The 14th Colony (Cotton Malone 11)

He agreed, thankful that Charon was not overly obsessive-compulsive. Inside the top drawer were papers, mostly bank records, financial statements, and stock purchases. The second drawer was full of files for real estate, lots of deeds and surveys.

“Brad was quite wealthy,” Begyn said. “Worth maybe $20 to $30 million.”

“And his kids and the widow couldn’t figure out a way to divide it up?”

“Apparently not.”

The third drawer was empty, but the bottom one contained the jackpot.

An oversized leather-bound volume.

Begyn lifted it out and opened to the first page. Luke shone the flashlight and they both read the handwritten paragraph.

A true account of any and all activities of the Society of Cincinnati as performed for the government of the United States, and the governments of the several states, during the last and great war with Britain lasting from June 8, 1812, to February 17, 1815, meant to record and memorialize those events so that a full understanding of their many intents and purposes shall be clear to all those who might question. Let it be said that every member of this society is a true and loyal patriot and our only desire was to serve our country with honor and distinction.

Benjamin Tallmadge

August 8, 1817

“This is it,” Begyn said.

A scrap of paper extended from the top of the journal, marking a page. He decided to start the examination there and gestured for Begyn to open to that point, about halfway through.

On the evening of August 24, 1814, a shameful thing occurred, one I am sad to say I lived long enough to witness. Within the capital city cannon fire had roared for most of the day and when the explosions stopped the local residents’ feelings were left in fearful fluctuation, fondly hoping that their countrymen had prevailed, then awfully fearing that all was lost. They soon discovered that the dust beginning to rise above the forests in thick clouds, rapidly advancing, came from British forces. Sadly, American soldiers fled the capital. The cry “ruffians are at hand” could be heard from men on horseback as they rode away. The remaining militia dropped their guns and ran like frightened sheep in every direction except toward the enemy. And though they exclaimed that they had taken a good fight to the British and expended all of their ammunition, those who stole a look at their cartridge boxes noticed that not a single round had been used.

Inside the Executive Mansion Dolley Madison awaited the return of her husband, President James Madison, who had left two days earlier to visit the front. He was due back by nightfall and a meal had been prepared for both him and his contingent. But the sight of the British entering the city changed those plans. It was suggested to Mrs. Madison that a trail of gunpowder be laid to explode if the British tried to enter the Executive Mansion, but she refused to allow it to be done. When told to leave, she hesitated until certain things were readied for transport, many of them national treasures. One was a grand painting of George Washington that she urged others to save. A great fear existed that Mrs. Madison might be trapped inside the mansion with no means of escape. Eventually, she left the city by wagon just ahead of the advancing British forces, which claimed the city after dusk.

They first entered the Capitol building and George Cockburn, the British commander, mounted the speaker’s chair and put the mock question, “Shall this harbor of Yankee democracy be burned? All for it will say Aye.” His troops cried their approval so he declared the motion carried unanimously. Chairs, furniture, books, maps, and papers were piled high and set aflame. Soon the entire building burned. The fire raged so hot that marble columns turned to lime and collapsed. Fire burst from the windows and alighted houses to the leeward, some of which contained congressional records stored there for supposed safekeeping. The Capitol eventually became wrapped in a winding sheet of flame that destroyed the building.

Luke wondered about why this passage had been flagged. “We all know we got our butts kicked in the War of 1812.”

“That we did. Tallmadge lived through it. This is an important firsthand account of things.”

And it was damn important to Anya Petrova—

Four pops echoed through the house.

The sound unmistakable.

Gunfire.

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

Zorin swung open the heavy metal door he found at the bottom of the ladder. The air that greeted him from inside was surprisingly warm, but musty. He flicked a switch and fluorescent bulbs illuminated a closed, windowless space, cylindrical in shape, that stretched ten meters and about half that wide. Metal shelves lined one side and held supplies of drinking water, canned food, blankets, clothing, tools, wire, and weapons, along with both small arms and rifles and spare ammunition. He also recognized portable radio units, standard KGB issue that he’d once deployed at locations himself. Everything was stacked neatly and in order, a sparkling tidiness about the place, one that denoted a devoted caretaker.

Kelly completed his descent and entered the shelter.

He noticed that a layer of heavy plastic sheathed the interior walls. He pointed toward it and asked, “Moisture control?”

“This shelter was built with concrete and waterproofed, but I thought some additional protection was in order.”

Then he saw them, lying on a metal table opposite the supply shelves. Five small suitcases, each lid nearly closed, a wire leading out of the partially shut lid to a trunk line that snaked a path toward the far end, then up and out.

“A vent back there allowed air to circulate. I sealed it off, but it was the perfect place to feed power. The electricity charges the units and gives off just enough heat to keep the air inside warm.”

He was impressed. A lot of thought had gone into this.

He stepped toward the RA-115s and hinged open the lid of the first one. The case was lightweight aluminum. Not a speck of decay tarnished the exterior. Inside were three canisters joined in a cylinder about half a meter long. It lay diagonally with a battery above and a switch below, wires leading from the switch to the battery to a small transmitter, then to the cylinder. He recalled his training. Activate the switch and the battery triggered a small explosion that shot a uranium pellet forward where it collided with more uranium and sparked a chain reaction, causing a blast the equivalent of 5,000 tons of TNT.

He checked the other four.

Everything seemed in pristine shape.

“I maintain them yearly,” Kelly said. “New batteries, new wiring. Of course, the cylinders are stainless steel, and all the parts inside are made of noncorrosive metals.”

He knew there were no moving parts and nothing depended on gears or springs. Once the electrical charge activated the trigger, simple physics took over, generating a coffin of solarlike heat and flame that would vaporize everything within a kilometer.

“Will they explode?”

“Absolutely. They’re all in perfect working order.”

“You understand that the inauguration this year takes place inside the White House,” he said to Kelly.

“As the one in 1985 did.”

He’d not realized.

“That was the whole idea, Aleksandr. It’s why Fool’s Mate was initially created. At Ronald Reagan’s second swearing-in they all gathered in the White House, at noon on Sunday, January 20. But Andropov was long dead by then and the bombs weren’t here. I thought the whole thing over until that call came in 1988 from Backward Pawn. Then everything seemed back on. But still, no order to act was

given. A shame, really. The Americans regard the White House as ultrasecure, though 9/11 probably gave them pause on that one.”

But he caught something in addition to the tone. Certainty? Pride? “What is it you know?”

Kelly smiled. “They have forgotten their own history.”

* * *

Cassiopeia nestled close to the trunk of a tall pine, staring at the darkened hulk of a house and barn. Zorin and Kelly had disappeared inside the barn about fifteen minutes ago, and all had remained quiet ever since. Cotton had swung around to the rear of the house and should be, by now, near the barn entrance. She’d assumed a cover position to keep an eye on the big picture, and make sure they were not graced with any uninvited visitors.

The night was wintry cold, but bearable. She’d ditched the French cold-weather gear in favor of American issue, which the Secret Service had provided. She also carried an automatic pistol, the magazine full, spares in her pocket. Cotton, too, was properly dressed, armed, and ready.

And she agreed with him.

Zorin and Kelly had to be stopped here.

* * *

Malone crept to the barn, careful not to trip on any branches, roots, or slippery rocks. The door had been closed a few minutes ago, outlined for a while by a faint chink of light, now gone. As he came closer he noticed that it had not been latched, nor locked, just pushed shut.

He had to see inside.

But he’d already reconnoitered the entire exterior and the barn came with no windows.

There was only one way.

* * *

Zorin realized that what Kelly was about to tell him formed the missing element he’d been seeking, the one Anya had come to learn.

The second move of Fool’s Mate.

“You can’t just walk up to the White House fence and lay down a suitcase,” he said.

Kelly smiled. “We don’t have to do that. There’s an easier way.”

He stared at the five weapons, nearly thirty kilotons of nuclear power.

“All I have to do is change the battery in one of these and it’s ready to transport,” Kelly said. “The batteries are only a few months old, but no sense taking a chance.”