Capitol Conspiracy (8 page)

8

D
EPARTMENT OF
H
OMELAND
S
ECURITY
N
EBRASKA
A
VENUE
N
AVAL
C
OMPLEX
W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

H
e knew he shouldn’t be sitting around in the dark, especially if he was trying to read. But the fluorescent lights that filled his tiny office were much too intense, too glaring. Too much at odds with his current mood. And the reading…well, his attention drifted so often, he wasn’t sure whether he was absorbing it anyway. Or whether he really cared.

Agent Max Zimmer heard a sound outside his closed door. Through the window he could see two men outside talking. He made a silent prayer that he wouldn’t be bothered. He did not want to be bothered. Especially not by the man he saw in the window.

No such luck. A few moments later, the doorknob turned, and Agent Thomas Gatwick stepped into the office.

“How’re you doing, partner?” Gatwick said, affecting a breezy cheerfulness that was not remotely convincing. He turned on the overhead light.

Zimmer winced. Bad enough the man had to intrude on his privacy. “I’m okay. Not bad for a guy who probably needs serious psychiatric counseling.”

Gatwick’s neck stiffened. “Ouch. Were we talking that loudly?”

“No. I’m just psychic.” In truth, Zimmer was an excellent lip-reader. His younger sister had been born deaf, and he had gone to all the classes with her to learn to read lips. As a result, he’d been able to eavesdrop on a conversation he could see but couldn’t hear. But he wasn’t going to tell Gatwick that. Let the man think he was some sort of wizard. A little mystery couldn’t hurt his reputation.

“I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just…standard procedure. You know. By the books.”

“There’s a book that says that when an agent starts sitting around in his office in the dark all day he needs psychiatric counseling?”

“Well, I don’t really need a book to figure that one out.” Gatwick took a deep breath. “Look, Max. It’s not like I haven’t seen this before. I’ve been in the Service a long time. Longer than you.”

“Your point being?”

“You’ve been through a traumatic event.”

“We all were. Every one of us in Oklahoma City that day.”

“Yes, but you had it worse than most.”

“I’d say the eight agents who died probably had it worse than most.”

“Max. You know what I mean.”

Yes, unfortunately, Zimmer did know what he meant. He meant that he was suffering more posttraumatic stress than the others—because he was protecting the first lady when she was killed.

“You did everything according to protocol, Max. Right down the line. You went straight to her, carried her off the dais. You did everything you could. There just wasn’t enough time.”

“Or agents.”

Gatwick stared at the carpet. “You and I both know that, whether we like it or not, the President of the United States is our first priority. That’s why most of the agents in the immediate area raced to protect him.”

“If there had been more agents around the first lady, she might still be alive.”

“Yes, and the president might be dead! Would that be better?”

Zimmer threw his book down on the table and pushed away from the desk. “I don’t know, Tom. I just…I don’t know anything anymore.”

“That’s why you need to talk to someone. Someone professional.”

“But what you said…” Zimmer paused, trying to think just exactly how to say it. “It isn’t true.”

Gatwick’s eyebrows knitted together. “What isn’t true?”

“What you said about how I followed protocol. I didn’t.
We
didn’t.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I think you know. The defense formation we agreed upon was Domino Bravo. But you changed that at the last minute. You moved the first lady.”

“Are you suggesting her death was my fault?”

“The only thing I’m suggesting is that you broke protocol.”

“And it’s a damn good thing I did. The killers obviously knew our defense plan as well as we did. They knew exactly how to hit us the hardest. They were probably monitoring our communications—which is supposed to be impossible. They knew where the agents would be located. Altering the preplanned defense formation was probably the best thing I could have possibly done.”

Zimmer looked at him stonily. “You moved her.”

“I took her out of a potential line of fire. Which turned out not to be potential at all, but very real.”

“If she had been closer to the president, it might’ve been easier for the Secret Service agents on hand to protect her. To protect them both.”

Gatwick leaned across Zimmer’s desk, his face rippling with suppressed anger. “Are you sure you’re not suggesting that the first lady’s death was my fault?”

They stared each other down for a long moment.

“No, of course not,” Zimmer said finally. “I’m just saying…we have a lot to account for. We made mistakes. And we paid dearly for them.”

Gatwick balled his fists. “I am…outraged by the suggestion that my actions killed the first lady. I knew Emily Blake. I knew her personally.”

Zimmer’s face remained stoic. “That’s what I’ve heard.”

“I don’t know what you’ve heard, but we were friends. Good friends. Known each other since college. She specially requested that I be assigned to any security detail that involved her.”

“So you would always be wherever she was.”

“Yes, so—” Gatwick stopped short. “What the hell are you saying?”

Zimmer waved his hand in the air. “The only thing I’m saying is that we screwed up. That’s the truth. We need to admit it and accept it.”

“Is that what you’re worried about? Sharing the blame? Max—I will not let them scapegoat you. I was in charge on site. I take full responsibility for everything.”

“Sounds good. But when the hellhounds need a sacrifice, it won’t be you.”

“There aren’t going to be any scapegoats. No one wants one. All the polls show the people don’t see this as a failing on the part of the government. They see an evil enemy who will be unstoppable unless we make serious changes in current law enforcement procedures.”

Zimmer fingered the Secret Service pin on the lapel of his midnight-blue suit. He had been so proud the day he received it. Now it seemed like a horrible reminder of his greatest failure, a millstone weighing him down so heavily, he could barely walk. “I’ve seen those polls. The president’s proposed amendment is barely a day old and already the majority of the population favors its passage.”

“And thank God for that. We need it, Max.”

“Do we?”

“If we’re going to do our job, yes. If we’re going to prevent Oklahoma City from ever happening again. Those terrorists are bastards. They don’t care about civil rights. We have to fight fire with fire.”

Zimmer’s mind wandered even as Gatwick continued his rant on the need for stronger crime-fighting laws. He’d heard it all before. Ever since the Service had been transferred to Homeland Security in 2003, they had been obsessed with stopping terrorism. That wasn’t their job. Ironically, the Service had first been created in 1865 to suppress counterfeit currency, which is why it was part of the Treasury Department. After the assassination of President McKinley in 1901, they added the protection of the president to their list of duties, and over the years that became their primary focus. When Zimmer first joined the Service only a few years ago, their job description had been pretty simple. They protected the president, the first lady, their family, all their transportation vehicles, the White House and other presidential offices, the vice-president and his family, presidential candidates, and the occasional foreign dignitary. But with 9/11, it all changed. Now they were inextricably linked with Homeland Security and the orange alerts and all the other counterterrorism efforts enacted with more fear than thought in the aftermath of that great tragedy.

Could he fault the American people for the direction public opinion was taking? The fact is, the Secret Service had more than 5,000 employees, including 2,100 special agents. But they still hadn’t been able to prevent the April 19 massacre.

And he hadn’t been able to save the first lady.

Zimmer suddenly realized that Gatwick had stopped talking. He was probably waiting for some kind of response, but Zimmer had no idea what that might be.

“I take it from your silence,” Gatwick said, “that you actually oppose the president’s proposed amendment?”

Zimmer tilted his head silently.

“Let me guess. Secretly a card-carrying ACLU member? Bill of Rights freak?”

“Is it freaky to think the Bill of Rights important?”

Gatwick rolled his eyes. “If you knew how many convictions we’ve lost because some damn lawyer made a constitutional argument based on those ten amendments—”

“But how many people have avoided false conviction because they were in place?”

“For a guy supposedly torn up about the act of an unknown terrorist or terrorist cell, you’re pretty damn generous about making sure they have their rights.”

“The Bill of Rights is not just about guaranteeing rights to accused criminals.” Zimmer picked up the book he had tossed onto his desk. “I’ve been doing a little reading. Something I found in the library. Do you know why the Bill of Rights exists?”

“Well…”

“It exists because the people demanded it. Not the Founding Fathers—they thought the Constitution was a sufficient guarantee of rights in and of itself. But the people wanted more. Even after the Constitution was ratified, there was a strong feeling that the rights of states and individuals should be given greater protection. So at the very first session of Congress, back in 1791, they began drafting a Bill of Rights. Patrick Henry wanted twenty amendments; James Madison fought for twelve. But the Massachusetts delegation wanted the ten we have today, and they were influential enough to get their way. Not all the states adopted them immediately, though. In fact, three of the original thirteen states didn’t ratify the Bill of Rights until 1939.”

“This is all very fascinating, but—”

“Since that time, the Constitution has been amended only twenty-seven times in more than two hundred years. But there have been more than six thousand proposed amendments. Everything you can imagine. Abolish the electoral college. Limit private income to ten million dollars. Replace the presidency with a three-person council. Change the name of the country to the United States of Earth.”

“I’m amazed that one didn’t go through,” Gatwick said drolly. “So what’s your point, assuming you actually have one?”

“There are two things I’ve gathered from my research. One: the people, when they are thinking rationally, want a Bill of Rights. And two: we need a slow and deliberate process to prevent wacky amendments from becoming law.”

“Aw, hell. It’ll probably take forever. That ERA thing was tossed about for years.”

“But it never made it into the Constitution. Three states short. The timing wasn’t right. It was too soon.”

“So if this drags on for years—”

“The Twenty-sixth Amendment, on the other hand, became national law only three months and seven days after it came out of Congress. That was the one that gave eighteen-year-olds the right to vote. Of course, the Vietnam War was raging. If eighteen-year-old boys could be shipped overseas to be napalmed to death, shouldn’t they have a say in the government that was sending them? It was the right idea at the right time. The amendment was adopted practically overnight.”

“And your big worry?”

Zimmer looked up from his book. “This is clearly the right time for this amendment. Couldn’t ever be a better one. But what if it’s the right time—but the wrong law?”

Gatwick waved him away. “I think you worry too much. Because you’re depressed about what happened. Give it a week or so—you’ll see the light.”

Zimmer’s eyes seemed far away. “Perhaps.”

“Anyway, the states will never vote on it if it doesn’t get out of Congress. And how can it, with flaming liberals in the Senate like that kid from Oklahoma?”

9

U.S. S
ENATE
, R
USSELL
B
UILDING
,
O
FFICE
S-212-D
W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

“Y
ou see what he’s trying to do, don’t you?” Christina asked. “The president is using the tragedy to promote his own agenda. After the Kennedy assassination, LBJ could get almost anything passed in Kennedy’s memory. This is the same thing. President Blake is using his wife’s memory to promote his own conservative goals. To get rid of those pesky civil rights once and for all.”

Ben stared down at the blue-backed bill resting on his desk. “I think that’s a bit extreme.”

“It’s a pretty extreme bill.” Christina paced back and forth across the length of Ben’s office. “Okay, here’s what we do. First, I’ll line up all the chiefs of staff and take the pulse of their bosses.
Tout de suite.
I think we can assume the president will get the votes of all or most of his fellow Republicans, but he’s going to need more than that to get this passed. He’ll pull his strings with the religious right and the wealthiest political donors. He’ll try to make it a matter of patriotism. He’ll suggest that people who oppose the amendment don’t care about the safety of the nation. They’ll be trotting out relatives of the victims, trying to make it an emotional issue. This amendment is already being met with cheers and applause in the red states and at least half of the blue. He may have sufficient support in thirty-eight states, and that’s all he needs to make this thing law—if it gets out of Congress. So we have to make sure that never happens.”

She grabbed her husband squarely by the shoulders. “You’ll have to be at the forefront of the fight, Ben. Whether you like it or not, you have a reputation for being one of the most liberal senators in Congress. How many other senators do you think we can count on to oppose this?”

She paused, waiting for an answer. “Ben?”

He looked up, his eyes dark and tiny.

“I asked, ‘How many senators do you think we can count on to oppose this?’”

Ben tossed his head to one side. “I…really don’t know.”

She leaned across the desk. “Why are you mumbling?”

“I didn’t realize I was.”

“Trust me. I’ve known you a long time.” Her eyebrows knitted together. “Why am I getting the feeling you’re not hearing what I’ve been saying?”

Ben looked down again. “I heard you. Every word.”

“And you understand why it’s important to move quickly?”

No response.

“And we’re going to fight this thing, right?” She waited an uncomfortably long time. “Right?”

Ben picked up the bill. “You know, Christina…these are tough times.”

She stared at him, her eyes wide.
“No.”

“You haven’t spent most of the past week watching your best friend vegetate in a coma he may never recover from.”

“But that’s not the point—”

“I think it is,” Ben said, his voice rising.

She gaped at him, incredulous. “What are you saying, Ben?” Pause.
“Ben?”

He gazed down at the bill now clenched tightly between his fingers. “I think maybe this isn’t such a bad idea.”