Sedition (A Political Conspiracy Book 1) (13 page)

That doesn’t give us much time
, Davidson thought. They would need to accomplish all of their objectives within one day. It seemed impossible. He felt a sense of relief. Maybe they wouldn’t have to go through with it.

He turned to leave the hotel and was about to pull his journal from his jacket pocket when he was stopped cold, startled to see Sir Spencer Thomas standing in his path.

“Sir Spencer?” Davidson said in puzzlement at what he thought was a coincidence. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to see you.” He winked. “We have many things to discuss and not much time in which to discuss them.”

He stepped to Davidson and placed his arm around the AG’s shoulders. His massive right hand guided Davidson as a ballroom dancer would lead his partner.

“What do we need to discuss?” Davidson asked, sensing something untoward in the knight’s tone and demeanor. Against the woody musk of the knight’s Bois Rouge cologne, he resisted slightly.

“The Capital City Club and Spa are here in the hotel,” the knight explained. “I am part of what they call their ‘Presidential Wellness Plan’. Between you and me, it’s just a fancy name for their most expensive membership. I play along and act as though I’m impressed with their astounding commitment to
my
health. It’s quite exclusive and relaxing for a hotel spa. Rather convenient. I have a locker here. They have a wonderful sauna.” The knight was still guiding Davidson toward the spa entrance. “I’d be delighted to have you join me.”

Davidson shook his head. “Oh, I couldn’t,” he said.

“No, Bill.” Sir Spencer stopped walking. He stood next to Davidson and leaned in to his ear. “I insist,” he said. “This will be good for us. You and I will benefit from some time together. Just you and me. No interruptions. I think we’ll be able to clarify our positions.”

Davidson said nothing.

“I have to tell you, Bill,” offered Sir Spencer, “the sauna here is a wonder. It will clear your head, I assure you.”

*

The asset was conflicted. Cooperation with the government was essential to personal survival, but every time the asset thought about the group and what would happen to them, the feeling of guilt was almost overwhelming. The depth of the betrayal was bottomless. The men had bared their souls and agreed to share the risk for what they believed was a high calling. And even if there was reluctance to employ violence, all of the Daturans understood it was a means to an end. The death of a few was a fair price for the freedom of many.

The asset sat in a booth at Androphy’s Delicatessen, hands cupped around the warm, wide ceramic mug on the table. It was a glazed white mug with “Androphy’s” scrolled across the face in brown cursive writing. It was the kind of lettering one might find on an old baseball pennant.

On the plate next to the mug were the crumbs from a toasted “everything” bagel with butter and a crumpled paper napkin. The asset’s attention was focused upward and across the restaurant to a large flat-screen television along one of the walls opposite the succession of booths. The volume was turned down, but the closed-captioning was on, revealing the on-screen conversation in black rows featuring white lettering. The letters appeared as if typed onto the screen, rolled up a row, and then disappeared as new words appeared beneath them. It wasn’t the optimal way to watch television, but it served its purpose.

The phone rang.

“Yes?” the asset said softly and waited for the voice on the other end to respond. “No, I’m not busy at the moment.”
As if that mattered.

A waiter came over and motioned to the plate on the table. He didn’t want to interrupt the phone call, but wanted to remain attentive to his customer. When the asset nodded, the waiter removed the plate and walked off toward the kitchen.

“What about the analyst? Does she know we’re communicating?” That part of the equation hadn’t added up yet. “Risky, isn’t it?” The asset was told not to ask questions above pay grade. Given the pay was nothing, the asset had no room for interrogatives.

“Fine,” the asset huffed. “I’ll head over there in a minute and I’ll check in later.”

The waiter was back again. He had the check ready. “Can I get you anything else?”

“Yes, actually. I’ll take a fill-up on the coffee. And toast, please.”

“Sure.” The waiter took out his pen and scribbled on the check. “We have white, wheat, sourdough, rye…” He trailed off as though the list was longer but he didn’t want to make the effort to recite it.

“Wheat is good. Two pieces, please, butter on both.”

The waiter nodded and scurried back to the kitchen to place the order. The asset lifted the mug and drank what was left of the coffee. It had cooled but wasn’t cold.

In the restaurant, there were young couples laughing together between bites of granola and fruit. Old men sat alone with newspapers and bowls of oatmeal. Some tables paired business types in suits. They drank coffee and ate egg whites with Canadian bacon on the side. They did not know of the psyche-altering blitzkrieg that awaited them. The asset could have told them and imagined running from table to table announcing the plot.

“What do you mean terrorists?”
they would ask.

“How could this happen?”
they would question.

“But I thought the government had us protected!”
they would assume.

“Oh no,” the asset would tell them. “The government isn’t protecting you. It’s protecting itself.” The asset laughed at their naiveté and how their view of the world would shatter as they learned, a table at a time, what civilization was really about. The asset knew the secrets of powerful men and the crooked thrones upon which they sat.

“Excuse me?” The waiter was standing next to the table again. He noticed the asset was deep in thought. “Hello?” He waved his hand in front of the asset’s face.

“Yes?” The asset snapped to attention, blinking and then turning to look up at him.

“Your toast.” The waiter used his left hand to place the plate in front of the customer. He then poured more coffee with his right. “Is everything okay?”

“I’m good,” the asset said, pulling a new napkin from the stainless steel dispenser on the table. “Thanks.”

“Okay then.” The waiter thanked his customer again, placed the check on the edge of the table upside down, and floated off to another guest.

Chapter 21

Felicia Jackson’s Capitol Hill suite was in an unmarked corridor between Statuary Hall and the rotunda. She was standing just outside of the offices on the balcony overlooking the National Mall, her eyes aimed west toward the Washington Monument. It was a spectacular view. She often used the outdoor space to entertain small groups of colleagues or lobbyists. The location usually made for great conversation, but not as she listened to her attorneys explaining their morning loss in district court.

“This is a nightmare!” She would not turn to face the men as she stood, arms folded, with her back to them.

They didn’t respond. After explaining to her that the granting of the injunction was expected, that they’d planned an appeal, that the case was headed to the high court, and that none of this was anything to worry about, they stayed quiet and listened.

She finally turned to face them. “I am
this
close,” she said, holding up her hand and pinching her thumb and index finger together. “Do you know only one Speaker of the House has ever become president? Did you know that? I bet you didn’t. Only one. James Polk. Do you know why? Because
he
didn’t have to rely on lawyers.” The Speaker began pacing with her arms folded. She was looking at her feet as she walked. She would not look the attorneys in the eyes.

“I bet you Joe whatever-his-name-is, that news guy from this morning, is rejoicing. I’m going to guess he has a copy of the ruling in one hand and is masturbating into it with the other.”

She stopped pacing momentarily and eyeballed the lawyers. “Really!”

She was pacing again now and simulated manual stimulation with her left hand. She looked like she was shooting craps. One of the attorneys snickered.

“Is that funny?” She walked up to the lawyer and got inches from his face. He was taller than her, but she was commanding his space and he shrank. “It’s not funny to me! It’s embarrassing. We have the US freaking Constitution on our side. We have US Code on our side. We have the 1947 Act of Succession on our side. And
you
can’t win. Why is that?”

She backed off of the attorney far enough to look at the group as a whole.

“You, the one in my office last night.” She pointed at the young attorney who’d explained the case to her the previous evening. “You seem smart. You’re balding a little early for someone so young, but you’re knowledgeable, so explain this to me.” She was as mean as a snake when she felt cornered, and her rattle was often followed with a bite.

“It’s not so much that we lost, Madam Speaker,” he began, “it’s that they won.”

“Oh good lord!” Felicia put her hands on her hips and threw her head back. “Are you kidding me?”

“No,” he continued, but not before he self-consciously touched the back of his head with his hand. “There is a difference.”

“Go ahead,” she said, dramatically dropping her chin and looking directly at the young lawyer.

“This is a constitutional question, pure and simple. The judge is going to err on the side of caution.” He spoke calmly, charming the snake. “We knew, as I tried to explain last night, that this would happen. If for some crazy, unforeseen reason we’d won this morning, Blackmon’s attorneys would have filed an emergency motion and appeal as we did. We know the Supreme Court ultimately will hear the argument. We’ve lost nothing.”

Felicia opened her eyes to look at the attorney. She took in deep breath and then exhaled again slowly.

“I still don’t like it,” she said, her tone slightly less poisonous. She rubbed her neck, slipping the fingers of both hands beneath her hair. “I still think you guys are full of it.”

Tired of standing outside, she ushered the team back inside and followed them into the suite.

“You men do whatever it is you need to do,” she said without turning around. “I have business to attend to.”

The men continued out of the office and past the statue of Stephen F. Austin into the hall. Felicia walked alone into her private office. She shut the doors behind her and locked them. Her hands stayed on the door while she thought about the exchange she’d just had with the lawyers. She hated lawyers.

She walked over to the love seat that framed one end of the room and sat. Whether it was the stress, the anxiety, or the loss of a president, she wasn’t sure, but as she sat there, tears welled in her eyes. They were followed by a thick, dry, painful lump at the base of her throat. Felicia held it in as her lips and chin quivered. It was all too much. The tears poured down her cheeks as she buried her face in her hands. She was weeping and shaking uncontrollably.

An aide knocked on the door and tried the handle. “Are you okay, Madam Speaker?”

“Yes.” She sobbed. “I’m fine.” As quickly as the emotions had overcome her, they receded. She felt purged.

Felicia stood and puffed out her cheeks then laughed at herself. She was a mess. She walked to her desk and pulled some tissues from a box, then dabbed the corners of her eyes and her nose.

A woman in power had such an unfair balance to maintain. Toughness and femininity were contrary attributes; compassion and leadership were difficult to manage simultaneously.

Publicly she chose the tough, impervious persona, which cost her both politically and personally. Many of the friends she had accumulated on her way to the top abandoned her when they found her methods too prickly.

Was it too late to swing the pendulum in the other direction? Regardless of the outcome of the court case and the presidency, she wondered if it was possible. Could she soften her image and still lead effectively?

Felicia considered the viability of this as she wiped the mascara from her face. She needed to blow her nose, but kept sniffling instead. She laughed at herself. The thought of an anchorman masturbating to a court filing really
was
funny.

Chapter 22

The air in the sauna stung Bill Davidson’s nostrils. The combination of simmering birch leaf and eucalyptus was almost overpowering, but the odor wasn’t the real cause of his discomfort.

“You may know, Bill,” Sir Spencer started amiably, “the Finnish have a saying about the sauna.”

“What is that?” Davidson said, not at all interested in the answer.

“They say,” he continued, “and this is loosely translated, ‘
If drink, tar, or sauna cannot help you, then the illness is fatal
.’” The knight laughed. Davidson smiled weakly.

The two men had the sauna to themselves. Sir Spencer had arranged it that way. They both sat on thick cotton towels, and Davidson also had a towel wrapped around his waist. Sir Spencer was nude, unclothed as much for the comfort of it as to disarm Davidson.

“Let’s talk plot,” the knight said, not wasting any more time. “I get the impression from you, Bill, you’re uneasy about our plans. Am I wrong about this?”

“No,” Davidson said honestly, “you’re not wrong. I am uncomfortable with violence.”

“Why is that?” The knight knew the answer but asked regardless.

“I don’t like the idea of killing fellow Americans.” Davidson’s jaw was clenched as if it were wired shut when he spoke.

“Bill”—the knight clapped his hands together mockingly—“I applaud your sanctimoniousness. Really, it is honorable. But you and I both know that what those in power choose to call terrorism is, in fact, the only effective weapon of the weak against the strong.”

“Didn’t Gaddafi say that?” Davidson asked. “Are you quoting Muammar Gaddafi?”

“Think of the reward, Bill,” Sir Spencer said. “You help me and I help you. Very rarely does somebody get two shots in the cabinet. James Baker, Caspar Weinberger, Elizabeth Dole…you’d be joining elite company.”

“Who are you working for, Spencer?”