The End Game (A Brit in the FBI 3)

“It’s not just any plane,” Nicholas said. “See the insignia in the middle top? It’s bloody Air Force One.”

Wednesday

Noon–4 p.m.

70

BISHOP TO C5 CHECK

Air Force One

Over the North Atlantic

President Jefferson Bradley was alone, finally, in his private office in the upstairs of Air Force One. They’d gotten a late start, a threat there was a sniper on a building near Air Force One, and wasn’t that just par for the course? Everyone was on edge until they took off.

Now, six hours later, he was nursing a lovely single-barrel Blanton’s bourbon and all his aides were elsewhere, either talking about the aborted peace talks, or maybe about what they were going to do Saturday night, who knew? At least he no longer had to deal with those treacherous two-faced fools who’d supposedly come to talk peace. He consigned the lot of them to the deepest pit of Hell.

He sighed. Those small undetectable bombs Callan had told him about. Were they real? If so, that was a worry. What was going on?

Calm, he wanted calm, and distraction. He picked up a new biography of Churchill, wished it was a thriller instead, something to distract him, and had flipped a page when alarms began to sound. He slapped at the conference button on his speakerphone. “What’s happening?”

The pilot—Air Force colonel Simon Moore—came over the speaker. “Sir, we’re experiencing some computer issues down here. We’ll be fixed up in a moment, we’re waiting for an upload from Command.”

“Turn off the alarm, then. No sense freaking out the whole plane.”

“Yes, sir.”

There was buzzing behind the alarm. For the briefest of moments, he could hear the faraway squelch of the copilot on the radio speaking to their air recon planes, telling them they’d lost an electrical port, then the alarm turned off and the pilot released the speaker button.

It was suddenly deathly quiet. Bradley shrugged it off, set down the book on the table in front of him. He closed his eyes, and there they were, all pomp and circumstance—the Iranian negotiators, and look what they’d done. At crunch time, they’d thrown it all away, with smug smiles, and lies pouring out of their mouths. The reactors lit up? Soldiers massing? All a misunderstanding, only their normal scheduled tests.

He felt unutterably depressed. All his hopes, his plans for his legacy, nothing now. What was wrong with these people? Was Callan right? Was this all meant to play him along until they’d stolen the bombs? Until they had copied them? Tiny undetectable bombs, as small as gold coins? He didn’t know if he even believed it.

When Callan had told him Iran had moved several of their missile batteries, turned on thei

r blasted refineries, he’d believed it their usual posturing, their usual middle finger to the West. But now he supposed he had to believe it was more, like Callan said, given the unguarded last look he’d seen on the lead negotiator’s face in a mirror the man wasn’t aware of. He’d looked—pleased. Excited. And then he’d known it was no use.

Bradley felt rage building. All their petty arguing, fighting over an inch of land, a camel here and an oil derrick there, whose God was more important. They couldn’t agree where the sun rose, hadn’t since the dawn of time. Fighting and killing, and watching with hatred and distrust a world that had moved on without them. It was exhausting. He said to his glass of Blanton’s, “If only they could see a future that embraced other beliefs, other races, not death, always death.” And he sighed. He doubted they ever would change, their boundless hatred seemed hardwired over more than a thousand years. He remembered telling Callan they were like children, all they needed was a firm hand to guide them, his hand, but he hadn’t said that aloud, and she’d laughed.

“No, you’re wrong there, Jeff. They’re like drunk teenagers ready to run away from home after burning their parents to death.”

He tried to pound his hopes and beliefs back into place. Surely Callan was wrong, the CIA was wrong, the military was wrong. It was Iran’s leadership at fault, he had to believe that, crushing their people under the intolerable weight of intolerance and ancient rules and commandments. He’d desperately wanted to give the next generation a chance. They were the only hope.

But no amount of pounding would do it. Iran had tossed it all in the fire, rejoicing as they did so. He realized now he’d never met Iran’s lead negotiator before these talks. Was Colonel Vahid Rahbar the one behind this insanity? Along with his Hezbollah bullies?

And now Yorktown was canceled. For heaven’s sake, he was used to threats—he was the leader of the free world, they happened daily. Still, Callan had been adamant the threat was real, and Mossad, the FBI, and the CIA agreed. He may not like the woman, but he did respect her. She wasn’t reactionary; she’d been out in the real, dirty, nasty world, and no agency was more real, dirtier, or nastier than the CIA. He knew her bringing him California in the election had really turned the tide in his favor. It rankled, particularly if she turned out to be right.

He took a deep drink of the bourbon, feeling the fire burn all the way to his belly.

He set the glass back on the table, glanced over at the flight map. They were closing in on land, coming in above Maine. The flight tracker said he’d be back in D.C. within two hours. When he landed, the very first thing he was going to do—

The plane jolted. His bourbon started to slide. Bradley grabbed it.

A shudder ran the long line of the plane, then it banked suddenly, hard left, like a fighter jet coming about. Bradley knew the feeling—he’d flown F-16s in the war. The Boeing 747-200B wasn’t capable of making such a sharp turn.

They went slightly sideways, and a small frisson of panic went through him.

Colonel Moore came over the intercom. His voice was remarkably calm—not a surprise, since Moore had been a fighter pilot for years before taking on this position.