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  “I am,” Egan replied.

  The man’s jaw tightened and he seemed on the verge of tears.

  “I—” the man said, struggling to keep his voice even, “heard you.”

  The man set the cooler on the ground and dropped onto one knee. With his head deeply bowed, he held out the machete in his open palms. Unsure what to do, Egan turned to Darko, who nodded that he should accept the offering. Egan approached the man cautiously, hoping the soldiers still had their weapons ready in case the man suddenly attacked.

  As Egan reached for the machete, he noted the man’s hands were trembling. They steadied when Egan removed the blade, as if relieved of a terrible burden.

  “For the people of Safo,” the man said, “I surrender to our Dutannuru kinsmen.”

  Egan studied the bloody weapon and the kneeling man awaiting a response.

  “On what terms and on whose authority do you speak?” Darko interjected.

  “General,” Egan replied, “I believe he speaks as the leader of Safo.”

  Darko’s eyes widened, incredulous that the young officer had somehow seized power.

  “Are you the leader of Safo?” Egan asked softly.

  The man nodded, his head still bowed.

  “Please stand and tell us what has happened,” Egan asked.

  The man rose up, tears glistening on his face. He stood at ease with his arms behind his back, his gaze fixed on Egan.

  “My name is Tanu Baafi,” he began. “I was a member of the security detail protecting President Kwame Cudjoe. I led a coup against him and he is dead. I killed Cudjoe. I am now leader of Safo.”

  “Why did you kill Cudjoe?” Egan asked.

  “Today, he tested a terrible weapon.”

  “We know. He used it on a village in the north.”

  Baafi nodded. “I went to that village. It killed everyone. He planned to use this weapon here, against you. Many would have died. The only way to stop Cudjoe was to kill him.”

  “We are grateful,” Egan said, speaking in even, measured tones.

  “Do you control the army?” Darko asked.

  “I killed Cudjoe before he was to meet with his generals. I went in his place. Most of the generals accepted me as their commander. Those that did not were relieved of duty and imprisoned. The army has been ordered to withdraw from the border and return to base.”

  “Can you prove any of what you say?” Darko asked warily.

  Baafi picked up the cooler and, cradling it in the crook of his left arm, opened the top.

  “Our generals asked me the same question,” Baafi replied. “This satisfied them.”

  Baafi tilted the open cooler slightly to reveal its contents. Inside was a pair of human heads.

  “One is Cudjoe. The other, a man named Latif. Latif made the weapon for Cudjoe. Their bodies are inside the helicopter.”

  Egan had met Cudjoe once, before the civil war, and had seen the tyrant’s distinctive face in the news many times during his brutal reign. One of the heads in the box had certainly belonged to Cudjoe. He stepped forward and closed the cooler lid, then offered his hand to Baafi.

  “For your Dutannuru kinsmen, I accept your offer of surrender.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MAKOLA RIVER HYDROELECTRIC PLANT, SAFO

  JANUARY 25

  Egan stood inside the cavernous powerhouse, staring through a gaping hole in the floor at the twisted remains of a seven-hundred-ton generator. Turbine Number 4 was twelve meters in diameter at its widest and, upright, equaled a three-story building in height. The turbine lay unnaturally on its side, ejected from its concrete and steel housing at the base of the Makola Dam.

  “Can you fix it?” a woman’s voice called out.

  Egan looked down the length of the powerhouse and found his questioner at the near side of Turbine Number 2, walking through the wreckage toward him with a small retinue in tow. Maya Randell’s petite frame was clad in tailored safari wear accented with an Emaa Da patterned kente cloth scarf. Her black hair was drawn back in a single tight braid emphasizing the almond shape of her face.

  “S’cuse me?” Egan shouted back.

  “You heard me. Can you fix it?”

  “I can fix anything dats broke, ma’am,” Egan thundered back, exaggerating the Yooper dialect of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, “but dat dere is definitely gonna cost ya more dan fifty bucks.”

  Maya laughed, recalling her first encounter with Egan. She and her husband Burton were both fresh out of graduate school and honeymooning across America when their VW camper hit a deer in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Egan was a teenager at the time, working in his uncle’s auto shop when the damaged vehicle was towed in. The accident occurred during the height of the summer tourist season and the hotels were full, so Egan’s parents took in the stranded newlyweds for a week while their camper was being repaired.

  The gangly redhead had impressed the Randells with his homemade computer and various electrical projects that had rivaled thesis work by their fellow graduates from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. They recognized Egan’s potential and made a point to keep tabs on the promising young man.

  Maya’s bodyguards and personal assistant stopped several meters back and she closed the remaining distance alone. Egan stood a foot taller than Maya, so he bent slightly to meet her embrace and kissed her gently on the cheek. The young bride who became a tech boom billionaire embraced Egan as warmly as his family had greeted her so many years ago.

  “Then it’s a good thing I have a bit more money now than I did then.”

  “You and Burton made more in interest in the last ten seconds than that old camper cost new,” Egan said as he released her.

  “And that ratty old thing is still in our garage. Boys and their toys.”

  “Sentimental value,” Egan said sympathetically. “So what brings you here?”

  “Checking on my investment, of course,” Maya replied. “But seriously, can you fix that?”

  “I’m afraid Turbine Number Four is down for the count. One and Two are up and running now. Three and Five are damaged, but repairable. The dam wasn’t damaged at all and the powerhouse can be put back in order in a few months.”

  “What happened?”

  “I visited here a couple times back before the civil war and Number Four had had problems from day one,” Egan explained. “Last summer, it was down for some scheduled maintenance and a number of cracks and cavities in the turbine blades were repaired with welds. Routine stuff, but they didn’t rebalance the turbine wheel afterward. The few workers who survived the accident said it was vibrating like crazy and then—Bang! The rotor came flying out of its seat and did all this. We’d heard rumors, but had no idea how bad the accident was. It knocked the plant off-line completely for several weeks and cut Safo’s total power supply by about a third. Most of the power made here goes to an aluminum plant, so that loss of power cut directly into Cudjoe’s flow of hard currency.”

  “Cudjoe was going to make war on Dutannuru for energy?” Maya asked.

  “He had a lot of reasons to go to war, but I think this accident pushed up his timetable. Mensah has made repairing this plant a national priority, now that this land is back to being one nation.”

  “I know,” Maya said with a knowing smile. “He told me where I could find you.”

  “I leapt at the chance to get out of the capital. I can’t go anywhere in public.”

  “That’s what you get for being all white and freckly,” Maya chided. “At least you finally have some gray to mute that red hair. Now I, on the other hand, am the perfect shade of mocha for this part of the world.”

  “You’re about as African as I am Irish, and neither of us can walk the streets of the capital without getting mobbed.”

  “Ross, you are a national hero, or I should say, international hero.”

  Maya pulled a copy of the Wall Street Journal out of her shoulder bag and spread it out on a worktable. Above the fold was the now-iconic photograph of Ega
n accepting the Safolese surrender.

  “This image is everywhere, and Niki Adashi is in very high demand.”

  “Good for her,” Egan said.

  “Good for you, and that’s why I’m here. You’ve done some brilliant work in Dutannuru, and not just with electricity. This republic is the one bright spot on the African continent and your influence on its government is undeniable.”

  “Oh, I can deny it. Helping Mensah create an honest government here was Maggie’s dream. She dedicated her life to these people.”

  “And you honored her sacrifice by helping make that dream a reality. Dutannuru was in as bad a shape as this place when it broke free, and now it enjoys one of the highest GDPs per capita in the world. The people here have jobs. Hell, they have food! All of the children are in school. And where else in Africa can you find a growing middle class? Every health statistic shows marked improvement. Dutannuru even has an immigration problem because folks in the neighboring countries know a good thing when they see it. And speaking of neighbors, when was the last time one sovereign nation asked to peacefully unite with another?”

  “Mensah has provided wise leadership for his people.”

  “And a wise leader seeks good counsel,” Maya said, “You’ve provided that to President Mensah. He told me that you’ve been invaluable to him in the unification and reconciliation process.”

  “E Pluribus Unum. There’s a lot to be done,” Egan admitted, “and he’ll be missed when he steps down at the end of the year.”

  “There’s talk in the legislature of you succeeding Mensah as president.”

  “That would be something,” Egan said with a laugh. “Thankfully, the constitution of Dutannuru bars foreigners from elective office.”

  “No such prohibition against you exists in the United States.”

  Egan and Maya studied each other carefully for a moment. She then gave him a slight nod that she was serious.

  “That’s insane. I’m about as qualified as—”

  “As any natural-born citizen of the United States who is over the age of thirty-five,” Maya interjected. “Those are, of course, the bare minimum requirements for holding the highest office in the land. I prefer a resume of substantial accomplishments as well, but the last election taught us that it isn’t a necessity. Article Two also contains a residency requirement, but my lawyers have reviewed the clause and have assured me it’s not an obstacle.”

  “But I’ve never run for anything,” Egan said.

  “Neither did Washington or Eisenhower. They both won fame on the battlefield, but yours came through peace. Everything you’ve done for Dutannuru has prepared you to lead.” Maya stabbed a slender finger at the newspaper photograph. “This defining act has thrust you onto the world stage and it forces us to rethink our plans. Our dream of bringing power to the people must grow beyond electricity or we will waste an incredible opportunity to save our country before it’s too late. The world needs the United States, and the United States needs you.”

  “This is the last thing I would ever have wanted.”

  “I know,” Maya replied sympathetically, “but greatness has been thrust upon you. And it suits you.”

  Egan crossed his arms and stared down at the shattered turbine as he considered Maya’s proposition. The engineers he’d trained could restore this power plant without him, while the country he’d helped found would soon elect new leadership. It was a time of change in Dutannuru, a perfect moment to step away and start something new.

  “It’s been a while since I last visited my folks,” Egan said. “This is something I should talk over with them.”

  “Absolutely.” Maya moved next to Egan and slipped her arm around his waist. With her free hand, she patted his forearm supportively. “But fair warning, I’ve already spoken with your father.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “It’s his idea. I just happen to agree with him.”

  “He is most definitely not a fan of the President,” Egan said with a chuckle. “When do you need my answer?”

  “You have a little time to think it over,” Maya replied, “but soon. The election is less than two years off and we’ll need every bit of that time to make a credible run.”

  “Fair enough,” Egan said as he picked up the newspaper. “The President will be hard to beat—lousy leader or not, he is a savvy campaigner.”

  “And he’s got all the unions, most of the press, and some major big-money backers solidly in his corner,” Maya added. “It’ll be tough, but he is definitely beatable.”

  Egan caught a hint of a conspiratorial smile on Maya’s face, and her eyes sparkled with a glint of mischief.

  “Why do I get the feeling you and that devious husband of yours already have an intriguing campaign strategy in mind?”

  “The way to beat our President is to give him everything that he thinks he needs to win.”

  PART TWO

  Eleven Months Later

  CHAPTER SIX

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  DECEMBER 15

  Niki Adashi strolled confidently across the elegant lobby of the Willard Hotel, the heels of her leather boots tapping lightly on the marble floor. She wore a stylish, full-length camel hair coat with a colorful scarf loosely wrapped over her head and a woven bag dangling from her arm. She was pulling on a pair of leather gloves when she spotted Egan seated by a window.

  “Right on time,” Egan said with a smile as he rose to greet her.

  Niki offered a cheek and he gave her a friendly peck.

  “This is not an event I wish to be fashionably late for,” she replied. “And I must say you are looking very handsome this evening.”

  Egan, dressed in black-tie formal, nodded a thank you and slipped on a navy overcoat.

  “Do you have the invitation?” Niki asked.

  Egan patted his left breast pocket and felt the stiff embossed cardstock. “Right here.”

  They exited through the revolving door and out under the glass canopy protecting the hotel’s Pennsylvania Avenue entrance. It was just past sunset and the temperature hovered in the high twenties under a clear evening sky. Egan offered his arm and the pair moved briskly up the street. Niki easily kept pace with his long-legged strides. On the opposite side of the avenue, a handful of ice skaters glided under the lights in Pershing Park.

  Continuing past the Treasury Building, they cleared the first security checkpoint before proceeding up East Executive Avenue. A fresh layer of unblemished snow blanketed the immaculate grounds of the South Lawn, as if ordered expressly for the evening’s festivities. The pillar of effervescent water rising out of the fountain glowed with an internal light.

  Egan studied the elegant façade of the White House as they walked and found the scene worthy of a rendering by Currier and Ives. The home of the American President was designed to make an impression, and it did so to great effect. Egan felt a swell of patriotic pride that he was, tonight, an invited guest in a place that was once home to Thomas Jefferson and Abraham Lincoln.

  A small fountain in line with the sidewalk marked the east entry to the White House grounds. There, Egan and Niki were cleared by both Secret Service and a representative of the White House Social Office before passing through the wrought iron gate.

  “Welcome to the White House,” the Secret Service agent said as he returned their credentials.

  “Thank you,” Egan replied.

  They followed another couple along a broad walk to the illuminated colonnade that defined the entry to the East Wing. The covered porch was decorated for the holidays and glowed with the warmth of the festive season.

  Through the doors, a uniformed Secret Service officer made a final cursory check of their credentials and then pointed them through a metal detector.

  “I think we’re finally in,” Egan offered as he cleared the magnetometer without a beep. He had been briefed on the security procedures and brought only a photo ID and the key card to his hotel room.

  At the coat
check, Niki removed her scarf to reveal her black mane coiffed in an up do with a halo of ringlet curls. Egan helped her with her coat and received his first glimpse of the red beaded gown that wrapped Niki’s lithe form. Delicate spirals of gold hung from her ears like tinsel and around her neck she wore a braided gold torc. Niki completed her transformation by trading her boots for a chic pair of Manolo Blahniks. In heels, she stood eye to eye with Egan.

  “May I escort you to the Residence, ma’am?” a chiseled Marine in full dress uniform asked.

  “You may,” Niki replied, accepting the young man’s offered arm.

  The Marine led them down the East Colonnade. The windows were adorned with large magnolia wreaths dressed in red and framed with green boxwood garlands, beyond which lay the Kennedy Garden under a blanket of snow. The colonnade ended at the Visitor’s Foyer, where an arch of decorated garland accented a large bronze bust of Lincoln. A pair of large paneled wood doors beneath an ornate elliptical transom stood open, providing access to the central hall that ran the length of the Residence’s Ground Floor.

  The polished marble on the walls glistened and a series of intersecting vaults ran the length of the broad corridor. Barely a third of the way down the hall, the Marine guided them up a long marble staircase, at the top of which Egan caught a glimpse of the East Room to his right.

  They turned left into the Entrance Hall, and then up the Grand Stair to the second floor, arriving at the Yellow Oval Room.

  “This is where the President and the First Lady will host the reception,” the Marine said as they reached the door. “I hope you enjoy the evening.”

  “Thank you,” both Egan and Niki replied.

  As the Marine withdrew, he gave Egan an approving smile, then performed a perfect about-face and headed back toward the stair.

  “I have to thank you again for asking me to accompany you,” Niki said as they entered the Yellow Oval, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “You deserve a better seat to this particular event than in the press pool. And based on the looks you’re getting, I should be the one thanking you.”