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He grabs a gas mask.
Liam goes to the front door, surprised at how calm he feels.
This is his territory, his turf, what he’s trained for. As much as he loves intelligence work, being in open combat with no compromises, no falsity, just direct action, suits him.
He grabs the doorknob, opens the door a couple of inches. He quickly makes a barricade of a wooden coffee table and two chairs. He lays down, pulls up the M4 with its telescopic sight, sees the armed men out there are now moving toward the farmhouse.
Liam checks his watch.
“Han, you son of a bitch, you’re a minute early.”
He pulls the trigger of the M4 and starts shooting.
CHAPTER 132
WHEN THE SUBURBAN stops near the entrance to the West Wing, CIA Director Hannah Abrams gives a thick envelope to Ralph, her security officer. “Take this,” she says. “If I don’t come back in an hour, or you hear I’ve been arrested, or had a vase fall on my head, get this as quick as you can to the majority leader, Senator Hogan.”
Ralph frowns, gives the envelope to Alec, the driver. “He’ll take care of it. I’m coming in with you, Director.”
She’s struck at the flow of emotion that just rushes through her, knowing Ralph is doing this out of pure duty, even though death or the end of his career is likely before the day is out.
“Thank you,” she says. “Jean, come along.”
She gets out of the Suburban, gives the other battered Suburban a quick look, thinking,Jesus, the paperwork that’s going to have to be filled out on that. A door opens at the West Wing and onto a Marine in full dress blues. Walking past him is Quinn Lawrence, President Barrett’s chief of staff. His gray suit is wrinkled and flaps around him like it’s two sizes too large, and he says, “Director Abrams, I’m still not sure the president will see you. He’s … he’s in a mood. Won’t see anybody, won’t take any phone calls.”
Hannah says, “Quinn, I know you’re having a rough day in a series of rough days. The chief of staff’s job is to protect the president at all costs, and right now, if you want to protect him, you’re going to let me in, along with my deputy director and my security officer.”
The chief of staff’s face is red and mottled. Hannah says, “A conflict is about to break out between China and the United States. I’m sure you’ve heard that their embassy and their consulates are burning their papers. That’s one hell of a signal that war is near. Quinn, please, do the right thing.”
He looks like he’s about to sob, and then shrugs. “Fine. Come in.”
Yes,Hannah thinks,we just might make it.
Might.
She follows him as they pass the Marine guard, who holds the door open. “Is he in his private office or the Oval Office?” she asks.
“Oval Office.”
“Good,” Hannah says. “Not so far to walk.”
They enter the West Wing lobby reception area, Hannah nodding at the young female receptionist sitting there. They walk the familiar corridors past open office doors, antique oil paintings on the walls, and ceramics and glassware on display. She has taken this route many times over the years, yet senses something different this time from the staff members walking around these particular corridors of power. They seem to flatten themselves against the wall as she walks by. Their eyes are downcast, there are no cheerful smiles. She has a flashback to her childhood, growing up with an alcoholic father.
Dad never yelled, punched, or broke things, but when he was drunk, he would brood in long silences, or start long monologues telling stories of past fights or grudges, or just stare at you, like he couldn’t quite figure out who you were and why you were in this house with him.
That’s exactly the feeling she gets from the passing staffers.
The president is not right, and they know it.
They come to the closed door to the Oval Office, with a femaleSecret Service agent standing guard. Sitting nearby is a Marine officer, the familiar bulky nuclear football at his feet. There are two chairs flanking the closed door. Hannah says, “Ralph, Jean, have a seat.”
Jean says, “Are you sure, ma’am?”
Hannah says, “If I need you, I’ll call you. Same for you, Ralph.” They take the chairs and Quinn looks to her, a despairing look on his face. She says, “Quinn, thanks, you did the right thing.”
He doesn’t reply.
Hannah says, “One of my supervisors, back in the Directorate of Operations, had to make a tough decision that would end up in bloodshed. There were a lot of arguments back and forth, and finally, he said, ‘It doesn’t mean that it’s the right thing to do. It means it’s not the wrong thing to do.’ That’s what you’ve done.”
