Deception Point (8 page)

Rachel groaned. “Thanks for the warning, hotshot.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’ve just been given the classified coordinates of your meeting with the administrator.”

“Let me guess,” Rachel said. “Due north?”

The pilot seemed confused. “How did you know that!”

Rachel sighed.
You gotta love these computer-trained pilots.
“It’s nine
A.M.,
sport, and the sun is on our right. We’re flying north.”

There was a moment of silence from the cockpit. “Yes, ma’am, we’ll be traveling north this morning.”

“And how
far
north are we going?”

The pilot checked the coordinates. “Approximately three thousand miles.”

Rachel sat bolt upright. “What!” She tried to picture a map, unable even to imagine what was
that
far north. “That’s a four-hour flight!”

“At our current speed, yes,” the pilot said. “Hold on, please.”

Before Rachel could respond, the man retracted the F-14’s wings into low-drag position. An instant later, Rachel felt herself slammed into her seat yet again as the plane shot forward as though it had been standing still. Within a minute they were cruising at almost 1,500 miles per hour.

Rachel was feeling dizzy now. As the sky tore by with blinding speed, she felt an uncontrollable wave of nausea hit her. The President’s voice echoed faintly.
I assure you, Rachel, you will not regret assisting me in this matter.

Groaning, Rachel reached for her hack sack.
Never trust a politician.

A
lthough he disliked the menial filth of public taxis, Senator Sedgewick Sexton had learned to endure the occasional demeaning moment along his road to glory. The grungy Mayflower cab that had just deposited him in the lower parking garage of the Purdue Hotel afforded Sexton something his stretch limousine could not—anonymity.

He was pleased to find this lower level deserted, only a few dusty cars dotting a forest of cement pillars. As he made his way diagonally across the garage on foot, Sexton glanced at his watch.

11:15
A
.M.
Perfect.

The man with whom Sexton was meeting was always touchy about punctuality. Then again, Sexton reminded himself, considering who the man represented, he could be touchy about any damned thing he wanted.

Sexton saw the white Ford Windstar minivan parked in exactly the same spot as it had been for every one of their meetings—in the eastern corner of the garage, behind a row of trash bins. Sexton would have preferred to meet this man in a suite upstairs, but he certainly understood the precautions. This man’s friends had not gotten to where they were by being careless.

As Sexton moved toward the van, he felt the familiar edginess that he always experienced before these encounters. Forcing himself to relax his shoulders, he climbed into the passenger’s seat with a cheery wave. The dark-haired gentleman in the driver’s seat did not smile. The man was almost seventy years old, but his leathery complexion exuded a toughness appropriate to his post as figurehead of an army of brazen visionaries and ruthless entrepreneurs.

“Close the door,” the man said, his voice callous.

Sexton obeyed, tolerating the man’s gruffness graciously. After all, this man represented men who controlled enormous sums of money, much of which had been pooled recently to poise Sedgewick Sexton on the threshold of the most powerful
office in the world. These meetings, Sexton had come to understand, were less strategy sessions than they were monthly reminders of just how beholden the senator had become to his benefactors. These men were expecting a serious return on their investment. The “return,” Sexton had to admit, was a shockingly bold demand; and yet, almost more incredibly, it was something that would be within Sexton’s sphere of influence once he took the Oval Office.

“I assume,” Sexton said, having learned how this man liked to get down to business, “that another installment has been made?”

“It has. And as usual, you are to use these funds solely for your campaign. We have been pleased to see the polls shifting consistently in your favor, and it appears your campaign managers have been spending our money effectively.”

“We’re gaining fast.”

“As I mentioned to you on the phone,” the old man said, “I have persuaded six more to meet with you tonight.”

“Excellent.” Sexton had blocked off the time already.

The old man handed Sexton a folder. “Here is their information. Study it. They want to know you understand their concerns specifically. They want to know you are sympathetic. I suggest you meet them at your residence.”

“My home? But I usually meet—”

“Senator, these six men run companies that possess resources well in excess of the others you have met. These men are the big fish, and they are wary. They have more to gain and therefore more to lose. I’ve worked hard to persuade them to meet with you. They will require special handling. A personal touch.”

Sexton gave a quick nod. “Absolutely. I can arrange a meeting at my home.”

“Of course, they will want total privacy.”

“As will I.”

“Good luck,” the old man said. “If tonight goes well, it could be your last meeting. These men alone can provide what is needed to push the Sexton campaign over the top.”

Sexton liked the sound of that. He gave the old man a confident
smile. “With luck, my friend, come election time, we will all claim victory.”

“Victory?” The old man scowled, leaning toward Sexton with ominous eyes. “Putting you in the White House is only the
first step
toward victory, senator. I assume you have not forgotten that.”

T
he White House is one of the smallest presidential mansions in the world, measuring only 170 feet in length, 85 feet in depth, and sitting on a mere 18 acres of landscaped grounds. Architect James Hoban’s plan for a boxlike stone structure with a hipped roof, balustrade, and columnar entrance, though clearly unoriginal, was selected from the open design contest by judges who praised it as “attractive, dignified, and flexible.”

President Zach Herney, even after three and a half years in the White House, seldom felt at home here among the maze of chandeliers, antiques, and armed Marines. At the moment, however, as he strode toward the West Wing, he felt invigorated and oddly at ease, his feet almost weightless on the plush carpeting.

Several members of the White House staff looked up as the President approached. Herney waved and greeted each by name. Their responses, though polite, were subdued and accompanied by forced smiles.

“Good morning, Mr. President.”

“Nice to see you, Mr. President.”

“Good day, sir.”

As the President made his way toward his office, he sensed whisperings in his wake. There was an insurrection afoot inside the White House. For the past couple of weeks, the disillusionment at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue had been growing to a point where Herney was starting to feel like Captain Bligh—commanding
a struggling ship whose crew was preparing for mutiny.

The President didn’t blame them. His staff had worked grueling hours to support him in the upcoming election, and now, all of a sudden, it seemed the President was fumbling the ball.

Soon they will understand,
Herney told himself.
Soon I’ll be the hero again.

He regretted having to keep his staff in the dark for so long, but secrecy was absolutely critical. And when it came to keeping secrets, the White House was known as the leakiest ship in Washington.

Herney arrived in the waiting room outside the Oval Office and gave his secretary a cheery wave. “You look nice this morning, Dolores.”

“You too, sir,” she said, eyeing his casual attire with unveiled disapproval.

Herney lowered his voice. “I’d like you to organize a meeting for me.”

“With whom, sir?”

“The entire White House staff.”

His secretary glanced up. “Your
entire
staff, sir? All 145 of them?”

“Exactly.”

She looked uneasy. “Okay. Shall I set it up in . . . the Briefing Room?”

Herney shook his head. “No. Let’s set it up in my office.”

Now she stared. “You want to see your
entire
staff inside the Oval Office?”

“Exactly.”

“All at once, sir?”

“Why not? Set it up for four
P.M.
”

The secretary nodded as though humoring a mental patient. “Very well, sir. And the meeting is regarding . . . ?”

“I have an important announcement to make to the American people tonight. I want my staff to hear it first.”

A sudden dejected look swept across his secretary’s face, almost as if she had secretly been dreading this moment. She lowered her voice. “Sir, are you pulling out of the race?”

Herney burst out laughing. “Hell no, Dolores! I’m gearing up to fight!”

She looked doubtful. The media reports had all been saying President Herney was throwing the election.

He gave her a reassuring wink. “Dolores, you’ve done a terrific job for me these past few years, and you’ll do a terrific job for me for another four. We’re
keeping
the White House. I swear it.”

His secretary looked like she wanted to believe it. “Very well, sir. I’ll alert the staff. Four
P.M.
”

•   •   •

As Zach Herney entered the Oval Office, he couldn’t help but smile at the image of his entire staff crammed into the deceptively small chamber.

Although this great office had enjoyed many nicknames over the years—the Loo, Dick’s Den, the Clinton Bedroom—Herney’s favorite was “the Lobster Trap.” It seemed most fitting. Each time a newcomer entered the Oval Office, disorientation set in immediately. The symmetry of the room, the gently curving walls, the discreetly disguised doorways in and out, all gave visitors the dizzying sense they’d been blindfolded and spun around. Often, after a meeting in the Oval Office, a visiting dignitary would stand up, shake hands with the President, and march straight into a storage closet. Depending on how the meeting had gone, Herney would either stop the guest in time or watch in amusement as the visitor embarrassed himself.

Herney had always believed the most dominating aspect of the Oval Office was the colorful American eagle emblazoned on the room’s oval carpet. The eagle’s left talon clutched an olive branch and his right a bundle of arrows. Few outsiders knew that during times of peace, the eagle faced left—toward the olive branch. But in times of war, the eagle mysteriously faced right—toward the arrows. The mechanism behind this little parlor trick was the source of quiet speculation among White House staff because it was traditionally known only by the President and the head of housekeeping. The truth behind the enigmatic eagle, Herney had found to be disappointingly
mundane. A storage room in the basement contained the second oval carpet, and housekeeping simply swapped the carpets in the dead of night.

Now, as Herney gazed down at the peaceful, left-gazing eagle, he smiled to think that perhaps he should swap carpets in honor of the little war he was about to launch against Senator Sedgewick Sexton.

T
he U.S. Delta Force is the sole fighting squad whose actions are granted complete presidential immunity from the law.

Presidential Decision Directive 25 (PDD 25) grants Delta Force soldiers “freedom from all legal accountability,” including exception from the 1876 Posse Comitatus Act, a statute imposing criminal penalties for anyone using the military for personal gain, domestic law enforcement, or unsanctioned covert operations. Delta Force members are handpicked from the Combat Applications Group (CAG), a classified organization within the Special Operations Command in Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Delta Force soldiers are trained killers—experts in SWAT operations, rescuing hostages, surprise raids, and elimination of covert enemy forces.

Because Delta Force missions usually involve high levels of secrecy, the traditional multitiered chain of command is often circumvented in favor of “mono-caput” management—a single controller who holds authority to control the unit as he or she sees fit. The controller tends to be a military or government powerbroker with sufficient rank or influence to run the mission. Regardless of the identity of their controller, Delta Force missions are classified at the highest level, and once a mission is completed, Delta Force soldiers never speak of it again—not to one another, and not to their commanding officers within Special Ops.

Fly. Fight. Forget.

The Delta team currently stationed above the Eighty-second Parallel was doing no flying or fighting. They were simply watching.

Delta-One had to admit that this had been a most unusual mission so far, but he had learned long ago never to be surprised by what he was asked to do. In the past five years he had been involved in Middle East hostage rescues, tracking and exterminating terrorist cells working inside the United States, and even the discreet elimination of several dangerous men and women around the globe.

Just last month his Delta team had used a flying microbot to induce a lethal heart attack in a particularly malicious South American drug lord. Using a microbot equipped with a hairline titanium needle containing a potent vasoconstrictor, Delta-Two had flown the device into the man’s house through an open second-story window, found the man’s bedroom, and then pricked him on the shoulder while he was sleeping. The microbot was back out the window and “feet dry” before the man woke up with chest pain. The Delta team was already flying home by the time its victim’s wife was calling the paramedics.

No breaking and entering.

Death by natural causes.

It had been a thing of beauty.

More recently, another microbot stationed inside a prominent senator’s office to monitor his personal meetings had captured images of a lurid sexual encounter. The Delta team jokingly referred to that mission as “insertion behind enemy lines.”

Now, after being trapped on surveillance duty inside this tent for the last ten days, Delta-One was ready for this mission to be over.