“If we are looking at a penetration, we have to assume that they would try hard to compromise my personal detail.” He stopped, looked at Tommy’s ashen face. “Your eye is twitching.”

“I know it.”

“This, too, shall pass. Maybe. Now get things in motion for me, please.”

“Sir, everybody’s here.”

“
Here?
My God, they belong on dispersal!”

“Sir, when you came back, so did they.”

“But not Matt?”

“No, he’s still secured.”

Had he returned, Fitz would have had him arrested, returned to his bunker, and imprisoned there.

Still striding, Fitz shook his head. The others were still fools to come back. Without them, rebuilding the government would just be that much more difficult. So he’d do this as fast as possible and get them the hell out. He reached the Rose Garden and went inside. And there stood Dan, his son. Gone was the nose piercing. His hair was cut—roughly, but in a conventional cut. The media’s beloved Goth had disappeared, transformed into the kind of kid this president had hoped to show the world.

“What in hell, Danny, get out of here!”

“Dad—no.”

Sudden anger flared in him. How could Dan be so dense? “This is a
death trap, for God’s sake! We’re in our grave, all of us who are in this place.”

“Dad—”

“You’re young; you have no business taking a risk like this. Look, your mom’s in Newfoundland, and I’m ordering you to join her. You go out to Andrews. There’ll be a plane. You and your sister be on it.”

“Mom is here.”

“That can’t be true.”

“She landed at Andrews twenty minutes ago. And Polly’s on her way.”

“This place could go, Son. Any minute. You need to leave.”

“Dad, your family is here, and we’re
gonna
be here.”

Then it would be all of them, all of the Fitzgeralds, vaporized together in this lethal place. He didn’t want it, but he accepted it because he had no time to argue. He embraced his son and felt his arms around him, felt his hand patting his back, a gesture of gentle support, simple, telling of the bond between them.

He took a deep breath, then gave his son’s elbow a squeeze and went past him into the Oval. He’d do it all from the ceremonial office, because today was history—probably the last day of history as the world knew it—and he was damned if he would do it anywhere except in the center of power and authority. The Oval.

EXCELLENT PLANS

Fitz supposed he was nothing but a sentimental fool, but he never entered the
Oval without feeling the presence of all the great men who had worked here before him. He thought of decisions that had been made here, and what might have gone through the minds of the men making them. From here, Truman had dropped the bomb on Japan. From here, Kennedy had sent men to the moon. From here, Johnson had ended segregation. And from here—in here—Fitz would do what he could to repair the most horrendous breach of American security in history.

On his desk, the classified briefer lay open and ready to read. Fitz glanced down at it. A probability study analyzing who might be responsible, based on that idiotic concept of “chatter.” Why would chatter be so important, for the love of God? It was chatter, wasn’t it?

The Iranians were chattering the most, it seemed. Of course they were; they probably expected a bomb down their throat at any moment. The Syrians were chattering, the Israelis, the Egyptians, the Afghans, Pakistanis, Indians, Chinese, Kazakhstanis, Ukranians, Russians—along with, he supposed, the rest of the world. Who wouldn’t be chattering right now? Even the Vatican was on the list.

There was, in short, nothing of value in the briefer.

Billions of dollars a year, a decade of reorganization, thousands of brilliant
and courageous people, superb equipment—and
Las damn VEGAS was murdered
!

Shame. Shame on them. Shame, above all, on William Fitzgerald, who had believed in a system that was rotten, broken, shattered—
penetrated
.

The thing was, and he could not deny this, he had known. Why else had he been after the Justice Department to plug the holes?
Face it, Mr. President, you knew damn well
. Not specifically, of course. But he had known that somewhere in a system this large and this porous there had to be water gushing in, bulkheads collapsing, watertight doors that should be closed being left wide open.

You knew, Fitz. Their souls are on your conscience. You’re the president and the buck just stopped. Their blood is your responsibility
.

He hit the intercom. “Millie, is it still burning?”

“Sir, you can see. It’s morning there now. It’s all smoke.”

They seemed to come to the door of his soul, the ocean of the dead, holding out their children’s smoking bodies, calling to him, asking him why he hadn’t protected them.

He wanted to cry, but he was too mad to cry.

He looked down not at the briefer but at the hands that held it. His hands. Mottled, a bit thick, a broken nail, his gold wedding band the only decoration. They were the hands of a man who, before this day was out, might order retaliation for this terrible, evil act.

Dream Angel would take hundreds of millions of lives. What was worse, Dream Angel was one of those absurdly theoretical plans that never worked the way they were supposed to work. All he knew about it for certain was that it was going to cause untold human suffering.

He pressed the intercom again. “When the Joint Chiefs arrive, I’ll expect to discuss Dream Angel.”

“Yes, Sir,” Millie replied.

Quickly he considered the protocol of his telephone calls. The PM first, then the pope. The United States was a secular state, after all, and in any case, what could the pope offer but prayers?

Fitz picked up the phone. “Good morning, Cameron, sorry for the delay. I’m in my pajamas and an overcoat.”

“Fitz, first, of course, there are no words—”

“Can you help me?” Four simple words, from one man to another and from his American people to their ancient British source.

“I’ve asked MI6 to review everything. Literally, everything, for any shred, any scrap—”

“What about London?”

“We’re on crisis dispersal now. And coping with the civilian traffic moderately badly, I’m afraid. I think every hotel in the countryside has been booked by Londoners.”

“You need a continuity-of-government plan.”

“We’re behind on that.”

“You’re not alone. I just hope it’s not too late. Where are the French, the Italians, the Germans?”

“Nobody has a continuity plan, not that contemplates decapitation.”

“We’ve been fools, all of us.”

There was a pause, as if to absorb the enormity of that statement. “I’m not at Number Ten, in any event,” Cameron finally said.

“I’m in the White House.”

“Fitz, I just wish to God that there was something I could do!”

“You have this so-called Mahdi’s little missive?”

“Oh yes.”

“It came from Japan. The one before that—so innocuous they didn’t tell me about it—from Finland.”

“It was designed to create discord, that first one.”

“In what sense?”

“Too small to matter. Therefore, the people who didn’t recognize its seriousness will be blamed.”

“No witch hunts. No time.”

“They will be demoralized.”

“Cameron, we have a security problem on this end. Is there any knowledge of it over there?”

No response. The silence extended. Then, “Truthfully, how can I know? Certainly I haven’t been told.”

“Ask MI6, if you don’t mind. If they know anything, any hint, let me know. Or Matt, if I’m no longer involved.”

“Fitz, you’re a great man.”

“Too scared for that, Cameron.”

“We’ll raise a glass together, in victory.”

That sounded about as hollow as anything Fitz had ever heard in his life. “We will,” he said, trying to force something like optimism into his voice.

He hung up and said to Millie, “I’m going to do the press conference at nine sharp. Let them know.”

“You have an urgent from Mr. Hanlon.”

The director of the Secret Service. Fitz picked up the phone. “Charlie, don’t talk; just listen. I have credible evidence that there is a penetration of our security services, which made this whole catastrophe possible. I cannot know who we can trust.”

“Sir, we are absolutely clean. You know how carefully we vet our people.”

Except for spies from the Philippines, of course. “Thank you, Charlie.”

“Sir, we’re clean!”

He just could not take the risk. “I’m using War Powers to remove you. Stand the presidential party down now.” He glanced toward the door. “Where are my Marines, Millie?”

Logan had come in. “Company A is deploying now.”

“Okay.” Fitz went back to the phone. “Charlie, I don’t want war to break out between the Secret Service and the Marines. You stand down.”

Charlie did not reply.

“Charlie, that’s a direct presidential order issued during a national emergency.” He fought to recall the exact terms of the act. What did he need to say to get this to happen?

“Yes,” Charlie said at last. “Yes, Sir.”

Fitz hung up. Logan said, “The pope is waiting.”

“The pope, Millie.” A click. “Your Holiness.”

“I speak on most urgent matter,” the old man said, his English lightly accented. “I have received a threat from an Islamic fanatic that calls himself the Mahdi. He says we must close all churches or there will be a serious consequence. Mr. President, I must know if this threat is with substance.”

He considered, then threw the question back: “Do you have any indication from your own sources?” Contrary to popular belief, the Vatican didn’t have an official intelligence service, but it was the world’s best listener.