“It’s signed by my Uncle Willy Lumparn, who doesn’t exist,” Webb said, trying to put a confident edge into his voice. “But look up Lumparn in an atlas. Check it out. It’s a circular lake a few miles across in Aaland, which is a Baltic island, property of Finland.”
“Maybe you should get to the point quickly, Ollie. Your time’s up.” Noordhof raised his gun, pointing it at Webb’s chest. Uncertainty was flickering across the soldier’s face.
The dark nozzle of the gun was filling Webb’s universe. “I’ll keep it simple, Mark. Lumparn is an old impact crater. Custard pies get thrown as in Laurel and Hardy movies. The fax is asking me whether we’re in a custard pie situation. They’re asking me whether an asteroid is being thrown, whether Nemesis is real. I’m here to find out. You surely don’t think I kept my suspicions to myself? And if I don’t give the right coded reply at the right time, Project Nemesis blows up in your face, your President doesn’t launch and you try to find some part of the world where you can hide from the Mongoose squad, say like the bottom of the Marianas Trench. You’re coming apart at the seams, Mark, you and your insane plot.”
Noordhof stood up, his composure gone. He paced up and down the room, glaring uncertainly at Webb. Then he kicked the chair aside and marched up to the astronomer, and pointed the Colt at his head, and Webb felt himself yielding to terror. Noordhof spoke harshly over his shoulder. “You know this guy, Judy. What about it? Is he bluffing?”
She stood up and stretched, and gazed speculatively at Webb. “Who sent the fax, Oliver?”
“Willy Shafer.”
Judy’s smile broadened, while Noordhof gasped with relief before throwing back his head with laughter. “I guess you haven’t been reading the news, Oliver. Willy’s beach house finally slid over the cliff, with poor Willy inside it. Oh man, either he sent the fax two days after we killed him or you sent it to yourself after you got here, for insurance. Great try, man, you had me scared to death!” And he laughed some more, but not enough to make the gun waver. Webb felt his face going white.
Judy yawned and approached the head of the bed. “I’m truly sorry. It’s not the way I’d have wanted it. But when you consider what’s at stake there’s really nothing else we can do. Mark, I’m tired and ready for sleep. Why wait for your death squad? When the next thunderclap comes, pull the trigger. Goodbye, Ollie.”
The Situation Room, T-1h30m
The telephone at the side of the President’s bed in the First Lady’s Bedroom never rang before 07:30, at which time a White House operator would wish him a good morning. The Nemesis emergency necessitated an earlier call, which had been arranged for 03:15.
But it was ringing now, an hour early, at 02:15.
“Mister President.”
It was Billy Quinn, the White House Chief of Staff.
Something in his voice. Grant, drugged with sleep, struggled up to a sitting position.
“Billy? I thought we were moving to Site R at four o’clock.”
“Sir, leave the residence immediately.”
“What?”
“Please don’t argue. You may be in danger. Leave now, quickly.”
The line went dead.
Grant threw back the blankets and headed quickly through the President’s Bedroom — in fact a study with a deep red decor — to the shower room. He dressed rapidly, dispensing with jacket and tie. Back through the red room. Toby, a mongrel saved by his children from death row many years ago, watched from the foot of the bed, ears pricked up. The President looked at his sleeping wife uncertainly, then left her alone. Toby followed him into the kitchen and climbed back into his basket with a sigh, and Grant headed out across the hall.
The elevator door was open. Jim Greenfield, his personal assistant, was waiting. They went down into the corridor where they were joined by a bleary-eyed Quinn. The three men marched without conversation along the corridor towards the Oval Office, Greenfield slightly ahead of the other two. They carried on past it, Greenfield, still leading the way, crossed over to the Executive Building and down some stairs. Light was shining under a door. It opened and a Secret Service man, his face lined with tension, seized the President by the arm and pulled him in, looking out before closing the door again. Hallam, Cresak and an army officer were standing at the head of the bowling alley. Hallam came over quickly.
“Thank God,” he said emotionally.
“What the hell?” Grant asked.
“Sir, Vice-President McCulloch is dead. We got the news only ten minutes ago.”
“How?”
“A plane crash near Carthage, Missouri. He was on his way here from Tinker. Mister President, it may not have been an accident.”
Grant tried to assimilate the information. “Not an accident? Is this Zhirinovsky?”
“No sir, your own people.”
The President felt a dull pain developing in his chest.
The army officer said, “Sir, there’s a conspiracy to remove you.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Colonel Wallis. I’m in charge of the DCO Unit.”
“The new man. I’ve seen you around.”
“Mister President, General Hooper and Secretary Bellarmine see you as failing in your duty on the retaliation issue. They intend to remove you from office when the asteroid hits, unless you immediately order a counterstrike against the Russians.”
“Who else is involved in this?”
“I have no hard information on that.”
“Want to speculate?”
“It may involve all three service chiefs. There may be CIA involvement, probably going up to the Director.”
“Heilbron? Never.” Grant’s voice was grim.
Quinn said, “Chief, they’ve isolated you. With McCulloch out of the way…”
“I carry the final authority.”
Quinn continued: “They could have sold Wallis the wrong story as insurance in case he crossed them. I just don’t know what their real tactics are.”
The President turned again to Wallis. “When did you learn about this?”
“When they asked me to join them. A month ago.”
“You’ve been sitting on this for a month?”
“I said I’d join them.”
“You played them along?”
“No, sir. I thought they were doing the right thing.”
“But you had a last-minute change of heart.”
“Yes, sir. I think maybe I should be shot.”
Grant surprised Wallis: “Don’t worry about it, son.” He turned to his National Security Adviser, whose mouth had developed a nervous twitch. “Arnold, you got something to say?”
“Only that you can’t risk going back to your quarters.”
Grant rubbed his face with his hands. “Billy, in the last resort it may come down to firepower. Have some standing by discreetly. Arnold, get over to the Sit Room and keep your mouth shut.” Grant looked at his watch. He picked up a bowling ball and took aim at the distant pins.
Hallam said, “Sir, Nemesis arrives in five hours.”
The President sent the ball skimming along the wooden alley. “Hey, didn’t Francis Drake do this before the Spanish Armada?”
Bellarmine was pacing agitatedly up and down in the corridor just outside the Situation Room as Grant approached. His face was white and he was unconsciously tensing his mouth. He closed his eyes with relief when the President appeared.
“Jesus Christ, sir, where have you been? We turned the Cottage inside out looking for you. Vice-President McCulloch was killed in an air crash an hour and a half ago.”
“I know. What about his replacement?”
“Caroline Craig’s on her way in from Seattle, sir. They’re briefing her in-flight, but she won’t get here in time.”