The President Is Missing: A Novel Page 20

  “Yes? And?”

  I let out air and stop, turn to her. “Noya, in 1982, we did the same thing to the Soviets.”

  “Ah. You sabotaged one of their pipelines?”

  “My FBI director just told me. Reagan learned that the Soviets were trying to steal some industrial software,” I say. “So he decided to let them steal it. But we tampered with it first. We booby-trapped it. So when the Soviets stole it and used it, it caused a tremendous explosion in the Siberian pipeline. Our people said that the satellite imagery showed one of the biggest explosions they’d ever seen.”

  She laughs, in spite of the circumstances. “Reagan,” she says, shaking her head. “I had not heard this story. But it sounds just like him.” She angles her head, looks up at me. “This is ancient history, though.”

  “Yes and no,” I say. “We learned that a number of people were disciplined for the mistake. It was a huge embarrassment for the Kremlin. A lot of people were punished. Some went to prison for life. We never knew all the details. But one of the KGB agents who was never heard from again was named Viktor Chernokev.”

  Her smile disappears. “The Russian president’s father.”

  “The Russian president’s father.”

  She nods knowingly. “I knew his father was KGB. I didn’t know how he died. Or why.”

  She chews on her lip, something she always does when she concentrates.

  “So…what are you going to do with this information, Jonny?”

  “Mr. President—excuse me, sir. Excuse me, Madam Prime Minister.”

  I turn to Alex. “What is it, Alex?”

  “Sir,” he says, “the German chancellor is arriving.”

  Chapter

  52

  Juergen Richter, the German chancellor, steps out of his SUV looking like something out of British royalty in his pin-striped three-piece suit. He has a slight paunch, but he has the height—six feet four—and the perfect posture to carry it off.

  His long, regal face lights up when he sees Noya Baram. He bows at the waist in exaggerated fashion, which she waves off with a laugh. Then they embrace. She’s more than a foot shorter than he is, so she rises up and he leans down so they can exchange kisses.

  I offer my hand, and he accepts it, clasping my shoulder with the other hand, the large hand of a former basketball player for Germany in the 1992 Olympics. “Mr. President,” he says. “Always these difficult situations, we meet.”

  The last time I saw Juergen was at Rachel’s funeral.

  “How is your wife, Mr. Chancellor?” I ask. His wife now has cancer, too, and is getting treatment in the United States.

  “Ah, she is a strong woman, Mr. President, thank you for your concern. She has never lost a battle. Certainly none with me.” He looks over at Noya for a laugh, which she gives him. Juergen is one of those larger-than-life personalities, always trying for humor. His need to shine has bought him trouble more than once in interviews and press conferences, where he’s been known to make an occasional off-color remark, but his voters seem to appreciate his freewheeling style.

  “I appreciate your coming,” I say.

  “When one friend has a problem, another friend helps,” he says.

  True. But the principal reason I invited him is to convince him that the problem is not only my country’s but his—and all of NATO’s—too.

  I show him around the grounds briefly, but my phone is buzzing before long. I excuse myself from the group and answer the phone. Three minutes later, I’m back downstairs, communicating by laptop on the secure line.

  Again, it’s the same three people involved. Carolyn and Liz, whom I trust, and Sam Haber, who has to be involved in homeland security issues, and whom I would really like to believe I can trust, too.

  Sam Haber was a case officer in the CIA thirty years ago who returned to Minnesota and was elected to Congress. He ran for governor, lost, and managed to get an appointment as one of the CIA’s deputy directors. My predecessor appointed him secretary of DHS, and he was given high marks. He lobbied me to be CIA director, but I chose Erica Beatty for that post and asked him to stay on at DHS. I was pleasantly surprised when he agreed. Most of us thought he’d serve in a sort of interim capacity, bridging administrations before moving on to something else. But he’s lasted more than two years in the job, and if he’s unhappy, he hasn’t made that known to anyone.

  Sam’s eyes are in a nearly permanent squint, his forehead always etched in wrinkles below the ever-present crew cut. Everything about him is intense. It’s not a bad trait in a secretary of homeland security.

  “Where exactly did it happen?” I ask.

  “It’s in a small town outside Los Angeles proper,” says Sam. “It’s the largest water treatment plant in California. It pumps more than half a billion gallons of water a day, mostly into LA County and Orange County.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Sir, after the explosion at the private biological lab, we were in touch with state and local officials, focusing on critical public infrastructure—gas, electricity, commuter rail—but most urgently on water lines.”

  Makes sense. The most obvious target among public utilities for a biological attack. You introduce a biological pathogen into the water, it spreads faster than wildfire.

  “The Metropolitan Water District of Southern California and members of DHS and EPA conducted an emergency inspection and discovered the breach.”

  “Explain the breach,” I say. “In English.”

  “They hacked into the computer software, sir. They managed to alter the settings on the chemical applicators. But they also disabled the alert functions that would normally detect anomalies in the purification process.”

  “So dirty water that was supposed to be passing through a chemical application wasn’t receiving that chemical application, and the alert functions in the system, designed to detect that very problem…”

  “Weren’t detecting. Sir, that’s correct. The good news is that we caught it quickly. We caught it within an hour of the cyberintrusion. The untreated water was still in the finished-water reservoirs.”

  “No tainted water left the plant?”

  “Sir, that’s correct. Nothing had passed into the water mains yet.”

  “Did the water contain any biological pathogens? Anything like that?”

  “Sir, we don’t know at this point. Our rapid-response team in that area—”

  “The lab you’d normally use burned down four hours ago.”

  “Sir, that’s correct.”

  “Sam, I need your full attention here.” I lean forward toward the screen. “You can tell me with 100 percent confidence—no tainted water was sent to the citizens of LA or Orange Counties.”

  “Sir, that’s correct. This was the only plant they breached. And we can pinpoint precisely when the cyber event occurred, when the chemical-applicator software and detection systems were compromised. There is no physical way that any untreated water left the plant.”

  I release a breath. “Okay. Well, that’s something, at least. Well done, Sam.”

  “Yes, sir, a good team effort. But the news isn’t all good, sir.”

  “Of course it isn’t. Why in the hell would we expect only good news?” I wave off my tantrum. “Tell me the bad news, Sam.”

  “The bad news is that none of our technicians has ever seen a cyberattack like this. They’ve been unable so far to reengage the chemical applicators.”

  “They can’t fix it?”

  “Exactly, sir. For all practical purposes, the primary water treatment plant serving Los Angeles County and Orange County is closed for business.”

  “Okay, well—surely there are other plants.”

  “Yes, sir, most certainly, but there is no practical way to compensate for the loss for very long. And sir, I’m concerned that the hacking isn’t over yet. What if they hit another plant around LA, too? We’re watching closely now, of course. We’ll shut down any affected system and prevent untreated water from
reaching the water mains.”

  “But you’d have to shut the plant down, too,” I say.

  “Yes, sir. We could have multiple water treatment plants shut down at once.”

  “What are you telling me, Sam? We could have a massive water shortage in Los Angeles?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you, sir.”

  “How many people are we talking about? Los Angeles and Orange Counties?”

  “Fourteen million, sir.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” I put my hand over my mouth.

  “We’re not just talking about hot showers and lawn sprinklers,” he says. “We’re talking about potable water. We’re talking about hospitals and surgery wards and first responders.”

  “So, what—this will be Flint, Michigan, all over again?”

  “It will be Flint, Michigan,” says Sam, “multiplied by a factor of one hundred forty.”

  Chapter

  53

  But not immediately,” says Carolyn. “Not today.”

  “Not today, but soon. LA County alone is bigger than many states in population, and this is its biggest supplier of clean water. We’ll have a crisis starting today. Not Flint, Michigan, not yet—but a real true-blue crisis.”

  “Mobilize FEMA,” I say.

  “Already done, sir.”

  “We can have a federal disaster declaration.”

  “Already have it written for you, sir.”

  “But you have something else in mind.”

  “Yes, sir. Fixing the problem, sir.”

  That’s what I thought he was going to say.

  “Sir, you know as well as I do that there are many very good, highly competent individuals under our umbrella when it comes to cyberdefense. But it looks like very good and highly competent isn’t going to cut it today in Los Angeles. Our people there are telling us they’ve never seen a virus like this. They don’t know what to do.”

  “You need the best.”

  “Yes, sir. We need the threat-response team you assembled.”

  “Devin Wittmer and Casey Alvarez are with me, Sam.”

  Sam doesn’t immediately reply. I’m keeping him in the dark. We both know that. I have a source telling me today is the day for the attack, but I haven’t identified the source to him. That’s unusual. And on top of that, now I’m telling him what he probably already figured out for himself—that our country’s two most elite cybersecurity experts are with me in an undisclosed location. None of this makes any sense to him. He’s the secretary of homeland security—of all people in the world, why wouldn’t I tell him?

  “Sir, if we can’t have Wittmer and Alvarez, at least send part of the team.”

  I rub my face, think it over.

  “This is Dark Ages, sir. There’s no chance this is a coincidence. This is the beginning. Where it ends, I don’t know. The rest of the water plants? The electrical grid? Are they going to open the dams? We need them in Los Angeles. We got lucky once today. I don’t want to count on luck again.”

  I get out of my chair, feeling claustrophobic down here. Pacing helps me. Gets the juices flowing. I need them all flowing in the direction of the best possible decision.

  The gas explosion…the decimated biological lab…the tampering at the water lab.

  Wait a minute. Wait just a—

  “Was it luck?” I ask.

  “Finding the malfunction in the water purification plant? I don’t know what else I’d call it. It could have been days before they caught this. This was a highly sophisticated hacking.”

  “And it’s only because of the destruction of the bioterrorism-response laboratory that we thought to manually check the control functions at that water plant.”

  “Correct, sir. It was an obvious first-step precaution to take.”

  “I know,” I say. “That’s my point.”

  “I’m not following, sir.”

  “Sam, if you were the terrorists, what order would you do things in? Would you contaminate the water supply first or blow up the lab first?”

  “I…well, if I—”

  “I’ll tell you what I’d do if I were the terrorists,” I go on. “I’d contaminate the water supply first. It wouldn’t be immediately noticeable. Maybe within hours, maybe within days. And then I’d blow up the lab. Because if you blow up the lab first…if you blow up a lab dedicated to emergency biological-terror response first…”

  “You show your hand,” says Carolyn. “You know the first thing the federal government will do is check things like the water supply.”

  “Which is exactly what we did,” I say.

  “They showed their hand,” Sam mumbles, as much to himself as to us, thinking it over.

  “They deliberately showed their hand,” I say. “They tipped us off. They wanted us to go inspect all the water plants. They wanted us to find the cyberintrusion.”

  Sam says, “I don’t see how that helps—”

  “Maybe they don’t want to poison the water in Los Angeles. Maybe they just want us to think they do. They want us to send the best, the most elite cybersecurity experts in the nation to LA, to the other side of the country, so that our pants are at our ankles when the virus strikes.”

  I put my hands on top of my head, work it over again.

  “We’re taking an awfully big risk in making that assumption, sir.”

  I start pacing again. “Liz, you have any thoughts here?”

  She looks surprised that I’m asking. “You want to know what I’d do?”

  “Yes, Liz. You went to one of those Ivy League schools, didn’t you? What would you do?”

  “I—Los Angeles is a major metropolitan area. I wouldn’t risk it. I’d send the team to LA to fix that system.”

  I nod. “Carolyn?”

  “Sir, I understand your logic, but I have to agree with Sam and Liz. Imagine if it ever came out that you decided not to send—”

  “No!” I shout, pointing at the computer screen. “No politics today. No worrying about what might come out later. This is the whole freakin’ show, people. Every decision I make today is a risk. We are on the high wire without a net. I make the wrong decision, either way, and we’re screwed. There’s no safe play here. There’s only a right play and a wrong play.”

  “Send some of the team, then,” Carolyn says. “Not Devin and Casey, but some of the threat-response team at the Pentagon.”

  “That team was put together as a cohesive unit,” I say. “You can’t cut a bicycle in half and still expect it to work. No—it’s all or nothing. Do we send them to LA or don’t we?”

  The room is silent.

  Sam says, “Send them to LA.”

  “Send them,” says Carolyn.

  “I agree,” Liz chimes in.

  Three highly intelligent people, all voting the same way. How much of their decision is based on reason and how much on fear?

  They’re right. The smart money says send ’em.

  My gut says otherwise.

  So what’s it going to be, Mr. President?

  “The team stays put for now,” I say. “Los Angeles is a decoy.”

  Chapter

  54

  Saturday morning, 6:52 a.m. The limousine is parked on 13th Street Northwest by the curb.

  Vice President Katherine Brandt sits in the back of the limo, her stomach churning, but not from hunger.

  Her cover is airtight: every Saturday morning at 7:00 a.m., she and her husband have a standing reservation for omelets just around the corner on G Street Northwest at Blake’s Café. They have a table ready for her, and by now her order is assumed—egg whites with feta cheese and tomatoes, extra-crispy hash browns.

  So she has every reason to be here right now. Nobody would say otherwise if she were ever confronted.

  Her husband, thank goodness, is out of town, another golfing trip. Or maybe it’s fishing. She loses track. It was easier when they lived in Massachusetts and she was gone during the week when she was in the Senate. Living together in Washington has been hard o
n them. She loves him, and they still have good times together, but he has no interest in politics, hates Washington, and has nothing to do since he sold his business. It’s put a strain on their relationship and makes it harder for her to put in her standard twelve-hour days. In this case, well-timed absences do make the heart grow fonder.

  How is he going to like being First Husband?

  We may find out sooner rather than later. Let’s see how the next half hour goes.

  Next to her, filling in for her husband as a breakfast partner: her chief of staff, Peter Evian. He holds out his phone, showing her the time: 6:56.

  She gives him a quick nod.

  “Madam Vice President,” he says, loud enough for the agents in front to hear, “since we have a few minutes before our reservation, would you mind if I made a personal call?”

  “Not at all, Pete. Go right ahead.”

  “I’ll just step out.”

  “Take your time.”

  And she knows, for appearance’s sake, that Peter will do just that—he will call his mother and have a nice long documented phone call with her.

  Peter leaves the car and walks up 13th Street with his phone to his ear just as a group of three joggers turns the corner from G Street Northwest and moves past him toward the vice president’s limo.

  The joggers slow as they near the vice-presidential motorcade. The man in the front of the pack, far older and less fit than his two partners, looks at the limo and seems to mention something to the others. They slow to a walk and engage with the Secret Service agents standing at their posts by her vehicle.

  “Madam Vice President,” says her driver, tapping his ear, “the Speaker of the House is right out there. One of those joggers.”

  “Lester Rhodes? You’re kidding,” she says, trying not to overdo her show of surprise.

  “He wants to say a quick hello.”

  “I’d sooner set my hair on fire,” she says.

  The agent doesn’t laugh. He turns his head, waiting for more. “Shall I tell him—”

  “Well, I can’t very well refuse him, can I? Tell him to come in.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He speaks into his earpiece.