From that moment, the United States of America was never itself again.
“It has to do with fear, and removing it permanently. It has to do with you and me and the country we live in and love. It’s about becoming free people, freed from the fear of being different and from fearing life itself. A free people, exactly as prescribed by the Constitution. And it’s about the United States again being respected and admired by the whole world.”
“Fuck him!” someone snorted.
Bugatti leaned over to his cameraman. “Turn on the camera, Marvin. Get these folks’ reactions. This is where it’s happening.” If he couldn’t be in DC, at least he’d capture the mood of some of these red-blooded fellow Americans.
“Rolling” was all Marvin whispered back.
Jansen’s next words came without hesitation. “But, before we can get rid of a person’s fear, we have to remove its cause.” The president’s eyes, trained on his audience, were glowing and intense, like a young man in love. “Today I will be calling for an immediate emergency convening of Congress, where the government will present a draft of some extensive law reforms to secure better social services for every citizen in the land. And now listen, fellow Americans, so you know what the future will have in store.”
He paused. Except for one masticating glutton, the cafeteria scene froze.
“The days are over where our society is caught in a vise that’s slowly squeezing the life out of us. From today, your government will work day and night until we have a fairer justice system, free medical care, a disarmed population, a healthier media, a more responsible approach to our children’s education and daily life, and jobs for all. In short: a radically changed United States, where life will be worth living and we will no longer have to lock our doors at night. From now on, America will begin living up to its ideals.”
The mouths atop the red plaid shirts were gaping now, except for one that cried out, “Fucker’s out of his mind!” The man stood up and threw some dollar bills on the table. “Keep the change, Maggie!” he grumbled as he left. A few moments later his high-powered truck motor was grumbling, too.
Bugatti looked uneasily at the TV screen. Wesley sure hadn’t exaggerated when they’d spoken on the phone.
The camera angle in the pressroom changed to give a glimpse of the journalists’ faces, chiseled in stone and apprehensive all at once. He would give anything to be sitting there now.
“Have you caught that guy over in the corner?” whispered Bugatti, pointing to a trembling meat loaf that was screaming at the TV screen.
Marvin turned his camera discreetly as the press conference cameraman swung back to a close-up of the president. “We must all do our part—and we can,” Jansen was declaring. “We’re Americans; we can do anything!”
Now President Jansen was looking directly at the TV camera. “I envision a football game where the far right and the far left are sidelined, while the rest of us—and I mean the vast majority—move into the fray against violence, injustice, and moral decay. And in a year’s time we’ll be victorious. This country will have won its most crucial battle ever, and America will be a peaceful place where everyone has a job and the prisons are empty.”
* * *
—
The president spoke for forty minutes while the truckers wandered in and out through the glass door of Johnson Quality Hotel’s eating facility. His speech was interrupted several times by agitated questions and heckling from the journalists, but the security people’s high-profile presence assured that things didn’t get out of hand.
Chief of Staff Thomas Sunderland stood behind the president during the entire affair, totally expressionless, while at his side Wesley Barefoot’s face was getting whiter and whiter.
Bugatti knew how he was feeling. It was a bitch of a role to have to play.
“What the hell’s going on?” boomed the voice of the latest café arrival.
Bugatti turned around. Flanked by two shaved-headed characters, there stood his interviewee, the paramilitary leader Moonie Quale, glowering at the television set. He couldn’t have been less anonymous, wearing a complete military camouflage uniform decorated with white-headed eagles and a cartridge belt diagonally across his chest. Pure Che Guevara.
Marvin Gallegos nudged Bugatti. “There’s your man.”
“I see him. Pretty brazen, showing up here like this. Doesn’t the man know he’s one of the country’s most-wanted fugitives?”
Gallegos looked at the specimens of humanity around them. “What place could be safer than here?” he replied.
* * *
—
Three minutes later the militiamen led them out to the parking lot to a windowless van that was devoid of any markings except for the mud-caked license plates. It had taken Moonie Quale only a split second to get the mob inside good and worked up, and angry yelling could still be heard from the cafeteria. “This is the end of our glorious empire!” he’d cried. “That fucking communist bastard Bruce Jansen isn’t taking our weapons from us. He ain’t gonna make life easier for the niggers and the beaners and the Arabs—I’ll see to that!” he’d sworn, before punching his chest in the White-Headed Eagles salute.
They’d applauded him like he was some kind of pop superstar, these completely ordinary truck drivers from all over the country, screaming a fresh round of insults at the TV screen for good measure. It was an extremely disquieting spectacle. If President Jansen had been there, he might have had second thoughts. The question was whether he had any idea what he’d set in motion, and if Vice President Lerner might have been right in suggesting he had a screw loose.
* * *
—
Marvin Gallegos and Bugatti were shown into the closed-off back portion of the van, and there they sat in silence, listening as the asphalt under them was replaced by a bumpy, gravel road. The scent of crops grew stronger, and more and more dust was finding its way into the back of the van, indicating that they were way out in the country. Gallegos tried unsuccessfully to keep his equipment in place between his legs, and Bugatti looked at his watch for the fifth time. It was ten past ten in the morning. They must be at least fifteen miles away from Taver’s Cliff by now. He assumed they were driving north, since the tiny crack of light that came through the double rear doors shone in towards the left. He also heard a freight train close by, hauling its way through the countryside.
Then the van reduced its speed and turned sharply. They could feel the van find two even wheel ruts in the road, so the ride became smoother.
“This is a hell of a situation. Why couldn’t it have been yesterday, before Jansen went on television?” the cameraman wondered out loud, shaking his head.
“Take it easy, Marvin. The timing’s not good, I’d be the first to admit, but the interview will be—you can be sure of it.”
“But they’re crazy, these people. Just listen to them. Jansen’s really stoked some inferno that’s raging in their sick brains.”
Bugatti frowned and listened to the shouting coming from the other side of the van’s partition. It had definitely grown louder, so that now the words could be heard clearly. It was a chorus of hatred. They were going to poke Jansen’s eyes out, the men up in the cab. Slit the throats of the entire administration. Submerge the country in a sea of blood.
Bugatti didn’t doubt for a moment that they meant every word they said. Just as long as they didn’t start with journalists.
* * *
—
A half hour later they were led into a room with a high, oak-beamed ceiling. Enormous windows were divided into small panes, offering a great panorama of the surrounding farmhouse-dotted landscape. Everything in the room was tidy and completely restored. Driving by this farm, one would never suspect it housed the country’s supreme violence-preaching militia leader.
Bugatti began counting the semiautomatic weapons that were deployed in lock
ed racks along the walls. There were at least fifty, and above them hung huge photostats of the corpses of Martin Luther King, Robert Kennedy, John F. Kennedy, and Malcolm X. The far wall was practically covered by a tapestry with the white-headed eagle woven into a thicket of thorns and heathen symbols. There were no swastikas to be seen anywhere, but gold-framed portraits of Hitler and Milošević had their place of honor above the fireplace.
There they sat another half hour, staring at each other and the satanic wall decorations, while angry outbursts grew in volume in the room next door.
“I think Quale’s on the phone, talking with some of the other militia leaders,” said Bugatti’s cameraman.
Bugatti began to sweat. Just as long as the cretins in there didn’t suddenly suspect they were being overheard. He looked at Marvin. “I don’t doubt it. You saw Quale’s face when the president announced he was going to forbid people possessing ammunition without special permission, that you’d have to apply in writing for something that’s always been a constitutionally guaranteed right.”
The cameraman shook his head. “He doesn’t give a damn, just like all the rest of the militias. Who’s going to disarm them? The local sheriff?” He began laughing. It was a laugh Bugatti was glad he’d never heard before—and hoped he’d never hear again.
The laughter stopped abruptly. “No, John, what bothers Moonie the most is skin color. Jansen’s law proposal will mean that tons of black and brown criminals will be back on the streets. That’s what really pisses him off. Shit, it pisses me off, too!”
“The amnesty will include everybody, as I understand. Also criminal white folks.”
“Yeah, but that’s not what’s bothering Quale, is it?”
Bugatti shook his head. He didn’t believe for a second that Jansen’s plan had a chance in hell. The speaker of the House was a Republican, an archconservative. There was an overwhelming majority in both chambers of Congress for a tightening of legal procedure, and no one had ever before proposed such extensive legislation without both parties and all the lobbies first having been thoroughly acquainted with it. The proposals were doomed. Jansen knew the legislative rules of the game, for Christ’s sake, so why even try? It was incredible. He’d barely stated his agenda and the vice president had resigned, even publicly suggesting the president was mentally unstable. Jansen would face a massive barrage of criticism in the days to come. He’d be forced to resign or be removed from office within a week.
“Shh, they’re coming now,” whispered Gallegos, and positioned himself behind his camera. Moonie Quale had taken off his military uniform and replaced it with an impeccable coal-gray suit.
Here was a man who knew how he wanted to appear to a television audience.
Marvin lifted his camera, and Moonie Quale waved his shaved-headed bodyguards to the side of the room. Bugatti nodded to his cameraman. They were rolling.
“I thank the gentlemen of the press for making the long journey,” Quale began. “We’ve been looking forward for a long time to explaining on national TV what our organization stands for, so that all Americans will understand that we only want what’s best for the USA. But unfortunately events make it necessary to cancel this interview. The situation has changed—suddenly we’re at war!” He looked straight into the camera. “I want America to know that Moonie Quale is going to prevent our mad leader’s crusade! God bless America!”
He gave the cameraman a sign to stop filming and turned to his bald-headed cronies to bask in their approval. He was as theatrical as Mussolini but no doubt also as murderous as Saddam. Bugatti dried the sweat from his brow. It looked like they were going to let him and Marvin go. Moonie Quale’s only demand was that the brief recorded sequence be broadcast on all the nation’s TV networks.
He didn’t have to worry. Bugatti could guarantee it.
“As a security precaution, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to put these on,” he said courteously, handing them two black scarves that he instructed them to affix tightly over their eyes.
Before doing as he was told, Bugatti had a final question: “So what’s going to happen now?”
Moonie smiled. “If you can’t figure it out for yourself, then there’s not much to do about it.”
* * *
—
They were pushed out into the back of the van again, only this time it was quiet up front. All Bugatti could hear was a faint car radio being changed from station to station, all of them discussing the same topic. The president of the United States had grossly overstepped his authority.
After ten minutes a voice broke in on all the networks, cutting off the babbling commentators, the skeptical local politicians, and the ecstatic analysts. The New York sniper had struck again. This time it was in two different locations at almost the same time.
CHAPTER 11
Wesley’s dread of the media’s first reaction the next morning meant he didn’t sleep that night.
But the White House press secretary received help from the most undesirable quarter imaginable: a despicable, merciless murderer who lay in waiting where normal people were supposed to be safe. If it hadn’t been for the New York sniper, the attacks on President Jansen would have completely dominated every TV station’s prime-time news program. It was hardly a coincidence to rejoice over.
The sniper struck, killing three people, less than two hours after the president presented the first stage of his controversial law-and- order bill. Two of them—a couple in their forties—were felled on 14th Street, just outside a shop that sold secondhand DVDs, and a mere forty minutes later a seven-year-old girl was killed with a single shot at a playground in Liberty State Park. Same caliber, same weapon.
Now the threat had crept outside the boundaries of Manhattan.
The same evening, a letter was found lying on a counter in the arrivals hall of John F. Kennedy International Airport. It was addressed to Mayor Springfield and consisted of just five words: “Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens—who cares?”
The city came to a complete standstill.
* * *
—
He’d been sitting in his office from the moment the press conference ended. How many hours ago that was, Wesley didn’t know. He was dead tired and had no more to say, and the whole world wanted to talk with him. The president’s law proposal was going to be debated in Congress in three-quarters of an hour, and then things would get even worse.
Wesley’s mother had called a while ago and told him with a tearful voice that his father had taken all his boxes of cartridges out of the pantry and hidden them somewhere he wouldn’t tell her. He sure as hell wasn’t going to be disarmed, he’d said. The incident had frightened her and made her wonder whether something nasty might happen to Wesley, considering how bad the situation was getting.
She didn’t define what “something nasty” might be, but Wesley took the words seriously because he was feeling the same way himself. He’d have to keep his distance when he was with President Jansen outside the White House. He didn’t want to die or end up in a wheelchair like Reagan’s press secretary James Brady. A would-be assassin could appear out of nowhere; NBC’s alarming interview with Moonie Quale had just been aired and helped fan the flames. In any case, all right- and left-wing fanatics could agree on one thing from now on: Jansen and his lackeys had to go.
Open season had been declared on them.
He closed his eyes and tried to forget everything; his body felt heavier and heavier. Silent images slid by of his brother and himself standing on the veranda, using Budweiser bottles for shooting practice. And images of his father cheering when they scored a direct hit.
“Are you there, Wesley?” The voice was far away, and Wesley almost couldn’t open his eyes. The figure stood before him, leaning over his desk. “Have you a moment?”
He opened his eyes grudgingly to find himself staring straight into his president’s serious face.
“Lance Burton and Donald Beglaubter will be here shortly to confer with you. I have to tell you there’s been an assassination attempt on Attorney General Stephen Lovell and the chief justice of the Supreme Court.”
Wesley felt his shirt sticking to his body. “An assassination attempt? Where? What happened?”
“They were on their way to Congress in the attorney general’s car when it was hit by an explosion. We believe it was a bazooka, but we’ll know in due time.”
“Oh, God.” Now Wesley remembered. “They were on their way to present the bill. What happened to them? Are they alive?”
“The chief justice was killed instantly, but the latest reports say that Lovell will survive.”
Wesley shook his head. He simply couldn’t comprehend it.
“We’ll be postponing the congressional debate for security reasons,” Jansen continued, “but we have to make a statement to the press before long. Do you think you can handle it, Wesley? I’ve briefed Lance Burton about what is to be said.”
“Yes, yes, of course!” Wesley nodded, but he didn’t mean it. He wasn’t at all sure he could. What the hell were they going to want him to say?
The president stood up. “I value your loyalty greatly. You’ve already been fantastic. Your speech this morning was intelligent and very clear. We’ve already received positive reactions from Handgun Control, Inc., and several other gun control groups. They’re very satisfied with our initiative. I’m sure you’ll have a plaque under Jim Brady’s in the pressroom one day. Maybe they’ll even name the room after you. Who knows?”
Wesley’s lips were dry. He attempted a smile, but discouragement seeped through his brain like acid rain. “So I suppose you’ve also heard from the gun lobbies. For sure the National Rifle Association’s reaction was the opposite, wasn’t it?”
The Washington Decree Page 13