The 13th Symbol: Rise of the Enlightened One: The Thirteenth Series, #3

By William Struse

At the very cusp of the Order’s victory in their ancient battle for the destiny of mankind, the death of Peter Herschel threatens its very existence. Will another rise from the ashes of these events to lead the Order and bear the torch of enlightenment? Behind the scenes, two men set in motion events which they hope will result in one of them winning the ultimate victory. The stakes have never been higher. The only thing standing between them and their destiny is the location of the 13th Symbol.

Zane Harrison has never been happier. He has won the love of Rachael Neumann, and in just a few days she will be his bride. Unknown to him, their lives are about to be turned upside down. As world leaders race to find the 13th Symbol and an unimaginable fortune in gold, their focus converges on Zane Harrison. As events overtake him, Zane struggles to survive and find a way out of the greatest treasure hunt the world has ever known. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Struse
• Release date: Apr 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533776136

Book preview

Chapter 1

London, England, Present Day

Reading the report for the third time, Rawlins Dewhurst felt his hands begin to tremble uncontrollably as realization swept over him. Slowly he placed the paper back on his desk, and reaching to loosen his nine-hundred-pound white-and-blue silk tie, he looked balefully out of the corner of his eye at a bar of gold which had been cut in half. Now sitting on his desk like a worthless paperweight, its dull gray core mocked him. With unsteady hands he removed a handkerchief from the pocket of his suit and wiped away the bead of sweat forming on his ice-cold forehead. He was trapped. Trapped by his own ambition, the allure of Sir Peter’s gold, and a mistake.

Rawlins’s pragmatic mind ran through his options. None of them were pleasant. The repercussions were incalculable and the costs damning.

Bloody hell, he muttered as he folded his hands and placed them on top of his desk in an effort to stop their shaking. How could he have been so stupid? The bloody gold had ruined him.

The irony was not lost upon him. Barrclays Bank had its origins in the goldsmithing business of James Barrclay in 1690. Now, over three centuries later, it would see its demise due to the single largest gold hoard in history. They had truly come full circle. All because he had been in a hurry to get Sir Peter Herschel’s gold into their London vault.

He knew the axe would fall hardest on him. He had signed off on the partial audit of the gold in order to speed the transfer. His signature was the official Barrclays certification.

As if it were some evil talisman, Rawlins touched the thirteen-pound bar. With effort he lifted the glowing metal and looked at the cut end. This one had been the first, part of the bank’s transaction and storage charge. As per their agreement, Peter Herschel was to pay their fees in bullion. When the bullion was transferred from Sir Peter’s holdings to the bank’s own accounts, a full audit was done on the transferred gold. Each of the gold bars had been tested and the one he was now holding found.

Whoever had made the counterfeit gold bars had done a superb job. The bar he held had been cut in half, exposing its tungsten core. For years they had known about fake tungsten bars, but nothing like what they now held in the vaults below his feet. Gold bugs and conspiracy quacks had been claiming for years that the gold in Fort Knox and other central banks around the world held fake bars. Every time the price of gold dropped, they came out of the woodwork claiming that the powers that be were dumping their gold bullion on the market in an effort to suppress the price. Their ludicrous theory was that as long as central banks could keep the lid on the price of gold, the ignorant masses would keep using the worthless paper currencies of the world. In an effort to disguise their nefarious activities, the banks replaced their dumped gold bullion with fake gold bars, or so the story went.

Rawlins sighed with resignation. Looks like the conspiracy nuts will have their day in the sun after all, he muttered.

What made tungsten so attractive as a gold substitute was its density: compared to 24K gold, it was only a .26 percent difference. In small gold coins this discrepancy was visually apparent. A full-sized gold bar, on the other hand, only had a .0017 percent dimensional difference—visually indistinguishable. The best way to determine the real from the fake was by ultrasound.

That was how the fake bar he was holding had been found—after he signed off on the certification of the gold bullion shipment. Due to the amount of gold Peter Herschel had placed under their custodianship and his desire to get it into their vaults as quickly as possible, he had authorized a limited spot check of several dozen bars. Everything had appeared legitimate.

Now, a month later, he had followed the discovery of the first bar with a complete and final audit of the entire shipment of gold. One third of the bars were fake. Barrclays now had to guarantee several hundred billion dollars’ worth of fake gold bars. That was beyond the scope of any modern-day financial institution, let alone the one Rawlins Dewhurst oversaw.

If this information got out, the gold price would spike as traders realized that billions of dollars in gold would have to be bought in order to make good on the fake gold held in Barrclays’ vaults. It would be a vicious cycle: what was several hundred billion dollars of paper loss right now could grow to multiples of that if anyone ever found out.

To make matters worse, about the same time as the discovery, he’d received a phone call from the new president of Iran demanding to know the names of those present at the attempted opening of Sir Peter Herschel’s will. He claimed the new Persian nation had been defrauded by Peter Herschel, and he was going to contest the execution of the will. At first Rawlins had refused to give him any information, but then Darius Zarindast had threatened to leak the information about the gold to the press. How he knew about the fake gold Rawlins had no idea, but in an effort to keep a lid on the information until an audit could be completed, he e-mailed Zarindast the list. Zarindast had promised not to share the information, and to Rawlins’s surprise, he kept his word. But all that didn’t matter now.

Rawlins turned his attention back to the paper sitting on his desk—the report detailing the results of the audit. It was the kiss of death for one of the most respected banking institutions in the world. In the current financial environment, the loss would likely cascade across the London banking industry and ultimately fall upon the shoulders of the British central bank and the Crown. London’s status as the world’s banking center would be no more. All because a greedy little banker named Rawlins Dewhurst had cut a corner. They’d be coming for him, that was for sure; bloody good it would do them.

Rawlins set the fake gold bar back down on the report, leaving the fake side up. Leaning to one side, he opened a drawer in his desk. Calmly he removed a nickel-plated automatic pistol from under the papers at the bottom of the drawer; and placing it to his temple, Rawlins Dewhurst pulled the trigger.

Chapter 2

London, England

Shane Donnelly unlocked the door and pushed it open with his gloved hand. His attention was drawn to the white envelope that had been slid beneath it. Glancing to his right, he searched the dimly lit hallway for threats. Satisfied, he bent down, picked up the letter, and closed the door behind him. From the corner behind the door, he lifted a steel bar and slid it into its brackets on each side, effectively barring any unwanted entry.

Walking further into his dingy apartment, Shane sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the letter. A single word in black ink was written on the back. Wahhabi.

A slight tremor passed through his body as he considered the implications. It had been seven months now since he destroyed the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem with his army of nanobots, and the tiny room he now occupied was the third safe house he had moved to since returning from Israel. He had learned of Peter Herschel’s death a month after returning to Britain, and now he was doing the only thing he could do: hiding.

He hesitated to open the letter. As far as he knew, only Peter Herschel knew the particulars of the Wahhabi Protocol. The Guardians would all have voted on it, but Peter would have kept the details to himself. At least, that was what he had believed up till now. The only explanation for this letter was that someone else knew of his involvement in the protocol, and they had been following him since Israel.

Shane felt the skin on his arm prickle. He could only hope this letter was from one of the Guardians. He glanced at the door grimly, half-expecting it to burst open at any moment despite the steel bar.

Finally he tore off the end of the envelope. Squeezing both edges, he opened it slightly and pulled the single sheet of paper out with his thumb and forefinger.

You have been compromised. Proceed immediately to 192 Elm Street, Lockingshire. Wait for further instructions.

After reading the message once more, Shane returned it to the envelope and placed it in the inside pocket of his leather jacket. Reaching under the bed, he removed a duffel bag and gathered his meager belongings. When he was finished, he took a bottle of household cleaner and paper towels and wiped down every hard surface he might have touched.

Working his way through the apartment, he considered the message. Clearly it was not from the police or the security services of any government. If they had been following him, he would be under arrest right now, not removing every vestige of his existence from the apartment. And despite the word on the back of the envelope, he still doubted Peter had given the details of the protocol to any of the Guardians. Peter kept all sensitive activities of the Order compartmentalized; something as important as the Wahhabi Protocol he would have guarded especially carefully. The only option that made any sense was that Peter Herschel had left someone behind to watch him.

Taking one last look around the apartment, Shane checked for anything he had missed. Confident he had cleaned the place sufficiently, he turned to pick up his bag.

A loud knock at the door interrupted him. Shane cursed under his breath as he peered out through the peephole and saw a police officer standing outside his door.

The officer knocked again. Police, Mr. Donnelly, open the door!

Shane didn’t hesitate any longer. He moved to the window at the other side of the apartment. Opening it with care, he stepped out on the ledge and made his way to the drain spout ten feet away. He slung the bag over his shoulder and grabbed hold. He slid quietly from his third-story perch to the alley below. Calmly, he walked down the alley, disappearing into the darkness.

Chapter 3

Tehran, Iran

Forty-seven-hundred kilometers away, two dark brown eyes looked through a pair of Russian-made, military-grade binoculars. A quiver of excitement passed through the confident figure, who stood on the balcony of the military palace overlooking the rail yard just over a kilometer distant.

The rail yard was a frenzy of activity as soldiers and rail workers unloaded one hundred and four brand-new Armata Russian T-99 battle tanks. The Universal Combat Platforms, as they were known, were the latest generation of the Russian military’s tracked vehicle multiuse platform. Two months earlier in a secret meeting outside of Moscow, Darius Zarindast had been given a demonstration of the awesome firepower the new tanks wielded. The tanks being offloaded below were some of the first off a production line that, to the surprise of Western military analysts, was almost a year ahead of schedule.

Darius laughed grimly. Peter Herschel’s death couldn’t have come at a better time. Only he could have proven that Persia had counterfeited the billions in gold bullion. Meanwhile, he had put Sir Peter’s billions in gold—the real stuff—to good use. Two months ago he had secretly signed the single largest military contract in Russian history. With a hundred billion in gold as a down payment, and five hundred billion in oil contracts as a kicker, Persia would soon have the most dominant military in the Middle East and the fifth largest in the world.

These tanks were just a small part of Darius’s efforts to modernize the Persian military. He had also purchased fifty Russian T-50 advanced stealth fighter jets, which Russia promised would be delivered early next year.

In a display of political statecraft, Darius also publically committed Persia to dismantling their nuclear program. At the same time, he tripled Persia’s budget to produce nuclear weapons. He had no intention of meekly submitting to American-led international pressure to relinquish Persia’s sovereign right to acquire nuclear weapons. Once he had the bomb, the world would no longer have a choice but to recognize Persia as a legitimate world power.

A pleased look on his face, Darius lowered the binoculars and turned to enter the palace. He was remaking Persia into a credible world power. All had not gone smoothly since he became president. The most pressing problem was Turkey. They were meddling in Persian affairs by fomenting unrest in the kingdom. Since Darius’s rise to power as the leader of a moderate Muslim democracy, Turkey’s influence had been severely diminished in the Middle East. Their attempts to become the dominant Muslim power broker had been cut off at the knees, but they were still causing him problems. In the past month alone there had been three suicide bombings.

Darius clenched his teeth in anger. He knew the current Turkish prime minister, Cemil Omidzadeh, had been trying to position himself as a type of Muslim Mahdi. Now with radical Islam nearly eradicated in Persia and its influence severely diminished in the rest of the world, his efforts were failing. This had given Darius his only true enemy in the Middle East.

Darius slapped his fist into his open hand. The only thing slowing his efforts were the damn Turks and the Americans: the Turks with their pan-Arab ambitions and the American government talking democracy but secretly providing arms to the terrorist organizations in order to destabilize the region. The closest the American public had come to learning some of what was going on was the Benghazi affair.

Several months ago, Darius had decided he would help the rest of the world realize how dangerous Turkey was to a democratic Middle East and at the same time cause America to pull resources back to their homeland. Today he hoped to set the catalyst for that idea in motion.

He glanced at his watch as he paused at the gold-trimmed mirror set in the wall next to the door. Two hard eyes stared back at him from his clean-shaven face. He wondered what other people saw when they looked at themselves in the mirror. Sometimes he didn’t recognize the face looking back at him.

Self-consciously looking away, he opened the door to the grand hallway and took a flight of stairs near the end to the second unmarked door.

ShahrAm Najafi, the Persian intelligence chief, turned from the window out of which he was staring and greeted Darius with a thin, cold smile. Darius and ShahrAm had come to an agreement shortly after Darius became president. ShahrAm was plainly told he had unilateral power as long as his efforts were directed toward strengthening Persia’s position in the Middle East and rooting out every vestige of radical Muslim discontent in the kingdom. ShahrAm couldn’t be more satisfied with the arrangement, since he held a deep-seated but well-guarded hatred for Islam. In investigating his background, Darius had learned ShahrAm’s parents were proud Persians who held to the old traditions. They had honored Ahura Mazda, the Persian god of light and wisdom, and they had not accepted the Islamic traditions forced upon them by the fanatics. Their stance had cost them their lives.

For his part, Darius really didn’t care if ShahrAm’s efforts were part of a deeply held personal animosity or not. For the time being, this man’s hatred overrode any other ambition, and that allowed Darius to use him without concern for his own safety. Secretly, he too wished to see every vestige of Islam eradicated from his county. It would not be possible in his lifetime, but ShahrAm Najafi’s efforts were a step in the right direction. In the meantime, he would use moderate Muslims and their beliefs to further his own agenda. He just didn’t want to be looking over his shoulder all the time for a suicide bomber.

Good afternoon, Najafi. Thank you for meeting with me. I know you are a busy man, so let me get right to the point. At our last meeting, you raised the subject of the Islamic ghost cell which your predecessors were training to carry out an attack on the West.

Brainwashed fanatics, every one of them, ShahrAm spat in his particularly unsettling rasp. His voice reached just above a whisper, and it never failed to make Darius’s skin crawl.

According to the file you provided me, several of them are Turkish PKK rebels, are they not?

ShahrAm shrugged and turned out both hands in a noncommittal gesture. It’s complicated. Several are technically Turks with PKK sympathies. Half are Kurds, the rest Iraqis. Islamic religious fanatics all. Each have a burning hatred for the West in general and the Great Satan particularly. This group is the first of what was to be an elite force trained to carry out specialized attacks against Western targets. The training requires two years of specialized instruction. During training they have very little contact with the outside world. This group has almost completed their two years. They must be used or disposed of. They are as dangerous serpents, fanatics who will not hesitate to sacrifice their lives for the cause. They will not understand the changes that have taken place in the last two years. If we just turn them loose, they might come to see us as the enemy.

Darius stroked his chin thoughtfully. Can their mission be modified to meet the requirements we discussed without jeopardizing operational integrity?

ShahrAm gave an evil smile and nodded. These are the most dangerous team of assassins Persia has ever produced. I have seen them in action. They will carry out their mission with a single-minded ferocity that is better directed toward our enemies than ourselves.

Darius replied with cold finality, Very well, then, ShahrAm, proceed with the mission as we discussed. We will give the Americans a taste of their own medicine, and the Turks will get part of the blame.

Darius turned to leave the room but paused at the door with his hand on the brass handle. Without looking back he said coldly, See to it that this succeeds, ShahrAm, and you will be rewarded. Do not fail me.

Chapter 4

Capernaum, Israel

Two precise blows finished the job of nailing the final board in place. Zane Harrison set down the hammer and looked up at the smiling faces of David Johnson and Samuel McKinney. Well, that’s it! he said as he sat back against the wall of the house and admired the deck the three of them had just finished.

For two weeks now, David and Sam had been busy helping Zane finish Rachael’s mansion, as they had come to call it. David and Sam were beaming. Their friendship for Zane was reason enough for their enthusiasm for the project, but anything to do with the Holy Land had a special added significance. Over the past two weeks, Zane had been sharing with them the Jewish wedding traditions and the wonderful symbolism connecting those traditions to the Bible. The new understanding they’d gained of their own faith bolstered all three of them and made the time together even better.

Sam reached into a cooler and grabbed several ice-cold bottles of water. Handing Zane and David each one, he raised his, and the three of them touched their bottles in celebration.

To the bride and groom! Sam called out.

Here, here, Zane and David replied.

Enjoying the cold water, the three of them looked over the railing that surrounded the deck. The Sea of Galilee sparkled like a glistening jewel nestled in the brown and green hills that encircled it. Rachael’s mansion faced due west on the hills of Migdal, which overlooked the glittering blue waters of the Galilee just half a mile away. The house itself was a simple rectangle with just two main rooms and a bathroom, small and cozy—the term mansion had come into use simply for its relation to the biblical metaphor. The long side with the deck faced the west and the Galilee. Picture windows in the bedroom at one end faced Capernaum to the north and the Galilee to the west. The main kitchen and living room were separated from the bedroom by a short hall and a bathroom. Several large windows fronted the living room area and gave a majestic view of the sea. It was a simple, practical design, not meant to impress anyone but to frame the natural beauty around them. Zane hoped Rachael like it.

The three friends silently considered the implications of the little mansion as they enjoyed their surroundings and the refreshingly cool water. Sam couldn’t help but smile. Soon the bridegroom would be returning for his bride. He glanced at the front door, which had been nailed shut since construction of the house had started. With a boyish grin, Zane had explained that the first person to go through that door would be Rachael, in his arms.

Sam took another sip of water and wondered if the blessing of a wife and family were someday in store for him. Underneath his happy-go-lucky enthusiasm was a yearning for a relationship like Zane and Rachael’s. It wasn’t jealousy, he didn’t think. He just acknowledged the rightness of what they shared: the combination of wills, desires, and efforts toward a new, united purpose in life.

His laugh disturbed the silence and brought David’s and Zane’s glances his direction.

What’s so funny? David asked with a grin.

Sam laughed again. I was just thinking about precocious little Zane and Rachael juniors crawling all over this deck someday. In no time they’ll be climbing the door frames and swinging from the rafters.

David laughed in turn. Yeah, won’t that be something to see! Mom and Dad will definitely have their hands full.

Sam and David both laughed again as Zane’s ears turned red. When Zane wasn’t forthcoming with a sappy reply, David changed the subject.

Have you seen any interest from the people you’ve sent your information on Daniel’s Seventy Weeks to?

Zane was quiet for a moment before replying. No, not really. The only real interest is the one person I already told you about. Mostly silence from the rest. Out of the fifty or so e-mails and letters I’ve sent, less than half a dozen have replied. Two wrote scathing letters attacking me personally for daring to offer something that pointed out the errors in their teaching. Two pretty well-known prophecy teachers did respond, but would you believe it? They wanted to know why the chronology of Ezra and Nehemiah was even relevant to their interpretation of the prophecy of Daniel.

As Zane paused to take a drink of water, David said, You’d think they hadn’t even read your work. Don’t they understand that Ezra and Nehemiah’s place in the Second Temple era is the starting point for calculating the prophecy of Daniel 9? You’ve laid that out pretty clearly.

Zane shrugged. "I try not to get upset about it, but I’m convinced most have never even looked to see if their basic premise is correct. As crazy as it sounds, I think some of them don’t even realize that the term Artaxerxes is just a title, not a proper name."

Sam interrupted in an unusually sober tone. You guys should cut them some slack. Not too long ago, we all would have given a similar answer. They’re just repeating what they’ve been taught. It’s not an easy thing to accept that something you’ve believed is based on a false premise, and you’ve gotta face it: Zane’s information pulls down a major house of cards. My advice is, give them some time. Those with integrity will eventually take a serious look. The charlatans will ignore you, and when they can’t do that anymore, they’ll attack you personally. In any case you’ve got a major uphill battle, and you’d better settle in for the long haul.

Zane and David nodded silently. Sam cleared his throat. Have you heard any more from that Mike guy who e-mailed you? From what you’ve said, he seems to be real interested.

Zane’s sober look lightened. Not in the last couple of days. He seems really excited about the 13th Enumeration and the Jubilee Code, though. After I see how things go back home, I’ll try to contact him and see if he wants to meet before I return to Israel.

Any idea who this guy is? asked Sam.

David looked at Sam curiously. Was it his imagination, or did something in Sam’s tone seem just a little bit off? David glanced at Zane to see if he was getting the same vibes, but he didn’t appear to have picked up on it. Maybe it was just his imagination. But no, he knew better than that. Sam, who just a minute before was advising patience and forbearance, had asked that question with something more in mind. David’s antenna now fully on, he listened carefully.

Zane’s enthusiasm was clearly evident as he continued, No, just that he’s some pastor or teacher from a big church in Maryland. His e-mail came from [e-mail]. It’s one of those megachurches—I was curious, so I did a little research. It has a dozen pastors and twice as many associate pastors, youth leaders, and other teachers. There are several Mikes listed on their staff page.

Isn’t that the church the new senator pastored? David asked.

Yeah, it is, Zane said. He grinned. Can you imagine if an organization like that grabbed on to this information? It would definitely get the attention it deserves.

Sam, with just a subtle touch of the undercurrent David had noticed earlier, asked, "Do you think this Mike fellow could be the senator? His first name is Michael, after all."

Zane looked to Sam and then David in genuine astonishment before he answered. Nooo, I really doubt that. He stepped down from his position as pastor to accept the Maryland senatorial position. I’m sure he has more important things to deal with. I bet the last thing on his mind right now is me or my new perspective on Daniel’s prophecy.

Looking between the two of them, he said with a sparkle, You’ve got to admit it would be really cool if it was him. Can you image the attention he could bring to the information?

That would be too cool, Zane, Sam said without his typical enthusiasm. Zane was too stoked to notice Sam’s atypical response, but David was definitely going to ask Sam about it when they were alone. Something was bothering their friend, and he was trying not to let it show.

Zane finished his water and screwed the cap back on the bottle. If it’s okay with you guys, how about we drive into Tel Aviv tomorrow? I need to buy a couple more pieces of furniture for the house, and I’d like to buy you both dinner before I leave. There’s a place Rachael and I both like—it’s right on the beach. How does that sound?

I’m all over that, Sam said.

Sounds good, David replied, smiling.

Chapter 5

Washington, DC

As he stared out the window of the Oval Office, Jordan Hamilton, the president of the United States, considered the tattered remains of his political career. Like the hazy gloom outside the window, Jordan’s own future seemed hopelessly bleak. Just six months ago he was in the ascendancy, the hottest political commodity since Ronald Reagan, a sure bet for a second term. But that was before the debacle at Senator Robert Foster’s funeral.

Before Robert Foster’s political U-turn, he had been one of Jordan’s biggest allies. Then overnight, the man grew a conscience. Jordan still remembered that day with bitterness. Robert had requested a meeting to explain his change of heart. Jordan recalled laughing when Robert explained that he had been born again and that this required him to reorder his political life. His laughter was replaced by bitter gall when Robert went on to explain exactly what that meant to their cozy relationship.

Jordan saw it simply as a betrayal. He didn’t care what Robert wanted to believe or do with his personal life, but his decisions had altered their once mutually beneficial relationship. That day, Robert Foster became his greatest foe.

Hamilton hated Robert Foster’s guts and couldn’t be happier he was six feet under—and that was the whole problem. When Robert’s death was announced, Jordan celebrated. But after his antics at Foster’s memorial service, his illustrious political career crashed and burned. He’d let his animosity toward one of America’s most beloved politicians show publically, and the American people had seen his disrespectful display immortalized on tape. By friend and foe alike, the tape had been played over and over again.

Now, six months later, he was hunkered down in the White House hoping for a miracle that did not appear to be in the offing. His animosity toward Robert Foster had been replaced by hatred and fear for the prime beneficiary of Robert’s misfortune: Michael Vidal, Robert’s best friend and longtime confidante.

Jordan swiveled his chair away from the gloomy scenery outside and pounded his fists against the oiled surface of the Resolute desk, its ancient timbers centered behind the Great Seal in the carpeted floor of the Oval Office. This was not the first time the English oak of the famous British arctic exploration ship HMS Resolute had suffered such abuse.

When his bruised fists impeded his unpresidential outburst, Jordan Hamilton stood and paced the rich carpet of what he now considered his political jail cell.

Stepping down from his position as pastor, Michael Vidal had moved naturally into the vacated senatorial seat of Robert Foster. A freaking Bible thumper! Jordan muttered. And not just any Bible thumper. Vidal was the most respected American religious leader of their generation. He had charisma, and if the fickle media was to be believed, an almost mesmerizing energy.

Jordan had watched helplessly as the blood of his political career was sucked out by a Bible-quoting vampire. The worst part was he could not smear Michael Vidal as some right-wing religious nut. The new senator of Maryland was the poster boy for a new brand of secular Christianity. A unique form of Christianity wrapped in the impenetrable armor of American patriotism.

After eight years of his predecessor’s divisive tenure, the American Christian psyche had been severely wounded. As in all human endeavors, the pendulum had begun to swing back the other way. Jordan had been able to capitalize on that swing because anyone less radical than the previous administration was a blessed relief. Now he could read the political handwriting on the wall, and the pendulum was swinging farther to the right than his record would allow. He either had to swing with it or be left behind. After watching Michael Vidal for the past seven months, his instincts told him that the new senator had bigger ambitions. The question was, how could he neutralize the new senator without getting his hands dirty?

His thoughts were interrupted by the soft tread he recognized as that of his chief of staff.

Excuse me, sir, she said as he looked up.

The president replaced his knitted brow with his best game face. Good morning, Jenny. How bad does it look today?

Typical, sir. A hair just this side of insane. The president of Persia has increased the pressure on our drone policy in the Middle East. If the latest diplomatic rumors are correct, Iraq has finally signed off, and we will be losing the use of their airspace. The kingdom is getting pressured and the Kuwaitis are on the fence. Privately, our allies are telling us they no longer see a need for targeted drone killings, since the Middle East has all but eradicated the more extremist Muslim elements with Persia’s help. Now that Persia has decidedly democratic leanings, it’s becoming harder to justify our current policies.

The president had resumed his pacing, and as Jenny Carter paused, he turned to her, talking more for his own benefit than hers. Zarindast is flexing his muscle. According to our intelligence sources, Persia has purchased several billion dollars’ worth of new military hardware from Russia. This of course has the Israelis freaking out and demanding we do something. Personally, I think it serves them right. I’m fed up with their demands. With the changes in the Middle East, there’s little need and even less support for the billions of dollars of loan guarantees and military hardware we send them every year. I say let Persia become a power broker if they want to.

Sir, Jenny carefully interrupted, what if we tied the status of the Temple Mount to any further financial support for Israel? If we can be seen as securing a lasting peace between Muslims, Jews, and Christians, it may give us the traction we need to rebuild our lost momentum. With your permission, I would suggest we set up a meeting with the congressional leadership and sell the idea. No more financial or military support unless Israel is willing to share the Temple Mount with its religious neighbors. The twelve-month cooling off period we suggested when the Dome of the Rock was destroyed will be coming to an end in five more months. Its place has been empty just over a half a year, and all three parties are itching to build something on it. By the time the year is up, we could have enough momentum for a real substantive agreement, and if we time it properly, that will be right in the homestretch for the election.

President Hamilton nodded, just a glimmer of hope showing in a fleeting smile. I like the idea, Jenny. Set it in motion.

Jenny Carter watched the president thoughtfully as he did his best to wear a path in the carpet. Just a few months ago she was riding the president’s coattails to redeem the failed legacy of her father. Now she was fighting an uphill battle that seemed all but lost. Clenching her fist in silent anger, she tried to control the frustration she felt toward the little man pacing in front of her. He was the most powerful man in the free world, for goodness’ sake, and he’d let his pettiness show before a live national audience at a funeral for one of the most respected politicians of their generation. And in the process he had crushed her promising career as well.

Clearing her throat, she decided she would try to use some of the positive momentum she had gained this morning to broach the subject again. She interrupted the president’s pacing. Sir, we need to talk about the NRA convention in Phoenix next month. Byron is having a cow. The NRA has supported your administration thanks to his lobbying efforts. We really can’t afford to offend our few remaining friends.

The president raised his hand in an imperial gesture. Jenny, the cased is closed. I will not appear at the function with the new senator from Maryland. The jerk made a fool of me at the funeral, and I will not attend.

Clenching her fist again, Jenny steeled herself for battle. She really didn’t have anything to lose. If her career was not on the line, she would be laughing at the juvenile antics of the president. Sir, but you must give the NRA an answer. Your gun record is one of our few remaining strong points. You can’t afford to lose their support.

Those gun-toting, bloodthirsty rednecks can all go shoot themselves for all I care. I will never attend another function where Senator Vidal is present.

Jenny had heard enough. If her career was going to crash and burn, at least she was going to go down fighting. Not like the pathetic, hypersensitive embarrassment she had come to know as her boss. Glancing at the peephole where she knew the Secret Service were watching, she was thankful they couldn’t read her thoughts right now, or they would be bursting through those doors with their guns blazing.

Jenny knew political pundits attributed her appointment as first female chief of staff to a sitting US president to the weakness of her boss. They figured a weak leader required a weaker chief of staff, hence a female. What angered her most was that she knew they were partly right. Jordan Hamilton was an indecisive, petulant, and feeble man, and those traits had only grown since the Foster funeral. She had come to realize he had chosen her because she was a woman and less of a threat to his ego than a male chief of staff would have been. To her shame, she had played along to keep her job, but now the bill had come due. Being fired might be better than going down with this sinking ship. In any case, she was through playing the game.

She didn’t try to soften her tone. Jordan, stop this nonsense. You are the most powerful man in the free world, not a high schooler. Pull yourself together and start acting like a man. Either fire me or start listening to my advice.

The president turned beet-red and looked as if he would explode in fury, but that too fizzled to a halfhearted anger. You can’t talk to me like that! What’s got into you?

Jenny shook her head in disgust. "Sir, if you are going to destroy your political career, at least let’s go down fighting. Can’t you just set aside your animosity for the sake of your career? Put on your happy face, go out to Phoenix, and act presidential! Bide your time to get even with the senator if