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Grissom says, “With your permission, sir.”
The president nods.
Grissom stands up and retrieves his uniform hat; the president remains seated. “But why did you ask to come out to this terrace?” he asks. “The Secret Service sweeps the Oval Office for listening devices at least three times a day.”
Grissom puts his hat on his head. “Sir, these are difficult times.”
“Meaning?”
“I don’t know if you can trust your Secret Service detail anymore.”
Part One
Chapter
1
The District of Columbiais a place of contradictions and secrets. Pockets of extreme poverty where troubled folks shoot up on street corners are only a brisk walk away from gourmet restaurants where the price of an evening meal would cover the cost of a month’s groceries for my daughter and me. And the residents of the District, the hub of American representative government, have no real congressional representation.
Those are the contradictions. But it’s the secrets—written and geographical—that are the coin of the realm here in DC, and I’m entering one of these secret places along with my best friend, a man I consider my brother, Dr. Alex Cross.
We’re near Arlington, Virginia, at a Homewood Suites by Hilton, a nice-looking small hotel in the midst of a score of other nice-looking small hotels in one of a score of anonymous strip malls in the area, but this place is different.
In the small lobby, there’s a coffee service and an unmanned check-in counter with a little bell. I say, “We got time for coffee?”
“Won’t make a very good impression if you walk in carrying a go-cup,” Alex says.
“It’s been a rough day and I could use a pick-me-up,” I say. “And when did I ever care about making a good impression?”
That causes Alex to smile. We go down a short hallway, passing a sign readingEMPLOYEES ONLY,to a metal door with a keypad lock. Alex punches in the combination, then holds the door open for me, and we walk three flights down to a subbasement. There, Alex punches in another series of numbers on a second keypad lock, and after theclick,I open the heavy metal door and hold it for Alex. He goes in and I follow, and we both stop at a checkpoint.
Three unsmiling men wearing green tactical fatigues, body armor, and black knit caps stare at us. Two of them are holding automatic weapons; the third is standing behind a plain wooden lectern stacked with papers and folders. He consults a list, and a smile appears on his fierce face.
“Dr. Cross,” he says to my old friend. “My daughter is reading your latest book in her criminal justice course at Georgetown. Something about dark minds, dark desires. Is that it?”
Alex nods. “That’s right.Dark Minds, Dark Desires: Case Histories of the Criminally Insane.What does she think of it?”
“She says it’s informative and well written, but twice it has given her nightmares. You go ahead, Dr. Cross.”
I’m next and the man’s frown returns. “Name?”
“Detective John Sampson,” I say. “Metro Police.”
He makes a check mark on the list. “ID, please, and place your hand on this biometric pad. And I’ll need you to sign this pad over here too, for signature comparison.”
All of this means I’m a couple of minutes behind Alex when I enter a low-ceilinged room in the center of which is a large polished wood conference table surrounded by comfortable chairs, each one filled by Someone Important. True to the way of DC, if a meeting is set for eight p.m.—like this one—certain folks will arrive at seven p.m. to ensure they get good places at the table.
Alex and I make do with two of the less comfortable chairs along the near wall. We both get looks from the important people as we settle in, Alex because he’s Alex, and me because I’m a Black man who stands six feet nine inches. That has its advantages when I’m working the streets of DC as a homicide detective, but it’s a royal pain in the ass on other occasions, like when I’m trying to get comfortable and keep a low profile in a crowded conference room.
This room is equipped with computers operated by uniformed army and air force personnel and three large, ceiling-mounted screens, each one displaying the seal of the president of the United States.
I’ve learned from my contacts in the Metro Police and from people I’ve worked with in my army and reserve service over the years that there are multiple White House situation rooms scattered around the Beltway. If all the top officials of the U.S. government are huddled together in a room under the White House, well-armed enemies can drop a single bunker-buster bomb or tactical nuke, and that’s it, the United States is leaderless.
A side door opens and we all stand up when President Lucas Kent enters and takes a seat at the table. He’s followed by General Wayne Grissom, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and a female army colonel. A couple of seconds later, the president’s chief of staff, Helen Taft, follows and takes a chair next to the president. Seeing the president isn’t all that exciting for me—I learned a long time ago that presidents are like most men and women, and as politicians, they will always break your heart—but I’m pleased to see General Grissom take a seat on the other side of the president.
Grissom and I served in the army at the same time, probably breathed the same air and dust while stationed in Afghanistan and Iraq, and he still carries himself with the bearing of a working-class guy who fought his way up through the ranks and who saw his first duty as protecting his troops in all branches. If there is a service ribbon for kissing political asses, it’s notably absent on General Grissom’s dress uniform. It’s good to see him here, especially considering what’s going on in the United States three stories above us.
The president says, “Folks, let’s get right to it. Random terrorist attacks against this country began this past April and continued throughout the summer. A while back, I directed General Grissom to start gathering and collating information from the agencies represented here.” The president glances at General Grissom, then continues. “To cut to the proverbial chase, ladies and gentlemen, these attacks are just the beginning. We have a week to stop them or our nation and its people will be crippled and might never recover.”
