“You know,” said the president, “I only wanted you here in case Lou went psycho on me.”
The two old friends laughed. The president walked to the sofa and sat across from Putnam. He reached out and poured a cup of coffee for himself. The laughter quickly ended and the silence came again.
“I wasn’t aware you were going to Saudi Arabia,” said Putnam.
“Do I need your permission?” asked the president.
“No, of course not. That’s not my point. Mr. President, I’m an old man. We’ve known each other a while now. You don’t need to ask me for anything, and you don’t have to explain a thing to me.”
“I know I don’t. You can’t resign yet, Roger. But this spring, after we clean up this Saudi mess, you’ll retire. You fucked up. You fucked up not just because you threw that coffee cup against the wall and got pissed. You didn’t listen to me. You disobeyed a direct order. And worst of all, you were wrong.”
Putnam smiled. “I agree with you. Every word. I’m sorry.”
“Before you leave, I want you to help me find your replacement. I don’t want it to end this way, not between you and me.”
Putnam stood up. His eyes were red. He smiled. “You can count on it. Good luck over there.”
“I’ll call you on the way home. Will you be in Jackson Hole?”
“No. Call the switchboard. I’m heading to Venezuela to see if we can’t get some oil from those crazy bastards in Caracas.”
“Good luck.”
The secretary of state walked toward the door of the Oval Office.
“Do me a favor,” said the president. “Tell Cecily to send in the young lady waiting in the Cabinet Room.”
“Yes, sir.”
The president walked back to his desk and began packing his briefcase.
After a few minutes, the door opened.
“Mr. President?” asked a young, freckled, pretty, auburn-haired woman as she stepped into the Oval Office.
“Jessica,” said the president. “Come in.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said. She walked toward the president and stood in front of his desk. He looked at her, stepped to the side of the desk, and walked toward her. He reached his hand out and shook her hand. She looked around the Oval Office.
“Is this your first time here?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve been to the White House several times, of course. Just never in here, sir.”
“Well, get used to it. I’d like you to be my national security advisor.”
“Myron Kratovil—”
“FBI. Lou’s out.”
Jessica was silent. After a few moments, moments in which she stood silently in shock and disbelief, she smiled. “I’m honored. But I’m not qualified. That is, there are people a lot more qualified than me.”
“I agree,” said the president. “There are a few people who, on paper, are more qualified than you. But I don’t care. We need creativity, courage, intuition, guts, the ability to keep asking the hard questions. We need some luck, some faith even. We’ve been through the worst attack on U.S. soil in our history, but you prevented it from escalating into something much worse. There are plenty of resumés in this town. I want them working for you, not the other way around.”
“I’m honored, Mr. President. I wholeheartedly accept. When do you want me to start? I can start tomorrow. I have an appointment this afternoon.”
The president smiled and closed his briefcase. “I want you to take a vacation. Go away.”
“Victor Buck hasn’t been caught, sir. I’m not going to go on vacation until he’s apprehended.”
“That can wait. If you’re not willing to take a vacation, the offer is rescinded.”
“I understand,” said Jessica. “Thank you. I’ll do that.”
“I have to go,” said the president. He picked up his briefcase and walked toward the door. “By the way, how is Dewey Andreas?”
“He’s at Bethesda,” said Jessica. “He suffered some bruising on the brain. His shoulder was badly infected. He was in tough shape. But he’ll be okay. He’s strong.”
“So are we, thanks to him. The Supreme Court. California Aqueduct. The largest paper mill in North America. Half a dozen refineries, universities. O’Hare, Sears Tower, Notre Dame Stadium. The list goes on. We have much to thank Dewey for.”
“Yes, I agree.”
“You seem to know him a bit,” said the president. “What do you think he’ll do now?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Maybe you can pass something along to him, Jess, next time you see him?” asked the president.
“Sure. Anything, sir.”
“This morning, I asked Senator Bowman, from his home state of Maine, to nominate him for the Congressional Gold Medal,” said the president. “She was happy to do it. I’m also going to nominate Dewey for the Presidential Medal of Freedom. When he’s better, we’ll have a big to-do at the White House.”
“I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear that, Mr. President.”
The president glanced at his watch.
“You know what, I have a few minutes,” the president said. “Let’s tell him together.”
Room 717 at Bethesda Naval Hospital was austere and small. The one special feature was the spectacular view, which took in the Washington skyline in the distance, including the Capitol Building and the Washington Monument.
A knock came at the door.
“Dewey?” asked Jessica from outside. There was no response.
Jessica went to the door and slowly opened it. She was followed by the president. Two Secret Service agents waited outside the door.
Inside the room, the bed was empty.
“Maybe he’s in here,” said the president.
He knocked at the bathroom door. No answer.
Jessica went to the bed and pressed the nurse call button. A few moments later, the door opened and a nurse stepped into the room. The nurse, a thin, short woman with gray hair and glasses, did a double take when she saw the president.
“Do you know where Dewey is?” asked Jessica.
“He left an hour ago,” said the nurse. “He checked himself out. Dr. Bartholomew tried to get him to stay for a few more days. Brain injuries, you know? He’s far from fully recovered. But he refused.”
“Did he say where he was going?” asked Jessica, incredulous.
“No,” the nurse said. “I’m sorry, he didn’t.”
Jessica turned to the president. “Let me get a few agents—”
“No,” interrupted the president, smiling calmly. He looked at the empty hospital bed, then turned back to Jessica, reached his hand out, and patted her softly on the shoulder. “Let him go.”
THE SANDPIPER HOTEL
BARBADOS
FIVE WEEKS LATER
More than 1,500 miles to the south, in a luxurious suite at the Sandpiper Hotel in Barbados, midnight approached.
Dewey sat up in bed. He felt burning in his shoulder. It was a pain that would probably never go away, a piece of shrapnel so small two surgeries had been unable to find it. But he could feel it. He slowly removed the sheets from his legs and stood up.
He dressed quietly in the living room of the large hotel suite. It was a clear night. He glanced for a moment out the window. The moon created a shelf of reflected silver light on top of the black Caribbean water. He walked to the dresser. In the top drawer of the dresser, he reached in and took out a black, light-duty tactical wet suit. He felt for the handgun he’d placed inside the drawer, a Colt M1911 .45-caliber semiautomatic. Quickly, he placed it in the watertight pocket on the right calf of the wet suit. He tied a small ankle sheath to his right leg that held a long, black combat knife, Gerber, double serrated, fixed blade, the word “Gauntlet” engraved on the side. Sharp as a razor, small traces of dried blood still caked into the teeth.
He walked down the deserted beach a half mile to the docks, also
empty. He saw a boat berthed at a mooring, about a quarter mile from the dock, a dark blue Mako he’d noted earlier that day. He dove in the water, swam to the boat, climbed aboard. He pulled the plastic casing off the starter unit. He pulled two wires from the ignition block and tied them together, then touched them to the jack. The pair of Evinrude 250 horsepower engines rumbled to life. He untied the boat from the slip and backed it out from the dock, guided only by the light of the full moon. Glancing about, he saw no one.
Within a few minutes, he had the Mako at full throttle and was firing across the calm waters at more than sixty knots. He would be in Mustique in a little more than an hour.
Mustique, the most exclusive island in the Caribbean, perhaps the world, had its own charter of government, tax laws, and justice system, largely unnecessary since the only residents were wealthy Europeans and Americans. The only natives were hired hands: chefs; housecleaners; laborers; garden and landscaping crews; workers at the small hotel on the island, the Cotton House; or at Basal’s, the island’s sole restaurant. There was no unemployment; if you were fired, they escorted you from the island back to Barbados, where most of the workers came from.
Beyond the wealthy businesspeople, descendants of royalty, trustafarians, were the celebrities who liked the remoteness of the place. David Bowie and Mick Jagger both had homes on the island.
Then there were the sketchier types, the ones with lots of money but some question as to how they’d gone about getting it.
Dewey pushed the speedboat through the warm, cloudless night.
He circled the small island twice, letting the moonlight illuminate the jungle-covered hills. The houses along the shore were beautiful, appearing every mile or so, large and private. The houses higher up on Mustique’s hills appeared like mountainside castles, sprouting up suddenly against the monotonous backdrop of trees and bush, illuminated by lights their owners’ egos drove them to keep on at night, others by the crystal white of the moon, so bright tonight.
From the northwest shore of the island, at a place with little beach and no homes visible at water’s edge, he saw the house. Barely visible from the water because it seemed to form out of the natural topography,
it was the highest point on the island, a small mountain on top of which sat the place, and the man, he’d come to visit.
Dewey put the boat in at the deserted shoreline. He tied the boat to a coconut tree at sand’s edge and climbed out. Leaping from the bow of the Mako, he hit sand and jogged to the tree line that bordered the sliver of sand, looking for a path. Near a large calabash tree fifty feet down, he saw a rope and darkened lantern. There was the path. He could feel the rush of warmth in his head and body as the adrenaline began to kick in. He walked slowly up the dirt pathway that he knew would lead him to the villa.
The path led up a winding course. It went up the steep hill for at least half a mile until suddenly the deep bush and low, thick tree cover opened up to the well-manicured yard of the villa. The moon was bright. It lit up the yard clearly, creating an eerie glow. In the middle of the yard was a long swimming pool surrounded by chairs.
It was nearly three in the morning. He had to move quickly. The wet suit helped to conceal him against the dark trees. The sweat poured down Dewey’s face.
Silently, he walked along the edge of the grass, looking for signs of life. There would likely be a guard or two, if he knew his man.
Past the swimming pool was a large pool house. He walked across the lawn to the side of the structure.
Dewey reached down to his ankle and removed the dagger from its sheath. He held its grip between his teeth as he inched along the edge of the wooden structure.
Peeking his head out from behind the pool house, Dewey had a clear and unobstructed view of the mansion. It was a rambling, modern place. From left to right, glass windows spread in a moonlike arc. In front of them, a massive slate deck. The house looked like a series of glass cubes, dropped on the mountaintop and then connected by breezeways.
A dim light illuminated the arc of glass from outside. Within, the home was dark, except for a lone light in the far left end of the place.
He watched the scene for several minutes, looking for guards. He saw no movement, except for tree leaves swaying gently in an occasional breeze.
He waited several minutes and finally saw movement. A lone guard walked from a pathway at the left of the house and crossed the terrace, armed with an AEK-919K Kashtan submachine gun, held professionally before him.
Dewey crawled across the wet grass to a hedge across from the pool house. He picked up a stone and tossed it toward the pool, where it made a dull splash. He left the handgun sealed in the pocket of his wet suit. He stood and took the knife from his teeth as he waited for the man to approach.
From behind the hedge he could see nothing, but he heard the steps coming across the slate. The footsteps were quick, but not panicked. He wanted the guard to come, but not to call for backup.
The sweat now poured unabated down Dewey’s tanned face. The moment was coming again, the one he’d learned to understand, the moment in which he conquered the fears of any man, in which he used all of his physical attributes, his energy, his desire, in the one thing he’d been trained so long ago to do.
Kill.
The guard emerged from the hedge and Dewey moved. Quickly, he slashed the combat blade in a ferocious line across the mercenary’s neck, so forceful that he nearly cut the man’s head off. His eyes rolled back up into his head as he dropped to the ground, blood gurgling uninterrupted from his neck.