Down the long, silent hallway was a living room, high ceilings crossed with thick mahogany beams, two big windows on the far wall partially covered in flowered curtains. The walls were lined floor-to-ceiling in bookshelves, every inch filled, and in the corner of the room was a simple desk, neat and orderly, a few piles of paper stacked in the middle, and a small light on. In the center of the room, two red sofas faced each other across a large, round glass coffee table. The living room, like the other rooms, sat in virtual silence, the only noise coming through the walls from the random clatter of the city.
At one end of the sofas sat a pair of leather club chairs, behind which hung a large, mesmerizing photograph. Slightly faded, it was an aerial photo of Tel Aviv. At the bottom of the big photograph, like paint thrown from a child, a spray of dark red liquid coated the glass; it shimmered, still wet.
In one of the leather chairs, the one on the right, a man sat, motionless. It was the man from the photos. He was, perhaps, seventy years old, his once thick hair had receded and what remained of it was mostly white. He had a thick gray and black mustache that hung down at the edges. He wore brown-framed Coke-bottle-thick eyeglasses. They were slightly askew. Behind the lenses, the man’s brown eyes stared out across the room.
On the chair next to him was an older woman whose beauty was still obvious despite her years. Her long black hair was streaked in white; her simple, aquiline nose appeared as if it had been sculpted. She, too, was as still as a statue.
In the middle of the man’s forehead, just above the bridge of the nose, an inch-wide bullet hole had been neatly blasted through his skull. Beneath it, a rivulet of blood oozed down the nose, then dripped in a slow but steady stream into the folds of his shirt.
The woman’s skull was perforated in the identical spot.
The bullets had been fired from the same gun: a suppressed Beretta 93, clutched in the same leather-gloved hand by the same woman, who now stood, calmly, silently, as still as stone, against the far wall, near the front door.
The woman had long blond hair. It was a wig, and it covered short black locks that were slightly visible just above her ears. She was no more than twenty-five, simple-looking, a small, plain nose. The brown hue of her skin was accentuated and framed by the blond wig, and it made her look exotic. She wore a long-sleeve black Nike running shirt and matching running pants that looked as if they’d been painted on her hard, muscled body. She held the silenced .45 caliber weapon in her right hand, at her side. She stood patiently, motionless, waiting near the front door.
Next to her, on the wall, was the intercom, a black box with a pair of red buttons. Every few seconds, the young killer’s eyes blinked in anticipation. It was the only movement in the room.
Outside the door, on the landing, was a brown mat with the word
welcome
in Hebrew. The landing sat empty and quiet. To the left, carpeted stairs ran up to the fourth and fifth floors of the brownstone. To the right, the stairs descended toward the ground floor.
Three floors below was a lobby. A large, antique chandelier dangled in the middle of the chamber, gold leafs wrapped around dozens of slender gold tubes with tiny lightbulbs at the ends; a gaudy, ornate, somewhat incongruous central point to the otherwise unadorned lobby. A stainless steel block of mailboxes hung on the wall across from a large glass and wood door. A tan curtain was drawn across the glass.
In the corner, behind the door, against the wall, stood a man. He was dressed in a similar outfit as the woman stationed in the apartment: black running shirt and pants, Adidas running shoes. A thin, black cotton ski mask was pulled over his head down to his neckline. Only the man’s eyes were visible, two black embers smoldering, waiting. In his gloved left hand, the man held an M-26 Taser.
* * *
It was Sunday afternoon and the streets were busy. The sidewalks were filled with people. The weather was picture-perfect, a warm day, one of the first warm days of spring. Every resident of the neighborhood of brownstone apartments was out, sitting on stoops, talking with neighbors, walking young children, enjoying life.
At the corner, a yellow taxicab pulled over and a young man climbed out. He was big and athletic. His brown hair was slightly long and his face was tan. He wore khakis and a blue button-down shirt. He shut the back door then reached into the front window and handed the cabbie some cash.
He walked down the sidewalk with a slight limp. It didn’t slow him down, but it was noticeable. His face had a hint of sadness to it. His brown eyes, however, told a different story. Their deep, blank pools scanned the street with trained suspicion.
But here, in Boro Park, he was among family. He was greeted by smiles from strangers, who recognized somehow his bloodline, his heritage. He returned the smiles with blank stares. He was here for a reason. A visit to the parents of one of his fallen colleagues.
Except for one, he had visited all the families of the S’13 who had died that day at Rafic Hariri Airport. He wasn’t required to do so, but it was the way he chose to lead. To fly half a world away in order to sit down with a dead comrade’s parents and explain to them that their son died fighting for something important, something he had believed in.
He walked up the wide steps of a pretty brownstone. He nodded to a pair of teenage girls who sat on the steps, both of whom blushed, then giggled back at him.
Next to the door was a strip of doorbells. He read the names. He reached out and pressed the button of the bottom name:
BOHR
.
After a few seconds, the intercom clicked.
“Yes,” said a woman over the intercom.
“Hello, Mrs. Bohr, it’s Kohl Meir.”
* * *
At precisely the same moment, less than ten miles away, on the fifteenth floor of a nondescript office building on Second Avenue near the United Nations, a red, white, and green flag, with a strange emblem in the middle, stood near a mahogany door. Next to the door, the words were simple, engraved in a shiny gold plaque:
Permanent Mission of the Islamic Republic of Iran to the United Nations
In a windowless, locked, highly secure room near the kitchen of the mission, two men stared at a large, flat plasma screen.
One of the men wore a black three-piece suit, a tan shirt, a gold-and-green-striped tie. His black hair was slicked back. He had a bushy mustache, dark skin, a thin, gaunt face. The other man was stocky and had on a simple, denim button-down and khakis. The stocky man sat behind the desk, typing every few seconds into a keyboard in front of him. The man in the suit leaned over the desk, a cigarette in his hand. Both men studied the screen intently.
“It’s him?” asked the suited one, Amit Bhutta, Iran’s ambassador to the United Nations. “You’re sure?”
“Yes, yes,” said the stocky Iranian. “Crystal fucking sure.”
On the screen, in fuzzy black-and-white, they watched as Kohl Meir climbed out of the cab, then walked down the sidewalk.
“And it’s all ready?”
“Yes, Mr. Ambassador. It could not be any more precisely arranged.”
On the plasma screen, they watched as Meir walked down the crowded sidewalk, limping slightly. Halfway down the block, he started to climb the steps of a brownstone. He moved past two girls on the steps, then put his hand out to ring a doorbell.
“Just think,” said the stocky man. “The great-grandson of Golda Meir herself. We could not inflict any more damage on the Jew if we dropped a nuclear bomb on downtown Tel Aviv.”
On the screen, the door to the brownstone opened, and Meir stepped through. Then he disappeared from the screen.
“Imagine,” whispered Bhutta, “when we do both.”
4
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The chopper ride to Bangor International Airport took fifteen minutes. Jessica stepped off the Black Hawk and walked to a waiting Citation X, which flew her to Andrews Air Force Base. En route, she called Josh Brubaker, her deputy at NSC, to find out why she was being brought back early. Brubaker didn’t have a clue. She called Calibrisi, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency and her closest friend in government.
“I haven’t been told,” said Calibrisi.
“You haven’t?”
“No,” he said. “Look, it’s probably nothing.”
“What have I missed?”
“I’ve read the dailies twice. ECHELON scans. Daily status call with Kratovil,” Calibrisi said, referring to the director of the FBI. “Everything is quiet.”
“What about Iran?” asked Jessica. “The negotiations?”
“That’s all on course, Jess,” said Calibrisi. “Would the president call you back to discuss that? Isn’t that a phone call?”
“I’ve tried calling him twice,” said Jessica. “Control says he’s unavailable.”
“The daily briefing was canceled this morning,” said Calibrisi. “Then again, it was canceled twice last week so he could play golf.”
“Have you been summoned to a meeting?” she asked.
“No,” said Calibrisi.
“Hector, be honest,” Jessica said. “Do you think he’s firing me?”
Calibrisi’s laughter echoed over the phone.
“Are you kidding? You’re the daughter Allaire never had. I’m guessing he’s just lonely without you.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so.”
“I don’t either. My honest guess is there’s something larger he’s concerned with. Tell me what he says, will you?”
“Of course,” she said. “I land in an hour.”
They hung up and Jessica sat back in her leather seat, alone in the cabin of the jet.
Less than a minute later, her phone rang. It was Calibrisi.
“Strike that, I was just summoned,” he said. “I’m meeting you at Andrews. See you in an hour.”
* * *
At Andrews, Jessica stepped off the Citation and walked across the tarmac to a waiting helicopter. She climbed the stairs. Calibrisi was already seated inside.
“Welcome home, honey,” he said. “How was your trip? Did you get me something?”
“Not funny,” she said, taking the seat across from him.
“I just got a call from Mike Ober,” said Calibrisi, referring to Vice President Dellenbaugh’s chief of staff.
“What about?”
“He wanted to know what was going on.”
“What did you say?” Jessica asked.
“What could I say?” said Calibrisi. “I have no idea what’s going on.”
“Obviously, it’s something involving the vice president,” said Jessica. “Why else would he call you?”
The chopper moved across the late-afternoon sky toward downtown Washington. After fifteen minutes, the chopper began to arc left and down, descending. Calibrisi glanced out the window. For the first time, he realized they weren’t anywhere near the White House.
“Captain,” said Calibrisi, yelling into the cockpit over the din, “where are you taking us?”
“Bethesda Naval Hospital, sir,” said the pilot.
The chopper moved into a hover, dropping slowly toward the hospital helipad, noted by its large red X.
Jessica shot Calibrisi a look.
“Calm down,” said Calibrisi, reaching out and patting her knee. “Maybe a heart attack. We’ll see. But stay calm.”
Jessica stared at Calibrisi, but her mind flashed to President Allaire. It had been more than two years now since he’d brought her from the FBI, where she’d run counterterrorism, appointing her national security advisor at an age—thirty-six—that was unprecedented. He was, far and away, the best boss she’d ever had. She pictured his block of brown hair, always neatly combed back. Allaire, at sixty years old, looked younger than his age. He was in good shape. He drank, but not too much, and he didn’t smoke.
The door to the chopper swung open, the stairs fell to the helipad, and a uniformed FBI agent waved them down.
“This way, Ms. Tanzer, Mr. Calibrisi,” said the agent, who held a close-quarters combat submachine gun at his side, aimed at the ground.
Jessica felt as if she was floating now. She stared blankly ahead, at the yellow letters on the back of the agent’s black sweater, ignoring the noises around her, focusing on nothing save taking the next step, then the next. She had an overwhelming sense of the fact that the world, her world, was about to change. She tried to breathe.
They stepped onto a waiting elevator, which descended to the fifth floor. When the doors opened, Jessica’s first sight was the grim face of Mark Hastings, chief justice of the Supreme Court. His normally ruddy face appeared gaunt, ashen; haunted.
Behind him, on his cell phone, stood Vice President J. P. Dellenbaugh, who registered the entrance of Jessica and Calibrisi, nodded at the two of them politely, then turned away.
A commotion came from down the hallway as Mary Whitcomb, the White House photographer, approached. A uniformed agent attempted to stop her, but she shouted at him, then was allowed past.
Jessica and Calibrisi were led past Hastings, Dellenbaugh, then through a doorway. Inside, a small sitting room had four chairs, all of which, save one, was empty. Cecily Vincent, the president’s assistant, a woman who had worked for Allaire since the time he was governor of California, sat alone, with tears streaming down her face.
“Oh, Jess,” she whispered through tears, shaking her head, her red eyes revealing utter sadness.
Jessica felt her own tears begin to roll down her cheeks. She stepped to the door and pushed her way inside.
The room was a large, modern operating room. She quickly counted four nurses and a pair of doctors. The walls were lined with plasma screens, displaying digital readouts. The steady monotone of the heart machine seemed familiar.
She felt Calibrisi’s hand on her back, calming her, perhaps even holding her up lest she faint. But she didn’t. Something inside her had already told her what she would see, some premonition before she left Castine that morning, whispered to her as if in a dream:
Nothing will be the same.
In the center of the room, on a large, elevated steel table, covered in light blue blankets, was the president of the United States, Rob Allaire. His eyes were closed. An oxygen tube protruded from his mouth, running down his throat. Three separate IVs ran from his arms.