The President Is Missing(111)

She is stoic, but her eyes are moving around the room she’s in, within the operations center below the White House. I wish I could see her face better. I wish I could know if, at the very least, this is weighing on her.

“No on ‘Black Sea,’” says Augie.

More suggestions come:

“Amnesty.”

“Liberty.”

“Family.”

“But where is home, specifically?” Carolyn asks. “If that’s all she thought about, if that was her whole goal…what city is she from?”

“She’s right,” I say. “We should look at that. Where did she live, Augie? Where specifically? Or Liz. Anyone? Do we know where the hell she lived?”

Liz says, “Her parents lived in the city of Sokhumi. It’s considered the capital of the Abkhazian republic.”

“Good. Spell it, Liz.”

“S-o-k-h-u-m-i.”

“Go, Augie—‘Sokhumi.’”

“Are you sure?” Carolyn asks.

I check my phone, my heartbeat pounding in my throat.

0:55





0:52




Watching the vice president, her lips parting. She says something, but it’s drowned out by other suggestions being thrown out— “Stop, everyone stop,” I say. “Kathy, what did you say?”

She seems to steel herself, surprised at my focus on her. “I said, try ‘Lilly.’”

I deflate. I shouldn’t be surprised, but for some reason I am.

I point to Augie. “Do it. Try my daughter’s name.”

0:32





0:28




Augie types it in. Shakes his head. Tries it a different way, all caps. Shakes his head. Tries it another way— “Mr. President,” says Carolyn. “Sokhumi can be spelled more than one way. When I was on the intelligence committee, I always saw it with two u’s, no o.”

I drop my head and close my eyes. That’s how I remember it being spelled, too.

“No on ‘Lilly,’” says Augie.

“S-u-k-h-u-m-i,” I tell him.

He types it in. The room goes silent.

0:10





0:09




Augie’s fingers lift off the keypad. He raises his hands as he watches the monitor.

0:04





0:03




“The keyword has been accepted,” he says. “The virus is disabled.”





Chapter

112



Casey, now in the rear chamber with me, holding the laptop in her hands, says, “We’ve confirmed that the ‘stop’ command was transmitted throughout the system. The virus is stopped. Everywhere.”

“What about the computers and other devices that are offline right now, without Internet access?” I ask. “They didn’t get the ‘stop’ message.”

“Then they didn’t get the ‘execute’ message, either,” says Devin. “And now they never will. It’s on a permanent ‘stop’ message.”

“But all the same,” says Casey, “I’m not letting this laptop out of my sight. I’m going to watch that screen like a hawk.”

I take one of the deepest breaths I’ve ever taken, sweet, delicious oxygen. “So not a single device will be hurt by this virus?”

“Correct, sir.”

And just to be sure, just on the off chance that the Suliman virus comes back to life, Homeland Security is blasting out the keyword “Sukhumi” through a rapid-response system created by various executive orders signed either by me or my predecessor as part of an enhanced system to combat industrial cyberterrorism. Basically, we can blast out information to a designated recipient, a point person at each company, at any hour of the day or night. Every Internet service provider, every state and local government, every member of every industrial sector—banks, hospitals, insurance companies, manufacturers, as many small businesses as we have persuaded to sign up: within the next few seconds, all of them will receive this keyword.

The keyword will also be blasted out over our Emergency Alert System, hitting every television, coming to every computer and smartphone.

I nod, straighten up, feel unexpected emotion rise within me. I look out the window of Marine One into a sky of rainbow sherbet as the sun sets on Saturday.

We didn’t lose our country.

The financial markets, people’s savings and 401(k)s, insurance records, hospitals, public utilities will be spared. The lights will stay on. Mutual-fund balances and savings accounts will still reflect people’s life savings. Welfare and pension payments will not be interrupted. Escalators and elevators will work. Planes won’t be grounded. Food won’t spoil. Water will remain potable. No major economic depression. No chaos. No looting and rioting.

We’ve avoided Dark Ages.

I walk into the main cabin, where I find Alex.

“Mr. President,” he says, “we’re approaching the White House.”

My phone buzzes. Liz. “Mr. President, they found it in the vice president’s office.”

“The phone,” I say.

“Yes, sir, the companion phone to Nina’s.”