The South Lawn Plot (30 page)

“J
ESUS, WHO WROTE THIS THING?
”

Before anyone in the room could answer, the president had raised his hand. He didn't require a response.

There were six in the Oval Office with more on the way, not least among them the defense secretary. Roger Simms, the president's national security advisor, and Maryann Blunt, the Secretary of State, sat immediately opposite the president's desk. The other three in the room were senior aides, and all were standing.

“The way I see it,” said Packer, “the Reds have a copy of this on every desk that matters right now, and they might as well be all in here, because this piece of paper gives me the out that they expect us to take, am I not right, Roger?”

“Right on the mark, Mr. President. Beijing knows full well that the Taiwan Relations Act and the more recent amendments to it do not require a specific military response by the United States should the People's Republic of China launch a military attack on the Republic of China, Taiwan.”

Simms had laid emphasis on the names of the Chinese capital and the formal name of the country in direct response to what he, and he well knew the State Department too, considered a pejorative.

And Packer well knew it.

“This act was drawn up when the Chinese were still running around in those Mao suits. I remember it well. I was in the House as the time, remember telling some of my friends on the Hill that we should do a Khrushchev on Taiwan, put in some nukes and aim them across the strait at the damn commies.”

The world might be on the eve of destruction, but Packer wasn't above having his bit of fun, most especially at the expense of those he viewed, with great respect, sure, but also as being a little straight-laced, tight-assed. This was especially the case with Blunt, who, over the years had seemed intent on put-downs whenever he tried to loosen things up a bit in the Oval Office.

“Mr. President, at moments like this I almost regret that we didn't. If we
had, the Chinese wouldn't be just thirty miles of Taipei right now and threatening to turn the town back into a rice paddy.”

“Why, Maryann, you surprise me. Would have expected something like that from Roger.”

“We can all have our fun, Mr. President.”

Packer looked up and contemplated the Secretary of State. Damn good looking woman, he thought; single-handedly keeps the global pearl market afloat. But just that little bit too long in Harvard.

“Before I forget, Madam Secretary,” he said, “but I was wondering if the Chinese, the Red Chinese, will be studying my reaction to this Taiwan guy when he turns up tomorrow for the trade conference. Crazy thing, isn't it? Here we are having a little party intended to put the pizzazz back in that Irish peace business, and the biggest wheel at the thing is a Chinese, well Taiwanese. A very rich one of course, but it's sure funny how the world works sometimes.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” came the simultaneous and, in Packer's mind, altogether unnecessary response from both Simms and Blunt.

“What I'm saying is that if I just shake the guy's hand and keep my distance, the head suits in Beijing will interpret that as no military response. If I put my arms around him and smile for the cameras, they won't be quite so sure. And If I give him one of those Russkie bear hugs they will be heading for the bomb shelters under Tian An Men Square. Or maybe those inscrutable oriental minds of theirs will see things in exactly the reverse of this.”

Packer was taking delight in every politically incorrect term he could muster, but all in the room knew that his question had serious intent. The visit to the White House of the billionaire Mr. Lau represented a potential opportunity.

“I say squeeze the breath out of him,” said Simms.

“Not too much, Blunt interjected.”He is believed to be very ill, in fact, dying.”

“Poor bastard,” said Packer, as much to himself as the room. “I wonder if he could spare a few bucks in his will for Uncle Sam as well as the Brits and the Irish.”

“Mr. President.”

“My apologies, Maryann. Not in good taste.”

The Secretary of State contented herself with a nod.

“Well, the question still stands,” Packer said.

“Indeed, Mr. President.” Packer turned his eyes on Simms. “My hunch
is that you just shake his hand, don't smile and have what will appear as serious and reassuring words. Use hand gestures. Make it look as if you're giving him some sort of commitment and then pose for the cameras. Don't smile, look grave.”

Packer leaned back in his swivel chair and said nothing for about twenty seconds.

“Fuck it, I'm going to give the bastard a hug. If he's one foot above the earth and heading for six below, he could do with one. I hear he collects photographs of himself with world leaders. It's his hobby, and I'm his first American president. I'm going to make sure he remembers the moment, at least for as long as he's with the rest of the living.”

“Very well, Mr. President. And just let me say that that's exactly how I figured you would do it.”

“I know you did, Roger. But seriously, I'm going to play this as I see it. Leave it to my gut, to the moment.”

“Very well, Mr. President. In the meantime.”

Packer raised his hand. “Yes, I know, our special friend. Where's he staying? The Mayflower?”

“Actually, no. He's spending the night at the British ambassador's residence.”

“What, not on American soil?” It was mock indignation, but he played it well. All in the room understood. The president liked his little jokes.

“You know,” Packer continued, “maybe I'll give old Spencer a hug, too. He's a prissy sort; doesn't like to be touched. Yeah, a little ball-breaking would warm up the day. We're talking before the lawn, right? We'll have to, of course, with this China mess. Remind me, how many ships have the Brits sent again?”

“Seven,” said Simms.

Packer leaned back and counted seven on his fingers. “Seven, the magnificent seven. Should be twice that. The Chinese won't be too impressed. I'll have to hug old Spence good and hard, twist his arm a bit, too. Any other business? I need a bathroom check.”

“No, Mr. President. You have a free half hour,” said one of the aides standing to the rear of the seated secretaries.

“Good then,” said Packer. “I think best in the bathroom as you know with my copy of ‘Pole and Gun' or whatever it's called. We'll convene again in an hour. Platz should be here by then,” he added in reference to the Secretary for Defense.

“Don't declare war or anything,” he said as he rose from his chair.

“If he does, I'll be hammering on your bathroom door,” said Maryann Blunt with a smile and a nod towards Simms.

“It won't be locked,” said Packer, stretching and grinning in that boyish way that had landed him the support of a majority of voters, including many who were not sure of Packer as a leader on everyday political and economic issues, never mind a situation that could lead to a global conflagration.

Just a few miles from the Oval Office, in a side chapel in the national shrine admired from the skies by Cleo Conway, the old priest was sitting and thinking. He had done with praying, and his knees ached.

The chapel was adorned with the names of saints, ancient Irish ones from an island that had once produced holy men as if on a medieval conveyor belt. The production line had long come to a halt, gone into reverse according to some clerics from the island that had passed, very occasionally, through Ayvebury. But Ireland wasn't his concern. It was merely his device.

As he tried to imagine the event of the day that was to follow this one, the priest's mind wandered from his home and place of solace to London and across the water to Washington. Pulling together all the strands of the plan had been difficult, yes, but the timing and physical separation of key players now looked complete. Tomorrow, as the prime minister, the fallen angel of the whole affair, carried out his business at the White House, the heir to the throne would make his announcement in London that he had embraced the old faith.

And not just that. He would proclaim his sincerely held belief that the faith of his ancestors, before Henry, of course, and indeed the faith of some of his near relatives even now, was the only chance that Christendom had in the face of a world so changed, so fast changing, so close to its possible end.

The four priests had done their work well with the man who would be king. But they had paid with their lives as Spencer, a zealot who would have made a Tudor blush, worked at every level, down as low as murder, to prevent what would be the second great reformation in the glorious story that was England.

With Spencer in Washington and the overwhelming distraction of a possible war with China to keep his murderous mind distracted and fully occupied, the announcement in London would be made with a relative lack of immediate impact, and, more critically, potentially violent reaction.

The heir would, of course, be at pains to pay homage to the faith he had been born into and in which he had been raised and, yes, which he was now renouncing. But he would contend, with the most diplomatic language he could muster, that it was simply not up to the great struggle that lay ahead.

Knowing full well the uproar that his statement would cause, the decision had been made to deliver it away from any royal ground. It would be unleashed to the world on a visit to a model organic farm, in Essex as it happened, and only a dozen miles from Ayvebury.

The old priest smiled at the thought. He clasped his hands together, got down on his knees one more time and bowed his head.

“Thy will be done,” he said to the empty chapel.

S
PECIAL AGENT CLEO CONWAY
took a deep breath. It did little to relieve her pent up tension.

But she smiled nevertheless as she passed through the security check at the main gate of the White House. Smiled on the outside, grimaced within. Nerves, she thought, normal nerves. It was her first day on the job with the president. She would be fine when she teamed up with the others and taken her orders from the lead agent in the presidential detail, the legendary Dutch Dalton.

Conway stood for a moment inside the gate and looked down to her shoes. She was looking good on the outside. She had to give herself some credit on that account. Her charcoal pantsuit was made of a blend of fibers that the sales assistant had sworn would keep her cool on an early summer's day, even in Washington.

She glanced at her lapel pin, the right pattern for the day and the guarantee of absolute access, right up to the president's side. Her father would be proud, she thought, and she took another lungful of the now noticeably humid air.

Slowly at first, and then a little more deliberately, though not quickly, she walked up the driveway towards the main door of the mansion. There were only a couple of people in sight, a television crew by the looks of things, over by the West Wing.

Still, she knew that eyes would be watching. They always were. And she also expected the uniformed guard who stepped out from behind one of the pillars just as she reached the portico. He nodded and held the door for her, and she was inside where the air conditioning offered immediate relief.

Conway glanced at her watch. She was only a couple of minutes late, and that wasn't too bad, considering. Dalton wasn't the type to make a scene. He usually expressed his dissatisfaction with a look. Right now she could take on of those looks and deal with it. Maybe he wouldn't notice. But he did.

Dalton and the other agents were gathered just outside the back under
the Truman Balcony. Dalton was pointing at some bushes and speaking with that slow stateless drawl of his. When he spotted Conway he, too, glanced at his watch and frowned. But he left it at that.

“Special Agent Conway, good morning,” he said. And that was it.

“Good morning, sir,” Conway responded. “Sorry for being late, but…”

“The traffic,” Dalton interjected. “Anyway, I was saying. Heck, I won't say it. Rafter is taking his damn time in the bathroom. Maybe somebody should fetch him.”

“Here he comes, sir,” said Conway, feeling relieved to have the focus placed on someone else.

Dalton said nothing as Rafter merged with the clutch of special agents that would be the main security contingent on and around the South Lawn for the event later in the day. Conway glanced around the lawn, her gaze moving in an arc from left to right. Judging by the number of cameras already in place, and technicians fussing around them, the press turnout was going to be huge. This had nothing to do with the reason for the gathering of course. Ireland was all well and good, but the presence of the president and prime minister with war possible at any moment was the primary reason for a maximum media turnout.

It would be hectic, maybe a little crazy, Conway thought, and as she did, Dalton's words confirmed her belief.

“It's going to be nuts here this afternoon. And to make it worse, you can be damn certain that the president is going to bust through the rope and do the tango with everyone in reach, especially the good looking women.”

Dalton was old school, and Conway knew well enough to ignore much of his social observations. That he was good at his job, some said the best, was more than enough to give him a pass.

“Okay,” Dalton continued, “you all have your assignments. We meet inside in thirty minutes, and then we'll take over from the current crew. Do what you have to do meantime, get a coffee, use the bathroom.”

At this, he turned and walked briskly back into the building. Conway, uncertain for a moment, decided that a rest room stop was a good idea. Rafter, standing beside her and seeming to read her mind, pointed with his finger.

“It's over there,” he said. “Just through the room with all the books, presidential papers by the look of them”

“Thanks, I know,” Conway replied. As she turned to walk away, her cell phone began to vibrate.

The agents, they would have been interested to know, were being more than casually observed. Pender, at times with his eyes, and for moments through a lens, had been watching the pep talk delivered by Dalton. Pender had entered the grounds at the earliest permissible time and a lot sooner than he would have done at a normal shoot. But this was not a normal shoot, and he had smiled at the pun. He assumed there would be no shooting at all unless one of the Secret Service agents had turned rogue, or suddenly flipped his lid. No, he thought, it wouldn't be bullets.

He knew only what the old priest had told him. He was aware of the Irish diplomat's role, too, or at least some of it. And like his own, it seemed pretty simple. Manning had to set up the photograph for Pender. It was to have only three subjects, the president, the prime minister and the Taiwanese guy. This was an absolute. Manning was to make sure that his ambassador and the visiting Irish politicians, no doubt camera happy, were steered off into another corner, though with the promise of inclusion in the next picture.

Manning, obviously, would be aware of Pender's presence. They had lived for a few days under the same roof in the shadow of that mountain. Pender reckoned that Manning even knew of the photographer's own limited but crucial part in what was to be a delicate choreography with a fatal twist of historical dimensions.

“Unbelievable,” Pender said, turning a knob on his tripod for the tenth time.

But he had witnessed the unbelievable before, participated in it, caused it to happen. This, however, was something entirely different from all his previous assignments. Still, there was no arguing with the money. This was the mother of all paydays, and he would even make money on the climactic photo, along with everyone else of course. No matter, the more the merrier. An army of photographers and cameramen was perfect cover.

And cover was what precisely the old priest had in mind. He, too, was watching the preliminary proceedings from outside the railings that were designed to keep the uninvited off the White House grounds.

For the time being, tourists and passersby were being allowed approach the black painted fence, but all would be corralled farther away once the South Lawn ceremonies got underway.

No matter, the old man thought. He would not be lingering for the moment of truth. He was intent on enjoying a leisurely afternoon at the Smithsonian. He had only once before visited Washington, and that had been many
years ago. And he had spent most of that sojourn confined to Georgetown University on a spiritual retreat.

Slowly, he turned away and fixed his eyes on the National Monument. He would walk there first and then proceed to the museum. There was nothing more he could do. He could neither interfere with, guide nor affect the ultimate outcome of events on the South Lawn. In a few hours, his plan, his plot, would be executed. Or it would fail.

Reaching into his coat, he took out the pocket watch that had belonged to his father, whose tenure at Ayvebury had seen the house turn from a family home into a place of spiritual learning, a repository of universal truth. It was a reliable instrument. If it was wound at the required intervals, though not too tightly, it would keep precise time. It was, the old priest thought, not unlike faith itself, sturdy, reliable, working at all times and always blessed with an answer, that being the hour of the day.

He stared at the watch face and calculated the course of events based on the time difference between Washington and London. If all went to plan, or roughly close to it, the prince would be making his announcement just minutes before the scheduled climax of the trade conference which, of course, included a speech by the prime minister.

Reporters on hand would be made aware instantly of the enormous story breaking in London. Questions would fly, and Spencer would know that he had failed. With this knowledge, and before he could plan any retaliation, the South Lawn Plot would reach its own high point, thus giving the reporters more news than they could conceive in their wildest dreams.

And then? Well, assuming the plan was carried out with watch-like precision, the investigation would proceed down an entirely incorrect path. The Americans would assume their president had been the primary target, the British prime minister merely collateral damage, as the Americans themselves liked to put it. And the investigation would lead immediately to the perpetrator, Mr. Lau. The Secret Service would become aware of his fury over the selling out of his island home, not yet a known fact but one that was, well, lying just over the horizon. The fact that Mr. Lau was terminally ill would ensure that the assassination and simultaneous suicide was an open and shut case.

It all seemed logical enough, though the old priest was acutely aware that the best plans could go awry. But assuming all was in place, why would it not succeed?

For a little reassurance, he said yet another silent prayer. Not just for the
desired outcome, but the most perfect outcome. That there would be no additional injuries or fatalities. Morality demanded sacrifice, but not excessive loss of life. With this thought in mind, the old priest fixed his eyes on the monument and began to walk.