Baker nodded. “I agree with that finding,” he said, deviating from the script. He wanted no rumors among historians that this transfer of power was in any way a coup.
The chief justice stayed on track. “Have the President Pro Tempore of the Senate and the Speaker of the House of Representatives each received an original copy of this declaration?”
The President Pro Tempore stated, “I have, Mr. Chief Justice.”
Tom Leffler’s jowls sagged as did the rest of Tom. An aide whispered feverishly into the man’s ear. “I do!” he said suddenly. “I have a copy.”
“Now, therefore,” the chief justice proclaimed, “Mr. President, Mr. Vice President, officers of the executive department, members of Congress, I do hereby certify the transfer of the power of the president of the United States of America from Mr. William Baker to Mr. Glen Simon effective as and when provided pursuant to Section Four, Article Twenty-Five, of the Constitution of the United States of America. And may God have mercy upon us all.”
Stephie’s cell door opened. The guards all wore heavy wool coats. One put a long overcoat on Stephie’s shoulder. They escorted her outside. She thought at first it was for exercise. The only other possibility was a firing squad. But they’d probably do that in the basement.
Stephie passed cell after cell of solid metal doors.
At the end of the corridor they waited for an elevator.
“Stephie?” John asked from behind.
She turned to see guards holding each elbow. He was battered and swollen, but she threw her arms around him. He grunted. She pulled away. “They haven’t treated your wounds, John! Jesus!” He was bent and shuffling. Stephie looked from guard to guard. “He needs a doctor! You’ve got to get him help!” They ignored her by feigning incomprehension. “You speak English!” Stephie shouted. “All of you!”
The elevator made a binging sound. They were ushered aboard. John leaned heavily on Stephie. That fact alone frightened her. They were taken to a limousine in an underground garage.
Inside waited the Chinese lieutenant from the torture room where Becky had been killed and Stephie had been forced to denounce her nation and father. The guy, who sported the same large bandage on his cheek, helped buckle John into his seat. John slumped against the restraints and exhaled as if through the pain of walking to the car he had been holding his breath. The car pulled away and he drifted off into semi-consciousness.
That left Stephie and the Chinese officer. Or Chinese-and-something officer, Stephie thought as she studied his features. His eyes were rounded and features vaguely Caucasian.
“He needs a doctor,” Stephie said.
“You’re going home,” the lieutenant replied.
Stephie felt a jolt of excitement chill her body. Could it be true? she wondered. Is it possible? “We’re just getting handed over?” she asked.
The enemy soldier’s gaze dropped. Bare winter trees flashed by outside. “No,” he finally answered. “You and ten thousand other prisoners of war are being exchanged for your father.”
“Wha-a-at?” Stephie exclaimed. John’s head rose. “He can’t…! He…! He…!” She ended by jamming her eyes shut, covering her face and clawing at her hairline. Of course he would! It was all her fault! She felt sickened by the guilt.
She heard a beep. The lieutenant was sweeping a black electronic device across the car. The tiny LEDs remained green.
The officer, who spoke with only a slight accent, said, “I wish that I could tell you that your father is in no danger, but the exchange will take place on a bridge over the Potomac River. After the other prisoners have crossed, you and this captain on one side, and your father on the other, will head out onto the river. You will meet at the middle. Please tell your father to be ready to drop to the ground.”
“What?” Stephie asked. “What do you mean?”
“You’re a soldier,” the bandaged Chinese officer answered. “He should drop to the ground, take cover, if anything happens. And if he has any means of taking his own life, he shouldn’t be too quick to use it. Wait.”
“So you can torture him,” Stephie said, her upper lip twitching in outrage at the bastard’s obvious ploy.
“I cannot promise you that he will live,” came the lieutenant’s straightforward reply. “If it is not right that he lives,” he said, choosing difficult words carefully, “I will do my best to end it quickly for him. And you. And the captain. But the situation right now — on this side of the front — is extremely,” he searched for the word, “fluid. All that I can say is that I have a plan — orders, to be more accurate — that might allow me to save all of your lives. I promise you, Lieutenant Roberts, that I will do all that I can.”
“Why?” Stephie asked. “Who are you?” She looked around the limousine, wondering why a young lieutenant rode in it. Where were the colonels, the generals, who would accompany the president’s daughter?
“I am the son of Han Zhemin,” the Chinese officer replied, “Administrator of Occupied America. I am the grandson of the minister of trade, and the great-nephew of the prime minister. My name is Han Wushi, and I am your cousin, Stephanie Roberts.”
“My cousin?” Stephie replied. The man nodded. She laughed at the ridiculous remark. “How can you possibly be related to me?”
“Your aunt,” Wu replied, “Cynthia Fisher, is my mother.”
“Aunt Cynthia?” Stephie burst out, then laughed derisively, shaking her head. “I’m, uh, listen, I appreciate any help you can give us, but you’re mistaken.” The Chinese officer’s features, Stephie now realized, were somewhat vaguely western. He simply stared back at her. “My aunt?” Stephie said. “And your father, the head administrator?” Wu nodded. “The guy who was,” Stephie paused, “my father’s,” she paused again, “roommate?” Wu nodded again. “How?” she asked. “When?” But Stephie immediately knew the answers. She put it all together in a flash, connecting the dots of history from newspaper and magazine articles. “Your father and my aunt…?” Wu nodded a third time. That explained why Stephie’s mothernever spoke to her sister. Rachel Roberts was a dyed-in-the-wool prude and bigot, who must have gagged at the thought of her sister having sex with a Chinese man. But one thing didn’t make sense. “Why have I never heard about you?” she asked.
“As you should know,” Wu replied, “important men often have secrets. They are simply better at keeping them in my country.”
Stephie nodded slowly, in shock. “How did you end up in the Chinese army?”
“I am Chinese,” Wu replied.
“Born and raised there?” Stephie asked. He nodded. Aunt Cynthia went to China to give birth? Stephie thought, trying quietly to decipher the stunning series of revelations. His rich family must have paid for the trip, the doctors, everything. Her mother’s family hadn’t been wealthy.
She turned to the attentive Chinese officer, who didn’t avert his eyes. The bandage covered his right cheek. “You were wounded?” she asked. “In the battle at the Potomac?”