Given that, the implications were staggering, and as I stood to one side and watched Brick, the Hub team, and SWAT do their jobs, I tried to make everything fit into some kind of shape. My inner cop took over and began sorting through the separate elements of the day.

Russian hit teams here and in Wilmington. The Wilmington hit had been on a guy selling pilfered medical research. Exactly what was that research? I wondered. Church knew and I would find out. A second Russian team here in Denver looking for old records that turn out to be-big surprise-more medical research… but medical research conducted by Nazi doctors in Auschwitz? Boxes and boxes of them. Statistics and results. Zwangs/Trauma. That had been written on one page. It was German for “forced trauma.” The notations indicated that the results were categorized according to speed, angle, and PSI classified by chains, clubs, horsewhips, fists, bare feet, and booted feet. Extensive, thorough, and exhaustive documentation of the effects of deliberate physical abuse. Even as cynical as I’ve become, it was hard for me to grasp the scope and degree of personal corruption required to undertake such a program. That it went on for years was unspeakable.

So, if these records were real, then how the hell did Heinrich Haeckel smuggle them out of Germany after the war? This stuff should not exist, and certainly not in private storage here in the states. Yet here it was, and men were willing to kill one another to recover it, just as men were willing to torture and kill Burt Gilpin in Wilmington and shoot down my own men.

Why?

When Top and Bunny described the Wilmington incident to me they mentioned that the Russians had been downloading information from Gilpin’s hard drive. Could Gilpin, during his adventures in hacking, have somehow stumbled upon some reference to Haeckel and traced that to estate records that led the Russians to Deep Iron? Very likely. The timing certainly fit, at least as far as the Russians went.

Church had said that a Cold War-era group called the Cabal had been interested in this sort of thing, but he was convinced that the Cabal had been torn down. Was he wrong? Or had someone else picked up where the Cabal had left off? Someone who hired either the Russians or the two big bruisers to find something that was stored among these records. That seemed likely, though it still didn’t answer the question of who sent the other team.

My reverie was interrupted by Top Sims, who handed me a sat phone. “The geeks from the Hub ran a series of relays down the stairwell. Mr. Church is on the line.”

I nodded and clicked on the phone.

“You heard about the NSA?” he asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. “Bring me up to speed.”

I did and there was a long silence at the other end. I could hear the relays clicking as Church processed it.

“I have a bunch of questions,” I began, but he cut me off.

“I’ll have a C-130 at the airport in forty minutes. I want every scrap of paper from Haeckel’s unit on that plane and heading my way asap. I want you on that plane, too.”

“What the hell’s going on?” I demanded.

“Remember when I told you that there was a worst-case scenario attached to the man in the video?”

“Yeah.”

“This is it.”

He disconnected.

I HANDED BACK the sat phone. Okay, I thought, Church needed time to process things. So did I, and I was starting to see the shape of this thing. In a weird and thoroughly frightening way it was starting to take form, kind of like a monster coming slowly out of the mist. It would take a few hours for the C-130 to get us to Baltimore. Plenty of time to think this through.

The things is… I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be right or wrong about my suspicions. If I was wrong, then we didn’t even have this thing by the tail and we were just as much in the dark now as we were before we came to Deep Iron.

On the other hand, if I was right… dear God in Heaven.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Walter Reed Army Medical Center, Washington, D.C.

Saturday, August 28, 5:23 P.M.

Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 90 hours, 37 minutes

The President of the United States lay amid a network of tubes and monitoring cables. He was a tall, slightly built man who looked frail at the best of times, but in a hospital gown and with the aftereffects of surgery he should have looked much frailer. Instead rage made him look strong and dangerous. His dark eyes seemed to radiate real heat.

William Collins stood at the foot of the bed-he had not been offered a seat-and endured that glare. It was nearly a full minute since he had completed his full explanation of his actions. Behind the bed a heartbeat monitor was beeping with alarming speed, but when a doctor poked his head in the President snarled at him to get out. The only person allowed to remain within earshot was Linden Brierly, Regional Director of the Secret Service.

When the President spoke, however, his voice was remarkably controlled. “That’s your story, Bill?” he asked. “You’re comfortable with that?”

“Sir,” said Collins, “that’s the truth. I acted in the best interests of the American-”

“Skip the bullshit, Bill. Be straight or we’re done here.”

“I told you the truth. My actions were based on information received that I felt was compelling and believable. I informed the Attorney General about it before I took a single action, and we agreed that it was the best and safest legal course.”

“You honestly believe that Church has a leash on me?”

“Based on the information I received, yes. How many ways would you like me to phrase it? Look… you can ask me to step down and I will. You can put me in front of Congress and I’ll do it without ever taking the Fifth. I’m willing to jump through any hoops you want, Mr. President, but my answer is going to be the same thing every time. The information my source brought me was compelling. It still is compelling.”

“Are you willing to tell me what that information is?”

“I’m reluctant to do so with Linden here.”

“I can step out,” offered Brierly, but the President shook his head.

“If there are any skeletons in my closet, Bill,” said the President, “then Linden already knows about them. I also think it’s important that there be a witness to this conversation.”

Collins looked from one to the other, clearly uncertain.

“Mr. President… are you sure there is nothing too confidential for-”

“Nothing,” insisted the President.

Collins blew out a breath. “Very well. My source told me that Mr. Church has evidence that you used government assets and personnel to squash a link between companies for which your wife served as legal counsel to misappropriation of funds during the first round of financial bailouts.”

The President stared at him. Brierly’s face was a stone.

“If that were to be made public,” Collins continued, “it would destroy your credibility as President, seriously undermine the economic recovery of this country, which could cause an even worse market crash than we had in 2008 and early 2009, and very likely result in impeachment. It would effectively kill your presidency and reverse any good that you’ve done.”

“I see.”

“What would you expect me to do? I saw a chance to get you out from under the control of a blackmailer and at the same time protect you and this country from a catastrophe. You want to fry me for that, then do it. I won’t even make this public if you put me on trial or before a hearing. What I also won’t do, Mr. President, is apologize for my actions.”

The President nodded slowly. “Does the name Stephen Preston mean anything to you?”

Collins stiffened.

“I see it does. He’s your source, isn’t he?”

Collins said nothing.