The End Game

Zahir locked the bathroom door, an u

After nearly an hour of painstaking detail and concentration, he was done. He smiled at the face in the mirror. He looked again at the photograph, and nodded. Perfection.

He was ready.

He sat on the couch in the small cabin, and waited for the party to begin.

77

KING TO C1

Andrews Air Force Base

Outside Washington, D.C.

The Sea King, only known as Marine One or Marine Two if the president or vice president was aboard, was a luxury liner compared to the Little Bird that had flown them down to Washington, D.C. Once strapped in, Mike ran her hand over the soft leather, pulled back the blue drapers to look outside. “I could get used to this.”

“You enjoy being treated like the queen—whisked around from car to chopper, do you?”

“Better a chopper than a Gulfstream. I’ll never fly easy in one of those again.”

Nicholas remembered all too well the gut-wrenching fear. “I’m with you.”

The chopper’s liftoff was smooth, and a moment later they were heading northwest toward Camp David.

Mike watched Nicholas pull an orange file out of his laptop case. “What is that? And who was that man who gave it to you?”

“That was George Hempton from the British embassy. I’m very glad he caught us before we left the Hoover Building. My father sent it to me, said it was urgent. Let’s see what it has to say.” He pulled out a sheaf of papers and read aloud:

Nicholas,

Be very careful hunting Zahir Damari. He’s extremely intelligent, skilled with guns and knives, primarily, and has the disguise skills of a master Hollywood makeup technician, which you probably already know. But he’s better than you think, so be alert. Attached are a series of potential photographs. You’ll at least get a sense for his build, his movements.

This is a copy, burn this when you’re through.

Come home soon. We miss you.

It was signed simply, HD.

Nicholas moved to sit beside Mike. He opened the dossier, and the two of them began to read.

Damari was a chameleon. He managed to elude capture mostly because no one knew what he really looked like. The photographs included in the file showed a tall man, estimated height between one ninety and one ninety-three centimeters, which fit with what Nicholas knew about the Bayo

Mike lightly touched her fingers to the photo. “Isn’t that strange? He’s young and he should look i

“I doubt he looks anything remotely like this now, except maybe for the eyes.”

They read the various physical descriptions. Mike pulled out the photo of him that Vanessa had taken, and the photo of the man who’d met Woody Reading at the diner in Baltimore. They all looked like different men. “I knew he must be good,” Mike said, “but your dad’s right. This is incredible.”

His kill list stretched for pages. Damari had been involved or solely responsible for several major assassinations, and many more minor ones. He was charged with unseating governments in Chile and Uganda through pinpoint strikes against certain players, taking out a DA in Argentina, a member of the Saudi royal family who’d gotten too full of himself. Page after page, a long, storied career for an assassin. And these were only the confirmed kills. Who knew how many others there were, off the radar?

Mike elbowed him, showed him a text on her phone. It was from Gray.

Border patrol stopped man fitting Damari’s last known description in Texas. Will let you know more when we have it, not that it matters all that much now that we already know he’s here, in our backyard. Have fun partying w/ big dogs. Bring us presidential M&Ms.

Nicholas stared out the window at the lush green landscape below, at the sprawling towns, wanting to feel excited, but he didn’t. There was something that wasn’t right and he didn’t know what it was. It was driving him nuts.

78

KNIGHT TO E2 CHECK

Camp David

Catoctin Mountain

We’ll be landing shortly at Camp David,” Captain Willis said over the intercom. “Naval Support Facility Thurmont is a full-time naval base tucked high on Catoctin Mountain here in northwestern Maryland. It’s one of the most secure places in the world. I hope you had a pleasant flight and enjoyed our brief tourist spiel. Do give our best to the president. Agent Drummond, he knows he’s a very lucky man, thanks to your being right on the spot.”

When the green-and-white Sea King touched down and the rotors stopped, they climbed out, shook the pilots’ hands. Mike shivered; it was at least fifteen degrees cooler in the mountains, and she was glad she’d packed a sweater.

Two rows of sailors, one on either side of the concrete path, waited to greet them. She knew the Navy and Marine perso

Vice President Sloane was at the end of the line of white-uniformed men and women, standing between the U.S. flag and another flag with the presidential seal on a blue background. She was smiling at them.

“Yes, I could get used to this,” Mike said to Nicholas, who gave her a distracted smile. What was this? What was he thinking about?

Callan shook their hands. “Welcome, welcome. We’re so glad to see you. Thank you for everything.”

Mike saw the sailors who’d greeted them tip their caps. She felt touched, a bit overwhelmed, and managed a wobbly smile.

Nicholas said, “I am very grateful things turned out well.”

“They did indeed, thanks to you,” Callan said. “Tonight we celebrate. Tomorrow we’ll worry about the bombs and Damari. Come.”

Mike had never imagined herself being here, at Camp David, of all places, in conversation with the vice president and soon enough, the president himself. Her father was going to love it, want every detail about security, and her mom would want to know about everything from food to clothes to who said what to whom, particularly who had admired and praised her daughter. Oh, yes, and what did she wear?

Nicholas said, “You honor us, ma’am. Thank you.” He appreciated the respect they were showing. He committed it all to memory for his mom and Nigel. He sent a prayer heavenward, so grateful the code had worked.

Callan waved for them to follow, began moving toward two waiting golf carts. “We’ll ride to the cabins,” she said. “Hop in.”

Nicholas was looking around, searching the area, alert, not at all relaxed, taking careful measure of exactly where they were, where the Secret Service and military perso

Callan said, “We’ve put you in Dogwood, where we’re headed right now. It has a storied history—Brezhnev, Sadat, Medvedev, why, Nixon’s secretary typed up the Watergate notes in the lounge. But no ghosts, so don’t worry about that. I’m over there, in Birch. We’re flaunting protocol, but not too much. It’s a quick walk up to Aspen; Mike, if you’re in heels we can easily leave you the cart, but you’ll have to buzz around to the front entrance, though. Cocktails start in twenty minutes, you have exactly enough time to freshen up. We’re business casual tonight, though whatever you have with you is completely fine.”