Day Zero (7 page)

 

T
he new president was a single man and, as such, had no one to push for the redecoration of the White House. Apart from a new leather desk chair and a couple of paintings staffers had spirited away from the National Gallery, the Oval Office was exactly as it had been under President Clark. Greens and whites ruled the day, as did paintings of Teddy Roosevelt and expansive Western scenes by the likes of George Catlin and John Mix Stanley. The former first lady had left everything behind, including the oppressive ghost of her dead husband that seemed to whisper in the halls to West Wing staffers that something was not quite right in the house.

Now, sprawling over the Oval Office furniture like the stain that he was, President Hartman Drake didn’t help matters at all.

McKeon stood adjacent to the President against the wall, next to the Remington
Rough Rider
bronze. He used long, slender fingers to rub exhausted eyes as he tried to clear the image of this idiot out of his mind.

Drake sat with his feet propped up on the Resolute Desk, leaning back in a plush button-leather chair. He cradled his head in his hands as if he owned the world—which, in fact, he did. His trademark bowtie, this one a conservative red-and-black stripe, hung open. His collar was still buttoned, as if everyone at the meeting had surprised him in the middle of changing clothes.

Across the room, Kurt Bodington, the director of the FBI, sat on one of the green sofas. He leaned forward with his elbows on both knees as if he was on the toilet rather than sitting in the Oval Office. Virginia Ross, the director of the CIA, sat beside him. Her ankles were crossed, her hands rested in her lap, like she was posing for a photo. More pear than hourglass, she’d recently lost a considerable amount of weight and wore clothes that were a size too large. The lacy cuffs of a white blouse hung from the sleeves of a voluminous blue suit that had once strained to keep her contained.

It had been obvious from the time McKeon and Drake took office that neither of these directors was particularly effective in their respective positions. And that was the only reason they were still in place.

A Japanese woman stood on the other side of the door from McKeon, hands folded at her lap. Her name was Ran. Japanese for
orchid
, it was pronounced to rhyme with the American name
Ron
but with a hard
r
, making it sound more like
Lon
or
Don
. In her early twenties, she had flawlessly smooth skin and a quiet presence that reached out into the room, touching anyone who dared look in her direction. She wore a cream-colored long sleeve blouse, unbuttoned enough to reveal the edge of a dark tattoo at her breast. McKeon knew firsthand that there were many more tattoos where that one came from. Director Bodington had unwisely attempted to shake her hand when he’d come in, but Ross had veered away from her as if she were poison—which was not far off. She worked as an aide—among other things—for McKeon and, to his wife’s chagrin, rarely left his side.

“Chris Clark left me a real mess,” Drake said, staring absentmindedly at his reflection in the windows that overlooked the Rose Garden. The man couldn’t walk past a silver tea set without stopping to admire his physique. “I need to know what Winfield Palmer had going with him.”

Bodington gave a concerned nod, as if he understood the gravity of the situation. He liked to paint himself as a big-picture man, but McKeon saw him as more of a paint-by-the-numbers stooge. The director of the most advanced law enforcement agency in the world was happy to do just what he was told and never dared to go outside the lines.

Virginia Ross spoke first.

“The national security advisor’s communications to the president would be privileged,” she said. “But I’m sure he left files. With the tragedy, it would be expected he’d turn them over to you for a seamless transition.”

Nearly half a year after the assassination of both President Chris Clark and Vice President Bob Hughes during the last State of the Union address, people simply called it “the tragedy.”

Unwilling to give his counterpart from the CIA too much floor time, Bodington spoke up before Ross could say more. “I have to be honest, Mr. President,” he said. “I never did understand the absolute power President Clark gave to Winfield Palmer. Sure, they were friends from their days at West Point, but the man seemed to have carte blanche in the intelligence community. He could override anyone and everyone with his special projects. The President took virtually every matter of state to the man as if he were some oracle or something.”

“They were friends, Kurt,” Director Ross said. “Surely even you can understand what that would mean.”

Bodington gave her a withering stare, then half turned in his seat, distancing himself.

“I know he had a pretty large network of agents working for him,” he said. “Half the time, they did little but get in the way of my people.”

“Right,” Drake said. “And we know at least one member of that network tried to kill me in Las Vegas.” He steepled his fingers under his chin, something McKeon had never seen him do until he’d become president. It looked asinine when someone like Drake did it, like he was trying to shoot himself under the chin—which, McKeon couldn’t help but think, was not an entirely bad idea.

“We believe that to be correct,” Bodington said, smugly like one child telling on another to his teacher. “Facial recognition from the Vegas security videos shows it was Jericho Quinn, an agent with Air Force OSI. He’s also wanted for the brutal murder of a Fairfax County police officer. He ran with a big Marine named Thibeau or something.”

“Thibodaux,” McKeon interjected. “Your report says Jacques Thibodaux.”

“Right.” Bodington turned to Virginia Ross. “And some Mexican girl from your shop.”

“She’s from Cuba.” Ross nodded. “I can’t speak for Quinn or the Marine, but Veronica Garcia is a good one. I wasn’t certain at first, but her heroism saved a lot of lives last year during the shooting at Langley.”

Bodington steered the conversation back to Palmer.

“He had quite a few working for him that we wouldn’t know about, but it seemed to me he was grabbing people from other agencies and repurposing them for his missions. No doubt without any oversight from Congress. I’ve seen him with agents from the Secret Service, a couple besides Quinn from Air Force OSI, and several CIA types.”

“But no one from the FBI?”

“Thankfully, no, Mr. President.” Bodington nodded. “My agents have more sense than that.”

Virginia Ross cleared her throat. “I have to say, Mr. President.” She shook her head as if to try to hold back some comment that she couldn’t quite contain. “I’ve already stated my opinion regarding Garcia. Though I have observed Winfield Palmer to be a steamroller with his programs—and often arrogant to the extreme—I have never known him to be anything less than a patriot. To think that he might be behind these attacks is, in my opinion, unthinkable.” She scooted forward to the edge of her seat and leaned in toward the Resolute Desk. “Mr. President, I would suggest a small task force, perhaps some of my agents, and some from Kurt’s shop. I am not privy to all the details regarding the shooting of the poor Fairfax County officer, but I am aware that it’s not a forgone conclusion Agent Quinn is the shooter. There seem to be numerous mitigating—”

“We’re not holding court here,” McKeon cut her off. “I’m sure that, as with most issues, there are multiple layers to everything that has happened over the last few months. But what we must not forget is that there are yet moles within the government and it is imperative to the President that we root them out immediately.”

“Thank you, Lee,” Drake said, almost dismissively. McKeon would have to talk to him about that. “I’d like each of you prepare a list of everyone you’ve ever seen with Winfield Palmer.” He raised an eyebrow at Virginia Ross. “And I’m not interested in your opinions. I just want names.”

 

 

“That bitch has flown straight off the reservation,” Drake said after the two directors had gone. “I thought she was one we could trust to toe the line—if only out of self-preservation.”

“As did I.” McKeon nodded. “But that does not appear to be the case. We should start thinking about a suitable replacement.”

The Japanese woman stood stoically at her post along the wall.

“She seemed like such an empty suit,” Drake went on. “What do you think prompted her little show of team spirit for Palmer?”

“Integrity, I’d imagine,” McKeon said.

“Well,” Drake said, “we can’t have that screwing up our plans. What’s your take on the Uyghur prisoners? Do you think turning them over to Pakistan will be enough to push Chen Min over the edge?”

“I do,” McKeon said. He shot a glance at Ran, who rolled her eyes. She could not stand Hartman Drake and begged McKeon to let her kill the man every night when they went to bed. “We cannot be too brash.”

McKeon knew his words were falling on deaf ears. Drake was the very picture of brash. Everything he did was flamboyant, from his colorful bowties to his firebrand speeches. McKeon’s biological father had dreamed of the day when one of his children—or the children he’d placed in positions of power—made it to the White House. It had taken years of patience and planning to make it happen. But it would take much more patience and planning to make it worthwhile. A sitting president, even one bent on the fall of the United States, had to work slowly. He could not, for instance, just hand the bomb to Iran, normalize relations with North Korea—or declare war on China. Everything had to appear to come from the outside. If he moved too quickly or acted outside the apparent best interest of the nation, there were still plenty of wary members of Congress who would bring impeachment charges in a heartbeat.

No, there were better ways to bring down a government, insidious ways that would see the American public clamoring for—even demanding—the very actions that would bring about their own destruction.

“Chen Min will rise to the bait. There is no doubt of that.” McKeon took a deep breath, too fatigued to rehash things they’d discussed ad nauseam. “Ranjhani’s plan will help us keep up the anti-China rhetoric with the public.”

“Another bomb.” Drake snorted, his dismissive tone rising to the surface again. His tone made McKeon consider letting Ran have her way. But he needed the imbecile for a while longer.

“A bomb, indeed,” McKeon said. “But not just any bomb. A simple explosion destroys only steel and bone. My father was a brilliant man. He knew that America was strong enough to fend off any outside encroachment of Islam. We have seen how good this country is at stopping attack after attack. But my father knew, and stated many times, when this country falls, it will be because it rips itself to pieces from within.”

Drake laughed to himself, as if he’d just thought of something funny. His feet slid off the desk and fell to the floor. Turning slightly, he took a moment to check out the reflection of his shoulders in the Rose Garden window. “I think my biceps might be shrinking. I have got to get down to the gym.” He glanced up. “Anyway, good thing we’re keeping an eye on Virginia Ross. We do have eyes on her, don’t we?”

“Yes,” McKeon said, suddenly more tired than he had ever been. With a partner like Drake, he might as well be doing this alone. “We have eyes on everyone we know of who had a relationship to Winfield Palmer. But the time for watching is over.”

“Damn, Lee.” Drake gave him a condescending grimace. “I’m surprised you ever got elected to public office. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that you have a creepy way of saying things?” He grabbed a gym bag from under the desk and stopped to look at the Vice President. “Every time you talk about this thing we’re doing, I expect you to follow up with an evil laugh. ‘The time for watching is over. . . . Bwahahahahah.’ I mean, shit, give me a break. . . .”

Ran tensed at the insult. She took a half step forward. Thick veins throbbed at the base of her neck. Drake was so caught up in his own joke that he didn’t notice how close he was to dying. McKeon gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, stopping her. He mouthed the word
soon
as the President continued his mock laughter and walked past the Secret Service agent posted outside the door.

 

K
im and Mattie Quinn made the perfect mother-daughter pair. Both wore blue
ALASKA GROWN
T-shirts and denim shorts. Their hair styled in classy, off-the-shoulder updos, the two were virtual twins but for the fact that Kim was a blonde and Mattie had coal-black curls like her father. Mattie also happened to have two working legs, where her mother sported a metal prosthetic limb where her left leg had been amputated above the knee. She was back to using a cane again for a few days while she grew accustomed to the newly fitted prosthetic.

Five months after a sniper’s bullet that was meant for Mattie had torn through her thigh, Kim knew that she had more swagger with one leg than she’d ever had with two.

Of course, it hadn’t started out that way. When she’d first come out of anesthesia after surgery, the look on Jericho’s face had told her the leg was gone. She’d hated him in that moment, a difficult thing to do with Jericho, though she didn’t let him know that. Considering the sort of work he did, it was not a hard case to make that her ex-husband was responsible for bringing the assassin’s bullet ripping into their family. But Kim knew that life was much more complicated than that.

Despair and grief over the loss of her leg was compounded by the fact that she’d chased Jericho away with the lines she’d drawn and then dared him not to cross. Neither of them had ever been good with ultimatums—but she’d given them anyway. For a week after the surgery, she’d felt absolutely alone and feared that without two good legs, she’d never be attractive to any man, let alone Jericho. It didn’t really matter. She’d kicked him out, driven him away with her wild fears about him getting killed. In her quiet, solitary moments, she told herself it would be better to have a little of him, than none at all—that Mattie deserved to have a father, and she deserved to have at least some semblance of a husband, even if he was gone more than half the time to godforsaken hellholes where everyone wanted to kill him. At least then, she had been able to call him hers. But then, he’d come around and her stubborn streak would rise up like some kind of bitchy dragon lady that she couldn’t control—sending him retreating back into the arms of his new girlfriend. It didn’t matter now.

Kim had just started to come to grips with that when the phantom pains began. They roared in like a river of molten lava, searing the bones of her missing limb and peeling back the toenails of the foot that was no longer even there. The docs had given her something to quiet the nerves and, in time, the phantom pain had retreated, but never quite disappeared.

Kim worked her butt off in rehab, learning how to walk on her new leg, enduring hours of painful stretching therapy. She walked for miles around the halls of the hospital, first with, then without the assistance of a cane.

Jericho was apparently good friends with the former national security advisor and Mr. Palmer saw to it that she had the finest in aftercare for an amputee. Sadly, years of war ensured that military hospitals received a great deal of experience in replacing lost limbs. At first, Kimberly Quinn had been welcomed at Walter Reed because she was a friend of the White House. Later, after the horrible accusations against Jericho, it seemed like the new administration wanted her there so they could keep an eye on her. She had to make this “new normal,” as they called it, work for her before she could do anything.

Surrounded by servicewomen who’d had bits and pieces of themselves blown off in war, Kim had remained quiet about how she’d lost the leg. All the other patients in her ward had lost limbs as a result of roadside bombs or mortar attacks. She’d always felt a certain amount of pride at being married—at least for a time—to a member of the military. Now, for the first time in her life, Kim found herself truly embarrassed that she was not herself a veteran wounded in the service of her country. She’d been shot at a wedding, for crying out loud. For weeks, she didn’t talk to anyone but her roommate, a female US Army corporal named Rochelle, who’d lost both legs in a helicopter crash in Afghanistan.

Then, a month after the shooting, Rochelle and four of her girlfriends, all amputees, cornered Kim in the gym with a dozen roses and a Wounded Warrior challenge coin. Kim had cried, protesting that she didn’t deserve to be grouped with these brave women.

“Are you kidding me?” Rochelle had said, standing there on her twin prosthetic legs. “You took a bullet intended for your own kid. You’re a wounded warrior if ever one wore a skirt. So strut that leg proudly. Wear shorts, go dancing, kick ass. I’m sure going to.”

The love and companionship of those women was like nothing Kim had ever experienced. More even than the surgery, they had saved her life.

They’d given her the confidence to get out, to do things like go shopping with her daughter.

Mattie ran ahead, completely unbothered by the shiny stainless-steel “leg” that stuck out from the hem of her mother’s denim shorts. She was happy to go to the mall, but happier still to be out with her mom. She darted back to hold Kim’s hand and check on her every few seconds. They’d returned from Alaska so Kim could spend the last two weeks at Walter Reed, being fitted for her new, computerized prosthetic leg. This one adjusted to her changes in gait as many as fifty times per second. Kim had been so busy with doctors’ appointments and physical therapy that this was their first day out together since coming back to DC.

“How about some supper at Johnny Rockets?” Kim asked, pointing Mattie toward the escalator around the corner from the Apple Store where they’d just spent the last hour picking out the perfect case for Mattie’s iPod.

“That sounds great, Mom,” Mattie said, skipping around the corner ahead. It did Kim’s heart good that her daughter didn’t try to coddle her—even if the extra exertion caused her to sweat through the armpits of her T-shirt. Her physical therapist had warned her that a prosthetic for an AK—above the knee—amputation would use far more energy than a normal leg. That, combined with the body’s loss of all the pores on the missing limb, meant the rest of her was likely to perspire more in an effort to regulate her temperature. The other girls in her ward called it “glistening.”

Mattie stopped in her tracks as soon as they’d rounded the corner.

“I forgot my new shirt at the Apple Store,” she gasped. Stricken, she grabbed Kim’s hand and spun her around, oblivious to how tricky such a move was on a prosthetic leg.

“Are you sure it was there?” Kim asked. “Maybe you left it somewhere else.”

“No.” Mattie shook her head. “I’m sure I had it there. We have to go and get it.” She clutched Kim by the hand and led her back the way they’d come, rounding a square support pillar and nearly running headlong into a startled man walking directly toward them.

He was about Kim’s age, in his mid-thirties, with a sullen flap of blond hair and an intense look she recognized from her ex-husband. He wore faded jeans and an unremarkable button-up shirt with short sleeves—loose, like the kind Jericho always wore to hide his gun. And this was the fifth time she’d seen him since they’d been in the mall. She felt a twinge of fear rising up in her stomach. Maybe living with Jericho for all those years had made her paranoid, but either this guy had the same taste in shopping as a seven-year-old girl, or he was following them.