Chapter 3

Jomo Kenyatta International Airport

Nairobi, Kenya

Amara took his shoes off and placed them in the plastic tub. He put his backpack into a second tub, then pushed them together toward the X-ray machine. He felt as if everyone in the airport was looking at him, though he knew that couldn’t be the case. He’d already gotten through two different security checks; this was the last before the gate.

With the tubs moving on the conveyor belt, Amara stepped over to the metal detector frame. A portly woman in a military-style uniform held out a blue-gloved hand to stop him from proceeding.

Heart racing, he saw the light on the nearby X-ray machine blinking red.

Don’t panic! Don’t run!

He looked back the officer. She was motioning him forward.

He stepped through, half expecting the alarm to sound, though he had no metal in his pockets, no explosives, no knives, no weapons. His clothes had been carefully laundered before he was driven to the airport.

Clear. He was clear. On his way to America.

He started to look for his shoes. But the woman with the blue gloves took hold of his arm.

“Sir, step this way,” said the woman in English.

Startled, Amara wasn’t sure what to say.

“Please,” she said, pointing to the side. “Step over there.”

Two other officers, both men, came over behind her. Amara stepped to the side, as she had asked. His throat started to constrict. He wasn’t afraid—he’d never been a coward—but it seemed unfair to be stopped so early in his mission.

“Please open your bag,” said an officer on the other side of the conveyor belt. He spoke English in an accent so thick and foreign that Amara had to puzzle out what he said, and only understood because he was pointing.

He tried to apologize for his hesitation. He’d been told repeatedly to be nice to the guards; it would make them much more cooperative. “I didn’t, uh—”

“Open the bag, sir.”

Amara reached to the zipper and pushed it down. He had only a shirt and a book here, as instructed.

“You have a laptop?” said the man.

God, the laptop. He’d forgotten to take it out of the compartment so they could look at it specially.

What a fool! The simplest thing! And now trapped!

“I do, oh I do, I forgot—” he said.

“Could you turn it on, please?” said the officer.

Amara pulled the laptop out and fumbled with it as he reached for the power button. In the meantime, another officer came up behind the first and whispered something in his ear, pointing behind them. They turned around to watch someone else in line.

The computer took forever to boot up. The screen blinked—the hard drive failed the self-test. He had to press F1 to proceed. He did so quickly; the computer proceeded with its start-up.

The security officer who’d had him take out the laptop called over to the woman with the gloves. Then he turned and went with the other man to check on the person he’d pointed out. Momentarily confused, Amara focused on the laptop, waiting patiently for its desktop to appear.

“What else do you have in the bag?” asked the woman officer.

“My shirt, my uh—some paper,” he said.

“In this compartment.” She reached in and pulled out the power cord and mouse.

“To make it work without the battery,” he said.

“Yes, yes, of course. Very good. You must remove laptops separately from now on.”

“I’m sorry. I—I forgot.”

“Go. You may go.”

Amara hastily put everything back in the bag, then went to find his shoes.

He was through. Next stop, America.

Chapter 4

Washington, D.C.

President Todd stared at the worn surface on her desk, her eyes absorbing the varied scars and lines. The desk was her own personal piece of furniture, one of the few pieces she brought to the White House. She’d always found a certain mental comfort in familiar physical objects; the small, solid desk reminded her of her many past struggles, not only hers but those of her father and grandfather, both of whom had been small town doctors in what seemed a different America now. Many a patient’s life was saved at this desk, she believed; if wood could be said to have a soul, this one’s must surely be a powerful force for good.

She needed some of its strength now. The day’s developments had not been good.

There was a knock on the door to her small office.

“Come,” she said.

David Greenwich, her chief of staff, poked his head in.

“Mr. Reid and Ms. Stockard have arrived, ma’am,” he said. “Everyone else is in the cabinet room, waiting for you.”

“Very good, David.”

“You have that dinner with Kurgan and some of the New York crew this evening.”

“I won’t forget.”

“We could cancel.”

“Oh, stop, David,” she said, rising. “You’re mothering me.”

“Just looking out for you. I know how much you’re going to enjoy that one,” he added sarcastically.

“I assure you I’m fine. And tell my husband that as well.”

“He didn’t say anything.”

“I’ll bet.”

Todd smiled to herself as she left the office. All of these men, fussing over her—it could easily go to her head if she let it.

Then again, reality was always waiting to give her a good kick in the gut if she got too full of herself.

It was giving her a double job today.

Breanna took a seat at the long table, making sure she was between Edmund and Reid. Edmund had brought Reginald Harker with him, along with another man, Gar Pilpon. Pilpon, about forty, had extremely white hair and a set of thick, trifocal glasses that made his eyes look almost psychedelic. His pupils were red, or at least appeared to be red in the light of the cabinet room where they were meeting.

President Todd’s National Security Advisor, Dr. Michael Blitz, sat at the other end of the table opposite Edmund. Next to him was the President’s political advisor, William Bozzone. If the request to brief her in person hadn’t been unusual enough, Bozzone’s presence signaled that what seemed a routine matter a few days before had blossomed into a full-blown crisis.

“Very good of you all to come on short notice,” said the President as she entered. “Don’t get up gentlemen. Breanna, I’m glad you could make it. How’s your daughter?”

“Very good, Ms. President.”

Todd’s smile disappeared as she sat down. That was her style: right to business.

“So, as I understand it, we have everything but the computer that runs the aircraft,” she said, looking around the table. “Am I correct?”

“That is right,” said Breanna.

“And we know where it is?” Todd turned to Edmund.

“My person on the scene is continuing to search.”

“I was under the impression that Whiplash had been called in to supervise the recovery,” said Todd sharply. Clearly, she was not happy with him or his Agency. She turned back to Breanna. “Am I right?”

“Yes. We recovered the aircraft in a building that was being used by the target of the assassination program. We subsequently found his body on the other side of the city. He apparently was killed by a member of the Muslim separatist group he was helping. We think the killer took the control unit. That’s one of our theories, at least.”

“How many theories do you have?” asked Blitz. “Jonathon?”

“We are pursuing several,” said Reid dryly. They had agreed he would speak sparingly.

“How long before we recover the rest of the aircraft?”

“I can’t give an estimate,” said Breanna.