Sabotage (22 page)

Already the words of the upcoming speech were forming in his head. It had to be a solemn, thoughtful, and quite presidential address to the nation to soothe fears.

As that recipe cooked, he thought of the Chinese and wondered what part they'd had in the president's death. He couldn't believe that they would be that crazy, and then it hit him. It didn't matter if they were behind it or not. They'd been aware, just as McKnight had been, of the president’s movements.

The plan all along had been to get President Zimmer to hang himself, while also riling the Chinese. Unbeknownst to anyone, McKnight would be beneficiary of that tattered relationship. General Hachi would be the bad guy, and the Chinese would need an alternative. He would be that alternative.

The trick had always been how to keep the Chinese at arm’s length while still keeping up with the illusion that he was their pawn. At the same time, he also had to maintain his appearance of strength and an image of incorruptibility.

It was one thing to cajole a wealthy corporate CEO into persuading his people to give away millions of dollars to a campaign, and then, once in office, politely brush him off. It was quite another to dupe what might soon be the world's largest superpower.

Yes, this truly was a blessing in a disguise. He could blame the Chinese.  He could implicate them and use a strong foreign policy stance against the communist state to resume where Zimmer had left off.
Yes, yes. It could work
.

It was a strong move - a bold move. A move that America wanted. A move that America needed. Like the days after 9/11, the American people would demand action, and Congressmen Antonio McKnight would give it to them. In exchange for bold action, the American people would hand him the presidency.

He ignored the phone calls and emails for as long as he could. Everyone wanted a statement, and he had to be prepared. He had to do it right, but he couldn't wait too long. He needed to be the face that Americans saw in the coming weeks. Not the vice president, but him.

He jotted down some notes, talking points, and highlights that proved he believed in President Brandon Zimmer. McKnight scribbled down the nostalgic tidbits that people could hold onto in remembrance of their recently assassinated president. The longer he wrote, the more he admired his speech.

Yes. Maybe everything had turned out the way it should.

Then he moved on to his next speech he would give to the Chinese. He had to be careful and do it in such a way that they would not turn on him. Maybe he could open another back channel, assuring them even while he browbeat them in public.

No, that wouldn't work. It was a major move. Something that could set back US-China relations for decades, because the Chinese never forgot. That didn't matter. No, it didn't matter one bit anymore.

He was annoyed to hear another knock on the door. He almost yelled, “Go away!" He didn't want to lose his train of thought. His mind was churning along now, words flowing easily onto the paper.

"Congressman, you have a delivery.”

A delivery?

"Give me ten minutes,” McKnight requested.

The staffer boldly opened the door, and McKnight whirled around ready to berate the impetuous intern. Instead his eyes locked on what the young man was holding.

"They said it was perishable, sir. It's heavy, too."

It was a large square box, roughly twelve inches on each side, wrapped in bright red wrapping paper with a large white bow on top.

"Why don't you give it to the staff? I'm busy," McKnight said.

"Sir, the deliveryman was very specific. He said you were the only one who was supposed to open it."

A twinge of panic gripped McKnight.

"Did the Secret Service check it out?”

"Yes, sir. All clear. Or— of course it was, or I wouldn't have brought it in here."

The young staffer was giving him a funny look now, like the candidate was being a bit too paranoid. In McKnight's mind, the kid was being stupid. A president had just been killed. What better time to clear the decks than to kill the presumptive Republican nominee? But if the Secret Service had cleared it, then it should be okay.

"Just put it on the table."

When the intern was gone, McKnight wrapped up his notes and reviewed them once before looking over at the bright red package. He decided to open it. Maybe there was food inside. He was suddenly famished. Ah, but he’d better not eat it. He should have his people try it first - just in case.

The wrapping came off easily, like it had been done at some high-end department store at Christmas, the kind of job that only takes two pieces of tape. McKnight still wondered how they did that. Underneath the wrapping was some kind of luxury cooler box. There was a card taped to the top that said, "To a long and fruitful relationship."

Cheesy. Probably a bunch of bananas inside
.

McKnight looked for a latch and finally found it. It was carefully concealed, and when he pressed the button, the smell of flowers – jasmine cascaded out. When he flipped the lid back, a small puff of cool vapor escaped into the air. He looked inside, and all he saw were bright white paper carnations.

He pressed down on them to see how far they went. There was something underneath. When he reached down past the fake bouquet, he felt what he thought was grass. No, not grass. Something—

He moved the flowers aside. There was something dark down there – a green or black object. When he finally removed the last of the flowers, his heart felt like it had stopped. There, looking up at him with glazed fish eyes and a horrific yellow mouth, was the head of his moneyman, Jim.

Chapter 31

"Yes, I understand. It will be done."

The president of the People's Republic of China hung up the red phone and stared at the painting on the far wall. There was Chairman Mao, forever staring down at him. He wondered how the beloved chairman would have dealt with the current situation. Surely he would have rounded up anyone he could think of and impulsively executed them.

But times had changed, and China was just seeing the fruits of their hard-fought labor into the world of capitalism. Now this happened and it could derail the entire journey.

Sometimes it was better to make an example, and at others, the mere threat would be enough. He could not decide which, thinking that maybe they could continue on their path, push the obstructions aside, and keep walking. But no, that was his modern mind thinking. He had to think in the old way. The nation must be preserved. It was how Chairman Mao would have wanted it.

The president opened a drawer in his large desk, and pressed one in a row of buttons. He slid the drawer back in place and waited. Minutes later, there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” the president said.

Vice Premier Ling rushed into the room, head bowed.

“Ling, this business in Djibouti is over.”

Ling had the audacity to look up from his shoes, but remembered his place a millisecond later, and his head dropped again in deference to the president.

“But there are hopes, if we only have patience. Another piece of the silk road will be—” Ling stuttered.

“No. I should not have listened to you. You let things get out of hand, and now I must step in to fix your mess.”

“But if you will—”

“Quiet!” the president looked at his underling with barely concealed contempt. Then his face softened. “Your son, is he still in Djibouti?”

“Yes.”

“Good. That is where he will stay. I want the location of the two prisoners, and I want the names of all of General Hachi’s accomplices.”

“But Mr. President, I do not understand. My son is ready to—”

“You are not listening, Ling. Know your place. You have failed me, but worse you have failed our people. Not that I owe you an explanation, but this thing with Hachi is done.”

“But we will soon have everything we need! The election in America will go our way!” The man was truly grasping.

“Have you been in contact with the congressman?” the president asked.

“Yes.”

“And what did he say?”

“We did not speak.” Ling was shifting uncomfortably now.

“What did you do, Ling?”

Vice Premier Ling told him about Congressman McKnight’s moneyman, and the present that had been sent to the congressman’s office. For the briefest moment, the president was pleased.

It had been both a ruthless yet effective move.

“Who else knows about your conversations with McKnight?” the president asked.

“The congressman, myself, and you, Mr. President. He does not know that you know, but I am sure he assumes.”

“Good. Let us keep it that way.”

He fished a pad of paper out of his desk and threw it at Ling. The bumbling fool fumbled with it, and it dropped to the floor. He was quick to pick it up.

“Find out where they have the prisoners. Write the location down along with the names of General Hachi’s accomplices. You have five minutes. Bring that back to me, and your position
could
be spared.”

Ling actually ran from the room, although the president wondered if the fat man would fall on his face as soon as he got outside. Three minutes later, Vice-Premier Ling was back, his face beet-red, sweat sticking his fingers to the paper that he handed over to the president.

The short trip had given the president more than enough time to make his decision, but Ling didn’t have to know that. He had a very important phone call to make, one that worried him, but it was necessary all the same. Like a plunging needle of vaccine, it would inoculate the Chinese president for the time.

Two stout men stepped into the room.

“Take Vice Premier Ling to my private residence and keep him there. He is not to leave, and he is not to make any telephone calls. Is that understood?”

Both men nodded; they understood the orders. Each man grabbed one of Ling’s arms. Resignation was stamped on Ling’s facial features.

“Do not be so morose, Ling,” the president soothed. “It will all be over soon. I promise.”

Vice Premier Ling looked up with hope.

“I live to serve.”

“That is good, Ling. Keep thinking that, and I will meet with you soon.”

The once-important man was escorted from the room. Once the door had closed, the president picked up the receiver and asked the operator to reconnect his last call. When the person on the other end answered, the president said, “I have the information you require. And to clarify, we had no dealings with any of your people in Washington.”

Chapter 32

"I still find it very hard to believe, Mr. Wiley, that you knew nothing about this. Wasn't it just two short weeks ago that you told me that every credible threat in this country had been dismantled or marginalized?" the ambassador frowned at the CIA station chief, taking intermittent puffs from the Newport that only made an appearance during times of high stress. "I have the Secret Service, Department of Defense, FBI, CIA, NSA all over me. Hell, I'll probably have Sesame Street wanting to give me a rectal exam soon."

"Mr. Ambassador, it's only been a day. I promise things will calm down soon."

"Don't you tell me to calm down," the ambassador snapped, even though that wasn’t what Wiley had said. He pitched his still-lit cigarette into the garbage pail. Wiley wondered if it would go up in flames, but it didn't. He would have loved an excuse to leave the man's office. They'd had a decent working relationship before the whole mess with the president, but now Wiley realized the ambassador was not cut out for this type of high stakes showdown. Luckily, Wiley was.

"This General Hachi, where did he come from? Nowhere in any of your reports did you mention this man,” the ambassador asked.

"Actually, sir, you did hear about him in your post orientation. He is, or was, a forgettable character. A fairly low-level general who somehow convinced the rest of the military establishment to support him and allowed him to take emergency control of the government."

It wasn't a total lie. No, Hachi had had plenty of support from Wiley that included future favors and plenty of cash. The CIA man had been surprised at Hachi's maneuvering. He'd obviously had a long-running plan for the future. He just needed an excuse and President Zimmer had played right into his hand.

"If you and I make it out of this thing—"

"We will make it out of this, Mr. Ambassador. I promise you that."

The ambassador snorted, lit another Newport and put it to his lips.

"Don't be so sure, Wiley. Ambassadors and CIA station chiefs have been relieved for much less than standing by as the president of the United States was murdered on their watch. Now, get the hell out of here and get me some answers."

"Thank you for your time, sir."

Wiley left, grateful that he didn't have to listen to another thirty minutes of a man babbling on like he'd never been in a crisis. Sure, it had come as a complete surprise to Wiley too, but he wasn't pissing in his pants.