The President Is Missing: A Novel (32 page)

Toronto. Right. That Friday was the day the Toronto subway system screeched to a halt, shut down entirely by a computer virus that we assumed was the work of the Sons of Jihad. It happened during the evening rush hour. Nina was texting about it that morning, before it happened. Just as she told me about the helicopter crash in Dubai before it happened.

So that explains how this came about, at least. I’ve been wondering how this whole thing began, how a cyberterrorist and a member of my national security team ever got acquainted in the first place.
Nina
initiated the conversation. She somehow got word to the Judas in our inner circle.

But whoever that insider is, why didn’t he or she just tell me right away? The moment that note was received, why not tell me about it? Why keep it a secret?

How differently this all could have turned out if the insider had just come to me at that point.

I scroll down. That’s it for May 4.

The next communication is the following day—Saturday, May 5, in the morning. Again, the unknown caller texting from the White House.

Smart, I realize. The traitor recognized that his or her location might be traced all the way down to the street address, to 1600 Pennsylvania, and made sure to be in the presence of other high-level security officials at that time. Hiding within the inner circle. Cautious. Smart.

I read:

That’s the end of the Saturday, May 5, exchange. My mind is racing, trying to make sense of this. So this wasn’t some long-standing treasonous plan? It wasn’t blackmail. It wasn’t money. Just a mistake in judgment? One bad decision piled on top of another, and suddenly we’re in this mess?

The next text comes from our Benedict Arnold, again from the White House, the following morning, Sunday, May 6:

A
white van, bearing the logo of Lee’s Boats and Docks, turns off the Virginia county highway onto a gravel road. Up ahead, a barrier has been erected with a sign attached to it that reads
PRIVATE PROPERTY—NO TRESPASSING
. Beyond it, two black SUVs are parked perpendicular to the road.

The driver of the van, who goes by Lojzik, stops the van and looks in the rearview mirror at the eight men in the rear compartment, all dressed in body armor. Four of them armed with AK-47s. The other four manning shoulder-launched assault weapons loaded with armor-penetrating rockets.

“If I take off my hat,” he says, reminding them of the signal.

Lojzik gets out of the car, looking the part of a lake guy, wearing a hat with a ripped visor, a flannel shirt, and torn jeans. He approaches the SUVs at the barricade, raising a hand as if posing a question.

“Hello?” he says. “You fellas know how I find County Road 20?”

No answer. The windows of the SUVs are tinted, so he can’t see inside.

“Anyone there?” he asks.

He asks again. And again. It’s what they thought: nobody’s occupying those SUVs. The Secret Service is spread too thin, especially with the other security now flying off in a Marine helicopter.

So Lojzik doesn’t remove his cap, and the gunners don’t spill out to fire their rockets at the convoy.

Good. They’ll need them for the cabin.

Lojzik returns to the car and nods at the men. “Looks all clear to the cabin,” he says. “Hold on.”

He drops the gear into Reverse and backs up to the end of the gravel road. Then he stops, puts the gear in Drive, and floors the gas pedal, hurtling the van toward the barricade.

Moments later, a speedboat drifts slowly toward the small bay where Secret Service agents sit in a boat, well lit at dusk. Unlike team 1’s van, penetrating from the north, the boat only contains four men, the opportunity for concealment being far less.

Two men stand at the bow of the boat. At their feet on the deck: the other two men, lying prone, and four AK-74 assault rifles fitted with under-barrel grenade launchers.

“Stop your boat!”
the Secret Service agent calls out through a megaphone.
“This is restricted water!”

The leader, a man named Hamid, cups his hand and yells toward the agents. “Can you tow us ashore? Our engine’s dead!”

“Turn your boat around!”

Hamid opens his arms. “I can’t. Engine’s dead!”

The man standing next to Hamid, his head turned downward only slightly, says to the men at his feet, “On my command.”

“Then drop anchor and we will send for help!”

“You want me to—”

“Do not advance! Drop anchor now!”

The agents on the boat scramble, one heading to each side of the boat, one to the bow, each of them yanking off tarps, exposing mounted machine guns.

“Now!” whispers Hamid, reaching down for one of the weapons.

The hidden men jump to their feet with their AK-74s, their grenade launchers, and open fire on the Secret Service.

I
n the communications room, reading the text messages between Nina and our Benedict Arnold from Sunday, May 6, I now see how Lilly became involved. It was our insider’s way of getting Nina to access me directly without going through anyone else, keeping the insider’s fingerprints off the whole thing. Nina’s reply:

The truth is, I don’t know
what
I would have been willing to do to stop this virus. I would have interrogated Nina if I thought it would get me answers.

But it never got that far, because Nina made it clear—through Lilly, and then when she came to see me—that she had a partner who knew the other half of the puzzle. They were a package deal, Nina said, and if I detained her at the White House, I’d never meet the other half of the puzzle, and I’d never be able to stop the virus.

Which is where we find ourselves now.

So that’s how Nina learned “Dark Ages.” And the day after this exchange of text messages—just five days ago, this past Monday—Nina found Lilly in Paris at the Sorbonne and whispered “Dark Ages” in her ear. Lilly called me, and I’ve spent the last four-plus days trying to figure out who the insider is.

So far I’m no closer to knowing that. I scroll down to the next page—

“Mr. President!” The voice of Casey, calling to me. “We’re ready!”

I rush out of the communications room, Alex following me, and find Casey, Devin, and Augie in the war room.

“Ready to activate the virus?” I say. I put down my phone on a desk and stand behind Devin.

Casey turns to me. “Mr. President, before we do this: you understand that we don’t know whether the virus is communicating between devices. It’s possible that each virus on each device around the country is independently timed to go off. But it’s also possible that the virus on one computer will signal to the others, that it will send an ‘execute’ command to set off the virus simultaneously on all affected devices.”

“Yes, you said that before.”

“My point being, sir, I hope this works—but if it doesn’t, and the virus detonates on the Pentagon server, it might activate on the millions and probably billions of devices around the country. Our worst-case scenario will come true if our plan doesn’t work.”

“It worked on the trial run,” I say.

“Yes, it did. We’ve done our best to reverse-engineer the virus for our trials. But I cannot tell you with 100 percent certainty that our re-creation was perfect. We’ve only had hours to do this, working quickly. So I can’t tell you this will work on the real virus.”

I take a deep breath. “If we do nothing, this virus will go off soon anyway,” I say. “Maybe a minute from now, maybe a few hours at most—but it’s coming soon. And this scheme we devised—it’s the closest thing we’ve come up with to stop the virus. Right?”

“Yes, sir. It’s the only thing that’s even remotely succeeded.”

“So?” I shrug. “Do you have a better idea?”

“I don’t, sir. I just want you to understand. If this doesn’t work…”

“Everything could go to shit. I get it. This could be a big win for us, or it could be Armageddon.” I look at Augie. “What do you think, Augie?”

“I agree with your reasoning, Mr. President. This is our best bet. Our only bet.”

“Casey?”

“I agree. We should try it.”

“Devin?”

“Agreed, sir.”

I rub my hands together. “Let’s do it, then.”

Devin’s fingers hover over the keyboard. “Here goes—”

“What?”
Alex Trimble, standing near me, jumps as he puts his finger against his earbud. “North route has been breached? Viper!” he yells into his radio. “Viper, do you copy, Viper?” In one fluid motion, Alex is on me, gripping my arm and pulling me. “In the communications room, Mr. President! We need to lock down. It’s the safest—”

“No. I’m staying here.”

Alex tugs on me, not relenting. “No, sir, you have to come with me right now.”

“Then they’re coming with,” I say.

“Fine. But let’s go.”

Devin unhooks the laptop. Everyone rushes to the communications room.

Just as the sound of heavy gunfire echoes in the distance.

A
fter barreling the white van through the barricade, Lojzik slows it almost to a complete stop as he searches for the unmarked dirt road. There. He missed it. He stops, throws the van in Reverse, backs up past the road, and makes the left turn. If he hadn’t been told it was there, he would have missed it altogether.

The path is narrow enough to accommodate only a single vehicle. And it’s dark, the falling sun completely shrouded by the tall trees on each side. Lojzik grips the steering wheel and cranes his neck forward, unable to gain too much speed on the uneven terrain but slowly accelerating.

Only a half mile until they reach the cabin.

On the lake, a firefight.

Team 2 fires smoke grenades and batters the Secret Service boat with rounds from the AK-74s. The boat returns machine-gun fire, forcing the attackers down to the deck, using the hull of their boat as a bunker.

The few remaining Secret Service agents are on foot, covering the backyard. They scramble toward the dock, raising their weapons and opening fire on team 2’s boat as well.

Once the agents on foot reach the dock, their attention fully trained on the attack boat, Bach rushes along the perimeter of the yard, covered by the darkness and distraction, and jumps into the window well in front of the basement laundry room.