Blowback, p.39
Blowback, page 39
Hannah nods. “You got any news to report?”
He says, “The word of our stand-down got to the right people. Chinese naval and aviation units are returning to port or their bases. But there will be a reckoning, you know. Here and there.”
“I’m sure there will be.”
Tucker says, “One thing that needs changing is how the president has the authority to commit this nation to a cyber offensive. There are checks and balances on the nuclear side of the table. But not in cyberspace. That will have to be fixed, and soon.”
Hannah says, “Funny thing, I just got an email message from their rezident here, wanting to know if we could have a face-to-face. Reduce tensions even further. Beyond that, the two of us will be busy the next couple of weeks, talking to the Gang of Eight and others.”
“You’re right,” he says, “but the basic problem remains. An outlaw regime on the other side of the world that keeps on pushing and violating boundaries, treaties, and agreements. We were lucky today. Don’t know if we can be that lucky again, down the road.”
He raises his glass and she does the same, and with a smile, they clink. “But we won’t solve that today, will we.”
“You know it.”
CHAPTER 149
LIAM GREY IS slipping in and out of consciousness, sometimes forgetting where he is. He sometimes feels like he’s having one of those nightmares where you’re barely awake and can’t move, and other times, like now, he knows exactly where he is.
Trapped under the wreckage of the South African farmhouse and CIA safe house, blown apart earlier—how long, he has no idea—from that RPG-7 round.
Seems like Han Yuanchao grew impatient and wanted to settle things.
Fair enough.
It’s night and his lower legs are pinned by beams of wood. There’re chunks of brick overhead, allowing him breathing space, and not much else. Both arms are free but so far, all they’ve been useful for is scratching at an occasional itch.
A couple of times he’s heard voices but is pretty sure he’s hallucinating.
He’s hoping that some neighbor heard the ruckus over here and called the police, but he knows that in some rural parts of South Africa, good citizens retreat to their farms, lock their doors, set their alarms, and ignore what’s happening out in the dark night.
Getting thirsty.
Hungry.
Speaking of hungry, what animals out there in the night might be circling this wreckage right now, smelling his blood, deciding it was the right time for a meal? Hyenas? Foxes? Some type of wildcat?
Whatever.
He’ll do his best to fight them off as the night drags on.
He’s hurting but he’s content. He did the best he could, he held off the Chinese and the mercenaries, got Benjamin and Lin out safely, and if it ends tonight, well, at least it won’t be in an assisted living facility, eating oatmeal and crapping in his jammies.
Damn, the voices are coming back.
Just like those long nights at the Farm and—
Wait a sec.
They’re getting louder.
“Hey!” he yells. “Down here! Hello!”
More voices.
Things up there are being moved.
Voices louder.
The whine of a power tool.
He closes his eyes in relief.
He’s getting out.
He’ll have to come up with some story to bullshit his way out of here, but that’s okay. He’ll be free and alive, and that’s all that counts.
More voices.
He can feel bits of wood and brick shifting up there. He closes his eyes as flashlight beams illuminate his surroundings, and then a familiar voice comes down to him.
“Mr. Smith,” says Han Yuanchao, the Chinese intelligence officer. “So you are alive, after all.”
He blinks his eyes. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
A shrug. “One gets used to disappointments in our respective careers.”
“What now? The traditional bullet to the back of the head?”
The Chinese intelligence officer looks both surprised and insulted. “Why would I do that? The war our current nations were about to commence has been postponed. Your death will serve no purpose.”
“Good to hear,” Liam says. With his pain and thirst, that news is welcome indeed.
“To continue this hopefully new era of good feelings, my people will free you, apply necessary medical care, and return you to your consulate,” Han says. “Are my terms acceptable?”
“Quite acceptable,” Liam says.
CHAPTER 150
TWO WEEKS LATER
CIA DIRECTOR HANNAH Abrams can’t help herself from smiling every time she goes back to her office, for that damn government-issued foldout bed is still gone. It was highly improper, but she passed word on to Jean Swantish, her skilled and dedicated deputy director, that the bed should be incinerated in some GSA facility so there’s no chance she’ll ever see it again.
Waiting for her in her office are Noa Himel and Liam Grey, dressed casually, sitting in chairs in front of her desk, coffee mugs in their hands. Noa looks a lot better than the last time Hannah saw her, while Liam still looks worn down.
Both look nervous, like their careers are ending and jail time is waiting for them.
She says, “How are you both feeling today?”
Noa says, “Much better, ma’am.”
Liam says, “Same here.”
Hannah says, “Kay Darcy from the Washington Post is being released from the hospital today. I’m sure both of you will be happy to hear that.”
Nods from her two officers.
Hannah says, “I still don’t know how—from her hospital room—she became the first reporter to break news that Keegan Barrett had resigned. Almost like someone had tipped her off.”
Liam says, “Don’t blame me. I was buried under a South African farmhouse.”
Noa says, “Someone fulfilling a promise, I suppose.”
Hannah smiles. “I suppose.” She takes a breath. “Just so you know, Benjamin Lucas and Chin Lin are still safe in an undisclosed location, with new identifications and legends.”
Noa says, “Does he know that Keegan Barrett is his father?”
Hannah shakes her head. “He won’t learn that from me. Or either of you. There are a lot more important things going on, like the Department of Defense revising their procedures on how future presidents can order a cyberattack. On this side of the Potomac, I’ve been working—when she’s up for it—with President Hernandez and select members of Congress to make changes to the CIA’s charter. The time for it being a private army for the president is over. Now, how about you two?”
Liam says, “You’ll have my resignation today.”
Noa says, “Mine as well.”
“No,” Hannah says. “Don’t even consider it. Going forward, the Agency is going to need leaders like you—who’ve been through the fire—to be in a position to make sure what happened here never happens again. I’m ordering you not to resign. Understood?”
Liam, “Yes, Madam Director.”
Noa, “Yes, Madam Director.”
Hannah stands up. “Good. I’ll also make sure your respective teams are left alone. Now, let’s get moving. We don’t want to be late.”
Liam asks, “Late for what?”
She says, “Your comrade in arms, Boyd Morris. He’s getting his Memorial Star dedicated in the lobby. At least that’s something that can be easily made right.”
They both get up from their chairs. She says, “Once I’m convinced that this whole affair is buried where it will never be discovered by future directors or historians, and that both of you will be safe, then I’ll have one more thing to do.”
“What’s that, Director?” Liam asks.
Hannah says, “Isn’t it obvious? I need to leave, so you two and the Agency can have a fresh start.”
Shocked, Noa says, “You’re resigning?”
“At the right time, yes,” she says, smiling. “I’ve already done enough here, don’t you think?”
CHAPTER 151
FOR THE PAST two weeks, Benjamin Lucas has made it a point never to let Chin Lin leave his sight, and except for a medical visit or two, he’s been successful. Now they’re sitting on a wide farmer’s porch at a home on the shore of a nearly deserted lake near the million-plus-acre Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness in Minnesota.
The two of them have spent their time here checking out the three small towns, turning on the utilities, and getting used to their new lives and new names.
But here, in this remote house, it will always be Benjamin and Lin.
Lin looks out over the waters and says, “So quiet. So empty.”
“Is that okay?”
Lin squeezes his hand. “It’s perfect. I’ve grown up in cities, have gone to school in cities, and have worked in cities. I will enjoy years of peace and quiet with you, Benjamin.”
“Me, too. But your parents?”
A sigh. “My mother will soon pass. And Father…he’s already gone to me, Benjamin.”
He enjoys holding Lin’s hand and seeing the lake view with its distant woods and peaks and hearing the loons out there. A long way away from the consulate annex basement. He’s doing his best to forget his time in South Africa.
Lin says, “My former employer has a long reach and a longer memory. I’m sure they’re looking for me. When that time comes—”
Benjamin quickly says, “I’ll protect you.”
“You interrupted me,” she says. “I was going to say that I will protect you.”
He waits for a moment. “How about we agree to protect each other?”
“Deal,” Lin says.
CHAPTER 152
IN HIS SMALL guest suite at the Blair House—within walking distance of his previous home—former President Keegan Barrett is listening to his lawyer, Hiram Gloucester, a defense expert from an old-fashioned white shoe law firm in Boston. He’s his third lawyer in as many weeks, since he fired the previous two for not showing the proper enthusiasm in defending him.
Hiram’s a large man, with a tailored gray pinstripe suit, crisp white shirt with French cuffs, and a Harvard necktie. His hair is snowy white and his skin is deeply tanned. He shakes his head as he gathers his latest notes together and places them in his briefcase.
“Mr. President, I can’t—and won’t—sugarcoat the legal difficulties you are facing,” he says, in a fluid voice that’s familiar to millions of viewers on CNN and MSNBC. “The FBI investigation into the alleged financial improprieties against Speaker Washington has revealed a number of criminal forgeries connected to your administration. Speaker Washington has been cleared of these accusations. Your former special assistant, Carlton Pope, has had his fingers into many areas of malfeasance, including hiring private contractors, or mercenaries, to perform illegal acts. Possibly even murder. He is currently in custody of US Marshals, pending his arraignment.”
Hiram snaps his briefcase closed. “There is also evidence of you misusing government funds and agencies for your personal use, and I expect hearings on this matter to start in Congress later this summer. Trust me, they will be bipartisan and they will be thorough.”
Barrett thinks, Is this how the gods punish one who rises above the mundane, to protect the country and people he loves?
“I expect that,” he says.
“Well, prepare yourself for more bad news.”
“What’s that?”
“The FBI investigation into the VR headset that poisoned the vice president,” he says. “The company that makes those headsets…not only do they get secret financing from a Chinese company, two members of its board of directors were campaign bundlers who worked very hard to get you elected.”
Barrett just stares at the high-priced lawyer sitting before him. He is a guest in the Blair House for as long as he wants, but he knows if he decides to move somewhere else, the FBI will ask him not to leave. It’s a very gentlemanly form of house arrest before any charges get formally filed.
Hiram looks embarrassed at what comes next. “As incredible as it might sound, I’m hearing whispers that the FBI and CIA are looking into whether those two board members worked with Chinese intelligence to set up that VR helmet. And whether you had, um, previous knowledge of same. Or involvement.”
Barrett closes his eyes for a moment. So close, so very very close he had come to winning his dreams, fulfilling his destiny.
“Now what?” he asks.
Hiram stands up. “We have to look at a temporary insanity defense, Mr. President. That because of your lifestyle as one dedicated to the United States, who worked every day in challenging circumstances, from the military to defense to the CIA, Congress, and the White House…that you eventually snapped. I’m sure I can get a fair number of prominent psychiatrists to testify on your behalf. That your mental abilities weren’t at full capacity during your term as president.”
Barrett’s voice is just above a disbelieved whisper. “Temporary insanity?”
A firm nod. “Mr. President, I don’t see any other avenue available to us. I know it sounds distressing, but as your attorney, I advise you that an insanity defense will be our least worst option.”
He heads out of the suite. “I’ll be back tomorrow, sir. Nine a.m.”
Barrett doesn’t say a word as the door closes.
Alone, he thinks over what his attorney has just said.
Insane?
He gets up, stumbles into his desk as he goes to the other suite. It has stacks of cardboard boxes of his personal belongings and clothing that left with him that horrid day, when he realized that not only had the presidency slipped from his grasp, but his yearslong plan to take on America’s most prominent enemy and secure freedom and safety for his people was gone as well.
Insane.
The newspaper stories, the cable broadcasts, the books upon books written in the future, about him, all saying the same thing, that he was unstable, a paranoid, delusional.
A sickening thought comes to him.
Suppose all the upcoming trials reach the same conclusion, not guilty by reason of insanity?
He could spend the rest of his life at Saint Elizabeth’s in DC, past home to such luminaries as Charles Guiteau, the assassin of President James Garfield, the mad poet Ezra Pound, and John Hinckley Jr. There will be sanity hearings in his future, more stories, more coverage, until his name becomes a national and worldwide joke.
No.
He will not allow that to happen.
He starts going through the cardboard boxes of his personal belongings and after fifteen minutes of frantic searching, he finally finds what he’s looking for.
Grandfather’s Colt .45 pistol, which he managed to smuggle out of the White House.
Keegan Barrett, former president of the United States of America, quickly realizes how cold and oily the muzzle of the pistol is as he puts it into his mouth.
CHAPTER 153
HE PULLS THE trigger, closing his eyes, steeling himself for what comes next.
Nothing.
The trigger won’t budge.
The door slams open and the room quickly fills with strong men and women in suits who crowd around him, tough hands taking the pistol away from his weak grip.
He stands there, not saying a word, until a familiar-looking woman strides in, wearing black slacks, jacket, and light-blue blouse.
“Mr. President?” she asks. “Edie Hicks, Deputy Director, FBI. Sorry for this reaction, but we’re under orders from President Hernandez to ensure your safety at all times. Both us and the Secret Service.”
“My pistol…”
“Disabled, of course. We couldn’t have a functioning weapon in your presence. But we also realize it’s a valued family heirloom and decided it would be best to leave it in your possession for now. Without the firing pin and other necessary parts.”
Barrett says, “But you’ve bugged my rooms…”
“Active only when your lawyer isn’t present,” she says, smiling. “This may be a concept you haven’t quite understood over the years, but laws are to be followed. And in your case, we intend to follow them to a T.”
Barrett snaps back. “Laws be damned. I was acting in the best interests of my country as president of the United States.”
She says, “With all due respect, sir, you were the president of the United States. You’re now a former president. And soon, you’ll be a criminal defendant. You should keep that in mind in the weeks and months ahead, as you prepare your defense, as you reflect as to how far you came, and how far you’ve fallen.”
The woman pauses, like she’s trying to choose the right words. She says, “Lucky for all of us, you fell at the right time. As for now, we’ll leave you alone, sir.”
The FBI deputy director leaves the suite, followed by FBI and Secret Service agents. The door closes and former president Keegan Barrett is finally and utterly alone, for the first time in his life.
He slumps down in a chair. The lifelong voice inside telling him that he was special, that his enemies would be defeated, that all of his dreams and desires would come true—that voice has fallen silent.
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About the Authors
James Patterson is the world’s bestselling author. His enduring fictional characters and series include Alex Cross, the Women’s Murder Club, Michael Bennett, Maximum Ride, Middle School, and Ali Cross, along with such acclaimed works of narrative nonfiction as Walk in My Combat Boots, E.R. Nurses, and his autobiography, James Patterson by James Patterson. Bill Clinton (The President Is Missing) and Dolly Parton (Run, Rose, Run) are among his notable literary collaborators. For his prodigious imagination and championship of literacy in America, Patterson was awarded the 2019 National Humanities Medal. The National Book Foundation presented him with the Literarian Award for Outstanding Service to the American Literary Community, and he is also the recipient of an Edgar Award and nine Emmy Awards. He lives in Florida with his family.
