The president was reentering.
Jesus God—why now? Ben tried to hide his dismay from the others. It was the worst possible timing. Kyler seemed calm. Perhaps the episode was over. But his very presence, his return to the room, only reminded everyone of the disturbing sight they had seen only a few minutes before.
Ben took a breath and tried to block all those thoughts from his mind. Focus. Focus! “Finally, we have to consider the matter of the president’s alleged insanity, based upon his unusual behavior both here in the bunker and on a few previous occasions. I think the president did about the best possible job he could of explaining those situations, and I won’t repeat what he said. They were eccentric at best. Disturbing at worst. But ask yourself—was there ever any evidence that these episodes prevented the president from performing his duties?”
He paused, giving everyone a moment to think about it.
“Was there? I don’t remember any such evidence. I don’t think you do, either. Because there wasn’t any. Even after the president had his chat with the presidential portraits, he returned to the garden and handled the Easter egg roll. Even Sarie, whose testimony did him no good, admitted that he always did his job. Agent Zimmer testified that he never saw the president’s behavior interfere with the performance of his duties. And even today, as shocking as these spectacles may have been, the president always snapped out of it and returned to work a few minutes later. Even now he has returned to this room, even though I’m sure there are a million other places he would rather be. He has not been derelict in his duties. Not now. Not ever.”
Ben spread his hands wide. “So where is the evidence that he is incapable of performing as president? Nowhere. It doesn’t exist. All day today, he has been performing his duties and managing this crisis. Sure, he hasn’t made the same decisions that Secretary Ruiz would. He hasn’t pleased the vice president, which, let’s face it, might well be impossible. But he has made decisions, and he has always been able to explain why he has taken them. Is he the first leader to refuse to back down in the face of terrorist attacks? Of course not. So why is it so controversial now? I understand that crises produce heated feelings, but this is a sober deliberative body, so we have to put those feelings aside and think clearly. The only question before us is this: has the prosecution presented any evidence that the president’s disease, his personal life, his politics, or his odd behavior has prevented him from performing his duties as president? Has Mr. Swinburne been able to produce one example of a duty unfulfilled or fulfilled incompetently? He has not. And since there is no such evidence, the constitutional standard has not been met.”
Ben took one final look into the eyes of those before him. “Being goofy is not the same as being incapable. And since there is no evidence of incapacity, the Twenty-fifth Amendment cannot be put into play. I urge you to respect the letter of the Constitution and to let the president remain in the office to which he was duly elected by the citizens of the United States.”
Ben broke eye contact and took his seat. His throat felt dry, achy. It was probably the shortest closing argument of his life—and also the hardest. He had no idea whether they would listen to him, whether they could put aside what they had seen and think logically, as he had urged, to stick to the letter of the amendment.
And at the moment, he was too tired to think about it anymore.
Worry was pointless. In a few minutes, they would all know.
“Mr. Swinburne,” Cartwright said, “you have about one minute for a rebuttal.”
“I’ll take less than that,” Swinburne said, buttoning his coat. “I just have two sentences.” He addressed the jury, gazing into the webcam. “At another time and place, we might have the luxury of doing as counsel asks, of giving the man some more rope and seeing if he hangs himself. But today, when ballistic missiles could be launched at any moment, we can’t take the risk.”
And with that, Swinburne sat down.
That rebuttal was all-time short—and probably a thousand times more effective for its brevity. Swinburne had put the jurors exactly where he wanted them: totally focused on the impending missile crisis and the potential danger of an unbalanced president calling the shots.
“All right, then,” Cartwright said. “I thank counsel for their service. And now, members of the deliberative panel, it is time to vote.”
Seamus was strapped down to a cot, his arms tied above his head, his legs tied down as well. After he was secure, they hoisted the cot sideways and mounted it against the wall. He didn’t know how it was done. He couldn’t see behind himself. Were there hooks on the wall? That would just figure. Scarface had done nothing for the décor, but he had made sure he had an efficient place to torture people.
Most of the security detail disappeared after he was hung on the wall. Apparently they thought he posed little threat at that point. His old sparring buddy, Guard One, stayed on, though, just in case.
“Hey,” Seamus said, winking. “I’ll make you a deal.”
Guard One didn’t even blink. From the looks of him, Seamus thought, he might as well have been guarding the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
“You’re an American citizen, aren’t you? You let me go and I’ll make sure you aren’t prosecuted for treason.”
“Go to hell,” Guard One spat.
“That may happen in time,” Seamus said, “but I’d like to delay it as long as possible.”
“You’ll be there within the hour.”
“All the more reason for us to make a deal first. Tell you what, I’ll not only give you total immunity from prosecution, I’ll give you an IRS waiver, too.”
“A what?”
“An IRS waiver. Haven’t you heard of it? You can file anything you want, and the IRS will never audit you. Guaranteed. It’s like a tax-department get-out-of-jail-free card.”
“Pass. I haven’t filed a tax return for years.”
Well, that must simplify his April 15. Seamus tried again. “You know, these guys are probably promising you virgins in heaven, but I can get you the best booty in the tristate area. Who wants a virgin, anyway? Wouldn’t you rather have someone who knows what she’s doing?”
Guard One’s expression dripped with contempt. “I’m not Muslim.”
“Then what are you in this for?”
“Money. Lots of it.”
“Oh.” No wonder he was hard to bribe. Uncle Sam probably didn’t have a slush fund to match Colonel Zuko’s. “Interested in real estate? I’ve got a great place for duck hunting on the coast of—”
“Would you just shut up?” the guard said.
“Well, if you’re going to be unfriendly…”
The door opened.
Scarface stepped into the small room. He closed the door behind him.
He was carrying a tool belt. Like something Bob the Builder might carry, except with sharper edges.
“I am glad you are amusing yourself and having great fun,” he said. He walked up to Seamus until they were practically nose to nose. “Now it is time for me to have some fun.”
Arlo checked his watch again. Seamus had been gone a long time. It was possible he hadn’t been able to get inside. But if so, why hadn’t he returned to the car? It didn’t make any sense. He knew Seamus wouldn’t quit without making every effort. If he couldn’t get in right away, he’d have come back for a tire iron or something.
So he must’ve gotten inside. Why hadn’t he returned?
Could he still be looking around, taking notes? Stretching his legs?
Arlo could think of a far more likely explanation.
He couldn’t forget what Seamus had told him. The man had drilled it into his head. He said it three times: do not leave the car.
Apparently he meant it.
Arlo had the keys. He could drive away from here.
And abandon Seamus? The man who had saved his life? No. Even if he weren’t indebted to him, he wouldn’t leave him hanging out like that.
But he had promised…
So many difficult decisions. He didn’t know what to do. But he wasn’t content just to sit here doing nothing. He needed a plan of action. If this were a World of Warcraft scenario, what would his avatar do?
One thing was certain: real life was a lot harder.
Seamus didn’t know what he hated most: the fact that Scarface was invading his personal space or the fact that his breath was truly rancid.
“Why are you here?” his captor demanded.
“Well, jeez Louise,” Seamus said, “isn’t that obvious?”
Scarface slugged him hard, deep in the pit of his stomach. It hurt much more than it should have. That was because his ribs were still aching on the right side. But explaining it didn’t make it feel any better.
“Why are you here?” Scarface shouted, even louder.
“Are you kidding? You’ve hijacked a nuclear bomb and the U.S. missile system. Did you think no one would come looking for you? Every federal agent on the East Coast is looking for you.”
“How did you find us?”
Seamus didn’t see any point in lying about that, either. “I got the address from that clown you sent to the mall to pick up Harold Bemis.” That was true, more or less. “By the way, neither one of them will be showing.”
Scarface was enraged. “We need him!”
“Oh, yeah? Got a glitch in the system?”
“Your fascist government is trying to interfere.”
“You mean we’re trying to boot you out of our computers. Imagine that.”
Scarface pummeled him again, several times, all delivered to the same soft sore spot in his stomach. Seamus thought he felt something rupture. The pain was excruciating. Sweat trickled down the sides of his face.
“It does not matter. You will not succeed before the colonel’s deadline has expired. And if I sense we will soon lose control, I will fire all the missiles at once!”
That would be bad. And Scarface looked just crazy and pissed off enough to do it. Seamus knew Colonel Zuko was an extremist, but he didn’t think he was totally starkers. He wondered if the dictator knew his first officer was so far gone.
“Who came with you?”
“No one. I came alone.”
“Do not lie to me!”
“Look around you, pal. Do you see anyone? I’m alone.” He hoped the creep bought it. Arlo might’ve had the sense to drive off by now, but then again, maybe not. He didn’t want the kid dragged into this.
Of course, he didn’t want to make Scarface mad, either. Truth to tell, his ribs weren’t going to hold up to much more of this.
“Who else knows you’re here?”
“No one.”
“You must’ve called your superior.”
“No time. Your top cops grabbed me just as soon as I spotted the control room, or whatever you call that.”
Scarface paused a moment. Seamus could see he was considering, weighing the words, wondering if his captive could be trusted.
“How long would it take your colleagues to arrive?”
“They’d already be here,” he lied.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why would I lie about that?”
“How much do you know about what we are doing? How much does anyone know?”
“No one knows anything. I don’t know anything. And I’ve seen the operation in action. But I’m still clueless.”
“You lie!” He pounded Seamus in the stomach again and again. Seamus suspected he was bleeding internally. He was used to blocking out pain, but all the mental discipline in the world couldn’t stop a hemorrhage.
Scarface brought his hand against the back of Seamus’s face. “Talk to me!” Blood and spittle flew from Seamus’s mouth. “Tell me what you know!”
“Do I look like a computer genius?”
“You are an American spy!” he shouted, battering Seamus’s face again.
“I am just like you!” Seamus shouted back. “I take orders!” Not entirely true, but he thought it was the best way to appeal to this guy. The solidarity of soldiers and all that. “I do what I’m told!”
That seemed to give Scarface pause, at least for a moment. Not long enough. “Then your masters have ordered you to your death.” He turned and reached for his tool belt. He returned with a pair of shiny steel pliers. “I do not have much time for this. I expect the colonel to call soon. So the question is whether you will die quickly and painlessly or whether I will have a chance to use my tools.”
“You’re not listening to me. I don’t know anything.”
Scarface slugged him again, this time with the pliers. That stung. Seamus could feel blood trickling out of his mouth. He felt around with his tongue. Damn—one of his molars felt loose. Not that he hadn’t lost teeth before. But he didn’t like it. There were only so many to go around.
Scarface pulled open Seamus’s shirt, popping the buttons. The shirt hung in tatters, dangling from Seamus’s shoulders. Scarface jabbed the pliers into his left pectoral. Then he twisted.
Seamus screamed. There was no shame in screaming, he told himself. When you feel pain, let it out. Holding it in only made it worse.
And this was bad enough already. Seamus could feel his flesh tearing, feel the muscle separating from the skin. Blood gushed down his chest.
“Still not convinced? Let us try the other side.”
Scarface twisted the pliers around the right pec. Seamus screamed, a longer and louder cry. Blood and sweat poured down the sides of his body.
“And if that’s not enough, we’ll work on some of your other extremities. We will take you apart bit by bit. We will take away all that makes you a man.” He paused, grinning with malice. “Before I am finished, there may be nothing left of you to kill.”
“I think we can assume,” Admiral Cartwright continued, “that the vice president wishes to initiate an action to remove the president.”
“You can,” Swinburne concurred.
“So I will poll each of the cabinet members, in order, and I will ask if you vote to retain or remove. Does everyone understand?”
There was general assent, indicated by nods.
“Good. Let’s begin. Mr. Secretary of—”
“Excuse me!” It was Agent Zimmer, standing by the communications station, one earphone pressed against his right ear. “I have Colonel Zuko.”