She’d had someone once, long ago; married him right out of law school, a wonderful man named Lance Tully. They had lived in perfect happiness for a time, her husband happy to support her fledgling political career. They’d even had a child, a little girl called Jessica. They were times that Abrams looked back on fondly, perhaps the happiest of her life.
But then Jessica had died mysteriously in her sleep, a tragedy the doctors assigned to Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, or crib death; there had never been any real explanation, and Abrams had never really recovered from it.
Certainly her marriage hadn’t made it through intact, the distress forcing both of them into one argument after another until divorce became the only option. The space she had after the divorce gave her the room she needed in which to grieve properly, until finally she reemerged — back with her maiden name of Abrams — into public life with a vengeance, charged up and aiming for the top. She had never had the time — or, she admitted now, the inclination — to find a second husband, despite the widely held consensus that the American public wouldn’t elect an unmarried president.
But she had proven them wrong — not only was she the first woman to be elected to the highest office in the land, but also the only president except for Reagan who had been divorced. She wasn’t the first to be elected without a spouse by her side; there had been six others over the years. However, the last one had been Grover Cleveland back in 1885, so it wasn’t hard to understand the media’s doubts about her nomination.
But she had proven everyone wrong, and been elected — and not just once, but twice. And the same media commentators now decided that perhaps part of her appeal was her tragic family background.
Abrams couldn’t have said whether it added to her appeal, but she knew that the death of her infant daughter had definitely changed her as a person — made her more driven, more single-minded, more absolutely determined to succeed.
Had it been worth it?
She finally picked up the ringing telephone, looking around her sitting room as she did so, taking in its luxurious fittings and beautifully organized décor; considered the power she held, as commander in chief of the world’s premier superpower; and knew that she would happily trade it all in, every single last bit of it, if it meant that her daughter was still alive today. She would make the decision in the blink of an eye, with no regrets.
But it was too late for that; what had happened was in the past now, and nothing could be done to change it. Her daughter was dead, and she was the president of the United States of America. She had a duty to discharge, and she knew she would do it to the best of her ability.
She reflected briefly on whether the death of her daughter was why she placed so much trust in Mark Cole, why she felt such an affinity for him; for he too had been touched by tragedy. It was a link they shared, known but never spoken about.
The thought left her as the voice on the other end of the telephone came through. ‘Madam President,’ James Dorrell said, ‘sorry to trouble you so early but I thought I would call you first; we’ve had word from our CIA station in Beijing about some developments there.’
Abrams’ heart started beating faster as she thought about what Dorrell could possibly be about to tell her. Like the commander of JSOC, Dorrell didn’t officially know about Force One, but he was smart enough to put two and two together, especially as his assets were often used during the group’s missions. He knew that a US team was operating in Beijing — his people there were assisting them, after all — but he didn’t know who they were. There was a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy in operation, and the Director of Central Intelligence was happy enough to play along; he didn’t need to know who they were, only what they were up to.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked.
‘Well, apparently the radio networks are going crazy, our station there can’t even begin to process the information. But eyewitness reports indicate that there’s been an explosion of some kind within the Forbidden City, and there’s talk of some sort of assassination attempt being made against General Wu.’
‘What is the status of the general?’
‘Alive, as far as we can tell. But the operator who was assigned to the job is on the run, he’s got the whole of Beijing after him.’
Abrams heart sank, unable to believe what had happened. Mark Cole, the infallible ‘Asset’, must have finally failed. Failed, and been identified as an assassin.
She found it hard to process — one of the things which made Cole so effective was his means of assassination, supposedly untraceable and undetectable. The plan was for him to get in there, do the job and get out without anyone even realizing an assassination had taken place.
But then again, Cole had been planning on performing a ‘delayed’ assassination; it could be that Wu had already been killed, but just didn’t know it yet.
‘Keep me updated on Wu,’ Abrams told Dorrell. ‘If we can monitor his health in some way, then do it. He might have some sort of… illness at some stage later today.’
She knew Dorrell would understand; would perhaps even work out who the American assassin was. After all, Cole had assassinated Dorrell’s own deputy — Bill Crozier, Director of the National Clandestine Service — just two and a half years before, using the same method.
‘Yes ma’am,’ he confirmed, the message understood.
‘The explosion?’ Abrams asked next.
‘We don’t have details yet — as I said, this thing has literally just broken out, within the last hour, and we’re just starting to get a handle on it. I’ve called you first because… well, obviously due to the nature of our involvement.’
Abrams understood; he knew Abrams was using a covert group, and he didn’t want to alert anyone who might not know about it. She felt her faith in Dorrell confirmed once more, happy that she had kept him on as DCI for a second term.
‘Okay,’ Abrams said, checking her watch — 3.21am. With the twelve hour time difference, mid-afternoon in Beijing. She wondered how the rest of Force One was doing, what the status of the Politburo members was. ‘Please keep me informed directly. You were right to call me first, and thank you for that.’
‘Yes ma’am,’ Dorrell said. ‘I’ll let you know what we develop.’
He clicked off the line, and Abrams sipped at her coffee, deep in thought.
The discovery of Mark Cole was bad — perhaps disastrous. If General Wu knew he had been targeted, there was no telling what he would do in retaliation. How had Cole been intercepted? Had he managed to hit Wu before he was identified? Was Wu even now on his hands and knees, heart giving up?
Abrams hoped so, for everyone’s sake; because if it became public knowledge that the United States had sent an assassin to kill Wu, the comebacks would be monumentally disastrous.
5
Jake Navarone watched as the members of the PRC’s esteemed Politburo examined their new disguises.
‘What is this?’ Liang Huanjia asked in obvious disgust. ‘You’ve got to be joking.’
The First Vice Premier had spoken in English for the benefit of the Americans, and Navarone responded in turn.
‘I’m afraid we’re not joking,’ he said, eyes unwavering. ‘We’re deadly serious. And if it makes you feel a little bit embarrassed, don’t forget how bad things will be if you get caught. A lifetime in prison, maybe a visit to the special basement torture cells you’ve got rigged up down there. That’s if they don’t just shoot you on sight; then your very manly suit will be full of holes, and your pants will be full of shit when your bowels relax just a bit too much — being shot does that to you, you know. How are you going to look then?’