Capitol Conspiracy (3 page)

The woman was knock-down-drop-dead-heart-stoppingly-pulse-poundingly-oh-my-God beautiful. She didn’t even have to try. Didn’t need makeup. She could stand there in a beige business suit with a little gold-buttoned jacket and it looked like a floor-length ruby red ball gown with a slit up the side and cleavage down to her navel. Nichole Muldoon had the look—the Look—that forced you to fantasize about what it would be like to have sex with her, even though you knew there wasn’t the slightest chance of it ever happening.

He couldn’t even have the pleasure of blaming her for the effect she had on him, suggesting she was using sex appeal to get ahead. As far as he knew, she was totally oblivious to the impact she was having on his libido. Sure, she made remarks about the first lady’s sex life and the size of the president’s equipment, but who didn’t? That was SOP in the sheltered world of Protect-the-President. That was just being one of the boys. If anything, that behavior should make him forget she was a beautiful woman. But he didn’t. Not ever. Not for one second. All she had to do was toss that shoulder-length blond hair back and he was orbiting Jupiter.

“Did you hear what I said, Joel?”

He jerked to attention. “I’m sorry. I was…surveying the crowd.”

Carl Lehman frowned down at him.
Great. Make the deputy director of Homeland Security think you’re an idiot. That’ll push you up the ranks.
“I told you we still haven’t located Marshall.”

“Really?” He had to seem surprised, even though he wasn’t. “Did someone call his wife?”

“Yeah. She’s clueless.”

“Didn’t he disappear once before?”

“Yeah.” Lehman ran his hand over the top of his head as if he had hair, although there hadn’t been any for many years. But since he was so much taller than anyone else in the room, who could notice? “We weren’t on duty that day. Samson wasn’t out amongst the Philistines.”

“Any cause for concern?”

Muldoon jabbed him in the side. “You know Carl. The rising of the sun in the morning is cause for concern.”

“But your people know what to do, right?” Salter asked. “They don’t need Marshall breathing over their shoulders.”

“True enough,” Lehman agreed. “But it’s still strange. Damn strange.” He drew in his breath, then slowly released it. “I suppose I’m just an old man worrying about nothing. Look,” he said, pointing toward the tableau below. “Samson is getting out of The Beast.”

The first six cars in the motorcade passed by, but the seventh slowed precisely opposite where Ben and the others were standing. Two police motorcycles swirled around the car, sirens blaring. Ben felt a tingle course through his body. Even though the windows were tinted, he knew who was sitting in the backseat of that car. It would be hard to miss. The presidential seals were emblazoned on the rear doors; an American flag flew proudly from the bumper.

Zimmer talked into his sleeve again. “Roger. Samson has arrived.” He leaned closer to Ben. “See the presidential standard raised from the left front fender? That tells us that the commander in chief is inside the vehicle.”

Zimmer stepped forward and pressed the security release button under the handle that allowed the door to be opened from the outside. Ben felt a sharp intake of breath. At first, all he could see was the interior of the car—blue leather upholstery with wood veneer accents. He spotted a fold-out desk being returned to its upright position. A long leg in a blue suit emerged. Behind the dark, green-tinted window, Ben saw the outline of a familiar female face.

Beside him, Ben sensed Senator Tidwell inch ever so subtly forward.

Zimmer helped President Franklin M. Blake from the car while Gatwick positioned himself behind. A dotted circle of agents surrounded the car, some of them scanning the horizon, some of them scanning the sky.

Behind the rope line, a huge swell of shouting and applause erupted. The president waved, smiled, then turned his attention to the phalanx of people waiting to greet him.

The president spotted Senator Tidwell and nodded, spotted Ben and nodded…

Then he walked directly up to Mike and shook his hand.

“A pleasure to meet you, Major Morelli. A real pleasure.”

Mike was obviously stunned. His usual savoir faire had utterly abandoned him. “A…p-pleasure to—to meet you, too, Mr. President.”

“I was very pleased when I heard Senator Kincaid had invited you. Always glad to meet a true public servant, someone who puts himself on the line for the common good. If there could be any benefit emerging from 9/11, it’s that we’ve all come to realize just how important the work you and your brethren do really is.”

Mike was still shaking his hand. “I—I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” the president replied, gently using his left hand to extract his right. His mostly gray hair shone in the morning sun. “Your work says it all for you. I’m a fan.”

Mike’s lips parted, a blank expression on his face. “You’re—a fan—of mine?”

“Absolutely. That work you did on the Kindergarten Killer case—outstanding. Showed up the Feds on that one, didn’t you?” he added, winking collegially. “No telling how many lives you saved. Made the world a better place, that’s for sure.”

“But—” Mike stammered. He still couldn’t think clearly. “How do you know about that case?”

President Blake took a step to the right. “Because I read this man’s book.” He extended his hand again. “How are you, Senator Kincaid?”

Ben felt startled and confused. “You read my book?”

“Both of them, actually. Excellent pieces of work, though I preferred the first.” He winked again. “Have to. I’m a law and order candidate.”

Ben struggled to work his head through this revelation, without success.

“Meant to tell you,” the president continued. “Appreciated the hard work you did to get Justice Roush on the Supreme Court.”

It was Ben’s turn to arch an eyebrow. The president may have nominated Justice Roush, but he and his party abandoned him when it was revealed that Roush was gay. “You did?”

“First rule of politics, Senator—don’t jump to any conclusions. I did what my party required. We can’t afford to lose the support of the religious right. But Thaddeus Roush was a fine man when I nominated him and he remains one today.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

As if he were passing through butter, President Blake eased on down the line. “Senator Tidwell. Good to see you.”

Ben didn’t have to be a mind reader to know that Tidwell was fuming. Ben could almost sympathize. Tidwell was the only member of the president’s party in the reception line and he was the last to be received.

“And you, Mr. President.”

As if to give the last man a special bonus, the president leaned forward slightly and placed his hand on Tidwell’s shoulder. “I’ve seen that energy bill you co-sponsored. I like it.”

“Thank you,” Tidwell said. Ben noticed that even this two-term senator was stammering a bit. “Does that mean we can count on you to sign the bill after it’s passed?”

The president smiled the sort of wide, friendly, earnest-looking grin that could get a man elected to the highest office in the land. “I said I liked it, Brad. Signing is a whole different thing. You can’t marry every woman you like.” He pivoted. “Which reminds me of a woman I like very much.”

As he turned, the first lady, Emily Blake, stepped from the limo. If anything, the chorus of hooting and hollering that followed exceeded the reception that had been given the president. Emily Blake was younger than her husband, but not by so much as to attract discussion. She was medium-sized, dark-haired, and dressed in a tasteful but sensible manner that reflected her tasteful but sensible demeanor. Ben knew she was extremely popular, especially in the Southwest.

The president took her hand, helped her off the curb, then raised both their hands into the air. The crowd went wild.

“Listen to that,” Tidwell murmured in Ben’s ear. “Her approval ratings are considerably higher than his and he knows it. He’s milking her for everything she’s got.”

“Isn’t that a bit cynical?” Ben said, as he watched the First Couple bathe in the limelight. “It’s hardly unusual for a man to bring his wife to a major event.”

Tidwell made a snorting noise. “He didn’t bring her. She flew in from Tucson. They met at the OKC airport down the road.”

Ben nodded. Oklahoma City’s Will Rogers World Airport was one of only three very special airports named for men who died in a plane crash. “She probably had a fund-raising event. It’s that time again.”

Tidwell shook his head. “It’s a marriage in name only, contrived purely for political purposes. They don’t do anything together. They don’t share anything. Not even the First Bedroom.”

Ben reared his head back, appalled. “How could you possibly know that?”

Tidwell shrugged in a nonchalant manner that Ben found extremely off-putting. “Word gets around. If you travel in the higher circles.”

Which, Ben knew Tidwell was implying, he didn’t. But of course—Tidwell was right. Ben didn’t know what to make of Tidwell’s gratuitous scuttlebutting of his party’s leader. Was he ticked off because the president greeted him last? Or was there something more going on?

The Secret Service agent closest to the president lightly touched his sleeve, which Ben knew was the signal for him to move on. Even with all this security, they never liked the president to stay in one place for too long until he had arrived at his destination.

As the First Couple turned toward the dais, the first lady stopped. “Senator Kincaid!”

Ben stood at attention. “Yes, ma’am?”

She smiled, exuding warmth. “Where’s that pretty little wife of yours?”

Ben fumbled for words. “She’s…in the audience. With my mother.”

Emily Blake’s eyes narrowed. “Is there a reason for that?”

“Well…”

“Tell that lovely redhead I’m inviting her to the White House for tea. We need to have a heart-to-heart.”

The president took his wife gently by the arm. “Now, Emily. We don’t harass a man about his wife. Even if he is a Democrat.”

“But, Frank—they’re newlyweds.”

“That’s right. It slipped my mind.” He gave Ben another wink. “So what the hell are you doing here, son?”

Secret Service agents Zimmer and Gatwick flanked the president and slowly escorted him toward the dais from which he would speak. All around them, Ben saw agents scurrying into position, watching all possible angles, talking into their sleeves. Ben knew there were at least as many, possibly more, agents working undercover, filtering quietly through the crowd looking for signs of trouble, as well as numerous sniper nests covering not only the ground but the surrounding downtown skyscrapers.

Ben and his group took the stage several steps behind the First Couple and were escorted to their seats. Risers had been erected opposite the reflecting pool to create a presidential platform with seats for important dignitaries behind and to each side. A podium bearing the presidential seal stood in the center. Just beyond the podium, a dense crowd of reporters hovered with mikes and minicams.

Ben marveled at all the activity, all the work that went on behind the scenes of a relatively simple presidential appearance. But he was cheered by the realization that, after so much work, caution, and preparation, nothing could possibly go wrong.

2

T
HE
O
KLAHOMA
C
ITY
N
ATIONAL
M
EMORIAL
O
KLAHOMA
C
ITY
, O
KLAHOMA

A
t the rear of the stage, Agent Zimmer made a slow circuit from stage right to stage center. He tugged at the hem of his suit jacket. All the agents got their suits a little big in the chest to disguise the fact that they were carrying weapons, currently .357 SIGs. Personally, Zimmer had preferred the previous nine-millimeter version, but oddly enough, the director of Homeland Security hadn’t asked for his opinion when the decision was made.

He met Agent Gatwick in the rear center.

“You getting the same reports I’m getting?” Gatwick asked, not looking at him. With the dark sunglasses, it would be impossible for a spectator to know exactly where he was looking.

“About Marshall?”

“Yeah.”

“You worried?”

Gatwick scanned the Oklahoma City skyline surrounding the memorial complex. “I don’t think it’s worrisome. Weird. But not worrisome.”

“He’s always played point man for presidential appearances in the past.”

“Because he wants to, not because he has to. He knows he can trust us.”

Zimmer subtly stepped forward, adjusting his gaze ever so slightly to examine a Middle Eastern–looking woman wearing an overcoat about three people deep behind the rope. An overcoat on a warm Oklahoma City spring day? That was more than enough to raise his suspicion. He whispered into his sleeve, sending three agents to check her out. “So you think that’s it? He’s decided he can let the little birds fly free?”

Gatwick shrugged. “Who the hell knows? Maybe he got tied up in some Senate meeting. It’s happened before.”

“Congressional oversight of Homeland Security was a big mistake.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, bro.”

Beyond the rope, Zimmer saw his agents approach the woman in the overcoat and quietly search her and run a metal detector over her body. Through his sleeve receiver, he heard the result. She was clean. Claimed she had some weird disease that lowered her body temperature. Like some kind of human lizard—she was cold even when the sun was shining. Still, Zimmer told them to take down her name and address.

Returning his attention to his partner, he noticed that Gatwick was scrutinizing the first lady.

“I don’t like where we’ve got her,” Gatwick said flatly.

“Who? Juliet?”

“Right. Too close to Samson.”

“She’s to the right and two feet back. Exactly where Samson likes her. So when the cameras shoot him from their assigned station, she can be seen in the background beaming at him with adoring eyes.”

The tiniest of smiles cracked Gatwick’s stoic facade. “I’m moving her.”

“What? Why?”

He tucked his head forward in a quick and almost imperceptible nod. “Only skyscrapers in range are to the south. She doesn’t need to be in the potential line of fire.”

“Don’t we have snipers up there?”

“Yeah. But still—I’m moving her.”

Agent Zimmer’s brow creased. “I thought it was agreed—Domino Bravo.”

“I’m making a slight alteration.”

“Don’t you think you should get approval first?”

“From who? Marshall’s out.”

“Then Deputy Director Lehman.”

Gatwick bristled. “I’m in charge, at least on site.” He whispered a few terse commands into his sleeve. “I’m just moving her to the other side of the stage. What difference can it make?”

Zimmer exhaled slowly. “I suppose it can’t hurt anything.”

“Course not.” At the front of the stage, two agents carried out their new instructions. “This is Oklahoma City, for God’s sake. What could happen?”

Ben was pleased to see the first lady move to his side of the stage. He was a good deal more comfortable around her than her husband. He knew in his heart that the only difference between the two was one of methodology, not purpose. Still, when she smiled at him, he couldn’t help but feel she was sincere, even when his brain told him not to be so naïve.

She leaned back toward Ben, smiling. “So where did you two go on your honeymoon?”

Mike covered his mouth.

“Uh…here.”

The first lady gave him a long look. “Your bride must love you very much.”

Ben fingered his collar uncomfortably. “Something like that.”

The governor of the state of Oklahoma, the same man who had appointed Ben to replace Senator Glancy, was the first to speak. He made several gracious remarks, commented on how lovely the first lady looked, then toned down his smile to establish the appropriate gravitas for the commemorative service to follow. “As Oklahomans, we are a proud and stubborn lot, Boomers and Sooners and settlers and farmers and Native Americans. We will move ever forward, and this gleaming monument is a memorial to our indomitable spirit. But we will never forget.”

The governor singled out a few individuals in the crowd, people who had lost husbands, wives, children. He recognized some of the rescue workers who had displayed such valor on that most horrific of days. And when his predetermined five minutes was completed, he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my very great privilege to introduce to you…the president of the United States!”

Thunderous applause greeted President Blake as he made his way to the podium. Ben marveled at the ease with which he moved, despite the fact that so many eyes were bearing down upon him. What a burden—to try to think of something to say on such an occasion. Nothing could ever truly comfort the survivors. Words were simply not enough.

As he watched the president approach the podium, he heard Agent Zimmer, standing just behind him on the left, talking into his sleeve again. “What do you mean? In the Senate building? How is that possible?”

The applause began to ebb. On the opposite end of the raised platform, Ben saw Agent Gatwick talking into his sleeve as well. Several of the agents in the rear were signaling one another.

“No, I don’t understand,” Zimmer whispered. “What has Senator Hammond got to do with Marshall?” There was a pause. All around him, Ben noticed Secret Service agents in motion. “He said what? What does it mean?”

Ben noticed that Mike, sitting beside him, was also observing the sudden increase in activity. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Mike whispered back. “But something’s come up.”

Ben saw Agent Zimmer advance toward the podium. Before he could get close, however, the president began his speech.

“My fellow Americans,” President Blake said, gripping each side of the podium. Although he had recently hit sixty, he looked older. Like all the presidents before him, he had been aged prematurely by the job. His hair was more gray than black; the tiny creases across his forehead had become pronounced; the folds of flesh around his eyes were so intense, his eyes almost seemed sunken. And yet, for all that, he was still a handsome man. His gaze was steady and the timbre of his voice was rich and forceful.

“How appropriate it is that as we stand here today, we can gaze upon the golden gates and read the words so appropriate to the communal spirit we all share.” The president recited the words as many in the audience quietly read with him:

We come here to remember those who were killed,

Those who survived and those changed forever.

May all who leave here know the impact of violence.

May this memorial offer comfort, strength, peace, hope, and serenity.

“I ask you,” President Blake said, dabbing his eyes, “were truer words ever written? We know we live in violent times. And yet despite the horrors that sometimes confront us, there is hope, and there is courage. There is the resilience of the American people. There is the nobility that comes from living in a land in which individual rights are our most precious commodities, more so than gold or silver or…”

Only days later did Ben realize that the sound he heard next was not the popping of a lightbulb or the backfire of a passing automobile. The president paused. Had he forgotten his speech? Ben wondered. Impossible—he was reading it off the translucent TelePrompTer before and beneath his podium. Then Ben heard another series of popping noises, as if someone had ignited an entire package of Black Cat firecrackers. Only a microsecond later, when he saw two Secret Service agents diving toward the stage, did he realize what was happening.

“We have fire!” he heard Agent Gatwick shout somewhere behind him. “Emergency response mode—now! I repeat: We have fire!”

“Get down! Get out of the way!”

From that point forward, Ben felt as if time went into slow motion. He had been taught in school that time was relative, and for the first time, he believed it. From the shots to the time he was inside Cadillac One, he later realized that barely thirty seconds had elapsed. But it seemed an eternity.

The president had stopped speaking and there were at least half a dozen men racing toward the podium. Ben knew they were running as fast as possible but to him it seemed as if they were moving unbearably slowly, like on
The Six Million Dollar Man.

The Secret Service agents finally reached the presidential podium. Two of them tackled the president and quite literally knocked him to the ground.

When the leader of the free world hit the floor, panic ensued. The people at the front of the rope line surged forward, pushed against their will by the teeming mass behind them. The police officers guarding the line attempted to hold them back—but there were a lot more people in the crowd than there were police officers. People buried in the middle tried to race off to the sides and break free, creating even more turmoil and confusion.

The shots continued, faster and louder.

“Get down!” Ben heard Agent Zimmer shout, lunging toward him. He thought the man was protecting him, but of course he was actually guarding the first lady. He grabbed her and pulled her to her feet, careful to position his body between Emily Blake and the line of fire. He placed his hands under her arms and lifted her off the ground. As he carried her toward the back of the raised platform, her face showed that she knew she was in danger, but to her credit, she remained quiet and cooperative.

“Tell me about Samson!” Zimmer barked into his sleeve, even as he carried the first lady away. “Is Samson down?”

Ben waited for an answer, but before he heard one, two plainclothesmen approached and began herding his group to the side of the stage.

“Man down!” he heard someone shout, but he didn’t know whom they were talking about. One of the Secret Service agents standing by the presidential podium dropped, obviously wounded. Blood saturated his neck and shirt with astonishing speed.
Aren’t they wearing Kevlar?
Ben wondered. Another agent to his right fell.
How many shooters are there? How many bullets? How many people are dead already?

The remaining Secret Service agents formed a circle and pulled the president to his feet, careful to keep him surrounded at all times. Another round of shots rang out and another agent dropped. The remaining four instantly closed the circle, keeping the president covered. Another line of agents went down on one knee, aiming their weapons into the distance.

Pop! Pop! Pop pop pop!

Even from the side of the stage, Ben could see a war was taking place. Four more Secret Service agents crouched on the sides of the stage, weapons out, pointed above the heads of the crowd. He knew the problem. They couldn’t find the target.

“Nest One!” the agent standing in front of him shouted. “Where is Nest One? Come in, Nest One!”

Ten more agents came out of nowhere and formed a protective perimeter. The four circling the president moved backward as quickly as possible.

Agent Gatwick raced by, shouting, “Cadillac One. Now!”

The agent in charge of herding Ben’s group nodded and steered Ben, Mike, and Tidwell in the same general direction that the president was moving.

“Cadillac One?” Ben whispered under his breath.

He heard Mike grunt a reply, talking as he moved. “Right now, it’s probably the safest place in the city.”

Before they reached the steps at the rear of the stage, Ben saw three more Secret Service agents drop to the ground. The two men moving his entourage forward continued to plow ahead as if oblivious to the death and carnage.

Outside the stage, the crowd had advanced from panicked to frenzied. The police tried to restrain them, without success. People were climbing walls, splashing through the reflecting pool, climbing the Survivor Tree—anything to get out of the line of fire. Parents were torn between trying to keep their children covered and trying to move them as quickly as possible. Terror had seized the assemblage. The screams were heartrending. A woman near the front was holding a small child in her arms. The child was not moving.

“How can it happen again?” the woman wailed, her voice a piercing, aching cry that cut through the turmoil like a knife. “How can it happen here again?”

The raised platform that had served as a stage began to buckle. Too many people were pressing up against it, trying to escape. Ben just prayed no one had crawled beneath it. The metal supports creaked and groaned and then it all came tumbling down, buckling under the collective pressure of hundreds of desperate people.

As he approached the parked motorcade, Ben for the first time heard shots echoing far above them from different locations. Federal snipers, he guessed, or hoped, and only prayed they would find their target. Was he out of range yet? A Secret Service agent standing next to the rear door of Cadillac One suddenly dropped to the ground, horrifically answering Ben’s question.

And then he heard the shriek. In the days to come, Ben would try to explain how he knew it had come from the first lady. Was there something unique about her voice? He could never answer their questions convincingly. But he knew. He knew it with unshakable certainty.

It took his own injury to snap Ben out of his trance. All at once, he felt a stinging sensation race across his cheek, as if someone had tried to strike a match on the side of his face.