Capitol Conspiracy (23 page)

35

A
NDREWS
A
IR
F
ORCE
B
ASE
NIC H
ELIPAD
W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

“T
hank you for agreeing to meet me here, Ben,” President Blake said as they rode the elevator up to the helipad. “I know you’re busy, and this can’t have been convenient.”

“I’m grateful for the meeting,” Ben replied, wondering just how high the elevator could go. There were no floor markings. He imagined that, like Willy Wonka’s glass elevator, it might shoot through the ceiling at any moment. “But…I do think it would be best if we had some privacy.”

“We’ll have privacy up here,” Blake assured him as the elevator bell announced their arrival. “And even if other people were in the vicinity, they wouldn’t be able to hear a word we were saying.”

The doors opened and Ben was immediately assaulted by a sudden burst of noise that was almost deafening, not to mention what felt like hurricane-force winds.

“I know it seems overpowering at first,” the president said, “but believe me, you get used to it.”

Ben doubted he ever would, and he also questioned whether he could possibly discuss the delicate matters he had in mind here. Had Blake done this to him deliberately? Could he know what Ben wanted to ask? Ben didn’t see how it was possible, but the circumstances still seemed suspect.

“There she is,” the president said, gesturing across the helipad. “The president’s personal helicopter. Marine One. You’re probably wondering—why is a vehicle that travels through the air called Marine One? Well, once upon a time, it was the property of the U.S. Marines. So your next question is: Since it isn’t anymore, why don’t they change the name? And the answer to that one is: I have no idea.”

Shielding his eyes from the almost overpowering gusts of wind, Ben gazed across the helipad. He had once ridden in the copter Mike co-owned with some other police officers, but he hadn’t enjoyed it, never hoped to do it again, and still didn’t know anything about them. “Why are there three?”

“Anytime I fly, two other outwardly identical copters fly with me. Decoys. Reduces the chance of a successful strike by a surface-to-air missile.”

“Three-to-one? Still unpleasant odds.”

“Yup. I tried to get the Senate to approve a convoy of ten, but you misers were too cheap.” Blake walked Ben closer to the elegant machines. The engines were already started, thus creating the thunderous noise Ben had heard when he stepped off the elevator. “Beautiful, aren’t they? Sikorsky VH-60Ns. Travel at one hundred fifty knots. Can get you anywhere you want to go in no time at all. Not as luxurious as Air Force One, of course. But damn fast.” He waved to people Ben couldn’t see somewhere overhead. “Snipers. Don’t worry—they’re on my side. And they knew you were coming.” He opened the door to a nearby equipment shed. They stepped inside and Blake closed the door behind them.

“There. That’s a little better.” He glanced at his watch. “Okay, Ben, you have exactly ten minutes before I take off for a secret meeting at an off-site Pentagon installation. What can I do for you?”

Ben knew there was no way to broach this subject gently, so he took a deep drink of air and plunged right in. “Mr. President, in the course of my own…private investigation into the tragedy of April nineteenth, I obtained a copy of your wife’s autopsy report.”

“What? Why?”

Ben continued, hoping that if he moved fast enough, there would be no time for outrage. “The first copy we obtained had been redacted, even though the information eliminated could not possibly pose any threat to national security. Who would have the clout—and the motivation—to get something like that done? The obvious answer, of course, was you.”

“Are you saying—?” Blake did a double take. “What the hell are you saying?”

“The redacted material I later learned revealed—let me apologize in advance, sir. I know this is exceedingly indelicate, but there’s no way to say it except to say it.” Ben took another deep breath; his eyelids fluttered. He felt as if he might faint at any moment. “At the time of your wife’s death, her vagina contained sperm cells.”

Blake gaped at him wordlessly. “What—the—hell—” His nostrils flared. “What business is that of yours?”

“Well, sir, it does raise some questions.”

“About what, you little farm country cluck? Emily and I had been apart for a week. We had a little private time on Air Force One before we drove into Oklahoma City. Why is this any of your business?”

“There’s a problem, sir.”

“You have a problem with me making love to my late wife, who by the way I loved very deeply?”

Ben’s mouth felt dry as stale bread. “No, sir, of course not. But you see—the coroner ran DNA tests. Your wife was carrying sperm—from two different donors.” He felt his knees wobbling, but he plowed forward. “She’d been with two different men. Within the previous eight hours.”

President Blake’s eyes were steely gray. He forced Ben back against the wall of the shed. “What is this about, Kincaid? What are you trying to do to me?”

“The only thing I’m trying to do is…understand.”

“What’s to understand, you little pissant? There was nothing—nothing—” His voice broke, and all at once his face crumbled like the walls of Jericho. “Emily was having an affair.” His voice cracked. “It had been going on for nearly six months. I knew, of course, but I never—never said anything to her about it. I—” He shook his head. Tears sprang to his eyes. “I kept hoping she’d come to me herself. I—I knew we’d been…growing apart. This job—it keeps you so damn busy. Spend all your time worrying about the fate of the world. It’s easy to forget about—about your wife. Until it’s too late.”

Ben stared at the floor, unable to make eye contact. “Do you—know who it was?”

President Blake nodded. “The leader of her Secret Service team. Gatwick. You probably met him in Oklahoma City.”

“I’m sure that was…very difficult for you.”

“You don’t know the half of it. First, there’s the shame. The knowledge that you drove the woman you love into the arms of another man. The knowledge that—you failed as a husband. But the problems are even greater when you’re the president. Something like this—well, it creates a vulnerability. The possibility of blackmail.”

“Someone was blackmailing you? The president?”

“All I’m saying is, it was a concern. Suddenly I found myself in a position where I couldn’t say no. Anything he wanted—well, how could I deny him anything, knowing what would happen to me if he went to the press? He could bring down this entire administration, just at the time when America needs to be strongest.”

“Sir, you told me before that this amendment originated with Homeland Security. Is that why you’re proposing it? Because you have no choice?”

“I never said that,” Blake said, suddenly stiffening. “I believe in this amendment one hundred and ten percent. We need it to keep our people safe. It’s vital to the security of this great nation.”

“But even if that’s true, you don’t have any choice but to support it, do you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Kincaid. I want this thing passed—as quickly as possible.”

“Who was the man, sir? Who was he? Was it—?”

“And let me tell you something else, Kincaid. My chief of staff tells me you’re a lot smarter than you act. I hope to God that’s true and that you’ll be able to accept this piece of advice. Don’t cross Homeland Security. Don’t cross anyone behind this amendment. Their eyes are everywhere. Their ears are everywhere.”

“What does that mean?”

President Blake wiped his eyes, then checked his watch again. “I have to catch a copter, Ben. Let me just reiterate: I want this amendment to pass. I’m counting on your support.” He leaned closer, making sure he had Ben’s attention before he finished. “And you need to be careful, Ben. Very careful.”

36

U.S. S
ENATE
, R
USSELL
B
UILDING
,
O
FFICE
S-201-R
W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

J
ason Simic was careful not to tiptoe. That would be too telling. He didn’t really think there was any chance of him being spotted. But in any case, he didn’t want to appear to be in stealth mode. He wanted to seem to be what he always seemed to be: the hardest-working most effective chief of staff in the building, tireless, charming, productive. Every senator wanted him, but he was attached to Senator DeMouy.

And his wife.

That, however, was about to change.

He smiled at Effie when he entered the office. DeMouy’s faithful secretary of many years liked him almost as much as she did her boss, and he knew it.

“Boss still at work?” she asked. She had been working a crossword puzzle, a sure sign of just how late it was. She didn’t get many spare moments in the course of the day. Certainly not enough to finish a puzzle in
The New York Times.

“Still dining with his wife. Those lovebirds might be gone all night at this rate.”

“Really?” He knew Effie had been around long enough to know the score, most specifically that DeMouy and his wife were anything but lovebirds. But he was planting seeds. “In the Senate cafeteria?”

“Love knows no boundaries. I don’t know what’s going on with those two, but something really seems to have rekindled. I think maybe the death of Senator Hammond made her realize just how lucky she is—and how fragile life can be.”

“It would be nice to think something positive came out of that monstrous act.” Effie glanced at her watch. “Do you think—?”

“He specifically told me to tell you to go home.”

A relieved smile crossed her face. “And you?”

“The same.”

“But you’re not going, are you?”

Jason smiled a winning, toothsome smile. “For once, I am, actually. I just need another five minutes in my office. The amendment, you know.”

Effie shook her head as she collected her coat and purse. “You’re a hardworking boy, Jason, and I admire that. But when are you going to get a life?”

“I have a life. Here, in the Senate.”

“Then let me be more specific. When are you going to get a girl?”

“I don’t have time for romance, not now. Wouldn’t be fair to get someone else involved in this crazy life of mine.”

“All that remark tells me is that you haven’t met the right girl. I know a sweet young lady at my church—”

“Effie, stop.”

“Sings like an angel. Makes a fabulous artichoke dip for all the church functions.”

“Effie, you’re worse than my mother.”

“It’s only because we care so much about you, Jason. And sometimes those blue bloods out on the Sound aren’t as good at match-making as an old busybody like me.”

Jason tried not to laugh out loud as he watched the old biddy leave the office. Blue bloods indeed. Everyone always assumed he came from money. It was the way he talked, the way he dressed, the way he carried himself. No one seemed to get that it had nothing to do with the way he was raised. It was all either learned or earned. He had a good ear. He’d learned how to talk Massachusetts better than a Kennedy. He’d learned how to dress snappier than politicians who had private wardrobe consultants. He still didn’t have much money, but he had learned how to spend what he had in the right way to produce maximum good impression for minimal investment. He was very directed, very determined. He always got what he wanted, eventually.

Witness the case in point.

He had been fascinated by politics since he was a young boy. On election nights, his parents would let him stay up late to watch the returns roll in. He was in college on the fateful night the Bush–Gore race came down to a handful of votes in Florida. He never slept, not for forty-eight hours. After that, he knew what he wanted to do with his life. He started ingratiating himself with local politicians, working in their campaigns for free, running errands, fetching coffee, making photocopies. Eventually he moved up to more important tasks and, in time, developed a reputation for himself.

After two years of low-level gophering, he heard that Senator DeMouy was looking for a new chief of staff. He wasn’t from DeMouy’s state, he didn’t know the man, he didn’t have the qualifications, age, or experience for the job—and he didn’t let that stop him. He didn’t just apply for the job; he orchestrated a blitzkrieg. He sent tapes, papers, videos, strategy plans. He knew DeMouy was planning a reelection bid so he learned everything there was to know about the man’s state, his traditional constituency, and what he could do to increase it. When it was time for his interview, he had more than just a résumé—he had a battle plan. DeMouy was suitably impressed. Said he’d never seen anything like it in all his years in the Senate. Of course Jason got the job.

But that was just a start. Was he content with a chief of staff position? No. It was just a stepping-stone. A benchmark on the way to something greater, something much more important. He wasn’t satisfied with the corner office down the hall. He wanted the big office. Senator DeMouy’s office.

And maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t even stop there.

There were many things he could accomplish by hard work, schmoozing, exchanging favors, displaying exemplary resourcefulness. But there was one thing all the smarts in the world couldn’t give him: money. Big money, the kind you would need to run a federal campaign. That had been a stopper for him, the one puzzlement he couldn’t resolve.

Until he met Belinda DeMouy.

In retrospect, it was amazing he didn’t meet her sooner, but he had been busy impressing her husband and for the most part the husband didn’t seem to have all that much to do with her. That should’ve been his first clue. When he did meet her, he was able to size her up in a single glance: lovely, lonely, frustrated, isolated. Trapped in an empty life that had no meaning. Days filled with obligations and teas and meetings and charity events and a lot of other crap that she cared nothing about. Her ice princess act didn’t fool him. He knew there was a very sexual woman locked up in there, desperate to get out. All he had to do was find the key.

As it turned out, it wasn’t hard.

He couldn’t know how bad her love life was, how impotent her older husband had proved, how he papered over his sexual failings with a slavish dedication to his work. Give the woman an orgasm, indulge her perverted little danger fantasies, and Jason found she would do anything for him. Anything at all. And in truth, it was DeMouy’s own fault. His failings and his absences made their affair more than possible. It made it easy. His stupidity had made him a cuckold.

And it was about to make him dead.

Then Jason would have everything he needed.

His cell phone beeped, just once. He glanced at it—Belinda. That was the signal.

Jason slowly withdrew the envelope marked
PHOTOS
from his briefcase and deposited it on the desk where DeMouy would be sure to see it. Then he left the office and started down the corridor to office 212-D. Because something had occurred to him these past few days, something he had not even shared with Belinda. The death of Senator DeMouy by identical means as Senator Hammond was sure to confuse and mislead, but it was still possible the police might figure it out. He couldn’t be sure he had matched the previous crime in every possible respect.

There needed to be two deaths, both by the same means. That would clearly tie all the murders together and make them seem undeniably the work of a terrorist advancing some twisted political goal. The obvious reason to target Senator DeMouy was because he was one of the leading advocates for the proposed constitutional amendment.

So the other victim should be Senator DeMouy’s partner, the other leader in the fight to get this amendment through the Senate.

It would all be so obvious. The police might not even bother to question Senator DeMouy’s loving wife.

Jason couldn’t help but smile as he walked down the corridor. He had considered everything, every possible contingency, worked it all out to perfection.

Guess what, Senator Kincaid?
he thought as he walked briskly down the marble stairway.

You’ve got mail.