Sedition (A Political Conspiracy Book 1) (16 page)

“Does that change anything? I am in a very vulnerable position here.”

The sixth Daturan could not afford for anyone to learn his identity.

“Why would it affect anything?” Sir Spencer said condescendingly. “What the Supreme Court chooses to do or to not do does not change our mission. It does not change our plans. If anything, it’s a distraction and affords us time. Everybody is so bloody focused on this court nonsense that they can’t see the forest for the trees.”

“I assume that’s supposed to make me feel better.”

“I don’t care how it makes you feel,” the knight retorted. “What I care about is you maintaining your focus here. The others all have jobs to do before the transition. Yours will begin immediately afterward. That’s when the heavy lifting starts on your account.”

“So the others—they’re all on target, then?”

“Yes,” Sir Spencer hedged. “Well, I should say yes, but one of them is a bugger.”

“Bill Davidson?”

“Yes. I paid him a visit this morning, I think he’ll come around. You know I can be quite persuasive.”

“Quite.”

“So we’re quite good, then.”

“Do they know who I am?”

“No.” The knight was sure they didn’t know. He’d not even told George Edwards, who’d become his confidant of late, or even Jimmy Ings, the most trustworthy of the bunch. “They can assume you are a cabinet member and the Secretary of Something. They know you are in the line of succession. But other than the knowledge that you are not the beautiful and talented Felicia Jackson, they have no clue.”

“How do they know I’m not the Speaker?”

“I referred to you as a man. And there are…what…just three women to consider, regardless?”

The sixth Daturan was irritated. “So they know I’m not Jackson and that I’m not the Secretary of Education or HUD.”

“They also know you’re not any of the three hundred million Americans living outside the greater Metro area. What’s your point? In two days everyone in the world
will
know who you are when you’re sworn into office.”

“True.” There was less irritation. “I’m a little sensitive about this. I have the highest profile in this, the most to lose.”

Sir Spencer appreciated the secretary’s egocentrism, but he didn’t like it. The secretary may be the eventual face of the invisible revolution, true, but he didn’t have any more to lose than the rest of the conspirators.

The knight had handpicked the sixth Daturan. At that moment he was wondering if he’d made the right choice. There were others who’d have joined the movement. The cabinet was full of ambitious men. It was always those closest to the seat of power who coveted it most.

He’d settled on his choice because of the man’s desire for change. He was often a contrarian in cabinet meetings. President Foreman regularly told him to bite his tongue. It was thought, for a period of time during the first term, that Foreman would replace him after forcing a resignation. However, other matters were more pressing, and given the burden of a bitter campaign for reelection, Foreman chose to keep as many of his original cabinet members as possible. His loyalty to dissenters and his affinity for making appointments from both major political parties won him a lot of favors. Only the resignation of the Secretary of the Interior and the death of his vice president forced Foreman to make second-term nominations for his inner circle.

He stuck with the loudmouth. By the time he dropped dead in the Oval Office, President Foreman had grown quite fond of him.

Sir Spencer was fond of him too, which was why he befriended the secretary and appealed to his vanity. He pulled the strings perfectly. The knight whispered the things that made the secretary puff his chest. He told him of how things could be, given the right chain of events. Within months, he had the secretary on his team as the final cog in the wheel.

He couldn’t necessarily blame the secretary for his ego, but he certainly could try to keep it in check. He could remind him who really was in charge of the operation. He could suggest that everything was subject to change if need be.

“You know, Mr. Secretary…” the knight began and then paused.

“What?”

“Have you ever heard of Narcissus?”

“Yes.”

“What do you know about him?”

“He was a handsome man unable to love anyone but himself,” the secretary responded, confused by the digression.

“Yes. Did you know that he died because he was unable to pull away from his own reflection?”

“What’s your point?” The secretary was in the back of a Lincoln Town Car. He was alone, though he could see the driver outside of the car, leaning against the driver’s side door.

“Country first. Look up from your own reflection.”

Chapter 25

Felicia Jackson’s nubuck-covered heels clicked on the English Minton tile flooring. Her steps echoed as she crossed the room to a large round table. She looked up as she walked, admiring the cast-iron railing that ran the length of the second-floor balcony.

She’d never been in the Indian Treaty Room before, and it was as exquisite as she’d imagined. The detail was astounding. She loved it.

The room was on the top floor of the seven-story Eisenhower Executive Office Building across from the West Wing of the White House. The treaty room was the most expensive to construct of the building’s five hundred fifty-three original rooms.

The EEOB, as it was known, was initially built after the Civil War to house the Departments of State, War, and Navy. Unlike most of the more conservative architecture that dotted the district, the EEOB was a flamboyant example of French Second Empire design. It took seventeen years to build.

The room was in the Navy Department’s wing of the massive structure and carried a nautical theme. Carved within the railing that the Speaker so admired were dolphins and shells. Stars on the ceiling represented navigation. On those Minton tiles was a compass at the center of the room. The light hanging from the ceiling of the Indian Treaty Room was the only original fixture remaining in the entirety of the EEOB.

The space had originally been a library and reception area, but in 1955 Dwight Eisenhower held the first ever televised presidential press conference from that very room.

For decades it served as an extension of the White House, housing the Office of the Vice President among other key administration officials. It was refurbished in the mid-1980s and had since served as a room for meetings and receptions. Given its size, the Foreman administration felt it was the most appropriate location to discuss the details of the president’s procession, memorial, and burial.

Attending the meeting with Foreman’s senior staff was the entire cabinet, the First Lady’s senior staff, and members of the Congressional Leadership. That group included Speaker Jackson, the House Majority Leader, the House Whip, the Senate Majority Leader, and the minority leaders for both houses of congress.

Also present were several representatives of the Ceremonials division of the Office of the Chief of Protocol. The Ceremonials employees worked under the authority of the State Department. They were in charge of special events: inaugurations, joint sessions of Congress, and funerals.

The large table would accommodate twenty-five people. The rest would have to stand. The room was filling quickly, and Felicia decided it was time to find her seat.

She nodded at colleagues, shook some hands, and expressed condolences to those closest to President Foreman. The Speaker was doing her best to appear genuine. In reality, Felicia had no interest in attending this meeting.

Her mood was still sour from learning that the Supreme Court had agreed to hear the merits of Blackmon’s case. Despite her attorneys’ repeated forewarning of that eventuality, she wasn’t emotionally prepared for the reality of it when they broke the official news.

The Speaker was just leaving her office when her legal team found her in Statuary Hall. She didn’t lambaste them as she had on the terrace earlier in the day, but neither was she friendly. They assured her that they were preparing an outstanding case for the high court and that they knew they could win.

She asked the young, follicle-challenged lawyer what he thought about the case. He was surprisingly positive. It was encouraging to the Speaker, but not mood-salvaging as she climbed into the back of her black Chevy Tahoe and rode to the EEOB.

Trying her best not to sulk outwardly, she found a seat at the table and slid into the chair. To her left was Foreman’s Chief of Staff and to her right was an empty seat that she noticed was reserved for John Blackmon.

“That man is the bane of my existence,” she mumbled under her breath. She caught the eye of the Secretary of Defense and forced a quick nod and smile. She looked around the room for Blackmon and didn’t notice him at first. After a group of men parted on the other side of the room, she saw him. His head and shoulder were bent to his left as he listened to a trailing aide. He wore a dark suit and white shirt that essentially matched the attire of every other man in the room.

Brooks Brothers must have had a sale.

On the table in front of each seat was a glass goblet. Each was filled with ice water and was sweating. Felicia used a small cloth napkin wrapped around the goblet’s stem to wipe it dry before taking a sip. As she did, she heard the clanging of a spoon.

Across the table, a mile away it seemed, a man the Speaker didn’t recognize was holding a teaspoon in one hand and his goblet in the other. He was attempting to gain everyone’s attention. It worked; the loud rumbling of voices softened.

“Everyone, please take your seats. We are ready to begin.” He clanged the glass again. “I know every soul here has a tight schedule, so let’s get on with the meeting, please. Take your seats.”

Felicia watched Blackmon move toward his seat. As he neared, she turned away so as not to let him notice her gaze. She felt his left hand on her right shoulder.

“Felicia,” he said cordially, “how are you?”

“Fine, John. And you?”

“Okay, considering the circumstances.” He pulled his hand from her shoulder and took his seat. “I know we’re all still in shock over Dexter’s death. This whole thing is just surreal.” He spoke softly enough for only her to hear him, smiling and waving at others across the table. “And this whole ordeal in court,” he continued as he pulled in his chair, “it’s so draining.”

She said nothing.

“I’m sure it’s been tough for you,” he said, baiting her. He adjusted his red satin power tie against his waist. “I know it’s been tough on me, so I can only imagine…” He let his false empathy hang.

“You probably can’t imagine,” Felicia said. She leaned to the right from her hips, close enough to Blackmon so that she could whisper, “That would require the use of the right side of your brain, Mr. Secretary.”

John Blackmon laughed without looking to his left. Instead he pulled his own sweating water glass to his lips and toasted the Speaker before taking a drink.

“Good for you, Felicia,” he offered as he put his drink back on the table. “You still have some fight left in you.”

Felicia rapped on the table with the knuckles on her right hand. It was balled into a fist. She said nothing, knowing that to engage Blackmon any further would only lead to an embarrassing scene. He was pushing her; she couldn’t allow herself to fall for it. She was saved by the man at the opposite end of the table, who still held the spoon in his hand.

“Hello, all, my name is Phillip Taylor. I’m with the First Lady’s staff. I’ve been asked to be the timekeeper for this meeting. We’ve got two hours, so let’s get started.”

Taylor was a tall, thin man who stood six and a half feet tall. He had a boyish face that belied his beltway experience. He held a clipboard and a stopwatch.

The Speaker was relieved to know that the misery of the meeting was time limited. There were a million places she’d rather be. All of them were a long distance from Secretary Blackmon.

The first part of the discussion dealt with security and road closures. The main disruption to traditional traffic would occur on Constitution Avenue. It would close the next evening to prepare for the following morning’s procession to the Capitol Rotunda.

The route was relatively simple, in which Foreman’s coffin traveled the length of the National Mall. It would ride in a hearse from Thirty-Third and Constitution, just north of the Lincoln Memorial, to Sixteenth Street. There, the hearse would stop and the coffin would continue its trip to the other end of the Mall aboard a horse-drawn caisson. The caisson would consist of six horses, all of the same color, and three riders. A separate horse would carry the section from the Old Guard Caisson Platoon. One additional riderless horse would follow the casket. As the procession passed Fourth Street, twenty-one F-22 fighters would fly over in tribute to the commander in chief.

Once in the Capitol Rotunda, hundreds would attend the televised memorial service. After the service, the flag-draped casket would remain for public viewing until the following morning, at which time it would leave for burial at Arlington National Cemetery.

It was an extraordinarily short time for a president to lie in state. Reagan’s casket was available for viewing for thirty-four hours; President Ford’s casket was in the Capitol Rotunda for forty-eight hours. He also lay in repose outside of the House side of the Capitol as a tribute to his time in Congress. Of the roughly dozen presidents to lie in state, Foreman was to be there for the shortest amount of time. Additionally, there was a break with tradition in that the president would not lie in repose at the White House.

Typically, presidents who died while in office lay in repose in the East Room of the White House. That was not to happen. Foreman, a sitting president, was essentially receiving the procession of a former president. There was no explanation as to why, other than that the wishes of the Foreman family precluded it. Nobody in the meeting questioned the departure from protocol.

A severe-looking woman from the Ceremonials division announced the various members of the cabinet who had speaking roles at the memorial service. The woman was dressed in black with a small red brooch at her collar. She had her yellow hair pulled tight in a bun against the back of her head. She appeared to Felicia as though she were plucked straight from the beaverboard of Grant Wood’s
American Gothic
. The Speaker had seen the work in person at the Art Institute of Chicago during a campaign fundraising event for an Illinois senator several years earlier. She’d long wondered whether the artist intended to honor hardworking Midwesterners or poke fun at their stereotypically rigid morality.