Ted Bell - Spy

On the monitor, Alex Hawke could actually see Secretary de los Reyes’s face change as she listened to what he told her. A fleeting look of horror crossed it, and then she was smiling again, talking to the handsome young marine sentry standing right besider her.

The marine moved quickly.

“PLEASE RAISE YOUR right hand and repeat after me…” the Chief Justice said. The president raised his right hand and reached out to place his left hand on the Washington bible.

Suddenly, a young marine appeared at his side, putting a firm white gloved hand on the president’s forearm. It happened very quickly. The marine deftly lifted the old bible from the bookstand and handed it to a burly Secret Service agent standing just behind him. The agent handed the marine another bible, a small red leather one just passed to him by the First Lady, and the marine placed her bible upon the bookstand.

Hawke was so transfixed by the scene on the monitor that he was barely aware of his fingers tightening around Kahn’s scrawny neck. At the edge of the frame, he saw one of the president’s men hand the Inaugural bible to another man waiting beneath the podium. The man was standing atop the roof of a bomb disposal truck…Hawke looked down, surprised to see Kahn dead at his feet.

“Mr. President, are you ready to take the oath?” the Chief Justice asked, as Hawke’s eyes returned to the screen.

“I am,” the president responded.

The president placed his left hand on the small bible, which had now been opened to Genesis, and raised his right hand. He was smiling at his wife, whispering something to her.

“I, John J. McAtee do solemnly swear…” Clark began, leading the president through the oath.

“I, John J. McAtee do solemnly swear…”

The smoke cleared and Hawke was startled to see a man in a perforated bowler hat seated before the only remaining live control monitor. He was maniacally manipulating the joystick. On his screen, the president was visible on the platform. He seemed to be looking off to his right. Something was going on. Agents were moving quickly toward the president. Hawke had dared to breathe a sigh of relief, but now he saw that something was still terribly wrong.

“Top!” Hawke cried, but the man did not turn around. He had his right hand on a joystick, twisting it right and left while he tapped at a keyboard with his left. Below the podium, the crowd parted as if a knife were slicing it in two. Something, Hawke could not see what, was causing a panic; people were running for their lives.

Hawke raced toward the giant, hairless creature who had abused Congreve so viciously. Hawke could still remember the pain the man had inflicted on his own body. But it was nothing compared to the hurt and pain he’d seen in Ambrose Congreve’s eyes. That, he would never forget.

“Top,” Hawke said again, stepping directly behind the terrorist who had tortured them both so mercilessly. He bent and whispered in the man’s ear.

“I’m back.”

“Lord Hawke,” Top said evenly, his eyes riveted on the screen above. The digital clock read 11:57. Three minutes left. “You are just in time to witness America’s death throes. The bible was just an hors d’oeuvre. Take a seat for the main course, Lord Hawke.”

THE PRESIDENT’S WORDS were echoing in the small room, coming through the remaining speakers above the control panel.

“That I will faithfully execute the office of president of the United States…and will to the best of my ability…” the president said.

He paused, seeing some movement out of the corner of his eye. The Secret Service agents on the platform were speaking into their sleeves, edging toward him…

HAWKE HEARD CONCH’S tinny voice coming from the satphone. He wanted to say something to her. Anything. But there was no time. And he really had no idea what to tell her.

HAWKE’S LEFT HAND grabbed the lank ponytail and tore the man’s head back. With his right, he put the naked blade of his assault knife up under Top’s chin.

“You know what I think, Muhammad?” Hawke said, piercing the fleshy skin round the neck. “I think you are a coward. I saw it in your eyes that night. You like to inflict pain, but you cannot endure it. Am I right?”

“Two late for this,” Top said through gritted teeth. “The blow for Allah is about to be struck. No one can stop it now.”

“Wrong answer!” Hawke screamed, inserting the point of the blade inside the man’s nostril.

“I have the termination code,” Hawke said, “I want you to enter it now!”

Top laughed out loud.

Hawke tightened his left hand grip feeling the tendons compress and the voice box start to collapse. He added pressure with the knife, and blood started to trickle from the man’s nose.

“I’ve got two whole bloody minutes left,” Hawke said, withdrawing the knife from the nostril. He put the point beside the bridge of the man’s nose, inserting the point into the corner of his right eye. Blood spurted onto the control desk.

“No!” Top screamed, clenching the joystick.

“First the right eye, then the left,” Hawke said, “You won’t even see the second one land in your lap.

“Allahu akbar!” Top shouted, “I’m ready to die.”

“Good. We’ll start the process here…”

“God! No! Stop!”

“I will. Just enter your bloody password. Now!”

Top’s trembling left hand typed out the phrase “Save the fire.” And the words “Access Granted” appeared on the screen.

“Good,” Hawke said, “Now we’ll enter the code.”

“You don’t have the fucking code.”

“Trust me. Will of Allah.”

Hawke watched as the man’s trembling fingers began to enter the letters as he spoke them aloud.

“Access denied” appeared.

“Any other ideas?” Top croaked, a sick smile on his compressed lips. The clock had scrolled down to 11:58.

Hawke looked at him for a second and said, “Backwards. Enter the fucking thing backwards.”

“H-A-L-L-A-F-O-L-L-I-W.” Top entered.

“Access Granted.”

Will of Allah. Backwards. Da Vinci, Hawke had remembered, wrote backwards so that his words could only be read by looking at them in a mirror. Ambrose had given him what he needed. All he had to do was use it.

“Now shut this fucking thing down,” Hawke said, his voice low and full of menace.

Top moved his bloody finger across the keyboard, punching in a sequence of letters and numbers.

“TERMINATION. TERMINATION.”

Those two words appeared on the control screen in a continuous scroll.

The numbers on the clock had stopped at 11:59. The weapons that had been recently moved into the American capital were instantly rendered inert and useless. Even the unmanned submarine now circling in the Tidal Basin, under the watchful eye of Thomas Jefferson, shut itself down. It rolled over once, belly-up, and then banked swiftly into the muck below.

Hawke raised his eyes once more to the monitor.

The president stood his ground as the agents moved in to surround him at the podium. He had the look of a man who wasn’t going anywhere.

“AND WILL, to the best of my ability,” the president said, concluding the oath of office, “Preserve, protect, and defend the constitution of the United States…So help me God.”

THE MARINE BAND struck up “Hail to the Chief” as the cannons out on the lawn commenced firing the twenty one-gun salute.

Hawke, his eyes on the scene being played out in Washington, held the man’s head still as he drove his blade swiftly and deep into his brain.

“This is for Ambrose Congreve,” Hawke said.

Allah’s will was done.

Epilogue

W hile England slept, a soft blanket of snow had covered the countryside. The unexpected snowfall had continued all the next day. Surprise made it all the more beautiful. For a few brief moments, the sun came out from behind a cloud. It was low in the sky, about to slip behind the far western hills. Sunlight painted the gently rolling hills in shades of rosy gold and pink. The twisting road ahead was black and glistening.