by Tom Abrahams
“Thanks,” the secretary nodded and adjusted his tie. He’d forgotten about his cell phone. He needed to check it. “My phone is over there with my briefcase. Could you hand it to me?”
The technician fetched the phone and gave it to the secretary before returning to the task of light adjustments. The cabinet member’s white hair was causing a glare.
The secretary checked his phone and found a single text message. He pressed a button to open the message and then read it:
“Urgent u call now. B4 u go on the air.”
The text ended with a ten-digit number to dial. The sender information was restricted. That wasn’t unusual in Washington—everybody’s number was restricted. The secretary looked at his watch again and figured he had time to make the quick call.
He looked at the phone number to remind himself of the numbers and then entered them one by one into his phone. He pushed send and placed the phone to his ear. He heard it ring once.
Then everything around him exploded.
The resulting pressure wave knocked him unconscious instantly. He was thrown backward from the stool and through a bookshelf on the opposite end of the studio. The fifty-five-year-old man sustained fatal internal injuries even before the blast sent shards of metal, glass, wood, and drywall through his fine high-twist weave wool suit and into his body.
The room collapsed around him and the technician. The technician suffered an instantaneous concussion, even before any external injuries. His orbital sockets blew; his lungs collapsed. And then both men’s bodies virtually disintegrated in the ensuing heat and flames.
Unbeknownst to anyone but Sir Spencer Thomas, the Secretary of Energy received a text instructing him to call the Nokia 6210 phone attached to a piece of six-by-six-inch plywood and a chunk of Semtex. It was the explosive hidden inside the Thoreau collection in the closet that shared a wall with the studio.
Bill Davidson had unwittingly aided the plot by placing the bomb and then inviting the secretary to use his studio for the memorial coverage. Only in death had Davidson lived up to the potential for which Sir Spencer once thought him capable.
As he had with Jimmy Ings, the knight had played the former AG perfectly. Never once did he let on what Davidson’s true role in the plot would be. He led Davidson to believe his worth was his connection to the current administration, that he could provide valuable timing and location information. That was far from the truth of it. Sir Spencer was rarely close to the truth.
The path was cleared for a single successor to the presidency. The plot was working.
*
At 2100 Pennsylvania Avenue NW, the Cato Street Pub was exactly a mile from the Hanover-Crown Institute. When the Semtex exploded, the men felt the ground shudder. All three initially held onto the rosewood bar to steady themselves. The bottles on the bar rattled and a photograph of Tom DeLay fell to the floor, breaking the thin black frame.
Sir Spencer grabbed the throat of the Cutty Sark to keep it upright. “That was Bill,” he said impassively, “and the Secretary of Energy.”
George Edwards knew to what Sir Spencer was referring, given that he’d handed Davidson the hidden explosive the night before. He knew one of the cabinet members was also a target. The knight’s unaffected declaration didn’t surprise him. Art Thistlewood, on the other hand, became unhinged.
“What do you mean ‘that was Bill and the Secretary of Energy’?” Thistlewood said in a horrible affected British accent to mock the knight. It sounded at once Jamaican and Irish, but it wasn’t the Received Pronunciation.
“That was one of our four explosives. One at the aforementioned Arlington, two in the casket, and one at Hanover-Crown.”
“We blew up the Institute?” Thistlewood said incredulously. “With Bill inside?”
“Yes.” The knight took a drink directly from the Jubilee decanter. “And don’t forget the good secretary.”
Thistlewood turned to Edwards with a look of both confusion and disappointment.
“I gave Bill the bomb,” Edwards admitted. He shrugged his shoulders as if to suggest it was no big deal. “It was stashed in some books I borrowed from him.”
The professor was sweating now, his face red, and a full blood vessel was throbbing along his neck. “I don’t understand this. Why was I not told?”
“You were busy shagging the mortician’s daughter,” the knight countered. “If you’d not been so content to tell the same party joke repeatedly whilst having a litany of May-December romances, perhaps I’d have divulged more than you needed to know. But you weren’t, so I didn’t. I involved you to the extent to which you were needed. The same holds true for our good men Bill Davidson and James Ings. They too knew only what they really needed to know.”
“What about George here? What doesn’t he know?”
“George here—” the knight looked at Edwards and then back at Thistlewood “—he doesn’t know who the sixth is. I haven’t told him.”
“Really?” Thistlewood persisted.
“Really, Arthur.” The knight was weary of placating the puerility of his minion. “Understand you got out of this exactly what you wanted. You came to me wanting a change. You wanted to make a difference. You, in your tenured ivory tower, complained about the proletariat not getting enough cake from the bourgeois. I gave you the power to make that difference, to eat from the cake, and to effect a regime change in the most powerful country on earth.” He sighed. “And yet,” he continued, “it wasn’t enough. We are on the precipice of accomplishing the impossible. We are set to do with six men what empires and fuhrers could not do with gargantuan armies, and it isn’t enough for you.”
The knight moved around from behind the bar and stepped to within a foot of Thistlewood. “That is because this was never about patriotism for you. This was never about a better country.”
The knight was seething now and spitting as he spoke. Drool hung from his lower lip. “This was always about you! It was about Arthur Thistlewood the Enlightened. And that is why I could not trust you. You never thought about what you had to lose. You only dreamed of what you had to gain. That is the difference between you and George here.”
Before the professor could react, there was another loud noise that startled the men. They turned in the direction of the sound to see the large, solid wood red doors fly from their hinges into the room and slide onto the floor.
Standing in the doorway was a cadre of FBI special agents with their weapons drawn. They were yelling instructions at the men and inching forward as they surveyed the hickory-walled space for surprises.
In the chaos, the three Daturans raised their hands and dropped to their knees. They knew better than to fight. Arthur Thistlewood urinated in his pants and was forced to lie in the small pool of it on the floor.
“It’s over, gentlemen,” one of the agents said as he stood over the knight, the professor, and the artist. “You are all under arrest by the authority of the United States Department of Justice. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney…”
“Spare me the Miranda,” the knight spewed defiantly from the floor. He’d underestimated both the feds’ knowledge of their plot and their ability to act quickly. He knew he’d pay dearly for that miscalculation. But good attorneys could work miracles, and they still had the sixth Daturan. He licked his lips and tried to crane his neck upward to look the lead agent in the eyes. “You’re already too late. A Deo Et Rege.”
Chapter 43
The third tower, rising two hundred feet from the ground, was the tallest of the three structures Matti targeted to shut down. It stretched skyward from a two-hundred-and-sixty-thousand-square-foot office building on the corner of Eighteenth and L Streets. The building’s exterior was alternating panels of glass and black powder-coated steel. On its ground floor were a Corner Bakery Café and a Fitness First Health Club. It was a beautiful expanse of a building.
Matti looked at it through the window of the cab before opening the door. She started
to get out and glanced at the sun visor above the front passenger seat. Tucked between the visor and the roof of the cab was a large, legal-sized manila envelope. She had an idea.
“May I borrow that?” she asked the driver.
“What?”
“The envelope? May I borrow the envelope? I’ll bring it back.”
“Big cash tip?” He wasn’t joking.
“Big cash tip.” She sighed. “Huge!”
The cabbie reached to his right and leaned forward to grab the envelope. He slid it through the small slot between the panels of Plexiglas separating the front and back seats of the cab. Matti thanked him and slid out of the car onto the sidewalk. She could hear the screams of emergency sirens a block south on K Street, a lot of them. Was she too late already? She determined they were heading west toward Georgetown and away from the Capitol and was momentarily relieved. Then she looked to the west and saw a thick black plume of smoke pouring into the sky above the low horizon of buildings. Something had happened. She couldn’t worry about it now.
Matti had the taxi wait for her while she jogged through the double set of automated sliding chrome and glass doors. She was losing time.
Sitting behind a desk was yet another security guard. He was looking down, reading a paper. As Matti approached, she pulled her cell phone from her pocket and put it to her ear. The manila envelope was tucked under her arm.
“Yes, Mr. Secretary,” she said loudly enough to break the guard’s train of thought and draw his attention to her. “I am here now. I have the court order, sir. We should be fine.” She paused. “No, sir, I don’t think armed agents are necessary. I imagine the good people here will cooperate without any issues.” She paused again as she leaned on the granite. “Yes, sir. I will inform you as soon as it’s done, and I will use a secure line.” Matti pushed a button on the phone, placed it on the granite ledge and curled her lips into a smile.
“Sorry about that,” she said. “My name is Matilda Harrold.” She flashed the green NSA badge and pulled the envelope from under her arm. “I’m with the National Security Agency and I have a court order here. I need to talk with whoever controls the antenna on the top of this building.”
The man sat slack jawed. He fumbled for the phone while keeping eye contact with the imposing but beautiful woman in front of him. He wasn’t moving quickly enough.
“Immediately, sir.” Matti looked down her nose at the man while she leaned in.
“Yes, ma’am.” The guard nodded and picked up the receiver. He dialed an extension and then nervously asked for a supervisor and the person in charge of the tower.
“Thank you.” Matti winked at the man condescendingly. She was inwardly surprised at her playacting. She was good.
A woman appeared from behind Matti. “May I help you?”
“Yes.” Matti again held out her NSA badge. “My name is Matilda Harrold. I am with the National Security Agency. I have a court order here for access to the cellular transmissions from the top of this building.”
“What is this about?” The woman glanced at the envelope under Matti’s arm but did not ask to see it.
“Given the sensitivity of the issue, I can’t go into detail,” Matti replied, thinking on her feet. “But I will tell you that because of the president’s memorial service at the Capitol, we have intelligence that suggests we temporarily halt cellular reception in the area.”
The woman didn’t seem convinced. “We haven’t received any prior notice of this.”
“Neither did I.” Matti wasn’t lying. She held up her finger and pulled her phone from the desk. “Hang on a minute. My phone is buzzing. I’m getting a call.” Of course, the phone hadn’t rung or buzzed, but neither the woman nor the guard questioned her about it. They were caught in the vortex that Matti Harrold had become.
“No, sir,” she answered. “They’ve not cooperated yet.” Matti glanced up at the woman and bit her lip nervously. “No, sir, I don’t…” She paused for effect, as though the imaginary caller was interrupting her. “Really, sir…” Matti dramatically pulled the phone from her ear as though the caller had raised his voice in anger. Then she put it back to her ear and nodded before putting her hand over the phone. She looked at the woman.
“This is the undersecretary and he says if you can’t cooperate, he’ll need to speak with your supervisor immediately. I would suggest against that. Can you help me?”
The woman folded her arms and bit the inside of her cheek. She wasn’t sure what to make of Matti Harrold, but she didn’t think shutting down the tower for a few minutes would cause much harm. The FCC probably wouldn’t even know about it. On the other hand, if she failed to comply and national security was at stake, the consequences could be far greater.
“Okay,” she relented. “Tell the undersecretary we’ll comply.”
“Good choice.” Matti took her hand from the phone and told the imaginary caller all was good. “Give me a fax number, and I’ll have the department fax over your copy of the court order. It’s under seal at the moment, but should be released once the memorial is over.”
Matti knew the lie was a gamble. If the apple-bottomed woman knew anything about the law, she’d call her bluff and demand to see the contents of the manila envelope. Incredibly she didn’t.
“I’ll take care of the tower. We’ll shut it down for the remainder of the memorial and then we will flip it back on. John here will get the fax number for you.” The woman disappeared into a small hallway at the opposite end of the lobby.
Matti turned back to the guard and, borrowing a pen, jotted down the fax number for the building. She scribbled the digits on the back of the envelope. She couldn’t believe her ploy had worked.
Granted, the chances of the bomb-triggering phone call coming through the tower atop the L Street building were small, but getting one tower shut down at least lessened the likelihood of the plot being successful. She’d done everything she could do. Now she just had to wait.
Matti noticed a small thirteen-inch television on the guard’s desk. The sound was off, but Matti could see the memorial was underway. Speaker of the House Felicia Jackson was at a lectern, speaking. The news coverage cut between shots of her talking and of the audience. There was an occasional shot of the First Lady and of various cabinet members. The rotunda was packed. Then it appeared as though people were getting up from the seats and walking toward the exits. The speaker was no longer at the podium. Something was happening.
Across the bottom of the screen there was text crawling from right to left:
Explosion at Hanover-Crown Institute in Georgetown. Unknown number of dead and injured. Authorities will not confirm if explosion is accidental or if it is connected to earlier arrest at Arlington National Cemetery. Capitol Rotunda under immediate evacuation…Developing…
Matti couldn’t believe what she was reading. The incidents had to be connected. She wondered if Bill Davidson was dead. Was he the bomber, or was he a target? Matti’s mind was spinning with the possibilities and the repercussions.
“Do you want to listen?” the guard asked politely. “I can turn up the volume for you.”
“Yes,” Matti responded without taking her eyes off the small screen, “Thanks.” She began to pray for divine intervention as she half-listened to the speaker addressing the memorial. Matti told herself again she’d done everything she could do.
“This is a live feed we are watching of the president’s memorial service. And it appears as though the hundreds attending are being ushered quickly out of the rotunda by Capitol Police. At least I think they are Capitol Police. There may be Secret Service involved too.”
Matti watched, confused, as people began to move from their seats in the rotunda. Who had ordered the evacuation? Did her superiors believe her theory? Was the evacuation merely a precaution? The video switched from the interior of the Capitol to the exterior. The scene unfolding on the television screen looked to Matti as though it were straight from an action movie. There were men and
women, dressed in suits and dresses, running down the eastern steps and onto the Mall. They looked frightened. It reminded Matti of the scenes of lower Manhattan as the towers fell.
The news anchor wasn’t offering much insight about the explosion at Hanover, and Matti turned her attention from the television. She looked to her left toward the front entrance of the building, where she saw four uniformed police officers exiting their cars at the sidewalk just behind her cab. Standing with them was her supervisor.
Chapter 44
John Blackmon sat in his stone leather seat next to the wet bar aboard a Lear 35 at Washington Reagan National Airport. He had chartered the flight and footed the seven-thousand-dollar bill himself. Three Secret Service agents sat in the seats behind him. One aide sat in front of him, next to the bar.
“How quick is the flight?” he asked the aide.
“Right at two hours, Mr. Secretary. The trip is right hundred miles from here to Miami International. “
Blackmon nodded. He sat back and thought about what lay ahead for his nation.
It was a country that, for a long time, he believed was heading in the wrong direction. There were too many taxes with too few services. Immigrants and welfare recipients seemed to get more from the system than hardworking college graduates. It wasn’t fair.
Despite it being outside his purview as Secretary of Veterans Affairs, he’d often challenged the president on policy decisions far outside of his bailiwick. He questioned monetary policy. He argued over HUD funding and immigration reform. There were times he acted as though he was the Secretary of Commerce in the midst of cabinet meetings.
A lot of beltway insiders were certain Blackmon wouldn’t last a second term. In an effort to reach out to all political mindsets, President Foreman kept Blackmon on board, making a concerted effort to pull Blackmon more closely into the inner circle of the White House. It was a genuine effort at consensus building. Blackmon saw it as an act of war. As he saw it, the more closely the president held his enemies, the more control he had over them.