The Washington Decree

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  * * *

  —

  Something came over T when they made it up to the grassy areas between the law courts. A hop and a jump and they were on the other side of the courthouse. He scanned the area as he walked and then bolted across the street. “Follow close—get it? Don’t think. Just do as I say!”

  She nodded. Exhaustion was setting in. How the hell could that bony man hold such a pace?

  “Are you ready?” he asked, before racing up H Street like he was determined to win a marathon. Then he hauled her in between two parked cars, shoved something into the trunk’s lock, turned it, opened the trunk, pushed her in, and slid in after her, after which he pulled the trunk closed.

  Suddenly her whole universe consisted of a tiny crack of light, the rain hammering on the trunk, and T’s wheezing breathing. Then she felt how badly she was positioned and how sharp T’s bones were. It was uncomfortable as hell. She must have made some little sound, because T shushed her, and then she heard the hurried steps of people on the street. First one pair of feet, then several. Some men were calling to each other, but it was impossible to hear what they were saying.

  They lay like that for a while, until they could hear the voices growing fainter.

  “I can’t lie like this much longer, T,” she whispered. “I’m getting impaled on your knee.”

  “We’re staying here ten minutes more, at least. They’re still around.”

  “I can’t hear anything.”

  He tried pulling his knee in closer to his body. A few minutes later they could hear more steps and voices, then all was quiet.

  “Two more minutes,” he said. “They think we’ve escaped by car. They just heard one take off down H Street.”

  “Did you hear them say that? I didn’t!” He kept waiting.

  Suddenly he shoved the trunk open. They were back in the downpour. “Good old Buick,” he said, patting it once they were out again.

  “We’ve got to get back. Hurry up,” he ordered, pulling her towards the courthouse.

  “That one,” he cried, when they’d reached the courthouse square. He pointed at a shabby police car. So this was where he’d parked.

  Pretty smart, she thought, as he opened the door and shoved her into the back seat. She looked through the steamed-up windows at the silhouettes of twenty or so patrol cars like his that were parked in the parking lot. Good camouflage.

  They crouched down in the seats so they weren’t as easy to spot from outside, and T handed her an old, stiff rag to dry herself off.

  “Thank God it was you following me, T. But what happened, actually? When did you spot me?”

  T ran his fingers through his hair and found an almost empty but dry pack of cigarettes in the glove compartment. “I saw you from the first floor of Barnes & Noble while that Fed was dragging you up the street.”

  “How’d you recognize me?”

  “I didn’t. Not until you raised your hand when you were going up the escalator.”

  She put her hand to her breast. “You saw that! But . . . where’d you go?”

  “I disappeared out onto the street. You’re wanted by the police, you know.”

  “Yeah, I’ll say. I’ve been running for my life the past twenty-four hours.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry, but I only found out last night when I parked here. Apparently, they had a bulletin out for you over the police radio all day yesterday. Tell me exactly what the hell has happened.”

  It took a cigarette’s time to fill him in briefly.

  “Okay. I strongly warn against driving in the vicinity of the White House, Doggie. For several reasons.”

  “What I’m afraid of is that I’ll have to, anyway, T. But first I’ve got to get hold of Bugatti. You have a cell phone?”

  Police sirens could be heard in different directions as he handed her the phone.

  She removed Bugatti’s slip of paper from the little Buddha statue and punched in Danny’s number.

  “Hello?” There was a voice immediately.

  “It’s me,” she said, and the person hung up.

  “Short conversation,” said T, and lit another cigarette.

  She looked at the floor of the car and kicked one of the many empty beer and soft drink cans.

  “Yeah, sorry about the mess,” he said quietly. “I was sitting here all night, trying to think.”

  She nodded. She couldn’t care less about the trash in T’s patrol car. “Bugatti’s boyfriend was trying to warn me, I’m sure of it,” she said. “Maybe his line is tapped. Maybe they’re already there.”

  “I’d believe the latter, if I were you.”

  “Oh, God, T, what are we going to do? They may be arresting Bugatti as we speak.”

  “There’s nothing you can do. . . . Just listen!”

  She heard the sirens echoing off the monumental courthouse walls. No, there was nothing they could do.

  “Doggie, I wanted to warn you, because this is much bigger and more dangerous than you may think.” He related the events of the previous day. She broke in when he came to the account of Sunderland’s childhood and his talk with Sunderland’s adoptive father.

  “So you suspect Sunderland is behind all this,” she said slowly.

  “Absolutely.”

  “John Bugatti and I do, too.”

  “Listen to an old hand, Doggie. Nothing has happened by chance here: the charges against your father, the assassination of Mimi Jansen, the assassination attempt on the president, all the horrible events that have been happening around the country, the unjust measures used against members of government and the Cabinet, the choice of ‘trustworthy’ people around the president. Sunderland’s behind all of it. It’s becoming clearer and clearer to me.”

  “I have some theories about the murder itself.”

  “So do I, but let that rest a moment, or else we’ll lose time.”

  “You’re thinking about my father?”

  T took a deep drag on his cigarette. “No. Yes, him, too, of course, but first we’ve got to ask some questions of ourselves and others, before we know what our next move should be.”

  “What questions? There are plenty of them.”

  “What I’m wondering is: Why?” He stubbed his cigarette out in an overflowing ashtray.

  “Why what? Why Sunderland’s doing this?”

  He nodded.

  “He wants to be president.”

  “I think so, too,” T agreed, “and with all the skeletons in his closet, this is the only way he can do it. And it’ll work, too, if we don’t stop him. You realize that, don’t you?”

  “How will it work?”

  “Lyndon B. Johnson became president, and so did Gerald Ford.”

  “But Jansen has neither died nor resigned.”

  “Not yet—no. But everything inside me says it’s going to happen today. Look at this town. It’s crackling with tension. There are thousands of armed plainclothesmen down on the Ellipse. Sunderland needs to have it happen before the entire country falls apart.”

  “So you think Jansen will be murdered today and that Sunderland expects to be installed in his place.” She took a deep breath. “Jesus, T! Everyone thinks Sunderland’s completely loyal to Jansen. How will he avoid being brought to account for Jansen’s deeds afterwards? How’s he going to get someone to pick him as Jansen’s successor? It won’t be easy for him.”

  “Listen, Doggie. Sunderland will call off the state of emergency immediately. He’ll claim he was trying to stop the president the whole time. That he’s just received highly incriminating evidence that the president misused his power to provoke the state of emergency. That Jansen was sick in the head. That the sniper killings in New York, the school shootings—everything—was instigated by him.”

  “He won’t get very far. It’ll all be disproved.”

  �
�He’s prepared for that, believe me. He’ll find people to back up his claims. Important people.”

  “Not anyone in the White House.”

  “Yes, I think so, though they may not know it yet themselves.”

  Even though she was still dripping wet and the temperature in the car was near freezing, she began sweating. “Yes, you’re right. He’ll blame Jansen for everything, except the murder of his own wife. That’s why my father must die. Then everything will be taken care of.”

  “Yes. Your father was useful to Sunderland. And now Sunderland will make sure that no one can claim he tampered with your father’s trial after he’s become president.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mortimer Deloitte, the prosecutor, has disappeared. I’m sure he was on Sunderland’s payroll. There were too many loose ends in that case. Like who shot Toby O’Neill, for example. Deloitte’s failure to investigate that was no procedural mistake. He did it on purpose.”

  “My God! But they’ll find Deloitte, won’t they?”

  “Not alive, if you ask me.”

  “T, we have to make it to the White House. We’ve got to speak to Jansen.”

  “That won’t happen. We’ll never get in. The British prime minister is arriving in a little while. They’re on full alert. They’ll arrest you immediately if you try it.”

  “Listen, T, what the hell else are we going to do, huh? There’s hardly any time left. Do you want us to lodge a complaint with the Human Rights Commission in the Hague first?” She raised her hand to ward off his reply. He obviously didn’t know what to say, anyway. “You’re getting me into the White House—end of story. Say that you’ve captured me and now you’re bringing me in. Try to picture it: You’ve got a sheriff’s uniform on under that silly coat, don’t you? Why shouldn’t they believe you? We’ll call Wesley and tell him what’s happening. Come on, let’s do it now.”

  “I heard this morning that Marvin Gallegos was tracked down and shot by the authorities.”

  “Okay, I know I’ve heard that name before, but I can’t remember who he was. Is it important for us?”

  “He was John Bugatti’s cameraman. The one who dropped his camera during the assassination and let it keep running.”

  She nodded. Now she remembered him. He hadn’t had much to say on the witness stand. “Yes, but there was nothing on that film that was usable.”

  “Yes, there was. I think it proved that your father went out for a glass of water and dropped it when he returned, just as he claimed. The tape’s been manipulated.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’ve seen the film clips. You can see where they did it.”

  Shivers ran down her back. “What you’re saying is, Gallegos was killed just to be on the safe side. So he couldn’t help analyze the tapes if it became relevant at a later date.”

  “By then they would have edited the tapes left and right, and he would have been able to see it. He would have been a dangerous witness. They’re saying he was working with the militias, and it was in this connection that he was shot.”

  “And you think they’ll do something similar with you and me if we get near the White House.”

  “Something along those lines. Absolutely.”

  “What about Bugatti?”

  T put out his second cigarette. “There’s nothing we can do, Doggie. I’m really sorry to say it, but that’s the way it is. He’s going to have to try and take care of himself.”

  She put her head in her hands. Ice-cold, hair-raising shivers began wracking her body again. “You say you think they’ll carry out the assassination today?”

  “It stands to reason.”

  “Then we have to go over there. For the sake of my father and the whole country. If you won’t help me, T, I’ll do it alone. I mean it!”

  “Do you, really?” T shook his head, put his hand in his coat pocket, and pulled out his car keys. He fumbled with the cigarette pack and shook out the last one.

  “Then we’re going to do it in style,” he said, and turned the key in the ignition. Suddenly one more voice joined the chorus of police sirens.

  CHAPTER 38

  The night had been merciful. If it hadn’t been for a chance motorcyclist named Sean, John Bugatti would have been lying next to Tom Jumper in the Front Royal morgue, or wherever it was they’d taken him—he was sure of it.

  Besides hanging on for dear life, he’d been weighing his options as they’d rocketed through the Virginia woods. Perhaps it was best if he just completely disappeared, starting with random, abandoned hideouts to sleep in by day and heading south by night. If there was anyone who knew the dangers out there, he did, thus giving him a greater chance to avoid them. And if he could walk fifteen miles each night—which wasn’t that unreasonable—and could keep up his supply of medicine, he could be in Miami in a couple of months. In Miami he knew a lot of exile Cubans, including ones who could slip him into their old homeland. He’d always liked Cuba.

  But then he came to his senses, remembering how his illness was slowly debilitating him and realizing how hard it was to ignore his conscience.

  * * *

  —

  John and Sean reached Brickyard Road, close to Great Falls, by the time the sun had been working its way into the sky for a half hour’s time. They pulled up alongside three light military vehicles and were received by eight well-appointed men in army officers’ uniforms. They immediately saluted Bugatti’s rescuer as though he were their superior. Judging by the tiredness in their faces, they’d been waiting for some time, and Sean didn’t plan to keep them waiting much longer. As far as John could tell by their quiet conversation, they had to meet two other groups in “Cairo,” and the sixth of October was mentioned again. Today was the twenty-ninth of March, so the date must have had another meaning—but what?

  While Sean changed into uniform his men were questioning him about John’s identity and what he was doing there. His presence clearly made them uneasy until Sean told them about their escape and how John had nearly lost his life while appearing on Tom Jumper’s pirate radio show. Then some of them recognized him, and a couple even nodded. They had heard the program and also knew Jumper was dead.

  “Where are you going?” one asked John, and he told him.

  “That tea salon is next to the FBI building—have you thought about that?” said another. “You’re wanted, so do you think it’s wise?”

  “We can give him this, can’t we?” This time it was a soldier holding a transparent package he had just taken out of his vehicle. “It doesn’t fit any of us, anyway.”

  “What is it?” John asked, turning to Sean and suddenly seeing another man standing there: different hairstyle, false mustache, and a look of authority in his eye that could make his men cast themselves willingly into the jaws of death.

  “Wait here, Bugatti,” said the transformed Sean. “In two hours you’ll be picked up and driven into town, all right? And remember: You’ve never seen me. Follow the driver’s instructions; we’ll brief him before he picks you up.” He turned towards his men. “How many are we still missing?”

  “Ronnie Benson and Shooter,” one of them answered.

  Sean nodded. “Okay, Shooter’s gone straight to the rendezvous, and Ronnie will have to take care of himself. We can manage without him.” He gave John a slap on the back in parting and climbed onto the front seat of the first vehicle.

  One of the soldiers gave John a Budweiser and a bologna sandwich, and the unit drove off.

  Inside the clear plastic bag he found a gray-green officer’s uniform from Marlow White. It was obviously new, with brass buttons, black bands on the arms, and stripes down the legs, plus a variety of medals. He had no idea what they stood for; he could be a general in the medical marines or a choirboy on a submarine for all he knew. John had never been in the military, though he’d had lovers who
were. No, there was nothing sexier than a man in uniform—and now he was one, too.

  He emptied his pockets and laid the contents—a handkerchief, the cell phone that he hadn’t dared to use, and the cash he’d been given by Danny—on a mossy tree stump by the edge of the road, along with his folded-up civilian clothes. Then he put on the uniform and tried to imagine how he looked. He was sure he didn’t cut as sharp a profile as the boys he used to chase.

  He put the money in his pocket and considered tossing his cell phone way into the underbrush, but instead put it in the inner pocket of his uniform, sat down on his old clothes, and began massaging his tender ankle. Thank God the swelling was starting to go down. The jump off of the radio transmission van could have been much worse. He rotated his ankle gingerly and tried to think.

  They had mentioned that date—the sixth of October—a date he was certain symbolized something else. Somewhere in an abandoned corner of his memory he knew what, too. It just lay there, waiting to burst into his consciousness.

  * * *

  —

  He was picked up by a jeep, and he and the driver bumped along forest roads and byways for over three hours without either of them saying a word.

  At one point the driver passed him an ID card, and John took it with apprehension.

  It read: “Tony Clark, major, 54 years, medical corps,” along with some other information. Was he really supposed to show this if it was demanded of him? He didn’t resemble this Major Clark in the slightest. They must be kidding.

  Just as he was about to raise a protest, the silent driver pointed at a little box sitting on the seat. John opened it, revealing contents that would thrill any variety artist who needed to make several fast character changes. He sighed and adjusted the rearview mirror. The wig had better fit, and the mustache not fall off.

  He was finally let off at Staunton Park, and from there he made for downtown Washington on foot while the sky became more and more overcast and occasional raindrops pelted his shoulders. Several soldiers saluted him along the way, and he returned the gesture.