Frankie sat on the bed, falling against the massive stack of pillows that were balled up against the headboard, her face half-buried in one that smelled of the tears from the night before. There was no rhyme or reason to it. None. Johnny had just not been aware enough of his own limitations. He just had to try out that damned new black beauty that he’d scrimped and saved to buy. Had to push it up past seventy-five on a curve that was rated for thirty-five. It was just stupidity. His own…
At his own hands. A mistake. An accident. Not by design.
Thom’s was, she thought, the back of her hand wiping away the wetness under her nose. She sniffled into the pillow and rolled onto her back. It was Johnny’s time. Was it Thom’s? Could it have been? Could it be considered fate when men took the existence away from an innocent person?
No! NO!
Was that where the hurt was coming from? Frankie stared at the ceiling for a time that she could not measure, her eyes blinking more rapidly than the flow of tears had caused. The colorless, featureless world narrowed as she continued to search the emptiness above for something. Anything. A form. A spark of light. Something to keep her attention. To keep her from drifting. She wanted to think, to analyze, to investigate, to…
Was it really that strong? The hate? That strong? There’s someone to blame for this. Not just an immortal young guy with a fast car and no sense. This hate was tangible. It had a face. Two faces. Two identities. One victim. One…
Avenger?
Frankie let the thought slip away, knowing her subconscious was striving to take over and let sleep come. She wasn’t thinking rationally or clearly. Things were affecting her that she could not… could not…
Frankie Aguirre descended into a light, restless sleep that began, almost upon her eyes closing, to tempt her intellect with sweet dreams of vengeance.
There are four rooms in the executive mansion that the President of the United States traditionally uses for quiet contemplation or private meetings between a few advisers. The Oval Office is first and notable among those. Connected to the Oval Office by a short passway is the second of these rooms, the President’s West Wing study. In the main building, near the opening to the East Terrace that leads to the East Wing, is the Library, which contains volumes of the finest of the written word, all by American authors. When the hour permits — tours frequently are coursing through the ground floor on their way to the main attractions one level above — this room can serve as a very private getaway. Finally, on the second floor, with the first family’s living quarters, is another study for the chief executive. This room, just off the Truman Balcony, is most often utilized by the President in the wee hours before turning in for the night. Of the four rooms it is the least often used, the most secluded, and the least likely to have attention drawn to it.
Bud DiContino and Joe Anderson skipped the elevator and walked directly from the NSA’s office out to the colonnade that was arguably one of the most inviting walks on the eighteen-acre grounds. They passed the Rose Garden on their right, the South Lawn beyond, and the ivory spire of the Washington Monument in the distance, and continued into the ground floor of the main building, turning left after a short jaunt down the vaulted-arch corridor to the stairs.
“You’re making me walk?” Joe protested mildly.
“Kitchen staff will be in.” Bud checked the time. Breakfast for the President was usually at seven, which was now, though that had been pushed back by the chief of staff. The first lady dined with her husband on most days, though she was away on a trip supporting her cause — adult literacy. Worthwhile and plenty of candidates, Bud thought. “The elevator lets off right near the kitchen and dining room. This way is more discreet.”
They continued up, ascending another level after a quick 180 where the stairway opened into Cross Hall on the first floor. Directly opposite the Treaty Room, Bud and Joe ended their climb to the second floor and made a right turn into Center Hall, walking west past the Yellow Oval Room to the President’s study on the left. A Secret Service agent gave them a quick look and opened the door.
The President was already there, sitting in a large leather chair, the dark surface of which stood out in a room where light wall coverings and decor complimented the morning just begun. Joe had the strange desire to salute as the Commander in Chief stood to greet them, but offered his hand instead.
“You must be Mr. Anderson.”
“Yes, sir.” There was a mystique about meeting the President, even for someone with the brash quasi-cynicism of Joe Anderson. “Glad to meet you.”
The President motioned to two chairs that faced his. He was jacketless, just a crisp white shirt and a red-striped power tie accompanying the dark gray trousers. “I never had the chance to personally thank you for…” for what, giving your life? “…your service. Especially for the work you did on the hijacking.”
My pleasure, Joe almost said automatically before his brain cut off the ludicrous statement. “Just doing, my job.”
“Mr. President,” Bud began, “Ellis suggested moving the meeting up here because he and Jack started getting questions from some of the late birds in the press pool about all the lights on last night.”
“That was smart. We don’t need to worry about the press right now,” the President commented. “Have we received confirmation yet?”
“Not yet, sir,” Bud reported. “But we need to be prepared for that eventuality. All indicators are pointing to this being very, very real.”
The President tried to mask his expression with confidence, but dealing with incidents such as this twice in his young presidency was wearing on his ability to believe that there was any mode other than “crisis management” in which to operate. That could get to one’s manner of dealing with the everyday ins and outs of governing. Not every world leader was filled with such vengeance that he would do something such as that which his country now faced. And not every world leader that might wish to do harm to the United States had the wherewithal to do such. But one apparently had both. And was being backed into a corner. SNAPSHOT no longer had the feel of a great victory to it. Instead, it burned like a sore.
“This is a big one, correct?” the President asked, looking to Anderson.
“One megaton, sir,” Joe answered, sensing something behind the President’s words. A slight trepidation. Strange, maybe, for the man was known as an excellent debater, able to stoneface his opponents into wondering what was behind the steady eyes. But it was there. Fear. The man was afraid, and that gave Joe cause not for concern but hope. It was a healthy emotion in this situation. “That’s the equivalent to the combined explosive force of one million tons of high explosive.”
“Uh-huh.” The President tried to imagine the power of such a weapon but couldn’t. Truly, he did not want to. “I understand from the brief I read this morning that you believe the Russian…”
“Anatoly Vishkov,” Bud prompted.
“Vishkov. That he could have seen to the maintenance of the missile.”
“And the warhead,” Joe added.
“Yes. The important part.” The President studied the man across from him. “Frail” could not be used to describe his condition, though his physique had taken on a wasting appearance. There was a fire in this man. A drive. Character. A brutal honesty that the President needed at the moment. “The CIA says this isn’t a credible threat. You’re aware of this?”