Empire

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“You think this guy is the one set you up?”

“If he didn’t come in to the White House today, then I’ll know something,” said Malich. “If he is but he won’t talk to me, then I’ll know something else.”

“What would it mean if he isn’t here? That he knew to stay away?”

“No, that he isn’t the inside guy for the terrorists. Whoever it is had to be able to tell them, to the minute, where the President was inside the White House. I get the feeling this guy isn’t in the loop on the President’s daily schedule. He’d have to be in position to observe.”

And then the look on Malich’s face told Cole that his White House guy was there. He was one of the briefcase clutchers standing in the shade of some shrubbery. A little on the heavy side, his hair a little thin, he was sweating like crazy and looking both furtive and miserable. In fact, he looked so guilty that it convinced Cole that he couldn’t have been involved with the terrorist incident, because this guy didn’t have a secret-keeper’s face.

When he saw Malich and Cole approaching, he at first looked scared, but then visibly relaxed and stepped out to meet Malich with a handshake. Malich introduced Cole but didn’t say the White House guy’s name.

The White House guy only nodded at Cole, then turned to Malich. “Send him away.”

“Captain Coleman was at my side today as we took out one of the two rocket launchers aiming at the White House.”

“Gee,” said the White House guy snidely, “you mean it could have been worse?”

Malich was suddenly in the guy’s face, holding him by the belt so he couldn’t back away. “I’m in the mood to kill assholes today,” said Malich quietly. “Try not to be one.”

“What do you want? Why are you here?” asked the guy.

“I’ve been all over this town, all over the world, delivering messages, negotiating sales, all to help the counterterrorism cause,” said Malich. “But those two rocket launchers—they looked an awful lot like the kind of launchers I arranged to purchase for a Sudanese rebel force to help them counter the superior artillery of the pro- government militias.”

“Everybody buys from the same merchants,” said the guy.

“Not good enough,” said Malich. “This hit took place under my nose. I was right there when the submersibles came up the channel and headed into the Tidal Pool.”

“They killed the President,” said the guy. “And you think it’s about you?”

“It’s about beheading the United States of America,” said Malich. “But they used my plan, and I want to know where you fit into this.”

“Your plan?” The man seemed genuinely puzzled.

“My assignment in the Pentagon. My day job—when I wasn’t running around for you. Think up ways that a smart enemy might strike inside Washington, with the President as target.” Malich gestured toward the White House. “This was what I came up with.”

“That’s just… that’s sick. You think the people you gave your Plan to, they did this? Our own military?”

“Information can pass from hand to hand, and most of the hands might be innocent. But someone knew I created that plan, and they were glad to have me close by when the attack was launched. Though probably they didn’t want me as close as I got.”

“But didn’t you say you killed the guys?”

“I got there too late. If I hadn’t had Cole here with me, I would have been even later. He’s the one who saw there was something under the water. And somebody cut the phone lines and jammed cell reception on Hain’s Point so I couldn’t get word to the White House in time.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t me, I was here, I was in a meeting, and then there’s an explosion and I only have time to get back to my office and get these files before they have us out here on the lawn. If you think I had something to do with this, then you’ve got your head up your ass.”

“Did you know where the President was when the explosion took place?”

“They don’t check with me,” said the guy. “Don’t you get it? I’m not in charge of things. I’m an aide to an aide. I’m a flunky. They tell me, get these messages delivered, get these arms bought using this account and get them delivered to that group and by the way, use this guy, this Malich guy, as your messenger. I don’t know anything about you.”

Today of all days, Cole couldn’t be sure of anything, but this guy was believable enough. And it made sense. If something really ugly was going on, there’d be people pulling strings on other people pulling other strings. Everything kept at six removes from the actual conspiracy.

Malich seemed to believe him, too. He let go of the man’s belt.

But Cole needed to know something, too. “Show me your White House ID,” he said.

Annoyed, now that he didn’t have to be quite so afraid, the guy pulled out his ID and held it up for Cole. The name was Steven Phillips. And when Malich caught a glimpse of it, he was really pissed off. “You mean that was your real name all along?”

“I never said it wasn’t!” protested Phillips.

“You said you couldn’t show me ID because then I’d know your real name.”

“That was before I was sure I could trust you,” said Phillips.

“So you’d rather use the National Security Adviser as your ID badge?”

“By then I didn’t think you’d believe me unless I hauled out the big guns.”

“So the NSA does this for you all the time?”

“He’s my boss.”

“And is he the one who got you to use me as your errand boy?”

“No.” But the expression on his face said yes.

“This is not the time for more secrets,” said Cole quietly.

“He didn’t run it,” said Phillips. “But he introduced me to the guy who gave me the stuff for you to do.”

“And who is that?” asked Malich.

“He wouldn’t tell me his real name or show me ID. That’s how I got the idea of doing that with you. I’m so stupid. If my work for him had anything to do with this… .” He waved a hand toward the damaged south wall of the West Wing.

“I’m giving you an assignment right now,” said Malich. “Find out his name. Or at least find his face. Or at least give me a damn good description of exactly what he looks like and exactly where you met and every assignment he gave you that you didn’t use me for.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because, Mr. Steven Phillips, whoever controlled you probably has something to do with killing the President, and since they’re setting me up to take the blame for it, and you’re associated with me, your ass is on the line right along with mine.”

“They’re setting you up?” Phillips seemed to think this was a ridiculous idea.

“I can bet that when they trace these guys back to some miserable fleabag rental they’ll find a convenient copy of my report, with my name attached, and it’ll be the exact copy that I provided, so my fingerprints will be on it.”

“Why would they do that?”

“To make it look like the U.S. Army was behind the assassination of the President of the United States. And if they tie you to it as well, then what does it look like to the media? To the public? A Republican Party hack—that would be you—and a gung-ho officer in Special Ops provide the plans and the weapons to the terrorists who assassinated the President.”

So Malich’s secret work for Phillips dealt with the weapons trade.

“Who would believe that?” said Phillips.

“The public will eat it up. I can see the op-ed headlines now: ‘Prez Not Right-wing Enough for Red Staters.’ ”

All of a sudden Phillips was crying, but fiercely. “They can’t say that,” he said. “I loved that man. He was the best President—”

“They can say it. They will say it. They’re