The president was sitting on his desk, wearing his dress pants and shoes, but stripped down to his T-shirt on his upper torso. He reluctantly complied.
In the three years that Guntur Budi had served as personal physician to the president, he had seen that the president’s reputation for impatience was well deserved. Actually, the president was patient with the things that interested him, and impatient with the things that did not.
Seeing the doctor for anything, even for a routine physical, was not something that President Santos would tolerate much of.
Santos was already restless, beginning to complain about ending the examination.
“Guntur, I’m fine,” Santos was saying. “You’ve drawn my blood, you’ve checked my pulse, you’ve poked in my ears, and you’ve wrapped my arm with that blood pressure thing. I’ve got a country to run. Let’s wrap this up.”
Guntur glanced at the wall. Ten more minutes. He had to stall.
“Now, Mr. President, it is precisely because you have a great country to run that we must ensure that you are in the best physical condition possible.” He artfully repositioned the stethoscope on the president’s back. “Besides that, I promised the first lady and your daughter that I would make sure you are in good health.” He forced a chuckle.
The phone buzzed on the president’s desk. Santos punched a button. A woman’s voice came over the speaker phone.
“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. President,” the secretary said. “But you asked me to notify you when Ambassador Stacks arrived.”
The president’s face broke into a smile.
That was part of the problem. Santos was an American lover.
“Ah. We are finishing this physical right now.” The president checked his watch. Guntur checked the wall clock. One fifty-five. “Send the ambassador in.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But, Mr. President-”
“We can finish this later,” Santos said, as he started slipping his dress shirt on. “The ambassador has an urgent matter he wishes to discuss. It has something to do with the tanker attacks in the straits.”
“But-”
Santos buttoned his shirt. “Guntur, you may hang around for a couple of minutes and meet the American ambassador. He is a nice man, and you will like him. Then I have to get to work.”
Guntur checked the wall clock. One fifty-seven.
“Of course, Mr. President. It would be a pleasure to meet the ambassador.”
Merdeka Square
1:59 p.m.
A single cloud floated in front of the sun, sweeping a large shadow over the green grass of the square. Sunlight still crested the buildings surrounding the grassy plain in the midst of the city, but it was as if Allah was dimming the lights to provide cover as the clock ticked down.
Anton gazed at his watch.
1:59:30
1:59:35
1:59:40
He squeezed the plastic transmitter with his right hand, his thumb on the detonation switch. He walked toward the palace. His heart pounded like a jackhammer.
1:59:48
1:59:52
1:59:55
1:59:57
Anton closed his eyes, held his breath, and waited for the alarm.
Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep.
Click.
A delay.
Boom!
Silence.
A single plume of black smoke rose from atop the palace.
Eerie silence.
Then, screaming.
Confused voices, more screaming, followed by the sound of chaos pouring from the palace.
Anton turned away. The first siren wailed in the distance, growing louder. Now a second siren.
The cloud passed from beyond the sun, and a bright reflection glowed from the gold tip at the top of the Monas.
The Monas. The monument of independence. The monument of freedom.
At last, freedom!
Anton walked toward it. A third siren pierced the air. Now a fourth.
Armed troops in shining helmets scrambled across the grass, brushing his shoulders as they ran right by him, headed to the palace.
The air filled with sirens screeching as he approached the Monas. He stopped at the base of the great tower and looked straight up. From here, the Monas was a great arm reaching into heaven, its gold tip glowing, basking in the afternoon sunlight.
What a glorious, final sight to pass from this world into the world of his father and now his brother.
The sound of helicopters roared over the square and over the palace, muffling the ear-splitting sound of the sirens. Whirling lights atop police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances filled the streets surrounding the square.
Good. No one would hear what was about to happen.
The gun had been wedged under his belt. It was a nine-millimeter Glock that his father had used in Aceh.
He pulled the pistol from his belt and carefully worked the action. Soon, they would be scouring the area for suspects. Anyone with a pistol would be arrested or shot. He would have to be swift.
He brought the barrel to his mouth. The steel was cold to his lips and tongue.
“You with the gun!”
He turned toward the smoking palace. Two armed soldiers were charging him from across the grass. They brought their rifles up, aiming squarely at him.
“Drop it!” one of them shouted.
Anton stepped back, pressed his skull against the base of the Monas, and squeezed the trigger.
Chapter 12
The White House
3:15 a.m.
The staticky buzz prompted a murmur and a grunt from the First Lady of the United States, who responded to it by wrapping her leg around the president and grunting again.
Now in his eighth year in office, Mack wished that he could ignore a post-midnight call on the presidential hotline. But he had campaigned for this job, and part of the territory of holding the most powerful job on the planet was taking calls at all hours of the night. And a call on the hotline at three-fifteen in the morning could not be a good thing.
He pushed himself into a sitting position and reached over to pick up the phone. “Whatcha got?”
“Sorry for the interruption, Mr. President,” Chief of Staff Arnie Brubaker said, “but we’ve got an emergency situation in Indonesia, sir.”
Mack rubbed his eyes. “Not another tanker attack in the straits, I hope.”
“Even worse, Mr. President.”
A twisting wrenched the president’s stomach. “What?”
“Mr. President, there’s just been an attack at the Merdeka Presidential Palace in Jakarta. We think it’s an assassination attempt on President Santos.”
“Dear Lord.” That one word-assassination-sent chills up the spine of any red-blooded politician. Even the president wasn’t immune to it, and the first lady went into a clammy near-panic at the news of an attempt on the life of any leader anywhere in the world. She had seen the Zapruder film of the JFK assassination and tried her best to keep Mack from running. “When? How?”
“Fifteen minutes ago, sir. Apparently a bomb in Santos’ office. And there’s something else.”
Mack swung his seat over the side of the bed. “Let’s hear it.”
“Ambassador Stacks may have been with President Santos at the time.”
“Not Martin.” Mack wiped his forehead. The president and Martin Stacks had been fraternity brothers at the Sigma Chi fraternity house at the University of Kansas. “Have we heard anything from him?”
“No sir, Mr. President, we haven’t. And I’m afraid there’s more potentially bad news.”
“Arnie, just give me all the bad news at once. This business of doing it piecemeal is driving me bananas.”
“Sorry, Mr. President. The last thing involves Lieutenant Commander Colcernian.”
Mack could not bring himself to respond. He had gotten to know Diane Colcernian four years ago in connection with her duties as a US Navy JAG officer when she had assisted JAG officer Zack Brewer in the prosecution of three Islamic chaplains, all members of the Navy Chaplain Corps. The case had gotten international attention, and when it was over, Mack had invited Zack and Diane to the White House.