The Lie (33 page)

Her first stop was at the north Berlin branch of the Reichsbank, where she kept a large safe-deposit box. In the privacy of
her own cubicle, she packed five thousand dollars into her purse and placed the remaining ninety-five
thousand in her box. Then she returned the box to the vault attendant and left the bank.

Driving toward the hospital, she reviewed the few details she knew so far.

All she had gotten from “Walter” were the bare bones. No more, in fact, than that her target was the president of the United
States, that he was gravely injured, and that he was in a hospital Walter had been careful not to name.

News reports had given her the rest. So at this point she knew that the hospital was Holy Cross General on the outskirts of
Berlin, that President Dunster had come out of surgery with his vital signs stable, and that he was being given a fair chance
of recovery.

Anna had also learned that the explosion that had injured the president had left his wife near death and killed one of the
two terrorists who had been holding them hostage. She could only assume that Walter had been responsible for all this as well.
Another surprise. She had no great regard for American political patterns. For all their professed ideals and pious rhetoric,
Americans were historically among the most violent people on earth. But for the deputy director of the CIA to arrange the
murder of his own president was a new low, even for them.

Not that Walter had any idea that she knew his identity. She would have been terminated a long time ago had he known. They
had never met and had communicated only by telephone. But Anna had once heard him speak on television; she had recognized
his voice.

Anna was at Holy Cross General in fifteen minutes. Security was all over the lobby, along with a small army of reporters and
photographers watching for possible VIPs.

Anna approached a photographer. “What’s all the excitement?”

“The American president is upstairs,” said the man.

“Really? Where?”

“Hoffman Pavilion. Seventh floor.”

Going up in the elevator with four visitors and two uniformed nurses, Anna stood hugging her elbows and feeling
herself tingling a little. One nurse and two of the visitors left the elevator with her on the seventh floor. Anna headed
toward a nurses’ station off to the right. Nearing it she paused, as if searching through her purse. She studied everything
in sight, detailing the staff, the uniforms, the ID tags they wore and where they wore them, the bulletin boards with their
announcements and duty rosters.

Continuing along the corridor, she noted the utility storage closets and men’s and women’s washrooms, the emergency exits
and the stairways leading up and down from them, and a room marked Nursing Staff. She pushed open the door, found it empty,
and quickly slipped inside.

When she came out a moment later, she had a rolled-up nurse’s uniform, several blank ID tags, and a stethoscope stuffed into
her shoulder bag.

Anna continued along the corridor. After about fifty meters she turned a corner.

A sign read Surgical Intensive Care. Just beyond the sign were four dark-suited security men. And beyond them, she thought,
the ailing president.

Anna sat down among other visitors in an open waiting area. She took a paperback novel from her bag and pretended to read.
After about an hour, she felt she had a pretty clear idea of what was going on and how things were being handled.

Rechecking her escape routes as she went, Anna left the hospital.

G
ETTING
D
ANIEL
A
RCHER OFF
N
ICKO
V
ORELLI’S
P
LANE
and past customs in a remote section of the Naples airport was so stereotypically cloak-and-dagger that Kate Dinneson was
almost amused.

The limousine followed the coast road toward Sorrento. Its passengers rode in silence. The afternoon sun lit the sea and colored
the hills orange. Angelo, the driver, had been with Nicko Vorelli for so many years he might have been part of the steering
column.

Half an hour later, they were passing through the villa’s electronically guarded entrance gates.

Angelo drove about five hundred meters past the main house and parked beside a smaller, more intimate, eighteenth-century
stone villa surrounded by hemlocks. He took the bags from the limousine’s trunk and led the way inside.

Kate breathed the familiar aroma of furniture polish and fruit. She liked being here better than at the big villa. Nicko worked
on special projects here when he needed privacy, and this was where he usually brought her when they were spending extra time
together.

They were in a graceful, high-ceilinged room. Light and textured walls contrasted with dark, heavy furniture, beams, and paintings.
It was all solid and tangible enough, yet Kate’s mood was such that nothing seemed quite real—not the house or the men she
was with, and especially not all that had happened at Wannsee.

Angelo appeared with glasses and a bottle of red wine on a tray. He drew the cork and poured some for Nicko, who tasted it
and nodded his approval. Then Angelo filled the other two glasses and left the room.

“I’d like to read you something,” said Nicko. “I jotted it down during our flight and it’s still rough. I plan to fax it to
a leading newspaper in each of the seven countries represented at Wannsee, with the request that it be run on the front page
of their next edition.”

Nicko paused to glance at his audience of two.

“This is an open letter from Professor Alfred Mainz,” he read quietly.

“As of this writing, my grandfather, Major Helmut Schadt, is dead, the president and First Lady of the United States are lying
close to death in a German hospital, and I myself must remain burrowed away like a hunted animal. I have no idea how or why
any of this happened, or who was responsible.

“But perhaps the most tragic result of this senseless bombing is the loss of our brief hope for a quick end to the killing
in Africa, along with our chance for a world with love and peace at its core. This is unforgivable.

“So I repeat the following warning to prevent any further loss of life. In each of the seven powers represented at the Wannsee
Conference, a major building has been mined with high explosives. At exactly twelve noon, local time, of the day this notice
appears in your newspaper, one of those seven buildings will be blown. I will announce which it will be just one hour before
that time to allow for evacuation.

“Please understand. This is only to establish my credibility. The second building will be blown without advance warning and
result in hundreds of needless casualties. That is, unless my conditions, which will be stated in advance, are agreed to within
a specific time period.

“Do not test me. After what happened at Wannsee, I am angry, anguished, and desperate.

“Professor Alfred Mainz.”

Nicko put down his notes and looked at Kate and Archer.

“Well?” he inquired. “What do you think?”

“How much of that do you really mean?” asked Archer.

“All of it.”

“What are the conditions you’ll want agreed to before the second building is blown?” asked Archer.

“To begin with, a very substantial amount of cash. So that none of us will ever have to worry about money again.”

“What would you call a ‘substantial amount’?”

“A hundred million. American. We’re dealing with seven major economic powers,” said Nicko. “Any less would be demeaning.”

Archer nodded gravely. “I wouldn’t want to demean anyone.”

“And after the money?” asked Kate. “What would be next?”

Nicko sipped his wine. “What do
you
think I’d be asking for?”

“Just about the same things Alfred Mainz wanted.”

“You really believe I’d be that concerned about peace in Africa and saving us all from each other?”

“I
know
you would. Especially after you have all the money you’ll ever need.”

Nicko laughed and turned to Daniel Archer. “What about
you?
. Once you have your money, how would you feel about pushing for the rest of Mainz’s package?”

“To be honest, I’m afraid I’m long past all that good guy, save-the-world stuff.”

“None of us are long past anything, Mr. Archer. Not until we die.”

“That’s another thing. The dying. What you’re talking about could be very dangerous.”

“And you’ve never done anything dangerous before?”

“Not with ten million in my pockets. I’m getting to feel being rich could make dying very hard for me.”

“Then maybe we’d better think about making you poor again.”

“Not even as a joke, sir.”

* * *

Kate and Nicko were upstairs an hour later, unpacking.

“We’re going to have to do a little talking about your friend,” he said.

Kate did not bother to ask which friend.

“Are you in love with him?” Nicko asked.

Kate nodded. “Yes.”

“When did you last see him?”

Kate considered. “Right after the explosion. When he carried the president out to the ambulance and rode off with him.”

“He won’t start worrying about you? Wondering where you are?”

“He’ll know if he can’t reach me at home that I’m probably here with you.”

“That won’t bother him?”

Kate shrugged. “He understands what you’ve been to me all these years.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I would hope he could live with it.”

“And if he can’t?” Nicko asked.

“I’ll deal with it then. But I’m sure that’s a long way off.”

“Don’t be so sure. It could be sooner than you expect.”

His eyes dark, searching, Nicko Vorelli took Kate’s hands in his. “You do know why I have to ask you these things, don’t you?”

“Of course. Because of all you’re about to slide into with the rising of our newly sainted Klaus Logefeld. Although I can’t
say I know what my own part is going to be.”

“Neither can I,” said Nicko. “Other than that I’m going to need someone I can trust with my own and a lot of other lives.”
His gaze held steady on Kate’s. “Unless I’m presuming too much and you really want no part of this whole thing.”

Kate Dinneson realized that she had been preparing all her life for this moment.

“You’re not presuming too much, Nicko.”

“I appreciate that.”

Moved by something in his voice, Kate stood silently in front of Nicko Vorelli.

“So how do you feel right now?” he asked.

“About what?”

“Everything you’ve just agreed to.”

“I think I feel very glad you’re holding my hands.”

“Why?”

“Because otherwise I’m afraid they’d be shaking so hard they might fly off.”

Nicko smiled. “Understandable.”

“And do you know what else I feel very glad about?”

“No.”

“That you’re not going after only the money.”

This time Nicko laughed aloud. “You do insist on ennobling me, don’t you?”

“Not at all,” Kate said. “That’s something you always seem to end up doing for yourself.”

A
T
2:30
A.M.
in the upstairs family parlor of the White House, the pro tempore president Jayson Fleming was staring at his hands when
his wife walked into the room.

He rose slowly. “What’s wrong?”

Amy Fleming stood looking at him, a slender, delicately made woman. Her makeup was freshly and expertly applied and she had
not a hair out of place.

Even in the middle of the night
, Fleming thought.

“What’s wrong,” she answered, “is that I should have been right here with you through every second of this nightmare, and
I wasn’t. Why in God’s name do I listen to you? You’re never right about these things.”

“Amy—“

But she was on him before he got any further than her name. All he seemed able to do was embrace her in a drowning, confusing,
clutching bear hug that startled them both.

When he finally pulled away, he saw tears in her eyes and felt his own eyes mist over as Amy studied him.

“What’s happened?” she said.

His knees abruptly weak, Jayson Fleming settled onto a couch and sat his wife down beside him. “Everything bad,” he said.
“The worst.”

“No.” Her voice was a whisper. “Jimmy’s gone?”

Fleming shook his head. “Not yet. But it’s going to be soon.”

“That’s not what I heard. All the reports say he’s conscious
and improving. It’s Maggie who’s probably going to die.”

“Forget the reports.”

Amy stared at him. “What are you trying to tell me?”

“Nothing.”

“Talk to me, Jay. That’s what I’m here for. That’s what I should have been here for from the beginning.”

The pro tempore president put his head in his hands for a moment. Then he raised his face. “How well do you think you know
me?”

“After thirty-nine years? Better than anyone else alive.”

“And you still care about me?”

Amy looked to see if he was serious. He was. “More than ever.”

He was silent.

“What is it, Jay?”

“What if I told you I’ve done something so terrible, so ghastly, that it disgusts even me?”

She thought about it. “Maybe I’m being naive, but I don’t believe you have it in you to do anything like that.”

“Everybody has it in them.” Anger had entered his voice. “It’s just a question of not giving in to it.”

“Then I don’t believe you would give in to it.”

“Jesus, you
are
naive. Because I must tell you. I
have
given into it. And to a degree that even I would never have imagined possible.”

“What have you done, Jay?”

“Two things,” said Jayson Fleming dully. “First, I knew about yet did nothing to prevent Jimmy Dunster from almost being blown
to bits by that bomb at Wannsee. And second, I again know about, yet am doing nothing to stop, another attempt on his life
that’s about to take place at the hospital.”

“I hear what you’re saying,” Amy replied, speaking with effort. “But I can’t conceive of it being true.”