Vince Flynn - Act of Treason

The press was told that the president’s disease was taking a toll on him, and he simply didn’t have the energy to campaign. His obligation was to his office and the American people. Ross believed the excuse for a few days, and then reality set in. Word had gotten back to him through two solid sources that the president had a real problem with the ticket. He was offended that no one had bothered to consult him as to who Alexander should pick as a running mate. Beyond that, the president made it clear that he considered Ross the wrong choice.

The words had stung Ross to the core, but he had since written them off as the musings of a bitter old man at the end of his journey. True to his never-quit attitude, Ross redoubled his efforts and stayed positive. This morning, however, he was feeling a sense of dread. There were only two weeks left, and the polls could move only so far in such a short period of time. They needed a real October surprise to put them over the top, and then Ross would take great pride in sticking it in the president’s face on Inauguration Day.

As the motorcade slowed, the lead vehicles began peeling off. Ross looked through the tinted bulletproof window at the media who had gathered in front of the mansion. The heavy black iron gate opened and the two limousines pulled into the narrow circular drive. Dumbarton Oaks was a twenty-two-acre estate in Georgetown that was noteworthy for hosting a conference in 1944 that led to the formation of the United Nations. It was Ross’s idea that they host a national security conference at the estate and bring in the greatest minds to discuss the issues that threatened the country. A former chairman of the Joint Chiefs was on hand, as well as two former secretaries of state, a former secretary of defense, several retired CIA directors, a few lesser-known generals, and a smattering of Middle Eastern experts and Muslim clerics from around the world.

After the three-hour event they were to head to the vice president’s house at the Naval Observatory. The vice president was set to host a diplomatic reception on their behalf. All of the important ambassadors would be there, and both Ross and Alexander would present them with their vision for security, peace, and prosperity in the twenty-first century. The event should have been held at the White House, but they had been denied. The entire election-hell-his entire political career was going to come down to this one afternoon. If he believed in God he would have said a prayer, but he didn’t, so he cursed the president instead.

The limo came to a stop and Ross looked his yammering campaign manager in the eye for the first time in five minutes. “Stu,” Ross checked to make sure his tie was straight, “shut up. You’re giving me a headache.”

With that, Ross stepped from the back of the limo. He buttoned his suit coat with one hand and waved to the reporters and photographers with the other. He was about to comment on how beautiful a day it was when the whole gaggle swung their lenses and microphones away from him. Ross turned to see the tanned and slender legs of Jillian Rautbort Alexander emerge from the other limousine.

The press loved her. They called her America ’s Diana. Her likebility number was in the seventies. Far higher than either of the candidates. She was a stunning beauty in every conceivable way. She was five foot nine with shoulder-length blond hair and a body to die for. She’d been raised among the super elite. Schooled in Switzerland and then Brown, where her father had gone. The family’s fortune was in real estate and lots of it. New York and Florida was where they had made their killing. There were homes in Paris, Manhattan, and Palm Springs. At thirty-six Jillian was one of those rare women who got better with age. She drew men into her orbit without having to bat an eye or flash a smile. She was gorgeous, classy, and hot all at the same time. Ross had thought about taking a run at her on more than one occasion. She was no vestal virgin, that was for sure, but a real opportunity never presented itself.

Josh Alexander joined his wife, and the flashes erupted once again. He was six-one with black hair and the tanned skin of a low-handicap golfer. He was polished in that southern televangelist sort of way. His suits were always a bit shinier than everyone else’s, his hair a bit longish and perfectly styled, and his teeth a few shades too white. This appearance, of course, fit the master plan to split the southern Christian vote, and the polling numbers told them it had worked. A little too well in fact. Their real problem now lay with the base. They felt betrayed, and were threatening to stay home on Election Day.

Ross watched the presidential candidate and his wife pose for the cameras. They stood there smiling, those same forced smiles that Ross had grown to hate. Even so, he kept his own fake smile going and acted like he was admiring the sheer beauty of the super couple. Ross’s wife was back in Connecticut at the bedside of their daughter who was about to give birth to their first grandchild at any moment. It was just as well. She had grown sick of the campaign. It was no joy being outshined at every stop by a woman twenty years her junior.

Alexander finally left his wife’s side and came over to Ross. He stuck out his right hand and clapped Ross on the shoulder with his left.

“How you feeling today, Mr. Vice President?”

“Good, Mr. President.” Ross strained to keep the smile on his face.

Calling each other president and vice president had been Alexander’s idea. The week after the convention, when they’d had their eight point lead, it had been fun. Now it just seemed delusional and childish. Ross still thought they had a chance. He just didn’t think the power of positive thinking was what was going to put them over the top. Five key states were up for grabs. The negative ads were in the can and if they didn’t shrink the gap in the polls by Monday morning, things were going to get real ugly. Ross knew they’d be using those ads against their opponents. It was just a question of whether they started this week or the following. This was going to be a street fight right to the bitter end.

FOUR BLOCKS AWAYGavrilo Gazich paid for his espresso with cash and was careful to keep the brim of his red Washington Nationals baseball hat tilted down so that the security camera mounted above the teller couldn’t get a good shot of him. He was also wearing sunglasses to help conceal his features. It was a sunny, fall morning in Georgetown, and the killer fit in perfectly.

Gazich preferred to operate in Africa. That was where he had made a name for himself after years of training in his war-torn homeland of Bosnia. The corrupt politicians and generals of the subcontinent made it an extremely target-rich environment. The billions in aid that were simply thrown at the impoverished region by foreign governments and international relief organizations provided an extra incentive for them to slaughter each other. The prevalence of graft from the national level all the way down to the smallest village was astounding. Of every dollar in aid, it was estimated that only ten cents actually made it to the people who really needed it.

The men at the top-warring heads of political parties, tribal leaders, gangsters, military commanders, and thugs-all fought for their piece of the action, and little value, if any, was placed on civilian life. A half a million people dead one year, a million the next. The level of carnage was mind-boggling. Respect for human life nonexistent. The lawlessness staggering. It made the civil war in Yugoslavia look like a skirmish. A simple dustup between a couple of neighborhood gangs.

During the siege of Sarajevo, Gazich had witnessed some horrible things, but nothing that compared to the sheer scope of suffering that existed in the war-torn areas of Africa. He used it to his advantage, though. The mix of chaos, corruption, brutality, and lawlessness created the perfect working environment for him. The warlords of Africa were constantly looking to expand their hold and increase their plunder. They operated under the principle of market share. If you weren’t growing, you were on your way out. The most difficult part for Gazich was keeping all the players and their shifting alliances straight.