China was doing the same thing here as they were with the Tibet situation in trying to choose the next Dalai Lama: back in the mid-’90s they took in the child, Gyaincain Norbu. Now a young man, he’s believed by China to be the next incarnation of the Panchen Lama, a position second only to the Dalai Lama in the hierarchy of Tibetan Buddhism. He will help to choose the reincarnation of the Dalai Lama and given he’s been brought up to obey the Chinese Communist Party, it will undoubtedly lead to the creation of a pro-Beijing power in Tibet. Call it insurance.

Devras Sikari, Archer’s father, was part of their insurance for gaining Kashmir and maybe even more following what was set to transpire here.

“And these guys you’ve got out there, these bombers? And Umer? Sanam?” Middleton asked.

“They all had a purpose, as do you.”

Chernayev’s men from BlueWatch were hovering around. Middleton had no chance of stopping him from pressing the detonator—he’d not make it more than two paces and it was a dozen away at least.

Archer gasped, reeling from the gunshot wound, and called out in a rasp, “My father wanted your investigation cleared up. And he was right. For that, and for the future, we can’t have anyone in our way. We didn’t care if you came here dead or alive, so long as you were here for the crescendo.”

“What?”

“The death of the president, who’s nearing the kill zone now.”

They looked across—Marine One was coming in to land, POTUS was in his protective bubble of Secret Service men, sixty seconds out.

Archer said, “Why not discredit the Volunteers while we achieve our objective?”

Middleton understood—he himself would get the blame.

Chernayev said, “Right now, the FBI is searching your house in Fairfax County. They’re finding all kinds of IED-making material there. Including the lathe that made the concave copper discs, of which these are a by-product.”

The copper bracelet on Chernayev’s wrist glinted in the sunlight.

“Why the intricate carvings? A ruse, to get us here? To make us believe in something that this place was not?”

“It’s more like a hobby of mine,” Chernayev said. He walked over to Middleton and passed him a small Russian nesting doll that fit in the palm of his hand. It was solid, the innermost doll.

It was painted in shades of white and grey, smooth to the touch from the clear lacquer.

Marine One landed, the massive rotors of the Sea King creating a new wave of CS smoke that remained in the vicinity. The president’s men hit the crest of the LZ, hundreds of camera flashes going off and illuminating the smoke. The press corps were shouting questions but the protective bubble didn’t stop moving.

The doll’s face was blank.