Kill Alex Cross ac-18 Read online

  I handed her a tissue from the box on her desk and told her not to be too hard on herself. Every adult at the school had been questioned extensively, multiple times by MPD, the FBI, and Secret Service. The strain was starting to show. That’s also when people tend to say things they might not the first several times around.

  The school nurse, a guy named Rodney Glass, held it together better. He’d been in the Peace Corps in Uganda before this, he told me, and it seemed like he’d seen a lot of suffering in Africa. I’d been there and understood what he was talking about.

  “Ethan? Yeah, he’s my little lunch buddy,” he said. “I think he’s just more comfortable with adults, you know?”

  “Did he come here very often?” I asked, looking around the small, very organized infirmary.

  “Sometimes. Pretty much anywhere he could find a quiet corner. I call kids like him free agents. You go into any school at lunchtime, and I guarantee you’ll find a few in the nurse’s office, or hanging around the librarian’s desk, or in guidance. Actually, you should talk to Pam Fitzhugh over there. If you haven’t already. She knows both the Coyles as well as anyone.”

  I was lucky to get a few minutes with Ms. Fitzhugh, as it turned out. She and the other guidance staff had been seeing kids for crisis counseling nonstop since the first day.

  “Were Ethan or Zoe under any particular stress that you know about?” I asked her. “In the days before, weeks before?”

  “No more than usual,” she said. “But that’s all relative, isn’t it? It’s not easy being the president’s children, or any celebrity’s, really, and they both put a lot of pressure on themselves. In different ways.”

  “Different, how?” I asked.

  “Well, let’s just say Zoe spends a lot of energy trying not to be the perfect First Daughter everyone expects her to be. And Ethan’s kind of the opposite. He gets an A-minus, and all he sees is that minus.”

  She laughed softly, but in a melancholy way, as if she were remembering something one of them had done at some point. Maybe also wondering, like everyone else, if she was ever going to see Ethan and Zoe again.

  “Those poor kids,” she said. “God, those poor, poor kids. I wish somebody could help them.”

  Yes, so did I.

  SECRETARY OF STATE Martin Cho’s Motorcade was running behind schedule, as usual. He’d kept the House and Senate Intelligence Committee chairs waiting most of the morning, and now he was almost an hour late for the Saudi ambassador.

  “Call the office, tell them we’re on our way,” Cho said to the aide sitting across from him in the short Mercedes limo. Her name was Melissa Brandt. She was a recent Harvard grad and young for the job, but promising. Also maybe a little naïve.

  “Mr. Secretary, they’ve been notified by the scheduling office already. I called them —”

  “Just do it again, please, Melissa,” he said. “Make sure the ambassador knows we’re thinking of him. That’s important to them. They’re sensitive people. The ambassador has been pampered all his life.”

  “Yes, sir,” the aide answered.

  Crisis talks had been quietly taking place between the two countries for several days now. With the president indisposed, as he was, it was up to the secretary to put in the face time on this one. So far, it had been a dour affair. The pre-9/11 days of arm-in-arm policy making with the Kingdom seemed like a quaint bit of history now.

  As Melissa Brandt pulled up the State Department on her phone, she craned her neck to see outside and check their progress up Constitution Avenue.

  “Hi, Don, it’s Missy with the secretary’s office,” she said, still looking out the window. “We should be there any minute. We’re just passing by the, um —”

  All at once, the young woman’s pale blue eyes flew open wide.

  “Oh my God!” she said. “They’re going to hit us! Secretary Cho, look out!”

  Secretary Cho turned just in time to glimpse the grill of a white pickup before it slammed full-speed into the side of their car. A black Lincoln Navigator from the motorcade raced up to ram the intruder, a fraction of a second too late. All three vehicles came to a sudden and violent stop.

  The space inside the limo’s backseat seemed to fold in half. Cho felt himself thrown sideways. A searing pain tore through his chest as one of several broken ribs punctured his right lung.

  “Mr. Secretary?” The head of Cho’s security detail, bleeding from the forehead, scrambled to turn around from the front seat. “Sir? Can you hear me?”

  Cho could hear, but he couldn’t move. The slightest shift sent a shock wave of agony through him, as the panic rose.

  Even now, his eyes were on the truck outside the car. The driver was getting out of the cab. He was young — just a boy. In his hand, there was a cylinder of some kind. Silver and red. What was that?

  “Sir?” the agent tried again. “Sir, can you hear me?”

  Cho’s mouth flapped open and then closed immediately. Air was supposed to fill his lungs, but it didn’t. Words were supposed to come out, but there were none. There was only the thought, screaming through his brain.

  Bomb! He’s got a bomb! That boy —

  Because the secretary knew enough to have recognized the thing in the boy’s hand just before he turned to run away. It was a detonator.

  The blast ripped through all three vehicles when it went off. Drivers in the nearest cars saw a white-hot flash, then a much larger orange fireball, before the whole thing coalesced into a rolling cloud of charcoal gray smoke. Glass gravel peppered the area. Chunks of metal rained down onto the pavement, some of them still in flames.

  It was all followed by a much softer shower, of leaves and small branches from the trees lining the avenue, before everything went oddly, eerily still once again.

  “TARIQ, COME AND look! hurry in here. you have to see this.”

  Hala was glued to the television. It was a ridiculous business, this nonstop diarrhea of news, but it had its advantages. Within minutes of the deadly car bombing on Constitution Avenue, she had a front-row seat at the spectacle.

  There was no word on victims yet. Still, the sight of the burned-out limousine was all she needed to know that the assignment had come off flawlessly. Secretary of State Martin Cho, one of the primary architects of American foreign policy, had been taken out — right here on American soil, here in the capital city.

  It was a stunning blow for justice and retribution. Tonight there would be dancing in the streets of Riyadh. And there could be much more to celebrate soon.

  Tariq came in from the bedroom and stood behind the couch, watching.

  “We are coming to you live from Washington, DC, where a possible terrorist attack has just taken place moments ago …”

  “Where is that?” Tariq asked. “Is it close to our hotel?”

  “Not far,” she said. It was tempting to walk over and have a look for herself, but that was an unnecessary risk. Police would surely be filming the crowds.

  She scrubbed her hair dry with a towel as they watched. The color hadn’t changed much — a little more toward brown — but it was much shorter now. For better or worse, she was starting to look like an American.

  Tariq put his hands gently on her shoulders. “You did it, Hala. You are the one responsible.”

  “Not me,” she said. “The Family did this.”

  She knew that it was vanity to focus on her own role. It was wrong to be seen taking too much pleasure in the accomplishment. But even so, the images on the television filled her with an indescribable sense of pride. One of the worst devils in America was dead because she alone had decided that he should go first. When Hala reached up and pulled Tariq closer, he stiffened at first. She’d forbidden any intimacy since they’d come to the States. It was a distraction, she’d told him. One they couldn’t afford.

  But as they both knew, Hala was in charge in America.

  “Kiss me,” she said then. “Right now. Here.”

  Tariq needed no second invitation. He lean
ed down and kissed her neck softly — but not too softly. His hands were moving on their own now, across her face, her soft breasts. One might not have guessed it to look at him, but Hala’s husband knew exactly how to pleasure a woman.

  Her heartbeat quickened as he came around the couch to face her.

  “I love you, Hala,” he said. “So much. I’m so proud of you.”

  “I love you, too,” she said. And she did.

  He knelt down on the carpet and parted the fabric of her white hotel robe. He kissed her thigh. Hala breathed deeply, allowing the pleasure to rise up inside her.

  “… what we can tell you is that this attack was on an official government motorcade, but as to who was inside those vehicles …”

  When Tariq reached for the television remote, she put out her hand to stop him.

  “No,” she said. “Leave it. Let it play.”

  She kept her fingers in his hair and her eyes on the screen, while Tariq’s hands and mouth found somewhere else to be. And for just a little while, Hala felt more at peace than she’d ever known it was possible for a woman to feel.

  THE MINUTE THAT word of the bombing came in, a special team of Secret Service agents left their command post, officially known as W-16. From the long rectangular room, they ascended a single flight of stairs and, without knocking, entered the Oval office directly above.

  “What is it now?” the president asked, standing up as they came in.

  “Sir, please come with us,” the shift supervisor said. He and a second agent crossed behind the office’s famous Resolute desk and did something neither had ever done before. They laid their hands on the commander in chief to move him forcibly from the room.

  The president’s secretary rose to her feet as they passed through reception. “What’s going on? What’s happened now?”

  “Stay where you are,” a third agent told her, then ran ahead to clear the way. Word had already begun to circulate through the West Wing. The building was going into lockdown. Nobody was allowed in or out. Except, of course, for the president and First Lady.

  “Command, Torchwood is on the move,” the agent radioed ahead.

  “Tucson as well,” a voice came back. A separate protective detail was simultaneously escorting Mrs. Coyle down from the residence. “We’re proceeding to the South Lawn.”

  “Would somebody please tell me what’s happening!” the president ordered anyone who would listen.

  “There’s been an incident, sir. I don’t know the details. You’ll be briefed on Marine One” was all the lead agent would — or maybe could — tell him.

  The tight scrum moved without stopping, back down to ground level, where they crossed into the White House and then out again, through the door obscured under the South Portico stairs.

  Outside, it was obvious that the entire White House Complex had been shut down. Armed Capitol Police officers were lined up along Executive Avenue on either side, and there was no dress blue marine to meet them as the Sea King white-top helicopter descended onto the lawn.

  As soon as it touched down, the chopper’s front hatchway opened. The stairs were lowered to the ground.

  Only then was the president escorted the rest of the way across the grass, at the center of a fast-moving ten-man human shield.

  Two passengers were already waiting on board — another breach of protocol. FBI Director Burns and the president’s counterterrorism adviser, Norma Tiefel, stood up as Coyle came into the main cabin.

  Mrs. Coyle boarded with her escort just a few seconds behind the president, and they all took their seats.

  Four of the Secret Service detail stayed with them. Once the hatch had closed and Marine One was on its way, they continued to the rear cabin, leaving the president with his advisers.

  “Tell me what’s happened, Ron,” the president commanded Director Burns. “Tell me everything, right now.” Regina sat next to him, clutching his hand. How much were they capable of taking at this point?

  “Sir, I’m sorry to tell you that Secretary Cho and three of his staff were just killed in an explosion.”

  “Oh my God. Martin Cho.”

  “An attack on his motorcade, to be precise,” Burns went on. “Presumably Al Ayla, but we can’t say for sure. However, it is consistent with one particular stream of intelligence we’ve received.”

  “What do you mean? What kind of intelligence?” the president asked.

  “An inside informant, sir. We don’t know if she’s an operative with the organization, or somewhere on the sidelines, but her intel is good, as it turns out.”

  “Her?” the president asked.

  Burns nodded. “Up until now, it’s been one of a thousand possibilities. We’ve had claims from Al Qaeda, Hezbollah, and everything on down.”

  “What about the children?” Mrs. Coyle asked. “Did this woman — this informant — say anything about Ethan and Zoe?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but no,” Burns told her. “What we received was a list of targets. Something that, quite honestly, sounded improbable until about fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Go on,” Coyle told him. “What kind of targets are we talking about here?”

  “All human, sir,” Burns said. “It’s a list of eighteen names. Vice President Flynn is at the top, with Secretary Ribillini from Homeland Security at number eighteen.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” Coyle had heard everything he needed to know. “Tell me Martin Cho wasn’t on that list.”

  “I’m afraid so. Right below the Speaker of the House and the president pro tempore of the Senate.”

  “So in other words …,” the president said slowly.

  “That’s right, sir,” Burns affirmed. “We’re talking about the entire line of succession to the presidency.”

  NORMA TIEFEL, THE Counterterrorism Adviser, spoke next. “Everyone on that list will be receiving a full protective detail in addition to whatever security service they already have. That means dedicated intelligence agents, CAT teams on standby, also advance and transportation. Although we’re hoping to keep travel to a minimum.”

  “They can’t shut down our goddamn government!” the president shouted at Tiefel. “That’s exactly what they want! And exactly why I came back to Washington. Do you know what kind of flak they gave Bush for being in the air on Nine/Eleven?”

  “That wasn’t his call, sir. I’m aware it wasn’t his fault,” Tiefel said as diplomatically as she could.

  “Yes, exactly. I’m sure it wasn’t his fault,” Coyle said. It was all this programmed movement he hated. The sense of traveling through the world not as one person, but as five, six, ten, and twenty at a time. That was the real weight of the presidency.

  “For the time being, sir,” Tiefel said, “it is best for you to keep out of sight.”

  “Again,” the president grumbled, and turned in his seat, away from all the unwanted advice. “Archie, where are we going?” he called back.

  Agent Walsh, the head of the president’s protective detail, stood up in the small passageway between them and the pilot.

  “Andrews, sir. Air Force One is on standby.”

  “And then?”

  Walsh stayed where he was but was mute, awkwardly not answering the question. It wasn’t for Burns’s or Tiefel’s ears at this point.

  “Never mind, goddamnit,” the president barked. He could feel Regina’s hand on his own, gentle and firm at the same time. When he looked at her, she seemed to be holding it all together by a sheer act of will. He owed her the same self-control. Actually he owed it to his advisers as well. They were in danger now, too.

  “What about Cho’s family?” he asked.

  “We’ve got agents on the ground in Bethesda and Oakland,” Burns told him. “They’ll have a full security detail within the hour — Mrs. Cho, both of their sons, and Secretary Cho’s mother.”

  “I’ll want to speak with Lottie directly.”

  “Of course, sir. We’ll also have the Joint Chiefs in a video conference once we’re away,�
� Tiefel said. “And after that, the same CIA work group as before, if you care to sit in. It might be a good idea.”

  “Of course it’s a good idea,” said the president.

  “That’s the group with Alex Cross, isn’t it?” Mrs. Coyle asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Burns anticipated her next question. “He won’t be asked to change focus.”

  “Good,” she said. “Thank you.” It was no secret by now that the First Lady had handpicked the well-known police detective for the kidnap investigation. Nobody was going to tell her no on that one.

  “The world’s watching us, Ron,” the president said. “Especially our country’s enemies. We need to get this in hand, once and for all. I want hourly reports, and I want a briefing on a full range of options. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. Completely. We all do.”

  “I mean a full range.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “I’m not going to fuck around with this anymore.”

  “Ed —” The First Lady slid a hand up her husband’s arm.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Sorry. But this ends here. Now. Whatever it takes.”

  The president sat back. Out the window, he could see one of four other identical choppers flying alongside, a standard protocol to reduce the risks from a possible ground attack. Anything seemed possible right now. Their departure from the White House had gone smoothly enough. Now the convoy headed southeast, toward Andrews, eleven miles away.

  After that, Edward O. Coyle, the most powerful man in the world, had no idea what to expect. Hell, he could be dead in the next few minutes. The unthinkable was no longer unthinkable.

  CIA HEADQUARTERS WAS lit up like a fluorescent box when I got there late that night. The powers that be had decided to share what they knew with our de facto advisory board. What they told us was a mindblower. An unnamed informant was claiming the entire line of succession to the presidency as Al Ayla’s new target list.