Knave's Gambit

by Deforest Day

  Attorney General Oxenhammer nearly ran him over as he hurried into the room, and dropped his bulging briefcase by the door. “Sorry to be late. FBI is having a temper tantrum. Seems HomSec has co-opted some perceived perk of theirs.”

  The vice president scowled. “Their territorial squabbles will soon be resolved. Every man jack of both organizations will be too busy rounding up the usual lunatics to worry about status. General Bainbridge, your National Security Advisor position gives you the gravitas to do the network ritual on Sunday.

  “Gabe, as Attorney General your task is to call the heads of the networks. Not Broadcast, corporate ownership itself. We want a twenty-four hour news blackout. Tell them to rerun their reality shows; most viewers can't tell the difference. Remind them the airwaves belong to the people, licenses are up for renewal, blah blah blah.”

  “I’ll use the antitrust gambit. That always puts a stain in their shorts. Where’s Edge? And when do we break the news to the president?”

  “Edge will be along, and Mason sent SHORTSTOP to Walter Reed, For a second opinion of Doc Kellogg’s treatment of the president's intestinal woes. A psychological assessment has been added. The results could be useful, down the road.”

  The AG opened his briefcase, removed a yellow pad, flipped through curled pages of hand-written notes. “The president, of course, is Commander-in-Chief of the military. When Congress passed the Military Commissions Act of 2006 it gave POTUS the power to call any US citizen an ‘enemy combatant’. And it has long been argued he can take it upon himself to declare martial law.”

  He shoved his glasses on his forehead and consulted his notes. “During the War of 1812, General Andrew Jackson imposed martial law in New Orleans. Same thing, same place, during Hurricane Katrina. In 1914 we had the Coal Field Wars in Colorado. In 1934 the Governor of California put the docks of San Francisco under martial law. We’re all familiar with the classic case during the Civil War. September 15, 1863, Lincoln imposed Congressionally authorized martial law. The authorizing act also allowed the President to suspend habeas corpus throughout the entire United States.”

  The vice president interrupted. “To quote Shorty, ‘MEGO. You have to dumb it down, Gabe. If we can explain it to SHORTSTOP in simple enough terms, then a majority of the public will get it, when he goes before the cameras.”

  The Attorney General waved the yellow pages at DEERSLAYER, and exploded. “But, but, but, this is all necessary precedence! In case I have to go before the Supremes. I can’t have my interpretation of the Constitution overturned by—”

  “Screw the Court. As General Pompey said, ‘Stop quoting the laws to us. We carry swords’. If any of the black-robed nine object, they will become an object lesson for the others.”

  They turned as one at the sound of Marine One settling onto the lawn, and watched SHORTSTOP march down the steps, throw the Marine a crisp salute, then stoop to pat a small dog, just as Secretary Edgerton climbed out of his car, and bustled toward the Oval.

  Edge threw open the French doors, and burst into the room, seriously winded from the activity. “Just came over from HomSec. My brain busters had a breakthrough. The whiz kid I hired is too clever for her own good. She has everyone running José Martí through every bit of video they can sweep up. I know deniability is important, Mr. Vice President, but is there a chance this thing of ours will unravel before the final act?”

  “Not if you cut them off at the knees. If this girl is poking her nose into areas best left dormant, then get rid of her.”

  “I don’t think I can fire—”

  “Does the expression ‘terminate with extreme prejudice’ clarify it for you, Edge?”

  “Oh, Jesus. Isn’t that a bit over the top?”

  DEERSLAYER gave his old college roommate a silent stare, the one that worked so well on reporters. “Edge?”

  The thought of handing that tantalizing bit of flesh and lace over to the tender mercies of the Moran brothers made him shudder. “Yes, yes, OK. I’ll take care of it.” He’d cut off her access to Five; hell, the whole building. If you can’t get into the cookie jar, you can’t get in trouble. Everything would be over and done with by the time the vice president learned of his disobedience. And he could then explore the possibility of taking Ms. Sinclair on as his personal assistant in the New Regime.

  His reverie was broken as DEERSLAYER muttered, “Lear enters, Stage Right. I wonder will any of us play Regan?”

  Edge said, “That’s right, you were an English major.”

  SHORTSTOP swept through the doorway, and tossed a handsomely tooled leather box on the desk. “Bullshit. You were never in the army, theirs or mine.” The president dropped into his seat behind the desk, added, “If you’re a major, then I’m a Kentucky colonel. What’s this Lear nonsense? I don’t need a Lear. I got Air Force One.”

  The vice president said, “Quite right, Mr. President. We were indulging in some sophomoric banter, about the tragedy of King Lear and his daughter, Regan.”

  “I’ll tell you what the tragedy is. Gas trucks exploding all over the country, with untold loss of life.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President. That’s why we are here. HomSec has credible evidence these are attacks by a foreign power. You need to step forward, show the resolve you are so famous for. The 1973 War Powers Act says in an emergency you can declare war.”

  “I can do that, on my own? Don’t I need those folks up the street to give me the go ahead?”

  The AG stepped forward. “No sir. In fact, with the passage of the New and Improved Patriot Act in 2015, in a national emergency you can take Congress itself into protective custody.”

  “Huh. Won’t that piss off the Pope. Who are we declaring war on?”

  The vice president said, “Nobody at the moment. First you need to declare martial law, and delay the election.” He pulled an index card from his pocket. “When President Truman nationalized the railroads he said he did it, ‘By virtue of the authority vested in me by the Constitution and the laws of the United States, and as President and Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces’.”

  “Well, shit. If it was good enough for old give-‘em-hell Harry, it’s good enough for me.” He lifted the lid of the leather box, and removed an old gun belt, well-worn holster, and a Colt Peacemaker. “This was a gift from el presidente de may-he-co. They tell me it once belonged to Pancho Villa. From when he robbed banks in the desert.” SHORTSTOP slung the belt around his waist, buckled it on.

  “Ronald Reagan wore one like it, during his time of doubt, wandering in the desert. What they called his Death Valley Days. Don’t look so scared, fellas, it isn’t loaded. My Protective Detail has the bullets.” He holstered the revolver, looked at DEERSLAYER. “I think I should wear it, when I face the nation. To declare Marshal Law.”

  The vice president exchanged a knowing glance with Mason Drubb. “Absolutely, Mr. President. It will show your steadfast resolve in this time of national crisis.”

  Chapter Twenty One

  Nick found the gasoline emergency had an upside. Commuters suddenly discovered the pleasures of car pooling, and the virtues of mass transit. When the HomSec girl walked into the impound office, he had his feet on the desk, and his nose in Gun Digest. Huh. He thought the plan was she'd show up at the house, after school.

  She was smart, she was cute, and why the hell was she back? Maybe the two FPS men were using her to set him up. He slipped the office Beretta out of the desk drawer and into his waistband.

  Kat leaned over the desk, drawing his eyes. “I'm here for you to take me to lunch. Your treat, because I’m still waiting for my first paycheck.”

  “Nice try, but as you can see, I’m at work. One of Metro’s highly trained Dispatch Officers, keeping the roadways free of idiots.”

  “Yeah, well. Now that I’m here, and my car’s here, your work load is pretty light. How ‘bout it?”

  She was becoming what the lawyers call an ‘attractive nuisance’. Like a poison ivy vine, she grew on you. What
the hell. He opened the communal refrigerator, took inventory. “If you’ll settle for a microwave pizza, you got a deal. We can take it up on the Cannon Works roof, watch the Potomac roll by.” And have a bird’s eye view, in case this is a setup for a bushwhack.

  “So, this is where it all started. The first shooting?”

  She had carried the pizza box, he’d grabbed a couple of old lawn chairs from downstairs. He allowed her to go first, and tried not to look up her skirt as she climbed the rusty staircase. “Second. Number one was across the river.”

  The wind whipped her hair, and she pulled a strand from her mouth. “That’s right. The day of our first date. Remember? When you towed my car?”

  Date? “I thought the plan was for you to come by the house, when Liz got home.” He had to raise his voice above the jack hammers tearing up the concrete. It was a lot louder up here than down in the yard. An angry beeping announced a dump truck in reverse.

  “It was, and I am. It’s just that I wanted to ask for your help. There’s this guy we’re looking for, and—”

  “Help you? You government people have handed me nothing but grief since I was wet behind the ears.”

  “I—”

  “The Government screwed me out of my VA benefits, then screwed my daughter out of what she's owed, from her mother’s service. It’s real people’s lives you’re disrupting with phony Terror Alerts, strip searching old ladies at the airports. My wife died, because you people decided to start another war you couldn’t finish.

  “You may not have noticed it last night, with all the joking around, but Poppy and every one of his pals are screwed up, one way or another, from a war they didn't ask for.” He tried to find words that distilled it for her. “From Poppy's Vietnam to my Bosnia, then Afghanistan, Iraq, and the one brewing in South America, Every president from Nixon to the current jerk, are all playing my dick’s bigger than yours.”

  “Tell me how you really feel.”

  Nick left his chair, walked over to the edge of the roof. The river was busy, filled with business and pleasure. A snatch of a song floated past. Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was. He sensed her beside him.

  She placed her palms on the parapet. She also watched the boats. Because she couldn’t face him. “To most of the people at HomSec it’s just a job. “I’m sorry. I guess I assumed you were different.” She turned, ran down the stairway.

  He left the pizza for the pigeons, grabbed the folding chairs, caught up with her as she climbed into her car. The girl was helping Liz with her computer project, and he didn’t want to screw that up. He also needed to know if these government people were still after him. For what, he wasn’t sure. But there were a bunch of poor souls at Gitmo wondering the same thing.

  He grabbed her car door. “Sorry I went postal up there. Guess I need to refill my prescription. I tend to get paranoid, when people try to kill me.”

  She gripped the wheel, turning her knuckles white. Her eyes slid sideways. Maybe that VA report wasn’t so far off the mark. Still. She’d been there when the bullet hole appeared in his windshield. She’d also been there, when Levon introduced her to the Moran brothers. She swung her legs out of her car.

  As if reading her mind he said, “Those two FPS thugs work for you, kiddo. Someone told them to pick me up. And someone told them to get rid of me.” He pointed at the top of the building. “They didn’t decide to throw me off that roof on their own.”

  Her eyes and teeth flashed. “Hey, cut me a fuckin’ break, asshole! I’ve been working there for three fucking days!” She climbed out of her car and faced him. “If there’s some kind of assassination plan, I’m out of the loop.”

  “Tell me how you really feel.”

  “Touché.” After a brief staring contest that seemed anything but, she stepped against him, clenched the fabric of his sleeves, put her head against his chest. Her voice was soft, muffled. “Well, I sure made it a memorable lunch, didn’t I?”

  The closeness hit him in the solar plexus. She was as mercurial as Mary, and just as confusing. Maybe that’s why she scared him. Maybe he needed to go back to the clinic, back to that shrink for a couch session or two.

  He stepped back, said, “Come on, let’s take a ride. I’ll buy you an ice cream.”

  He climbed behind the wheel of a wrecker. She opened the passenger door and asked, “Where’s your truck?”

  He pointed across the street. “My buddies are putting in new glass. They thought I was joking when I told them I wanted bullet proof.”

  —o—

  The rental car, a plain vanilla Chevy, no bells, no whistles, crawled across the cracked macadam surrounding the motel. It was in Northeast Washington, near the tracks of the Red Line; a part of town only visited for curb service sex and drugs, both supplied by kids half their age and twice their smarts.

  At half past lunch the aging, twenty unit structure was nearly empty. Number Twelve, the room next to the ice machine, held a sleeping salesman. The plates on his ten year old Olds wagon said he was from North Carolina. The cartons inside, if you could read Mandarin Chinese, said he sold adult merchandise. He called on businesses with dusk to dawn hours, and had gone to bed at four, to field test some of his inventory. She left at sunrise, and he fell asleep at seven.

  Two units closer to the office a spindly woman and her asthmatic husband, clueless about their nation’s capitol, watched daytime television, waiting for an appointment with their congressman.

  José Martí, AKA Ramon Chibas, AKA Angel Ruiz, used the Jesus Diaz driver’s license as ID at the front desk. He paid cash for adjacent rooms. The clerk leaned past the swarthy man, checked out the woman with the big shoulder bag. Sometimes it seemed like the whole freakin’ city was filled with foreign type people.

  Jesus said, “Around the back, please, away from the highway. My sister and I have come here from Texas, and are unaccustomed to the noise of the city.”

  “Pal,” the clerk muttered as he tossed two keys on the counter, “I don’t care if she’s the Virgin Mary, and you’re here to pimp her to the College of Cardinals.”

  The dark haired woman unlocked Number Twenty, and scanned the room, searching for cameras. Some third rate motels made a few extra dollars by taping the activities for internet ‘amateur’ video sites. She opened her big leather bag, and used ten thousand dollar's worth of electronic technology to sweep the room. She slipped a slim document in the telephone book, put the book under the telephone.

  She checked the bathroom medicine cabinet for a camera, a one way mirror. Slipping off her very high heels, she climbed on the toilet seat, and pushed up a panel in the suspended ceiling. Pottycams were the latest internet fad; her face was unknown in this country, and she planned to keep it that way. She lowered the panel back in place, raised her skirt, dropped her panties, peed.

  She left Number Twenty unlocked, entered Twenty One, repeated the same electronic sweep. The swarthy man lay on the bed, both pillows behind his back, and watched her hook an ohmmeter to his telephone.

  She dropped into the lone armchair and opened a paperback book. At two o’clock she returned to Number Twenty. Instead of the big leather bag she carried a small beaded clutch.

  A black Suburban stopped beside the rental car. Two men in dark suits, wired, armed, rapped at the door, turned the knob. They scanned the motel lot, then entered the room.

  One ran a wand over the woman. He’d done it before, different women in different venues, and his heart was plainly not in it. The other man physically searched the woman with an equal lack of interest. Unbidden, she dumped the contents of the purse on the bed.

  The man with the wand looked at, but did not touch, the comb, lipstick, vaginal deodorant spray, a Russian paperback edition of The Cherry Orchard, and a three pack of lubricated condoms. The two men left the room as a dark green vintage Mercedes two seater stopped beside their vehicle.

  The vice president walked through the door, nodded to the woman. She returned the greeting. The phone rang. D
EERSLAYER picked it up, started the conversation with an attempt at humor. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” He smiled at the woman. “Your wife is getting suspicious.”

  “As long as she’s not listening.”

  “She just went in the bathroom. With Chekhov. Can she really read Russian?”

  ”She is Russian.”

  “I thought-”

  “And Israeli. Ex KGB, ex Mossad. Don’t piss her off.”

  “Is this phone—”

  “I’m looking at an ohmmeter. If the needle so much as twitches, I will tell you, you will tell her, and the motel clerk will experience heart failure. It is why we are communicating this way. Shall we proceed with our business?”

  “The techies at HomSec have identified José Martí as the purchaser of the Illinois truck. They have a photo, taken at an airport. It will only be a matter of time before he is found to have bought the other trucks.”

  “And lumber and guns. So what?”

  “So what if you are picked up—”

  “Sir. I am a graduate of the U.S. Army S.E.R.E. School, where high-value members of the armed forces are taught to escape. And, if unsuccessful, to resist interrogation. I have been water boarded. I have experienced testicular electroshock. It is extremely unpleasant, but if it becomes necessary, I can endure it again. It will not be necessary. José Martí no longer exists. At the moment I am Jesus Diaz. And Jesus will join José as soon as we finish our business here.”

  “Yes; of course. I trust your tradecraft. But sooner or later they will find the other trucks, and they will apprehend—”

  “Sir. Each truck has a pair of Venezuelan passports in the glove box, and a quarter kilo of C-4 under the dash. Wired to a cell phone. Six calls, and they go away.”