In his office he sits at his desk, stretches out his back. It’s been a series of long and hellish days, with standard treatments not working, and rumors circulating that the Chinese were behind it, or the Iranians, or even Mexican cartels, still carrying a grudge against the vice president back from when she was a tough law-and-order governor in Texas. Pressure is coming at him from all places and circles, including a number of faith healers out in the parking lot, chanting and banging drums for the vice president’s health.

  He glances at his morning mail, thinking the drummers should go set themselves up over at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Rumors have recently percolated along the corridors of Walter Reed about the president’s current health, both physical and mental.

  Another yawn. Christ, when was the last time he had gotten a solid night’s sleep?

  A crisp white envelope with his name and rank typed in the center catches his attention.

  No postage, no return address.

  Odd.

  He opens it and a carefully printed sheet comes out.

  He gives it a read, then reads it again, much more slowly.

  It says:

  Twenty-one days ago, VICE PRESIDENT LAURA HERNANDEZ was touring the Consumer Electronics Show in Las Vegas where she took part in a virtual reality demonstration, donning a V/R helmet. The helmet had a spray anesthetic device at its base, allowing a ceramic sphere holding a nerve agent to be injected into her skin, and a follow-up experimental healing agent left no wound visible.

  This ceramic device is undetectable to standard imaging devices. It is designed to continually distribute the nerve agent over a sixty-day period. The only treatment for VICE PRESIDENT LAURA HERNANDEZ is to make an incision and remove the ceramic device, removing the continued distribution of the nerve agent. The device is approximately one centimeter above the first cervical vertebrae and can be removed via local anesthesia. Her recovery should be nearly instantaneous.

  Captain Callaghan grabs the sheet of paper, steps up from his desk, and starts quickly walking out of his office. By the time he reaches the hallway, he’s running.

  CHAPTER 139

  CIA DIRECTOR HANNAH Abrams watches with satisfaction as President Keegan Barrett stares at what’s happening in front of him. Next to her there’s a slow and steady process, as a well-fitted wig is removed and dropped to the floor, and fingers work under and around the face. There’s nothing like the heavy latex masks one sees in the Mission: Impossible movies, just a gentle tug and slip as Agency-only materials are pulled away, thinner than a sheet of wax paper. Implants are taken out of the mouth. The woman sits up straighter and stares across at the man staring right back at her.

  “Sir, I believe you know Noa Himel,” she says.

  There’s a few seconds where no one speaks, and from her open bag, a light starts flashing. Hannah doesn’t quickly respond, just casually drops her hand into the bag and rotates her Agency-issued cell phone—thank all the Heavens they’re getting coverage here at the White House—and looks at the screen. No one else in the room can see the bright flashing light coming from her phone. Her specially made contact lenses, besides correcting her vision, allow only her to see the warning light and this urgent notification.

  FLASH FLASH FLASH. PENTAGON CONFIRMS POTUS ISSUED ORDER TO CYBERCOMMAND TO ATTACK PRC AT 1200 HOURS TODAY. SWANTISH.

  Hannah calmly looks up at Barrett.

  “You see, sir, we now have a witness,” she says. “A witness to back up this recording.”

  “But…” His shocked voice dribbles out.

  “How? Noa, please demonstrate.”

  Noa opens her mouth wide, inserts two fingers, winces and then tugs an object free. It’s placed on the Resolute desk. It looks like a silver cap for a molar.

  Hannah says, “A recording device. Not too much range, the quality isn’t that great, but it does its job well, don’t you think?”

  And now Hannah is thinking of two things: the war warning she’s received from her deputy, and the need to get Barrett to resign. Now. So that somehow, she and others can stop what’s about to break out.

  There is no other option.

  She waits.

  No, there is a third option.

  She doesn’t want to even consider it.

  “Keegan, please, this is where we’ve come to,” she says. “There is evidence available and to be found concerning your illegal and unconstitutional activities.”

  Including starting a war, but Hannah won’t touch that, not now. Keep your eye on the prize.

  “There are two paths forward, sir,” she says. “One that will involve your resignation, today, for health reasons. You will be seen as one willing to sacrifice his position for the good of the country. You will leave the White House as a hero. The other path…congressional hearings lasting months, daily humiliations and embarrassments, this tape of you threatening Noa Himel being aired over and over again, and your eventual impeachment and removal from office. With the possibility of prison time as well.”

  More silence.

  “I will also guarantee you, sir, that everything I’ve revealed and mentioned here will remain in the Oval Office after your resignation. You have my word.”

  Barrett says, “You bitch.”

  “No argument from me, sir. But I need your answer. And I need it now. Your resignation, for the good of the nation, and the American people.”

  Hannah feels like her entire life has led up to these next few seconds, as she and Noa wait.

  All the travels, all the sacrifices, all the devotion to duty and the Constitution and the United States of America.

  Preparing to give up her life if necessary.

  Barrett’s hands start to move.

  Her hand slips into her bag. In a concealed sheath is an Agency-issued hard plastic knife, invisible to scanners and magnetometers.

  The third option.

  If Barrett doesn’t resign in the next minute, he will shortly be the fifth American president assassinated in office.

  Her hand finds the knife.

  CHAPTER 140

  AT THE NATIONAL Military Command Center at the Pentagon, General Tucker Wyman, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, drops the phone after once again trying to speak to the president, and says, “Bullshit!”

  Vice Chairman Marine General Wade Thompson looks up from his busy desk. “Sir?”

  He starts heading to the door, followed by Colonel Leonard, his assistant. To the vice chairman he says, “You’re in charge here, Wade, until you hear from me. Follow the plans and procedures. Do what must be done. I’m off to the White House.”

  The vice chairman says, “Good luck.”

  “Thanks,” he says. “Should have done it an hour ago.”

  As he leaves the NMCC he says, “Doug, I need transport and escort fastest to the White House.”

  “Yes, sir,” his assistant says.

  Six minutes later he’s in the rear seat of an armored black Chevrolet Tahoe, with two Pentagon police cruisers ahead of him, lights and sirens blaring, wondering just what in hell is he going to do when he gets to the White House.

  His assistant is sitting next to him, a communications satchel at his booted feet.

  “Doug?”

  “Sir?”

  “You were on the wrestling team at West Point, correct?”

  Doug says, “The Wrestling Club, yes, sir.”

  “You were pretty good, right?”

  “Twice was named Wrestler of the Year from the EIWA, sir,” his aide replies. “The Eastern Intercollegiate Wrestling Association.”

  They travel for another thirty seconds, over the 14th Street Bridge, close to the District of Columbia.

  The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff says, “I need to convince the president to rescind his attack order. I might need your help.”

  “Certainly, sir,” Doug says. A quick pause. “How, sir?”

  General Tucker Wyman says, “If the president refuses my request, I might ask you to hold him down while I break his fingers. Are you all right with that, Doug?”

  Not a moment of hesitation.

  “Yes, sir,” Doug says.

  CHAPTER 141

  PRESIDENT KEEGAN BARRETT stares with loathing at these two women who have outwitted and outplayed him. He’s waiting for a thought, a whisper, some sort of inspiration to get him free.

  Both Hannah Abrams and Noa Himel are looking at him with strong expressions of strength and fortitude, and also…

  Hate.

  Why hate?

  All his life he’s worked toward one goal, and one goal only.

  To preserve and protect the United States of America.

  That’s all.

  A personal mission that’s driven him for years of hard work and sacrifice, guided by the inner voice that tells him he’s been chosen for greatness, and this is the thanks he gets?

  He looks to the clock.

  Thirty-five minutes left.

  He listens hard but nothing comes to him.

  His resignation…a piece of theater, that’s all. Even if it’s signed and acknowledged, who will take over? The vice president, in a coma? The disgraced speaker of the House, stuck on an aircraft heading to California? The president pro tempore of the Senate, who, he knows, wears adult diapers and forgets his name after lunch? The secretary of state, in Davos at this moment, heavily drunk and consorting with high-priced escorts?

  No, it’ll be a temporary theater.

  Sign the damn paper, get these bitches out of his office, and return to work.

  Who will be believed?

  The president of the United States?

  Or the CIA director, whom he just fired?

  He opens the center desk drawer of the Resolute desk, finds a piece of plain stationery with THE WHITE HOUSE centered at the top of the page, along with a drawing of it.

  Taking a pen, he makes a short series of phrases addressing it to his secretary of state, after scrawling in today’s date:

  Dear Secretary Bray,

  I hereby resign the office of the President of the United States.

  Sincerely,

  Keegan Barrett

  He starts to say, “I’ll have this couriered over to the deputy secretary of state at his office—”

  And is shocked when Hannah Abrams takes it from his hand.

  She scrawls something at the bottom, stands up.

  “No offense, sir,” she says. “I’ll take care of it. Noa?”

  Noa Himel gets up and shoots one more disgusted look at Barrett, but he keeps quiet, knowing that no matter what these two are up to, the clock is running out.

  The Oval Office door swings open, but Hannah turns.

  “This was for the best, sir. You have my deep appreciation, and that of the people of the United States.”

  He clears his throat. “Get out of my sight.”

  CHAPTER 142

  OUTSIDE OF THE Oval Office, her security officer Ralph stands up. She’s surprised to see chief of staff Quinn Lawrence standing there as well, like a battered son waiting to see how mom and dad’s latest fight will shake out. There’s even a huddle of White House staffers down the corridor, looking at them, not sure what they’re looking at, only knowing that something historic is going on.

  Hannah hands the resignation letter—with her initials and the time scrawled on the bottom—to Ralph. “Get the hell over to the State Department as fast as you can, and if you have to run people down, do it. Make sure it’s hand delivered to the deputy secretary of state.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says, glancing at the letter and breaking into a run.

  Her bag is flashing again.

  She takes out the Agency-issued cell phone, sees the second FLASH message of the day, feels like collapsing in relief.

  “Quinn…you’ve been a hero today. Honest to God. President Barrett resigned a moment ago. Best as you can, keep an eye on him, ignore any orders and directives he might issue.”

  “But…but…who’s in charge?”

  “I’m working on that,” she says. “I’ve got to leave. Right now. Noa, come along.”

  Hannah starts briskly walking and looks back.

  Noa is moving slowly, pain shadowing her face, and Hannah thinks, God, what she did to grind on through back there, pretending to be Jean Swantish. And what her friend Gina managed to do, to successfully disguise her…

  “Go ahead,” Noa says. “I’ll catch up.”

  “The hell you will,” Hannah says.

  She goes back, grabs an arm and puts it around her shoulder, and half runs, half drags her way out of the Oval Office area, past the offices and reception. Out in the parking lot the lead Suburban is still there, all four tires flattened, with two security officers standing outside, Grant and Lenny.

  “Help me get Noa in,” she says. In a minute, the two of them are buckled in the rear seat, the two officers in front, Grant behind the wheel.

  “Grant,” Hannah says, “this thing mobile?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says, starting the engine.

  “How long to Walter Reed?” she asks.

  He backs out of the parking space.

  “About thirty minutes, ma’am.”

  “We don’t have thirty minutes,” she says. “You’ll have to do it in fifteen.”

  “You’ve got it, ma’am,” he says. Sirens and lights are flipped on as they exit the White House grounds, heading north to Bethesda.

  CHAPTER 143

  PRESIDENT KEEGAN BARRETT—and despite all that happened a few minutes ago, he still considers himself the President—gets up and walks around the Resolute desk, thinking he might return to his office up in the family quarters, but according to Hannah Abrams, Carlton Pope isn’t in his White House anymore.

  Damn.

  Which means?

  His chief of staff, Quinn Lawrence.

  A pathetic man, no backbone, easy to manipulate, and a perfect choice to be his chief of staff.

  He’s not sure if Carlton Pope had scheduled helicopter transportation to Mount Weather, as he requested, but he’s sure he can get Quinn to make the necessary arrangements.

  Once at Mount Weather, when chaos sweeps across the nation in the hours ahead, who will the nation listen to? Him, the legitimately elected president of the United States, or some Cabinet member broadcasting via Zoom, playing pretend?

  He opens the curved door to the Oval Office and a female Secret Service agent is there. He nods to her as she speaks into her wrist microphone, whispering, “Sierra on the move,” using his code name.

  Passes the empty office of Carlton Pope, feels a pang of concern, recalling Hannah Abrams’s news of his arrest, and then he thinks, Well, we can fix it. Whip up a presidential pardon in the next couple of hours and Carlton will be where he needs to be, right at Barrett’s side, performing the hard duties that must be done in the hours and days ahead.

  He stops.

  Speaking of hard duties, where in hell is the Marine major carrying the nuclear football? He’s always within sight, and Barrett has never not seen him or his equal since Inauguration Day.

  He resumes walking along the familiar hallways, nodding and smiling at the staffers he encounters, but something odd is going on. Most of them turn away or lower their heads, like they’re embarrassed or ashamed.

  Or not wanting to look at him straight in his face.

  At Quinn Lawrence’s office, he walks by Quinn’s surprised secretarial staff and opens the door, and then he’s surprised as well.

  The office is crowded with senior White House staffers and two Army colonels and the Marine major with the football. Quinn is on his phone and everyone save him looks at him, then looks away.

  And in a second, bigger shock, Quinn remains on the phone.

  Does not disconnect the call.

  Doesn’t even give notice to Barrett.

  Intolerable.

  Quinn finally hangs up the phone and says, “Yes? May I help you, sir?”

  There is something seriously wrong with Quinn’s voice, and it takes a moment for Barrett to realize what’s going on.

  The voice is even, calm, not weak or servile.

  “Yes,” Barrett says. “I want you to confirm that Marine One will be taking me to Mount Weather sometime after noon.”

  Heavy and uneasy silence in the room. Another phone starts ringing.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Quinn says. “That’s not happening.”

  “The hell it isn’t,” Barrett snaps back. “I ordered it this morning.”

  “Yes, you may have, sir, but Marine One is reserved for the president’s use only.”

  Barrett feels heat rising along his face and hands. Quinn adds, “I saw your personally signed resignation letter a few minutes ago. Sir, you’re no longer president. You can’t take Marine One anywhere.”

  Barrett says, “Quinn, you’d better get off your ass and call—”

  Quinn picks up his ringing phone, and with a stronger voice, says, “Sir, with all due respect, I have a lot of work to do. Please leave.”

  Barrett feels a wave of humiliation break over him. Voice firm and hard, he says, “Quinn, whatever you might have seen was a fake, a piece of theater, something to get Hannah Abrams out of my office. She was deranged, I fired her, and to make her leave, I wrote that note. I hereby disavow it. I’m still the president of the United States, Quinn, and you will treat me as such.”

  Quinn shakes his head.

  Barrett says, “Quinn Lawrence, I am ordering you, as my chief of staff, to follow my orders and to ensure that Marine One is ready to transport me to Mount Weather within the hour.”

  Another phone starts to ring.

  His chief of staff picks it up, and in a low and steady voice says, “Events are moving rapidly. Decisions need to be made. And you need to leave, sir.”

  Barrett starts to speak but Quinn cuts him off.

  “Now, sir.”

  CHAPTER 144

  CIA DIRECTOR HANNAH Abrams unbuckles her seat harness even before the battered Suburban arrives at the main entrance to Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, and when it screeches to a halt, she grabs Noa’s hand and steps out.