Nika sniffed at Lin’s mouth. “It’s cyanide. So no. It’s over. I’ll make the report to the third floor,” he said. “Take her to the morgue and have her cleaned up. There might be some value in her body. The White Chinese might give us some concession in exchange for it.”
It had been a long shot, Nika thought, as he discarded his coveralls in the laundry bin and dressed himself in his suit. Still, it would have been career enhancing to have gotten a confession from the White Chinese woman. They could have broken open the Chinese cell operating in Moscow. But at least her attempt to kill Vostov had failed. The news was that Vostov had come through surgery and was resting comfortably. Nika approved. He wasn’t much of a fan of that creep Melnik, he thought.
President Dmitri Vostov operated the switch to raise his hospital bed to sit up straighter. His new staffer, Irina Kovak, handed him the phone.
“The White House switchboard is putting you through to President Carlucci,” she said.
He waited a moment, the line clicking softly for some time. “What time is it in Washington?” he asked.
“It’s 1930 there, sir. 0330 here.”
“Let’s hope he’s awake and not taking a nap,” Vostov said.
“Mr. President?” Vito Paul Carlucci’s voice came over the connection. He sounded tired and weak, Vostov thought.
“Mr. President,” Vostov said. “I was glad to hear you survived and that your surgery went well.”
“Thank you, Dimmi. And I was greatly encouraged that you came through your own surgery.”
“In a manner of speaking, Paul, we both dodged a bullet. Although in a literal sense, we didn’t dodge them at all.”
“I think we have a mutual problem, Dimmi,” Carlucci said.
“Yes, we do, Paul. When things return to normal,” Vostov said, “we should talk about our good friends in White and Red China.” Vostov coughed, and waved over his aide to give him water.
“We will, Dimmi. We definitely will.”
“But Paul, I wasn’t calling about China. I was calling to give you, what do you Americans call it, a ‘head’s up,’ I believe.”
“Yes? Go ahead, Dimmi.”
“I heard from my defense minister that Prime Minister Melnik just gave an order to the Navy to relay to our Omega class submarine
There was silence on the connection for a moment. When Carlucci spoke, his voice was choked with emotion. “Mr. President, I thank you will all my heart for this information.”
“Paul, I owed you a favor. You saved my life.” Vostov chuckled. “That was an assassination attempt ago. Plus, your vice president — I heard his son is on the American submarine that followed my
“I guarantee I am conveying Vice President Pacino’s deepest thanks as well,” Carlucci said. “I should let you rest, Dimmi.”
“It has been a pleasure to speak to you, Mr. President,” Vostov concluded formally. “Good-bye and I leave you with my best wishes for your return to full health.”
“And my wishes for your health, Mr. President,” Carlucci said. “Good-bye.”
The connection ended and Vostov handed the phone back to Irina, wondering if he had just doomed his own submarine
Vice President Michael Pacino paced the Oval Office as the early evening’s emergent domestic policy session continued, becoming impatient with the agenda of internal problems that were paraded in front of him. He had developed a newfound respect for Carlucci and his ability to deal with the minutiae of domestic policy. The infighting between cabinet members was akin to kindergarten, Pacino mused. The office politics were intense. In the middle of a debate about funding for an education initiative, a senior military aide entered the room and hurried up to Pacino.
“Secure phone call from President Carlucci,” he said, handing Pacino a secure phone.
Pacino took the phone and left the Oval Office, shutting the door to the president’s study.
“Sir,” Pacino said. “Mr. President. How are you feeling?”
“Good, Patch, on the mend, but I called you urgently because I just got off with Vostov.”
Pacino listened for a moment, his expression a deepening fury. “I understand, Mr. President. If you’ll excuse me, I need to get to the joint chiefs and the Navy.” He hung up on Carlucci and lunged for the phone on the massive desk.
“White House operator, sir,” the female voice said instantly.
“Get me Admiral Catardi immediately, and if you can, patch General Zaka in with us, but don’t delay getting me with Catardi while you look for Zaka.”
“Please stand by, sir,” the operator said.
Pacino leaned on the desk, his eyes shut, thinking of Anthony.
