21
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Islamist terror is the darkest threat of our time. The world’s nations have a moral duty to work together against it. Yet we ignore one country’s contributions. Russia has fought these killers for twenty years, in Chechnya, Syria, even on its own soil. Next to the United States, no non-Muslim country has suffered more civilian casualties. And Russia has the military tools to provide real aid in this war. Its army and air force have already proven themselves in the fight against the Islamic State. President Duto must put outdated Cold War notions aside and build an alliance with Moscow for the twenty-first century—
The door to Eric Birman’s office swung open. Eric knew without looking up from his screen that he’d see Paul. No one else would barge in that way. Without knocking. Like he owned the place. But then he did, didn’t he? Like everyone else here, Eric served at Paul’s pleasure.
“Colonel.”
Eric never knew if Paul meant the title as compliment or insult. “Senator.”
“Working hard?”
“On your speech.”
Paul came around his desk, peered at the screen. Eric heard him murmuring under his breath, the sure sign of a weak reader. “One country’s con-trib-utions . . . Pretty pro-Russia, isn’t it?”
“I have to give you credit, Paul. You’ve done a great job talking about the jihadis. Duto’s on his heels.” Thanks to my friends.
“Thirty-eight percent approval this morning. Not that I noticed.”
“But he’s not dumb. He’ll come back, say we’re running drones all over the world, moved soldiers into Iraq and Syria. We’ve killed tons of these guys since I took office. Senator Birman talks a good game, but what will he do that we’re not doing already? What do you say then?”
“We fight harder. Take no prisoners—”
“Empty rhetoric. He’ll tear it up. A new alliance with Russia, that would be a real change. Best part is, you’d use his strength against him. Everyone knows he ran the CIA, it gives him credibility. Here you say he’s stuck in the past. Thinking like some Cold War dinosaur who always makes the Russians out to be the enemy.”
“But they are the enemy. I mean, they’re pretty nasty, aren’t they?”
Lucky Cousin Paul showing his geopolitical understanding.
“They’re tough. But they’re not stupid. Why do you think the Cold War never got hot? I mean, chess is the national game over there.”
“Always thought chess was for losers.”
Of course you did. “When I was at Special Operations Command, we talked to the Spetsnaz, the Russian Special Forces, every so often. Traded tips on these guys. We had to be careful how much we gave up, of course, but kidnapping situations, fighting in mosques, we both had the same problems. Fedin came to the meetings once or twice. You’d like him. He looks you in the eye, man-to-man, says what he thinks. You can do business with him. The Russians, they just want to have their own sphere of influence. Honestly, who cares about Kazakhstan, whatever-stan, long as they aren’t sending suicide bombers our way? Even Ukraine. In my opinion, the Russians have the right to keep an eye on it.”
“How so?”
“Far as they’re concerned, it’s a buffer between them and Europe. They’ve never forgotten all those panzer divisions rolling east—”
“Fine. Sounds good. Keep writing.”
Eric wasn’t surprised Paul had agreed so quickly. The worst part of talking to him was also the best part. He had the attention span of a gnat. Tell him a story that sounded halfway reasonable, facts he couldn’t be bothered to check, he would agree simply so he didn’t have to listen anymore. That way he could return to thinking about his favorite subject. Himself.
“Will do,” Eric said. “I think you should give it soon, ride this wave.”
“Maybe ask Sam”—Samantha Raynor, the head of Paul’s in-state office in Nashville—“to set something up this weekend.”
Now that Paul had agreed, Eric wondered if he ought to talk to his controller before setting a date. The Russians might have plans of their own. “Logistics could be tricky.”
“You’re the one who said soon.” Paul grinned. He loved turning the tables as much as any five-year-old. He perched himself on the edge of Eric’s desk. Another move Eric hated. “Anyway, the real reason I came in: Gloria is freaking out. She said something about selling the house. Which I told her is never going to happen, that was Daddy’s house and it’s staying in the Birman family as long as there is a Birman family.”
“Sorry, Paul.”
“I want ex-Deltas for her. That’ll impress her.”
“Deltas run a thousand a day per guy, three guys for continuous coverage.”
Paul shrugged. Three thousand dollars a day, a million a year, who cares? “We can look into getting full-time guys on staff in a few days, something cheaper, but right now I need her calm. She wants them for me, too.”
“I’ll start looking for folks this afternoon. For her first, right?”
Paul squeezed Eric’s shoulder. “Colonel. I know I give you a hard time once in a while, but I couldn’t do this without you. Behind every good man there’s a good chief of staff.”
Eric managed to wait until Paul had left the room before he cursed.
He had just turned back to the speech when his mobile buzzed. A blocked number.
“Captain Farragut?”
Eric knew the voice immediately. Adam Petersen. His SVR controller. Captain Farragut was code for a same-day meeting. “Excuse me? This is Eric Birman.”
“Sorry. I’m calling for Captain Farragut. Tommy Farragut. Third Battalion, Fourth Infantry Regiment.”
Eric was glad he’d memorized the codes. Third Battalion meant Petersen wanted the meeting in three hours. Fourth Infantry Regiment was a preplanned location, a Target parking lot in the Columbia Heights neighborhood, two miles north of the White House. Not perfect. Eric preferred to meet outside the Beltway. Still, the store was far enough from downtown and Georgetown that it should be safe. And Tommy . . . Eric was pretty sure Tommy meant Petersen would be waiting in a Toyota.
“Tommy Farrugut, you say?”
“That’s right.”
“Yes. I mean, no, you have the wrong number. I don’t know who that is.” The first word was the only one that mattered, signifying Eric’s agreement. Any other answer would have meant no.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, positive. Not from the Fourth ID or anywhere else.” Confirming the location.
“Sorry about that.” Petersen clicked off.
“No problem,” Eric said to the empty line.
Eric left the office two hours later, made sure he’d have time for countersurveillance. The Blue Line to Metro Center, the Red to Gallery Place, the Yellow past Columbia Heights to the Georgia Avenue exit. Twenty years ago, this part of Washington had been close to a no-go zone for the district’s white residents. Now it was bustling, lined with new apartment buildings.
Eric walked north, away from Columbia Heights. He felt vaguely conspicuous in his suit and tie. But Washington had tens of thousands of lawyers and lobbyists who were paid to dress like grown-ups. No one glanced twice at him. When he was sure he was clean, he hailed a cab south to the Target, which looked like every other Target. The Toyota Camry in the middle of the parking lot looked like every other Toyota.
He knocked on the driver’s window. “Do you know if there’s a Sam’s Club around here?” The question itself merely offered Petersen one last chance to abort. If he answered no, Eric would walk on.
“Get in.”
They drove northwest for a few minutes, until Eric broke the silence.
“You worried about surveillance?”
“Not really. Though with drones, who knows anymore? Anything new from the FBI?”
“They’ve promised a briefing next Monday. I think they’re scrambling. This is now three investigations in three states, and they don’t have a lot of leads.” Eric looked at Petersen. “That can’t be why you pulled me out of the office.”
“Have you spoken to your cousin about the speech?”
“I was writing it when you called. Russia is greatest country in history of world, anyone who thinks different is Nazi or terrorist or terrorist Nazi. It’s easier for him to give it than talk to me about it, so that’s what he’ll do.”
“Hah.” Petersen slapped the steering wheel. He turned into a 7-Eleven parking lot, stilled the engine. “Will you be there when he gives it?”
Eric felt a prickling in his chest he recognized from Afghanistan. The adrenaline of incoming fire. The battle joined. “Wasn’t planning to. Not like he needs me in the audience. Why?”
“When will he give it?”
“As early as this weekend, if we can set it up. By the way, he’s going to hire extra guards soon.”
“Sooner is better, then. Even better if he gives it somewhere outside Tennessee, a venue he isn’t so familiar with.”
“You have anywhere specific in mind, Adam?”
“What about Dallas, outside the American Airlines Center itself? Where the bomb blew up.”
“Of course. So important symbolically—”
“When he gives this speech, you should be close by.”
“How close?”
“As close as you can be.”
They sat, side by side, with their hands in their laps. Almost too calm. Birman wondered if he was dreaming the conversation. He turned on the radio just to hear it. It was tuned to WAMU, the local NPR station. Of course. So refined, these Russian spies. When they weren’t blowing up bombs.
“You want to kill me, too, then.”
The words spoken now, the threat real.
“No.”
“So not a bomb.” Eric had wondered if the sniper belonged to the Russians. Now he knew. Bet when I get back to the office, I find at least one hotel with rooms overlooking the arena.
“Do you see what happens next, Colonel?”
“Da.”
They were quiet, listening to a calm NPR voice recounting the day’s events: The FBI is appealing for information—
Petersen turned off the radio. “Tell me.”
“You want me to say it.” Eric imagined counterespionage agents swarming the car. But they were far, far past a sting. “Senator Paul Birman. Chairman of the Intelligence Committee. Just as he calls for Russia and the United States to band together against jihad, he’s gunned down. Killed from afar. Guessing the sniper has jihadi credentials. No idea how you’ve managed that, but you’re clever souls. I grab Paul, pull him to cover. My cousin. His blood is all over me. All of a sudden, I’m Bobby Kennedy. Maybe I’m the wrong Birman, but I have the great advantage of being alive. I’m a hero, too. Everyone else ran. Not me. I went to him with that sniper still loose. So brave.”
“Of course you’re brave. You are a soldier.”
The .30 caliber round tearing through the thin bullet-resistant vest Paul would wear for the speech. Paul crumpling, slipping sideways, as Eric cradled his shoulders, shielded him, held his head close—Okay, cousin. Stay with me. Eyes open. Don’t give up—empty promises to a dying man . . .
Eric wasn’t imagining it, he was seeing it, the future as it happened, the screaming, the panicked stampede of the audience, the cops finally reacting, running for Paul: Go! Go! Go!—
He even felt a glint of sadness for his cousin, cut down at the peak of his popularity. But Paul would be as lucky in death as he had been in life. No mortal fear for him, the cord cut in one swift stroke. No way for him to know that the White House could never be his. He would have a clean exit, join his beloved Daddy in Heaven’s garage, where all the cars were classic.
“Colonel?” Petersen’s voice brought Eric back to the parking lot. Could they be planning this here? With Big Gulps on sale for ninety-nine cents ten feet away? “You don’t mind this? This man is your blood.”
Petersen had mistaken his reverie for second thoughts. “If you thought I’d mind, you wouldn’t be asking me.”
“We don’t have to, your cousin can stay in the Senate, you’ll have all the information we need.”
Eric’s vision strayed south. Past the White House to the Lincoln Memorial. The great man, sitting, hands on knees, trying to save the Union. A century and a half later, his every word still remembered. To be president was to be a god, of sorts. And to have a god’s afterlife. Do you want to be president? Do you want to be Zeus?
“Do I even have to answer?”
“You still have to win. You said yourself the reporters look at everything. Could anything disqualify you? Please, take a minute, think—”
Funny, now that they’d reached this moment, Petersen was almost discouraging him. Eric didn’t need a minute to think. He’d always lived honorably. Told the truth even when it didn’t benefit him. Led his soldiers from the front. One of his first real memories, five years old, he’d taken an extra Tootsie Roll from a drugstore. Accidentally. When he found it, he insisted to his mom that they needed to go back, pay the nickel.
“Nothing.”
He’d always been a good man. Until now. Not so good now, was he? He was pretty sure that Honest Abe Lincoln had never plotted to kill his cousin so he could be president.
But maybe that perfect history was why he’d fallen so far so fast. Not fallen but jumped. Let gravity have its way. He liked to blame Paul. Maybe he’d looked around and realized nobody cared about his code. He was just another washed-up retired colonel, stuck working for his cousin.
He’d solved that problem, anyway. He wasn’t just another anything anymore.
“Scout’s honor, nothing to hide. Just make sure of one thing, Adam.”
“Yes.”
“Make sure this sniper of yours doesn’t miss. He misses, or, even worse, he hits Paul and doesn’t take him out and that SOB makes some miraculous recovery, I swear before God and Stalin I will choke him out myself on live television. And call a press conference and confess it all.”
Petersen patted Eric’s arm. “Let me know when you have the details of the speech. Give us an hour or two before you make the public announcement, if you can. And make it Sunday at the latest. Friday or Saturday, even better. The longer it goes, the harder it is for our man to hide.”
“As you wish.”
“Relax, Colonel. When all of this is over, you’ll have what you want.”
“And only the Kremlin to thank.”
It was past 9 by the time Eric knocked on the heavy oak door to Paul’s Capitol Hill town house. Some senators lived in shared houses in Washington, but not those who had nine-figure fortunes. For a while, when he came over, Eric expected to catch a mistress coming or going. He never had. Tonight, Jimmy Sanders pulled open the door.
“In the study.”
The room Paul called a study was devoid of books and had been given over to a thirty-foot model train track, complete with mountains, stations, and a miniature version of Nashville. A professional model train engineer had built it. Such people really did exist, so that rich people didn’t have to bother putting their own sets together. Paul watched happily as an eight-car train chugged around the track.
“Cousin, you get Gloria her Deltas?”
As if the world’s most highly trained soldiers were take-out fried chicken. Gimme two Sergeants and a Captain, extra-crispy. “Coming up from North Carolina tomorrow. I want to talk to them myself before I send them to her.”
“Cool.”
“I finished your speech.” Eric pulled a folder from his briefcase. Seven pages inside. “I think you ought to give it by Saturday. And not in Tennessee.”
“Don’t we want to be sure we have a good crowd?”
“You’ll have a good crowd wherever you do it. We’ll call it a major foreign policy address, a rethinking of America’s place in the world. The networks will show. Might even cover it live. Guess where I’m thinking?”
Paul’s eyes crinkled in annoyance. Employees don’t make bosses guess. “Been a long day, Eric—”
Yeah, I see you’ve been busy playing with trains. “Dallas. The American Airlines Center. I checked, the Mavs and Stars are out of town Friday, the weather’s gonna be good—”
“Would they let me? The Mavs, I mean.”
“How can they stop you? The leading voice on terrorism wants to speak at the site of a major attack. If they say no, they’ll look awful.”
Paul shut off the train. Eric could almost see him thinking.
“Cousin, don’t mean to sound like a wimp, but you sure it’s safe? With this sniper out there?”
“You’ll have the Dallas police, your own security. A vest. Plus, if you haven’t noticed, the guy’s after priests. Unless you announce you’re joining the ministry, you should be fine.” Eric snapped his fingers like Paul had suddenly given him an idea, although he’d planned this line all along. “In fact, we can play up the risk, make Duto look even worse. Tell reporters you’re not afraid to go to the site of the attack, that’s the language we’ll use, and Duto’s in his bubble.”
Paul flipped the train back on, and Eric knew he’d won.
“Cousin, I like the way you think.” He smiled as the train began to chug. “Dallas, here we come.”