Capitol Conspiracy (4 page)

I’ve been shot!
Ben thought, lightly touching the side of his cheek. Blood trickled onto his hand. His entire body began to tremble.

Dear God. I’ve been shot!

Four Secret Service agents positioned themselves around the car, guns drawn and at the ready. On a signal, the two men in front began firing, laying down a blanket of cover fire as the president’s four remaining bodyguards literally shoved him into the backseat of the car. No one was more surprised than Ben when his protectors pushed him in behind the president. Mike and Senator Tidwell were the next to enter the bulletproof sanctuary of the automobile.

“Does anyone know what’s going on?” he heard a Secret Service agent outside the car cry out. “What happened to Nest One? Why wasn’t Juliet where she was supposed to be?”

Agent Gatwick ran up to the car, shoved the doors closed, and slapped the windshield. “Go!”

“What about Emily?” President Blake shouted back at him.

Gatwick simply shook his head and pointed at the driver. “Go!”

The driver, who had never left the car, nodded.

“Go!”
Gatwick shouted again.

The driver held up his hands helplessly. The panicked crowd blocked his path. There was nowhere he could go without mowing down a dozen people.

“Damnation!” President Blake swore. His face was scraped and his mouth was bleeding, but he seemed essentially intact. There was a wildness in his eyes that Ben suspected could come only from realizing that someone, perhaps many people, had tried very hard to kill him. And he wasn’t in the clear yet. What a change—ten minutes ago Ben had been stammering in the presence of this man; now he had been thrown practically on top of him and barely noticed. “At least we’re safe in here. Bastards can’t hurt us as long as we stay inside.”

Mike nodded. His ears were starting to recover from the constant sound of bullets whizzing by much too close to his face. Thank God they’d made it here. This had to be the safest place in the city right now.

So why didn’t he feel relieved?

It was a comfort knowing that Cadillac One was bulletproof, but in truth that was not being tested because the bullets weren’t coming this way. Why not?

There were ony two possible explanations. Either the president was not the primary target…

Or the sniper had him exactly where he wanted him.

Mike whispered into Ben’s ear. “Do you see that?”

“What?”

Mike was staring out the window. “It’s a reflection. On the chrome of that officer’s motorcycle. And it’s…changing.” His eyes widened. “We have to get out of this car.”

“Are you insane?” President Blake said. “There’s a killer out there! Maybe a whole terrorist cell!”

“You don’t understand,” Mike said insistently. “There’s a bomb. We have to get out of this car.”

The president protested, but Mike didn’t wait to hear any more. He lunged forward, grabbing the door handle and flinging it open.

The Secret Service men outside had their attention trained away from the car on the potential assailants, so they were taken by surprise when the rear door suddenly burst open. Mike grabbed Ben by the coat lapels and tossed him out of the car.

“What the—”

Mike didn’t hesitate a second. He hoisted the president up and out. Several agents immediately formed a protective perimeter around him.

And Gatwick and the rest of the agents had their guns trained on Mike.

“Stand down! What do you think you’re doing?”

“There’s a bomb in this car,” Mike answered, not moving. “It could blow any second.”

Gatwick stared at him. “On Cadillac One?”

“I tell you, there’s a bomb! I saw the clock. We only have seconds—”

Agent Colbert, who had done time with a bomb squad unit, ran to the far side of the limo. “My God, he’s right. Get Samson out of here.”

Two agents grabbed the president and carried him away much as Ben had seen the first lady carried earlier.

“Go!” Mike shouted as he tried to clamber out of the car. Tidwell had the opposite door open and was making his escape in the other direction.

Ben suspected there would be no personal escort for him, so he didn’t wait for help. He scrambled to his feet and ran.

The force of the explosion knocked Ben to the ground, chin first into the pavement. The sonic boom shattered his ears. Car parts flew all around him, like a hideous metallic rainfall.

Cadillac One had become a fireball.

In the midst of the thick, billowing smoke, Ben pulled himself to his feet, his face bleeding in a dozen places, his eyes watering from the fumes. He knew he had been shot at least once, maybe more. He wasn’t sure the president had moved far enough quickly enough to be protected from the explosion. But none of that was uppermost in his mind.

“Mike!” he shouted to no avail, desperately trying to locate his best friend. “Mike? Where are you?”

Stumbling backward, crying, coughing, lost in the sudden cloud of smoke, he was so confused and distraught he crashed into the EMTs who were moving a female body from the stage to someplace away from the fray.

They were moving Emily Blake. Not that there was anything they could do for her now.

The first lady was dead.

3

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

C
hristina McCall pulled at her long strawberry blond locks so hard, she feared she might pull them out by the roots. “Where is he?”

Jones looked at her sympathetically. “Where do you think.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I’m about to go nuts,
mon ami.
” She was wearing a red body stocking with a fur collar, a short red skirt with a scalloped hem, black and white striped tights, and boots—which for her was a fairly conservative look. Her hair was pulled forward in Bettie Page bangs. “I’ve been dealing with calls from constituents, demands for action, expressions of sympathy, all very difficult and demanding, and all of it directed toward the only surviving senator from the great state of Oklahoma. Except—guess what? I’m not the senator!”

Jones laid a hand on her shoulder, trying to quiet her. “I’m sure he’ll turn up soon. You know how the Boss gets sometimes.”

“I certainly do. And
pardonnez-moi,
but that’s no excuse.” She slumped into the nearest available chair and stared out the window. Her normally chipper, freckled face was drawn and haggard. The crow’s-feet around her eyes were more pronounced than their sparkling blue color. “Did I mention that I’m supposed to be on my honeymoon?”

Jones felt a tug at his heart. Even his normally acerbic exterior was melting. “You didn’t have to.”

“I’m supposed to be sipping French wine in a Parisian café, having a tête-à-tête with my
grande passion.
Not dealing with the worst security crisis on American soil since 9/11.” Her shoulders sagged. “I’m tired of talking on the phone.”

Jones sat beside her and placed his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll take your calls.”

“And I’m tired of trying to explain why Senator Kincaid isn’t in his office.”

“I’ll make up a story.”

“And I’m sexually frustrated.”

Jones removed his hand. “That you’re going to have to handle on your own.” Christina’s head drooped even lower. “Did I mention that I was tired?”

“I’m pretty sure you did.”

“I can’t do this by myself. I mean, I appreciate your help, Jones. You’re the best aide-de-camp in the building, as far as I’m concerned. But it’s too impossible. Loving is still off with that Trudy woman, right?”

Jones coughed into his hand. “Loving is still with, um, Trudy, yes.”

“And Ben hasn’t been in the office since the attack. He has to take control of this situation. He has to decide if he’s going to run for reelection. He has—” Her voice choked. “He has to take me on my honeymoon, damn it.”

“I’m so sorry, sweetie.”

Jones squeezed her hand, then returned to his station where his phone was ringing off the hook, while Christina continued to stare blankly at the office around her. She had put a lot of effort into improving the decor here during the past few months. Even though the name on the door and the desk read
BENJAMIN J. KINCAID
, she knew she couldn’t leave the interior decoration to him. The office would end up resembling a monk’s cell: two chairs and a dead plant. At best, it would be a reproduction of his office back in Tulsa, and that was not a work space that deserved the opportunity to reproduce. So despite the budgetary restrictions that accompanied working for an unelected senator with no war chest and a law practice that had not practiced for months, she tried to improve the joint. On weekends, she frequented flea markets—there were dozens of them in the Washington, D.C., area—looking for salvageable furniture and knickknacks. She nurtured plants at her apartment until she thought they were strong enough to survive Ben’s negative botanic energy. Christina even replaced some of the fixtures, which apparently hadn’t had any attention since before the first World War. Her efforts had turned a sterile government office into a cozy workplace.

Today it seemed colder than a tomb.

She knew the specifications of the building all too well; she heard a tour guide leading a group of citizens down the corridor or around the rotunda almost every day. She knew this capitol building covered 153,112 square feet, which worked out to about three and a half acres. Somehow, though, it managed to have a floor area of more than fourteen acres. And 435 rooms, 554 doors, 679 windows.

Didn’t matter. It was still a tomb. The first lady was dead, along with eight Secret Service agents and four civilians, one a little girl of three. Two U.S. senators. And Mike…

She closed her eyes tight. She couldn’t allow herself to wallow in the misery that had blanketed the country. Someone had to keep this office together.

But who was going to keep her together?

“We just got a memo,” Jones said, back at his desk by the front door. “Want to hear the latest?”

“You tell me, Jones. Do I?”

He made it succinct. “DEFCON Three.”

There it was. Just as she had feared. The Strategic Air Command and the associated military alerts had been ratcheted up another notch. Christina knew that had happened only three times since the DEFCON system had been devised: first during the Cuban Missile Crisis, then after 9/11, and now.

The attack on the president, the slaying of the first lady, not to mention so many Secret Service agents and civilians, had sent shock waves rippling through the nation. Homeland Security had issued its first-ever Red Alert. The Dow Jones had gone into a free fall; airports shut down; most retail businesses had closed and remained closed. There was no point in being open. Few people were leaving their homes if it was not absolutely necessary. Even if it wasn’t entirely rational—there was no sign that anyone other than the president had been or would be targeted—the horrific incident had left such an imprint on the country that most people just felt more secure staying home.

The upward spiral in hate crimes against Americans of Middle Eastern descent—or in some cases, dark-skinned souls some redneck thought were Middle Eastern—was equally frightening. All across the country, people were lashing out, venting their fear in the form of violence. International tensions were at a fever pitch; the hostility between the United States and the Arab world never seemed so ominous. Many foreign leaders had spoken out, demanding reprisals, asking for the president to make a public statement.

So far, the president had remained silent.

The entire United States intelligence community was making a concerted effort to work together and discover who was behind the heinous attack. The FBI, CIA, NSA, and Homeland Security were acting as one, sharing information on a daily basis at Pentagon and White House rendezvous, wiretapping and spying and making the most of their international allies. Diplomatic inquiries were being made wherever possible, though no one had much hope that they would be useful, because no one really believed the attack had been orchestrated as a formally sanctioned act of a foreign power. The military top brass were engaged in major saber rattling. The Pentagon was requesting permission to employ new high-tech weapons and eavesdropping equipment. On CNN, analysts were saying that it wasn’t a question of whether America would go to war—only when. Public support was clearly there; so in all likelihood the politicians would accommodate once the identities of the perpetrators were known. Pundits predicted that the U.S. military readiness standard could go all the way to DEFCON 1 inside of a week, depending on the temperament and inclination of the president.

And still the president remained silent. He had not been seen or heard publicly since the tragedy occurred. At a time when the nation needed leadership most, he was providing least. While the nation worried about its future—the president grieved for his wife.

No one knew what would happen next—least of all Christina. But she knew some action would be taken soon.

And that worried her.

She remembered the White House study back in 2006 that revealed that the war in Iraq had actually increased global terrorism rather than squelching it, due to the wave of reprisals that followed with ever-increasing gusto and fervor.

After a tragedy of this magnitude—what might happen next?

Near the front of the office, Christina heard someone clearing his throat.

With no small degree of regret, she opened her eyes.

“Jimmy?” She rose as she was approached by James Claire, the Senate Information officer who had been assigned to this wing of the Russell Building. “More news?”

“Or the lack thereof,” he said, adjusting his collar. He was new in this position, and Christina knew he was not altogether comfortable with it yet. Only last week he had been the lowest ranked clerk in Senator Dawkins’s office. After the tragedy of three days before, he had been recruited by the Information Office to help fill the huge surge in demand for news about the tragedy. “At any rate, I’ve been instructed to provide updates to all my offices twice a day now, so here I am. Is Senator Kincaid around?”

“Uh, no. He’s still…sick. But I’ll pass along any information you have.”

“I know. It’s just that I’ve been told to speak directly to the senators.”

“Jimmy.” Christina placed her hand on his shoulder reassuringly. There were not many people who worked in this building who were younger than she, but happily, he was one of them. “You’re talking to the senator’s chief of staff, not to mention his wife. Isn’t that good enough?”

He smiled a lopsided, somewhat goofy twenty-something smile. “I suppose.”

Christina guided him to the nearest chair in the lobby. She did not mince words. “Have they caught the bastards who did this?”

Jimmy sighed. “That’s always the first question. No, they haven’t caught anyone.”

“Do they know who’s behind it?”

“Several groups have taken credit—more than a dozen, in fact. It’s hard to know who to believe.”

“Surely it must be terrorists. Maybe al-Qaeda?”

“We don’t think so. The intelligence community is investigating several other satellite Middle Eastern groups, especially one called Saifullah.”

“I don’t think I’ve heard of it.”

“Who has? The name is a religious reference, naturally. Means ‘sword of God’ in Arabic.”

“And the Feds think they were behind the attack?”

“They sent the President’s Office an e-mail that provided a lot of details about the attack. It’s possible they’re just good guesses, but the intelligence community is taking their claim seriously. And they’ve made a list of demands.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, everything you would expect. Complete withdrawal of U.S. and UN troops from the Middle East, including Iraq and Afghanistan. Shutting down all U.S. military bases in the region, including those in Saudi Arabia. Turning over all oil operations, including pipelines, to native businesses. Promising not to invade sovereign nations unless we’re attacked first or demonstrably threatened. Allocating funds to needy Middle Eastern nations matching those provided to Egypt and Israel. Publicly declaring that Islam is a great and sacred religion.”

“Pretty standard stuff.”

“Exactly.”

“Every Middle Eastern terror cell known to man has been making the same demands for decades. Do they ask for anything specific? Release of a prisoner, maybe?”

“No. We’re not aware that we have any members of Saifullah in captivity. But frankly, we barely knew anything about the group.”

“That seems incredible.”

“Bear in mind, we didn’t know that much about al-Qaeda while their members were buying box cutters and taking flying lessons in Florida. Took 9/11 to put them in the public consciousness.”

“So maybe that was the real point of the attack. To put themselves on the geopolitical map? To make them players?”

“It’s not impossible.”

Christina laid her head back against the sofa cushion. “High school kids want attention—they spray-paint a bathroom wall. Terrorists want attention—they kill the first lady.”

“The first lady was collateral damage. But still—” Jimmy lowered his head. “Yeah. Same mentality.”

“Surely the Feds have found some useful forensic evidence,” Christina said. In the past, she had worked with Ben on any number of cases where eyewitness testimony proved dubious, but carefully analyzed forensic evidence solved the case.

“Not that I’ve heard.”

“Computer facial recognition? DNA? Eyewitness? Fingerprints?”

“Not so far.”

“The combined force of the entire United States intelligence community has come up with nothing?”

“As of my last briefing.”

“Not even a weapon?”

“After he took out Nest One, he used their weapon.”

“He?”

Jimmy stopped, as if he had reached a piece of information so horrible, he could barely transmit it.

“What? What is it?”

He took a deep breath. “I know the press is talking as if there must have been a fleet of assassins. Dozens of them. But the sad fact is—both the FBI and Homeland Security agree it’s entirely possible there was only one.”

“What?”

“Granted, there must have been more people involved in the operation. They obviously employed sophisticated military reconnaissance of the staging area, not to mention advanced planning and intelligence gathering. Capturing Director Marshall just in time to extract the information they needed—but not so early we would become suspicious and alter our plans. Simultaneously killing Senator Hammond to delay the recognition that Marshall was MIA. But as far as actual assassins—there’s just no evidence of more than one shooter. And given the totally clean getaway, one seems more likely than twenty.”

“How is that possible?”

Jimmy’s eyes lowered. “What I’m about to say next…is not for public consumption. It’s only speculation. Homeland Security doesn’t want to hear it on
Meet the Press.
”

“Get to the point. How could one person find, much less take out, the sniper nest?”

“You might as well ask how he got a bomb under Cadillac One. How could he have so much information about the president’s plans? How was he able to so brilliantly penetrate the Secret Service defense formation?” Jimmy sighed again. “Even assuming they were able to extract information from Director Marshall, there’s only one possible answer to all those questions.”