Capitol Betrayal (30 page)

“Oh, whatever,” Cartwright said. “We all know what he’s getting at. Let’s move along.”

“But he’s talking about this minor incident as if he were talking to someone accused of a sex crime. That’s totally inappropriate.”

“Can I help it if the president has urges to flash the American public? I haven’t even gotten to the nudity fetish yet.”

“I object to the terms ‘exposing himself’ and ‘fetish’!”

Cartwright looked as if he were about to explode. “Could you please use a different terminology, Mr. Swinburne? We need to move along!”

“Yes, judge. Of course.” Swinburne continued working through his list. “You dangled off the edge of the White House roof and talked about flying.”

“It’s a universal dream,” the president replied through thin lips. “I hope you noted that I did not, in fact, attempt to fly.”

“This time.” Swinburne kept blazing ahead. “You talked about committing suicide.”

“In the abstract,” President Kyler emphasized. He was becoming louder with each sentence. His voice was strident. It had a razor-sharp edge. “I never ever said that I wanted to kill myself, or planned to kill myself, or even could kill myself. It was a purely abstract, philosophical discussion designed to comfort Sarie. I’m sorry she didn’t grasp that. She’s very efficient, but sometimes she’s a little slow. Maybe she didn’t get her grits that morning.”

Ben closed his eyes. That was not a smart play. Attacking his cute and spunky chief of staff was not a winning strategy. Ben wished there were a way to object to his own defendant’s answers, but unfortunately, that objection did not exist.

“I think she could have had all the grits in Alabama and still not be prepared for the image of the president of the United States blowing out his brains during a live press conference!” Swinburne wasn’t even asking questions anymore. He was just being argumentative, trying to agitate the president. And it was working. “I don’t think anyone could be prepared for that!”

“I never said that! And I would never do that!” Kyler leaned forward. Beads of sweat appeared at his temples.

“I’m not going to give you the chance.” Swinburne turned a page in his notes. “Earlier today, when faced with a national crisis, you retreated into a mentally withdrawn and delusional state.”

“Is it a crime to laugh? To sing?”

“It’s a bizarre and inappropriate response to a crisis situation. One that does not inspire trust.”

“Look, Conrad, I’m the president. And if I find it useful to sing ‘There’s a Hole in the Bucket,’ then I will sing ‘There’s a Hole in the Bucket’!”

Swinburne fell silent. He looked as if he had just seen a specter from the netherworld. Eventually, he said, “That’s not what you were singing.”

The president’s left eye began to twitch. “It isn’t?”

Swinburne’s lips parted. “No.” He laid his hands flat on the table. “My God, man—do you even remember what happened a few hours ago?”

President Kyler looked down at his hands. He was fidgeting. “Of course I do.”

“Tell me what you were singing.”

“What does it matter?” the president said, his voice cracking. Sweat dripped down the sides of his face. “I sing all the time. I don’t happen to recall what I sang last. What difference does it make?”

“My God,” Swinburne said, almost breathlessly. “You don’t remember anything about it, do you? Did you totally black out? Has your brain erased it from your memory?”

“Look, I’ve been very busy. Just because I can’t dredge up the details—”

“I remember all the details,” Swinburne said. “They are indelibly imprinted on my brain.” He paused. “But you seem to have undergone some kind of… mental erasure. As if the brain has erased memories that might cause stress or unhappiness. I believe the same thing happens after people experience seizures or bipolar episodes.”

“Would you stop talking about mental!” the president shouted, before Ben had a chance to lodge an objection. “I’m tired of all this talk about mental! Maybe you’re mental, huh? Maybe it’s… it’s… you…” All at once, Kyler reached forward, clasped his knees, and began to rock back and forth in his chair. “The itsy-bitsy spider went up the water spout… down came the rain and washed the spider out…”

Ben closed his eyes. No. Please, God, no.

“Out came the sun and dried up all the rain…” His eyes widened. He stared up at the ceiling, as if he were seeing something that wasn’t there. “Then the itsy-bitsy spider went up the spout again.”

This time, as Ben surveyed the faces in the bunker, what he saw was not so much shock as embarrassment. After all they had seen and heard this day, Kyler’s actions no longer had the power to produce shock. What they produced, at best, was pity.

The president began the song over again. Swinburne shook his head sadly. “I think that’s enough from this witness, judge. I’ve seen enough.” He turned away. “Surely we’ve all seen enough.”

“Thank you,” Cartwright said. “If there’s no redirect…”

Ben shook his head. What could he possibly do with this suddenly imbecilic witness?

“Then the witness is excused.” Ben took the president by the arm and led him back to his chair. He barely seemed to understand what was going on around him.

“Now we’ll proceed to brief closing arguments,” Cartwright said. “And I emphasize
brief
. This trial has already consumed more time than we can spare.

“Understood,” they both agreed.

As he spoke, Ben was already contemplating what he might say. What could he possibly do to salvage this mess now? He wondered if the noble thing would be just to throw in the towel. He couldn’t possibly pretend that they hadn’t seen what they had all just seen. And he couldn’t explain it. He couldn’t justify it. There was nothing he could do to prevent the inevitable judgment.

And he wasn’t sure anymore if he should try.

It was all well and good to be loyal to an inspirational leader. A man who wanted peace. And of course he would always be indebted to anyone who did his wife a kindness. But how could he justify leaving this man with obvious issues in control of the country in the midst of an imminent missile crisis?

And yet…

Something was bothering him. Something was nagging him at the base of his spine, jabbing him in the cerebral cortex. Something was wrong here. Very wrong. And he wasn’t at all sure that Vice President Swinburne was proceeding from altruistic motives. Everything he had seen suggested he was more interested in his own career than he was in the good of the nation.

What was it that bothered him? Why couldn’t he put his finger on it?

He knew from experience these things never came when you wanted them. He needed to focus on the task at hand and hope the inspiration arrived serendipitously in the process.

“Mr. Swinburne,” Cartwright said, “we are ready to hear your closing remarks. Members of the cabinet, please play close attention. As soon as these two advocates are done, I will poll you, and there will just barely be enough time afterward for whoever is in charge to take decisive action. In simpler terms: your vote may well decide the future course of this nation.”

The noise was considerably louder in here, Seamus realized, although it sounded much like any office in any other place. A little talking, a few mechanical beeps, keyboards clicking. Nothing out of the ordinary.

He used the long row of silhouetted machinery for cover and inched forward, still careful to keep watch on all sides.

The first face he saw was that of a woman, dark-haired, dark-skinned. She was wearing an earpiece and typing into a computer terminal. Someone was hovering over her shoulder, a man in a white shirt. He looked more like a college professor than a terrorist. Another computer geek? Or some other kind of scientist? Neither of them looked managerial. They were employees.

Seamus could see the tops of at least five other heads. They all seemed glued to their screens. Who was running this show?

He tiptoed a few steps forward, trying to obtain a better view. It was basically three tiers of seriously complex-looking computers, including one master. If it wasn’t a Blue Gene/L—the IBM supercomputer with a peak processing speed of 596 teraflops—it was something very near. There were a few overhead monitors and one large dish—probably capable of transmitting signals to that deadly satellite in the sky. Probably would attract too much attention if they put it on the roof, but it seemed to function where it was. It all seemed familiar except for a large red button at the base. He didn’t even want to think about what that might do.

Seamus supposed they had everything they needed to make this missile hijack work. Still, he would like to have some confirmation….

Then Seamus saw him.

Seamus’s spine stiffened. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

The supervising figure who had just entered his line of sight was the man from the Washington Monument. The man with the scarred face.

The man who’d made off with the nuclear suitcase.

So he was involved with this missile hijack as well. Which meant Colonel Zuko was also involved in the Arlington suitcase heist. The dictator now had not only the East Coast missiles but a nuclear weapon.

This was bad. End-of-the-world bad.

“Tell me what is happening out there!” Scarface bellowed to the woman in the white shirt. She didn’t look entirely comfortable working with him. Seamus guessed she was more likely hired technical help than a true believer.

She mumbled something in reply that Seamus couldn’t hear. Whatever it was, it didn’t appease her boss.

“That’s not good enough!” he shouted back at her. “Will you be ready to launch when I give you the signal?”

“Of course I will,” she said. “Everything is in place.”

“When the colonel calls, he will want us to take action immediately.”

“And we will!”

“Make sure that we do!” And with that, he raised his hand to strike her.

Seamus instinctively surged forward—then checked himself.

Scarface stopped his hand just inches short of her face. She flinched, then turned her head away. Tears trickled out the corner of her eye. “I’ll be ready. I promise.”

“See that you are. We must be strong. Though thousands may die, Kuraq will live!” He stomped off. The woman—and everyone sitting near her—seemed intensely relieved.

Seamus bit down on his lower lip. He would love nothing more than to knock that SOB down again—this time well enough that he didn’t get up again. But that wasn’t the smart play. He needed to contact Zira. Call in the troops. Then get Arlo out of here and let the boys with the big guns take over.

He lifted his phone and took a quick photo, then sent it to Zira. Moving like a ninja, he tiptoed back to the door and turned the knob.

Still no one seemed to notice. He was having a charmed day. This was the downside to bullying your employees. They tended not to be distracted by their surroundings—even when they should.

He eased his way through the opening, the same way he’d come in, and closed the door behind him. Now all he needed to do was make his way back to the stairs leading to the roof, or maybe just walk through the back door…

And that’s when Seamus saw the guard. Who also saw him.

“Stop!”
The man yelled.

Seamus bolted. The problem was, he had nowhere to go. The guard stood between him and his destination, and the computer ops base was behind him. So Seamus moved laterally, working toward the east side of the building.

Another guard heard the cry. A few seconds after that a third one zeroed in on Seamus. Where were they coming from? Had they all been on a coffee break a few minutes ago?

He reached for his gun, but they reacted by doing exactly the same. Mistake. He couldn’t outdraw all three of them. He withdrew quickly and threw both hands up in the air.

“Sorry about that,” he said amiably. “Didn’t mean to scare anyone.”

“What are you doing here?” the first guard barked. The three of them surrounded him.

“Sorry. No cause for alarm. Health Department.” He pulled out a wallet and quickly flashed a badge—not his real one. “Just doing inspections on the abandoned property in the area. Had no idea anyone was in here.”

“How did you get in?” Guard One had a serious and sullen expression. He was trying to look tough, but Seamus suspected it was more a case of a tough guy with a swagger being forced to actually do something for the first time. He would’ve probably been perfectly content to go on guarding for the rest of his life without ever encountering any trouble.

“Through the roof.” In this case, honesty was the best policy. The doors might be wired to an alarm, and the windows were not broken. “We’re allowed to do that. It’s in the city charter.”

“What do you want?”

“Just to make sure everything’s clean and safe. Sometimes these abandoned buildings can become dangerous. Attractive nuisances. But I didn’t realize anyone was working in here. Did you take out a lease?”

“I’ll ask the questions!” the guard barked back. His two companions looked more relaxed. If Seamus worked it hard enough, he might be able to pull off this health inspector charade.

“Are you alone?” the guard asked.

“Yes. Look, if you have any questions about this, call my supervisor. She’ll straighten the whole thing out.”

He hesitated. “She will?”

Was he actually buying it? Praise God, from whom all blessings flow. “Of course. Her name is Zira. Just give her my name and she’ll tell you that I’m legitimate. You can use my phone if you want. I don’t mind.”

“Well… I suppose it won’t hurt to call.”

Fabulous. Zira could think fast enough on her feet to carry this off. And if not, he’d knock them down while they were distracted by the phone. He punched the number on his cell and handed it to Guard One. “Here. Talk to her. She’ll be able to give you a complete—”

“You!
You!”

Seamus’s eyelids closed briefly. He didn’t have to turn to know whose voice that was.

A moment later, Scarface appeared before him.

“You were at the Washington Monument! You hurt me! You killed my comrades!”