Vaughn Heppner: Invasion: New York

Did the Tunisia terrorist attack have anything to do with the GD decision ?

In other words, had Chancellor Kleist really believed that America had been responsible for the terrorism? Anna doubted it. Even so, she knew Kleist had used the supposed “truth.” The CIA had learned that there had been a secret GD memo sent to many European heads of state—states such as Bavaria, Gotland, Prussia, Galicia, Tyrol, Lombardy, Gascony and others. Kleist had used the supposed CIA funding for propaganda purposes: to build up hatred against the Americans.

As she sat at her table, Anna was convinced that the terrorist plot had come from one man’s devious mind: Chairman Hong. The monster was capable of anything, even attacking the world’s dwindling food supply in the worst famine in a thousand years.

“Ma’am,” a deep-voiced man said behind her.

Anna looked up in surprise, and she nearly choked on a piece of lettuce.

Agent Demetrius of the U.S. Secret Service stood at her shoulder. He’d been with her at Iceland last year when she had secretly met with Chancellor Kleist. Demetrius was a large black man and wore a black suit and sunglasses. He guarded her outside the White House whenever David didn’t come along. The President had his own security detail. Her times away from David had been more and more often lately. It was one of the reasons she’d begun brooding.

“I’m sorry to startle you, ma’am,” Demetrius said. His features didn’t change as he said it. The man was like ice. Nothing seemed to surprise him.

“No, no,” Anna said. “I…I was thinking. Is something wrong?”

Demetrius minutely shifted his head.

Anna looked around him, and she spied Max Harold, the Director of Homeland Security. Three huge men stood near him. They were Militia bodyguards, and they had a notorious reputation.

Anna sat in a secluded part of Frobisher, in a little alcove higher than the other tables, with a small railing separating her from them. The lights were subdued here, with old sailing pictures hanging on the walls. The director stood by a table filled with plates of half-eaten meals.

Had Max been eating there with his bodyguards? She didn’t see anyone else who could have been eating with him. Anna wondered if he’d noticed her earlier or just now. She hadn’t believed he frequented this place.

Anna knew a pang of unease. Had Max come here to speak with her? She didn’t like the idea.

“Yes?” Anna said to Demetrius.

“The director told me he would like to join you for a brandy,” the agent said.

“I’m not sure that would be a good—”

“Ma’am,” Demetrius said. “He’s going to insist. Now I’m more than willing to keep him from you, but there are three of them and only one of me.”

Anna studied Demetrius, and she noticed he flexed his left hand, as if he was readying himself to fight. Then his thumb began to pop each of the fingers’ joints in turn. “You can’t seriously believe Max’s bodyguards would start a… an incident here.” It would have been too preposterous to say “a fight.” Yet that’s what she’d been thinking.

“Would you like to leave?” Demetrius asked.

“I’m not finished eating,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Demetrius said, and the way he said it troubled her.

There was a reason for her feeling uneasy about Max’s request. David had been acting strangely lately, and the two of them hadn’t gone out to eat as much. It came to her that the last time had been just before the GD invasion of Ontario. Since then, the President had been retreating into himself. She’d tried to bring him out of isolation, but…

Anna swallowed nervously, and she almost reached for the wine glass.

While moving into her alcove, Max Harold cleared his throat. Maybe he thought she was taking too long to decide. “Anna Chen,” he said. “This is a surprise.”

Demetrius shifted his head the tiniest fraction. It was a question for her: did she want to do something about the intrusion?

The idea made her spine tingle. She disliked confrontations, and it would be unwise to insult Max. The man held onto grudges as if they were ancient gold coins and he a curator of artifacts.

“Won’t you sit down, Director?” Anna asked.

“Oh, well, since you’re asking,” Max said. He turned to his bodyguards and jutted his chin at the table of half-eaten food. They pulled out chairs and sat down there, looking like mob hitmen more than the protectors of the second most powerful man in America.

Demetrius retreated, taking up station below the alcove and facing the three bodyguards. They ignored him. With a clatter of plates, they also shoved aside the half-eaten food and told a waitress to bring them menus.

Max, meanwhile, pulled out a chair and sat down at the table with Anna.

She knew him from the many inner circle meetings with the President and she knew him from reputation. He was like an encyclopedia, able to spout facts at will. He displayed little emotion but ironclad logic. Physically unremarkable, Max was in his mid-fifties, with a bald head dotted with liver spots. He wore a rumbled suit today as he always did and had a distracted air like a preoccupied professor.

That’s an illusion, maybe even pretense .

Max was polite, seemed harmless enough in person and had managed to amass great power as the head of Homeland Security. His genius and ability to outwork any three people had been instrumental in creating the vast Militia organization. They had gone a long way to ensuring that America had enough soldiers to fight the massed invaders.

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs had never approved of the Militia. General Alan had said on many occasions that the Marines were competition enough for the Army. Despite their dog and cat antagonism, Max and General Alan had been forced to work together for quite some time.

Through his immense organizational abilities, Max had made himself indispensable to the President and many said indispensable to the United States of America. Others said his organization had become too preoccupied with how citizens should think and act.

“Did I miss David?” Max asked her.

As she shook her head, Anna found that her appetite had fled. She cradled the wine goblet and quickly set it down as she saw that her hand trembled. What was wrong with her?

“Are you feeling under the weather?” Max asked.

Anna forced herself to stare into his eyes. She’d dealt with some of the world’s most powerful people before, including Chancellor Kleist of the German Dominion. Surely, she could face the Director of Homeland Security. She found Max’s eyes like obsidian chips, emitting nothing, and today it felt as if they sucked the warmth out of her.

“Oh,” Max said. He used the voice of a reasonable man, of one with emotions, but those eyes said otherwise.

In that moment, Anna had the sense of really seeing the director for the first time. She felt as if she was in the presence of one of the loathsome secret policemen of history like Himmler, Dzerzhinsky of the NKVD or maybe even Robespierre, the master of the guillotine during the height of the French Revolution.

“I see,” Max said quietly, almost to himself.

Despite a feeling of weakness, Anna lifted the goblet. Her hand trembled, but she couldn’t help it. She sipped wine, needing it, hoping the alcohol could steady her nerves. She was seriously overreacting. It was ridiculous that she should fear Max Harold. She glanced at him, certain now that she’d see the man as he’d always been and not as some dangerous revolutionary bent on…what, amassing more power.

Max stretched his lips in the approximation of a smile. It showed his capped white teeth. As he smiled, the obsidian eyes observed her. To Anna, it felt as if he cataloged her reactions and made precise judgments. She disliked the sensation and came to a precise conclusion of her own. She wished he would sense her disquiet and do the gentlemanly thing and leave.