The Ajax Protocol-7 (3 page)

In his home outside Washington, Westlake had just poured himself a large measure of single malt whiskey. The blinking light on his secured phone told him the call was coming from the command center.

He picked up the phone.

"Yes."

"General, this is Phil Abingdon. We have a problem."

"What kind of problem?"

"We've been probed. I've identified the source and was able to trace it."

"Yes?"

"I wouldn't bother you with this but the attack came from a computer assigned to one of the intelligence agencies."

"Which one?"

"I've never heard of it. Something called the Presidential Official Joint Exercise in Counter Terrorism."

The Project,
Westlake thought.
.

"I know who they are," he said. "Were they successful?"

"No, sir. I blocked them from getting anything important."

"How did they find us?"

"I don't know. They might have tracked us by the satellite transmission over Russia."

"You're sure they didn't get into the database?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good work, Abingdon. I'll take care of it. Keep me informed."

"Yes, sir." Abingdon put down the phone.

Westlake sipped from his drink and considered his options. He knew about the Project and he knew about Elizabeth Harker. She had a reputation for being relentless. Once she fastened onto something, she was like a dog that wouldn't let go. She'd probed his command server, it was possible she could discover the location of the bunker. He couldn't let that happen.

He'd have to do something about her and her group. Action against her was necessary.

How much did she know? Who had she told? The only way to find out was to ask her. He'd have to get her someplace where she could be questioned and if that wasn't possible, eliminate her. If he went after Harker, he'd have to take out her team as well.

Somehow his glass was empty. He got up and filled it again. Tomorrow evening, the next phase of the plan was set to unfold. It would provide a perfect opportunity to catch Harker off her guard.

Westlake picked up his phone and made the arrangements.

CHAPTER 6

It was almost 8 o'clock on the evening of the next day. President James Rice sipped from a glass of water as he waited for his cue to go on stage. He was about to make an important speech on national television about the struggling economy.

Rice was worried about more than the economy. A potential crisis was shaping up in Russia and no one knew for sure what had happened over there. The signs weren't good. Recent relations between the White House and the Kremlin were slipping toward cold war status. Earlier, a cable had come from his ambassador in Moscow warning that the Federation suspected the US could be involved with what had happened in Siberia.

Rice didn't know what had happened in Siberia. He was afraid it would turn into one of those terrorist incidents that threatened America. If the public knew how many times the country had come within a hair's breadth of total destruction because of the insane acts of suicidal terrorists, Rice was sure they would run screaming through the streets. He wanted to be back in the White House, working on a way to defuse the building tensions. Instead, he was about to make a speech aimed at convincing the American public that everything was fine while the world economy tottered on the brink of collapse.

At moments like this, he would think about his family and how fragile the illusion of security and safety that surrounded them and every other American family really was. Sometimes it wasn't much fun playing the role of leader of the free world.

He felt unwell, a little feverish. He took another sip of water. It had an odd taste, but at least it was wet and cold.

The Secret Service agent standing next to him said, "There's your cue, Mister President."

"Thank you, Sam. Everyone in place?"

"Yes, sir."

Rice straightened his tie. It was his favorite necktie, given to him by his daughter. That had been years ago, but he still liked to wear it. For some reason it felt unusually tight.

"Showtime," he said.

He strode onto stage to the strains of
Hail to the Chief
, flashing his traditional wide smile and waving to the expectant crowd. He reached the podium and looked out at the teleprompter. Sudden pain ran down his left arm like a bolt of fire. Then it was as if a giant hand reached out and grabbed his chest and squeezed. He couldn't breathe.

Rice staggered, clutched at the podium and pitched forward onto the stage. Shouts came from the crowd. The Secret Service detail ran forward and surrounded him.

At home in Virginia, General Westlake watched the confusion and chaos on his television and smiled. The cameras cut away to the network studio. He poured himself another drink.

That's one problem solved
.
One to go.

He eyed the amber liquid in his glass and decided it was the last of the evening. Alcohol helped him think, but lately he'd caught himself drinking more than usual. He'd come too far to make a mistake at this stage of the game. The last pieces were being moved into place.

Westlake came from a strong military tradition. His grandfather had been wounded in France during World War I. His father had won the Distinguished Service Cross and a Silver Star in World War II. When Westlake graduated from West Point he'd been a naïve young man who believed his country was led by those who wanted to make the world a better place.

Instead, he'd watched America become a country run by people who thought profit and compromise was a successful national strategy. He'd watched the military hamstrung by incompetent leaders and misguided policies, even as superior technology and a giant budget turned it into the most fearsome fighting force the world had ever seen.

He'd risen almost to the top of the military pyramid, but high rank was political in nature. He'd been passed over for the Joint Chiefs and high command in the field. His outspoken and public views that mistakes had been made and changes were needed had earned him enemies in Congress.

Westlake was not alone in his views. He had the support of powerful men in Congress and at the Pentagon. Men who made a difference, who believed as he did in the nation's destiny. Patriots and realists like himself, ready to do something about it.

Four years ago, he'd gotten an invitation to a quiet meeting that had altered his life. That meeting had led to more meetings, with men who had a plan to take control of the government, men of influence and wealth. They wanted him to lead a new America, an America that would claim its place as the one supreme power in the world.

Still, he'd hesitated. Then his son had been killed in Afghanistan. It had been the final argument that convinced him to join them.

Westlake looked over at the picture he kept on his desk and felt the pull of grief that never seemed to leave him. The photo had been taken on the day his boy graduated from West Point. Alan Westlake was smiling, proud and tall in his gray uniform. He had died for no good reason in a badly managed war that was bleeding America dry.

When the transition was over and he was in control, there would be no more wars fought without the political will to win.

Westlake raised his drink to the picture of his son.

CHAPTER 7

Elizabeth was working late. Everyone else had gone home.

She was debating with herself about working for a few more hours and spending the night downstairs. She leaned back in her chair and looked at the picture of her father she kept on her desk. She missed her father, his stable presence, his ability to see to the heart of any situation. More importantly, his ability to see to the heart of whatever situation was troubling her.

Her father had been a judge in western Colorado, in an era when judges still had wide discretion over their decisions. That had changed during his last years on the bench, as more and more political interference crept into the court system. The growing rigidity of the sentencing structure and the turnstile approach to sentencing and release was one of the few things she'd ever heard him complain about.

When her direct phone line signaled a call, she knew it was bad news. No one called at this time of night unless the news was bad.

"Harker," she answered.

"Director, this is Agent Price of the President's Secret Service detail. I'm calling you from Walter Reed. President Rice has had a heart attack. He's asking for you."

Her heart skipped a beat. She knew he'd been giving a major speech that night but she decided to watch it at home later. The voice on the other end of the line continued. "A helicopter is on the way. It will be there in 10 minutes. Please be ready."

"How is he?"

"Not good. Ten minutes, Director."

Elizabeth stood and put her phone in her purse. If they were sending a helicopter, it meant Rice was probably dying. She prayed it wouldn't happen. Rice was one of the very few people Elizabeth had ever admired. If he died, the world would become a more dangerous place.

She turned out the lights in her office, went outside and walked over by the helipad to wait. After a few moments she heard the distinctive
whop, whop
of rotors beating against the humid air. She watched the helicopter descend in a wide, sweeping turn. The pilot brought it in over the landing area and hovered before setting the craft down. The rotors continued to turn. The chopper was all black and unmarked.

Funny
, she thought,
I don't think I've ever seen a model quite like that before. Usually they send a Marine unit
.

A man in a dark suit descended from the craft. He was about six feet tall, with a dark complexion and longish hair. He needed a shave. For some reason Elizabeth felt uneasy, but she couldn't quite put her finger on why.

"Director Harker? I'm Agent Williams. Let me help you in."

He started toward her. Elizabeth noticed an earpiece with a cord trailing behind it, something every Secret Service agent seemed to have. He wore the traditional garb of the service, a dark suit and tie. If it'd been daylight, he probably would've had sunglasses. All that was standard issue. She noticed his shoes. He was wearing brown loafers.

Her intuition sounded an alarm. No agent would have been caught dead with loafers, brown or any other color, especially someone from the White House detail. His hair was too long, and she had never seen a Secret Service agent who needed a shave.

Something in her face gave must have given her away. The man's expression hardened. He reached under his suit jacket. Behind the glass canopy of the helicopter the pilot watched the two of them.

Elizabeth had not gotten where she was by being stupid. Even as he moved, her mind had processed the details it was taking in. The hair, the need for a shave, the shoes. It all added up to trouble. She made a decision. Her pistol came out of the quick draw holster at her waist as Williams drew a gun from under his jacket. She fired three, fast rounds. He fired into the ground, the round ricocheting off the cement, and fell back onto the hard surface of the pad.

With a full throttle roar, the helicopter lifted off the pad and started to rise, turning as it climbed.

Elizabeth was angry. She raised her gun in both hands and emptied the rest of the magazine at the chopper. Sparks flew from the metal fuselage. Some of her hollow point bullets found the engine intake. The slide locked back on her empty pistol. The helicopter rose steadily away from her.

A sudden, strident sound of shrieking metal filled the night as the engine seized in mid-air. A thick plume of black, oily smoke poured from the rear of the bird. The helicopter tipped sideways and veered toward her. She could see the terrified face of the pilot through the canopy as the machine plummeted out of control. Elizabeth ran off the pad and dove onto the lawn. The helicopter passed over her and flew straight into the ground. The spinning rotors hit the dirt. The machine cart wheeled and exploded in a blossom of orange flame. The sound rolled across the Virginia countryside like thunder and faded away.

Elizabeth raised her head and looked at the burning wreckage. Then she looked over at the man she had killed. He lay on his back. Blood soaked his shirt and oozed under his body. The toes of his brown loafers pointed into the air. She got to her feet. Her hands were shaking.

She inserted a fresh magazine into her pistol, released the slide and de-cocked the hammer. She holstered the weapon.

The crash would have been noticed by someone. She couldn't afford to have the local cops and the NTSB and everyone else poking around the crash scene, not until she knew who had sent the helicopter. Not until she had more information. She would have to call in favors and invoke National Security. It would be messy, but she could keep things under wraps long enough to find out what the hell had just happened. She didn't have a choice, if she wanted to keep control of the situation.

She took out her phone and called Clarence Hood on his private, secure line. Hood was the current Director of Central Intelligence and an ally Elizabeth could rely on. There were good reasons for that. If it hadn't been for Elizabeth and her team, Hood would be in a federal prison instead of on the seventh floor of Langley.

"Clarence, it's Elizabeth. I need your help."

"Elizabeth. You've heard about the President?"

"Yes. What's his status?"

"Uncertain. He's in the ICU at Walter Reed."

"Something has happened here," Elizabeth said. She told him about the phone call and the helicopter. She looked over at the wreckage as she spoke.

"It still burning," she said. "Someone must've noticed. The state police and everyone else are going to be here in a few minutes. I need your help to head them off."

"The man who identified himself as a Secret Service agent said the President had sent him?"

"Yes. I'm wondering if somehow it's related to what happened to Rice."

"You think it may have been an assassination attempt?"