The Value Of Valor - KJ3 (19 page)

“What?”

“We’re in pursuit.”

“Affirmative,” Grayson growled, dismissing Wood and L’Andreu as he summoned his limousine. “Keep me posted.” He had work to do.

The Viper returned to the hospital room where the president’s body, guarded by the lead agent’s men, lay completely covered with a sheet once again. He spoke a few quiet words to Dr. Englert, then motioned to several other Secret Service agents standing by to move the president’s body to a portable gurney.

“We’re going to take the back elevator to the morgue—basement floor.”

Two agents lined up solemnly alongside the top half of the gurney; two others preceded the wheeled bed as the doors to the treatment suite
Lynn Ames

opened automatically to allow them egress. The Viper brought up the rear.

The group proceeded quickly through the corridor and into a large elevator at the far end of the hall that carried them to the basement of Bethesda Naval Hospital. Once there, the Viper dismissed the four agents, replacing them with a fresh complement of dark-suited, blank-faced men.

“Load the body into the ambulance.”

The men, without comment or visible emotional reaction, did as they were instructed.

The nondescript ambulance, devoid of windows in the back passenger area, opened to reveal a complicated set of equipment, Dr. Englert, two paramedics, and a nurse—the same one who had been in the emergency room entranceway when the president had been wheeled in.

“You know what to do,” the Viper said to Englert, before moving around to get into the front passenger seat of the vehicle. Turning to the driver, he said, “No lights, no sirens, no hurry. Take the shortest route to the National Institute of Mental Health, but keep a watch on the mirrors.

We don’t want any overzealous reporters getting too nosy.”

“Right, sir.”

In the back of the ambulance, the doctor and his assistants began their work.

Englert peeled back the sheet that covered the president’s body.

“Hook up the IV, stat.” He checked for a pulse, listened to the president’s chest, and pulled back. “Resume ventilation. Right now.”

Without hydration and ventilation, it would only be a matter of minutes before the pancuronium would cause the president to suffocate.

The nurse and one of the paramedics worked quickly and efficiently to connect the president to the machine that would breathe for him since he was incapable of doing so for himself. The second paramedic inserted an IV needle in the president’s left arm, secured it, connected the tubing from the IV bag to it, and hung the bag on a pole. Immediately, he opened the valve that would allow a solution of normal saline, five percent dextrose, and a steady drip of the poison to flow. It was this cocktail that would keep the president both alive and incapacitated indefinitely.

None of the members of the Commission’s elite medical team questioned the orders they had been given. It was simply their job to ensure that the man in their care remained helpless but alive.

The Viper keyed his microphone. “Everything okay back there?”

Englert replied via the intercom system. “The patient is stable but unconscious, just as requested.”

The Value of Valor

“Very well. We’ll be arriving momentarily. I am told everything is in order. Remember—this needs to proceed like clockwork.”

“Yes, yes. We’ve all been through enough drills to know exactly how this is supposed to work.”

“There can be no mistakes. Make sure there aren’t any.” The Viper clicked off his mic.

The ambulance arrived at a secret entrance to the NIMH facility seconds later, the driver pulling the vehicle into an underground garage, out of sight of any prying eyes. As soon as the vehicle stopped moving, the back doors were flung open. Two paramedics who had been awaiting the arrival of the ambulance assisted in transferring the patient to another gurney while the paramedics who had traveled with the president continued to provide ventilation. The nurse took charge of transitioning the IV to a mobile pole. In less than two minutes, they were inside the building; within five, they had the patient in the medical suite where he would be kept until they received further orders.

Robert Hawthorne sat in the limo, his palms sweating. He could not fathom that the man across from him could be so cavalier, so matter-of-fact about something as calculating as killing the president of the United States.

“It would behoove you to wipe that look of shock off your face, Robert. You’re about to be the next vice president of the United States.”

“How do you figure that?”

“With the president dead, Wheeler will be sworn in as president, leaving a vacancy in the number two position.” Grayson had already decided that Hawthorne did not need to know that the president wasn’t actually dead. The fewer people who knew, the easier it would be to control the situation. “When our boy Wheeler takes the oath, he will nominate you as vice president and rush your approval through the Senate.”

“What makes you think they’ll comply?”

“You’re a known quantity. His rationale will be that you are experienced in government and foreign affairs—you’ve served in elective office.”

“Not all those people were my friends.”

“True. Regardless, they will confirm you. A smooth, quick transition will provide stability to our government and send a message of solidarity and control to all other nations.”

“What’s the timetable?”

“The medical team has just declared the president dead. I suggest you get over to the National Press Club and help Deputy Press Secretary
Lynn Ames

Vendetti with the spin, then have a chat with the soon-to-be new president.”

Hawthorne was reeling. “Why Vendetti? Where’s Kyle?”

“The press secretary is presently indisposed.”

“What does that mean?”

“Never mind,” Grayson snapped. “Just get the players in line and make sure this goes smoothly.” His expression was a cross between a smirk and a sneer. “I’m sure your daughter Emily will appreciate your efforts.”

Hawthorne felt sick to his stomach. He lurched out of the car, trying his hardest not to vomit on the sidewalk.

A frazzled Michael Vendetti faced Robert Hawthorne across a desk in a private office at the National Press Club. He had been unable to locate Kate anywhere.

“I don’t know what to do.” He paced back and forth behind the desk.

“Since all the press is already gathered here, you need to go out and make a statement, Michael.”

Vendetti shook his head and shifted his feet uncertainly. “I don’t have anything official, and no one’s authorized me to say anything.”

“I’m authorizing you,” Hawthorne said through gritted teeth.

Vendetti looked at him, a dazed expression on his face. “You?”

“Yes, me.”

“On what authority?”

Hawthorne was losing patience. “Listen, you little pissant. I’m about to be named vice president; you’ll do what I say.”

“You…?”

“You find that surprising?”

“No, I-I mean, I don’t know,” he finished weakly. “What am I supposed to tell them?”

“That President Hyland is dead, that the cause of death is pending, and that Vice President Wheeler will be sworn in as president within the hour.”

“Shouldn’t I wait for Kate?”

“There’s no time. We can’t have a power vacuum while you wait for your boss to show up.”

Vendetti picked up the phone and alerted the press room attendant to tell the assembled reporters that he would be right out to make a statement.

Keith barely caught a glimpse of Kate as she made her escape from the Secret Service agent at the door.
Good for you. Go, Kate. Run like the
wind.

The Value of Valor

He was being dragged forcibly from the room by the other three men.

They were headed in the general direction of the kitchen. Keith had no illusions; he knew they would torture him to find out what information he had, then they would kill him.

I’ve got to give Kate and Charlie a fighting chance.
He struggled to free his right hand, which was no easy task since his arms were pinned to his sides. He wiggled his fingers until he could reach inside his jacket pocket. With difficulty, he found what he was looking for and wrapped his fingers around it.
Good luck, Kate, you’ll need it.
He wrenched his arm free with a mighty yank, brought his hand to his mouth, and bit down on the capsule.

“Hey, grab that arm.”

“Stop him!”

“Damn it all to hell.”

Keith convulsed several times, foam spewing from his mouth, then went completely limp.

“He’s dead.”

“No shit, Sherlock. How’re we going to explain this one?”

“It wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t in charge of his arms.”

“Shut up. The boss isn’t going to care who had his arms and who had his legs, idiots.”

“Let’s get him out of here.”

Keith was dragged unceremoniously the rest of the way through the kitchen and out into the side alley, where his captors conveniently found a wino passed out with a half-empty bottle of booze on his chest.

Liberating the liquor, they poured generous amounts on Keith’s face and clothes until he reeked of the stuff. They searched his pockets, ripped his jacket and shirt, and removed his tie before leaving him on the dirty ground. Just another dead drunk in D.C.

Kate ran, heedless of the rain that cascaded against her bare shoulders and mostly bare back, oblivious to the cold droplets as they pooled in the lacy nest created by the plunging neckline of her gown and her strapless bra.

She fled down the steps of the Russian Embassy on Connecticut Avenue, the heavy door closing briefly behind her, blocking out the noise of the reception still in full swing inside. She slipped through the wrought iron gate and down past the Churchill Hotel.

She tried hard not to think about that last vision of Keith, his eyes looking haunted, yet determined. She knew he was a dead man, although she wanted to believe otherwise. She would be finished, too, if she could not elude the men following her and get to the president in time. She wasn’t even sure when or how she could get to him.

Lynn Ames

She only knew that she needed to outrun her pursuers, give them the slip, and get someplace safe, where she could regroup and figure out what to do next. Her brain tried to register her surroundings. Although she had lived in Washington, D.C., for months and had visited many times even before that for business and pleasure, she was still nowhere near proficient in her knowledge of the area.

She sprinted the half mile down the hill toward DuPont Circle. A quick glance behind her revealed three running forms, their tuxedos neatly outlined in the street lights that lined the thoroughfare. An errant beam of light glinted off the barrel of a gun resting comfortably in the hand of the man in the lead.

In a moment of clarity amidst the insanity whirling around her, Kate realized that although she might be able to outdistance them for a block or two more, every step they gained brought her closer to a bullet in the back. She made a snap decision and turned quickly down Q Street, her eyes seeking, then finding, an available cab idling at the light.

She jumped in just as the light was changing, startling the cabbie, a Pakistani man in his mid-twenties who had been chatting amiably on the two-way radio with either his dispatcher or his girlfriend, she wasn’t sure which. She ordered him to step on it; one glance at the attractive, disheveled woman in the ruined dress in his backseat convinced him that she meant it. He pounded on the gas pedal, his back tires sliding sideways on the rain-slicked road until his tires grabbed purchase on the pavement.

“Where to?” he asked.

She didn’t answer for a minute, as she was turned all the way around in the seat, staring out the back window. The element of surprise had been in her favor; they hadn’t expected her to commandeer a vehicle like that. But they wouldn’t be far behind. She knew they had two-way radios and cars of their own on the way. At most, she had gained a few minutes reprieve. Where to, indeed. Should she run directly to the president?

“Lady, are you all right?”

She wasn’t really sure how to answer that. No, she most certainly was not all right. She was the most hunted woman in the country at the moment, with a face that was recognizable to anyone who paid any attention to American politics, and she had no real game plan. Okay.

Time to get the brain cells working again, now that the adrenaline rush was wearing off for the moment.

“I need to get to the National Press Club.”

The cabbie snorted. “Are you crazy? Lady, we can’t get anywhere near there.”

“Why not?”

The Value of Valor

“Haven’t you heard? The president died there less than half an hour ago.”

“What are you talking about?” Kate felt a cold dread take root in the pit of her stomach.

“Well, he wasn’t exactly gone; they took him away in an ambulance.

They just broke in to my favorite talk show to say he’d kicked the bucket at the hospital.”

As if to emphasize the point, the cabbie turned up the radio.

“…to repeat then, President Charles Hyland, less than two months into his first term, has died after collapsing during a speech to journalists at the National Press Club in Washington. Official word from the White House came just moments ago from Deputy Press Secretary Michael Vendetti…”

“…this is a sad and difficult day for the people of this nation and the world. President Hyland was a great man. Let no one think, however, that the president’s death leaves America weak. As spelled out in the Constitution, Vice President Alton Wheeler will be sworn in as president by the chief justice of the United States. The ceremony will take place in the Oval Office within the hour.”

Kate thought she would be sick. To the cabbie, she said, “Go a few blocks—weave in and out of cars as fast as you can. Then slow down to normal speed, double back around, and drop me off at the Washington Hilton, okay?”

“Okay,” the cabbie drew the word out, looking at her as though she had lost her mind.

In the backseat, Kate opened her purse to reveal a clunky cell phone.