The 14th Colony (Cotton Malone 11)

Zorin found St. John’s.

He’d made his way toward the church through myriad back streets, blocks from the White House, staying off the busy thoroughfare that fronted the main doors. He’d hunched in his overcoat against the chill and stayed alert, looking for surveillance cameras, or someone stumbling upon him by chance, or anything that might stop him, intensely aware of his vulnerability. Especially after the call to the American woman. This was definitely the most precarious moment.

Luckily, the area behind the church came with trees and hedges that offered plenty of cover. Earlier, while it was still dark and before anyone may have been on alert, he and Kelly had secreted the bag with tools. He now carried the aluminum case, something else that made him obvious, but he’d been able to hustle down an alleyway behind an adjacent building, then slip unnoticed through the fence onto the construction site.

He took a moment and peered at Lafayette Park, less than a hundred meters away, a heavy blanket of noise billowing up from the crowds there and filling the closed portion of Pennsylvania Avenue that fronted the White House. Vehicular traffic had not been allowed there in twenty years, but pedestrians were free to come and go.

Today it would be a busy place.

The fence encircling the church off

ered perfect cover as it was sheathed with black plastic that prevented any views through. At spots, bare trees flanked the barrier, their trunks black as iron. He considered the fact that the church was closed for repairs a sign, not from the divine, as God was never a part of his life, but more from fate. Perhaps a gift from fallen comrades, watching his progress, urging him on.

Kelly had told him all he needed to know about the church and he quickly moved to the north side of the building, carrying the heavy aluminum case and nylon bag. He kept careful with his steps, his boots occasionally skidding on the accumulation of snow. Beneath the scaffolding, among the trees and shrubbery, past a black iron railing, he spotted the basement entrance. He laid the case and bag down and found the bolt cutters. The way in was blocked by two hinged metal plates, bound by a shiny lock. Kelly told him about his tour of the church and how the curator had taken him into the basement. The belowground space was surprisingly roomy, added to the building about twenty years after the church had been built.

He snapped the hasp and the lock clattered away.

He replaced the bolt cutters in the bag, then thrust open the two panels, exposing a set of concrete steps. Originally, Kelly would have replaced the lock with the new one bought earlier, sealing him inside. With Sunday services happening, it would have been a way not to draw attention to the fact that someone was below. He would have entered hours ago and simply waited for noon to come. The church being closed changed things and had also allowed for Kelly to perform a much more vital function.

Still, he decided a little subterfuge might be wise.

First, he carried the bomb and nylon bag below. Then he attached the new lock to one door panel, bringing the two together, slowly allowing them to close onto each other from below. Only up close could it be seen that the lock was not fully engaged to both panels.

He descended the steps and found a switch, activating overhead lights. The brightly lit space was about fifteen meters square, littered with equipment and entangled with ducts, pipes, wires, and valves. Most of it appeared to be for electrical, heating, and cooling systems. Machinery purred, churning out warm air up into the church, some of which also heated the basement.

He removed his coat and gloves.

And stared across at the wall.

* * *

Stephanie drove out of Manassas and, using her smartphone’s navigation, found the Charon estate. Sue had been right. The fire had gutted the house. Most of the roof was ash, one wing collapsed, but the central section and a second wing still stood up two floors. The whole thing had become a charred, smoldering mess no longer screaming affluence.

The firefighters were gone, the scene almost funereal. The gutted-out window frames that remained hung like gaps of dark shadow in the sooty façade. Clouds scudded in the wind, soiling pale sunlight and threatening more snow. She hurried toward the hulk, turning up her collar to the cold wind. Yellow crime scene tape stretched across the perimeter, understandable given that three people had died here last night. Investigators would probably return sometime today, so she should hurry.

Time was running out.

* * *

Malone and Cassiopeia stepped out of the White House gate onto Pennsylvania Avenue. The pedestrian-only segment of the street that stretched before the North Lawn was packed with people, so many that the perimeter cameras had proved useless. Normally, this gate was used sparingly, sealed off for security reasons. On television and in movies, though, it was the one always filmed, the supposed way in and out. He’d been told that the distance here from the fence to the White House front door was a mere 180 feet. Not far at all. The opposite side of the building was buffered by several acres that formed the South Lawn, the East and West Wings protected by Executive Avenue. Vehicular traffic used other gates located on the east and west sides of the property, far from the building itself.

They decided to patrol together since there was no telling how Zorin and Kelly might make their approach. Agents were still scanning the video cameras for anything suspicious, the entire White House security force on heightened alert. Getting a car near would prove next to impossible. Here, on the north side, a sea of people offered a solid buffer, the streets in and around Lafayette Park closed to traffic. The south side had numerous gates, all equipped with elaborate measures to stop any incursion. But with a six-kiloton nuclear weapon, just getting to the gate would do the job.

He recalled what Daniels had told him. Flick the switch inside off. Provided the heat had not reached critical mass, all would be good. If not? Then, boom.

“So many people,” Cassiopeia muttered.

“But he’s got to be carrying the case, so focus on that.”

Everyone was bundled to the cold in winter gear, few carrying anything larger than a shoulder pack. Many children rested atop their parents’ shoulders, catching a glimpse of the iconic white building beyond the black iron fence. The chatter was all of excitement and awe at being here. He knew that on the south side of the building dignitaries were pouring in. Power was about to shift, and so were allegiances.

His phone vibrated.

He found the unit and answered.

“We have the car.”

He stopped. “Talk to me.”

“On 15th Street, headed south. Cameras tagged it.”

He knew the huge Treasury building shielded the White House from 15th Street. But just past that iconic building the road ran directly adjacent to the South Lawn and the Ellipse. A gate allowed vehicular access to the grounds.

“You sure?”

“We just got a shot of the tag. It’s the car. Moving fast.”

* * *

Stephanie picked her way into the burned-out shell and saw that the staircase was gone, but a ladder had been left in place allowing access to the second floor. That meant investigators would definitely be returning.

She climbed the aluminum rungs, realizing that this was the first time she’d been on a ladder in decades. Interesting how on the last day of her career she’d become a field agent, doing what the men and women who’d worked for had done. There seemed an irony in this finale, one she’d wished had never occurred.

The second-floor balcony that once overlooked the entrance foyer and connected the wings was gone, the ladder angled upward to a still-passable corridor that led past burned-out doors to another room at the far end. Luke had told her that would be the master bedroom. Sue reported that firefighters had arrived in time to douse the flames before they consumed that side of the house. Almost everything was now exposed to the elements, the roof nearly gone, snow dusting portions that had cooled enough to host it.

She checked her watch: 10:46 A.M.

74 minutes left until noon.

Though the floor appeared secure and the walls relatively intact, she took each step with caution, the wood creaking from the wind around her. She made it into the bedroom without incident and saw that its ceiling was no more, most of the furniture charred lumps. She found the door to the closet and made her way inside, climbing over blackened ceiling joists that blocked the way. Smoke still smoldered from a few hot areas. She spotted the secret compartment Luke had described along with the filing cabinet, which appeared intact. He’d told her that when the shooting started he’d dropped the journal into the lowest drawer and slammed it shut.

A good move from a cool head.

She picked her way over more debris and managed to get hold of the handle for the bottom drawer, which she yanked outward.

The prize lay inside.

Not a scratch.

Luke’s assessment that the cabinet was fireproof had been correct.

She removed the journal and stepped back out to the bedroom where there was more light from the gray, cloudy day. A slip of paper marked a spot, just as Luke reported. She opened and read about the burning of the Capitol and the White House by the British in 1815. Tallmadge seemed appalled at how American infantry abandoned their posts and fled the city, leaving both the town and its residen

ts defenseless. She kept scanning the dark masculine handwriting that had not faded much in two centuries.

Flipping the pages.

Then a passage caught her eye.

The Executive Mansion shall be rebuilt, but President Madison is insistent that measures be incorporated to address its occupants’ protection. Mrs. Madison had come close to being trapped inside the mansion, becoming a British prisoner. Only providence and good luck had saved her. The president has ordered that a more secure means of escape be provided and he called upon me to both fashion and construct that means.

She read, no longer skimming, savoring each word that had been written by the spymaster. Every American intelligence officer knew about Benjamin Tallmadge. Now here she was reading his private thoughts. Careful, she told herself. Get it right.

Her eyes scanned down.

She turned the pages and the information crystallized.

“My God,” she whispered.

She heard the baritone thumb of rotor blades beating through the air and knew the helicopter Danny had promised was approaching.

Reading further, the implications became clearer.

She now knew what Zorin planned.

The chopper swooped in over the trees, the noise of the rotors swallowing her. It swung toward a clearing in the front of the house.

She had to leave.

Now.

And would call in from the air.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

Malone bolted across the White House grounds, Cassiopeia at his side. They’d reentered through the north gate and raced over the frosty lawn, rounding on the east side where the Treasury building with its huge columns and portico could be seen. On the far side of that monstrosity stretched busy 15th Street. They kept moving through the trees across the winter rye, heading for a gate that allowed vehicular traffic into the Ellipse. He still held his cell phone, receiving reports that the car was headed for the intersection of 15th Street and Pennsylvania Avenue. Earlier, guards all across the grounds had been alerted to their presence and told by Edwin Davis not to interfere with them in any way, particularly the snipers and lookouts on the roof who’d been placed on the highest alert since they still did not know if the threat might come by air.