The Prisoner (51 page)

“Senator.” It was obvious the general was making an effort to keep his voice level. “You’re asking me to bring in the army and take over the Capitol. That’s a coup, rebellion, sedition, high treason, the works.”

“I won’t march the army into Rome,” Robilliard muttered.

General Erlenmeyer jerked around to face the senator. “You’re damn right I won’t!”

“You’re wrong about one thing, General. That paper is not a fake. President Hurst signed it less than an hour ago, but you would have to take my word for it.”

“Like everything else,” General Erlenmeyer retorted.

“Right. But whatever I might be, I’ve never reneged on my word. On the other hand, President Leona Hurst will not give you the order herself. It’s all a matter of deniability. She’s a political animal, like Robilliard and myself. But for once I’m determined to do something honorable, even if it costs my life. I have the data, the proof, the witnesses, and the floor of the House, but I’m on my own. Others, like him,” Palmer nodded at Robilliard, “have agreed to do nothing, to stand on the sidelines—a phenomenal display of courage, if I might say so. But they leave a path for their escape: their own deniability if things go wrong. They have given me access to the stage, but the performance is mine alone. Yet, even though
I’ve laid my life and that of many others on the line, I can’t expose the rot that will eventually destroy our nation unless I’m granted security. This building is held by DHS personnel, and Odelle Marino will not be a party to her own destruction. All I need is a neutral zone secure for my witnesses and the select committee in which to present my case. Ms. Marino and Vinson Duran will be arriving shortly, unaware that their efforts to destroy the proof of their infamy have been in effective. As soon as they learn of it, she will order my arrest.”

The general’s brow creased. “She can’t do that.”

“This building is totally controlled by the DHS. She can and she will, and she’ll answer questions later. If there’s anyone to pose them, that is.”

The general shook his head again when Palmer stood and squared off with the warrior.

“General, there’s a reason why President Hurst refused to give you a direct order. You see, she’s also sorely aware of her limitations. She knows power has been leaching slowly from the constitutional seats for a long time and that a showdown like today’s would tip the balance. She further realizes that, even as Commander in Chief, this is an order she can’t issue. In fact, sadly, nobody in this nation can voice such an order.” Palmer changed the weight of his body to the other leg, hoping to forestall the unconscious shaking that threatened to become obvious. “I will go on the floor with the building secured or not, because I’m the only one who can do it. Call it a last-ditch effort. And you know the most surreal aspect of the whole sorry affair? The thing that singles out you and me? Even though nobody can legally issue the order, only one citizen can give it: me. And only one can obey it: you.”

For a long time, General Erlenmeyer stood rooted to the spot, two white circles slowly forming on his cheeks. “So help me God …” He lunged forward and, for an instant, Palmer flinched before the blow that never materialized. “Damn you to hell, Palmer.” The general pounced on the table with fury and swiped the sheet of paper from its surface. He turned on his heel and strode to the door. One hand on the handle, he
looked back. “You have until noon.” Then he yanked the door open and slammed it shut in his wake.

“Well, I’ll be damned …” Robilliard leaned over, both hands flat on his desk. “He’ll do it. But instead of the Rubicon, he’ll march his legions across the Potomac!”

“I never doubted he would.” Palmer reached for his glass, covering his shaking hand with the bulk of his body so Robilliard couldn’t see through his lie.

“Good luck.” Robilliard raised his glass, took a sip, and then straightened. “Go on, spare me the misery. Why did Caesar do it?”

Palmer reached for his briefcase. “Because he
was
Caesar.”

09:30

“Stop the engine and step down, hands on your head.”

“What’s going on, Officer?” Henry Mayer leaned out the window, pasting a silly smile on his face.

“Stop the engine and step down, hands on your head. I will not repeat myself. Step down or I’ll open fire.”

Henry shrugged, nodded to Harper Tyler, and opened the truck’s door. Once on the ground, he obliged by placing both hands on his head, turning around to face the truck’s bodywork, and spreading his legs. To one side, two DHS FDU officers in full body armor took station ten yards away, helmets bristling with communications gear mated with shiny face masks. Their boxy assault weapons were trained on him. A couple of seconds later, Tyler walked around the front of the vehicle, shadowed by another hulk in carapace.

The police officer who had ordered them to stop in the first place stepped forward, kicked Henry’s legs another foot apart, and ran his hands over Henry’s body in a much-rehearsed
pattern. Henry flinched and tittered. The hands paused. “It tickles.” A huff and more hand-running. Then the heavy boots moved toward Tyler and repeated the frisking.

“Turn around. No sudden movements.”

Henry didn’t alter his splay but turned around with mincing steps, hands planted on his head.

The officer frowned, arms akimbo. “What are you, a joker?”

“You said to turn around, not to change position.”

“Cut out the crap. Where do you think you’re going?”

“That building ahead; their toilets are blocked solid. Or so they say.”

“Who says?”

“How would I know? I only drive the fucker; he’s the boss.”

The officer turned to Tyler.

“We’re answering an emergency call. I have the papers here.” Tyler nodded to folded sheets stuffed in his shirt’s top pocket.

The police officer stepped over and slapped a hand over the papers as if they were poisoned. He held them at arm’s length and, looking a little crestfallen, reached for his reading glasses.

On the opposite side of the street, three more cars had been stopped and their occupants underwent a similar routine. Henry counted six DHS FDU trucks, at least fifty officers, and, a couple of hundred yards farther off, a blue van. He froze, then did a quick double take. The van across the street was the same color and model as the one carrying Laurel and the others. Across Capitol Avenue, different teams had laid chains bristling with spikes on the tarmac, creating a zigzagging path any vehicle attempting to reach the Capitol would have to negotiate—although by the look of things most vehicles were being turned back. Other accesses to Capitol Hill shared similar checkpoints, or so the radio announcer had said.

“You can’t pass.” After much peering at the papers and turning them in all directions, the police officer handed them back. “Get inside your vehicle, turn around, and come back tomorrow.”

Tyler smiled but didn’t reach for the papers. “That’s great with me, but I need a signature.”

“A signature?”

“Yup. As you can see, the order came this morning at nine o’clock, flashed through the head of the Capitol’s maintenance services with top priority. They must be swimming in it down there. It’s no skin off my teeth, pal, but I need the signature of someone in charge to attest that we came and weren’t allowed in.” He leaned forward and winked. “That way we can charge extra for this call … and again tomorrow.”

The officer looked back at the papers, stopping at the scrawled signature and stamp at the bottom of the forms.

“These are copies.”

“We received them on the fly.” Tyler nodded toward the driver’s cabin. “A printer in the cab.”

After a frown and a step back, the officer’s lips moved close to his shirt collar.

A flurry of shouts drifted across the tarmac as a plump woman in a flower-printed dress spoke angrily to a towering FDU officer. Then she whirled around, slipped into her car, and continued to deliver a steady stream of invective over the racing whine of her engine as she threw her vehicle in reverse.

Farther on, the side door of the blue van slid open, and a man in an old-fashioned hat and thick glasses alighted. As the door closed at his back, he raised his face to the sun for an instant, dug his hands into the pockets of a tweed coat, and strolled unhurriedly in their direction.

Tyler exchanged a quick glance with Henry, who had suddenly found the tips of his lizard boots irresistible.

The man with the tweed coat made a beeline for the officer holding the papers and put out his hand, palm up, his eyes running the length of the truck and stopping at the rear door and its bolts.

“What’s in there?” His voice was refined, with a slight lilt to it.

“Er …” Henry turned around and eyed the truck as if the vehicle had just materialized behind him. “Shit.”

“Pardon?”

Henry wrung his hands. “Refuse, sewage …”

“But it says here you are supposed to unblock drains. Do you always go to a job already loaded with the stuff?”

The police officer leaned over to the man and whispered, nodding toward Tyler.

The plainclothesman lowered the papers and turned to Tyler, his head slightly cocked to one side. He blinked startling china-blue eyes beyond his old-fashioned bifocals.

“We had an earlier call at a Lebanese takeout down on Mulberry Lane,” Tyler said. “I have the papers in the cabin. When we flagged this call, we drove straight here. Plenty of room in the tank.” For once, Tyler delivered his lines without gesticulating with his hands.

“Open it,” the man said.

Tyler gaped. “Here?”

“I didn’t say empty it. That thing at the top opens, doesn’t it?” The man nodded to a circular lid on top of the tank.

“Yes, but …” The two FDU men had already shouldered their weapons and climbed the truck, negotiating the front and rear handholds. When they reached the top, one grabbed the wheel of a screw fastener and twisted with energy. Then he lifted the lid and jerked his head out of the way.

The man in charge raised an eyebrow.

“Shit,” the DHS officer blurted.

The man in the hat nodded and turned to the police officer. “May I borrow your flashlight?” Then he rammed the offered device in his coat pocket, neared the truck, and climbed. He leaned over the opening, pointing the flashlight downward and flicking his wrist. Then he nodded and retraced his steps. “It’s shit, all right.”

Once on the tarmac, he returned the flashlight to the police officer and dug his hands once more into his coat’s pockets. “You may go through.” Then he turned on his heel, walked a few steps, and stopped, only to turn around slowly, drawing a finger to his lips. “Say, you mentioned a greasy spoon—er … a Lebanese takeout—didn’t you?”

Henry tensed and glanced at Tyler, following his slow nod.

“It smells like pig shit to me, but then, I’m not an expert.” With that, he once again raised his face to the sun and strolled toward the van on the opposite side of the road.

09:56

At the intersection of South Dakota and Rhode Island Avenues, something strange happened. When the traffic light changed, they turned onto Rhode Island, but the light must have changed again, because no other car followed. Someone had to be controlling the lights from a remote location. Before them opened a vast stretch of road, also empty of traffic.

“This is it, then?” Lukas gripped his seat belt, as if ready to withstand impact.

“Looks likely,” Raul said, steering closer to the dividing line down the center of the road.

Laurel leaned forward, peering into the distance as a dark line of trucks converged from both sides of the next intersection, like sliding doors. She narrowed her eyes, imagining that a similar scene would be unfolding at their back. Her fingers tightened around the syrette Floyd had slipped in her pocket.

Barandus rustled on the stretcher and wrapped the drab blanket tighter around him, before breaking into the chorus of “We Shall Overcome” in a deep voice.

Raul reduced their speed even further and slammed an open hand on the steering wheel. “For crissake, shut up!”