5:50
P.M.
, Thursday, March 4,
The White House, Washington, D.C.
Three men clustered around the TV in the President’s private office in the west wing. The sound was turned low and the voice of the reporter at the scene was only a murmur. The grisly image on the screen said more than any words could describe. The President hit the remote control and turned off the sound. The silence was complete as the men continued to stare at the screen. “Do they have a casualty count yet?” the President finally asked.
Kyle Broderick, the chief of staff, picked up the phone and asked the same question. He didn’t like the answer. Broderick was a young man, hard and street savvy, who delighted in using the power that went with being the President’s chief of staff. “I want a hard number in the next five minutes or you’re history.” He punched off the connection and turned to the President. “Sorry, sir. Everyone seems asleep at the wheel.” Almost immediately, the phone rang. Broderick picked it up and listened. He hung up without saying a word. “The initial count is over two hundred and rising fast,” he told the President.
“You’ll have to go there,” the Vice President said to the President. He was a handsome man who had his eye on the presidency in five years. But first, they had to survive the upcoming election. He looked at his watch. “Time your arrival for early in the morning while it’s still dark. Make it look like you’ve been up all night. We’ll work the networks at this end and have you lead the morning news.”
The President nodded in agreement. Again, they stared at the TV. The silence was broken by the distinctive beat of a helicopter’s rotor as the aircraft settled to earth on the South Lawn. “That must be Nelson,” the President said. A few minutes later, the door opened and a stocky man with thinning brown hair was ushered in. Nelson Durant was fifty-four, and his rumpled clothes gave no clue about who, or what, he was. He was average looking in the extreme and could disappear into a crowd with ease. His image shouted “wimp” but his blue eyes carried a far different message. “Thanks for coming so quickly,” the President said. The Vice President moved over so Nelson Durant could sit next to the President.
“Have you seen the TV coverage on the bombing?” Broderick asked.
The answer was obvious and Nelson Durant ignored the question. Besides, Broderick wasn’t worth his time. “What can I do for you, Mr. President?” Durant asked.
“We need quick answers on this one,” the President replied. “Can you help?”
Durant ran a hand through his thinning hair. For those who knew him, it was a warning gesture that he was wasting his time and had better things to do. “If you’re referring to the Project, we’re still a month away from startup and then we’re looking at another year before coming on-line.”
The President looked disappointed. The Project was a highly advanced intelligence-gathering computer system that one of Durant’s many companies was developing for the National Security Agency. If the Project lived up to Durant’s promises, it could find and track any foreign or terrorist threat targeting the United States.
“But I’ll have my people check into it,” Durant said. The President looked pleased. Durant’s worldwide business contacts gave him an intelligence database that rivaled the CIA’s. A discreet knock stopped him from saying more. Broderick opened the door and Stephan Serick, the National Security Advisor, stomped in.
“You need to see this,” Serick said, holding up a videocassette. Stephan Serick’s childhood Latvian accent was still strong, and the basset hound jowls, heavy limp, and twisted cane were famous trademarks of the man who had served under two presidents of different political parties. “Communications took it off a satellite feed.” He collapsed into a chair while Broderick fed the cassette into the TV. “A tourist filmed it. Damned videos.”
At first, the scene was a repeat of what they had seen before; the huge crater in Market Street, the mangled cars and the gaping hole that once was the façade of the San Francisco Shopping Emporium. Serick shuddered. “They even got BART.” BART was the Bay Area Rapid Transit subway that ran under Market Street. Then the scene on the TV changed as the tourist ran through the debris following a fireman. The camera jolted to a stop and focused on a man emerging from a cloud of dust and debris, his clothes smoking. He was carrying an unconscious girl in his arms.
“That’s Meredith,” Serick muttered. They watched as Meredith handed the woman to the fireman, his face racked with anguish.
“Just like Oklahoma City,” Durant said in a low voice. On the screen, Meredith collapsed to his knees, panting hard. A blanket was thrown over his shoulders.
A voice from off screen said, “My God, the man’s a real hero.”
Meredith looked up, his lean, handsome face ravaged. He pointed to four firemen wearing respirators descending into the smoke billowing from the underground BART station. “There’s your real heroes.” He struggled to his feet. “I had to do something…. I was there.” The tape ended.
“Son of a bitch!” Broderick roared. Then more calmly, “Would you care to guess when this will hit the air?”
“About the time the President lands in San Francisco,” the Vice President replied. Meredith was going to preempt the President’s arrival on the morning news.
Broderick looked at Durant. “Can you stop it?”
“I don’t see how,” Durant replied.
“Well,” Broderick said, “Meredith is your boy.”
Durant’s face turned to granite. Kyle Broderick, arguably the second most powerful man in the United States government, had overstepped his bounds. Durant’s next words were spoken quietly. “Nothing could be further from the truth.” Durant was seething at the suggestion he would have anything to do with Meredith. He stood up to leave.
“Ah, Kyle,” the President said, frowning at his chief of staff, “why don’t you check with the communications section for foreign reaction?” Broderick nodded and hurriedly left the room. Durant sat back down. “Sometimes I think that boy is suicidal,” the President said soothingly. “But seriously, we are concerned about Meredith and there have been rumors….” He deliberately let his words trail off.
Durant looked at the Vice President and Serick. “I need to speak to the President in private.”
The two men stood and Serick led the way out, his limp more pronounced. The President’s personal assistant took the opportunity to stick her head through the open door. “Mr. President, the British Ambassador and Secretary of State are waiting in the Oval Office.” She looked at her watch, a sign they were far behind schedule.
“Ask the ambassador if she’d like another cup of tea,” the President said. He waved a hand and his personal assistant closed the door. “What’s bothering you, Nelson? If it’s Kyle, he’s gone.”
Durant shook his head. Kyle Broderick had only given words to what the President was thinking. Chasing the chief of staff out of the room had been enough to set things right. He looked at his hands. “I’m not in contact with Meredith. We have no common interests.” The President was stunned. It was a tacit admission that Jonathan Meredith was beyond Durant’s influence. “And Meredith is running for President,” Durant added.
“You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know,” the President replied.
“Jim, Meredith fancies himself an American Caesar, and he’s about to cross the Rubicon.” Durant’s analogy to Caesar taking the fateful step and ordering his army to cross the Rubicon in his quest to become Rome’s emperor hit home. Nelson Durant stared at his President. “All of Rome couldn’t stop Caesar. Can you?”
1:00
A.M.
Friday, March 5,
San Francisco
“It was Oklahoma City all over again,” Marcy said. She was sitting beside Sutherland in the hospital’s waiting room, which had been turned into a makeshift emergency ward. The room was filled with walking wounded from the explosion. “The doctor said you’ve got a bad concussion,” she told him. “They want to hold you awhile for observation.”
Sutherland reached for her hand, needing human contact. She responded, her hands clasping his. “The other people on the roof?” he asked.
She shook her head, and he could feel her tremble. “We were the only ones. Hank, you saved me. I was going over the side, you grabbed me…” She lost her voice.
“The waitress?”
“She’s going to be okay.” Then, stronger, “Thanks to you. I could’ve never gotten her off the roof or gone down that stairwell by myself. If you hadn’t been there…”
The enormity of it all came crashing down on him. “Oh, shit,” he moaned as a new emotion swept over him, driving him into deep despair. “The hostess, she jumped me to the head of the line, if she had sat us at any other table…” That was all he could say as guilt claimed him, demanding a penance for being alive.
“It was just one of those things,” Marcy said, understanding what he was going through. “It was just coincidence.”
Sutherland lay his head back.
Just coincidence
, he thought.
We’re alive and they’re all dead because of coincidence
. He tried not to think about it and focused on the TV in the corner.
“The FBI is now certain,” the commentator said, “that this was a calculated act of terrorism gone wrong. The bomb exploded prematurely while being moved down Market Street. So far, the death toll has reached four hundred twenty-two and is expected to go higher. We’re awaiting the arrival of the President, who is due to land at any moment.”
“Screw the President,” Marcy grumbled.
As if on cue, the commentator held his hand to his ear to be sure he heard right. “The video coverage we are about to show was taken by a tourist moments after the explosion.” The screen flickered and the back of a fireman appeared as he ran toward the collapsing building. The camera came to a stop and Meredith appeared running out of the building with an unconscious girl in his arms. Sutherland pulled himself into a half-sitting position. The movement made his head hurt. “That’s the waitress,” he said. “Holy shit, it’s Meredith!”
Marcy waved a hand at him, commanding him to be quiet as the scene played out. Meredith’s face filled the screen as he uttered, “I had to do something…. I was there.” The scene cut back to live coverage. Meredith was being interviewed by Liz Gordon, CNC-TV’s premier reporter. In the background, floodlights lit the façade of the Shopping Emporium. Sutherland had to concentrate as his mind reeled.
Meredith was forty-six, handsome, six feet tall, with dark hair that was lightly streaked with gray. His lean body was taut and conditioned, the result of countless hours of exercise. But it was his voice, full of warmth and honesty, that captured the moment and came through the glass. “We could have prevented this,” Meredith said. His face filled the screen. “We need to go after these cowards and stop them dead in their tracks. We’ve been too concerned with
their
constitutional rights. Where are the rights of the victims? We need to send a message to our leaders, our judges, that this must stop. Give the FBI, our police, the power they need to root out this evil before they kill again.”
“He’s right,” Marcy whispered. Then, louder, “So right.” Sutherland turned away from the screen and studied Marcy, taking the measure of her reaction. She stood up. “My editor wants a follow-up. I’ve got to go.”
Sutherland sat up but almost passed out. “Marcy, take some time to get over this.”
She stood and touched his hand. “Do we ever have enough time?” She bent over and kissed his cheek. “See you around.”
He watched her walk away. “See you around,” he repeated as the guilt came crashing back.
6:00
A.M.
, Tuesday, April 6,
Aspen, Colo.
Nelson Durant stood at the picture window and watched the long shadows of early morning retreat across the valley below him and up the side of the mountain.
So much like Kandersteg
, he mused, thinking of his chalet in the Swiss Alps. He sipped at the steaming mug of coffee. He loved this time of day and wondered how many more of them he had. The cancer was in remission, and his health was good so he probably had a few more years.
Don’t beg for more
, he chided himself.
Take however many good days you can get and enjoy them. The trick is knowing when you’re having one
.
He scanned the news summary his staff prepared every morning. Lately, the media was hyping the craziness that was sweeping the country as the end of the millennium approached. The Pet Cemeterians were launching a multimillion-dollar lobbying campaign to create federal pet cemeteries that would endure for the next thousand years; Heaven’s Gate Revivalists were holding a convention in Las Vegas; and a millenarian had sealed himself, along with his four wives and a hundred ardent followers, in the cafeteria at the bottom of Carlsbad Caverns until the century ended in nine months, on December 31, 1999. But like so many, the millenarian was confused: the century, and the millennium, ended a year later.
Nothing serious
, Durant thought.
So far
.
Arturo Rios, his longtime assistant, came through the open door and stood in front of the fireplace absorbing warmth from the burning logs. Rios had started out as Durant’s copilot and bodyguard. When the big man proved he was a trustworthy and accomplished aide, Durant had made him his personal assistant. And somewhere along the way, Rios had become as good a friend as Durant could have. “Anything on the bombing?” Durant asked. It had been a month since the San Francisco Shopping Emporium had been destroyed and there were still no leads.
“Nothing,” Rios answered. “Everything is coming up dry.”
“Up the ante.”
“How much?” Rios asked.
“Make it two million and a pardon. That should get someone to start talking.” Durant looked out the window and studied the early April morning. It was a perfect day for flying and he hadn’t flown his beloved Staggerwing Beech in weeks. “How’s the schedule today?”
Rios knew the signs. “Nothing pressing,” he replied. “The videotape from the field test came in last night. Interesting results.” The videotape in question was the product of a micro TV camera and a remote videocassette recorder created by Century Communications, one of Durant’s many companies. The camera was a triumph in miniaturization and was being field-tested under real conditions. “The FBI or CIA would kill to get their hands on it.”
Durant shook his head. “It might get in the wrong hands. See if we can sell it as an add-on to the Project.” While Durant firmly believed in making money off government contracts, long experience with the political establishment had taught him caution. Partisan politicians were not above turning a system like the Project against their fellow Americans. Fortunately, the National Security Agency was well insulated from the politicians because of its technical nature.
They walked into the secure office built into the side of the mountain. Durant sat down in an easy chair in front of a bank of TV monitors. An image of Jonathan Meredith sitting at a conference table in a roomful of people filled the center screen. “We ran the test at Meredith’s headquarters,” Rios explained. “We had no trouble getting past security.” He laughed. “They caught the FBI at the door. We’re satisfied with the picture but the sound needs work. Couldn’t get it all.”
“What was the meeting about?” Durant asked.
“It was a planning session for a rally in Sacramento on the first of May. We caught some reference about a ‘bombshell.’”
“Stay on top of it,” Durant ordered.
“Will do, Boss.”
Durant arched an eyebrow. Rios only called him “Boss” when he wanted to get Durant’s attention or was very upset. “What’s the matter?” Durant asked.
“It’s Meredith.” He spat the name.
Durant was surprised at the emotion in the big man’s voice. Normally, Art Rios only got emotional about his wife, children, and flying. Not necessarily in that order. “You’re really worried?”
Rios nodded. “He’s dangerous. Very dangerous. Someone’s got to stop him before he turns into a Hitler.”
Whatever joy Durant felt was gone and the day turned sour. “That’s the President’s job,” he grumbled. “Not mine. What else is on the schedule this week?”
“The Project is still scheduled for start-up tomorrow. You might want to be there.” Rios’s face brightened. “The weather’s clear all the way to Virginia and the Staggerwing is good-to-go.”
Durant smiled. Rios knew how to cheer him up. “Well, if the weather’s cooperating, the day won’t be a total loss.”
11:30
A.M.
, Tuesday, April 6,
Sacramento, Calif.
Hank Sutherland sat alone at the prosecutor’s table listening carefully as the famous R. Garrison Cooper ended the defense’s closing arguments. Sutherland still wore a small bandage on his forehead to remind the jury of the San Francisco bombing, but nothing in his face betrayed what was churning beneath its surface. The great Cooper, the nemesis of every district attorney, was blowing it.
“The prosecution’s case,” Cooper bellowed, his gravelly voice betraying years of boozing, “hinges on the testimony of two low-life scumbags—” Cooper paused, waiting for Sutherland’s objection. There wasn’t one. “—who are convicted rapists of a thirteen-year-old girl.”
Sutherland folded his hands and nodded, knowing every eye in the courtroom was on him, not Cooper. He glanced at the defense table, the rank of high-priced and famous defense attorneys who took up the left side of the courtroom, the troupe the press delighted in calling “the dream team of the century.” To a man, they all wore solemn expressions.
The three worried defendants refused to look Sutherland’s way. The memory of his destruction of the first defendant who had taken the stand was still painful. Sutherland had pursued the first defendant so relentlessly that the dream team refused to let the other two testify. Now the three solid citizens, the pillars of their community, were crouched behind the pile of law books, documents, computer monitors, and briefcases that littered the defense table.
Like everything else in his life, Sutherland’s table was clean and neatly arranged with only a legal pad, a pencil, and a thin folder arranged squarely in front of him as he sat alone. At first, the dream team had exuded confidence and spoke in patronizing tones when alluding to the lonely prosecutor in their statements to the media. But as the trial wore on, Sutherland single-handedly destroyed every argument the dream team advanced. Much to the shame and anger of the defense, he became the lone voice crying out for justice. When the dream team finally realized they were overmatched, it was too late to do anything about it. Their confidence, and with it their egos, wound up in the trash can.
Cooper cast a sad look in Sutherland’s direction before turning to the jury.
All very good theater
, Sutherland decided.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Cooper pleaded, “do not be afraid to do the right thing. Do not be afraid to let good citizens defend their neighborhoods. In the name of justice, find these three worthy men not guilty.” He dropped his chin to his chest, his gray shaggy mane of hair flopping over his forehead for effect. The defense had rested.
Jane Evans studied the faces in her courtroom, clasped her hands, and leaned forward. “We are nearing lunchtime and this would be a good time to break.” She smiled at the jury. “You have been most patient and we’re nearing the end. By now, you know by heart the instructions not to discuss the case. We’ll reconvene at one-thirty.” The jury smiled back at her as she rose and left the bench. Sutherland also smiled. He had been lucky in drawing the big woman as the trial judge. He could almost feel R. Garrison Cooper’s hate and fear for Jane Evans emanating from the defense table.
Sutherland stood and let the courtroom empty before pushing out into the corridor. Finally, it was time. He walked up the aisle, through the doors, and into Marcy Bangor. He gave a mental sigh. Regardless of the ordeal they had shared in San Francisco, Marcy was superficial in her reporting. He chalked it up to youth and inexperience. As usual, she was wearing a provocative miniskirt and low-cut blouse for maximum exposure of her better assets.
Two TV reporters and their cameramen were directly behind her, shoving their microphones over her shoulder. But Marcy held them at bay and cornered Sutherland against the wall. “Haven’t seen you since the San Francisco bombing,” Sutherland said. “You look great.”
“It was really just a few bad bruises and scrapes,” she replied, pleased that Sutherland had established her credentials with the TV reporters pushing at her back. “Do you think Mr. Cooper’s plea for ‘doing the right thing’ in the name of justice swayed the jury?”
“Mr. Cooper always sways a jury,” Sutherland conceded. “But I think the jury will see through his argument and realize we’re dealing with criminal conduct here.”
“Many people claim they were only acting in self-defense,” Marcy said, holding her minicassette up in the videocamera’s lens.
Hank Sutherland shook his head. “By acting like vigilantes from a private army? I find that argument hard to accept.”
Marcy was persistent. “Private army? They were members of a Neighborhood Brigade protecting their homes from gangbangers.” She deliberately omitted mentioning the Neighborhood Brigades were created by Jonathan Meredith.
“They were three adult men patrolling the streets who discovered a thirteen-year-old girl and two fourteen-year-old boys spraying graffiti on a wall at two o’clock in the morning. They should have called the police.”
“What could the police do?” Marcy asked. “They were juveniles and would have been back on the street in an hour, back at it.”
“That did not give the men the right to strip the kids naked,” Sutherland snapped, “spray them green with their own paint cans, and dump them in a parking lot.”
A TV reporter pushing at Marcy’s back chimed in. “But it wasn’t their fault that two punks were sitting in a car drinking.”
Marcy stepped on the TV reporter’s toe forcing her back. “It was the drunks, not the defendants, who raped the girl.”
Marcy had missed the point and Sutherland decided to drive the issue home. “And beat up the boys when they tried to intervene. Those drunks almost killed a kid. And these three ‘worthy men’—those are Mr. Cooper’s words, not mine—did nothing. They stood by, laughed, watched, and encouraged the men. They are as guilty as the two punks who—”
A TV reporter interrupted. “Who you successfully prosecuted.”
Sutherland made them focus on the crime. “We don’t strip our kids naked and turn them over to criminals. Because of what they did, these men are being tried for kidnapping, conspiracy to commit murder, assault, and conspiracy to commit rape.”
“Isn’t the possibility of a life sentence overly harsh for this crime?” Marcy asked.
“That is also for the jury to decide,” Sutherland said. “Please excuse me,” he said, “but I would like to eat lunch.” He shouldered his way past the reporters and headed for the district attorney’s office where his team was waiting for a last-minute prep. He may have been alone in the courtroom, but he was backed up and coached by three of the brightest assistants on the D.A.’s staff.
“His wife left him for another guy,” one of the TV reporters said.
“Can you blame her?” her cameraman replied. “He’s such a tight asshole.”
Marcy Bangor considered the possibilities and picked at her front teeth with a fingernail. “Why throw him away if he isn’t broken?”
Sutherland was back at the prosecution table early, his hands folded over the legal pad, his head bowed. He ran through the main points of the closing argument he had rehearsed with his staff. He rose when Jane Evans entered, and after the routine of reconvening, stepped in front of the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “justice needs only one voice…” His words trailed off as the doors at the back of the courtroom opened and two late arrivals entered. A collective gasp escaped from the audience. Jonathan Meredith entered, escorting the wife of the defendant Sutherland had destroyed on the witness stand.
Evans was about to rap the court to order and admonish the late arrivals, but the room was deadly silent as the two found open seats directly behind the defendants’ table and sat down. The wife reached across the bar and touched her husband. Before Evans could caution her, the hand was drawn back and held safely in the grasp of Jonathan Meredith. But the damage was done. Meredith had shown the jury that the defendants were safely under his wing and the foreman’s eyes were wide and lustrous, her face glowing.
Sutherland looked to the bench for help. But Jane Evans only gave him a slight shrug. There was nothing she could do without making the situation worse. Sutherland stood motionless for a moment, his head bowed. Then he raised his eyes to the jury and started to speak. But every face in front of him was a perfect reflection of what he had seen in the foreman. “Every society,” he said, improvising as he spoke, “finds its future in its children. If we do not protect them, and in many cases save them from their own rash actions, we have no future. This is our duty as a society, this is your duty as citizens.” Somehow, his words sounded hollow and meaningless.
“Hank,” Marcy called as he stepped through the courtroom doors into the corridor. This time she was alone and the hallway deserted. Everyone was clustered around Jonathan Meredith, the defendants’ wives, and the dream team in the main lobby. “How long do you think the jury will be out?”
“Hard to say,” he answered. “Every jury is different.” Marcy bobbed her head and hurried down the hall, toward the main lobby where Meredith and the news was. Sutherland stared at her back and then took the side stairs to return to the District Attorney’s building. Outside, he walked slowly, in no hurry to return to the pandemonium sweeping his office. Meredith’s well-timed arrival had muddied the case. Still, he fold himself, juries have a way of seeing the truth.