Sedition (A Political Conspiracy Book 1) (29 page)

Davidson had taken two antihistamines ten minutes prior. He sighed and uncapped the pill bottle, dumped half of the remaining amount into one of the airplane bottles to dissolve them, and shoveled the other half into his mouth. He uncapped the second bottle of gin and washed them down then stood from his chair to pull a framed photograph from the wall. He sat down again and looked at the picture. It was his favorite snapshot of himself with his father. They were smiling. Their arms were slung around one another. Davidson couldn’t remember where the picture was taken, only that he liked it. He took another deep breath against the growing lump in his throat and placed it face down on the desk in front of the computer.

He lifted the remaining airplane bottle and swigged the gin/amobarbital cocktail. Then, with tears welling in his eyes, he took the unzipped plastic bag and pulled it over his head. He stretched the rubber band to fit onto the bag and then around his neck.

Sitting in the office chair, he could feel the condensation of his breath on the inside of the bag. He could smell the gin and taste the remnants of the pills on his tongue and the roof of his mouth.

As the realization of the finality of his decision took hold, he started breathing more quickly. His heart was pounding harshly against his chest. The fog inside the bag made it hard for him to see beyond his nose.

He wondered why he hadn’t chosen a gun. It would have been faster and maybe painless. He’d seen how quickly his girl had dropped lifelessly to the floor the night before.

But this was appropriate, almost poetic, in its form. A life that slowly disintegrated into worthlessness was slowly, quietly snuffed. Whoever had read his tea leaves as a young child had interpreted them incorrectly, he decided. He began to feel dizzy and disoriented. His breathing slowed. His last conscious thoughts were of what the knight had told him in their final conversation.

“You wanted so badly to become something you were never really capable of becoming,”
Sir Spencer had said. Davidson knew the man was right.

He thought he might vomit, but the urge subsided, and he felt a wave of calm pass through his body. His eyes fluttered and he gasped as he passed out. Five minutes later, Bill Davidson was dead. The sadness and the potential were gone.

Chapter 39

Matti’s attention was distracted as her cab pulled up outside of the Norfolk Southern offices at the corner of Fifteenth and K Streets. The building sat in a high rent area of the District not far from the White House and next to McPherson Square.

She’d been there before with her father. Not long after his admission about her mother’s drug use, he’d come to visit her. She’d given him a tour of the city she called home. They’d talked around her mother, neither of them really wanting to go there.

But as they’d walked up to the statue of the Union general who’d died in the Battle of Atlanta, her dad made an effort.

“I’m to blame,” he’d said. He didn’t need to qualify it. Matti knew what he meant.

“No, you’re not,” she’d said. “I am.”

“What?” he had asked, quite confused.

“I could have saved her,” Matti had said as she ran her hand along the smooth granite of the statue’s pedestal. “If I’d put the pieces together of who she was, I could have saved her. And if I’d been able to solve what really happened the night she died, I could have saved you.”

Her father had pulled his hands to his face and cupped them over his mouth. Above his fingertips, his eyes welled. He’d shaken his head.

“It wasn’t your job to save anyone.” His voice was shaky and the words warbled from his lips almost unintelligibly. Matti hadn’t believed him then.

But now she thought he was right. Maybe she was crazy to think she could save
anyone
.

As the cab parked at the curb, Matti refocused on the job at hand. She looked out the window at her stop. Atop the building was a cell tower that stretched one hundred and seventy feet from the ground. Matti asked the cabbie to wait for her as she scooted from the backseat.

“The meter is running,” he mumbled.

“That’s fine.” She shut the door behind her and walked to the main entrance of the large stone building. Underneath the address placard was the nameplate for a California-based law firm whose DC offices were inside.

She approached the seven-story building and faced a set of three double doors, each of which was adorned with the words “Southern Railway” atop their frames. She chose the center set of doors and entered, finding herself in the lobby. Matti was flying by the seat of her twenty-nine-dollar pants.

She cleared her throat and tried to sound authoritative as she addressed a blazered security guard. “Sir, I need to speak with whomever is in charge of the cellular tower atop this building, please.”

The guard, a middle-aged man with close-cropped hair and a walkie-talkie, assessed the woman in front of him. She was wearing a sweatshirt and denim jeans.

“Why is that, ma’am?” he asked. His hand slid down his side to the top of his two-way radio.

“It’s a matter of national security, sir, and it is urgent.”

“Do you have any identification, ma’am?”

The woman seemed a little off kilter to the guard. He took her Maryland driver’s license and a green NSA identification badge. He studied the badge, flipping it over to look at the back, and then compared the name with that on her driver’s license.

“Hang on a minute.” The guard walked over to a small desk with a telephone and pulled the receiver to his ear.

Matti could see he was speaking with someone but couldn’t decipher what he was saying. She saw him pull a pen from his breast pocket and write on a pad of paper while cradling the phone in the crook of his neck. Matti braced herself for an argument when he put down the phone and walked back to her, still holding her identification badge and driver’s license.

“Ma’am,” he handed back her IDs, “I don’t know that we can help you. If you need help with the cellular tower, you’ll need to talk with the Atlanta office. I’ve written a contact name and number here for you.”

“That’s not gonna be sufficient,” Matti said, standing her ground. “I need to talk with someone here. Who’s your supervisor?”

“Just a minute, ma’am.” The guard mumbled into his two-way radio, and within seconds an older man in the same company blazer appeared. He approached Matti with his hand extended.

“Hello, sir.” Matti shook his hand. “I need to talk with someone who controls the cell tower atop this building. I may need the reception and transmission interrupted. Can you help me?”

“I sure can,” the man said, seeming nice enough. His bald head reflected the light from the chandeliers above him.

“Great!” Matti was surprised but relieved. “So I—”

“If you can show me a court order.”

“What?”

“If you want to alter or record the transmission of the cell tower, the Atlanta office has already informed me you need a judge to sign off on it.”

Matti didn’t have a court order. She couldn’t
get
a court order. There was no time. And she couldn’t waste any more of her energy here; she had two more places to visit.

All she needed to do was get the right tower to shut down. Two out of three was better than none, and she knew the more time she spent arguing with the security guard, the less time she had to better her odds. The seemingly impossible task was Matti’s only chance of stopping a catastrophic attack. The FBI might think it had the plot thwarted, but if what Davidson had told her was true, the feds were wrong.

“Fine. I’ll go elsewhere.” Matti nodded at the men and turned to leave. She didn’t see them radio the office and ask that Metro Police be called.

Chapter 40

Secretary of Veterans Affairs John Blackmon was glad to miss the memorial service. He wasn’t much for saying goodbye. It was just as well he was the designated successor. From the back of his Town Car he was watching the proceedings with passing interest.

Of more concern to him was whether or not he’d be able to catch his flight to Florida in time to arrive for a late dinner. If he had to be in any ‘undisclosed location’ for the day, it might as well be on South Beach. Blackmon liked the nightlife there and was a fan of The Clevelander, a hip Ocean Drive hotel, restaurant, and bar with the classic South Beach art deco décor.

The small hotel, with only sixty rooms, provided him with enough privacy and security that he needn’t worry about too many prying eyes. He liked the backstage rooms that had direct elevator access to the disco and sundeck. After the week he’d had, he needed the break. Thankfully the Secret Service okayed the location, with the caveat he not go barhopping until after the president’s interment at Arlington, to which he’d agreed.

Though the short ride from his office on Vermont Avenue to Reagan National airport was usually quick and painless, the traffic detours and congestion from the memorial made the trip a bit lengthier, even with a police escort.

Blackmon checked his cell phone for messages he might have missed but found none. He leaned forward and turned up the volume on the television. Vickie Lupo was talking. The video on the screen showed the inside of the Capitol Rotunda.

“
The rotunda,”
she opined,
“is essentially full. It is a grand and yet sad sight to see our nation’s leaders gathered in one place for such a somber occasion. The last time so many of these men and women were together was for what turned out to be President Foreman’s final State of the Union address.”

Blackmon checked the web browser on his phone and noticed the headline about an arrest at Arlington National Cemetery. “Freakin’ nutcases,” he mumbled.

“The State of the Union speech, as a quick aside,”
Vickie droned,
“is modeled after the British Speech from the Throne. That, of course, is delivered by the reigning monarch. Now, as you might remember, President Foreman gave what many critics considered a fantastic speech that night. It deviated sharply from the typical guns and butter diatribe we usually get from the commander in chief. It sounded more like a stump speech. And yet, what so many pundits concluded, it was delivered by a man who was running for nothing but the betterment of the nation. And as we await the arrival of the president’s casket at the Capitol and continue to show you pictures of the procession, we want to also replay some of the president’s more salient points that night. Take a listen:

“
We have reached a crossroads in this nation…”
The right half of the screen replayed the president’s address while the left half showed live video of his casket nearing Capitol Hill.
“And we must ask ourselves, at what cost do we define patriotism? Are we patriots when we buy foreign goods over ones made here in the United States? Are we patriots when we ship jobs overseas to ease our bottom line? What about the hiring of illegal immigrants when hardworking citizens cannot find work? Or when we refuse health care to people because they have preexisting conditions or because their insurance isn’t good enough? Are we patriots then? And are we patriots, my fellow Americans, when we buy gas-guzzling, carbon-emitting, eight-cylinder SUVs?

“I am not here to judge. You did not elect me to do that. And I think most of us believe the only judge is a power higher than us all. But I believe there comes a point when patriotism crosses a line into treason. When the goal becomes pursuit of the dollar alone and when the betterment of the few outweighs the health of the collective, then we all cease to be patriots. And we all become traitors. When we cannot find the appropriate balance between capitalism and social well-being, we are no good to anyone, and we desecrate the memories of the men and women who have fought to keep us free.

“So I ask this collection of fine, democratically elected leaders to choose the side of patriotism. Join me, please, in the fight for what is just and for what will better the lives of our children. This is our crossroads.”

Secretary Blackmon remembered that address well. He was in the room, sitting between the Secretary of Energy and the Secretary of Education. There was electricity in the room. It was the first time Blackmon really felt the president’s cult of personality.

He remembered looking past the president as he spoke, watching for the Speaker of the House. Even she, he thought, was moved by the president’s words as she listened to them hang in the air of a joint session.

It didn’t matter. Less than a year later Foreman was dead and the partisan bickering had not stopped. Few measures made it through both houses of Congress without so many compromises and addendums they became worth less than the paper upon which they were printed. Maybe, if things fell the right way, he’d be in charge. And he could deliver a speech that really did effect change.

Blackmon sighed and looked at his watch. He checked his phone again for any messages.

Chapter 41

Matti looked at the meter in the front seat of the taxi. It was nearing the amount of cash she had in her pocket.

“Do you take credit cards?”

“I like cash,” the cabbie grumbled without turning around to look at her. He glanced at her in the rearview mirror.

“But do you accept credit?”

Yes,” the man admitted, “but I like cash. Can you tip me in cash if you pay credit?”

“Sure thing,” Matti said agreeably. She needed the man’s help to get her through the difficult traffic. Catching a cab had been tough enough. The last thing she needed was to get ditched and have to find another one.

After navigating closed streets and detours, the cabbie turned right onto DeSales Street and pulled to the curb at the side of the Mayflower Hotel. Matti saw the building she needed across the street. She scurried out of the cab quickly and again asked the driver to wait.

This building was between Connecticut Avenue and Seventeenth Street NW just a block west of the National Geographic Society Building. Matti crossed the street and found the entrance locked. A guard buzzed her in and she pulled the door open to a small lobby.