by Tom Abrahams
When he got into the taxi, he was sure that the black sedan three cars back was following him to wherever he was headed. Thistlewood told the cab driver to take him to his office on campus rather than to his apartment. He’d be safer there, he thought. Plus, he had less than four hours until his 7 a.m. lecture.
Once in his office, he sat at his desk, looking pensively out the window, trying to identify the sixth Daturan.
There were seventeen possibilities, including Speaker of the House Felicia Jackson and Secretary of Veterans Affairs John Blackmon. He had no clue as to who their coconspirator might be.
He was relieved to know, however, that their efforts would be rewarded. For quite some time he had been unsure how any action by their small, motley band could be effective on a large scale.
If they had an insider on their team, the game was changed. His heart beat with excitement. Or maybe it was nerves. Either way, Thistlewood felt alive.
He took a deep breath and exhaled, looking to the north end of the quad. Below, he could see the crisscrossing asphalt paths that split the grass along the stretch of green space. His eyes moved from left to right and back, looking for anything unusual. It was empty, except for the occasional custodian. The sun was just coming up, and it was still hard to make out shapes.
Then he saw it. Next to a large oak, something was moving.
His eyes focused and he could tell the shape behind the tree, on a bench, was human. It was someone in dark clothing, trying to hide behind the trunk of the massive tree. The figure moved out from its position two or three times, and the professor thought he caught the reflection of light flickering toward the top of the figure.
Binoculars!
Thistlewood’s heart skipped a beat, and he could feel the blood pumping in his neck. He sank down in his chair and leaned back out of sight of the window.
His breath was quickening and getting shallow as he slid onto the floor. On all fours he crawled over to the door on the right side of the office. From a kneeling position, he reached up with his right arm to flip the light switch. He snagged the top of the switch with his middle finger and pulled down, cutting the light.
Thistlewood let out another deep breath and sat on the floor with his back against the door. He could feel the sweat beading on his forehead and on the back of his neck. He rubbed his temples with his hands.
Thistlewood leaned forward onto his knees and crawled over to the window. When he reached the sill, he gripped it lightly with his fingers and pulled himself up. He rose just high enough to see the spot where the figure was hiding. He pulled the tree and bench into focus. Nothing. Thistlewood rubbed his eyes with his left hand and looked again. Still nothing. And then he heard rapping behind him. Someone was at his door. It nearly stopped his heart.
Who was it? Was the figure confronting him? Was he about to be arrested?
Another bang on the door. Three hard knocks.
“Who is it?” Thistlewood was still on the ground next to his window. He felt the sweat roll from his temple to the side of his jaw and rubbed it dry with a shrug of his shoulder.
“It’s George.”
George Edwards? What was he doing here?
“Uh”—Thistlewood struggled to his feet—“okay. Hang on, George. I’m coming.”
The professor stepped to the other side of the room and flipped up the light switch before turning the lock and opening the door. The fluorescents were still flickering when Edwards stepped into the office.
“Are you… sweating?” Edwards looked at Thistlewood with a puzzled expression.
“A little,” Thistlewood admitted. He wiped his forehead with his fingers and extended his arm to guide Edwards to the chair across from his desk. He didn’t want to explain his appearance. “Why are you here so early? The sun’s just coming up.”
“I have something I need to discuss with you.” Edwards crossed his legs and placed both hands flat on the arms of the chair.
“Okay, go ahead,” Thistlewood said, walking around the desk to his chair and taking a seat. “What is it?”
“I think we’re being followed.”
“Why?” Thistlewood shifted in his seat, leaning in toward Edwards.
“I don’t know if you saw it”—Edwards was looking out the window as he talked—“but as we left Cato Street this morning, I think we were being watched.”
“I know,” Thistlewood said, surprising George. “The bum.”
Edwards looked relieved. “You saw that too?” He smiled uncomfortably at the professor. “I thought maybe I was going crazy, you know? Like I’m suddenly getting paranoid.”
“That’s why I’m sitting here in a cold sweat, George.” Thistlewood ran his hand along the back of his neck, feeling the cool dampness of his skin underneath his hair. “I thought I saw somebody out in the quad.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was here in my office with the light on, looking out the window there.” Thistlewood pointed to his left. “I saw a figure sitting on a bench behind that oak tree in the dark.”
The sun had risen enough that the tree was now clearly visible. The grass on the quad appeared dewy. There were small groups of students starting to cross the paths on their way to early classes.
“I think he had binoculars.”
“So what’d you do?” Edwards looked back at Thistlewood, who was now gazing blankly out the window.
“I turned out the light and tried to get a better look at the guy.” It was evident from his voice that the professor was still on edge.
“Did you see him?”
“No.” Thistlewood snapped out of his trance and turned back to Edwards. “He was gone. And then you knocked.”
“So how do we handle this? Should we start avoiding each other? I mean, we have my opening tonight. Should we skip it?”
“I don’t think so,” Thistlewood said, shaking his head. “If we are being followed, we don’t want them to know we suspect it, right? So we should go about doing what we do. But we do need to be more careful about where we talk about things.”
“So you’ll be at the exhibit tonight?”
Thistlewood thought that Edwards sounded like a son looking for dad’s approval. “Of course.” He smiled. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
“And afterward?”
“Afterward I pay a visit to my friend’s family business,” Thistlewood said. “When will you get there?”
“That depends,” replied Edwards. “If the casket is ready and available, then it’ll be pretty quick. If it’s not ready, then we may have some problems to work out.”
“Let’s hope it’s ready.”
“Let’s hope,” agreed Edwards.
“I think I should send Sir Spencer a heads-up about being watched, don’t you agree?”
“I don’t know,” Edwards cautioned. “We don’t know who is watching us. What if we’re wrong?”
“I think we’re right,” Thistlewood insisted emphatically. “We both suspected the guy outside the bar, I believe I was followed in a car too, and then there’s the man outside with the binoculars. We need to inform the rest of the group. We should be prepared to avoid any surveillance. There’s nothing wrong with a little paranoia.”
“Yeah.” Edwards shrugged. “You’re right. I can text Sir Spencer a coded message to let him know and he—”
“No,” Thistlewood cut him off. “I’ll do it. You worry about the opening tonight and what you need to do afterward. The whole deal hinges on what you do.”
“Okay, you win.”
“I’ve got a class at seven. I’ll see you tonight, okay?” Thistlewood stood from his chair and pulled a thick binder from the desk, tucking it under his arm.
“Sounds good.” Edwards stood as well. “By the way, I love the piece on the wall there.” He pointed to the work directly behind the desk as he walked with Thistlewood out of the office.
“Yeah?” Thistlewood laughed. “I know the artist. I could probably get you a deal.” He patted Edwards
on the back, and the two went in opposite directions down the hallway.
Neither of them turned around as they went their separate ways, but Thistlewood was troubled as he walked to class. Something was not right with his friend George Edwards.
Edwards didn’t seem particularly bothered by the idea that someone might be following them. It was as though he’d confessed his suspicions to gauge the professor’s response.
Thistlewood’s suspicions were further tweaked by Edwards’s desire not to share the development with their cohorts. There was no reasonable explanation for that as far as Thistlewood was concerned.
He considered how envy might be clouding his judgment. He knew that Edwards’s burgeoning relationship with the knight was a sore point, and he was self-aware enough to recognize it.
The professor couldn’t control his own puerile coping mechanisms, much like he couldn’t control his pubescent libido. Thistlewood knew he was an emotional man. The same thing that made him a passionate lover of politics and women, of art and wine, also made him unable to dispassionately separate himself from reality and fiction. He walked into his classroom, thinking that he was being unfair to so quickly judge his friend.
In front of him was a classroom full of students ready to learn more about the separation of powers. He needed to refocus. It wouldn’t be easy.
Chapter 18
“Good morning to you, Joe,” said Speaker of the House Felicia Jackson. She was on her fourth live interview. In the previous three, she stayed on message. She was retaking control of the debate.
Felicia was sitting in a room outfitted for remote television interviews. In front of her was a television camera with a small monitor directly underneath the lens. She could see herself and the anchor with whom she was speaking by looking just beneath the camera.
Behind her was a large oak bookshelf containing a handful of books and a potted plant. The bookshelf sat over her right shoulder, screen left. To the right of the screen there was a large corn plant, which added some depth and color. The lighting was excellent. The Speaker looked fresh and awake.
“Madam Speaker,” the newsman said in an incredibly affected anchor voice, his delivery nasal and pompous sounding, “we all know Secretary Blackmon was confirmed by both the senate and by the legislative body you lead. So you, yourself, are okay with him becoming vice president. Why not step aside and allow him to become president? Why put the country through an extended, painful court case? Why not do what’s best for a grieving country and allow it to move forward?”
It was more a statement followed by a series of opinions than it was a question. The Speaker handled it with aplomb. She laughed and looked down to the right before answering. It was a tic she’d adopted from former President Barack Obama, who always affected the same reaction to questions he did not like.
“Joe, that’s more than one question to answer,” she said. “But I will be happy to address each one. As for ‘stepping aside’, that’s not really a decision for me to make. As a believer in our constitution and US Code, I am required to follow the laws set forth by my predecessors. I would be derelict to ignore them.
“You also asked,” she added, the smile waning, “why I would put the country through a painful court case. I am not the one who filed the injunction. That question might be better suited for Secretary Blackmon. Though I suggest it’s a question laced with opinion and probably not fair to ask him either.
“And finally,” she said, her eyes bright and knowing, “without repeating your question, I will tell you that I am helping our great nation move forward. My fantastic team, along with those of Secretary Blackmon and President Foreman, are in constant contact. We are doing the business of the people, and while we grieve our loss, our government is in good hands.”
“Okay, Madam Speaker,” Joe said, placing his hands on the news desk and leaning in, “but you didn’t answer my question as to why you oppose the Secretary’s claim to the presidency, given that the House and the Senate voted in favor of his confirmation. I mean, seriously, Madam Speaker, we’re talking about a technicality here. Had President Foreman lived twelve more hours, Secretary Blackmon would have been sworn in, right?” He smirked and then sat back to await her answer.
Felicia kept her cool despite wanting to jump through the screen and backhand the smug, blow-dried goober of a man. “Actually, Joe, you didn’t ask me that question. You merely stated it as fact without asking me to respond. Instead you asked me three other questions which I answered directly and succinctly. Once again, you have stated what you believe to be the facts and have asked me an unrelated question.”
The Speaker paused to gauge whether or not the anchor would interrupt her. When he didn’t, she continued. “If President Foreman were still alive, we wouldn’t be having a conversation about anyone assuming the office.”
“So let’s shift gears slightly,” the anchor countered, failing to press the point. “Why would you make a better president than Secretary Blackmon?”
“Wow, Joe”—her eyes widened as she considered the question—“that’s a surprisingly inappropriate question. But,” she reasoned, “it’s irrelevant. My colleague and I are not running for office. We are on the same team. The question is who, constitutionally, should take the oath. It’s a legal question and not a political one. I think the American people feel the same way. I don’t presume to know the collective thought of our citizens, but I do know that President Foreman was beloved. I do know he is missed. Questions about who should succeed him are best left to the courts.”
“Point taken, Madam Speaker,” the anchor acknowledged. “But I do want to know why the American people should feel comfortable with you at the helm. What can you do to assure them that you are qualified?”
Again, the Speaker felt the bile rise in her throat, sickened by his persistence on this point. He wanted her to bash Blackmon. He was trying to goad her into saying something inflammatory. She would not oblige.
“Qualified?” She looked down and laughed again. “That’s the easiest question you’ve asked me today, Joe.”
“How is that?” His eyebrows furrowed and he pursed his lips.
“I am a natural born citizen of the United States. I’ve lived here for at least fourteen years. I’m at least thirty-five years old, though I beg you, Joe, to not press me on my exact age.” She smiled as she rattled off the presidential qualifications as they were listed in Article II, Section I of the constitution.
“All right, very good, Madam Speaker,” the anchor conceded. “If you don’t want to answer my questions, then—” He was about to end the interview when Felicia determined she’d had enough of his rude asides.
“Wait a minute, Joe,” she interrupted. “What questions have I failed to answer?”
“You don’t want to tell the American people why you’re a better fit for the office,” he stated. “You can’t tell us why you’re qualified.”
His nasality was incredibly annoying to the Speaker. She had a nearly overwhelming urge to shove an endoscope up his nose and clean him out without the use of anesthetics.
“Joe,” her tone softened, “maybe your earpiece is malfunctioning and you can’t hear me. Can you hear me, Joe?”
“Yes, Madam Speaker, I can hear you.” His smug grin had disappeared.
“Good.” She leaned to the camera and slowed the cadence of her speech as though she were speaking to someone who could not easily follow English. “My quali-fi-ca-tions and those of Se-cre-tary Black-mon, a-side from our a-ges and na-tion-al-i-ty, are not at is-sue. This is a con-sti-tu-tion-al ques-tion. I know the American people agree with me on this. We are not campaigning, Joe. We are preserving the continuity of our government.”
“Thank you for the civics lesson, Madam Speaker.” The anchor rolled his eyes on camera and then turned to face another camera in his studio. Felicia was no longer on camera when he thanked her for taking the time to appear on the show. “Next on the program this morning, we will hear from the other polit
ician at the center of this debate, Secretary of Veterans Affairs John Blackmon.”
The Speaker glanced down at the monitor beneath the camera to assure she was no longer on camera and summoned her Chief of Staff with a wave.
“Is this mic off for now?” she asked nobody in particular. “How long before the next interview, and how many more do we have?”
“Five minutes before our next and last interview,” replied the aide. Someone behind the camera informed the Speaker the microphone was off.
The Speaker pointed at the Chief of Staff. “Two things,” she said.
Her voice was barely above a whisper, but she might as well have been screaming. Her hand was pressed against her lapel to dampen the microphone’s ability to pick up her voice, just in case.
“One,” she instructed, her face reddening, “I will not do another interview with that man. Never! Do not book me. Do not ask me. I can handle tough questions. I can handle fair questions. That was a hose job. Understood?”
The chief nodded and whispered, “Yes.” He took a pen to the scheduling sheet he was cradling and made a note of her directive.
“Two,” she continued with her finger just inches from his face, “I thought I told you to make sure we knew who was getting Blackmon. You didn’t give me that information. Not good. Are we recording him so we can respond to his points if necessary?”
“Yes,” replied the chief. “We’re recording the entirety of all of the morning shows. We’ll have copies of everything. I’ve told the staff to transcribe your interviews and any conducted with Blackmon.” He stepped back out of range of her finger.
She dropped her hand to her side and turned to look at herself in the monitor underneath the camera. It helped her primp between segments. A makeup person was standing by to refresh the powder on her forehead, nose, and cheeks.
“C’mon, man,” she said without turning back to the chief. “This is politicking one-oh-one. You know this. If you can’t keep up, I need you to tell me now. Can you keep up? Is this too much?”