The weather had warmed and turned the snow to slush underfoot. Nick and the others waited where East Street intersected 17th on the west side of the White House grounds. The Secret Service wasn't happy about their presence but there wasn't much they could do about it. Rice wanted Nick and the others on hand and that was the end of it.
Movable barriers manned by city police blocked all the cross streets. Ambassador Li would come up 17th from Constitution Avenue, avoiding the growing mob on Pennsylvania Avenue. From there he would enter the White House grounds on E, turn onto West Executive Avenue and go through the Southwest appointment gate, continuing until he reached the entrance to the West Wing.
Selena was already inside. Agents had taken her straight to the situation room, where President Rice would take Zhang's call.
Nick and Ronnie stood watching the scene. Lamont walked over, his hands crammed deep in the pockets of his coat. He wore a woolen watch cap and had a thick scarf wrapped around his neck.
"I feel like a fifth wheel," he said. "They don't want us here."
He gestured at two Secret Service agents nearby. They looked as though they'd sprung from the same pod, both hatless and wearing dark overcoats, polished shoes spattered by slush, sunglasses and earpieces trailing white, coiled cords from their ears. They did their best to ignore Nick and the others. The feeling was mutual.
"You can't blame them," Nick said. "They've got their job to do. As far as they're concerned, we're just one more thing to keep an eye on."
Ronnie said. "At least most of the crowd is out front."
Lamont pointed at a growing crowd of about a hundred people standing on the other side of the police barrier where E Street intersected 17th before it entered the White House grounds.
"Yeah, but some of them figured out that the action might be down here."
"They look cold," Ronnie said. "Check out the Asian guy standing in front. He's bundled up like he thinks he's in Alaska."
One of the Secret Service agents touched his earpiece and said something. He and his partner looked south toward Constitution Avenue.
"Heads up," Nick said. "The Chinese ambassador is getting close."
A black limousine turned onto 17th Street. Flags of the Chinese People's Republic flew from the front fenders. Across the way, there was a ripple in the crowd waiting on the other side of the barrier. They began shouting and waving signs.
"Free Tibet! Free Tibet! Free Tibet!"
The limousine slowed to turn onto the White House grounds. The bundled man Ronnie had pointed out suddenly leapt over the portable barrier. He ran toward the car, threw himself on the hood, and vanished in a violent explosion of sound and flame.
The blast knocked Nick off his feet. The wreckage of the limo coasted a few feet and stopped. A great balloon of black smoke billowed up toward the gray sky overhead.
Nick braced his hand on the wet ground and got up on one knee. Lamont stumbled over and helped him up. He was saying something. Nick watched his lips move but couldn't hear anything.
Nick pointed at his ear. "I can't hear you." His voice was a muffled echo inside his head.
The smoking remains of the ambassador's limousine looked as though someone had reached down with a giant hand and ripped it open. The top was peeled back like the lid of a tin can. Nothing remained of the interior but twisted metal coated with blood and bits of flesh. The doors were blown open. An unattached foot wearing a shiny shoe lay nearby on the pavement. Blood trickled from the open doors.
There were flecks of blood on Nick's coat. Across the way, some of the demonstrators stood dazed while others moved aimlessly in shock. Someone was on her knees, crying. There were bodies lying on the ground. One of the Secret Service agents was down, his partner yelling into his microphone.
Somewhere, a siren sounded.
CHAPTER 3
In a secure Moscow enclave reserved for high-ranking government officials, General Alexei Ivanovitch Vysotsky was having an uneasy dream, watching a huddle of men whispering about him. They kept glancing in his direction, giving him unfriendly looks. One of them took an old-fashioned phone from his pocket with a rotary dial and spun the dial with his finger. The phone made a persistent buzzing noise.
"Stop that," Vysotsky said in the dream.
The man held the phone up and grinned at him, his mouth full of steel teeth.
The buzzing kept up. Alexei opened his eyes. The cell phone on the table next to his bed was vibrating in a circle. He reached for it.
"Yes."
He listened for a moment.
"Yes," he said again. "Right away."
He broke the connection and put the phone back on the table.
The director of SVR, Russia's Foreign Intelligence Service, sat up in bed and rubbed sleep out of his eyes. The call had summoned him to the Kremlin and informed him about the attack in Washington. It promised a bad day ahead.
Vysotsky used the bathroom. As he shaved, the face staring back from the mirror reflected the burden that came with power in Russia. The last year had left deep lines on his wide, peasant face, accenting the heavy eyebrows and dark eyes bequeathed to him by his forebears. His hair, once black as coal, was showing streaks of silver and beginning to recede.
He thought about the threats he was monitoring. The American Seventh Fleet was steaming toward North Korea. The separatists were creating trouble in Chechnya again. A new shipment of missiles had arrived in the Ukraine, courtesy of the West. And now the Chinese ambassador to Washington had been blown to bits as he entered the White House grounds.
Vysotsky had never met the ambassador, but he knew about him. It was his business to know. A personal friend of President Zhang, Ambassador Li had been adept at presenting a face of China to the world that was enlightened and friendly. He'd been skillful in diverting attention from the serpent coiled behind the public actions of Beijing.
Trouble, Vysotsky thought. Zhang will take action. Who will he blame? What will he do?
The President of the Russian Federation was certain to ask. Vysotsky needed to answer those questions for himself before he arrived at Vladimir Orlov's office in the Kremlin compound.
Vysotsky summoned his aide.
"Colonel Zhukov. Have the car ready. I am called to the Kremlin."
"At once, sir."
Zhukov clicked his heels together and left the room.
Alexei dressed quickly in a fresh uniform. Shoulder boards with three stars marked him as a Colonel General, promotion that had come with his elevation to Director of SVR. Alexei was now one of the most powerful men in the Federation, but he was under no illusions as to where the source of his power lay. In things that counted, not much had changed since the days of the Soviet Union. Orlov had lifted him up and could as easily cut him down. As long as Alexei found ways to advance the President's agenda for a resurgent Russia, he was reasonably safe.
When he'd finished dressing, Alexei called his headquarters in Yasenevo and started the process to discover who was responsible for the assassination. He'd find out, sooner or later. Once SVR began looking, few things could remain hidden.
A corporal stood by the door with a thermos of hot tea. There was vodka in the limousine if Vysotsky wanted it.
Alexei shrugged on a heavy greatcoat and donned his high peaked officer's hat. He held the thermos in one gloved hand and stepped out into the Arctic cold of Moscow. His limo idled in the courtyard of the residential compound, sending a steady stream of exhaust fog into the early morning air. He climbed into the back and pulled the heavy armor-plated door shut.