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Cassiopeia checked the car’s interior.
Nothing.
Then she found the lever and released the trunk.
Cotton moved toward the rear of the car. She followed. Four aluminum cases lay inside. Cotton didn’t hesitate. He lifted one out, laid it on the ground, and opened it, revealing a switch, a battery, and a stainless-steel cylinder lying diagonally. All three items were linked by wires and padded with black foam so they could not move about. The switch was labeled in Cyrillic, which she could read.
“It’s off,” she said.
Cotton felt the battery and the cylinder. “Cold.”
Quickly, they removed the other four and discovered the same thing. None of the RA-115s had been activated.
“Are those bombs?” one of the cops asked.
“Get them the hell out of here,” Cotton said to the Secret Service.
The police were hustled away.
“Kelly wanted to die,” she said.
“I know. And he brought these four toys to keep us occupied.”
She remembered what Stephanie had learned. Five RA-115s were unaccounted for. That meant Zorin had the last one.
But where?
“Malone,” someone called out. “Somebody on your phone says its urgent.”
He’d left the unit on the hood of one of the patrol cars.
They ran across the street, still blocked to traffic, and Cotton took the call. He listened for a moment, then ended the conversation.
“It was Stephanie,” he said to her. “Zorin is at St. John’s Church with the fifth bomb. Get back to the White House and make sure they get everyone out fast. Stephanie said she’s already alerted Litchfield. Help him out. I’d say we have maybe twenty to twenty-five minutes tops.”
“I need this car,” he said to the cop.
He leaped into the driver’s seat.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To stop the SOB.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
Zorin had counted his steps and was satisfied that he was now directly beneath the White House grounds. He was smeared in dirt, the confines in the tunnel progressively tightening as he’d ventured farther and farther into the earth.
But he’d found Kelly’s point of convergence.
Andropov would be proud.
His vision was about to become reality.
He lay flat on his belly, the ceiling here only centimeters high, the flashlight beside him illuminating the aluminum case. He released the catches, only able to open the lid halfway. He knew that once the switch tripped there’d be fifteen or so minutes before the trigger engaged, maybe a little more thanks to the underground chill.
He checked his watch.
11:40.
Kelly should have accomplished his diversion by now, which, for at least a few minutes, would keep people surprised, confused, puzzled, and, most important, inactive. Finding four RA-115s should also calm them long enough for the fifth to strike a blow.
Everyone should be inside the White House by now, ready for the ceremony that would start promptly at noon. He’d read enough about American tradition to know this one would not be altered. The U.S. Constitution said noon on January 20 so noon, today, it would be.
A shudder ran through his tired arms and shoulders. His thighs and calves felt weak. Yet lying here, alone, encased by earth, he felt at peace. His end seemed prescribed. Fitting that it all had led right here. Perhaps his ashes would fertilize a new seed, a new fight, maybe even a new nation. The resentment he’d so long harbored seemed to have vanished, replaced by a rush of relief. No more was he a weary, aged, defeated man.
Instead, he’d succeeded.
Fool’s Mate.
Two moves to victory.
Kelly was probably dead by now.
One move done.
His right hand reached inside the case and found the switch.
How many more would leave this world today? Tens of thousands? More like hundreds of thousands. About time the main adversary felt what Soviets had long ago grown accustomed to experiencing.
Defeat.
Two fingers gripped the toggle. A surge of exultation streaked through him. This spark would ignite the world.
“For the motherland.”
He flicked the switch.
* * *
Malone floored the accelerator and spun the wheel, speeding the police car north on 15th Street past the Treasury building, weaving in and out of traffic, using the siren and lights to clear a path. At H Street, which was one way in the wrong direction, he turned left anyway and sped around a few oncoming cars for quarter a mile to where St. John’s Church sat overlooking Lafayette Park. He wheeled the car up on the curb and partially into the park, as far as he could go before a barrier of in-ground iron pedestals blocked the way. He fled the vehicle. People were everywhere between the park and Pennsylvania Avenue. Stephanie had told him about a tunnel between here and the White House, most likely directly beneath where he now rounded a corner to the church’s front side. The whole site was closed off, under construction, a fence encircling it, but he leaped over. Folks out on the sidewalk gave him a strange look, but he had no time to explain anything.
And no time to evacuate them either.
The only chance was to stop the thing before it exploded.
* * *
Cassiopeia ran back to the White House, one of the Secret Service agents that had been at the scene of Kelly’s shooting with her. Immediately, she noticed that no one seemed to be leaving. They entered through the East Wing and were told by agents inside that the ceremony was about to begin.
“Why aren’t they evacuating?” she asked.
A perplexed look came to the man’s face. “For what?”
She brushed by him, intent on heading into the main house.
Two uniformed agents blocked her way.
“You can’t go in there,” one of them said.
“We have to get this place cleared out. You’re not aware of anything? The attorney general. Litchfield. Find him.”
The agent used his radio and called in the name.
A moment later he faced her and said, “Mr. Litchfield left the building half an hour ago.”
* * *
Zorin had wanted just to stay with the device and die as it exploded, but he decided that the smart play was to head back to the church and stand guard, making sure no
thing interrupted. He’d still die, being only a few hundred meters from the epicenter of a nuclear blast, but at least he’d be doing his job to the last.
He crouched and made his way through the old tunnel, which smelled foul but had held up remarkably for its age. The flashlight beam licked a dim path across the brick floor. Only back where the weapon lay had the tunnel collapsed onto itself, so he doubted that the route all the way to the White House even still existed.
He came to the end and stood from his haunches, hopping back up into the church basement.
His watch read 11:47.
Five minutes since he’d activated the device.
* * *
Malone searched the grounds, where a thick scattering of debris and a thin layer of snow registered little trace of any passage. He spotted a set of metal doors that would certainly lead beneath the church. He ran over and saw a hasp lock holding them closed, but as he approached closer he noticed that the lock secured nothing, attached to only one panel.
He wrenched the handles, felt no resistance, then flung them open, leaping down a steep set of concrete steps. Before him stretched a lit basement full of electrical and HVAC equipment.
On the far side stood Zorin, carrying a flashlight.
He rushed forward and heaved his frame against the big man, using his shoulders like a linebacker to lift them both off their feet.
* * *
Zorin had at first been surprised, then shocked to see Malone. The American seemed impervious to dying. Twice now a resurrection. The clatter of the metal doors opening had struck him like a call to attention. He did not carry his gun, having left it with his coat that lay a few meters away.
But Malone gave him no time to react.
His body slammed the concrete floor.
* * *
Cassiopeia stood shocked. Apparently, instead of sounding the alarm, Litchfield had fled, saving only himself.
It was now too late to do anything here.
And explanations would waste precious time.
“Where is St. John’s Church?” she asked.
One of the agents told her.
She ran out the door she’d entered, calling, “Tell the north gate I need to be let out.”
