Brink of Chaos (27 page)

Winnie Corland was sobbing. She stood over the body of her deceased husband, but her knees weakened and she fell against the bed, reaching out and touching his cold face. This was not just a former president she was embracing. It was her husband of fifty years. A nurse came up next to her and helped her into a chair.

“He just passed in the night,” she explained to Winnie. “I’m sure it was peaceful. I am sorry about your loss.”

She knew his health had been fragile, especially when he collapsed in the Oval Office after one of his worst transient ischemic attacks. But after the succession of power to Jessica Tulrude, and Virgil’s transfer to the convalescent center, he seemed to be doing better. Slowly, to be sure, but improving.

The nurse stepped out as Winnie tried to catch her breath in a short, gasping effort. She dabbed the tears from her face and took a deep breath. The Allfone in her purse on the floor started humming. But she ignored it.

She thought back to her time with Virgil the night before. She had spent the evening with him, just talking quietly. She was grateful for that. They had laughed at memories of their life together, like their honeymoon. Being nature-lovers, they had gone rustic, camping in a state park in Maine. They had pitched their tent on the low ground, and when a nasty rainstorm broke in the middle of the night, the waters rushed through their tent, nearly floating them away. Her eyes
filled with tears again, but a smile started to break in the corner of her mouth as she remembered that.

She recalled how last night, one more time, Virgil shared with her the story of his devoted Secret Service agent, a Christian man, who had such an influence on him, and how Virgil had made the decision, in his words, to “personally trust his soul into the hands of Christ.” It was the day that Virgil had been alone in the Oval Office, shouldering the usual, ever-present burdens of the presidency. But he said that something that day actually outweighed all of that: the burden of his heart, the “empty hole there, and my longing for a touch from God, to repair me, forgive me, and to bring me some peace.” So, as Corland related it to his wife, he slowly eased down on his knees, behind the famous nineteenth-century Resolute Desk, and began to pray, pouring out his heart of repentance and faith in Jesus, trusting his soul and his life to Christ, God’s “Divine Commander-in-Chief,” as he put it in his prayer, “My Savior. My King.”

Despite his pleas, Winnie had never been able to make that decision for herself. What was it that had kept it all so distant — at arm’s length? Virgil was always such an external person. She, on the other hand, was the private one. She would ponder what Virgil said, but then would silently push it back into the closet and close the door.

Virgil often took her hand gently and asked her, in a voice that, for him, was unusual in its pathos, to “please, please, consider where you stand with the Son of God.”

But now he was gone, and there was nothing that would change that. And she was alone.

She slowly fished her hand into her purse, pulled out the Allfone, and hit the voicemail function. The voice message was from Cal Jordan, the young man that Virgil had so enjoyed. He was asking to talk to Virgil or Winnie as soon as possible, and Cal added, “I sure hope you both are doing well. I really appreciated my talks with President Corland. Good-bye.”

She clicked off her Allfone so she wouldn’t be bothered again and dropped it into her purse. All she wanted to do now was to sit in the room and stay close to the last physical likeness of her late husband. Nothing else seemed to matter.

In the middle of the frenzied political theater unfolding around her, Deborah was obsessing over a question — a very politically incorrect one:
How do I trap our candidate’s advisor and slam the cage shut before she bites?

The volunteers, having paraded to the middle of the cavernous arena, were now seated while the roadies and tech guys finished erecting the sets on the stage. On either side of the presenting area, where a Plexiglas podium had been installed, tall panes of red-white-and-blue-colored glass rose fifty feet into the air. Sparkling banners and a mammoth American flag made of shimmering lights formed the backdrop.

The manager of volunteer services was on his feet at the front with a sports-mic headset. He was looking at his e-pad, getting ready to address the one hundred and seventy volunteers for the Hewbright campaign. Deborah was one of them. A few seats away, Rick was joking with a group of friends. His face brightened when he noticed Deborah.

Oh boy
, she thought, as Rick got up from his seat and tripped over knees and feet to approach her. He bent down to the girl next to Deborah and said, “Would you mind switching seats with me? This is a long-lost friend of mine. Gotta do some catching up.”

The girl tossed him an exasperated look but changed seats. Rick sat down and stretched out his long legs, pretending nothing had happened.

“Long-lost friend?” Deborah said with a smirk.

“Oh, that? Naw, listen, this is strictly platonic. You don’t think I’m trying to hit on you, do you?” Rick’s cocky smirk gave that one away.

“Okay,” Deborah said, “then hit me with some platonics.”

“Right. How about this … just heard that the Tucker troops are ramping up their smear campaign.”

At the front, the volunteer manager was being approached by another Hewbright staffer carrying a digital clipboard.

“Tell me,” Deborah whispered.

“They’re saying Hewbright’s a womanizer. One-night-stands in motels with admirers. That kind of thing.”

“That’s crazy. Hewbright? Who’s going to believe that?”

“Look, his wife’s been dead a couple of years. Nobody expects the guy never to go out with women again. He’s not a monk. But this stuff they’re saying is so vile and false it’s incredible. I heard Hewbright’s going to haul Tucker before the rules committee, to either prove this stuff — which he obviously can’t — or make a public apology in front of the delegates. You wonder where these rumors start anyway.”

As Deborah was trying to process that, wondering if it had anything to do with Zeta Milla, the staffer at the front with the e-clipboard broke into a wide grin and waved to someone around the corner. Senator Hewbright came into view, waving to the volunteers, who stood to their feet, clapping and whistling.

After the hall grew quiet again, the senator began his remarks. “You young people who have given so much and asked for so little in return, you are the essence of my campaign. You’re here not just for me, although I thank you for that from the bottom of my heart, but you’re also here for America. You sense, as I do, that our nation is on a precipice, tottering this way and that — on the brink of an unknown and turbulent future. Possibly catastrophic. But I see, at the same time, another direction — that we can be on the brink of a great restoration, a recovery of something lost, a revival of the American vision. That there can be greatness still in this nation, and we can say that without apology, without embarrassment for who we are, and what we stand for. Leading the world, rather than asking the world’s permission. Standing tall, rather than bowing low to international powers, refusing to be financial beggars at the economic table of global masters, but rather choosing to be the brokers of freedom that we were destined to be.”

Hewbright stopped and smiled. “All right, enough of my acceptance speech …” The crowd laughed and burst into more applause. “But,” he added, “I do thank you all. Truly. And let me share something I just found out. The first televised debate will be in ten days. I’m hoping and planning to be the candidate on the other side of the podium from Tulrude.” More wild applause. “That first debate will
be on foreign policy.” With that he turned to someone standing just around the corner, blocked by an entryway. “Come on up here, Zeta.”

Zeta Milla stepped into view and strode up next to Hewbright with a modest smile. She was carrying a chic black handbag. Deborah, who had inherited her mother’s taste for style, recognized the Dolce and Gabbana bag immediately.

The senator looked relaxed and energized. “My chief internationalaffairs advisor, Winston Garvey, isn’t here right now — otherwise I’d introduce him to you. He’s up in the war room, as we call it, putting together my briefing books on global issues. But this is Zeta Milla, and she is on our foreign-relations team. She briefs me on Central and South American issues. And she’s even smarter than she is attractive …” There was a burst of applause.

Deborah had her eyes on Zeta Milla. As Hewbright waved good-bye to the volunteers, Milla slipped her hand around Hewbright’s arm. He moved away from her so slightly that it was nearly imperceptible.

Rick’s face lit up. “He’s going to make a great president.” He turned to Deborah. “So, what’s your assignment?”

“Tell me yours.”

“I just found out. You’re never going to believe it.”

“Try me.”

“I’m the go-for guy in the war room! Is that the bomb or what?”

“You’re kidding.”

“Not at all. That Zeta Milla babe we just saw … I met her up in the war-room suite. Met that Winston Garvy dude too. I’m right there, in the middle of the action, even though I’m just a fetch-and-carry guy, but still …”

Deborah tried not to dive in too eagerly. So she waited a few minutes. Then, she looked at Rick and spoke quietly. “Okay, Rick, you can buy me that cup of coffee.”

“Hey, sounds great.”

“But you have to do something first.”

Rick threw her a hesitant grin, “What’s that?”

“Can you get me on your team? I’d love to work in the war room. The heart of the action is right where I want to be.”

It was 2:00 a.m. in Paris. In his apartment just off Place de la Republique, Pack McHenry was working. The former American intelligence officer had just finished reviewing several surveillance reports on terror cells in the European Union on his encrypted email system. He approved them and sent them electronically — and encrypted — over to the Paris post of the CIA, one of his contract clients. He glanced at his Allfone watch — the one with ten time zones. It was early evening in Cuba.

So he made his call to Marianao, Cuba, which was in the Old Havana section. Carlos picked up.

“Hello, my friend.”

“Greetings, amigo. Where are you calling from today?”

“You know I never answer questions like that,” McHenry said.

Carlos laughed hard.

“So,” McHenry asked, “what have you found out?”

“I am pretty sure it’s a match. These two women are the same person.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Zeta Milla and … what’s the other’s name?”

“Maria Zeta. Yes, same woman, I believe. But I had to do a lot of digging, Señor Pack. She’s been off the island for about eight years.”

“So, the question is, long enough to go to school in the U.S., get a master’s degree and some credits toward a doctorate, put time in at the State Department, and then join the staff of a senator?”

“That doesn’t sound like a question,” Carlos said, “more like an answer.”

“Yes, exactly,” McHenry said. “Anything else?”

“We call her type
Buta Buts
.”

“Meaning …”

“A poisonous tree. Any contact with it hurts you, blinds you, or even worse.”

“Not the kind of girl to bring home to Mom.”

“As a teenager, she was recruited by Castro’s staff. She was pretty and very smart, but ruthless. Killed two men I know of.”

“Why?”

“It was just a test, just to see if she could.” Then Carlos added, “She passed the test.”

“She’s only worked in Cuba?”

“No, I heard she has been reassigned overseas, but I don’t know where.”

McHenry thanked him and told him he would wire some money to him. Then Pack pulled out the summary of the international travel itinerary his agents had obtained on Zeta Milla, aka Maria Zeta, something he ordered as a favor for Abigail.

As he studied the data, it became clear why Abigail wanted it. The listing documented every trip that the Cuban woman had taken to Romania while Coliquin still maintained a home there during his stint as that country’s ambassador to the U.N. And the list of Zeta Milla’s trips to Romania — apparently to meet with Coliquin — was very long.

The Arab school was the perfect cover for the assembly of one of the world’s most grotesque weapons of mass destruction. In that remote area, just off the highway from the desolate Negev, the school was made up of three buildings, mostly classrooms for Bedouin children. There was also a large cinderblock garage fifty yards from the other structures. That windowless building would be the assembly site.

While the children played cheerfully on the playground at the end of their school day, inside the garage, Tarek Fahad, Anwar al-Madrassa’s chief of weapons inspected the missile housing and nosecone, which were laid out on a long steel worktable. Then he turned to Dr. Ahlam, the terror chemist who had designed the horrifying biological agent that al-Madrassa’s cell was now calling “The Elixir of Allah.” “I hear your elixir can melt the skin off a dog, down to the bone. Let’s just hope it can do that to humans.”

Dr. Ahlam had his own challenge. “Don’t worry about my biological material. It will do that and more. My worry,” he said pointing to the hardware on the table, “is about your delivery system.”

Laying his hand on the shiny steel casing, Fahad retorted, “Very smart missile men have provided this to us. For a very high price, of course. Have you ever heard of a company called the Deter Von Gunter Group?”

Ahlam narrowed his eyes. “Sounds familiar …”

“Big weapons company. The owner is part of a group called the World Builders.”

When Dr. Ahlam gave a blank look, Fahad shrugged. “Not important. Because Anwar agrees with me that this missile will work perfectly to carry your elixir to its target.”

“But Israel still has the RTS defense system. I’m afraid it will keep my bio-weapon from reaching its destination.”

“You worry too much,” Fahad said smugly. “RTS will be of no consequence. We will be burning the skin off infidels one way or another.”

Deborah had made a mad dash downtown to do some emergency shopping and was just now arriving back at the convention center and flashed her credentials. Her Allfone rang. It was Pack McHenry.

“Deborah,” he said quietly, “I have every reason to believe that Zeta Milla is one bad actor. To the extreme.”

Deborah scurried to a corner of the convention center to buy herself some privacy. “Yes, Pack, I copy that.”

“I’d stay clear of her, if I were you.”

“Can’t do that, sir.”

“Listen, Deb, this woman is like a coral snake; you don’t realize how poisonous until it’s too late. Leave her to somebody else.”

“Like who? The convention starts tonight. I get the feeling that something is about to break — right on top of us. Maybe even tonight.”

“Since none of my people are available,” McHenry said, “I put in a call to John Gallagher, but he hasn’t called back. Maybe he can do something, push the FBI or local cops to intervene.”

“He’s tied up in some kind of wedding in Northern California.”

“Then you need to confer with your mother. Get someone there to help you.”

“Too late. You know the hoops I went through to get inside the campaign. I’m in striking distance. The tip of the spear. I need to finish this.”

“All right. I understand. I’ll keep calling Gallagher.”

“Fine. Just know that I’m getting close.”

Then she noticed Rick, who was roaming the lobby, searching for someone. He caught sight of Deborah and trotted over.

“Very close,” she added to Pack McHenry and clicked off her cell.

“Come on, Deborah,” Rick said in a huff, “we got to get up to the war room suite — like right now. We’re supposed to be serving drinks and running errands.” He looked down at the big duffle bag on the floor next to her. “What’s that?”

“Oh, it’s mine. Didn’t have time to drop it off at my hotel room.” Then she grabbed it by the handle. “I’ll just take it with me.”

“Whatever,” Rick said. “Let’s go. I did you a favor getting you in, so let’s not blow it, okay?”

“I can’t seem to get a handle on this. I’ve worked the problem from every possible angle and still can’t get to the bottom.”

Over the phone, Ted, the senior engineer at Jordan Technologies, sounded stressed. As well he should.

Joshua was standing off to the side of the R&D conference room with a high-security satellite Allfone in his hand. Several IDF officers were huddled at the other end of the room.

“Look, Ted, they’re telling me there’s a new threat emerging over here. They’ve got intel that Anwar al-Madrassa was spotted in Lebanon and may be inside Israel by now. His terror cell is working on a nightmare kind of bio weapon. We can’t afford to just turn that kind of incoming missile around one-hundred-and-eighty-degrees. It may be launched from a civilian area. We need three-hundred-and-sixty-degree-capture control. And we need it now.”

“I keep telling you, our computer models work perfectly, but something happens in the real-world tests that I can’t pick up from here.”

Joshua rubbed the back of his neck. He could feel himself tightening like a steel cable. “Well, I’ve checked the data from this end. Our IDF friends have suggested that we adjust the intensity of the laser beam itself. They think if we scale it down a bit we’d have a better chance at loading our three-sixty controls into the missile’s total guidance program.”

“Problem is,” Ted said, “once you do that, you may lose the capacity to do the initial capture of the trajectory data from the guidance program in the missile cone. If that happens, you may lose all control over the incoming weapon.”

“That’s what I told them,” Joshua said, shaking his head. “I think we keep the laser intensity where it is. My guess is there’s something going wrong in the data stream between the laser and the guidance of the incoming missile. Keep working the numbers and see if you can find any anomalies. This may be a software problem. Look at the code we’re using and see if that’s the issue.”

Joshua clicked off and looked over at Ethan, who was sitting at the conference table.

Ethan sat up straighter. “I wish there was something I could do,” he said, “but you guys are the tech geniuses. I’m just a former flyboy.”

Joshua sauntered over to Ethan and sat down. “This glitch is driving me crazy. But I’m glad you’re here.”

“I appreciate that, but I still can’t help you with your RTS problem, and I’ve got no political clout with the Israelis.”

“On the other hand,” Joshua replied, keeping his voice low, “you did some quick thinking in that market, keeping those Shin Bet agents off my back.”

“Which turned out to be a moot issue,” Ethan said with a smirk, “because they stopped chasing you down anyway — now that they need your RTS system again.”

Joshua bent closer to Ethan, and lowered his voice to almost a whisper. “Listen to me, Ethan. I know you wonder what you’re doing here, but I know you’re meant to be here with me. There are things that have yet to be revealed. You’re in a time of preparation, I think, and I know you balk when I talk like this … but I can see in your eyes that you’re starting to believe me. The role you are meant to play is not about me. It’s much bigger than that. I get the feeling you are going to be a major player in events to come.” Then Joshua felt his countenance fall. “Which means, necessarily, that I fear for you at the same time.”

Ethan looked confused, but Josh couldn’t explain it any further.

“Colonel Jordan?” A voice came from one of the IDF officers on the other side of the room. “We have a message for you to call your wife.”

Joshua nodded to them and turned to Ethan. “That’s good news. I haven’t heard from Abby for the last week. I wonder what kind of trouble she’s been getting into.”