“I’m there. Have you got the heat readings?”
“Yes. I’m sending it to your cell.”
Barely three seconds later, he had it. Another trick in the CIA magic show—one not many people knew about—was that the United States had satellites capable of zeroing in on any building in the country and using infrared imagery to get heat impressions of what was going on inside. Was this constitutional? Well, who knew? With the current conservative Supreme Court, almost anything the government wanted to do was potentially constitutional. For the time being, what mattered was that it told him where the heat was—where the people were. And at the moment they were primarily concentrated at the north end.
So he moved to the south.
“I don’t get that much definition on my cell screen,” Seamus said. “Can you tell how many there are?”
“Not to any degree of certainty. Looks like about ten people.”
Which meant they outnumbered him by nine. At least.
“Do you want me to send in reinforcements?” Zira asked.
“Let’s make sure this is the place first. But have them standing by.”
“It’s not as if I have a ready army, Seamus,” Zira said. “We’re dealing with several national crises here. I’ll have to pull people away from their current assignments.”
“Understood. If I need reinforcements, I’ll let you know.”
He closed the phone and approached the south wall.
He had two means of entry: a door and a window. The door would be suicide. Even if they were trying to keep their numbers small, he had to assume someone would be watching all the doors. The window might be unguarded, but entering by that means inevitably would be noisy and, well, he never liked to risk his neck on a “might.”
So he decided to try the roof.
He found a planter on the back end of the building that brought him four feet off the ground. Standing on that, with a concerted leap he was able to pull himself up onto the roof, though his ribs ached from the strain.
He didn’t have many advantages in this situation. In fact, the element of surprise might be his only one. And he couldn’t even be sure about that. By now, they must have noticed that the thug he left back at the mall hadn’t shown up with Harold Bemis. So they might well be on their guard.
Seamus hoped not.
If this were a movie, he reasoned, by now he would’ve spotted a curved air exhaust that led to an extensive network of ventilation shafts that would allow him to crawl anyplace in the building, overhear key information, and then penetrate their ranks and blow the whole operation sky-high. But here in real life, he had never yet seen a building with a passable network of ventilation shafts, and even if there were one somewhere, he probably couldn’t fit inside it. He was limber and in good shape, but there were limits.
He did find a door. Presumably the top of the stairs. He’d have to settle for that.
A chain secured with a combination lock was wrapped around the door handle—something about sixteen times stronger than the screws holding the door handle to the door, or the door itself. They must’ve comforted themselves knowing how hard it would be to open that lock. He wouldn’t even try. If he knocked the door handle off the door, he wouldn’t have to worry about it.
And he didn’t. Four well-placed kicks to the handle and it splintered away from the worn and warped door. Lesson to terrorists: invest in a good carpenter.
He quietly stepped inside, gun at the ready. It was dark, but he could see a thin shaft of light coming from below.
A few steps closer and he could see the floor. It looked like a concrete slab, not something you’d want to spend the day standing upon. The lighting was poor. It looked as if someone had strung a line of electric torches along the wall. They weren’t making the place homey—just operational.
No guards. Well, none that he saw. That would probably change.
How many punches had he thrown since this day began? Too many. He didn’t need to add to the running total. Even the best-toned knuckles gave out eventually.
He descended the stairs, clinging to the west wall, and made his way slowly toward the opposite end of the building. He knew it would be several minutes before he reached the source of all that heat. The building appeared to be divided into several large sections. Back in the days when the plant was operational, each had probably housed a different part of the manufacturing process. Now they were just empty spaces that the current occupants—or squatters—didn’t seem to need. Seemed wasteful, but perhaps there were advantages to using buildings that didn’t conform to what might be expected.
Seamus had sidestepped along the length of the building for almost four minutes before he heard the distant sounds of activity: a low-pitched drone that could be anything, or perhaps nothing. But he didn’t think so.
He crouched down and, even more carefully than before, inched forward.
He could see light, not just the bare-bones light that suffused the rest of the building but bold, bright overhead light—the kind you would need where people were working. There was a door between him and the northmost end of the complex, and the closed door was probably stifling a lot of the sound.
He crept close to the door and pressed himself against it. Was it possible he could open it and sneak in there without being noticed? He didn’t see anyone patrolling the hallway or watching the door. What should he do?
He could call Zira, but he still didn’t know what was going on or if these were the people he was looking for. He didn’t want to come out of this looking like an idiot. Of course, he didn’t want to be drilled by terrorists, either.
What the hell. Slowly, as gently as possible, he turned the knob.
It was always possible that a door in a long-abandoned building might squeak, so he didn’t open it any more than necessary. He released the knob, then slid through the narrowest opening he could get himself through. Then he closed the door behind him, just in case someone came along later.
He was inside.
The first thing he saw was the back of a row of computer equipment. Beyond that, he spotted a satellite dish, a large tactical display, and the tops of the heads of several computer operatives.
He recognized the tactical display. It showed the location and range of all the ballistic missiles controlled by the computer system Zuko had seized.
He had found the terrorist base camp.
In the midst of the tumult that followed this revelation, Ben wasn’t sure what to think. Everyone was reacting, but it was perhaps more subdued than he might have imagined. Perhaps that was because it involved race—no one in politics wanted to be accused of racism. At the same time, there were obviously sound nonracist reasons for recognizing that these newly revealed relationships—a son born of a Middle Eastern mother—could cause political problems for President Kyler.
That was something Kyler would have to work out later. Ben’s job at the present was to save his job, and the only way he could do that was by demonstrating that his policies in Kuraq were not insane. Prejudiced by personal feelings, perhaps, but not insane.
The president remained strangely phlegmatic. Calm was good, and far better than some alternatives. Ben just hoped it was a stable calm—not the prelude to another irrational outburst.
“Why wasn’t I informed of this?” Secretary Ruiz asked. “How can I attempt diplomatic relations with this nation when the president has secret relationships with the citizens?”
“Do we have any reason to believe Colonel Zuko knows about this?” Secretary Rybicki asked. “If he doesn’t know, I don’t see what difference it makes. You were a senator, Kincaid. You remember what Lincoln said: don’t assume your enemy knows everything you do.”
“Whether Zuko knows or not,” the vice president insisted, “it compromises the president’s ability to perform the functions of the office!”
“Are we doing closing arguments now?” Ben said. “Because I wasn’t even clear that we were done with this witness.”
Cartwright pounded on the table. His palm must be plenty sore by this time, Ben imagined. “I want everyone to stop talking—now!”
The buzz in the bunker diminished but did not subside.
“I know there have been some startling surprises today, but we simply do not have time for this babbling. So please, show the court that you can behave as the professionals you are.”
The chatter evaporated. Cartwright turned toward Swinburne. “Are you done with this witness?”
“Just a few follow-up questions, judge. A few questions I imagine are on everyone’s mind. Mr. Zimmer, is this mystery mother still in Kuraq?”
“I have no idea.”
“You never asked?”
“It’s none of my business.”
“Is she living?”
“I don’t know.”
“Has the president ever visited her?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Does Colonel Zuko know about this?”
“Honestly, sir, how would I know?” Zimmer looked as if he was reaching the limit of his tolerance. “I’m his Secret Service agent, not his priest. The only reason I know about his son’s background is that I of course had to perform a background check before the meeting, and his connection to Kuraq came up with a red flag. I still don’t know any of the details. And I don’t particularly want to.”
“Fine. It’s clear enough that these relationships compromise the president’s objectivity.”
“If you keep previewing your closing,” Ben said, “the cabinet will be bored of it before you actually deliver it.”
Swinburne didn’t blink. “I thank the defense attorney for his valuable trial strategy. No more questions of this witness.”
“Very well. Agent Zimmer is dismissed.”
Zimmer stepped down. He walked directly to the communications station and yanked the headphones off Agent Gioia’s head.
“Thanks for the help. Now scram.”
Gioia did as he was told.
“Anything else?” Cartwright asked. “Or are we done?”
“Just one more witness, I think,” Ben said. “But I have to talk to my client first. It’s absolutely essential. I promise to keep it brief.”
“Kincaid, we don’t have time.”
“Your honor, please.” Ben lowered his voice. “I need to ask if he’s willing to testify.”
President Kyler’s back stiffened.
“He has a constitutional right to remain silent, as I’m sure the court knows. If he’s going to waive it, it has to be an informed decision. I’m sorry for the delay, but it is essential to a fair trial.”
Cartwright frowned. “Very well.”
“Thank you, your honor.”
President Kyler immediately stood and entered the adjoining room. Ben started to follow.
“Just a minute, Mr. Kincaid. I’m not finished.”
Ben stopped. “Yes, your honor?”
“You’ve got three minutes. If you take any longer, we’re going straight to verdict.”
“Understood.”
Cartwright touched a button on his watch. “Your time starts now.”
Ben raced into the adjoining room—and was astonished by what he saw there.
After all the surprises this day had brought, why would such a little thing make any difference? And yet it did.
The president was smoking.
“Forgive me, Kincaid,” he mumbled as he took a long draw on his cigarette. “I need something to relieve the stress.”
“I don’t doubt it. Look, I know this probably sounds awful, and to be fair, it could backfire on us—but I think you should take the stand in your own defense.”
“Why? I thought Zimmer’s testimony went well.”
“I agree, but it wasn’t enough. At best, he justified your decision regarding Kuraq. At worst, he showed you were too personally invested to be capable of performing your job properly. But in any case, what’s really haunting our jury is your weird behavior—talking to portraits and threatening to kill yourself. And let’s not forget that two of the cabinet members and the vice president witnessed your last episode personally. That will be very hard to put out of their minds.”
“So how am I going to do it?”
“I have no idea. And I don’t have time to preview and vet your testimony. I’m just going to have to put my faith in the fact that a smart man will think of something.”
“And how do you know I’m smart?” he asked, blowing smoke into the air.
“Well, a stupid man isn’t going to be elected president of the United States. With one or two exceptions.”
When Ben returned to the main room, there were only twenty-five minutes remaining on the countdown clock. That left maybe ten minutes for this examination, maybe five or so for closings, and then the vote. That would barely leave time for the president to take charge—or the vice president to call back the troops, depending upon the outcome.
Best not to think about that. He needed to concentrate on the job at hand. He couldn’t think of another time in his entire career when he had gone into the critical defendant’s examination so blind. How ironic that it would occur on the occasion when he happened to be representing the most powerful man in the free world and his performance could have global consequences—could quite literally determine whether thousands of people lived or died.
“Mr. President, I’m going to skip all the discussion about your professional background and qualifications. I assume everyone here knows who you are and pretty much knows where you’ve been.”
“A fair bet.”
“So without wasting any more time, let’s get down to the heart of the matter. Is there any reason—medical or otherwise—you are incapable of executing your duties as president?”
To his credit, the president smiled a little bit at Ben’s bluntness. “No, there is not.”
“Are you sure about that? Because the vice president undoubtedly will suggest that a mentally ill man is not aware of his own condition.”
“I’m about as self-aware as anyone on earth, I would imagine. In this business, you have to be. If I were crazy, I’d be the first to know. And I’d resign on my own and this proceeding would not be necessary.
But the truth is, I’m not, and this whole business is nothing but a trumped-up power grab by a party or parties with an opposing point of view on a complex matter of foreign policy.”