The president arose from his seat. He walked to the large picture window that looked out on the fields, trees, and forests of the Maryland countryside. The rain was coming down hard now, slapping atop green leaves that had just started sprouting in the early springtime air. He grabbed a brown coat that was draped over a bench near the door. Ranger, his Lab, awoke and moved quickly to the door, anticipating going outside.
“Come on,” said Allaire. “I’ll walk you guys down to the helipad.”
“You don’t need to do that,” said Calibrisi, who stood and put his coat on. Schmidt and Lindsay followed suit. “It’s pouring rain out.”
“Are you kidding?” asked Allaire. “Nothing wrong with a good rainstorm. Besides, Ranger needs a walk.”
“What about Mabel?” asked Schmidt, nodding to the large bulldog asleep in front of the fireplace.
“Mabel will be asleep until Christmas,” said Allaire, smiling.
The four men, followed by the Lab, walked out across the terrace, then down the old road that led past the commandant’s quarters, past the tennis courts. In the distance, they could hear the smooth, high-pitched drumming of the helicopter’s blades slashing through the air. As they reached the edge of the tarmac, Allaire turned to the three men. All of them were soaked. Allaire smiled.
“You and your team have done remarkable work,” said Allaire, staring at Lindsay, talking above the din. He placed his hand on the secretary of state’s shoulder. “You, in particular, Tim, deserve a great deal of praise and credit. I will speak nothing but positively about the developments in Geneva and the potential for Iran to rejoin the civilized world. But they’re going to need to do it without the involvement of the United States. They need to do it because they want to, not because I agree to sit on the stage and legitimize their past behavior.”
“I understand, Mr. President,” said Lindsay. “Thank you for the day of shooting.”
“See you three in a couple of days,” said Allaire, smiling.
Allaire shook Lindsay’s, Calibrisi’s, and Schmidt’s hands, then watched as they climbed aboard the dark green and white chopper. A moment later, a uniformed soldier aboard the craft pulled the door up and sealed it tight. The chopper lifted slowly into the darkening, rain-crossed sky.
Allaire stared at the flashing red and white lights as it disappeared into the slate sky. He glanced around the now empty helipad, watching the rain bounce off the dark tarmac. He reached down and gave Ranger a pat on his wet head.
“Good boy,” he said.
As Allaire started to walk back toward Aspen Lodge, he felt a strange warmth on the left side of his body, emanating from his armpit. He went to take a step but his foot was suddenly stuck in place, frozen still. His voice, which he tried to use to call out to the agents, now up the road more than a quarter mile, didn’t work either. As the massive stroke swept down from his brain, his body convulsed in a warm, hazy, painless set of moments. He tumbled to the grass, his face striking first, the sound of the spring rain and the dog’s desperate barking the last sounds President Rob Allaire would ever hear.
2
MARGARET HILL
CASTINE, MAINE
Dewey awoke with the first light. On the other side of the bed, Jessica slept quietly. Her auburn hair was spread across her face as she slept. On the table next to her were two cell phones and a specially designed, customized BlackBerry.
From the duffel bag at the end of the bed, he found a green T-shirt, running shorts, socks. He dressed quietly. He put on a pair of Adidas, then knelt to tie the laces.
He heard the sheets ruffle. He looked up. Jessica had turned and was looking from the pillow at him.
“Whatcha doing?” she asked sleepily.
“Run. You wanna come?”
“Oh, man,” she said, yawning.
“You’ll like it.”
Jessica smiled. She reached out and put her hand gently in Dewey’s hair.
“Sure,” she said. “How far? This isn’t going to be some sort of Delta training thing, is it?”
“I thought you played lacrosse at Princeton? You can probably run me into the ground.”
“Probably,” she whispered. “Princeton girls are tough. Certainly a hell of a lot tougher than Deltas.”
Dewey smiled.
Jessica pulled the quilt and sheets aside and climbed out of bed. Dewey was still kneeling next to the bed, tying his shoes. She stepped in front of him, naked, less than a foot from him. She was not shy; she didn’t have any reason to be. At thirty-eight, her body was the same sculpted, voluptuous object that had driven nearly every boy at Andover crazy. In silence, Dewey stared at Jessica. First at her knees, then, climbing with his eyes, her thighs, then higher and higher until his eyes met hers.
She’d watched the entire eye scan, and now a slightly scolding, slightly playful look was on her face.
“Troublemaker,” she said, shaking her head. “
After
the run.”
“It might help us get loosened up,” said Dewey, moving his hand to the back of her thigh.
“After, dirty dog. And only if you beat me.”
Softly, Dewey’s hand rubbed the back of Jessica’s thigh. She leaned toward him. She was silent; then she put her right hand onto his shoulder to steady herself.
“Jerk,” she whispered.
He stood and their lips touched.
“I suppose we should loosen up,” she whispered, opening her eyes and looking into his. She smiled and pushed him back onto the bed. She giggled as the bedsprings made a loud squeaking noise. She climbed on top of him. “I don’t want any excuses after I beat you.”
* * *
The idea for the trip had been Jessica’s.
“I’m taking a week off,” she’d said. “I want to go to Castine. Meet your parents.”
“They don’t talk very much. Just warning you.”
“Gee, I never would’ve expected that,” she said sarcastically.
“How can you possibly take a week off? You’re the national security advisor. You’re not supposed to take vacations.”
“Watch and learn, Dewey.”
“Who’s going to be in charge?”
“Um, this guy named, wait, what’s his name? Oh yeah, Rob Allaire. He’s the, ah, president of the United States? You may have heard of him?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Josh Brubaker,” she had said, referring to her chief of staff. “I told him not to bother me unless it’s a national emergency. If there’s a problem, I told him to call Hector.”
So far, four days in, no calls. The only visible evidence of her job was the FBI agent posted around the clock at the entrance to the farm.
Dewey and Jessica began the run down the long dirt road to the Castine Golf Club, then went right on Wadsworth Cove Road. After a mile or so, they went left on Castine Road. The small, winding road went for several miles. They ran alongside each other, with Dewey on the inside, closest to the road and the traffic, but there was hardly any. When they passed something and Jessica asked what it was, who lived there, where does that road go, Dewey would patiently answer.
At a sagging, moss-covered wood fence, they hopped over and went right. A path opened into a long, rectangular field overgrown with hay grass. The sun was out and it warmed them as they ran through the thick grass downhill toward the ocean, Dewey cutting a path, Jessica right behind him.
At the end of the field, the sea filled a rocky cove with calm blue water and the smell of salt and seaweed. A small dirt path was etched just before the rocks, and they ran along it for several more miles, trees to the right, rocky coastline left. Finally, in the distance, a church steeple, the beginning of the town proper. They came to a low, old stone wall, behind which lay row upon row of tombstones.
Dewey stopped, followed by Jessica. They were both drenched in sweat. Dewey leaned over to catch his breath.
“So,” he said after several minutes. “How was that?”
Jessica breathed heavily. Her face was bright red.
“I let you win,” she said.
Dewey stared at the ocean, then looked at Jessica.
“Are you hungry?”
“I like blueberry pancakes.”
“I know a place,” he said.
* * *
In town, Dewey and Jessica went to a small diner near Maine Maritime Academy called Froggy’s. Jessica ordered blueberry pancakes and Dewey ordered eggs and bacon.
“When do you go to Boston?” Jessica asked.
“Day after tomorrow.”
“Are you nervous?”
Dewey sipped from his water glass. He was interviewing for a job in Boston, an interview arranged by Jessica, running personal security for a wealthy hedge fund manager named Chip Bronkelman.
“No,” said Dewey.
“Do you want the job?”
“Sure,” said Dewey unenthusiastically.
“You’re the one who said you didn’t want to come back into government.”
Dewey nodded. She was right. Calibrisi had offered him a job at Langley, and Harry Black, the secretary of defense, had done the same, asking Dewey to join his staff at the Pentagon. Black had also offered Dewey a job he came close to accepting, going back to Fort Bragg and becoming a Delta instructor. But Dewey wasn’t ready to make the commitment. He’d already sacrificed years of his life for his country, had already risked his life for America more times than he could count, and he knew that if he went back in it would consume him all over again. He didn’t want that.
But with that decision made, he needed a job. Bronkelman, a forty-something billionaire, was a very private man who lived in Wellesley, outside of Boston, and had homes in Manhattan, Palm Beach, Paris, Montana, and Hong Kong. Dewey would be well paid and he’d get to travel. But, in the end, he’d be little more than a glorified bodyguard to Bronkelman and his family.
“Do you want to come down to D.C. after your interview?” Jessica asked.
“I’m going to New York City,” said Dewey.
“What for?”
“I’m meeting Kohl Meir,” said Dewey matter-of-factly, after the waitress brought him a cup of coffee.
It had been nearly three months since the bloody night at Rafic Hariri Airport in Beirut, when Dewey nearly died following the coup in Pakistan. Dewey had been saved by a team of commandos from Shayetet 13, Israel’s equivalent to the U.S. Navy SEALs. Kohl Meir was the leader of that Shayetet team who saved Dewey from near-certain death. Six of the eight-man S’13 team died that night.
Jessica took a sip from her coffee cup and slowly put it down on the Formica table.
“Why?” she asked.
“He’s visiting the parents of Ezra Bohr,” said Dewey, referring to one of the fallen Israeli commandos. “He asked if I’d meet him.”
Dewey’s face remained as blank as stone.
“Why does he want to see you?” she asked.
“I don’t know, Jess,” said Dewey.
“Did he say anything?”
Dewey looked across the table at Jessica.
“He said he needs my help,” said Dewey.
“What for?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you ask him?”
“Yeah,” said Dewey.
The waitress brought over the plates of food and placed them down on the table in front of them.
“And.…?”
“He said he needed to talk about it in person.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“You don’t find that in the least bit unusual?” asked Jessica.
Dewey smiled at Jessica, then shrugged his shoulders.
She looked back at him, raising her eyebrows, smiling, expecting him to say something. But he stayed quiet.
They finished breakfast. When Dewey asked for the check, the waitress shook her head, then nodded toward the counter. Behind the counter, a bald man with a University of Maine Black Bears baseball cap smiled, then shook his head.
“Your money’s no good here, Andreas,” he said.
“Thanks, Mr. Antonelli,” Dewey said, smiling.
* * *
As Dewey and Jessica walked up the grass-covered dirt driveway from the golf club to the farm, a faint noise caused Dewey to turn around. Jessica’s eyes followed his. Above the trees, from out over the ocean, a black object no bigger than a bird moved across the blue sky, followed, a few moments later, by the faint sound of whirring; the telltale rhythm of a chopper.
“Why do I have a sinking feeling?” asked Jessica.
3
APARTMENT OF JONATHAN AND SYLVIE BOHR
FOURTEENTH AVENUE AND FIFTY-EIGHTH STREET
BORO PARK
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK
The swaying of the white lace curtain, pushed by a soft breeze from the open window, was the only movement in the apartment.
Beneath the window was a small wooden dining table. On top of the table were two teacups, both filled, tiny clouds of steam rising up from the tea. Two plates; on top of one was a hard-boiled egg, cracked open, and a piece of rye toast, a bite missing. On the other plate lay a toasted onion bagel, cream cheese smeared on both sides, one of the pieces missing a few bites. Between the plates sat a bowl full of fresh-cut fruit—strawberries, pineapple, tangerine slices, blueberries. Two wooden chairs had been pulled out from the table.
The only sound in the kitchen came from the open window. The low background noise of Boro Park, of Brooklyn, of New York City—car engines, an occasional distant horn, the voices of children outside playing on this warm, sunny spring day.
The empty kitchen led to an open, arched doorway. Through the doorway was a dimly lit hallway. Across the hall stood another door, slightly ajar, that led to a small, plainly adorned bedroom. Above the simple wooden bed hung a small Star of David, made out of wood. Next to it was a framed photograph of a thin adolescent boy with a long round nose, thick black hair in a jagged, uneven crew cut, and a gap-toothed smile on his freckled face.
Outside the bedroom, the long hallway’s walls were covered with watercolor paintings, of various sizes, and photographs. Photos in simple frames; of people, family, engaged in different activities, standing in front of recognizable landmarks such as the Eiffel Tower, hiking on mountain passes, snow-covered peaks in the background, or just seated at tables filled with food and drink. Most showed the same people: a good-looking couple with their son, a large, striking-looking boy who always seemed to have a big, infectious smile on his face, the same boy as in the bedroom photo. The photos showed the progression of time, but what never changed was the sense of family connection, of love.