Capitol Threat

by William Bernhardt

  “I understand from a highly placed anonymous source that the Republicans are planning to filibuster if they can’t muster the votes to stop the confirmation process. Can you confirm or deny?”

  “Can—the Republicans? What—?”

  “I also have a White House source saying the President is going to publicly ask Roush to step down and that he has already done so privately. Can you confirm or deny that?”

  Ben didn’t know what to say. Information was speeding by much faster than he could process it. “What are you talking about?”

  “Should I take that as a denial?”

  “You should take that as an I-don’t-know-what-the-hell-you’re-talking-about.”

  And then she told him.

  Ben returned to the celebratory circle, a somber expression on his face. “Tad,” he said quietly. “I need to talk to you.”

  Roush took one look at Ben’s face and the smile on his own disappeared. “What is it, Ben?”

  “There’s an unconfirmed report on Fox News…”

  Hammond waved a hand in the air. “Then I think we can dismiss it without even hearing it.”

  “There’s…There’s apparently some evidence…” Ben stammered. “Tad, we should talk in private.”

  “No,” he said firmly. “We’ll do it here. I have no secrets from my friends.” The strange thing was, Ben didn’t sense that Roush was dismissing the importance of the report. He just wasn’t going to hide from it. “They’ll all hear soon enough, I’m sure. What is it?”

  “They’re saying…” Ben swallowed. “They’re saying that you had a child. A long time ago. But I know that’s not possible.”

  “Because?” Roush tilted his head to one side.

  Again, Ben noticed that he wasn’t denying anything. “Because, you know…”

  “I have had heterosexual relationships, Ben. Before I came to grips with who I really am. Almost got married once.”

  Ben noticed that Christina’s hand was trembling. As always, her instincts were excellent. “Then,” she said quietly, “this story…”

  Roush threw his shoulders back and assumed his best military posture. “Yes, it’s true. I fathered a child.”

  “Out of…of…” Ben found himself stammering again. “Out of wedlock.”

  “Yes. I know, I should’ve told you. But I didn’t want to bring any unnecessary embarrassment. On me or the mother, okay? So I didn’t, and I apologize for that. Satisfied?”

  Ben wished he could answer in the affirmative, but he was still troubled. “But that reporter…” He took a breath and started again. “I mean, that reporter was saying that the Republicans were all up in arms. Planning to filibuster, if necessary. And the President was going to make some kind of public statement.”

  “And you don’t think an illegitimate child is enough to merit that kind of backlash?” Roush set his glass down on a tabletop, then walked to a window, his back to the crowd. The sun was setting just behind the Washington Monument. A beautiful spectacle, but one that, at the moment, did not comfort Ben in the least. “You would be right.”

  “We can still go someplace private,” Ben said, stepping behind him. “But I need to know. I need to know everything.”

  “Like what?”

  Ben threw up his hands. He hardly knew where to begin. “Like who has the child now?”

  “No one.”

  “You mean, you put the baby up for adoption?”

  “No. There is no baby.”

  Ben struggled to understand. “You’re saying the baby died.”

  Roush turned slowly, looking a hundred years older than he had only moments before. “I’m saying the fetus was aborted.” His once erect posture sagged, as if tons of weight had been yoked across his shoulders. “You see the problem. From a political perspective.”

  Abortion. The only major political bugaboo Roush hadn’t already transgressed against. Ben clenched his eyes shut. “And you knew about the abortion?”

  “Knew about it?” Roush picked up his drink and downed it in a single swallow. “I paid for it.”

  46

  Loving darted behind Renny, positioning his rope-bound body between himself and the assassins.

  Renny only chuckled, laughter distorting his thick European accent. “So, in a mere matter of seconds, I am transformed from your punching bag to your human shield. Do you perhaps see some intrinsic worth in me now?”

  “Just shut up,” Loving growled, putting an arm lock around the man’s neck. He looked up at the two assassins, both with their sizeable guns poised and ready. “What’s it gonna be, you clowns? You gonna take out the boss, or you gonna leave quietly the way you came?”

  The two men in the long coats exchanged an expressionless glance.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Loving.

  “It means they are men of few words,” Renny said. His chuckle had escalated into a full-out laugh. “They are obedient, but not chatty. I like this in my trained killers.”

  “Trained by whom?”

  “By the best in the entire world.”

  Loving scoffed. “I’ve spent some quality time with the Pretty Boy, and I’m here to tell you—he could use a few more days in the swamp with Yoda. Maybe a couple of years.”

  Pretty Boy’s grip tightened, but he managed to restrain from pulling the trigger.

  “Enough with this childishness,” Renny said, suddenly ominously serious. “Feodor. Take this fool out.”

  Like a robot responding to command, the older of the two assassins raised his weapon.

  Feodor trained the gun on Loving’s face. He squinted his right eye closed and focused…

  Loving pulled Renny up higher, till his head totally covered his own. Then he began rocking the man’s head back and forth, just to make sure there was no clear side shot. A flesh wound to the ear probably wouldn’t kill him, but it might sting enough to make him release the hundred-and-eighty-pound burden that was currently the only thing keeping him alive. Feodor readjusted his aim; Loving moved the human shield in response. Back and forth, back and forth…

  “Please,” Renny said, exasperated. “You are making me dizzy.”

  “My heart bleeds for you,” Loving replied.

  “And how long do you think you can keep this up? Already I feel that your arm is weakening.”

  “I got two.”

  “So that will give you twice the—what?—three minutes you have held me already? And then these gentlemen will perforate you like a fishing net. And the alley dogs will eat your corpse.”

  “Very colorful. You Europimps really got a way with the language.” He tightened the lock on Renny’s throat.

  “Very well. Shoot his arm.”

  “It’ll go through my wrist to your throat,” Loving warned. “If I think I’m goin’ down, I’ll choke the life out of you first.”

  “Empty threats.”

  Loving clenched the man’s windpipe. “Maybe I’ll just start the process now. Call your men off or you’re dead.”

  “If I am dead, then you have no shield.” Despite the lack of air in his lungs, Renny managed a perverse smile. “Either way, you will die.”

  Loving continued choking, but his mind was working the entire time. What the creep said was unfortunately all too true. He needed an end-game strategy, one that didn’t result in him being dead. He could delay all he wanted, could threaten Renny, perhaps even kill him, but he’d still end up dead. Dead, and without the satisfaction of having obtained the information he wanted. That Ben needed.

  “If I’m goin’ down,” Loving grunted, still choking the life out of Renny, “then chokin’ isn’t good enough. I want you to experience pain.” He grabbed the man in the crotch and squeezed. Renny screamed. The two assassins leaned forward, adjusting their aim, but Loving warned them back, pushing Renny forward and squeezing all the tighter.

  What looked like desperate cruelty had, of course, been done for a reason. With two hands posed at either end of the man, Loving was r
eady to make his move. It wasn’t a very good move, but it was all he had.

  Mustering his considerable strength, Loving hoisted Renny into the air, chair and all, and threw him at the two assassins.

  Feodor and Pretty Boy toppled several steps backward. Renny crashed to the cold hard floor. Both guns fired, but Loving didn’t know where the bullets struck because he was already out the door and thirty feet down the parking lot. All he knew for sure was that they hadn’t hit him. And that was good enough.

  Loving knew he didn’t have time to get to his car and get it started. Instead, he wove his way through the parking lot. If he could make it to the highway, it was just possible he could attract some attention, enough that the two hit men would back off. He knew the darkness would help protect him. On the other hand, a pro like Feodor probably didn’t need to see his target to hit it. All he had to do was keep flinging bullets until he got lucky.

  Sure enough, Loving heard shots ringing out behind him. He ducked but continued moving, low to the ground. Those two men had major-league firepower. Pretty Boy was still firing his automatic weapon, not that he really knew how to use it. Most of his shots were flying a foot over Loving’s head. He obviously thought that if he just fired often enough, the law of averages would eventually give him a hit. A killer who trained on Nintendo rather than the firing range. Pathetic.

  But still potentially lethal.

  Loving kept running at top speed. What else could he do? And for that matter, how many times now had he been reduced to turning tail and running? How many times had he allowed himself to become the hunted, racing away from people who were trying to kill him? He couldn’t stay lucky forever. As soon as he got out of here, he was going to turn the tables. Go after the hunters. It was the only way he could come out of this case alive. As soon as he was safe, he would start planning his attack. The best defense is a good offense. So that’s what he would do. As soon as this parking lot emptied out into the street. Just as soon as the parking lot—

  Loving put on the brakes, stopping his forward momentum as best he could. But he still had to hold up his hands to prevent himself from crashing headfirst into the brick wall.

  The brick wall.

  This parking lot didn’t empty into the street. It was a dead end.

  Loving whirled around, ready for action. But there was nothing he could do, nowhere he could go. He was trapped.

  Feodor stepped quietly forward, gun poised. Like the pro he was, he showed no trace of emotion. He didn’t have to. Loving could feel the pleasure emanating from him.

  “It would seem,” he said, with a thick German accent, “that this merry chase has come to an end. You have been a worthy opponent. But now our revels are ended. Go with peace.”

  Loving backed against the wall. He had nowhere to maneuver. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon not go at all.”

  “Alas, regrettably, that is not a choice.” Feodor raised a gun. It was smaller than the one he had brandished before, but all the more terrifying as a result. He held the gun so close to Loving’s chest he couldn’t possibly miss. And then he fired.

  47

  In the dim light of the conference room, the television flickered with a blue glow. All at once, the screen flooded with a white light so intense it was momentarily blinding, then faded and resolved into a sienna-tinted head shot of Thaddeus Roush. The voice-over narration was delivered by the warm, crisp voice of a well-known wrestler–turned-actor–turned politician.

  “He said he’d be there for the poor, the oppressed, the under-privileged.” The camera began a steady zoom toward Roush’s eyes. “He said he’d be there for those in need, for those who seek justice. Equal justice.” By this time, Roush’s huge eyes were all that remained visible. “But when it mattered, he wasn’t even there for his own child.” A hideous, dissonant, cringe-inducing organ chord sounded, followed by the growing black-and-white image of two fetuses expanding out of Roush’s enormous eyeballs and merging into a single horrific image.

  All at once, the screen went white again, and the musical sound track was replaced by the sound of a baby crying. Then two babies crying, then three. Soon the speakers were rattling with the titanic sound of so many unhappy babies.

  “Every year,” the somber voice continued, “almost two million parents choose to have their own babies killed before they are even born. Thaddeus Roush was one of them. Do you really want him on the Supreme Court?”

  Ben turned off the set.

  “That’s just disgusting.”

  Christina was slumped in a chair munching on a tuna fish sandwich. “Better than the last one. It managed to squeeze in gay bars, orgies, and abortions, all in thirty seconds.”

  “Where are these coming from? Who’s paying for them?”

  “Someone with a lot of money. A new PAC formed just to oppose the Roush nomination. Gina Carraway is calling her media contacts, trying to track its funding. But what does it matter what the names are? It’s some right-wing group with loads of cash.”

  “I wish I understood better how people can raise so much money so quickly.”

  “I wish you did, too. Especially if you’re going to run for reelection.” She looked up. “And you are going to run for reelection, aren’t you?”

  “What makes you ask that?”

  “Knowing you. For a long time.”

  “So you know I’m hungry for power?”

  “I know you can’t resist a professional challenge. The chance to be in a position to help people.” She paused. “Even if you’d be better off if you didn’t.”

  “You’re saying you don’t want me to run?”

  “Not at all. You should do what you feel called to do. All I’m saying is…” She finished the sandwich and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “I think you’re an incredible attorney, and getting more incredible all the time. You belong in the courtroom. It’s your highest and best working environment, the place where you can make the greatest contribution. The political arena is fine, I guess. And I certainly don’t blame you for accepting the governor’s appointment—who wouldn’t? But it isn’t really you.” She sat up and brushed the crumbs off her dress. “At least I don’t think it is. Am I wrong?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t made up my mind whether to run or not.”

  “And I don’t mean to pressure you.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “As long as I’m not pressuring you, wanna set a date for our wedding?”

  “Christina—”

  She held up her hands. “That was a joke, Ben. A joke.”

  Gina Carraway entered the room, her cell phone glued to her ear. “No, sir. What I’m asking is that you exert your considerable influence to help finance a counteroffensive.” She stood by the table and paused. “We’re looking for three million dollars.” Pause. “I know it’s a lot of money, sir. That’s why we called you.” More pause. Carraway flipped her clipboard and scanned her address list while simultaneously carrying on a conversation. “If we don’t, sir, the Christian Congregation is going to choose the next Supreme Court justice. Is that better?”

  She looked up at Christina, shrugged. Christina made a slashing gesture with a thumb across her throat. Carraway shook her head and pointed a finger toward her open mouth, making a gagging face. Christina pulled an imaginary wallet out of her back pocket and started counting out the dough. Carraway gave her a big nod and two thumbs up.

  Ben marveled at how an entire detailed conversation could take place without a word being uttered.

  “Yes, sir, I know the party will appreciate your contribution and sacrifice.” Pause. “Well, no, the party can’t officially endorse the nominee. He’s a Republican.” More pausing. “No, the Republicans aren’t endorsing him now, either. But despite rumors to that effect, the President hasn’t asked him to withdraw.” Pause. Pause. Mild drumming of fingernails. “Well, not yet, anyway.”

  She switched the phone to her other ear. “Yes, sir. We need three million dollars just to get this off th
e ground.” The voice on the other end of the line was so loud Ben could hear it clear across the room. “Yes, that’s still a lot of money. But it’s less than the Republicans spent the first day after Roush got out of committee.” Pause pause pause. “Yes sir, I know nobody knew this latest revelation until after the committee vote, and doesn’t that seem a little suspicious to you? Like maybe someone was holding the silver bullet and saving it until they were sure it was necessary? Don’t you think—” Carraway winced, then pulled the phone away from her ear and shut it off.

  “I gather that’s a no?” Christina said. “Possibly a ‘hell, no’?”

  Carraway pursed her lips. “The exact words were: ‘I’m not going to put my money on the line for a horny homo baby-killer.’ ”

  Ben pinched the bridge of his nose. “And you thought this person would be a likely contributor?”

  “Sadly, yes. I thought he was our best shot. It will all be uphill from here.”

  “Swell.”

  “Problem is, Roush has no support base anymore, not in either party. Everyone sees him as being totally on his own, abandoned. And if there’s any truism to which everyone subscribes in this town, it’s that you can’t do anything without money.” She tossed down her clipboard and stretched. “I haven’t been able to locate the source of the funds for the anti-Roush 527s. Originally, it was a consortium of pro-life groups, but they’ve gotten some extra seed money from other organizations, all of them new. The Republican National Committee can’t get formally involved, but a lot of its biggest contributors can and have. Which is not to say there have been no contributors from the left side of the fence. There have been. Lots of them.”

  “This is so wrong,” Christina said. “Tad is a man without a country.” She turned toward Ben. “How is he?”

  “I don’t know. He called and asked if it was necessary for him to come in today. I told him it wasn’t.”

  “When will the full Senate debate the nomination?”

  “It could be as early as Monday. Certainly the President wants it over and done with as soon as possible. He wants to take advantage of this latest firestorm. Besides, all these TV spots are expensive.”