Capitol Conspiracy (31 page)

52

I
NTEGRIS
B
APTIST
M
EDICAL
C
ENTER
, R
OOM
243
O
KLAHOMA
C
ITY
, O
KLAHOMA

“M
ike!”

Ben rushed into the hospital room, still dragging his carry-on luggage. Kate Baxter was seated beyond the bed, close at hand. Mike was awake—awake and sitting upright, looking healthier than he had since the shooting incident, and sturdier—and seriously pissed.

“My God! It’s good to see you. I was so afraid—” Ben rushed forward, arms extended for a hug.

Mike held up his hands. “Please. No chick-flick moments.”

Ben pulled back, grinning. “I’m glad to see the concussion had no effect on your prickly personality.”

“You might be surprised. Look who’s here, Kate,” he added. “It’s our distinguished senator.”

“I guess he needs your vote,” Baxter said wryly.

“Well, he ain’t gonna get it.”

Ben took a tentative step closer. “I came as soon as I heard you were awake. How do you feel?”

“Terrible. But not bad for a guy who got thrown twelve feet by a car bomb. This IV is pumping something yummy into my bloodstream, and that helps. How are you doing?”

Ben’s head tilted to one side. “I—feel fine.”

“No, I was inquiring more as to the state of your mental health.”

“I…don’t think I quite follow you.”

Mike looked at him levelly. “What I’m trying to ask in the nicest possible way is: Have you totally lost your goddamn mind?”

Ben felt as if a shock wave had slammed him up against the wall. “Mike…I know you’re probably a little loopy from the pain medication—”

“I’m not remotely loopy, thank you very much, but you’re acting like a crazy person, and you’re not even on any medication, as far as I know. Or am I wrong?”

Ben walked to the side of the hospital bed, trying not to show his disappointment. He had been waiting and praying for so long for the moment when he might speak to Mike again. This was a far cry from what he had expected.

“Kate,” Mike said abruptly, “would you mind stepping outside for a moment?”

She tucked in her chin. “Oh, I was good enough company when you were unconscious, but now that you’re awake and there’s another guy around you’re throwing me over?”

“I’m not throwing you over. I am, however, preparing to use language unfit for a lady’s ears.”

“What, you’re going to recite poetry?”

Mike almost smiled. “Yeah, lots of it. Possibly even some Shakespeare. You should flee.”

“No need to say more. I’m a-fleeing.” She stepped past Ben and excused herself.

“Now, then,” Mike said, fixing his gaze on Ben with piercing eyes, “perhaps you’d like to explain yourself.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t play games with me, Ben. I’ve talked to Christina. She tells me you’re supporting this cockamamy constitutional amendment. In fact, she tells me you’re leading the crusade.”

“Well…yes.”

“In fact, she tells me that you caved on an education bill and a bill that might feed starving children in exchange for the passage of this amendment.”

“I’m considering it.”

“You’re considering ignorance and starvation in order to get this fascist wet dream written into the Constitution?”

Ben felt floored. “I—I thought you’d support it, too.”

“Excuse me? You thought
I’d
support it?” He stared at Ben incredulously. “Like maybe while I was sleeping I entered an alternate universe and joined the Nazi party?”

“No, but you are a member of the law enforcement community—”

“Which is exactly what equips me to know just how much trouble this law could be. I see every day what can happen when law enforcement has too much power. When the proper checks and balances are not in place. Good God, Ben—you’ve seen the same thing in the courtroom. What were you thinking?”

Ben pressed his fingers against his forehead. He was confused and disoriented and finding it difficult to speak coherently. “I thought you would approve—”

“After all we’ve been through together? Ben—have you forgotten what happened in the Kindergarten Killer case once the Feds came to town? Have you forgotten how a tiny cadre of corrupt cops managed to get you tossed into the slammer and accused of murder? And that was under the
current
legal system. Imagine what might happen if this law were passed. The Feds declare an emergency state and suddenly anyone in the FBI or Homeland Security can do anything they want to any American without any possibility of legal review. It’s outrageous. It goes against everything the Constitution stands for.”

“Well, we have to do something. The terrorists killed the first lady. And three senators. They tried to kill me.”

“Or someone did, anyway.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’ve spent most of my time since I woke up reading about this case, and I am unconvinced that there’s any link between the death of Senator Hammond and the attacks on Senator DeMouy and you.”

“They were all ricin poisonings.”

“So what? Ricin is easy to concoct from easily obtained items. Spend ten minutes on the Internet researching it and you can make some, too. That’s no justification for this crazy new law. For repealing our basic civil liberties.”

“Only on a temporary basis.”

“You hope!” Mike tossed back. “But you don’t really know, do you? Because once this security council has declared a state of emergency, they can do anything they want. For as long as they want.”

“If you assume that every law will be abused, you’ll never pass anything.”

“When it comes to law enforcement types getting more power, you shouldn’t pass anything. You’re playing with fire. What were you thinking, Ben?”

He hesitated, still unsure what to say, still stunned by Mike’s reaction. “I was thinking that…given what happened to you—”

“Stop right there. Don’t lay the blame for this pitiful exercise in poor judgment at my feet. I don’t want this law. And if you’d thought clearly about it for one moment, you’d have realized that.”

“Mike—you were almost killed!”

“And that means I want to repeal the Constitution? I can promise you, I don’t.”

“April nineteenth was a tragedy. We have to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“I agree. And the way we do that is by taking extra precautions. Working every possible security detail. Maybe even beefing up law enforcement—meaning their resources, not their powers. But you don’t make people safe by giving up their most basic rights. What good is being safe if we have no freedom?”

“Most people approved of the Patriot Act—”

“Because 9/11 was so shocking most people couldn’t think straight. And Congress was afraid to go up against the president. Make no mistake, Ben—the current president is manipulating public opinion in exactly the same way, trying to push this through before everyone shakes off their stupidity and realizes what a truly bad idea it is.”

“Mike—” Ben wanted to reach out, but he didn’t know how. “When I saw you in this hospital bed, not moving, not waking, because you took the time to shove my sorry butt out the door before you saved your own, I—” He shook his head. “I don’t know. I had to do something.”

“I get that, Ben. I truly do. You thought I was headed for ‘the undiscovered country’ and you wanted to do something about it.”

“I wasn’t sure…what to do.”

“Right. ‘And the native hue of resolution is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought.’”

“I had to do
something.
”

“You want to do me and my colleagues a favor, pass a bill that gets us the money and equipment we need to do our job right and pay public servants in the manner that they deserve. Expand our capabilities—not our power.”

“I—I don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything—to me. Get back on the damn plane and tell the president that he can take his amendment and shove it—”

The phone rang, interrupting him.

“Perhaps that’s the president now.” Mike picked up the phone. “Close, but no.” He held out the receiver. “It’s for you. Loving.”

“Loving! He hasn’t checked in for days.” Ben snatched the phone. “Loving? Where are you? What’s happening. Why—?”

Ben’s voice fell silent. For the better part of the next minute, he just listened.

“Who have I told what? What’s that got to do with anything?” Ben didn’t begin to comprehend, but he thought a moment and answered the question.

“You’re kidding! I don’t believe it.” Another pause. “Are you sure? My God, that changes everything. And—”

Another pause, this time even longer.

“Loving, are you certain? Because this is very important. The president is making a public appearance tomorrow in Baltimore to drum up support for the amendment. He—”

Ben’s eyes widened. “You’ve got to find out. Get over there as soon as possible. Then call me back.” Ben disconnected the line and began dialing again.

“What is it?” Mike asked, his eyebrows knitted. “What’s going on?”

“Something…very…bad,” Ben whispered as he dialed the phone.

“Come on. You can give me more than that.”

Ben glanced up as he waited for the receiver on the other end to pick up. “If Loving’s intelligence is right—and let’s face it, it usually is—the April nineteenth killer is a lot closer than we ever imagined. And about to strike again.”

53

225 B
LEEKER
S
TREET
W
ESTBURY
, M
ARYLAND

J
ason got out of bed when he heard the noise in the garage. He knew it was probably nothing, but given what he had found out there himself—and had no opportunity to get rid of—he was understandably a little paranoid.

When he entered the garage wearing nothing but a bathrobe, he was startled to find a huge burly man reading through the documents he had discovered. The strongbox was lying on the floor, wide open.

Jason turned to run, but the man grabbed him and threw him on the ground. “I won’t hurt you. Just don’t get in my way.”

Jason stared at him, uncomprehending. “Who the hell are you? What’s going on?”

“Name’s Loving. I’m conductin’ a search.”

“Don’t you need a warrant or something?”

“I’m not a cop.”

“Then you’re trespassing.”

“Sue me. I think the nutcases behind Oklahoma City are gonna try somethin’ else. I wanna stop them.” He gave Jason a closer look. “You the chief of staff?”

“Who wants to know? Look, if you don’t leave immediately, I’ll—”

Loving grabbed him by the neck. “Let me make this short and sweet. I’ve been tortured, hit, cut, threatened, had an electric cattle prod rattlin’ my teeth. You are not gonna intimidate me. I’ve already found the goods. So why don’t you do yourself a favor and tell me what’s goin’ on?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why are you here?”

“Because while I was bein’ tortured I found out the man I thought was the head of a terrorist operation had help. On the inside.”

“And who was that?”

“I didn’t know at first. Then the General started hintin’ about his connections to the Senate. Then he quoted one of my boss’s favorite jokes, somethin’ about God and Abraham Lincoln and the United States of America. I’ve heard Ben say it before, but I didn’t figure he’d said it to this punk sex trafficker. So I called Ben and asked him if he’d repeated it to anyone in the Senate. Guess what? He had. One person. Your boss, the late Senator DeMouy.”

“Are you saying—?”

“You know what I’m sayin’. Your boss was the inside man. All this crap proves it.” Loving pointed at everything he had found hidden in the garage strongbox—the photos and the papers, the ones that weren’t in Arabic. Detailed plans. Names and addresses. Constant references to Homeland Security. The Secret Service. Oklahoma City.

“Oh my God,” Jason gasped. “I found this stuff but I never imagined—” He stared off into space, eyes wide. “All those meetings Senator DeMouy took at Homeland Security for undisclosed purposes. Late-night meetings. His calm after the attack on Oklahoma City. His staunch advocacy of the proposed constitutional amendment…”

When he heard the noise at the door, Jason almost jumped a foot into the air.

“Jason? Why did you get out of bed? Why are you out here in the cold?”

Belinda was wearing only her panties, standing at the door. When she saw Loving, she covered herself with her hands. “Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my garage?”

“Gettin’ the skinny on your late husband.”

She stared at the papers and photos on the workbench. “I’ve never seen any of this before.”

“And for a damn good reason.”

She took an old tattered towel off a shelf and wrapped it around herself. “I’m tired and I don’t know what you’re talking about and I think I should call the police.”

“Be my guest. I’ve got what I needed. You’ve probably heard that the terrorists who attacked in Oklahoma City had an accomplice. An inside man?”

“Y-yes?”

“Well, guess what—you were married to him.”

Her mouth opened, then moved wordlessly. “That’s—not possible.”

“Yup. Your old man was a terrorist sympathizer. Makin’ a hell of a lot of money at it, too.” He paused. “And in case you’re wonderin’, I also found the stuff you used to make your homegrown ricin.”

Jason and Belinda exchanged a glance. Jason cleared his throat. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Save it for someone who might buy it.” Loving threw down the papers and swore under his breath. “Isn’t life sweet? All this time I’ve spent lookin’ for this guy. The guy every cop in the United States has been searching for?” Loving smiled sadly. “You killed him.”

54

F
RIEDMAN
D
OWNTOWN
A
RENA
B
ALTIMORE
, M
ARYLAND

“…a
nd so, good citizens of Baltimore, I will speak to you with the same words my mother gave me many years ago when I was facing the darkest moment of my political career: Extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures. Can any-one doubt that we live in extraordinary times? I think not. I am reminded each and every day, when the Pentagon gives me its briefing on current events, when science and technology seem to reinvent the world every few years. Or when I gaze at the picture I keep on my desk, or the one by my bedside, of my dear lamented Emily, the first lady of this great nation. Emily always wanted the United States to be a strong, secure place to live. And so I urge you—”

Agent Gatwick was talking into his sleeve again. “All clear on the western front?”

“Roger that,” Zimmer said, wondering how long it would be before they communicated with little lapel pins, like on
Star Trek.
People at the airport held extended conversations with those little clips on their ears. Why was the Secret Service still talking into their sleeves? “The Scarecrow is safe.”

Gatwick grinned a little. After Oklahoma City, Blake needed a new code name, but this one was considerably more accurate than most. He liked it. Just as long as no one started calling him Dorothy. “SWAT teams in position?”

“Ready to go on your order.”

“Excellent.” Gatwick paced along the rim of the stage, just below where the president was speaking. Even though they were largely invisible, he knew there were agents and soldiers and government snipers all over the arena. Fort Knox couldn’t be more secure. “Harold still watching the cameras?”

“Like they were showing
One Life to Live.
”

“That’s my boy.”

“I think I’m going to amble through the crowd. Keep an eye out for anything suspect.”

“Works for me. Check in every five or so.”

“Will do. Tom—”

“Yeah?”

“We really are going to be okay here, right?”

“We’ve done everything there is to do.”

“You’re not exactly answering my question.”

“Do your job, Max.” His eyes scanned the horizon, the innumerable throng packed into one small place to hear the president speak. “We’ve done everything there is to do.”

“I think we’re fine,” Nichole Muldoon said, peering through her binoculars. Homeland Security had barricaded a large observation box at the highest point of the amphitheater. They could see almost every nook and cranny of the arena from here, and most of the places they couldn’t see directly were covered by closed-circuit cameras. “I mean, how could anyone get past all the security we’ve got here? Even if an assassin could get in—and I don’t think anyone could get in here with a slingshot, much less a rifle—he couldn’t get off a shot before our SWAT team converged.”

“I hope you’re right,” Director Lehman said, his lips frozen in a perpetual frown.

“I told the president I was against this.”

“And did he listen? No. Too damn worried about his amendment. Damn—I want the thing to pass too, but I don’t want anyone to die for it.”

“I know you don’t, Carl. No one does.”

He pressed his fists against each other. “I’m good at this job, Nichole. You know I am.”

“I know you are.”

“I can protect a president against almost anything. Except his own stupidity.”

“Carl, please try to relax. Your pacing is making my skin crawl.” She placed a hand gently on his shoulder. “You’ve done everything it’s possible to do. The sniper couldn’t possibly get in here. And he’d have to be insane to try.”

“Yes,” Lehman said, slowly blowing air through his teeth. “Unfortunately—he probably is.”

“…that in generations to come, this historic legislation will be remembered as Emily’s Amendment and that she will be remembered as not only a wife but as a patriot, someone who made the ultimate sacrifice to remind us what we always have been and always shall be—strong. Fearless. Ready to face whatever challenge this world throws at us. Therefore, speaking to you as your president, I urge you—call your congresspersons. Call your neighbors. Call everyone you know and tell them that America will be strong again—and you want to be a part of it. Tell them that—”

In the days following the attack, it would be remarked upon repeatedly how fortunate it was that the Blue Goose was bulletproof, because if it had not been, the president would be dead. Despite the enormous security precautions and the literally hundreds of people standing ready to protect him, the president would have been shot and killed but for the protective maze of translucent TelePrompTer screens and a bulletproof podium.

Barely a nanosecond after the shot rang out, eight Secret Service agents piled on top of President Blake. The audience screamed. The outdoor amphitheater, filled to capacity with spectators arranged in concentric circles of seats radiating away from the stage, left little room for maneuvering. Pushing and shoving commenced immediately as panicked spectators desperately tried to get out of the line of fire.

More shots rang out. Amid all the confusion, a horde of dark-jacketed agents moved swiftly through the amphitheater. Another wave of fire blanketed the stage, bringing the first victim to his knees.

“Not again!” the president cried, but his words were smothered beneath the weight of the agents shielding him, trying to pull him upright so they could move him to safety. “Dear God in heaven—not again!”

On the stage, Agent Tom Gatwick left his colleagues once a secure defensive perimeter had been formed around the president. Even though he knew this could make him a target, he was determined to convey as much information as possible from his key vantage point.

“I think he’s in the second balustrade, stage right,” Gatwick murmured into his sleeve.

“Roger that.”

“Either of those turrets could make a suitable sniper’s nest. I thought we posted guards.”

“Must assume he took them out somehow. Commandeered their weapon.”

Which meant it was possible they had lost even more lives. Gatwick didn’t allow himself to dwell on the thought. He had to keep his head clear. They might not be able to prevent attacks like this, especially when the president was being so bullheaded. But they could at least make sure that this time they caught the bastard. Or killed him. Personally, Gatwick hoped for the latter.

This one was for Emily. Not the plastic Barbie doll her husband was trying to turn her into up on that stage. The real, vital, flesh-and-blood woman he had come to care so much for. And miss so desperately.

“Dick? Deploy the SWAT teams.”

“Already moving into position.”

From the stage, Gatwick saw the wave of black fatigues infiltrating the amphitheater. Good. All they needed was to get a bead on the target. Those guys never missed.

“Tom, I’m moving in.”

“Zimmer, is that you?”

“Roger. I’m leaving my post. Heading for the balustrade.”

“Negative. I repeat, negative. Do not move.”

“I’m practically there.”

“Zimmer, listen to me. The SWAT team is on their way. Let them take him out.”

“They might not arrive in time. This guy knows how to disappear.”

“Zimmer—!”

“Look, Tom, last time you changed the protocol. This time, I’m changing it.”

“This is completely different!”

“Not to me. We’re both trying to do the same thing—make sure this son of a bitch doesn’t take any more lives.”

“Zimmer—!”

“I’ll update you at the first opportunity.”

“Zimmer!”

Too late. Radio communication was silent.

Stupid kid—what was he trying to prove? But Gatwick already knew the answer to that question. The first lady had been killed while he protected her. Or perhaps he just wanted to prove that the Secret Service was still able to protect the president—and anyone else in their ambit. Zimmer wasn’t a hero and he certainly wasn’t a martyr. He was doing his job. It was still a mistake—there was no excuse for ignoring protocol or direct orders—but Gatwick couldn’t help admiring him a little, just the same.

“Dick, tell your men to watch out for Zimmer. He’s making a play for the sniper. He’ll get there before they do.”

“Understood, Tom. But if he gets in the line of sight—”

“I know. Just—tell them to do their best.”

“Roger that.”

The instant he stopped talking, Gatwick heard another gunshot. But this one didn’t come anywhere near the stage. This bullet ricocheted somewhere off to the right. Near the balustrade.

The sniper had found a new target.

Gatwick just hoped to God it wasn’t Special Agent Zimmer.

Zimmer crept up the stairs. Logically, the place to build a sniper’s nest would be at the top. But there was nothing typical about this killer so it was best to be careful. One step at a time…

He heard a sound and froze. It was a miracle he could hear anything. With the screaming down below, the frenzied rush of the panicked crowd, the buzzing in his communicator that he was pointedly ignoring, there was a blanket of white noise muffling ambient sound and rattling his brain. But he had always had good hearing. He could distinguish all that background clatter from this last sound, something that was coming from somewhere much closer to him.

Just around the bend at the top of the stairs. Barely five feet away.

The sniper could be waiting for him. Zimmer would be entirely vulnerable as he rounded the corner.

He took another tiny step closer. What should he do? The whole point in coming up here was to grab the killer before he had a chance to pull another miraculous escape. He couldn’t do that by taking baby steps all the way to the top.

At the same time, he had no desire to die. He admired heroes who had given their lives, but he wasn’t ready to join their ranks.

If he didn’t want to die, why the hell was he making this suicide plunge?

Easy to answer. Because he had sworn to serve and protect. Because the Secret Service’s reputation had been seriously tarnished by the last attack. He was ready for a little payback, and more important, he was ready to show the world that his department still had what it took.

He was doing it for Emily Blake.

This time they were bringing home the bad guy.

Zimmer stepped closer to the bend in the stairs. Then ever so carefully and silently, he took one more step and prepared to pivot around the bend….

“Turn around!” Nichole Muldoon shouted.

Behind her, Director Lehman frowned. That was as expressive, certainly as visibly worried, as he got. Over the years he’d managed to develop a perfect poker face. Worked well in his line of work.

But he was plenty concerned.

“Can you see him?” Lehman asked.

“I can see his thermal image,” Muldoon replied, peering through what might appear to the untrained eye to be a pair of binoculars. She was stationed at the highest point of the amphitheater, where Homeland Security had built its watch post so it could keep an eye on all the proceedings. The suspected sniper’s nest was below her and to the right. “And another thermal image creeping up behind him.”

“I thought the sniper was at the top.”

“So does Zimmer. But if we know anything, it’s that this guy knows how to move.”

“Maybe it’s one of the counterassault team members. SWAT.”

“No. I’d pick up their beacon.”

“Damn!” Lehman pounded the glass panel that separated them from the rest of the amphitheater. “And you tried calling him?”

“He’s turned off his radio. Probably so the killer won’t hear him coming.”

“This is unacceptable.” Lehman’s fists clenched. “I’m going in.”

Muldoon grabbed his arm. “You can’t do that.”

Lehman shrugged free. “Watch me.”

“You’re not a field agent.”

“I was.” He marched toward an elevator at the side of the room.

“But you’re not anymore. You’re the director of Homeland Security. You’re fifty-three years old! You don’t go running into dangerous situations.”

“This time, I do. I’m not letting any more of our men be killed.”

“Carl, listen to me. I’ll call the SWAT leader—”

“I can get there first. This elevator will take me to the base of the stairs. If I run, maybe I can get to the killer before he gets to Agent Zimmer.”

“Carl, no. You’re too important to this department.”

“Sorry, Nichole. I’m doing this.”

Muldoon prepared to spew out more commands and invective, but the elevator doors closed between them. A moment later, Lehman was on his way to the balustrade.

Zimmer rounded the corner, gun poised in both hands, ready to shoot anything that moved.

There was nothing there. Nothing and no one. Not even a sign that anyone had ever been there.

Zimmer slowly released his breath. Had Gatwick been wrong? It seemed unlikely. But there was no one here. And no apparent means of egress…

Wait a minute. He took a step closer. There was a hatch in the floor.

He pulled the short hank of rope and lifted the lid. There was a ladder beneath, and as near as Zimmer could tell, the ladder went down at least two flights to the base of the staircase.

If the killer climbed down this ladder, he could easily join the crowd and make his escape. Or he could…

Zimmer whirled around.

The dark-skinned face leered at him, grinning in an exaggerated, grotesque manner, like a cat that has finally caught its elusive mouse.

“Surprise,” the man said, and a second later, the butt of a high-powered rifle slammed into Zimmer’s face.

Zimmer hit the floor immediately. The assailant had knocked a tooth out, bloodied his mouth, and dropped him to the ground, all with one unexpected blow.

So,
Zimmer thought, his face to the concrete,
it comes down to this.
All that training. All that experience. So he could be taken out with one blow by a terrorist. He wasn’t a hero. He was a loser.