The 4 Phase Man (24 page)

Canvas turned down the television, answering his cell phone on the second ring. “Candle.”

“Proceed. The line went dead.”

He brought the microphone, already in his other hand, up to his lips.

“Käi mén,”
he said clearly.
“Käi mén.”

He put down the radio, started to leave, then stopped, turning up the TV for one last look.

“Reports are still sketchy, details still coming in,” the announcer was saying as he shuffled several papers in his hands, “but this much, at least, is clear. About twenty minutes ago there was an explosion at the factory of American Banners in Kaohsiung, Taiwan. The factory—which makes U.S. flags and sports pennants—is said to be fully engulfed in flames, with the bulk of its workforce trapped inside.”

“An anonymous call to WIN’s Taipei Bureau claimed
that the bombing was, and I quote here, ‘the first blow, of many yet to come, against America for its gradual sellout of her Nationalist Chinese allies.’ We go now to…”

Canvas shut the set, studied the blank tube for a moment, then moved into another room.

Five minutes later he was gone, the house an inferno—accelerated by solid rocket fuel spread throughout. The most that would ever be found was a soft, white ash.

“My point is, Mr. Attorney General, that your generation just has never appreciated the sacrifices those of my generation made in order to give you the chance to turn on and drop out.”

DeWitt laughed easily. “I’d hardly say we’ve dropped out, Mr. Williams. Three-quarters of the president’s cabinet is made up of men and women of my generation. At the polls, we voted in greater numbers than did yours, in business we have become CEOs and COOs of half the Fortune 500 companies.”

“Still, y’all never seem to get it right! You may have the numbers for the moment, sir, but…”

“Well,” Kingston added between bites, “let’s just say our generation and yours don’t see things the same way, although our motivations are the same. A better, stronger America.”

The lunch with senior members of the Democratic National Committee had been going on for about half an hour. The committee members challenging, testing,
evaluating
the three men who were the leading candidates—if undeclared—to replace the lame duck incumbent.

“Motivations by whose definition, gentlemen?” another committeeman interrupted. “The hippies or the fogies?”

Buckley laughed. “I vote with the hippies, Robert, but
deeply
respect my fogy constituency.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Attorney General.” His aide—Michael—hurried up to him, a concerned look on his face.
“It’s FBI Director Hayes for you. Quite urgent.” He handed him a cell phone as the table moved onto another argument.

“Goddammit, I am not going to lose this man!” the first doctor shouted.

“Pulse is too fast to count,” the scrub nurse called out as she gave the horribly wounded man an injection. “He’s shutting down!”

“I got eight holes in his back and chest.” Maybe five of them entries, the second doctor called out. “Hang two more units of whole blood and push em! Also all the Ringers you can get!”

“V-fib,” a nurse called out.

The first doctor grabbed a cardiac needle and plunged it straight into the man’s heart. “Dammit, what next?”

The table was hushed, stilled. All eyes stared at the attorney general, silently begging not to hear the news they’d all heard before—too often—in their lifetimes.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a voice choked with emotion as he handed the phone back to Michael. “Director Hayes informs me that the vice president died of his wounds approximately five minutes ago.”

“Sweet Jesus, someone gasped.”

DeWitt shook his head—stunned—as he stood up. “I have to get back to Washington.”

In his life, the German would never face more danger than he would in the next few minutes. He’d hoped to
have more time, more practice, a closer relationship with the old man he must now move into place. But orders were orders, so recriminations and doubts were for another time.

With a sigh, he straightened his suit and crossed the street.

The two men sat in front of the television, comparing their private notes to what they were hearing.

“Let me repeat that,” the anchor was saying. “There are now confirmed eyewitness reports that three to five Asian men were seen leaving the area of the shooting at a high rate of speed. One of them was described as having—and I’m quoting from the wire-service copy here—a tattoo of a green tiger on his left forearm.”

“We turn now to our expert on Asian terrorism, retired Army Special Forces Colonel Clay Merit. Colonel, is there anything you can tell us from this new information?”

The camera pushed in on a middle-aged, paunchy man who quickly looked up from the printouts in his hand.

“Well, Bernie,” he said, shaking his head, “it is difficult to say this out loud, but the green tiger has always been a symbol for the covert operations wing of the Dàn Jì. Taiwan’s secret intelligence service.”

The anchor looked shocked. “Are you saying, Colonel, that this man the police are seeking may have worked for our allies, the Nationalist Chinese?”

The man nodded. “Unfortunately, as this and previous administrations have moved closer and closer to fully normalized relations with the Communist Chinese, our friends in Taiwan have grown more and more militant in their opposition to this. And I’m reminded it was the vice president who served as the chief negotiator in setting up the recent summit between the premier of the People’s Republic and the president.”

He paused, trying to decide whether he should put on
his
serious
or
concerned
look. “When taken in concert with the flag factory bombing earlier today, there seems to be little doubt left for anyone. However much the FBI might withhold direct comment.”

A Secret Service agent interrupted the men. “The attorney general, Mr. President.”

The president muted the TV, then turned to shake the hands of the younger man. “Jeff, you know George Steingarth.”

“Mr. President. George, how are you? The son of German immigrants shook his hand as they all sat down.”

“Well,” DeWitt began without preamble, “here’s where we stand.” He handed a copy of his file to the president. “The FBI has confirmed that the hit team was Asian and staying in a dilapidated old bed-and-breakfast very near the assassination site. A title search shows that the building had recently been purchased by a dummy corporation that
has
had ties to Nationalist Chinese intelligence.”

“Swine, Steingarth said under his breath.”

“Can we prove they came from Taiwan and were acting on their government’s orders? The elderly president squinted as he continued to read.”

DeWitt shrugged. “There’s knowing and there’s proving, Mr. President. Unless we catch one of them, unless he talks, we may never be able to actually
prove
what we are all certain of. At least not in court.”

“I’m not fucking interested in courts,” the president growled as he finished reading. “I’ve got a hundred and seventy-five dead—thirty of them Americans—in a factory in Taiwan, a dead vice president, and the military all over my ass! We have a Crisis Management Committee meeting in ten minutes, and I need some fucking answers!”

DeWitt nodded. “Director Hayes is preparing a full presentation of the evidence to date for them.”

“Good.” The president seemed distracted. “Jeff, you’re a pro, you understand the real world…”

“Yes, Mr. President?”

“Senator Buckley and Director Kingston, Mr. President.”

The president waved the Secret Service to admit the men. Two minutes later, after DeWitt brought them up-to-date, the old man gestured at the muted TV.

“We have a terminal situation, boys. Getting worse all the time.” He took a note from DeWitt that had been handed him by his aide, Michael. “And I am now informed that a van with the green tiger symbol painted on the side just fired on a group of American tourists in Manila.”

He looked exhausted as he handed the note to Steingarth. “We are about as close to war as this nation has ever been, and will get all the way there in an instant if we don’t act, and act decisively.”

“What do you need, Mr. President?” Buckley asked—hoping he knew the answer.

“I’ve ordered all our workers back to barracks, sir,” Kingston said firmly. “We’re making arrangements with the host countries to provide extra security for all Peace Corps workers in Asia. But if there’s anything more I can do for you?”

And he prayed that there was. One thing, specifically.

DeWitt, busy on the phone, covered the mouthpiece. “Mr. President, Director Hayes and the CIA director are downstairs, along with the Joint Chiefs, sir. Other staff and advisers are en route. They’ll be ready for you in ten minutes.”

If
you’re
not ready for
me
before then
, he hoped.

The president looked them each in the eye. He’d never really liked the young, idealistic lawyer, the politically correct politician, or the social-climbing administrator. He’d supported them, advanced their careers and expectations as much to please the more moderate wing of the party as for their qualifications.

And he knew they were all considering running to replace him in fourteen months, at the end of the president’s second and final term. A prospect that depressed him.

He personally didn’t care for the idea of these young, admitted former pot smokers with foreign educations and no military records—but winning smiles, charm, style, and a very high approval rating—replacing him.

But this was politics—all about making the hard, distasteful choices above personal desires, he’d been reminded within the hour—and the men in front of him were the champions of the young moderates that were gradually taking over the party.

Also, the president frankly admitted to himself—if no one else—he was tired.

Exhausted in his eightieth year of life, of defending the ideals that had been bred into him, that gave him chills each time he saw an American flag. The job of the last six-plus years had been draining and dispiriting, particularly since his wife had died of cancer.

The president had come to realize, in the private isolation that included only
true
friends like the German American banker beside him, that he was slipping away—like a faded melody—and would need their youth, energy, and strength if he was going to face what he knew would be the greatest crisis his administration had ever seen.

“If what we think has happened,” the president said after too long a pause, “has
in fact
happened, this country cannot afford to appear weak. Not even for a second!”

Buckley agreed. “Of course, Mr. President. But what does—”

“George and I have been talking. There are niceties and there are political realities. And our reality—at this moment—is that we could be in combat in Taiwan within the week.”

Steingarth leaned forward. “Gentlemen, what we are saying is that there must be no appearance of a vacuum in the national command authority.”

The president looked uncomfortable but determined. “Look, I know old Bobby’s not cold yet, but I have to act for the good of the country, dammit! And George agrees. Hell, his instincts are almost as sharp as mine at this.”

“I know the Taiwanese,” Steingarth said. “They will
deny, obfuscate, plead communist plots and sinister conspiracies. We must not be perceived as even tolerating any of those lies.”

“I understand,” Kingston said slowly. “But what does this—”

“The Oriental mentality is such,” Steingarth continued, “that they will believe they have dealt a crippling blow to our government. Even before I became a member of the President’s Foreign Intelligence Advisory Board, I detected this growing animosity from them. This need to have a high-profile, world-shattering victory.”

“He’s been telling me about it for years,” the president added emphatically.

“But we will deny them their moment,” Steingarth said with surety.

“Jeff,” the president said as he reached out and touched the younger man, “I want to nominate you for the vice presidency the day after Bobby’s funeral.”

“Mr. President.” DeWitt sounded in shock. “I don’t know what to say. You need to take more time, sir.”

“There is no more time to take,” the president argued forcefully. “We must demonstrate to the Nationalists that we are firm in our resolve and will not be bullied or frightened into abandoning decades of hard work at normalization with the mainland.”

The president looked at the other men. “Rod, you’re the new attorney general. I’m ordering you to immediately convene a special commission to investigate what’s happened and provide definitive answers within two weeks.”

Buckley, equally shocked, slowly nodded. “Sir.”

“Lane, I’ve spoken to Governor Free. We can’t afford to lose a vote in our thin margin in the Senate. Not with some of the things that will need to be done. She’ll appoint you to replace Rod as soon as I announce Jeff and these moves.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Kingston said as he quietly exulted at his new power—even as he resented the others theirs.

“Mr. President,” DeWitt said softly, instantly getting
the other men’s attention, “I think you should take more time. A decision like this…”

Steingarth looked at him supportively—privately appreciating the man’s control. “Jeff, you’re a moderate, with no clear China policy, but a proven history of loyalty to the goals of this administration. You know everyone on Judiciary and Foreign Affairs intimately and are a certain confirmation.”

“You must do this, Jeff,” the president said. “If not for yourself, then for history.”

DeWitt was silent for a long time while the other men studied him, absorbed by their own private thoughts of ascension.