The Lie (28 page)

President Dunster sat alone, facing the newly set up lights and camera. The handcuffs that normally held him to the chair
had been removed, and his hands lay loosely in his lap. He had no notes.

Maggie sat off to his right, out of camera range, trying to appear relaxed but failing miserably.

How pale she looked. How drawn.

Not for the first time, Jimmy Dunster was struck by how his wife was aging. Surprise. His twenty-one-year-old bride was no
longer twenty-one.

Major Schadt fussed with the monitors, fine-tuning dials, keeping the audio down, and from time to time checking the sound
from a particular area.

At one point, half turning, he caught the president’s eye and offered a nod of encouragement.

Jimmy Dunster gazed past the glare of camera lights at the monitor screens covering the main conference room. Everyone appeared
to have returned from their rest break and all seats were filled. Dunster saw that Chancellor Eisner had once more joined
the German delegation, and that Tommy Cortlandt was standing with several security people against a far wall. At opposite
sides of the room hung two large picture screens that had not been there earlier, and Dunster guessed
that his own image would be projected on these when the telecast started.

“Anytime you’re ready, Mr. President,” said Klaus Logefeld.

Dunster looked at him. Standing behind the pool cameraman, Klaus held an automatic in his right hand. His expression was easy,
pleasant. Only the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, which he rubbed together compulsively, betrayed what was going on
inside him.

“Let’s do it,” said the president.

Logefeld nodded to the cameraman and an instant later Jimmy Dunster saw the screens in the conference room brighten and come
to life with his own picture. He looked better than he might have imagined.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Klaus from where he stood off-camera, “the president of the United States.”

Jimmy Dunster sat for a moment in silence. Then he turned and looked straight at the camera.

“I’m going to try to be brief and truthful,” he said. “Both normally difficult for any politician. But this is far from a
normal time for me. And it might be my last chance to set things right.”

Dunster swallowed.

“Whatever has happened to me at Wannsee is my own fault,” he said softly. “I lied and deceived without shame to get here.
I endangered my own life and the lives of others by hiding a serious cardiac condition and living with medication instead
of going for surgery. I bought my wife’s silence by agreeing to bring her here, thereby placing her in harm’s way. Finally,
I betrayed my high office by putting my personal needs ahead of my country’s. None of which does me credit, either as a man
or as a leader.

“Still, the purpose of our coming together here is far from lost,” he said. “I’ve read Professor Mainz and Major Schadt’s
terms for an effective human rights treaty and peace in Africa and elsewhere, and they give me hope. Not so much for my own
and my wife’s safety, which mean little in the
overall scheme of things, but for all too many millions of oppressed. Regardless of race or color.”

The president stared blindly into the glittering eye of the camera. “Please understand,” he said. “I’m really not a physically
brave or heroic man. I’ve been frightened for weeks by the thought of walking in here as I did. And I obviously have a lot
more reason to be frightened right this minute. Yet these two men with their guns and threats have given me a crazy kind of
courage. Why? Because their thirty-two pages of carefully thought out terms prove something very important. They want exactly
what the rest of us want. With one big difference. They’re willing to do whatever has to be done to get it.”

Dunster paused.

“Maybe that’s what we need right now. If we’re afraid to use our guns and risk our lives to stop oppression and killing, then
we’re truly condemned to chaos. Then we’ll have to teach ourselves how to be blind so we can quietly ignore all our avoidable
tragedies.”

Someone in the room whispered a soft amen.

D
ANIEL
A
RCHER’S FLIGHT LANDED
at Tempelhof Airport twenty minutes ahead of schedule and taxied to one of the gates reserved for military and diplomatic
transport.

About fifteen minutes later, Archer approached a man sitting behind the wheel of a black Audi station wagon at the end of
section 6, aisle B in the long-term parking area.

It was 3:12
A.M.
Berlin time.

“Do you have the time, Hans?” he asked in German.

The man looked at him. He had dark, nicely barbered hair over a tough, square-jawed face.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid my watch stopped.”

Archer nodded, walked around to the passenger door, and got in beside the driver. He tossed his bag in back and saw two pieces
of luggage already there. One was a garment bag, the other a canvas duffel.

“You have everything?” asked Archer.

“Check it out.”

Daniel Archer took a few moments to go through the bags. Among the weapons were two automatics (one with a silencer), a wire
garrote, a razor-edged sheath knife, and a weighted leather sap. He saw flat packets of C-4 explosive, detonators, fittings,
wiring, and timers. Additional brass tubing and two small metal containers of gas were separate and compact.

The garment bag held a gray military uniform, complete with service stripes, decorations, and a pair of black, highly polished,
thick-soled shoes.

“That’s a Wannsee guard uniform,” said the German. “Size 40 long. It gives you access to anyplace inside or immediately outside
the compound. The shoes are your own size 10. There are black socks inside them. Your official ID and name tag are in the
left-hand tunic pocket.”

Archer slid back into the front seat and they drove out of the quiet, early morning dark of the airport.

They rode without speaking, Archer’s thoughts busy with what lay ahead. Suddenly doubt trickled from his breastbone to his
belly.

Had he made the right decision?

It had to be right, because anything else would be wrong. At least wrong for
him
. And who else was there?

There was Ken Harris and there was the vice president of the United States, he thought dully.

The German spoke with his eyes on the empty road. “What are you going to want from me when we get there?”

“Nothing,” Archer said. “All you have to do is wait in the car and get me away when I’m finished.”

“I can do more than that.”

“Sure you can, Hans,” said Archer. “But not for me.”

The German showed no expression. A car approached and its lights glinted in his eyes.

“I can help you,” he said.

“Help me with what?”

“With what you’re going to do at Wannsee.”

“And that is?”

“Blow away the president, his wife, and those two crazies holding them.”

Daniel Archer felt a sudden, almost sensuous fatigue. “Why would you think something like that?” he said quietly.

“Because I’m not stupid. And I’ve never heard of an American vice president who wouldn’t do just about anything to get to
be president.”

“Even murder?”

“Even that. As long as someone else would be sure to get blamed.”

“And who would be blamed in this?”

“Those two bomb-happy crazies.”

“Interesting theory,” said Archer. “But my orders are to just take out the two bombers and save the president and his wife.”

“I don’t believe that.”

It was said with such quiet confidence that Daniel Archer was impressed. “Why not?”

“Because I know the conditions you’ll be working under. And in that small a space, I’d have to say it was impossible to kill
two without killing all four.”

“Nothing is impossible.”

“With all due respect, friend, you may be damn good, but so am I. And I wouldn’t bet piss on my own chances of pulling that
off. Not if I expected to get out alive myself.”

Archer saw that they were entering a deep wood.

“So exactly what is it you think you can do to help?” he asked. “And why would you want to?”

“I know of an old underground passage. It can get you into Wannsee unseen and put you in perfect position to do what you have
to and get out in one piece. And my reason for helping is simple. I’m just looking after my future. Your contacts come right
from the top in all this. And if I can prove myself tonight, I’m hoping you might give me a lift and pull me up there with
you.”

Daniel Archer let a moment go by, then another.

“Who else knew about this passage?”

“Just two men. One is a delegate at Wannsee, named Vorelli. The other is a friend of mine. Bruno.”

“And how do
you
know about it?”

“Bruno showed it to me.” The German paused. “You want to hear the story?”

“Why not?”

“Vorelli hired Bruno to check out and equip this secret tunnel from the Nazi years. I don’t know what Vorelli was planning,
but it couldn’t be anything good. Then Bruno got me to cover his back the night he took Vorelli down there to explain things.”

“So what’s been going on down there?” Archer inquired.

“Not a damn thing. All that electronic gear is still in place.”

The German braked and slowed as the road began curving sharply between the trees.

“Then the conference started,” he said, “and all this shit began happening with the president, and I got that call about doing
what I’m doing for you. Now it looks like the whole business might do us all some good, if you’ll let it.”

Archer remained silent, a wire-walker in a shifting wind.

“So what do you think?” asked the German.

“Exactly where are we now?”

“About ten minutes from Wannsee.”

“And the tunnel entrance?”

“Five minutes from here.”

“On this trail?”

The German nodded.

“Then let’s go for it,” said Daniel Archer.

S
TILL IN THE
O
VAL
O
FFICE
at 9:10
P.M.
Washington time, Vice President Fleming had eaten dinner from a tray and called his wife to say he would be spending the
night at the White House.

There had been a steady parade of key staffers in and out of the office all afternoon and evening, but Jayson Fleming was
alone when he again was joined by Deputy CIA Director Harris.

The two men had neither seen nor spoken to each other since the president’s televised talk, and Fleming searched his friend’s
face as he came in.

“So how about Jimmy’s little confessional?” he said. “I couldn’t decide whether to cry or cheer.”

“I just wanted to throw up. Imagine. A fucking heart condition on top of everything else.”

Fleming opened a cabinet, poured two measures of President Dunster’s private Napoleon, and handed one to Harris. “I’ve spoken
to his doctor. Jimmy’s lived with it for months.”

Thinking identical thoughts, the two men stood looking at each other.

“And the prognosis?” asked Harris.

“He can go on like this for years, or die today. Only one thing is sure. He won’t be running for any second term.”

Harris swore softly. “
Now
he tells us.”

Jayson Fleming stared at his brandy and the glass suddenly seemed alive to his fingers. A snake?

“I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything from your man,” he said.

The deputy director shook his head.

“When do you think you’ll hear?”

“Not until it’s happened.”

“Is there any way you can reach him before that?”

“Not anymore.”

The pro tempore president was silent.

“That’s the wrong way to be thinking, Jay,” said his friend.

“What’s the right way?”

“Concentrating on what you’re after. And not second-guessing yourself.”

Ken Harris swept an arm toward the television screen, where Wannsee’s delegates continued to hold forth. “Have you been listening
to them since Jimmy gave his fireside chat?”

“Not really.”

“Well, I have. They’ve got a bandwagon rolling. If it continues like that, they’ll have a treaty signed and delivered within
thirty-six hours, and the Dunsters will be on their way home.”

“You mean in body bags.”

“Only if we’re lucky,” said Harris.

“And what if we’re not so lucky? What if someone grabs your man and he talks?”

“That won’t happen.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’ll be terminated.”

The vice president blinked several times. “By whom?”

“Someone far removed from either one of us.”

Fleming stood motionless, his pulse suddenly in his temple. Was there no end to it? “I can’t believe I’m actually party to
all this,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because it’s so… evil.”

“It’s even hard for you to say, isn’t it?” Harris’s voice was mocking. “Yet there’s really no such thing. Evil is just another
Sunday school word. Like God and the Devil. What it all comes down to is what we want, how much we want it, and what we finally
have the guts to do to get it.”

“I know,” Fleming said tiredly. “Like my wanting to be president.”

Ken Harris smiled. “Exactly. You’re becoming part of history now, old buddy. And history is a priori amoral. All it cares
about is whether something succeeds or fails. Then it raises statues to one and buries the other. So if you expect to stay
in this office, better not forget that.”

The vice president rolled his head slowly, trying to rid it of pain. “Let me tell you something,” he said. “I was very young
when John Kennedy had his skull blown away in Dallas. I heard all those ugly rumors and theories allegedly behind it, but
I never believed any of them. And I especially didn’t believe the ugliest of all. The one about Lyndon Johnson having set
it up to make himself president. Sweet Jesus, I thought…. No man, not even a fucking Texas Democrat, could be that evil. Yet
now I guess I have to start rethinking that, don’t I?”