The 14th Colony (Cotton Malone 11)

Belchenko’s wizened head nodded. “That he does. In his mind he feels he owes the United States.”

Stephanie had passed on that Belchenko was a former KGB archivist. So he asked, “What did you tell him?”

“If I hadn’t told Zorin what he wanted to know, he would have killed me. If I lied, he would have gone, discovered the truth, then returned and killed me. So I opted to tell him the truth. But I doubt it matters any longer. So much time has passed. There is nothing left to find.”

He had a barrage of questions, but one seemed the most important. “So why are you talking to me?”

“Because I have never been an idealist. Instead, I was simply born into an evil and corrupt system and learned to survive. Eventually, I became the guardian of communist secrets, important to the privileged. They trusted me, and I kept their trust

. But they’re all gone now. Like you said to Zorin. The Cold War is over and the world is different. Only a few like these two here, dead on the floor, and Zorin think otherwise. What he wants to do is foolishness. It will accomplish nothing. So on the off chance that danger still exists, I decided to save your life and tell you the truth, too.” Belchenko paused. “You asked what Zorin is after.”

He waited.

“Nuclear weapons—that no one knows exist.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Stephanie and Luke stepped from the cab in front of Anderson House. The limestone Beaux-Arts mansion sat on Massachusetts Avenue, a few blocks away from Dupont Circle, in the heart of Embassy Row. She knew all about the palatial building. It’d been built during the Gilded Age by an American diplomat named Anderson as one of the largest and most expensive residences in DC. It served as his family home during the winter social season, designed to both entertain and showcase a collection of fine art and furniture. When Anderson died in 1937, his wife gave the house to a group near and dear to his heart.

The Society of Cincinnati.

America’s mistreatment of war veterans seemed to stay in the news. But that shame was nothing new. It actually started in 1783 when the Revolutionary War ended. At the time most Continental officers had not been paid in four years. Needless to say discontent was widespread. Rumors abounded that the army would soon be disbanded with those debts remaining unsettled. Serious talk of a military coup began to circulate, which could have succeeded since the fledging nation had no way to defend itself. George Washington had to personally intervene and quell any new revolutionary fever. Then General Henry Knox seized on an idea to form a fraternal society that would look after the officers’ collective interests, even after the army dissolved. He envisioned the group as a way to channel anger into constructive talk, and the idea drew approval.

Its name came naturally.

Latin classics were a mainstay of study for any 18th-century learned man. Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus lived as a 5th-century Roman aristocrat, banished to poverty on his farm. When war threatened, the Roman Senate voted him absolute authority for a period of six months to deal with the crisis. Victory came within two weeks and Cincinnatus, citing the greater good, civic virtue, and personal modesty, resigned his dictatorial post and returned to his farm. That example fit those Continental officers perfectly, since they, too, were headed back to their own plows. And, like Cincinnatus, the prospect of poverty loomed great. The society’s long-standing motto reflected a sense of selfless service.

Omnia reliquit servare rempublicam.

He relinquished everything to save the republic.

Nearly half of the 5,500 eligible officers initially joined the society. Washington was elected its first president general, a position he held until his death in 1799. He was succeeded by Alexander Hamilton. Twenty-three signers of the Constitution became members. The town of Cincinnati, Ohio, was named to honor the society, as the first governor of that territory had been a member and hoped others would come west and settle there. Membership had always depended on sex and heredity. Originally, any male officer of the Continental army could join. Once that officer died, he could be represented in the society by only one male descendant at a time. A collateral heir could assume the role if the direct male line died out.

And that tradition remained today.

She knew all of this because her late husband had been a member of the Maryland branch. Originally, each of the thirteen colonies organized a local group. Lars Nelle’s paternal ancestors had fought in the Revolutionary War from Maryland, and one of them had been a society founding member. Earlier, when she saw the book under the glass cover, memories had come flooding back. Her husband had been a man not prone to much excitement. His moroseness was something she came to accept, then regret after he took his own life. Lars had not been enthusiastic about most things, but one that always brought him joy had been the Society of Cincinnati.

She checked her watch.

9:05 A.M.

Before leaving the hotel she’d scoured the society’s website and learned that the house and library opened at nine, but tours of the house did not begin until after lunch. The mansion had served as a museum for decades, doubling as the group’s national headquarters. Its ballroom was also available for rent to outside functions, and over the years she’d attended several.

One from long ago in particular.

August 1982.

She was impressed with the ballroom’s two-story white walls lined with murals, warmly lit by a pair of magnificent crystal chandeliers. A dozen white-clothed oval tables stood ready across an inlaid oak floor. Particularly noteworthy was the flying staircase with an iron balustrade that led up to an open balcony. Twisted Baroque columns supported the perch, creating an overhead musicians’ gallery that tonight accommodated a classical trio.

Six months had passed since her talk with President Reagan. Already she’d visited Rome four times, meeting the pope, establishing a rapport, building a relationship. She and John Paul II had found common ground, discussing opera and classical music, which they both enjoyed. Reagan seemed to also be a constant subject for them. The pope was curious about the American president, asking many questions and demonstrating a knowledge that surprised her. She had reported all of this to the president, as he, too, was fascinated to know more about the Roman pontiff.

Two months ago the president and the pope met privately in the Vatican. She’d laid the groundwork for those talks, pleased that a deal had been struck. She hadn’t been present in June. Instead, she’d waited at a nearby hotel until the president and his entourage were gone. Then she’d worked quietly with her Rome counterparts to finalize the details of what both sides would be doing in the coming months. A lot was happening in Eastern Europe, the world changing by the day, and she was thrilled to be a part of that.

Tonight she’d been invited to a State Department reception. The invitation had come as a surprise. An envelope on her desk when she returned from lunch had requested her presence at Anderson House, near Dupont Circle, at 6:00 P.M. The summons had presented an immediate wardrobe problem, solved by a quick stop at a local boutique. She wondered about the invite, as few of the faces present were familiar. One, though, she knew. George Shultz. The secretary of state himself.

He’d assumed the post only a month ago, after Al Haig had been quietly forced out. There’d been differences of opinion as to how the administration’s foreign policy should proceed. Secretary Haig liked one path, but the White House wanted another.

“I see you received my invitation,” Shultz said to her as he approached.

Her boss was an economist and academician who’d made a name for himself in the private sector. He’d also managed to serve in three cabinet-level posts for Nixon, now in his fourth with Reagan as secretary of state. He was dressed in a dapper black tuxedo that snugly fit his stout frame.

“I wasn’t aware that the invitation came from you,” she said.

Six months ago everything about this scenario would have been intimidating. But her presidential recruitment and covert missions to Italy had fortified her confidence. She was now a player in a major game. Unfortunately, only Alexander Haig and the president knew that.

“Let’s walk out to the winter garden,” he said, gesturing for her to lead the way.

French doors lined one wall of the long ballroom and allowed people to flow naturally out into what was once an orangery that overlooked a terraced backyard adorned with statuary and a reflecting pond. The narrow rectangular gallery was lined with garden murals, gilded trellis work, and marble columns. The floor was polished marble, slick as glass, the ceiling faux-painted like the sky. He motioned and they entered a small room at one end that held a dining table and chairs.

“I want you to know that Forward Pass will continue,” he said, his voice low. “In fact, things will now escalate.”

Apparently her new boss had been briefed.

Just a few days ag

o Shultz had proclaimed publicly that the State Department’s most important task would be Soviet and European diplomacy. Before leaving, Haig had caused some alarm by openly suggesting that a nuclear warning shot in Europe might be a good way to deter the Soviet Union. Such overtness ran contrary to everything the president wanted to achieve. Ronald Reagan hated nuclear weapons. Though the public may not have realized that fact, those close to him definitely did. Over the past few months relations had grown strained not only between Washington and Moscow but also between Washington and key foreign capitals. In response to martial law in Poland the United States had prohibited American companies, and their European subsidiaries, from involvement in the construction of a natural gas pipeline from Siberia to West Germany. European leaders had vigorously protested those sanctions since they affected their own financial interests. Haig had done little to ease that tension. So she assumed that it would now fall to the man standing beside her to deal with the problem.

“The president himself told me of your special assignment,” Shultz said. “He has a grand plan, does he not?”

Haig had spoken to her only once about Forward Pass, fishing for information. She’d politely dodged his inquiries, which had created a level of tension between them.

“The president’s looking for help,” Shultz said. “He wants partners. He’s not asking for debate on how to proceed, only that we follow his lead. I intend to do that. I want you to know that I expect you to do the same.”

“You know the goal?”

He nodded. “And I think we can get there. I have to say, prior to being selected for this job I wasn’t necessarily a fan of Ronald Reagan. I thought him, as many others do, unqualified for the job. He was an actor, for God’s sake. But I was wrong. This man is insightful and smart. He knows what he wants and intends to get it. I like that. It’s refreshing. He told me that he will make all major foreign policy decisions himself, but the details of those decisions, the actual diplomacy, will be up to me.” Shultz paused. “Especially regarding Forward Pass. You and I have a tough job ahead of us.”