Capitol Conspiracy (11 page)

He was, at first, understandably reluctant to speak. Then, finally: “Night-vision goggles?”

“It seemed a prudent precaution.”

“It would appear that since your retirement from our cause, 355, you have acquired some new skills.”

“Or perhaps I had them all along, and you and your masters were too ignorant to realize it.”

“You have lost none of your skill for self-preservation.”

“It would be foolish to do so, while men such as you still walk the face of the earth.”

“You cannot win, Shohreh.”

“I do not wish to win anything. Tell the General I want him to abandon his filthy enterprise. For Djamila’s sake. Tell him that unless he gives me what I want, I will expose him.”

“That would be very foolish of you.”

“But I will do it, just the same. Tell him.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Shohreh saw two figures at the end of the alley. Police? No, they were younger. But they were watching, apparently not so frightened as entertained. That was life here on Dove Avenue. Only a thin line separated entertainment from near death. But then, that had been the case for her for so long, for as long as she could remember.

She could not afford to remain there any longer. “This is not over, Ahmed. Tell your master to give me what I want. Or I will come and take it from him!”

She ran down the other end of the alley, staying clear of Ahmed’s approximate position, disappearing into the darkness.

Her fears had been justified. The General had not come. Perhaps she had accomplished nothing. But she had to try. She owed Djamila that much. And this debt would be paid. No matter what they tried to do to her. No matter what the consequences—and she knew they would be great, if she were linked to the horror of Oklahoma City. But that did not matter.

She would have her satisfaction. They would pay in blood. Just as Djamila had done for them.

14

T
HE
W
HITE
H
OUSE
W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

B
en had been to the White House before, sort of. He’d attended the announcement of the nomination of Supreme Court Justice Roush in the Rose Garden. He’d been through a receiving line in the eastern and oldest section of the building. So he knew, for instance, what a hassle it was to get there, even when you were being personally transported by a chauffeured limo driven by a member of the Secret Service. Ever since the 1995 bombing of the Murrah building in Oklahoma City, the Secret Service had closed off Pennsylvania Avenue from the eastern perimeter of Lafayette Park to 15th Street—the entire passage in front of the White House and then some. Now the sidewalk between the White House and the Treasury building, where the public used to line up for White House tours, was also closed. After 9/11, tours had been sharply curtailed. Now they were available only on a limited basis for groups that had made arrangements through their congressional representatives, and even then all participants had to submit to background checks. Various civic groups had opposed the street closings, but given the current security climate, Ben thought it highly unlikely any of those challenges would ever succeed. The security of the president came first—now more than ever.

Ben had never been inside the Oval Office. He knew many senators with far more years of experience than he had also never been inside this most famous of workplaces. He could barely believe he was going himself as the designated agents led him down the corridors of the West Wing.

A Secret Service agent, who had never seen the necessity of identifying himself, knocked on the east door.

“Enter.”

Ben did. Standing in the northeast corner of the room, leaning against an antique grandfather clock, was the President of the United States.

Ben tried to suppress the nervous tingle that surged through his body, including the knees that were becoming increasingly wobbly. He had met the president before, of course, but not since April 19. Not since the first lady was killed. And not in the Oval Office—this was an entirely different kind of meeting.

He tried to pull himself together and act in a manner somewhat appropriate for a U.S. senator. He shuddered, trying to think how to break the ice. He wasn’t sure what to say.

As they clasped hands, Ben managed, “Mr. President…I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“And I for yours, son. I know Major Morelli is still listed in critical condition. Is there any news from the doctors?”

Ben shook his head. “I call in several times a day, but they never have anything new for me. He suffered extensive internal injuries from the explosion. He’s healing, but the damage was profound. And he still hasn’t come out of the coma, so even if he does recover, he might suffer—” Ben stopped himself. “But what am I talking about? My loss can’t begin to compare with—”

“Every loss is felt profoundly by the persons who loved them,” President Blake said, his eyes focused firmly on Ben, making him feel as if he were the only person in the room, the only person in the universe. “All hearts are equally capable of grieving. I’m sure, in your own way, you feel your loss just as much as I feel the loss of my wife.”

“The whole nation feels the loss of your wife, sir,” Ben replied. “I only met her once, but I thought she was an extraordinary person. Very kind.”

“Thank you, son.” He ran his fingers through his silver locks. “Thank you very much. I appreciate your kind words.”

He turned slowly, breaking the eye contact lock. “Ben, have you met Tracy Sobel?”

An attractive woman in her fifties approached Ben with a direct and efficient manner. “Haven’t had the pleasure.” They shook hands. Her hands were cold.

“She’s my chief of staff,” the president explained, although Ben of course already knew that. “Keeps me in line,” he added, winking, as if they had just shared a private joke, even though everyone in the room had heard it. “And I also want you to meet the new director of Homeland Security. Carl Lehman.”

Ben nodded toward the large black man sitting on one of the sofas in front of the fireplace. Even seated, Ben could see the man was well over six feet tall.

“Would you have a seat, please, Ben?” President Blake gestured toward two high-backed Martha Washington–style lolling chairs in front of the fireplace. Ben took the seat on the right. He had noticed from various media appearances that the president always sat on the left. He wasn’t sure why, but given how every move the president made these days was carefully calculated and orchestrated in advance, he was sure there was a reason.

“Comfy, huh?” The president smiled a little, probably as much as could be permitted from a man who had only recently lost his wife. “One of the perks of the presidency. You get to redecorate the Oval Office.” He stopped, sighed. “Emily picked out the carpet, the drapery, the paintings, most of the furniture. Had the old carpet shipped off to my predecessor’s presidential library. The only thing I chose myself are these two chairs. Had them special made by an old college buddy. Told him I wanted a chair I could sit on for hours without getting anything worse than a leg cramp. Did a pretty good job, don’t you think?”

Ben had to admit his chair was exceedingly comfortable.

“Course I had to consult with the media experts on the color. When George W. Bush first took office, he put in some nice little melon-colored chairs. But after his first appearance, the press described them as ‘pink.’” Blake chuckled quietly. “Those chairs disappeared in a hurry. Tough macho presidents from the great state of Texas can’t be seen sitting in anything pink.”

Ben laughed with him, but he also noticed that the chairs currently in place were a very deep and manly shade of tan.

“I like the Remingtons,” Ben said, gesturing toward the bronze sculptures on the coffee table before them. “We have a great collection in Tulsa, at the Gilcrease Museum. Best collection of Western art in the world.”

“I’ve been to Gilcrease,” the president said. “Spent a happy afternoon there a few years back. Peaceful. No one recognized me all day.”

Tracy Sobel cleared her throat. “Sir,” she said, tapping her wristwatch.

“Oh, right, right.” He looked over at Ben. “See what I told you? The woman keeps me in line.”

“I have a chief of staff who performs a similar function,” Ben answered. “Whether I like it or not.”

“I don’t want to rush, but as you can imagine, I have a heavy schedule today, what with the amendment going before the two congressional committees and all. But I carved out time for this meeting, Ben.” He paused. “Because I really wanted to talk to you.”

“May I ask why?”

“Oh, I bet you can guess that, Senator,” Director Lehman said. His gaze was almost as fixed and intense as the president’s, but it didn’t exude nearly as much warmth.

“I’m assuming it has something to do with your proposed amendment.”

“You’re right about that,” the president confirmed.

“I imagine you want to take my temperature. See if you can count on my vote.”

“Now that’s where you’re mistaken.”

Ben sat up straight. “I am?”

The president looked at him with all apparent sincerity. “If I may be so bold, Ben, I know how close you were to Mike Morelli. So despite the technical fact that you are a member of the opposition party, I feel I already know where you must stand on this bill.”

“To tell you the truth, Mr. President,” Ben said, “I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

“That so,” the president said quietly. He exchanged a glance with Sobel, then with Lehman. “That so.”

“May I ask what your concerns are?” Lehman asked, jumping in. “Surely you don’t want to see another tragedy like what happened in Oklahoma City.”

“No, of course not. But I do have concerns about the long-term consequences of this amendment to our civil liberties.”

“Do you think I don’t?” Lehman said, with such alacrity that it took Ben by surprise. “I’ve wrestled with this thing for days myself.”

“And he’s the one who first suggested it,” the president added. “And the one who would wield the most power if and when an Emergency Security Council were ever convened.”

“But the bottom line is,” Lehman continued, “we have to do something. Whether it’s domestic terrorism like the first Oklahoma City attack, or foreign terrorism like 9/11, or whatever the hell this most recent attack turns out to be, the nation can’t tolerate this any longer. It’s more than demoralizing. It’s the sort of event that brings a nation to its knees.”

“Surely that’s an exaggeration.”

“Ever read Gibbon’s
Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire,
son?” Ben shook his head. “Let me tell you—there are strong parallels. Once the barbarians gain a foothold, it becomes very hard to fight them back.”

“We have to take action,” the president said firmly. “And we have to do so quickly.”

“Before the people come to their senses and public opinion changes?”

The president ignored the implication. “No. Because we need to show whoever was behind this—and anyone else who might be planning an attack—that we are not a nation in decline. That we will fight for our liberty with whatever means are available and necessary.”

“So you want me to lend your amendment my support?”

“More than that, Ben. I want you to lead the charge.”

Ben’s eyes ballooned.
“What?”

“You heard me. I need help in the Senate.”

“There are a lot of senators far more influential than I am.”

“Maybe. But I need a Democrat—someone willing to break party lines to support an amendment whose time has come. Plus, you’re from the state where the tragedy occurred. You were intimately involved in the attack. Your best friend was seriously wounded. If you start speaking out in favor of the amendment, people are going to listen.”

“I’m the most junior senator in Congress. I wasn’t even elected.”

“All of which I see as a plus. You don’t have political enemies—people who will oppose something you support just out of spite for some past grievance. You can’t be accused of being beholden to special interests, since you’ve never collected a penny in campaign funds.”

“Right or wrong, you’re still perceived as being outside politics,” Sobel added. “And even though I know you consider yourself a centrist…” She paused, as if choosing her words very carefully. “Well, there are many who see you as tilting somewhat toward the liberal side of the fence.”

“Exactly,” the president rejoined. “So if you came out in support of this amendment, it would demonstrate once and for all that this has nothing to do with politics. It is simply about doing what is best and right for the security of the nation.”

“I don’t know,” Ben said. “I thought I heard Senator DeMouy was leading the charge on this one.”

“He is, technically. But he’s a Republican. I need someone from the other side of the fence if I’m going to get the votes I need.”

“There is one additional consideration,” Sobel added. This time, Ben noted, she was staring off somewhere in the space between them, not quite looking him in the eye. “I don’t know if you’ve decided yet whether to run for reelection, but the word on the street is that you are at the least giving it serious consideration. If so, this leadership role we’re offering you could be exactly what you need—to attract the kind of media attention necessary to win an election. Forget the state election—you could come out of this with national name recognition, even more than you got when you appeared on television during the Roush hearings. You couldn’t buy this kind of publicity, not if you had a trillion-dollar war chest. This could be the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“Assuming I want to run for reelection,” Ben added.

“Or,” the president said, “assuming you want to do something to protect the citizens of this nation. Good people. Like Major Michelangelo Morelli.”

The room felt silent. Ben knew it was incumbent upon him at this point to say something, but he didn’t know where to begin.

He saw Sobel once again tapping her wristwatch.

“I’m afraid this offer has totally taken me by surprise. I don’t know what to tell you. Can I have some time to think about it?”

Blake and Sobel exchanged a quick glance. “We don’t have much time, son. We have to move on this fast.”

“Give me till tomorrow morning.”

“Midnight,” Sobel replied. “Call us by midnight. Don’t worry—I’ll be up.”

No doubt,
Ben thought. He wondered if she ever slept at all.

“I’ll get back to you as soon as possible,” Ben said, rising.

“You do that, son.” The president rose and walked Ben toward the east door. “I don’t mean to scare you. But we’ve already gotten wind of at least three other terrorist plots against this nation. Against me and several other important governmental figures. Some random attacks against the general population. Anything to demoralize and terrify the people. Evil, cowardly plots.”

He put his hand firmly on Ben’s shoulder. “I don’t know how much more bluntly I can put it, son. We must act quickly, before it’s too late. And I don’t think I’m overstating things when I say the fate of this great nation may well rest upon your shoulders.”