The roomful of reporters, who, other than the CBS correspondent, Hannah Blazer, had already gone quiet, all eyes on the president as he established a semblance of order in the room.

  Dellenbaugh paused and scanned the room of reporters with his eyes, a cold, emotionless look on his face. Finally, after nearly a minute, he spoke.

  “They killed a man I served in the United States Senate with,” said President Dellenbaugh. “He was my mentor. I was a thirty-six-year-old former professional hockey player who didn’t know anything. John Patrick showed me what to do, mostly out of pity, I think.”

  Dellenbaugh paused, gripping the sides of the dais as he fought to hold back emotion.

  “I had dinner with Nick Blake three nights ago,” said Dellenbaugh. “He flew to Washington on my invitation. We ate hamburgers upstairs, sitting on the terrace of the White House, looking at the sky. Nick might have been trying to beat me, but I wanted to understand what he’d done in Florida when it came to organized crime. Russian organized crime. Did he have ideas we could use in other parts of the country? That’s what I wanted to know. We had a wonderful time. He was a truly special person.”

  Dellenbaugh paused, and his face took on a sincere and fierce demeanor.

  “They killed a young, bright, up-and-coming governor who was doing a tremendous job,” said Dellenbaugh. “Even I can say that. You know what? He might’ve beaten me, and that would’ve been all right. That’s what democracies are about. Nick and I even talked about it. We laughed about it. We promised each other that above all else, we would try and have fun. It would’ve been a challenging, hard-fought, inspiring campaign, a real battle about how best to protect our country and our children. Imagine how great the debates would’ve been?” said Dellenbaugh, shaking his head remorsefully. “A world-class prosecutor against a former hockey player. Gee. I wonder who would’ve won?” Then Dellenbaugh stopped, reaching for his eyes. “But it was not meant to be,” he said softly. “A lion of the Senate was murdered tonight, as was a future president—two great men, cut down for no reason.”

  Dellenbaugh paused. At this point, his eyes went from empathetic to stone as he found the live cameras at the back of the briefing room.

  “Tonight will be scarred into the United States of America forever,” said Dellenbaugh. “The Russian mafia declared war on our country tonight.”

  Dellenbaugh stared into the cameras that took his message across the globe. His voice was rising in anger and his hand flew into the air, as if pointing at the perpetrators.

  “By its actions, the Russian mafia declared war this night on America. Our way of life. Two great sons. Well, know this,” said President Dellenbaugh to the cameras. “We will not rest until the people behind these crimes are discovered and brought to justice, and you better believe that American justice is coming. Put your insurance carriers on notice. America is coming and we will destroy you.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Moscow

  Yuri Malnikov was sleeping when the light in his bedroom went on. He looked up. His only child, his son, Alexei, was standing in the doorway, wearing only a pair of boxers, his hair tousled.

  Alexei Malnikov was a big man, with broad shoulders and a muscled frame. He had dark hair and a sharp, aquiline nose.

  “We have a problem,” said Alexei.

  Yuri reached over and turned on a bedside lamp.

  “What is it?”

  “The United States. John Patrick O’Flaherty and Nick Blake, the governor of Florida. They were both assassinated earlier tonight,” said Alexei.

  Yuri Malnikov climbed out of bed and walked to the wall, flipping on a light. Next to the light was a bar. He poured two vodkas, handing one to his son. They clinked glasses.

  “The Americans will blame all of us,” said Yuri.

  Alexei nodded, putting the glass to his mouth and gulping it down.

  “They’ll come after all of us,” said Alexei. “Whoever did this knows that.”

  “I spent a year in a Colorado prison,” said the elder Malnikov. “You worked with the Americans to win my freedom. I think you should reestablish contact. In this matter, our interests are aligned with America’s.”

  Alexei poured himself another half glass and unceremoniously downed it.

  “I’ll reach out if you want me to,” said Alexei. “But we both know this was the work of the Odessa Mafia. I’d rather take our revenge directly. It was that fuck, Andrei Volkov, down in Miami. He runs everything.”

  “Do that too,” said Yuri Malnikov, sipping a large gulp of vodka from his glass. “But make no mistake, the Americans will be looking for blood. I will not go back to prison, Alexei. I would rather die. You need to call Hector Calibrisi and explain. We have to educate them, otherwise we’ll both find ourselves at Supermax. I am under three separate indictments and you’re under two,” said Yuri. “This has to be a face-to-face meeting, and I don’t think you can set foot on U.S. soil.”

  “I understand,” said Alexei Malnikov.

  CHAPTER 9

  22 West

  1177 22nd Street, N.W.

  Washington, D.C.

  Tacoma dropped Katie off in Middleburg and drove to downtown Washington, D.C. He parked outside the front entrance of a high-rise apartment building. It was 5:15 A.M.

  Near a bank of elevators, he put both thumbs against a pair of scanners and stared into an iris reader. After a second or two, and a series of electronic beeps, one of the elevators opened.

  The elevator took him to the top floor, opening directly into it. The apartment was vast, the walls a shock of glass. The space was high-ceilinged, like a loft, and stretched in each direction. Though the floor was carpeted, there was no furniture. Instead, the sweeping space appeared empty, except for a mattress somewhere in the distance, near one of the corners of the $18 million condo. Tacoma came to the king-sized mattress, with a neon green sleeping bag on top of it.

  Surrounding the general area of the mattress were piles of clothing, at least a dozen of them, some dirty, some freshly out of the dryer, though nobody—certainly not Tacoma—knew for sure.

  Tacoma simply removed all his clothing and dived toward the middle, his eyes shut before he hit the mattress. He was quickly sound asleep.

  CHAPTER 10

  Office of Chief Justice Mark Hastings

  U.S. Supreme Court

  Second Street, N.E.

  Washington, D.C.

  The presidential motorcade departed from the White House at 5:45 A.M. Dellenbaugh had contemplated bringing the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence to the White House, but Adrian King, his chief of staff, talked him out of it. The bipartisan group of fifteen senators needed to be assembled on neutral ground, in a setting that would make every senator willing to put aside party loyalty. Because President Dellenbaugh was asking each senator to do something that had never been done before, namely, allow the CIA to operate on U.S. soil, there could be no hint of partisan advantage or political intrigue.

  Mark Hastings, Chief Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court, had agreed to host the secret meeting of the SSCI.

  In the presidential limousine sat Dellenbaugh, Calibrisi, and King. King, a lawyer by trade, had worked alone through the night drawing up a series of documents built off the original addendum to the Constitution regarding emergency actions.

  The first was a sworn affidavit attesting to the provenance of the original document, which the president had already signed. Another affidavit would memorialize the fact that Dellenbaugh was hereby calling for the committee to abide by its constitutional duties in hearing the proposed emergency action. A third document outlined a process for the voting by the senators on the merits of the proposed emergency action. The process had to adhere to and meet the guidelines of the original documents, that is, unanimity by a court “unbiased by opinion or resolve.”

  In addition, there were two more documents. Preemptive presidential pardons.

  The motorcade moved into the heavily fortified entrance tunnel off Second Street and thundered into the underground parking garage.

  Dellenbaugh and King took the elevator to the second floor, where the chief justice was waiting.

  “Mr. President,” said Hastings enthusiastically, extending his hand, “great to see you, sir.”

  “You too, Your Honor,” said Dellenbaugh, shaking his hand.

  “Hector,” said Hastings. “Good to see you, chief.”

  “You too, Mark,” said Calibrisi.

  Hastings gave King a once-over.

  “Uh-oh,” said Hastings, smiling. “You brought the goon squad, Mr. President?”

  King smiled as Dellenbaugh, Calibrisi, and Hastings broke into quiet laughter.

  King had clerked for Hastings after he graduated from Yale. Hastings knew him like a son.

  “Just kidding, Mr. Chief of Staff,” said Hastings, giving King a hug. “Great to see you. Follow me, you guys. Everyone is in my office.”

  Hastings’s office was entered through a large antechamber, where several desks, belonging to various assistants and clerks, sat empty at this early hour. They followed the chief justice through a large doorway, entering his corner office. The ceiling was fifteen feet high, the windows massive, with views of the Capitol Building. Hastings’s massive desk was in the corner, piled neatly with several stacks of files and papers. A credenza behind the desk was filled with various framed photos of Hastings with his family, as well as a few of him with past presidents and other dignitaries. One of the photos showed Hastings with Dellenbaugh’s arm around him. Both men were dressed in hockey gear and their hair was wet with perspiration. Dellenbaugh wore an old University of Michigan jersey, Hastings had on an even older jersey from Harvard, where, as an undergraduate several decades before, he’d played goaltender. Large, modern paintings hung on one wall while the other was occupied by bookshelves containing leather-bound legal volumes. At the center of the office was a square of four leather Chesterfield sofas, all surrounding a glass coffee table, atop which sat a silver coffee service, cups, and saucers.

  Already seated on three of the four the sofas were the fifteen members of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. They were dressed in business attire. There were eight Republicans and seven Democrats. Dellenbaugh, Calibrisi, and King went around the room shaking hands, then sat down on the unoccupied couch. It was Dellenbaugh who began.

  “First of all, thank you for coming,” said Dellenbaugh.

  A gray-haired, regal-looking woman, Senator Tracy Wadmore-Smith, a Republican from South Dakota, spoke first.

  “Why are we here, Mr. President?” she asked.

  Dellenbaugh looked at the gathered group of senators.

  “There exists a codicil to the original U.S. Constitution,” said Dellenbaugh. “Under a strict set of conditions, the United States Senate may allow the president to seek permission in order to enact temporary law in emergency situations.”

  “Why at the Supreme Court?” said a large, gray-haired, distinguished-looking man who was very thin, Peter Lehigh, the senior senator from California, a Democrat from San Francisco.

  “A level playing field,” said Hastings. “I’m a witness, but I’ve also read the original document. This codicil to the Constitution was last used in 1941 by Franklin Roosevelt. He was seeking permission to send arms to the British in order to help stop Hitler.”

  Dellenbaugh looked slightly surprised at Hastings. He was supposed to be neutral, but he was using the prestige of his office to reinforce the importance of the occasion, thus elevating the vote above partisanship. But the underlying effect was unmistakable. He glanced at King, whose face was emotionless.

  “So it’s for emergency measures,” said Lehigh. “You want to take an emergency measure. Is that correct, Mr. President?”

  Dellenbaugh nodded. “That’s right.” He looked at King.

  “Mr. President,” said one of the senators, Carly Bowman, a Republican from Arizona. “If you don’t mind my asking, why are you exercising this provision? We’re all shocked by what happened last night, but is it a national crisis?”

  “That’s up to you to determine, Senator Bowman,” said Dellenbaugh. “I believe the Russian mafia has left us no other options. Law enforcement is failing in its battle. Last night the nation saw firsthand how badly we’re losing.”

  “John Patrick O’Flaherty was a groomsman in my wedding, Mr. President,” said a large black man, Senator Henry Cadomyer of Alabama, a Republican, his accent southern and warm, his words flowing slowly from a chiseled, ancient face. “My guess is, you intend to ask us for permission to do things—whether it’s the NSA, the CIA, or some other thing I haven’t even heard of yet. You’re going to ask us for permission to do whatever it is you do—but on domestic soil. I know what I think of that, and I sure as hell know what George Washington would’ve thought of that.”

  “The codicil is clear, Henry,” said a middle-aged woman with long black hair, Senator Danica Wade, a Democrat from Massachusetts. “Our role is to see that the emergency declaration is done according to the codicil and then to vote yes or no. Your opinion as to the proposed action is rhetoric. The fact that we’re in the most hallowed ground of our country’s legal system means we have to put our partisan feelings aside.”

  “Senator Wade is correct,” said Hastings. “In fact, my read of the codicil is that the senators now assembled are being asked to cede power on behalf of a larger cause, meaning national security. That is what the codicil is about.”

  “That’s right,” said King, the White House chief of staff. “The codicil has strict requirements. Initiation by the president, an adjudication process that is witnessed as being fair, which we have endeavored to achieve by virtue of having the chief justice host and witness the event, an automatic sunset after one year’s time, and most importantly, a unanimous vote by you, the members of the committee. We’re here to seek your opinion up or down, with all due respect. Understand that a vote against means that anyone who opposes the Russian mafia not only is a target, but has nobody defending them.”

  “Is that a threat?” said Eric Ramirez, a Democratic senator from Florida.

  “Not from me,” said King, his voice rising. He took a step toward Ramirez. “They killed one of your colleagues last night, Senator. Who’s to say you’re not next?”

  “Adrian,” snapped Dellenbaugh.

  “It’s okay,” said Ramirez, grinning. “Adrian is right, but it doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

  “No, sir, it doesn’t, but you do have to participate one way or another in fighting against it,” said King.

  Another senator, John Wetherbee, a Republican from Connecticut, pointed at Calibrisi.

  “Is Hector involved?” asked Wetherbee.

  “Yes,” said the president.

  “Then whatever you’re asking for has my vote,” said Wetherbee. “That’s a man I trust right there.”

  “Thank you, Senator, but don’t base your vote on me,” said Calibrisi.

  “Oh, I won’t,” said Wetherbee, winking at one of the other members of the committee.

  Over the next hour, the fifteen members of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence voted. Hastings compiled three piles of paper, sending each pile consecutively around to either be signed or left blank by each senator. One was a yes sheet, one a no, and one an abstain. The idea was to keep the votes private, though confidentiality—at least inside the chamber—was not required.

  Several senators announced their support, while others, such as Carlo Von Schroeter, the senior senator from Texas, kept their cards close to the vest.

  With the three piles arrayed facedown on the table, Hastings leaned forward and grabbed the first pile, which was the “Abstain” pile. He flipped through and didn’t find a single signature. He put the pile on the floor, next to the wheels of his large leather desk chair. He then went to the “No” pile. It would only take one no vote—one signature—to stop the proposed CIA unit. Hastings had his own beliefs, which he attempted to hide, but when he didn’t find a single no vote—and he knew the fifteen members of SSCI had given Dellenbaugh and Calibrisi what they wanted—he let out a slight “yes” as if quietly celebrating a touchdown.

  Hastings nodded to King.

  “One more thing,” said King. He reached into another manila folder and removed fifteen sheets of paper. He handed one out to each of the senators, who read the paper over in silence.

  The President shall have Power to grant Reprieves and Pardons for Offences against the United States, except in Cases of Impeachment.

  U.S. Constitution, Article II, Section 2, Clause 1

  In 1927, the U.S. Supreme Court stated, “[a] pardon in our days is not a private act of grace from an individual happening to possess power. It is a part of the Constitutional scheme. When granted it is the determination of the ultimate authority that the public welfare will be better served by inflicting less than what the judgment fixed.

  It was another senator, a black woman, Rashawna Ungerer, a Republican from Michigan, who spoke first.

  “What are you asking us to consider, Mr. King?”

  “Preemptive presidential pardons,” said King.

  “Why are you asking?” she said. “Or should I not want to know the answer to that question?”

  King smirked.

  “Senator Ungerer,” said King, “without getting into the details of what we’re going to do, suffice it to say we’re going to be asking certain individuals to do things on U.S. soil that are not legal, but they may become legal should you have deemed them to be so.”

  “In other words,” said Ungerer, “if you get permission for the CIA to operate on U.S. soil in secret, and someone gets caught killing someone, say, for example, a Russian mobster, you don’t want them to go to jail?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I taught constitutional law,” said Ungerer. “Article Two is clear. As long as it’s not impeachment, it’s part of the presidential power to pardon. I would add that if the codicil is part of the Constitution, the intent can be construed as to further exist by which unforeseen legal consequences such as the one you’re talking about should be deemed to have been constructed at the time of the passage of the original codicil.”