by Tom Abrahams
Once they’d cleared the sight of the reporters gathered in the rotunda, she stopped and turned to face Blackmon.
“I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing,” she lectured as she stuck the manicured, polished nail of her index finger into the secretary’s chest. “That was the biggest piece of self-serving crap I have ever seen.”
Blackmon stood still. He took the abuse and smiled.
“You were never sworn in,” she reminded him. “We’ve been without a vice president for months. Even though the Senate confirmed you, you are not first in line to succeed Foreman. As the secretary of an insignificant department, you are second to last on the list. You know this. Hell, three weeks ago nobody south of Newport, Rhode Island, even knew who you were.”
“Are you finished?” Blackmon said smugly.
She folded her arms. “Yes.”
“You know as well as I do that there is a constitutional question about the legitimacy of your claim. Everyone who was here post 9/11 knows this. I was twenty-four hours away from being sworn in. I have a case.” He took a breath.
“And for the record, Madam Speaker”—he started to turn and walk away from her as he finished his thought—“insignificant secretary or not, Foreman picked me. He could have picked you. He didn’t.”
She called after him. “You are making a mistake, John. The country will not forgive you for this.”
Felicia tugged on the bottom of her jacket and turned to her security. They followed her heel clicks out of the hall without acknowledging any of what they’d just seen and heard. They were headed to office H-232.
Chapter 9
George Edwards was walking out of the Washington Sports Club on Wisconsin Avenue NW, when his cell rang. He was turning left onto Calvert when he looked at the number displayed on the phone. It was a restricted number. Edwards knew who it likely was and pushed the screen to answer.
“Hello?” The phone felt heavy as he lifted it to his ear. His bicep reacted as though he was beginning another set of curls.
“Hello, my friend!” The accent was what the British called “the Received Pronunciation”. The dialect was formal, almost pretentious, and socially helpful to a man or woman with ambition. It carried a certain historical prestige in England and Wales and was most often the voice of the aristocracy.
Edwards was careful not to use the caller’s name. “How are you?”
“Well, I was wondering about your thoughts,” said Sir Spencer. “It might be good to gather an idea or two together before we decide on anything.”
“I have some thoughts.” Edwards arrived at the front door to his building. He lived in the Archstone Glover Park Apartments, just north of Georgetown and west of the park. It was a seven-story red brick building that resembled a warehouse conversion. His one-bedroom provided plenty of room for his work, a futon, and a fifty-two-inch wall-mounted LCD television.
Edwards walked into the lobby of his building through the double glass doors. To either side of the unoccupied security desk were sitting areas with identical modern green chenille sofas, sand-colored chairs, and mailboxes that resembled the kind found in a post office.
He moved to the left as the door closed quickly behind him, and he sat on the green couch. The cushion sank beneath his weight.
“My ideas involve something with Czechoslovakian flavor.” He was being intentionally vague. “The dish would be served to a large gathering. It’s a messy recipe.”
“I see,” said Sir Spencer, sounding surprised but pleased.
“It’s the only way to feed the people.” Edwards wasn’t giving up on the metaphor. “But we’ll need to acquire the ingredients.”
“I think I can help there.”
Edwards chuckled. “Good,” he said. “We will talk later.” He hung up the phone, stood from the sofa, and rode the elevator up to the fourth floor.
Edwards walked into the apartment, through the kitchen, and into the dining area. There was a small round glass table onto which he tossed his gym bag and keys. He then dropped himself onto a large wooden-framed futon and picked up the television remote, pushing the “On” button.
The television was already set to a cable news channel. On the left side of the screen was the ever-present Vickie Lupo, and on the right side was Bill Davidson, the former attorney general. He smiled and turned up the volume.
“…not at all surprising to see the two of them staking their claim.” Davidson was referring to the somewhat awkward joint address from Secretary Blackmon and Speaker Jackson.
“The big deal here is that our line of succession is now in the hands of the court. This is a sheer cliff on which we are now perched. Washington has become a place where, far too often, the politics of the individual are placed ahead of the country’s best interest. Judges legislate from the bench. We spend trillions of taxpayer dollars putting Band-Aids on the gushing arterial wounds of banks and automakers. Am I the only one who sees the irony here?
“We bypass the courts that are intended to help failing corporations and choose to spend our grandchildren’s money to help them. We are essentially throwing good money after bad.”
“Bill…” Vickie Lupo was trying to interrupt, apparently sensing the digression. She was unsuccessful.
“Let me finish, Vickie!” Davidson pointed his finger at the camera and kept talking. “Yet we choose to use the courts here, where they are only a hindrance to good government. This is no different than the election in November 2000 when lawyers and courts helped determine the outcome. A court is going to decide our next president.” Davidson released the rest of the air from his lungs.
“So, Bill,” Vickie started, “are you siding with the Speaker on this? Are you contending that the line of succession, as was written in 1947, is constitutional?”
“No.” Davidson shook his head. “I am not siding with the Speaker. I am merely lamenting our use of the courts. It seems we use them now for political and legislative purposes far more than we do for legitimate legal issues. I don’t know how the district court will rule. I imagine whichever way it goes, there will be an appeal. It’s headed for the Supreme Court.”
Vickie was taking notes on the left side of the screen. “So this is not a quick fix?”
“No.” Davidson was calm again. “It will be several days. There is a good chance that President Foreman will be buried before we know his successor.”
“And to that end”—Vickie was now the only one on the screen—“we have just received some limited information about President Foreman’s funeral and memorial.”
Edwards sat back as he watched the screen fill with blue and the words “Breaking Developments” fly from right to left across his television. Vickie Lupo was still talking.
“We have confirmed from the White House the information that we reported earlier today. President Foreman will be buried at Arlington National Cemetery. And we know that in two days his body will lie in state at the Capitol Rotunda. We do not yet know the exact timing or the logistics. Our sources cautioned us that this is dependent on the speed of the autopsy and the return of his remains to his family. But that is the latest news there. Also we know that…”
Edwards turned off the television and set the remote on the futon cushion. He leaned his head back against the black cotton that covered the futon mattress, chewing on the inside of his cheek. A conspiracy to change the course of the nation’s geopolitical future and a gallery opening in the same week were enough to test the nerves of any self-proclaimed patriot.
*
Jimmy Ings was in a foul mood when Jeopardy! was preempted for network television coverage of the president’s death. He understood it, but he didn’t like it.
He watched the embarrassing rotunda performance of the two would-be presidents. Ings was on the verge of feeling sorry for them as they bowed and curtsied their way in and out of undeniable truths.
Our country, Ings thought as he watched, is in need of serious change. At least when there’s an ele
ction, I get a choice between the lesser of two evils.
For years Ings felt as though he was living in the final days of Rome. He saw gladiators prepared to fight, only to have oppressors chain them to the coliseum floor so that lions could devour them. He believed 9/11 hadn’t been a big enough wake-up call.
The attacks had forced little more than privacy invasion, religious intolerance, and debt-inducing war. Ings wholeheartedly believed the empire was burning. It was on fire and in need of a suffocating, oxygen-depleting blow. He knew, as he believed the others did, that a single act, with purpose, could galvanize the country, and all of western Europe, in a way not seen since World War II.
He wondered what Sir Spencer was devising. Would it be full-page ads in every major newspaper and magazine, as they’d once discussed? Might they purchase television time to produce a slick message? Maybe they would storm a television studio and take over the airwaves. Or perhaps they could stage a disruptive protest with sympathizers outside of the Capitol. Whatever it was, he knew it would be big. He knew it would be good.
*
Professor Thistlewood lived in a two-bedroom, one-bath apartment along Embassy Row. It was ridiculously expensive, but its character was attractive to him and to the women who frequently slept over.
In fact, his addiction to women and wine had disabled his ability to cancel his date that night. And so there she was in the apartment, Oregon Pinot cupped in her hand, while Art admired the breasts cupped underneath the sheer cashmere of her light sweater.
They were in the main living area, a warm environment with large overstuffed chairs and a single love seat. Throughout the space there were books and artwork. On the wrought-iron and glass coffee table there was a large book about art.
He stood behind her and lightly touched the right side of her neck with his lips. She purred and giggled before moving away.
“What’s that one about?” she asked, tipping her glass to the wall before swirling the wine and taking a small sip. She held it in her mouth, rolling it over her tongue. He had taught her well.
“That’s my favorite piece. It’s called iPod Ghraib. It’s a social commentary on commercialism and politics. See the iPods in the hands of the Iraqi prisoner? Those replace the electrical wires shown in the original photograph.”
She swallowed the wine. “Who’s the artist?”
“Trek Thunder Kelly.” Thistlewood moved in again, placing his hands on her denim hips. They were only slightly wider than her girlish waist.
“Hmmm.” She raised her glass to the adjoining piece on the wall. “Did he do that one too?”
“Yes.” The professor moved his hands back to the small curves just above her hips. He loved that part of her body. He slipped his fingers underneath the cashmere to lightly touch her skin. “Another social commentary.”
The piece was a manipulated photograph titled Target Iraq-Fallujah Battle. It depicted three US soldiers crouched near a stone building. Each was holding an M16. But instead of their typical desert camouflage uniforms, they were outfitted in red uniforms patterned with white Target store logos. It was one in a series of six.
The pieces spoke to him because of their raw attitude. Kelly was unafraid to speak his mind and challenge established thought.
“Very interesting.” She turned from the picture to face Thistlewood and wrapped her arms around his neck. The glass of wine was still in her hand and it hung just above and behind Thistlewood’s head. Her reading glasses fell on the bridge of her nose. She looked like a naughty librarian. “You like interesting things, don’t you, Professor?”
He found her interesting. She was a twenty-four-year-old graduate student at American University. But he hadn’t met her in class, surprisingly enough. They’d met at a funeral some months prior.
The deceased was a longtime friend of Thistlewood’s. His funeral service was at a small parlor owned by the coed’s father. She was there handing out service programs to the guests. The professor was immediately attracted to her.
“I’m Art Thistlewood,” he had offered, extending his hand. He couldn’t take his eyes off her full and exquisite lips.
“I’m Laura Harrowby,” she had replied while shaking Thistlewood’s hand. Her fingers were long and slender. “My father owns the place.”
Harrowby’s Funeral Home & Chapel was among the more established mortuaries inside the Beltway. In three generations it had established itself as a place of kind service and great discretion, both valuable attributes in a political town. Harrowby’s had handled the preparations for a long list of notables.
Thistlewood and the coed had exchanged telephone numbers. They met for brunch the following Sunday and had been dating since.
Standing in his apartment, her arms wrapped around his neck, Laura pushed against him and kissed his lips gently. Thistlewood could tell she was preoccupied with the scruff on his upper lip.
“You didn’t shave today,” she whispered.
“Long day,” he replied softly, “with the president’s death and all.” He leaned in to kiss her again, but she pulled back.
“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you!” Laura said excitedly. “I think my father may handle the preparations for President Foreman’s funeral.”
“Really?”
She stepped back. She was standing a foot in front of him though Thistlewood’s hands were still holding her. “He’ll probably just handle the casket and flowers. The White House called to ask about the logistics before I came over.”
“That’s fascinating,” Thistlewood said, dismissing her apparent excitement in favor of his. “Now where was I?”
Laura pointed to the spot behind her right ear. His thumbs rubbed against her skin just above her hips. Thistlewood gently pressed his lips to her neck.
“Mmmm.” Laura spread her fingers and ran them up the back of the professor’s head. “Now aren’t you glad I talked you into not cancelling tonight?”
Thistlewood nodded without speaking as he breathed softly into her ear, tugging on the lobe with his teeth. The small mantel clock chimed eleven times. He had little more than an hour until he needed to leave for his meeting. It would be enough time, he thought, as the pair slid onto the love seat.
Chapter 10
“Separation, Harrold.” Matti’s supervisor leaned back and dropped his hands into his lap. He twisted his seat back and forth as he talked. “I need separation on this. There are a lot of levels to this investigation. The asset cannot become too comfortable with knowledge of how we do business. Plus, I don’t need WikiLeaks or the hackers from Anonymous screaming my name from his virtual rooftop.”
He could tell from her body language how she was closed off to him, that she didn’t like or even believe the answer. Would she push that point?
“Sir,” she pressed, “another question.”
“Of course.” He turned back to his computer and placed his hands on the keys to type. He used a modified hunt-and-peck method of typing, using his two index fingers and his thumbs. It was an odd but efficient technique.
“The asset alluded to the fact that our agency would already know where tonight’s meet is taking place. Why is that? And why would I not have that intelligence in the folder you gave to me?” Matti, her supervisor could tell, was beginning to figure out that there was a lot more to this “investigation” than he felt she needed to know.
“As evidenced by the photographic and biographical intelligence you received about the group”—he kept typing—“you are not the only analyst working this effort.”
“Clearly, sir…but if I am to be effective at this, then—”
“Wait there.” He stopped typing and leaned his elbows on the desk. He swiveled back in her direction. “Effective?”
“Yes.”
“You are being effective by passing along the information this asset gives to you. You are to gather HUMINT and give it to me. I, in turn, give it to those who need to know.” He was beginning to lecture again. “You have been with this ag
ency long enough to understand how we work. You are to do as you are told: gather, analyze, and pass along. This job is no different. Should I rescind my offer and find someone else?”
“No, sir,” Matti said. “I understand.”
“Now go back to your office, process the HUMINT gained from the asset’s phone call. Forward the information to me and then await your next contact.” He shooed her away with his right hand and turned his attention to his computer again.
Matti got up and left the office, knowing that something was not right but that she’d pressed her luck far enough. Given the paramilitary nature of the NSA, she decided to follow orders.
Matti surprised even herself with her doubt. Since joining the agency, she’d only occasionally asked questions beyond the scope of her work. When met without answers to those questions, she generally shrugged and went about her work unfazed. Matti needed to believe in people and things and ideas long after most had given up.
She could define and describe the differences between frankincense and myrrh at age five, but was thirteen when she accepted the nonexistence of a living, breathing Santa Claus. An anatomical whiz in elementary school, she could name all 206 bones in the human body, but she left bedtime notes for the tooth fairy until the last of her baby teeth fell out.