He and Arlo had both been silent since they turned away from the scene of devastation. Seamus could see something was on the kid’s mind, but at least for now, he was content to let the silence extend as long as possible.
But nothing good lasts forever.
“Is the Jefferson Memorial really your favorite?” Arlo cleared his throat. “I think, statistically, the Lincoln Memorial is the most popular.”
“Lincoln was a great man,” Seamus answered succinctly. “Jefferson was a genius.”
“Oh, yeah? He was the guy who slept with his slave, right?”
Seamus ground his teeth together. “Jefferson was the third president of the United States. The second vice president. The founder of the University of Virginia. The architect of Monticello. And, oh yeah, the guy who wrote the Declaration of Independence. Maybe you’ve heard of it.”
“Is that the one that starts, ‘Fourscore and seven years ago’?”
“No,” Seamus said, tucking in his chin. “That would be the one that begins, ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.’”
“Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. I remember now. That’s a good one.”
“You could say so.”
“I think I memorized part of it in the sixth grade or something. No wonder you like Jefferson.”
“It’s more than that. Jefferson was brilliant. The most learned man of his time. A serious scholar. A man with a heart.” He paused. “Couldn’t balance his checkbook and was constantly in debt. But that’s the way it usually is with geniuses.”
“That’s cool. I should read more. I mean, you know. Offline. The old-fashioned way.”
“Yeah, you should. There’s more to life than killing computer zombies.”
“You read much? I would think it would be hard to keep up with the latest bestsellers when you’re out in the caves with bin Laden.”
“You might be surprised, kid. If you want something bad enough, you find a way to make it happen.”
“So you really do like to read?”
“I was an English major in college before—”
“What? You?”
Seamus looked suddenly embarrassed. “Never mind.”
“Seriously. You? Gliding down the
New York Times
bestseller list?”
“I don’t worry about the latest bestsellers. They come and go. I much prefer the classics. The books that have stood the test of time.”
“Who are your favorite writers?”
“Like you’re gonna recognize the names?”
“Try me. Who’s your all-time favorite?”
Seamus took a deep breath. “Dickens.”
“Charles Dickens? As in ‘Please, sir, I want some more’?” His voice took on a sepulchral tone. “As in ‘I am the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Commmmmme’?”
“There’s a lot more to Dickens than that. He was a reformer. He cared about other people, the events of the day. He wrote about the evils in his society and exposed wrongdoing. His writing changed the world in which he lived.”
“Oh. That’s cool.”
“Yes, it is.” Seamus screwed his hands tighter around the wheel. “I wish someone would write a book that changes the world we live in. For the better.”
“Maybe you should do it.”
“I’ve tried to write. But I can’t find the time. I start something, and then—” He stopped short, suddenly embarrassed. “And why are we talking about this?”
“I don’t know. I’m just trying to get to know you. As a person.”
“Why?”
“Well, we’ve been hanging out together. This is our chance to bond.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Ah, don’t be so tough-guy macho. You must have a human side in there. Somewhere. Let’s really get to know each other. You saved my life.”
“If you say, ‘I love you, man,’ I’m throwing you out of the car.”
“All right, stay calm.”
“We’re trying to stop a madman from firing missiles at American citizens. Not starting a bromance.”
While he drove, Seamus called Zira, who gave him the latest updates. Specifically, on the positive side, that so far no fatalities from the missile launch on the Jefferson had been detected. On the negative side, Colonel Zuko was promising a flurry of additional missiles in less than two hours if the president didn’t give in to his demands. Which the president seemed keenly disinclined to do.
The conclusion was inevitable, Seamus thought as he snapped his phone shut. They needed to find the terrorists’ base of operations. As soon as possible.
Seamus pulled into the downtown commercial part of Anacostia. The streets were mostly deserted. Probably everyone wanted to be safe at home after a missile explosion so nearby. He remembered that after 9/11, the streets of New York City had seemed almost barren for days, at least by comparison with the usual crowds. It would be even easier for most Washingtonians to avoid the main arteries of commerce—the most likely targets.
He was making a sharp right turn when he heard Arlo shout so loudly he almost jumped.
“That’s him!”
Seamus put his foot on the brake and slowed, staying several feet behind the figure on the side street. “That’s who?”
Arlo jumped up and down in his seat. “You remember me saying there were only so many people in the area with the level of computer expertise to be useful to these terrorists?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, the only one who isn’t in prison just came out of D.C. Bytes. That guy in the Lisa Loeb glasses.”
Seamus glanced at the tall, skinny man in the turtleneck—which seemed a little heavy for April in D.C. Still, he had a grown-up haircut—unlike Seamus’s current companion—and very nice shoes. Guccis, if he wasn’t mistaken.
“This guy isn’t poor.”
“No. Well, he might be now. Not a few months ago.”
“Explain.”
“Harold Bemis is the inventor of the Cobra operating system, probably the most widely used system in business and industry worldwide. Anyone too intelligent to use Microsoft uses Cobra. He got filthy rich—until it was discovered that Cobra contained a tiny little worm that surreptitiously fed information about the computer in which it resided to the Cobra central office, where Bemis then sold it off to the highest bidder.”
“Ouch. I’m guessing some people weren’t happy.”
“You would be guessing correctly. Lawsuits flew, all around the world. He settled them eventually, trying to stay out of the papers and out of prison. But it cost him a fortune. To be specific, his personal fortune.”
“A rich boy suddenly poor. Exactly the sort of person who might welcome the opportunity to make some quick cash.”
“You mean like from terrorists?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“But that would be against the law.”
“He probably thinks he’s too smart for all that. Leopold and Loeb with a pocket protector.” Seamus followed Bemis till he reached his car. There was no way to stop and wait without being obvious, so he passed him and circled around the block. He wanted to remain unobtrusive, which wasn’t easy when you were driving a car with a shattered windshield.
By the time he returned to the same street, Bemis was pulling away in his BMW.
“Any idea where he might be headed, kid?”
“Beats me. Home? Girlfriend?”
“Do you computer types have girlfriends?”
“I think the ones who can afford to drive BMWs do.”
“Well, let’s hope not.” Seamus squinted, his eyes trained on the back of Bemis’s car. “Let’s hope he’s seen that the first mission was accomplished, so now he’s going to return to the tiger’s lair to help them target the next wave of missiles. Because if that’s his game, he’s headed back to the operations base.”
“And you’re going to follow him?”
Seamus kept his eyes on the back of Bemis’s car. “Exactly.”
“And once you get to the base? It’s bound to be swarming with terrorists and guns and… you know. Crazy people. What are you going to do then?”
“Don’t know,” Seamus said. “Tell you when I get there.”
“You mean you’re just making this up as you go?”
“That’s how all us geniuses operate, kid.”
“Give me a break. You’re no Thomas Jefferson.”
“No,” Seamus said quietly, leaning into the wheel. “Jefferson never hurt anyone. But I will.” He drew in his breath. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure these killers don’t fire another missile. Ever again.”
Vice President Swinburne seemed more subdued as he stood and smoothed the line of his suit coat. It was amazing, Ben thought, how the merest suggestion of a courtroom, even when the participants hadn’t altered their location, altered people’s behavior. Civilized them, in a way. At least until the accusations and objections started flying. “The prosecution calls the president’s doctor, Dr. Henry Albertson.” Dr. Albertson stood, his hands extended. “What do I do?” Ben pointed to a vacant chair next to Sarie. “Let’s make that the witness stand.”
Albertson took the chair as directed.
“Since we don’t have a bailiff,” Admiral Cartwright said, “I hope no one will object if I administer the oath.” No one objected. “Let me just point out that even though I don’t have a Bible, this oath is still binding, and anyone who lies under oath will be subject to the penalty for perjury, which is a federal crime.”
“I don’t tell lies,” Albertson said. “And I don’t reckon I’ll start now.”
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do.”
“Please take your chair. Mr. Prosecutor, you may proceed.”
To save time, Cartwright announced that all witnesses could describe their backgrounds in brief narrative form, rather then through the usual question-and-answer process. Ben learned much that he had not known about Dr. Albertson: Dr. Albertson and President Kyler had known each other since they were college roommates at Yale, he had been named the national doctor of the year twelve years before, he was a widower, and he kept a cocker spaniel named Pierre.
“Have you had a chance to observe the president recently?” Swinburne asked.
“Of course. I see him almost every day.”
“Does he have any health problems or conditions of which you are aware?”
The doctor hesitated before answering. Ben saw him glance at the president.
“The witness will answer the question,” Cartwright said.
“It’s all right, Henry,” the president said softly. “You’re under oath.”
“Yes,” Swinburne echoed, “you are under oath, so tell the truth. The complete truth.”
“I understand my oath,” Albertson said, “and I don’t need lessons on telling the truth from you. But I’m this man’s doctor, understand? He’s my patient. My only patient at present. That means we have a privileged relationship, and I’m honor-bound to keep his confidences and medical condition private.”
“He’s right,” Cartwright explained. “He can claim privilege. In fact, I think he has to.” Cartwright paused. “But the patient always has the option to waive privilege.”
“I waive it,” the president said without hesitation.
“That doesn’t mean I have to say anything,” Albertson said.
“No,” Cartwright agreed, “it doesn’t. But may I remind you of the magnitude of the stakes here? Literally the leadership of a nation. And may I also remind you that we are very pressed for time?”
Dr. Albertson tightened his lips, glanced at the president again, and finally nodded. “Just as you say, then. I’ll answer the question.” He looked at the vice president. “Yes, I am aware of a few health issues. Nothing that should impact the performance of his duties.”
“Could you please tell us what those conditions are?”
“For the past few weeks, the president has experienced what I would call a mild form of asthma. Just a little trouble breathing.”
“Has he ever experienced this before?”
“Not to this degree. He’s always been a bit of a wheezer. Lots of allergies. But nothing like this.”
“What, in your medical opinion, could bring on asthma attacks at this stage in his life?” Swinburne asked.
“Well, the obvious answer would be stress. There are lots of stressful jobs out there, but nothing like being president of the United States. He’s the leader of the free world, for Pete’s sake. Everyone is watching him. Everyone is either counting on him or waiting for him to make a mistake. You try making policy in a pressure cooker and see if you don’t wheeze a bit.”
“We’re all familiar with the strain of public office.”
“With respect, sir, no one is familiar with the strain of being the president unless they’ve experienced it firsthand. Not even the vice president.”
Swinburne made a grumbling noise but added nothing.
“He’s only been in office a few months,” Dr. Albertson continued, “but he’s had to move, to meet hundreds of people, to totally alter his way of life. He’s had to change his traditional habits—had to break some bad habits. He’s been separated from his family for extended periods of time. Eventually the strain will show. His hair is already dramatically grayer than it was before he took office. There are new lines on his face, especially around the eyes. So it’s easy to see where his respiratory ailments might be exacerbated.”
“Have you prescribed any treatment?”
“All I’ve done is given him an inhaler. ProAir HFA. It’s a minor-league bronchial stimulant, but it seems to be sufficient to take care of the problem for now.”
Vice President Swinburne pondered a moment. “Haven’t I seen you passing him that inhaler?”
Albertson nodded. “I am the president’s doctor. Always at the ready with whatever he needs.”
“Couldn’t he carry his own inhaler?”
“We tried that, but it always seemed to end up in the same place as the man’s car keys. Lost.”
“Doctor, tell us the truth. Could this respiratory condition affect the president’s ability to reason?”
“No,” Albertson said flatly.
“Could the medication you’ve prescribed affect his ability to reason?”
“Absolutely not.”
“But if he’s unable to breathe, surely that could render him unable to function. Disabled.”
Ben winced as Swinburne used the magic word from the amendment. If the doctor agreed that the president was disabled, the trial would be over.
“No, not at any time,” Albertson insisted. “His condition would have to be significantly worse than it is at this time before I would agree that he was disabled, even for a brief period of time.”