The President's Vampire (41 page)

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Authors: Farnsworth| Christopher

“It’s not?” The president’s voice was flat.
“No. You’ve been handling me—handling all of this—as if it’s just another problem to be managed. You should know better. And frankly, neither I nor the country can afford that anymore.”
“You’re not thinking this through, Zach. There’s the matter of secrecy. Deniability. These protocols are in place for a reason—”
Zach cut him off. “I could give a damn, sir. I’m no longer interested in providing you with deniability. I have risked my life for you, and I’ll keep doing it. But not to preserve your poll numbers. You are in the loop on all of this whether you like it or not.”
For a moment, Curtis simply remained stone-faced. “What do you want?”
“I want the priority line,” Zach said. “The one that’s not supposed to exist. The little phone in your pocket that nobody else is supposed to be able to call. From now on, that’s my line to you. It rings, you pick up. No matter what.”
“That’s it?”
“No, sir,” Zach plunged ahead. “If I ask for anything—from a briefcase full of cash to a nuclear strike—I expect to get it. I cannot keep fighting these things without your full support.”
Zach waited as the president considered the angles. “You know, of course,” he said, finally, “that one reason I picked you was because you understand politics. You and Cade are never supposed to be connected to this office. That the entire point of all our secrecy is to protect not only the White House, but your operations? Not to mention protecting the American public from the knowledge you and I already have? You’re asking a lot, Zach.”
Zach clenched his teeth and chose his next words carefully. “You’ve already given me access to the biggest secrets in American history, sir. Whitewater and Watergate would look like butterfly kisses compared to the shitstorm you’d face if even a few of them got out.”
Curtis smiled. “Yes, but most of those sound like the rantings of a lunatic. Deniability is built in. Who would believe someone who claimed that there was a vampire working for the president?”
“I don’t know about that, sir. Just think how the
Post
would have played it if they found out Prador was under investigation for treason.”
The president leaned forward. The look in his eyes could have scalded paint off the wall. “Are you suggesting someone might tell them such a thing?”
Zach held his ground. “No, sir. I’m speaking hypothetically, of course.”
The president leaned back in his chair again. “Of course. So this is an ultimatum? You get this, or you quit?”
Zach felt his anger and frustration about to break, like waves on the shore. He was tired. “No. No, sir. I can’t quit. And neither can you. Damn it,
you
picked
me
. You honestly think I’d bother you in the middle of the night to order a pizza? Griff might have been happy to say, ‘Ours is not to reason why.’ But I’m not him. For one thing, I’m not fighting this as a holding action anymore. I want to win. Someday, I want to put my feet up and celebrate the day we killed every last one of the damned things on the Other Side. This is where it starts. It’s that simple. I’m saying I’m done screwing around. I need to know you are, too.”
The president kept staring. Zach swallowed. “Sir,” he added.
Finally, he reached for a pen and scribbled a number on a small slip of paper.
“I trust you, Zach,” he said.
Zach took the paper.
“Anything else?” the president asked.
“Just one more thing.”
“I was joking, Zach.”
“I’m not, sir.” He took a folded sheet of paper from his coat pocket and slid it across the desk.
The president read it, then raised his eyebrows at Zach. “You want me to sign this?”
“It’s not a nuclear strike, sir.”
“It’s not exactly a pizza, either.” But with a quick flourish, he signed the document and handed it back.
He reached for another cigarette and his lighter. “Two in one day?” Zach asked.
The president gave him a dangerous look. “Some days are longer than others.”
Zach took the hint and headed for the door. As he left, he heard the president exhale heavily as he muttered to himself: “How quickly they grow up.”
GRAVES STACKED THE LAST of his papers into his briefcase. He never thought retirement would be so much goddamn work.
When he’d woken up a couple of weeks ago and learned he was still in the old world, he’d felt the inevitable disappointment. He’d failed. The Snakeheads were not tearing through America’s heartland. Everything was pretty much the same as it was the day before. He imagined this must be how a lot of people felt on the morning of January 1, 2000.
The Site itself: total loss. The DNA necessary to create the Snakeheads burned to nothing. The Company was looking for new branches of the Marsh family tree, but no one was optimistic about that.
Despite his failure, the Company had no hard feelings. At least, not enough to send a hit squad after him. As a gold watch, Graves was elevated to CEO of Archer/Andrews. He’d spend the rest of his days in comfort, secure in the respect and admiration of his peers.
He’d earned it. Other men, younger men, would carry on the battle for the new world now. He’d help where he could. Until it arrived, he intended to enjoy himself.
Unfortunately, the executive flights to Dubai and steak dinners were put on hold as every federal agency in town stormed the gates.
Within days of Graves’s return from Iowa, congressional subpoenas hit the offices. The IRS began an audit. FBI agents were talking to A/A clients, and there were rumors of a federal grand jury. Now even the reporters smelled blood and were circling.
He knew where this was coming from, of course: the White House. He never thought that little bastard Barrows could generate so many problems in such a short amount of time.
He’d just spent another long day calming the fears of the board members while overseeing damage control. The lawyers called every twenty minutes. The shredders in the basement were running full-time, and Graves had a tech team wiping hard drives in every office.
Graves looked at his watch—past nine P.M. At least he’d get out before midnight, for a change.
Then he noticed the figure standing at the door of his office. He pursed his lips in disgust.
Cade.
Great. That was all he needed.
Graves sighed. “I don’t suppose you’re here for a job.”
“Not exactly.”
“Do we really have to do this again? You cannot touch me. Ever. And I will never fear you again. Learn to accept defeat. Or don’t. Either way, I have a busy schedule this week.”
“You’re an important man. I know that,” Cade said as he entered the room, closing the door behind him. “I promise, this won’t take long.”
He slid a single sheet of paper across the desk.
Graves recognized the form. An order for
Indefinite Preventive Detention.
The signature under “authorization” was crisp and clear: the President of the United States.
And in the line at the top, Graves saw his own name. The one he’d left behind when he joined the Company. His real name: PETER SINCLAIR.
True names have power. He remembered telling someone that.
He broke out in a cold sweat. Cade’s mouth twitched in amusement. Bell’s last gift.
She really was a genius at research.
Colonel Graves was the recipient of a presidential pardon. Immune from all prosecution or sanction. Untouchable.
Peter Sinclair, on the other hand . . .
“You have been designated as an enemy combatant, Colonel,” Cade said.
“No,” Graves said. “You can’t do this.”
Cade took a step closer to the desk.
Graves’s voice rose to a scream. “No.
You can’t do this! I have rights!
”
Cade smiled. “Not anymore.”
There was more after that, but Cade hadn’t been lying. It didn’t take long. For him.
For Graves, it lasted the rest of his life.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’ve been lucky enough to have the help and support of many people in writing this book. Many thanks are due:
Alexandra Machinist, peerless agent; Rachel Kahan, fearless editor; Ivan Held; Justin Manask; Lucas Foster; William Heisel, for his relentless enthusiasm; Bryon Farnsworth; Amanda Rocque; Megan Underwood Beatie; Lynn Goldberg; Britt McCombs, for sparing the world my sadistic abuse of the comma; Tom Alfaro; the legendary Beau Smith; Lauren Kaplan; Victoria Comella; Eric Almendral; John Whalen and Jonathan Vankin, for their generous permission to quote from
The 80 Greatest Conspiracies of All Time
; Patrick Fitch; Dr. Rachel Lynn; and Dr. Laura Seay.
I’m unbelievably blessed to have Jean Roosevelt Farnsworth as my first reader and our daughter, Caroline, for moral support and all-purpose motivation.
For the real-life stories of the black world, I recommend Trevor Paglen’s remarkable
Blank Spots on the Map: The Dark Geography of the Pentagon’s Secret World
and Tim Weiner’s
Legacy of Ashes: The History of the CIA
.
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