“Nothing,” she says.

  For years Hannah has loved this house of hers, with a small yard and stone walls and fences all around, in a safe and historic part of Georgetown. With her advancement to CIA director, she secretly welcomed the added security and protection. She felt like it was her little bubble of safety, in a world increasingly dangerous and disorganized.

  Now the bubble of safety is broken.

  To Ralph she says, “Anything else going on out there?”

  “The street’s practically unpassable with all of the double-parked police vehicles out there, including a white van that’s probably the source of our phone blockage.”

  Hannah says, “No chance you’d go out there and blow it up?”

  Ralph doesn’t smile. “Beyond the scope of our duties, ma’am.”

  Jean says, “What now, Director? We’re isolated, trapped, and we don’t know what Liam might be doing in South Africa, if he’s doing anything.”

  A short, dark-haired woman—Gina Stasio of the Agency’s Technical Services Division, and Noa’s friend—raps on the doorframe and steps in. “Sorry to bother you, Director, but Noa needs to see you, right away. Something’s going on.”

  Upstairs in the spare bedroom, Noa is sitting up in one of the beds as Gina, Ralph, and Jean walk in. Noa points to a low bureau on the other side of the room and says, “Director, you need to see this.”

  “This” is a portable television with an over-the-air antenna Hannah had gotten two years ago, when a sudden series of windstorms had knocked out power and utilities to this part of DC for nearly a week. She couldn’t stand being out of touch for such a length of time, and the small TV was purchased and nearly instantly forgotten.

  Until now.

  Noa says, “Turn it up. It looks bad.”

  Jean goes over and NBC News is on live feed, split screen. A worried-looking male anchor is speaking as Jean turns up the volume.

  “…what you’re seeing here is a live shot of the Chinese embassy on International Place Northwest, where diplomats and staff are apparently burning their papers and files.”

  Two lines of smoke are rising from a fenced-in and concrete-walled compound with boxy and triangular-shaped concrete buildings.

  “Attempts to contact the embassy for comments have been unsuccessful. There’s also been no word from the White House or the State Department as to why the Chinese are taking such an extraordinary step. Hold on…please…we’ve just received word that the same thing is happening at the five other consulates that the Chinese maintain in the United States…”

  Jean says, “Director, the last time something like this happened was back in 1962, during the Cuban Missile Crisis, when the Soviets did the same thing at their embassy. That means they’re anticipating war breaking out, and soon.”

  Hannah checks her watch.

  No more waiting.

  “Ralph, I don’t care if the DC National Guard is out there,” she says. “We’re leaving.”

  Noa speaks up, face still pale. “Director, before you leave…we need to talk.”

  “Is it important?”

  Her friend Gina says, “Very important, Director. And helpful.”

  CHAPTER 117

  TO LIN, LIAM Grey says, “You still have to honor your deal.”

  “How?” she says. “We can’t contact your director. It’s up to you, not me, to establish contact with someone.”

  From the couch Benjamin Lucas says, “Liam? How about the local station chief?”

  He shakes his head. “Time. I contact the station chief, it takes a while to establish my bona fides. We pass along Lin’s information. That gets kicked over to Langley. It’s reviewed, evaluated, discussed at a committee. Then it gets run upstairs to the seventh floor, to the director. But where’s the director?”

  Liam stalks over to the narrow windows overlooking the yard. The dirt road leading out to the paved road and the service station, gnarled trees, red dirt, and broken-down fencing and rusting barbed wire.

  Benjamin says, “Lin. It’s up to you.”

  She folds her arms, seemingly in defiance. “Why?”

  He coughs. “Because I’m asking you, Lin. Liam did his part. With your help, he got me freed. Please.”

  Liam stares at them both. Is this how this op is going to be saved? Not because of planning or weapons or tradecraft, because of an old relationship, of affection and love?

  He is sure that any of his deceased instructors from the Farm are now whirling so fast in their graves that the US Geological Survey could detect them.

  Benjamin says, “Please. For me.”

  Lin stands still and looks over to Liam.

  Her still, brown eyes look into his.

  “Can you do it?” Liam asks.

  She says, “If I do, it’s for Benjamin. Not you or your country.”

  “I don’t care if you do it for your favorite aunt. Will you?”

  Another heavy pause.

  “I will,” she says.

  “How?” Liam asks.

  “Does it make a difference?”

  Liam says, “You bet it does. I want to know how and to whom you’re passing along this information.”

  She says, “Someone I’ve been running since he was at the Stanford School of Medicine. He’s come up a long way since then.”

  “Where is he now?”

  Lin takes a breath. “Walter Reed Hospital. In Bethesda. Maryland. I’m sure he can pass this information along to the team taking care of the vice president.”

  “Do it now,” Liam says. “And do it in English. I want to listen in.”

  Lin takes out her phone. “Still not trusting?”

  “It’s my nature, and it’s my training,” Liam says. “I don’t know if you’re running something deep, some kind of wheels within wheels, or some complicated honey trap. I just don’t know. But know this.”

  Benjamin is looking on, uncomfortable. Lin asks, “And what’s that?”

  “Make the call,” Liam says. “But if you’re not telling the truth, if this is some scam, and if what you pass along ends up making things worse for the vice president, I’ll kill you.”

  Surprising Liam, the next sentence comes from his fellow CIA operator.

  Benjamin says, “You’ll have to kill me, too, Liam.”

  “I accept your terms,” Liam says. “Lin, get to work.”

  CHAPTER 118

  IT’S GOING TO be crowded this morning in the president’s private office in the family quarters, and Keegan Barrett minds it not a whit. Right now it’s just Carlton Pope and himself. Barrett says, “Are you certain that Abrams can’t communicate from her home?”

  Carlton smiles. “Not a chance. We’ve borrowed radio and cell phone–blocking devices from our friends at the FBI. The secure lines between her house and Langley have also been disabled. The DC police are waiting outside on her street, ready to arrest anyone stepping out.”

  “Noa Himel?”

  “She’s in the house, wounded. She won’t be leaving anytime soon.”

  “Liam Grey?”

  Carlton says, “Wandering around South Africa it seems, heading to Johannesburg. It seems he hopped a ride from the Air Force, some general who owed Abrams a favor.”

  “What the hell is he doing there?”

  Carlton says, “Best guess is that he might be trying to retrieve Benjamin Lucas. From the Chinese. By himself.”

  Barrett laughs. “If he pulls that off, I’ll appoint him director. There’s going to be a vacancy by this time tomorrow.”

  A knock on the door.

  “All right,” Barrett says. “Let our guests in. We’ve no time to waste.”

  Carlton opens the door and a male Army four-star general walks in, along with a female Army colonel. They are dressed in the new Army green service uniforms, introduced a few years back in homage to similar uniforms worn by the Greatest Generation back in World War II. In Barrett’s eyes, they’ve stepped out of a game of make-believe from 1944.

  Barrett stands up, walks around his desk, buttons his light-blue jacket. “Thank you both for coming.”

  He shakes the hand of General Henry Peterson, head of the United States Cybercommand, then Colonel Karen Yankins, his deputy. He’s tanned, with short black hair and brown eyes. Yankins is about a foot shorter, with closely trimmed blond hair, wearing plain black-rimmed glasses.

  “Please,” he says, pointing to the couch. “Have a seat. How was your flight up from Fort Meade?”

  “Reasonable, Mr. President,” Peterson says. “No complaints.”

  The colonel just nods.

  Peterson’s carrying a briefcase, and the colonel has two heavy-looking black satchels. As they sit down, the satchels and briefcase are placed on the floor next to them. Barrett takes the couch, pointing up to Carlton.

  “This is Carlton Pope, my special assistant. He’s at my side every day, morning to night. He has my ultimate trust, so I have no hesitation discussing what we’re about to say in front of him. All right?”

  The two Army officers nod.

  “Good,” Barrett says. “General Peterson, I’m aware that the Cybercommand has in its possession, a cyber-offense plan called Case Shanghai. Correct?”

  “Yes, sir,” Peterson says. “We ran a simulated war game with that same scenario in December.”

  “Was it a successful war game?”

  Peterson says, “Mr. President, well, the means of declaring a success is a variable, meaning that there are certain outcomes we look for in such an exercise. If you’d like, I could prepare an overview of the war game’s results.”

  Barrett says, “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Sir?”

  “At twelve hundred hours today, General Peterson, the United States Cybercommand will commence Case Shanghai against the People’s Republic of China. That is a direct order. Do you understand?”

  Peterson seems shocked, and so does Colonel Yankins.

  “Sir?”

  Barrett softly says, “I said, the United States Cybercommand will commence Case Shanghai against the People’s Republic of China at twelve hundred hours today. That’s in just under three hours. Do you understand my order?”

  The general says, “Yes, sir.”

  Finally, it’s all coming together, that voice inside of him says. The same voice that told him years back he was destined to greatness, to be chosen to save his country. What that voice said is being confirmed at this very moment.

  “Good. Let’s begin.”

  CHAPTER 119

  IN HER ATTACHED garage, CIA Director Hannah Abrams takes a deep breath, and then steps into the rear of her armored Chevrolet Suburban, her leather briefcase in her right hand. She’s not alone back there, and she pats the hand of her companion, Jean, as Ralph settles in on the other side.

  Two other security officers—Alec and Walter—take their places up front.

  The garage door opens, the Suburban starts up, and on the cobblestoned driveway, the second CIA Suburban—the blocking car—moves forward. The metal gate at the end of the driveway slides open.

  In her years in the CIA, Hannah has driven hundreds of times to Langley or other government locations, but she knows this trip is going to be a memorable one, and she’s not disappointed.

  The lead Suburban—flashing red and blue lights in the radiator grille and on the top of the windshield—goes to the left, and the Suburban she’s in follows. As the gate behind her starts to close, DC police officers in tactical gear step out, hands up, in front of her Suburban.

  “Ma’am?” comes the voice of Alec, the driver.

  “As we discussed,” she says.

  “Very well.”

  Her Suburban stops.

  The lead one ahead also stops.

  One of the armed DC cops steps forward, gestures for the window to be lowered. Alec does so.

  “Alec,” Hannah says. “Lower all the windows. I don’t want any misunderstandings.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And put your hands on the steering wheel.”

  He doesn’t say anything but Hannah can tell from his tense neck and shoulders that he’d rather not do that.

  But Alec follows her orders, and his large hands are now on the steering wheel.

  Another armed DC cop approaches the Suburban, but he’s dressed in black uniform pants, white dress shirt, and a uniform cap. A ballistic vest is over his torso, and Hannah thinks he’s overreacting, but then recalling the firepower in this Suburban and the other, maybe he’s being cautious.

  He takes his time approaching, peering into the open windows, and when he comes close enough, Hannah calls out, “Is there a problem, officer?”

  He doesn’t take the bait. He’s wearing lieutenant bars on his collar and his name tag says BROOKS.

  The police lieutenant says, “I’m looking for Noa Himel.”

  Hannah slowly pulls out her ID. “I’m Hannah Abrams, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency.”

  His face is drawn but red, like he’s trying to control his temper. “I know who you are.”

  “Thanks,” Hannah says. “I guess those Sunday morning talk shows have paid off for me. This is my deputy, Jean Swantish. Jean, show him your identification.”

  “Absolutely.” She reaches into her soft leather case, pulls out her CIA identification, and passes it to Hannah, who in turn gives it to Lieutenant Brooks. He gives it a close look, passes it back, and then he peers again into the Suburban.

  “Lieutenant, if you’d like, I have no objection to you looking into my two vehicles, but I promise you that Noa Himel is not with us.”

  Lieutenant Brooks says, “Noa Himel is wanted for questioning regarding a hit-and-run yesterday, leaving the scene of an accident, threatening a resident with a handgun, and about a half dozen other violations.”

  “As I said, feel free to look through the Suburbans, but make it quick, if you can,” Hannah says. “I need to get to Langley as soon as possible. I’m sure you’ve heard the news this morning, of the Chinese embassy burning their diplomatic papers?”

  He says, “Yes, I’d like to take a quick look in your vehicles.”

  “Alec,” Hannah says, “be a dear and help out Lieutenant Brooks, will you?”

  Her driver gets out and walks up to the first Suburban, to talk to that driver, and the doors and the rear hatchback pop open. Alec returns and in a moment, Hannah’s vehicle mirrors the first one.

  The tactical-clad cops do make a quick search—one whistling in appreciation at the weapons mounted in racks at the rear—and when the searches are over and the doors and hatchbacks close, the police lieutenant comes back. A number of Hannah’s neighbors are standing on the narrow sidewalks, looking on.

  “We all set?” Hannah asks.

  “No,” he says. “Is Noa Himel still in your house? And if not, do you know where she is?”

  Hannah smiles. “Feel free to call 703-482-0623 and ask for the CIA’s general counsel’s office. I’m sure they’d love to be of assistance. In the meantime, I have nothing to say, and nobody’s entering the grounds of my home without a warrant.”

  Brooks says, “I can hold you as a material witness.”

  Hannah puts a hand on the window frame and gestures the police lieutenant to come closer, which he does.

  She lowers her voice, “My dad was a cop for the Capitol Hill Police force, and my mom was a senior clerk for the DC Police. I have the greatest affection and respect for law enforcement, Lieutenant Brooks, but right now you and your officers are keeping me from doing my job. Things are slipping away out there and I need to stop them, and that means, if you and your men don’t step away, right now, I’ll instruct my security officers to drive right through you. And don’t think they won’t.”

  The lieutenant works his jaw. She adds, “Now, have I made myself clear?”

  He doesn’t say a word. Backs away, barks out a few words, and whirls a hand in the air. The armed police in tactical gear back away.

  Hannah rolls up her window, lets out a breath.

  The two Suburbans resume their drive.

  She says, “For once there was a policeman around when you needed one. Alec, step on it. Not a minute to waste.”

  CHAPTER 120

  IN HIS PRIVATE office, President Keegan Barrett keeps his focus on the two Army officers from the US Cybercommand who are sitting across from him, who are like cocked weapons, ready to be discharged at his imminent command.

  He hasn’t felt this good and focused since November, when the state of Wisconsin’s electoral college votes had gotten him past that magic number of 270. Like that night, he feels like every sense he has is heightened, that he knows America has chosen him to settle accounts with its greatest emerging threat, and the voice inside of him that promised greatness is right once more.

  General Peterson says, “Mr. President, with all due respect, this is a major offensive move. Has it been discussed with the National Security Council?”

  “Of course it has,” he says, easily lying.

  “And have the leaders of both the Senate and House been informed?”

  “An hour ago, of course.”

  “Secretary of Defense Williams?”

  “I talked to him last night, just as he was getting up in Singapore and heading to Japan.”

  General Peterson pauses. “And General Wyman?”

  “The Joint Chiefs Chairman was briefed about thirty minutes ago. He told me that our conventional forces are ready to respond if there’s a force retaliation from China.”

  General Peterson pauses, and Barrett just knows what’s going on within that four-star general’s mind. The general is concerned about what his commander in chief is about to order, but POTUS has assured him that all the necessary notifications, briefings, and decisions have been made.

  Peterson is in a position where he has to believe POTUS is acting under proper advice and authority.

  He can’t refuse to obey the orders, can’t excuse himself for an hour or so to make the necessary phone calls to see if the president really has made the necessary phone calls.

  Peterson just can’t.