The Lance (The PROJECT: Book Two) (24 page)

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

Morning. The team gathered at the apartment. The smell of fresh coffee drifted across the room. The TV was on. Every station carried stories about the freak gas explosion at Greenwood's home that had killed the Vice President. After a few minutes Nick turned it off.

"Greenwood had everything on his computer," Stephanie said. She held up a disc. "It's all here. The Jerusalem bomb came out of Syria. Greenwood's son planted it at the Mosque. One of the council was Eric Reinhardt, the industrial magnate. His father wrote the diary you found on the sub. Reinhardt provided the explosives and the nuke in Tel Aviv."

"Where did he get it?" Lamont said.

"On the East European black market, one of those warheads that went missing after the Soviet Union collapsed."

"What else was on the computer?" Nick asked.

"They were plotting a coup. Rice was going to be assassinated. There was going to be an 'incident' in the Gulf of Hormuz, a
casus belli
pointing at the Iranians. Like the Tonkin Gulf in '64."

A North Vietnamese gunboat raid in the Tonkin Gulf provided the excuse President Lyndon Johnson needed to escalate the war in Vietnam. Nick thought it had been a set up. That war had bled the country for ten years and cost 58,000 American lives and more than a million dead Vietnamese. Greenwood and his Nazi Council had wanted to do it all over again, on a bigger scale.

Greenwood was dead, but the war he'd started was alive and well.

Nick tugged on his ear. "It's the proof Rice wanted. I don't know if anyone will believe it."

"Speaking of Rice, you're going to the White House again. He's sending a car. You can take this to him."

"I keep going over there, maybe he'll give me a spare key."

Stephanie gave him the disc.

"Does he know what's on it?"

"Yes."

"I wonder how he handled it? Freak gas explosion looks a lot better than what happened."

"If you find out, let me know."

The black Lincoln Rice sent took Nick to a rear entrance of the White House. A grim faced Secret Service escort took him to a workout room on the third floor. Rice was riding a stationary bike. He was dressed in sweat pants and a green tee shirt that said USMC across the front. 

Rice got off the bike. He mopped sweat from his forehead with a towel and beckoned Nick over to a bench. His Secret Service detail stood a discrete distance away. Carter gave him the disc. There was tension in the room Nick hadn't felt on his previous visits.

"Tell me about it," Rice said.

Carter told him. Rice drank from a bottle of water. He sat for a moment, thinking.

"Do you know how the situation was sanitized, Carter?" It wasn't "Nick" today.

"No, sir."

"Wendell Lodge will become the next Director of the CIA."

He didn't need to say more. Nick thought it was a devil's bargain, like clasping a snake to your breast. 

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir."

"Yes. However, it's done and my VP is an honored victim. I may get my second term, after all." He drank from the water bottle.

"Carter, you and your team have done a great service. You understand, I cannot acknowledge it."

"Of course, sir. We never considered that. I'll tell them what you said."

Rice set the bottle down. He looked frustrated. "Israel and Iran are at war. The Israelis took out the Iranian nuclear facilities at Natanz and Arak last night. They hit Qom as well. We're at DEFCON2."

Natanz was where the Iranians had most of their centrifuges for uranium enrichment. Arak was a heavy water plant. Aside from sheltering another enrichment plant, Qom was a holy city with a famous mosque. Because of that it was another Muslim flash point.

Nick kept quiet.

Rice continued. "The Iranians retaliated with missiles. No nukes, though, thank God. They still don't have them. There are heavy civilian casualties on both sides."

He mopped sweat from his face. "Two hours ago Israel fought an aerial battle over Lebanon and the Sinai against a combined strike of hundreds of planes sent by Syria, Iran, and Egypt. It was the biggest air battle since World War Two. The Israelis drove them off.

"The Saudis and the Turks have held back so far, which means we can still preserve an illusion of cooperation with them. They're our last hope for any kind of diplomatic solution in the Islamic world."

Rice paused.

"The Saudis stand to lose a lot if the war spreads. They cannot appear to compromise with us, but they're panicked. They're worried about Israeli nukes. They should be. I know Litzvak, the acting Prime Minister of Israel. He's a rabid Zionist, brought in by Ascher to placate the extremists. He'll use nukes if Israel is pressed too hard. Mecca and Riyadh are probably on top of his target list. He hates the Arabs."

Rice sipped from his water.

"Iran, Iraq and Syria have announced a pact of 'mutual military cooperation' and Iran is beginning to move troops and supplies across southern Iraq. They're setting up an invasion and using Iraqi airspace. Litzvak will never allow it to happen. He'll throw everything he's got at them."

"What are you going to do, Mr. President?"

Rice gave him a calculating look. "What would you do, Carter, if you were me?"

"Well, sir." He stopped. "Sir, it seems to me that you have two problems that combine to give you a third."

"Go on."

"There's the trigger event, the bombing at the Mosque. Then there's the underlying situation in the region. The hatred, the fanaticism, the religious beliefs. That's what's driving things now. Nothing you do can change that."

"You don't think reason will prevail." Rice's voice was flat.

"No, sir. I don't."

"You said three problems. You've defined two. What is the third?"

"The third is the war itself. If it can't be stopped by reason, it has to be stopped by emotion. The only emotion I can think of that's strong enough is fear. There's plenty of that already. I think you have to use that, find a way to, ah,
encourage these governments to see it's in their own best interest to back off. Then sweeten it with something that lets everyone save face and claim they won something valuable for themselves and their people."

Rice smiled. "Encourage?"

"I always liked Teddy Roosevelt's philosophy."

"Speak softly and carry a big stick?"

"Yes, sir. If you can get some other big sticks to go along, maybe the combatants will listen."

"I can't reveal what really happened. You brought me the proof I asked for, but it can't be used. Someone must be held responsible for the bombing."

"Then I guess you'll have to make something up, Mr. President."

Rice looked at Nick as if he had just realized he was there.

"Perhaps you should consider a career in politics after all. You're suggesting I manufacture a bomber and a plot and sell it to the world."

Nick said nothing.

"I'll think about what you've said, Carter."

"I'm sure you'll find a way, Mr. President."

"That's what I like about you, Carter. Confidence." He stood up and Nick rose with him.

"I'm told that Director Harker will be unable to return to work for some time. In your opinion, is her deputy competent to take over?"

"Yes, sir. She's been with Harker since the beginning, she knows all the players. She's a good choice."

"You're sure you wouldn't like the job?"

"Stephanie will make a great Director, Mister President."

No way did he want the job. No way. He'd last about ten minutes in the political snake pit of the Capitol.

Rice nodded. "Then here's what I want you to do. I want both of you to assume leadership of the Project. Will you do that for me?"

"Sir..."

Rice held up his hand. "Don't say anything right now, Carter. Take some time off. Think about it."

"Yes, sir." What else was he supposed to say?

Rice stopped at the door. "I was supposed to be assassinated in Chicago today. It's a strange feeling." He looked at Nick. "Well done," he said. Then he was gone.

Nick left the White House. He wondered what the rest of the day would bring.  He wished he was sitting on his cabin porch or maybe lying on the beach in Maui. Maybe he should resign. Maybe he would.

Years ago, he'd talk with Megan when he had a tough decision to make. She'd had a way of looking at things that helped him get his head straight. But Megan was gone. He'd talk it over with Selena.

CHAPTER
SIXTY-SEVEN

Ronnie sat on Nick's couch munching cashews and watching television. The networks were covering the conclusion of an extraordinary meeting in Casablanca.

"It looks like Rice pulled it off," Ronnie said.

"He had some help." Nick stood by the kitchen counter. "No one wants World War III. At least the shooting's stopped."

Rice had spent eight days in Morocco meeting with the leaders of the Islamic world and of Israel, Russia, China, France and Great Britain. On the third day of the conference Israel and Iran had walked out. On the fifth day they declared a temporary cease fire. Nick wondered what kind of heavy arm twisting and deal making had gone on behind the scenes.

Rice had decided partial truth was the best strategy. In a speech televised around the globe, he revealed that Eric Reinhardt was behind the destruction of al-Aqsa, in a neo-Nazi plot to start a war and destroy the Jews. He presented proof. It got Israel off the hook. It shocked the world.

Rice emphasized that Reinhardt was not a native-born American. Everything about him had been uncovered. Rice pointed out that Reinhardt's father had been an SS General. He made no mention of the existence of the Council or its membership and influence.

No one knew Reinhardt had been at Greenwood's house. Rice said he'd been killed in a fiery car crash while trying to escape Federal Agents sent to arrest him. Dental records confirmed his identity. The remains of his incinerated body were shown to the world. He then announced a coalition of nations would rebuild the Mosque. He condemned hate groups and called for a new era of understanding and compassion.

Two days after the speech, Elizabeth was out of her induced coma. The team gathered in her hospital room. Her head was swathed in bandages. Her left eye was covered. It was too soon to calculate the full extent of damage to her brain, but she was weeks ahead of schedule in her recovery. She could speak, with a slight blurring of some of her words. She could think clearly.

Nick told her what had happened.

"They were going to sacrifice Selena? Really?" Her voice was a whisper.

"Yes. But no one will ever find out. The house went up in a firestorm. The fire trucks couldn't get near it. Everything turned to slag and ashes. Lodge shut the locals down before they could get going. It's amazing what the phrase 'National Security' will do. There's nothing left, nothing to point a finger at a Nazi conspiracy."

"The Lance?"

"Gone. Melted into nothing, and good riddance. They still have the copy in Vienna. As far as the world knows it's the real deal."

"Rice owes Lodge. I wonder how that will work out?" She coughed, reached carefully for a tissue. "I need a long rest." She looked out the window. "I'm tired, Nick." The words came out slurred.

Nick kept his face neutral. "You'll be back soon, Director."

She looked at him. "We both know it won't be soon. Maybe never. Rice spoke with me about you taking over the team with Stephanie. What's your decision?"

"I don't know. He said take some time to think about it."

"Rice needs you. With Stephanie, you'll be fine. She can handle the political and administrative side, but you're the best choice to deal with the tactical and strategic decisions. The two of you can make it work." She coughed. "Rice needs you," she said again.

A headache began. He needed time to think about it. He'd go to the cabin.

Stephanie said, "We've talked about it. We've got you covered, Nick. Take some time off. I'll call you if anything important happens."

Nick looked at the others. The team. His team. His friends.

"Thanks," he said.

EPILOGUE

Selena and Nick headed up into the Sierra Foothills. They turned off the paved road, bounced over a stretch of dirt and gravel and pulled up in front of Nick's cabin.

The cabin was at the end of the road on top of a good sized hill. Built of old, dark wood, it had a steep, hunter green metal roof sloping down over a covered front porch. The foothills rose up behind. East were the High Sierras. West was a wide vista to the coastal range. It looked like the Pacific might not be too far away, but it was a hundred and fifty miles or so to the beach.

The cabin was home. He always seemed to think better here. The place in D.C. was only where he stayed.

They stepped from the car under clouds of black, gold and deep red.

He unlocked the door, dropped his bag on the couch and opened a window. He opened the grate on the woodstove and set a match to the kindling and wood laid there.

He opened a bottle of wine. They went outside and sat on the porch, watching the  sun go down in splashes and streaks of vivid color behind the Coastal Range. Shadows lengthened under the trees. The air smelled of wood smoke from the stove.

After a few minutes Selena said, "Do you think we got them all?"

"I think we wrote the last page of Himmler's medieval fantasy. But Nazis are like the Hydra in that Greek myth. You cut off the head, two more spring back. You can't ever get them all. But Greenwood's bunch, yeah. We stopped them."

Selena looked out at the afterglow of the sunset. "I was thinking about what I said a while back. About us being so different. How it was natural for you to jump into action and start shooting, but not for me."

He tensed. Natural born killer.

"Maybe we're not so different. It does seem to me that you...that you're more reckless than I am. But there's something that's the same."

"What's that?" he set his glass down.

"Instinct. You can't get where I am in martial arts without that. It's a zone, a place where I just
do.
Or it does me.
I don't think about it. You do it too. Our training and experience are different but we both act out of instinct without thinking. So, it's the same."

She drank some wine. She frowned.

"I always thought my martial arts would protect me."

He waited.

"I couldn't get out of those bonds in Greenwood's room. I can't stop a bullet with a side kick. I can't use my skills to deflect it. It scares the hell out of me."

"Bullets scare the hell out of me, too." 

"I guess it goes with the territory."

"You could quit."

"No. I don't want to. It would let everyone down. The team means a lot to me. It's the first time in my life I've felt like I was part of something important. I've got a real purpose in life, now. Bullets or not."

Selena pulled up the collar of her jacket. The night was coming on and it was getting cold.

"Are you going to take Rice up on his offer?"

"I don't know."

"Do you trust him?"

"As much as any politician. But he's the President. He's always got to think of protecting the office of the Presidency. He could disown us if something goes wrong."

"I've known him since I was fifteen. He and my uncle were good friends. I don't think he'd hang us out to dry. But you're right, he has to do what the office demands. Why do you think he set up the Project in the first place?"

"He knows people like Lodge don't tell him the truth. He needs someone outside the agencies. We're a counterweight so he can find out what's what. It puts us at odds with everyone. CIA and DIA and the others are always jockeying for position. There's a lot of stonewalling and competition. They protect their turf and argue about the meaning of intelligence and what should be done about it. They hide things from him."

"You make it sound like they're the enemy."

"I don't mean it that way. But things get lost in the bureaucracy and there are a lot of personal agendas. Rice created the Project to cut through all the bullshit."

"See, that's why Elizabeth and Rice want you to run things with Steph. You understand the dynamics, how things work behind the scenes."

"There's a lot I don't know."

"Nobody knows it all, not Elizabeth either. What's really bothering you?"

"You want the truth? What if I make the wrong call and someone gets killed?"

"Do you really need me to tell you there aren't any guarantees?"

He looked at his empty glass. "What if you get killed? Because of one of my decisions?"

It was out in the open.

"Oh, Nick. You can't make me the reason to take this on or not. Elizabeth said something to me a while back, about feelings. About how we have to put them aside. Does it really make any difference, in the end? Did it make any difference in Argentina, or in Tibet?"

"No. But I think about it."

"You wouldn't be who you are if you didn't think about it. You're not like Lodge, or one of those Pentagon types. That's why you're the right person for the job. I trust you. We all do. Besides, it's my choice to stay. I know what I'm up against. I'll deal with it. And so will you."

"So, you think we should take this on?"

"We?"

"You're on the team. You're part of the decision."

"Would it make a difference, you think? What we'd be doing?" Her voice was light, but Nick heard a deeper question in her words.

We.

"It could," he said.

"Then let's do it."