The approaching man was black and about Jack’s age—maybe a vet himself or maybe the brother of one. Jack watched as the man found the name he was looking for—it was about shoulder-high on the wall. Not many people left flowers in the winter, but this fellow did, a small bouquet of roses. Jack waited a minute then walked over to speak to him.
“Someone special?” Jack asked.
And, of course, the answer was “yes.” It was always “yes”—everyone listed here was special.
“My best friend,” the man said. “Tyrone. His number came up, and he had to go. I was lucky; mine never did.”
“Tell me about him,” Jack said.
The man lifted his shoulders a bit as if daunted by the task. “I don’t know where to begin.”
Jack nodded. He took the bright red mitten off his right hand and offered that hand to the man. “My name’s Jack. I was there in 1971 and ’72.”
The man wasn’t wearing gloves. “Frank,” he said. He shook Jack’s hand for several seconds.
“Tell me about the last time you saw Tyrone,” Jack said. The memory of that event—Tyrone’s farewell party, at his favorite bar—came to Jack as soon as he asked about it, but he let Frank recount the story anyway, listening to every word.
Bessie Stilwell was scared. The Army colonel who had intercepted her and Darryl at Andrews Air Force Base had taken them to Camp David—and then locked them in Dogwood, a large guest cottage on the grounds there. She hadn’t been allowed to go to Luther Terry Memorial Hospital to see her son, and hadn’t been allowed to speak to anyone except Colonel Barstow and Darryl.
She understood what was going on: as soon as Barstow had gotten her and Darryl into his car, the memories of President Jerrison’s phone call to Secretary Muilenburg asking him to have his staff intercept them had come back to her. They were prisoners here, cut off from the rest of the world. The president was going to go ahead with his plan; he wasn’t about to let a little old lady interfere.
According to the framed photos on the walls, German chancellor Helmut Kohl had stayed in this cottage during the Clinton administration, Japanese prime minister Yasuo Fukuda had stayed here during the Bush years, and British prime minister David Cameron had used this place when Obama was president. The cottage had a large, luxuriously appointed living area and four giant bedrooms, so she couldn’t really complain about the quality of the accommodations. But her cell phone had been confiscated, and so had Darryl’s BlackBerry, there were no computers—although Darryl had pointed out where they had previously been installed—and the phone could only reach the Camp David operator. And, of course, the doors were guarded, so they couldn’t leave.
Bessie didn’t need much sleep—five hours a night was all she normally took since her husband had died. And so she woke up before Darryl emerged from his room, and she went into the living area and sat in a nice rocking chair, looking through a window at the beautiful countryside. She concentrated on Seth’s memories, trying to find something—anything—in them she could use. But it was, she had learned, all about triggers: unless something brought forth a memory, the memory was hidden. Ask her what she knew about Seth Jerrison and the answer was nothing; ask her what his birthday was, or what make his first car had been, or whether he preferred his toilet paper to hang over or under the roll, and she could dredge the answer up.
She hunted and hunted, thinking about this, about that, then about something else, again and again.
At last, frustrated, she did what she always did when she needed guidance. She prayed. God, she knew, understood that she had arthritis and wouldn’t mind that she didn’t go down on her knees. She just sat in the chair, closed her eyes, and said, “O Lord, I need your help…”
And after a moment, her eyes opened wide.
Ask and ye shall receive.
She’d already been told she couldn’t speak with President Jerrison. But maybe, somehow, there was a way to get a message to him—and him alone.
Perhaps a letter? She got up from the chair and shuffled over to the elegant antique writing desk—it pleased her that it was probably older than she herself was. She found some stationery in a drawer, and a retractable ballpoint pen, but—
But she couldn’t trust that anything she wrote down, even if she put it in a sealed envelope, wouldn’t be read by others before the president saw it. If only there was some way to send him a private message…
And it came to her.
Of course.
So simple.
You take any three numbers that add up to thirteen…
Chapter 45
Bessie opened the door to the cottage, letting in a blast of cool morning air. The blond, brown-eyed Army officer stationed outside spun on his heel, and said, “Can I help you with something, ma’am?”
“Are you normally here, young man?”
“Someone will be on guard all day, ma’am.”
“No, I mean, are you normally part of the Camp David staff?”
“No, ma’am. I’ve been temporarily assigned here; I’m usually stationed at the Pentagon.”
“Ah,” said Bessie. They weren’t going to let her talk to anyone who wasn’t already in the know, it seemed. “I need you to deliver this to the president,” she said, handing him a sealed envelope; she’d found some nice linen ones in the same drawer as the Camp David stationery.
“I can’t leave my post, ma’am, but I’ll call for someone else to come and get it.” He took the envelope from her.
“It’ll go straight to the president himself?”
“Well, ma’am, I’m sure there’s a process. It’ll be turned over to his staff.”
Bessie shook her head. “That’s not good enough, young man. I want you to take it to him—you personally. Call for someone else to stand here, but you deliver it yourself, do you understand?”
“I—that’s not how it’s normally done, ma’am.”
Bessie rallied all her strength. “These aren’t normal times, are they? Surely you understand that the president brought me here for a reason. You wouldn’t want to be the one responsible for him not getting an important message from me in time, now, would you?”
He seemed to consider this, then: “No, ma’am.”
“So you’ll personally see that he gets it?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll take it directly to the residence.”
“You promise?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Bessie smiled. “Thank you.” She closed the door and turned around just in time to see Darryl Hudkins emerging from his room. He was wearing the same clothes he’d had on yesterday, although Bessie’s luggage had been waiting for her when she’d arrived here; someone had fetched her things from the Watergate.
“Good morning, Mrs. Stilwell,” he said. “Sorry I slept in so long.”
“Nothing else to do,” Bessie said.
“True. Did you sleep all right?”
“As well as can be expected.”
“Have you called for breakfast yet?” They’d been told whatever they needed would be brought to them.
“No,” Bessie said. “I’m usually not hungry when I get up.” She thought for a moment, made a decision, then pointed to the living area. “Won’t you sit down? There’s something I need to tell you.”
She imagined his eyebrows went up, but, from this distance, she really couldn’t see. He went to the sink, got himself a glass of water, asked her if she wanted one, then went and took a seat on the ornately upholstered couch facing a giant window.