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They ran down a lane identified as Executive Avenue, then cut across more grass, past a monument to General William Sherman that Malone had long known was there. Overhead, ragged clouds kept scuttling across a dim sky. The 15th Street vehicle entrance lay directly ahead.
“He’s nearly at the gate,” the voice on the phone said. “Local units intercepting.”
Sirens could now be heard, as the Treasury building no longer shielded anything. Here the roadway ran close and parallel to the White House fence.
They came to the gate.
Their government car from earlier, stolen by Zorin, roared into the intersection, braking, rear end sweeping around in nearly a full circle. Then it leaped the curb and vaulted into Pershing Park across the street.
“There’s an ice rink in there,” Malone said. “Lots of people.”
The sirens roared into view and blocked the intersection to traffic, blue lights swirling. He and Cassiopeia bolted past the gate into the fray. The stolen car was angled up on a brick-paved walk near the curb, away from the ice rink. Thank goodness. He saw no casualties, which was good.
Everything went still.
The three police cars were positioned around the car, fifty feet in between, the officers out with guns unholstered and aimed. He and Cassiopeia approached from behind.
“Get back,” the officer screamed, keeping his head directed across the street. “Now. Get away.”
Malone held up the phone.
“This is the Secret Service,” the voice said through the speaker. “Please do exactly as he says.”
“Get real,” the officer said.
Two uniformed Secret Service agents had crossed the street and ran toward them, flashing badges, assuming command, ordering the locals to stand down.
“You get that,” Malone asked the cop.
The man lowered his weapon and turned. “Yeah, I got it.”
“Gentlemen,” Malone called out. “We’re going to handle this. Not you. So everybody stay calm.”
The driver’s-side door of the stolen car opened.
A man emerged.
He recognized the face.
Kelly.
* * *
Zorin removed the sledgehammer from the bag. The basement walls were formed of old brick, held in place with rough mortar. The painted concrete floor seemed much newer. His objective was the south wall, about three meters away from the southwest corner, a rectangle the size and shape of an oversized doorway, its brick a tad different from the rest. Exactly as Kelly had described. The difference, though, was not enough to arouse any suspicion. More like a patch in the wall.
There. But not important.
He stepped close, planted his feet, gripped the wooden handle, and swung wide and hard, driving the sledgehammer into the brick.
Which absorbed the blow with a shiver.
Another blow sent cracks radiating.
Two more and chunks dropped away.
According to Kelly, the basement was not original. It was added years after the church had been completed, when a larger nave above became needed. So a pit was dug beneath to hold a central furnace, replacing old woodstoves that had heated the interior. Prior to that the entire church had sat on solid earth. It still did, except that now, inside its foundation footprint, lay the basement.
More pounding and a section of the wall crumbled onto itself, crashing down among dust and shards.
He cleared out a path.
Sweat moistened his hairline.
He laid down the hammer.
Before him, past the wall, opened a dark chasm.
* * *
Stephanie climbed into the marine chopper, which immediately powered up and lifted into the midday air. She carried the journal and told the pilot to head for the White House.
“We’ll need clearance,” he told her.
“Get it. Let’s go.”
She had to be absolutely sure, so she gave the journal one last look.
January 1817. President Madison inspected today and complimented our ingenuity, pleased that his request had been honored. His specifications had called for a concealed escape path from the Executive Mansion that would lead to a defensible point of safety. Our task had been to locate, design, and construct such a route. Several options were considered but the most viable came when we were able to join the reconstructed Executive Mansion with the recently consecrated St. John’s Church. The distance was not unreasonable and the tunnel was easily disguised as a drainage outlet for the North Lawn and a nearby marsh. No questions were raised during its digging. Other similar structures exist throughout the capital city. We chose a brick façade both for longevity and to keep water from flooding in. The entrance from inside the Executive Mansion is concealed beneath a piece of movable furniture. At the church the exit opens through a section of the brick floor near the building’s southwest corner. Only the president and his immediate staff are aware of the precise locations. Three within the society are likewise privy. Reference is made here, along with a map and sketch of its precise location, for future use. Maintenance and repair may be required from time to time and the President has asked us to assume that task. This escape route will provide the chief executive with a measure of protection that has been heretofore lacking. We consider it an honor to be asked to assist.
So a tunnel once existed between the White House and St. John’s Church. She knew the building, located a few hundred yards away, north of Lafayette Park. The White House itself had been renovated many times, new rooms and basements dug beneath it, yet she could recall reading nothing about anyone ever discovering a brick-encased tunnel.
But it was there.
Zorin had to be at St. John’s.
Her watch read 11:05 A.M.
She dialed her phone, trying to reach Edwin Davis. No luck. She tried Danny’s phone. Only voice mail. Both were probably now involved with the reception and preparing for the imminent arrival of the president- and vice-president-elect. So why not cut out the middlemen and go straight to the source?
She dialed Litchfield’s number.
Two rings and he answered.
She pressed the phone tight to her ear and over the rotor’s roar yelled, “Bruce, a bomb’s going to be planted beneath the White House. Zorin is at St. John’s Church, across the street. There’s a tunnel there somewhere. Send agents, now. He’s probably shooting for noon on the dot. Find him.”
“I hear you, Stephanie. Where are you?”
“On the way, by chopper,” she yelled. “Get everyone out of the White House. There might still be time.”
“I’ll handle it,” he said.
She ended the call.
And dialed Cotton.
* * *
Malone laid his cell phone down on the hood of the police car and stepped out, catching Kelly’s attention. Crusty, sooty snow from the street crunched beneath his feet, the cold gusting air sharp with exhaust fumes.
He found his gun and brought it out. “Can we help you?”
“Smart-ass,” Kelly said. “Nobody likes one.”
“His right hand,” he heard one of the Secret Service agents say from behind him.
He’d already noticed. Kelly’s arm waggling against the thigh, hand out of sight, between him and the open car door, as if it held something.
“Okay,” Malone said, “let’s try it another way. These policemen would like nothing better than to shoot you dead. Give me one reason why they shouldn’t.”
Kelly shrugged, a gesture that signaled disdain, disinterest, and dismissal. “Can’t think of one.”
The right arm swung around and revealed a gun. Malone, though, was a second ahead of Kelly and aimed a shot to the legs. They needed this man alive.
But the other officers had a different idea.
A din of gunfire erupted.
Bullets slammed into Kelly, piercing his coat, plucking him back and forth as if in convulsions. Kelly tried to spring away, but failed, his body slamming the pavers and settlin
g atop the snow.
Malone shook his head and glanced back at Cassiopeia. Only they realized how bad this had just gotten.
Their best lead was dead.
* * *
Zorin found the flashlight he’d added to the nylon bag and shone its light into the opening. It extended about two meters, to where the floor ended and another black maw opened down. He investigated and saw how the tunnel once came up here, at the church, then extended toward the White House at a level about a meter farther down.
He grabbed the RA-115, entered, and carefully stepped down. The path ahead was U-shaped, lined with brick and mortar, including the floor. He had to stoop in order to walk, the ceiling less than two meters high. But the path was relatively clear. He’d taken an estimate earlier of the distance from the church to the White House fence. All he had to do now was keep track of his steps. If he was off a little, it didn’t matter. He’d be more than close enough to obliterate everyone.
Who were all the main adversary.
He started walking.
And counting.
* * *
Cassiopeia rushed with Cotton to Kelly’s body. The wind swirled loose snow into a crystalized mist. No need to check for any signs of life.
Cotton was infuriated. “You were told not to fire. What part of that order did you not get?”
“We saved your ass,” one of the officers said.
“I didn’t require your saving. I had it under control. We needed him alive.”
The Secret Service was on the radio reporting in.
He read his watch.
11:20.
