“You heard him,” added Secretary Gelman. “Pull up nice and slow. They’ll know the car.”
Astor turned in his seat. “To make sure, did either of you tell anyone we were meeting?”
“Not a soul,” said Gelman. “The wife knows better than to ask.”
“Don’t have a wife,” said Charles Hughes. “May have said a word to the vice chairman, though.”
“Did you or didn’t you?” asked Astor.
“Guess I did. We work closely on all matters. I don’t hide anything from him.”
“Wasn’t he our ambassador out there prior to coming aboard?” asked Gelman.
“That was six years ago,” protested Hughes. “You have no reason not to trust him.”
“It’s not a question of trust,” retorted Astor. A terrible thought came to him. A shaking hand drew his phone from his jacket and scrolled through his address book. He stopped at a name he knew as well as his own. Years had passed since they had last spoken. Years filled with rancor and acrimony. Still, Astor did not hesitate. There was no one he trusted more.
In the dark, his thumbs struggled to find the correct keys.
“P-A-L,” he began to text.
The Chevrolet slowed and turned into the State Place entrance. A guard belonging to the uniformed division of the Secret Service stepped from his booth. A Delta barrier blocked the road ahead.
Secretary Gelman rolled down his window. “Good evening, sergeant. You know who I am. The chairman of the Federal Reserve, Mr. Hughes, is with me, as is Mr. Astor, from the New York Stock Exchange. We’re here to see the president.”
“I don’t have you on the list, sir.”
“It’s an emergency.”
The guard demanded their identification, then stepped into his booth.
Astor continued typing. “A-N-”
The guard handed back the pieces of identification. “The president asks that you go to the West Wing portico.”
The gates opened and the vehicle advanced slowly. In front of them, the Delta barrier lowered into the ground. The engine revved again and Astor braced himself but this time it was just the driver easing the car into drive. The Suburban advanced a few yards, then halted as a mirror was run beneath the chassis to check for explosives. The all clear was given and the car advanced to the next barrier. The blockade disappeared into the ground. The Chevrolet shuddered as it drove over the steel plate.
“Have you met the president?” Gelman asked.
“No,” said Astor. “Different political persuasion.”
“He’s a good man, though he’ll be none too pleased.”
The car made a sharp left onto West Executive Avenue. The lane continued for 50 yards, passing the White House swimming pool on its right and widening into a parking lot for West Wing staffers.
“As long as he listens,” said Astor.
“I’m sure he will. He’s a-”
The Chevrolet surged forward, forcing the passengers against their seats. The engine revved more loudly than before. The car quickly gathered speed and in seconds was barreling down the lane.
“What the hell?” said Gelman.
“Slow this thing down,” shouted Astor.
“My foot’s on the brake,” said the driver. “It’s not doing a thing.”
Directly ahead, a third Delta barrier blocked the way.
“Watch it!” cried Charles Hughes.
The driver yanked the car to the right, hopping the curb and hurtling onto the lawn. Astor bounced in his seat, striking his head on the roof. The phone tumbled from his grasp and fell to the floor.
“Shift into neutral,” said the agent in charge, riding in the passenger seat.
“Driveshaft’s locked.”
The Chevrolet continued to gain speed, the needle on the speedometer passing 50 miles per hour, the car rocking over the uneven terrain. The driver steered between trees, as branches slapped the windshield, obscuring his view. Then the branches were gone and the vehicle was bounding across the South Lawn. Thirty yards of open grass separated them from the White House.
“Yankee Blue, this is Sierra Six,” radioed the agent in charge. “We have an emergency. Vehicle out of control.”
“Commo’s dead, skipper,” said the driver.
Ahead, the South Portico loomed. Astor grasped the seatback. “Stop this thing,” he shouted again.
“Sir, I do not have control of the vehicle,” answered the driver with unnerving calm.
And then Astor knew that everything in the dossier was true. The car was under someone else’s control. Not an individual, but something far more frightening. And the driver was powerless to stop it.
Secret Service agents emerged from the trees, taking up position on all sides of them. Astor counted four men standing on the terrace of the South Portico. All were holding machine guns and had their weapons raised.
A tire exploded and the car listed violently.
“God help us,” said the driver.
And then the night erupted. Orange and yellow blooms lit up the darkness. Bullets struck every section of the vehicle, a deafening, percussive rain. The windshield cracked, then splintered.
Seeing his phone, Astor dropped to his knees and grasped it. Hand shaking with fear, he entered the last few letters.
“T-I-”
A second tire exploded. The car lifted into the air and landed on its side. Astor’s head slammed the window. He tumbled against the door, the phone falling from his grip again. Chairman Hughes landed on top of him, and Astor felt his shoulder pop. His arm went limp and he screamed.
For an endless moment the car skidded across the lawn. All gunfire ceased. The vehicle slowed and, in an act of capitulation, rolled onto its roof.
Hughes slid off him. The Fed chairman was unconscious. Gelman sprawled close by, eyes open in terror.
Astor lay on his back, trying to control his breathing. He was aware of the engine ticking down and of voices shouting instructions to remain inside the vehicle. He turned his head. The phone lay a few inches away. He read the letters typed on the screen. “P-A-L-A-N-T-I-”
One was missing.
Astor forced his good arm above and around his head until his fingers clutched the phone. With his thumb, he typed the final letter.
“You okay?” The driver was bleeding from his forehead.
“Yes,” said Astor. “I’m fine. But my shoulder is-”
Edward Astor never finished the sentence. At that moment the fuel tank, filled to capacity with 25 gallons of gasoline, exploded. A blast of infernal heat lifted him, enveloping him, cauterizing his every sense and sensation.
And in the instant before he died, his fingers curled around the phone, as an infant clutches his mother’s hand, and whether on purpose or accidentally, he pressed Send.
1
“Jump!”
Bobby Astor curled his toes over the lip of the chimney and looked down at the pool 20 feet below. It was a big pool with plenty of room to land. Even so, his knees were shaking and it required his last measure of courage to stand up straight. The problem wasn’t just the height. It was the leap. He had to carry a good 6 feet of flagstone to make it to the water. Call it 8 feet to the safety zone. Anything shy and he’d get a mouthful of cement.
It was not the smartest bet he’d ever accepted.
“Two mil,” came another voice. “You can do it!”
“Come on, Bobby. We don’t have all night.”
The $2 million wasn’t a bet exactly, but more like a pledge. All Astor had to do was jump from the chimney into the pool and the money would go to charity. Last year he had brought in a million seven walking across a bed of hot coals. The year before he’d parachuted out of a chopper onto the beach. It dawned on him that the stunts were growing increasingly dangerous. It might be better to skip next year altogether and just write a check.