“What about him? What time is it?”

“You must reach him immediately,” said the voice. “Tell him to call his friend Juan, in Mexico City.”

33

OVAL OFFICE

THE WHITE HOUSE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

President Dellenbaugh stared out at a particularly bright red rose blooming at the edge of the Rose Garden, a few drops of dew clinging to petals that looked as if they’d been painted by Georgia O’Keeffe.

It was 6:15 A.M. and Dellenbaugh had been awake since four. He’d gone for a run on the treadmill in the private residence, trying to clear his mind, but he’d quit after only two miles.

Dellenbaugh turned and went back to his desk. For the third time, he attempted to read the front-page story, right-hand column, above the fold in The New York Times, announcing Jessica’s death.

U.S. NATIONAL SECURITY ADVISOR

TANZER KILLED IN ARGENTINA

(Córdoba, Argentina)—Jessica Tanzer, America’s top national security official, was killed yesterday while vacationing in Argentina. According to sources, Tanzer, 37, was shot to death at a remote ranch near the Andes …

Dellenbaugh had been president for only four months. Other than bringing in his own communications director, he hadn’t made any changes to the senior staff at the White House or any of the agencies. Starting from scratch, he wouldn’t have necessarily selected the exact same group, but he’d decided that, midterm, he wasn’t going to change a thing.

Some cabinet members, of course, had been more helpful than others. But no one had done more for Dellenbaugh than Jessica.

In her no-nonsense, smiling, confident way, she’d cut through the tangled, subterranean web of interlocking moving parts that was America’s national security infrastructure. She’d saved him time, so much time, by arguing, forcefully at times, when he was wrong.

Now she was gone.

He took the paper and held it up in front of him. He stared at the large color photo of Jessica that was spread across three columns, above the fold. The photo showed Jessica in the White House Briefing Room, conducting a press conference. She was wearing an elegant Burberry sleeveless dress, tan plaid, a bright string of pearls around her neck. Her auburn hair was brushed neatly back, parted in the middle, with her trademark bangs.

Dellenbaugh shut his eyes and tried to concentrate on not feeling overwhelmed by the loss, not to mention by the questions of who did it and why. He knew the implications were huge and that the country and the world—friend and foe alike—were now looking at the United States, and at him in particular, to see how Jessica’s death would be avenged.

The other question that ate at him: Who the hell would he get to fill Jessica’s shoes? The value of a president’s national security advisor was directly correlated to his or her willingness to be brutally honest, to be unafraid to hit the boss between the eyes with a proverbial two-by-four. The only other individual Dellenbaugh trusted to do this was Hector Calibrisi, but Dellenbaugh needed him across the river at Langley.

Dellenbaugh pushed his chair away. He got down on his knees, behind the desk. He leaned forward and folded his hands together in front of his face. He shut his eyes. And for the second time that morning, he prayed for Jessica.

When finally he opened his eyes, the door to the Oval Office was open. Hector Calibrisi was standing in the door.

“Mr. President,” said Calibrisi, “I apologize. Cecily wasn’t here—”

“Come in,” said Dellenbaugh, standing up, pointing at one of the tan chesterfield sofas in the center of the Oval Office.

Dellenbaugh and Calibrisi sat down across from one another. They shared a long, pregnant moment of silence.

“Time to get back on the horse?”

“Something like that,” said Calibrisi.

“From the Times article, it appears someone inside AFP is talking.”

“It’s unavoidable, Mr. President. The news is out. I don’t think it matters, though. This is not a Poirot mystery.”

“What do you mean?”

“We found a body.”

“When?”

“An hour ago. Lying on a hill, near a sniper nest.”

Calibrisi popped the latches of his briefcase. He removed a stack of photos. They showed a corpse, in various positions; prostrate on the ground, from the back, close-ups. The anterior of the man’s head was badly decomposed. Black and dark maroon from dried blood surrounded a crater at the back of the skull. The next photo showed what was left of the front of the man’s face, mostly gone now.

“He looks Asian,” said Dellenbaugh. “What does it mean?”

“We don’t know yet. My guess is, they were after Dewey. Perhaps Iran or someone affiliated with the Fortunas. The autopsy is happening as we speak. We need to know who this guy is before we draw any conclusions.”

“Where’s Dewey?” asked the president.

“He was dropped off in Miami last night.”

Dellenbaugh nodded.

“I sent some people down there to find him. From what the pilots say, he’s not doing well.”

“Can you blame him?”

“No,” said Calibrisi. “I know how I feel right now, and I can’t even imagine what he’s going through.”

“Did we bring the body back here for the autopsy?”

Calibrisi shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“No, sir. AFP has jurisdiction.”

“Can they be trusted? Should I call President Salazar?”

“I don’t trust anyone,” said Calibrisi, “certainly not the Argentinians. That said, we’re getting complete access to the investigation. They’ve allowed us to have our forensics team at all stages of the investigation. We have guys in on the autopsy. I don’t trust them, but I also don’t see any reason for them to fuck around. And if they try to fuck around, we’ll know immediately.”

“What if Jessica was the target?” asked Dellenbaugh.

Calibrisi sat back, joining his fingers behind his head.

“First of all, regardless of whether they were after Dewey or Jessica, the fact is, our national security advisor was murdered. There needs to be payback. It needs to be significant. Significant enough to let the world understand that America will not tolerate the assassination of our leaders. In my opinion, once we determine who did this, we have two choices. We can either make all of the evidence public, bring it to the United Nations, the media, et cetera, and let justice take its course. Or, we can take it off balance sheet.”

“Well, as far as I’m concerned, you do whatever the hell you want,” said Dellenbaugh, his voice inflecting. “America has to punch back hard. Hell, give me a gun and I’ll go do it.”

“That shouldn’t be necessary, Mr. President,” said Calibrisi. “But the offer is appreciated.”

34

CIA HEADQUARTERS

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

Calibrisi sat alone in his office, reading an intelligence report from his Moscow chief of station. But try as he might, he couldn’t concentrate.

He reached for a different file and stared for the umpteenth time at photos of Jessica, dead on the floor of the ranch bedroom. It hurt to look at them, but then he would return to the photos. Calibrisi felt like he was staring at a puzzle.

Usually, when he was stuck on something that didn’t feel right, something he couldn’t figure out, he called Jessica. But now he was alone. His mind felt disheveled and unorganized. He was exhausted.

There was a knock on his door.

“Derek Chalmers called twice,” his assistant, Missy, said, referring to the head of British intelligence. “He said it’s very important.”

“You mind getting me a coffee?”

“Sure.”

Calibrisi hit a speed-dial button on his phone.

“Hi, Hector,” came the proper British accent of Chalmers, head of MI6. “What took you so long?”