The Warren Omissions Page 14

  Flynn jammed his gun into Ivan’s back. “I’ve got a lot of questions for you—but I don’t have time to ask them now. Unfortunately for you, I’m going to let someone much more unpleasant than myself ask them.”

  Flynn led Ivan down into the garage of his townhome and tied him to a support pole, at least eight feet away from any other object in the garage. He then proceeded to pat down Ivan and search for any other objects that might assist him in cutting himself free. Satisfied that Ivan was devoid of any chance at escape, Flynn shook his head as he looked at Ivan.

  “The press is going to have a field day with you,” Flynn said.

  Ivan spit at him and then hung his head.

  Unbothered by Ivan’s gesture, Flynn headed up stairs and turned the lights out.

  He locked the door as his cell phone buzzed.

  “Where are you?” Osborne demanded after Flynn answered.

  “I’ve been a little busy.”

  Osborne didn’t seem interested in Flynn’s excuse.

  “We don’t have any time to waste. Get down to the airfield now.”

  “Sorry, I was just busying apprehending the President’s assassin. You can thank me later.”

  Osborne stopped panicking.

  “You did what ?”

  “You heard me. Ivan jumped me in my house and tried to kill me. But I left him for you in my garage. Send someone over here quick to pick him up.”

  “Good work. Now hurry up! You’ve got a war to stop!”

  CHAPTER 42

  GERALD SANDFORD WATCHED the activity swirling around his office. In just a few short hours, he would unleash his pent-up fury on Russia for taking his daughter from him. Though it was a different kind of taking than he initially believed. Sydney wasn’t dead—and he hoped she wouldn’t become a pawn in this high-stakes game. But he was going to make sure Russia paid for whatever part they played in her disappearance from his life for the past 15 years.

  One of the speech writers thrust a document into his hands, hoping to gain the acting President’s approval on the diatribe just written for the American public—and for its number one enemy. While Briggs played to the whims of the American people, Sandford refused any such notions. I’m going to show this country what it means to lead . He scanned the speech, one that conveyed his resolve to remove Americans from the threat imposed by another nation, subtly hinting that his country was about to take its rightful place as the world’s leading superpower.

  An aide tapped Sandford on the shoulder.

  “Mr. President, I have something that I think you should read.”

  Sandford spun around, brow furrowed as he looked up at the timid young man.

  “What is it?” Sandford demanded.

  “Diane Dixon has requested an emergency cabinet meeting.”

  “What would possess her to request such a thing now?”

  “Apparently, President Briggs has made a miraculous recovery.”

  “Say what ?” Sandford began to grow enraged. “How is that even possible?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’ve got a letter right here signed by President Briggs himself that he’s fit to lead and is requesting to be reinstated immediately.”

  Sandford shook his head. No, no, no! I am the President now! This isn’t happening!

  He looked back up at the aide and nodded. “Set it up.”

  Sandford needed some time to plot his next move. He wasn’t going to relinquish power this easily.

  CHAPTER 43

  FIFTEEN MINUTES AFTER LEAVING HIS HOUSE, Flynn’s phone buzzed. It was Osborne again, demanding to know where he was.

  “If you’re not a ‘what have you done for me lately’ kind of guy, nobody is,” Flynn answered. “A few minutes ago I told you that I apprehended the President’s assassin and now I’m getting drilled for being late. What is it with you government people?”

  Osborne didn’t appreciate the joke.

  “This is serious, Flynn. We need to be wheels up in five minutes.”

  “Well, good. I’m only two minutes away. Have you got to my house yet?”

  “Nope. I sent some agents there ahead of me. I should hear something soon.”

  “Good. Keep me posted. I’d love to know if there’s something you can get out of him that will help me on this mission.”

  “There’s only one thing you need to know—shoot to kill. We’ll send in a team to clean up the mess after you get control of those missiles.”

  “Isn’t Sandford going to shoot first?”

  “I hope not. And if he doesn’t, the Kuklovod is ready to ignite this powder keg with their own special flare. It’s why we need you to get there quickly.”

  Flynn hung up as he pulled into the hangar. He parked and got out of his car. He grabbed his bag and hustled toward the plane’s open door.

  Before he got on the plane, a CIA handler shoved a file folder into Flynn’s hands and began giving him a quick rundown of the highlights and protocol for the mission.

  The handler, a woman in her late 20s, looked Flynn up and down and then smiled. She appeared feisty. Flynn thought maybe she was eyeing him.

  “Is this how you handle all your assets?” Flynn asked, trying not to enjoy her attention. “I’m not a piece of meat, you know.”

  “I didn’t think you were,” she shot back. “I was just wondering how cold you’d be when you jump out of this plane.”

  Mouth gaping, Flynn stared at her.

  “Did you just say what I think you said?” he asked.

  “You didn’t think we were going to touch down at the local airport and just stroll into the Kuklovod’s headquarters, now, did you?” She shot him a wink before adding, “Good luck, conspiracy man. Better you than me.”

  With that, she gave Flynn a little shove toward the plane and started walking away.

  Flynn began a mild protest. “Osborne never said anything about jumping out of a plane. This has got to be some kind of mistake.”

  “Let’s go,” barked one of the co-pilots standing at the top of the plane’s stairs.

  Flynn continued to look stunned.

  “Osborne knows I hate heights,” he muttered to himself.

  “Buckle up,” the co-pilot said as he prepared to enter the cabin. “It’s going to be a long and bumpy ride.”

  Flynn slumped into the chair and stretched out his legs before buckling his seat belt. He hung his head in disbelief at the revelation that his exit from the jet wouldn’t be the conventional way. If Osborne was here right now …

  Flynn’s phone started buzzing. It was Osborne.

  “Why you little jerk!” Flynn answered, despite Osborne trying to say something. Flynn just kept talking over him. “You said nothing to me about jumping out of a plane. You know how I hate heights.”

  When Flynn finally took a breath, Osborne broke in.

  “Will you just shut up for a minute and listen to me?” Osborne said.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s Ivan. I’m at your house—and he’s gone.”

  “Don’t worry. He won’t get far.”

  CHAPTER 44

  WHEN GERALD SANDFORD WALKED into the cabinet meeting, the room roared with raised voices. Finger pointing, head wagging, and fist pounding dominated the non-verbal communication. He didn’t need to hear an actual word being said. Ain’t democracy great? He sneered as he surveyed the room before choosing his next words.

  “Quiet!” Sandford said as he walked toward his chair. “Everyone sit down and shut up!”

  He relished the moment. The room was littered with people he dreamed about putting in their place one day. Now he was the President. Who cared what little stunt Diane Dixon was trying to pull? This was going to be a bare-knuckled street brawl if necessary. And he wasn’t about to pull a single punch.

  With the room silenced, Sandford finally addressed everyone.

  “We’re here today because Diane Dixon has learned that the President has somehow made a remarkable recovery in such a short period of
time and is now fit to lead—and that he was never unfit. She wants all my actions declared void over the last 24 hours, claiming that we skirted constitutional rules in promoting me in an acting capacity for the office of the President.

  “But let me be clear about one thing: I’m happy to relinquish the chair as long as I know the President is fully coherent and making his own decisions instead of being a puppet for his closest advisors. I will not stand for such treason and will make every effort to strike down any such attempts.

  “With that said, Ms. Dixon, you have the floor.”

  Sandford sat down in his chair and leaned forward, hands clasped in front of him. He felt powerful and he wanted to look that way. More than anything, he wanted to intimidate anybody who thought they could dupe him out of a position that desperately required genuine leadership at the moment. Briggs would be squirming in this seat if he were here right now, asking everybody what he should do and never coming up with an idea on his own. Pathetic. It was what Sandford detested most about Briggs. Ultimately, it was what got Briggs elected. Plenty of special interest groups delighted in the opportunity to pull the strings in Washington. It was the same game U.S. Presidents had been playing for years, kowtowing to those who helped put them in office. They cared little about their accomplishments but about being the most powerful man in the free world for eight years. Sandford knew the real power rested elsewhere, but at the moment, the power that accompanied the presidency was all he wanted. He needed that seat to pay back the Russians, maybe he even save his daughter.

  For the next twenty minutes, Diane shared what she knew and fielded objections from the cabinet. She managed to convince enough of the cabinet that President Briggs was fit enough to lead, forcing a motion to vote on his reinstatement. She needed a majority to make it happen—and the vote finished tied. Sandford was asked to break the vote.

  “Well, it seems like we’ve got quite a predicament here,” Sandford began. “You know I’d be happy to give this chair back to Arthur Briggs if he’s truly fit to lead. However, I’m not going to take the word of some letter. I want to know that’s he functioning on his own. I’ll need to take a visit to see him and talk it through. If I’m satisfied that he’s well enough to continue leading, I’ll give him his chair back. But until then, I’m going to have to decline to begin the reinstatement process.”

  Diane stood up and defiantly smacked the table with the healthy-sized folder in her hands.

  “You’re making a mockery out of the system,” Diane said. “And here I thought that you were a patriot.”

  Sandford then stood too. He pointed his finger at her as he responded.

  “Oh, no. Don’t think you’re going to get away with that on me,” he said. “If there’s anyone trying to make a mockery out of the system, it’s you, Ms. Dixon. I’ll bet this signature isn’t even the President’s. You probably got someone to forge it. In fact, I’m going to take this to a handwriting expert to be analyzed. You better pray this is real or I’m coming after you with everything I’ve got.”

  Diane stormed out of the room, which erupted into another noisy argument upon her exit.

  Sandford seethed as he sat in his chair. He didn’t know how smart of an idea it was to call her bluff—especially if she wasn’t bluffing. But none of that mattered. He merely bought himself a little bit more time to get everything together to attack Russia. It wouldn’t be long now.

  He exited the room and pulled out his cell phone.

  “Get me General Hill. We need to discuss launch procedures.”

  CHAPTER 45

  IVAN LOCKED HIMSELF in the special needs restroom at the Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. He hated the airport, mostly because of who it was named after. If the world loathed Hitler, true communists equally detested Reagan. The Kuklovod saw his time as President as a promising opportunity to spark a world war, but Andropov and Chernenko lacked the fortitude to strike first. And so did Reagan. It was an era of posturing for the public—a chance considered wasted by the Kuklovod. Ivan found sadistic irony in the fact that this particular airport would serve as his port of departure.

  He sifted through the handful of passports in his hand, trying to decide who he would be before he matched his hairstyle to the selected passport. Ezekiel Egwu. Perfect. Ivan would play the part of a British Nigerian anthropology professor going to do work on the Khanty people in the Urals. Egwu was his favorite alias since it required a dreadlocks wig—and in this case, it made the most sense as a cover.

  He affixed his wig and put on his thick black glasses for a more scholarly appearance. It was time to escape this country, a place he detested for how it arrogantly squandered its wealth and power on meaningless things. They will soon learn what’s most important in life. He smiled at the thought. It was time to find a flight and buy a ticket.

  Still remaining in the confines of the spacious restroom, Ivan purchased a ticket for Paris that was leaving in less than an hour. From Paris, it would be easy to slip back into Russia without much scrutiny. He then gathered his belongings and headed to the ticket counter where he picked up his boarding pass and headed toward the security checkpoint.

  He passed through the identification checkpoint before merging into another slow-moving line that required the removal of his shoes, coat, belt and any other object deemed to have the ability to conceal a weapon. Ivan enjoyed listening to the stories of old by Kuklovod veterans who reminisced about the days when you could carry a knife or a gun on board without even getting checked. Getting examined closely was a hassle he could do without, though watching those American towers melt to the ground on September 11th made the hassle worth it to him. Yet that was child’s play compared to the fury the Kuklovod was set to unleash on American soil.

  While standing in line, Ivan’s phone rang. It was his supervisor. Ivan spoke in Russian to mask the conversation.

  “I’ll be there in twenty-four hours,” Ivan said.

  “Did you eliminate the threat?” the man asked.

  “Not completely, but I will.”

  The next minute consisted of a dressing down. Ivan listened patiently as his supervisor hurled every imaginable insult at him. He didn’t even say good-bye before abruptly hanging up.

  Ivan’s supervisor shouted so loudly that those around Ivan began to stare at him, wondering what the nature of the conversation could be about. The fellow travelers appeared uneasy and Ivan sensed it immediately. Some travelers whispered to one another, staring at Ivan. It was evident that the phone call caused a scene, both in the nature of the call and in the language foreign to everyone around him.

  Ivan hung up, looking sheepish for the benefit of those around him. He hoisted his backpack and other belongings up onto the X-ray belt. Inwardly, Ivan fumed, angry that he let Flynn get the best of him. It was one score he hoped to settle if he ever saw Flynn again.

  “Sir, will you please come with me?” the TSA agent asked Ivan.

  Lost in a stupor, Ivan jolted back to reality.

  “Me? Did I do something wrong?” Ivan asked.

  “Just step this way, sir.”

  The TSA agent ushered Ivan to a private room located off the back of the security checkpoint area. He then closed the door.

  “I need you to remove all your outer garments so we can do a proper search.”

  “What do you mean?” Ivan asked incredulously.

  “I mean, take off all your clothes except for your underwear. We found something of a suspicious nature and need to investigate.”

  Ivan reluctantly complied, grumbling about the American government under his breath in Russian.

  “Is that what you really think about America?” the TSA agent asked.

  Ivan looked up stunned. He rarely ran into any Americans who knew Russian, much less some low-level hourly employee like this one.

  The agent radioed for extra help in the room.

  “What are you doing?” Ivan demanded.

  “Sir, you need to calm down and chill out
. I have a partner coming in here to join me and make sure you don’t get out of control.”

  “I’m not out of control,” Ivan said, raising his voice.

  “I think you just need to have a seat, sir.”

  Ivan plopped into a chair, humiliated. First, his supervisor. Now, some low life TSA agent. Nothing was going right for him at the moment. Just calm down. It will be all right .

  Another TSA agent entered the room, one who appeared to be more important than the man who ushered Ivan into the room. Ivan noted how he spoke with more confidence and with more authority. He then turned to Ivan.

  “We found this on you, sir,” the TSA supervisor said, producing an odd pocket knife. “Are you aware that federal regulations prohibit passengers from carrying a blade of this length?”

  Ivan had never seen the pocketknife in his life, and wondered if he’d been set up by a passenger or was getting duped by the TSA. Either way, it was apparent that he needed to remain calm if he was going to escape the situation.

  “It has the initials J.F. inscribed on the blade,” the supervisor said again.

  “Oh, yes,” Ivan said, after a few silent moments. “It’s a knife from my mother’s father—an heirloom passed down. I’m an anthropologist and those things are important to me. It was terribly clumsy of me not to pack it in my luggage.”

  The two TSA personnel stared at each other for a moment before the supervisor finally spoke.

  “Look, we normally just confiscate contraband like this, but since it’s an heirloom, I’ll let you fill out one of these envelopes here and mail it back to your home address. You OK with that?”

  Ivan nodded.

  He took the package, a pen, and the knife from the supervisor and began scribbling down James Flynn’s address with his own name at the top. He stuffed the knife inside and sealed it before handing it back to the supervisor.

  “Thank you very much, sir,” Ivan said. “I appreciate your kindness and understanding. I won’t let that happen again.”