The Washington Decree

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  Jesus Christ! They were talking about Moonie Quale! What the hell was the connection here? Wesley leaned over to make sure the video’s hard disk was recording everything.

  Please, someone out there—see this! he prayed, hoping some decent person over in Homeland Security happened to be watching and listening, so that there might be a chance of this shocking information making its way to the outside world.

  “That was good thinking, Kane. And you say now he’s in the safe house in Seattle?” Kane shifted back on the sofa, and the sound was gone again.

  Wesley viewed the silent horror movie on the monitor while he turned over recent events in his mind. What did it matter that he couldn’t hear what they were saying now? Hadn’t he already heard enough? He had just been witness to nothing less than an admission of high treason. If he had anything to say about it, these digitalized video files would be Sunderland’s personal and political epitaph. But how was he going to get away from here? Would it be possible to get a message to the president that he’d been confined to Burton’s office? Maybe the men at the guard post. At least they weren’t Kane’s men, as far as he knew.

  He left the little room, went over to Burton’s desk, pressed a few buttons on the intercom, confirming that it was still dead. It was the same with the telephone. What the hell was he going to do? His cell phone was lying on the desk in his own office, and there were no cameras in Burton’s office to which he could cry out for help. Nor did the badge Burton had given him have a microphone.

  He parted the curtains and looked out the window towards Pennsylvania Avenue. The rain had lessened but not the presence of Kane’s black devils.

  He stepped back from the window and closed the curtain. This was the height of irony. Here he sat, trapped with knowledge that could topple the world’s greatest democracy and unable to do a damned thing about it.

  He pricked up his ears. What was that sound out in the corridor? He sprang back to the surveillance room to check the hall monitor.

  It was just as he thought: President Jansen and his prominent guest had just emerged from the Oval Office.

  Wesley looked at the grainy image of Prime Minister Watts as he crossed the corridor to confer with members of his delegation. He seemed completely worn-out, and his expression was very grave.

  A couple of yards farther on, Jansen was holding a discussion with Ben Kane. Maybe Thomas Sunderland’s faithful servant was in the process of giving the president his own special version of the shooting of John Bugatti.

  Then Sunderland appeared in the corner of the picture. His gestures were surely meant to imply that everything was under control now.

  Bastard, thought Wesley, and he turned his attention back to the prime minister. Suddenly, Watts’s expression changed dramatically—for the worse. This must be the moment his diplomats were relaying the information they’d been given by Sunderland, telling the prime minister that the president of the United States had lost his mind, had committed countless horrific acts, and was responsible for throwing the entire nation into chaos.

  So Wesley wasn’t surprised to see Watts wave a couple of his bodyguards closer to him, then maintain a few steps’ distance behind Jansen as they headed for the White House lawn.

  “What the hell is Jansen going to think when he sees I’m not waiting for him on the podium?” mumbled Wesley to himself, as he tried to find a screen with a camera trained on the area outside the diplomatic reception hall. Unsuccessful, he instead tried to find a camera that was monitoring either Kane or Sunderland. Again, no luck. “Hell!” he swore, and began clicking feverishly between the cameras inside all the other offices. Not even the US embassy in Saigon at the ignominious conclusion of the Vietnam War could have been more deserted.

  He shook his head. Was this really the world’s stronghold of freedom?

  Then he tried a setting on the control board next to which was written OFFICE 15. It was the next-to-last of the monitored offices, and he expected it to be empty like all the rest.

  He stiffened at what he saw, unable to believe his eyes, his head no longer able to absorb more shocking input. He stuck his face right up to the screen. By God, it was true! There was his old traveling companion from China, Sheriff T. Perkins, applying a badge to the lapel of a comically oversized Armani jacket draped around his body. And wasn’t that Doggie, in a pleated yellow dress, looking more pale and haggard than he’d ever seen her?

  Under different circumstances this might have been a joyous moment. Instead it was a new source of anxiety.

  How’d they get into the building? he wondered. Even in his wildest fantasy he’d never imagined Doggie would actually act on the short telephone message she’d given him. And now, there she was. What did she think she was doing? Did she really believe she’d be able to force her way through this morass of madmen to deliver a plea to the president for her father’s life? What on earth were they up to?

  Now he had to get out of here, no matter what, and maybe this was the moment. There were only two of Kane’s men guarding him; almost all the rest of the security agents were keeping an eye on the president, prime minister, and their entourage. From the monitor he could see that, besides the two guards, there were some British diplomats still standing outside the door as well.

  He clenched his teeth. In a second I’m going out that door, straight into the midst of these Englishmen, and then strolling with them down the hallway, he told himself. Kane’s men wouldn’t try to stop him in a situation like that, and if they did, he would start shouting out all that he’d just heard and witnessed, even if it cost him his life.

  He looked through the door opening into Burton’s office and heard a very faint click, like the unclasping of a lady’s intimate undergarment, only it didn’t give at all the same kind of enjoyable associations. He turned the monitor sound all the way down and felt his measured breathing disintegrate into uncontrolled hyperventilation. He rose and stepped quickly into the office, directly into the scrutinizing gaze of Ben Kane.

  “I’ve come to convey the vice president’s apologies,” Kane said, looking over Wesley’s shoulder. Was he expecting others to pop out of the surveillance room, or what?

  He continued. “It was the vice president’s duty to act resolutely, you understand, but now we’re convinced you didn’t have anything to do with Burton’s eavesdropping on the president’s office.”

  He’s been told to say that, the piece of shit, thought Wesley. If only Kane knew what he knew. One day this security goon was going to pay for the waking nightmare he’d helped create! But the words that emerged from Wesley’s mouth were: “That’s all right, I understand completely.”

  Kane motioned towards the door. “The press conference is beginning in a couple of minutes. President Jansen is expecting you to introduce him and the prime minister.”

  He was led through the Cabinet conference room, where all the double doors had been thrown open wide and sheaves of light were pouring in through the windows. For a moment the scene looked so grand and righteous. Never before had he seen his workplace illuminated so beautifully; never had the sweet scent from the freshly mowed White House lawn been stronger.

  When he got outside he looked up at the sky. The blue hole in the clouds seemed to be getting larger.

  His eyes panned the scene. It was almost quiet. Most of the people assembled outside were closing their umbrellas. FEMA agents were deployed around the periphery of the lawn, vigilant and ready, and a forest of microphones rose in lonely majesty from the podium. Ten yards back on the glistening lawn a long row of photographers and cameramen stood with their equipment, prepared for action. And next to them waited the usual mob of journalists, capable of killing for the chance to ask the first question.

  Jansen and Prime Minister Watts were standing just outside the White House, and behind them were positioned the bodyguards, eyes darting incessantly in all directions from behind the
ir Ray-Bans.

  Most of the Cabinet sat next to the door on a row of upholstered chairs. Less-important guests from the British embassy and the State Department were sitting on the side of the podium where Wesley was positioned, and behind them was a row of empty folding chairs, soon to be occupied by lower-ranking members of the British delegation who were still standing in the corridors, grappling with how to tackle the new, suddenly ominous situation.

  Wesley had to think clearly. The most important thing right now was to have a quick word with Jansen before he had to orient the press regarding the state visit. It was essential that Jansen knew what the British delegation had been told about him, and by whom. Right now could be his only chance. Later might be much too late.

  He scouted the area reserved for Cabinet members, looking for Sunderland, but his seat was vacant. How the hell could that be? He was always where the action was.

  A nasty thought struck him as he realized that Doggie and T. Perkins were presently situated in an office a mere fifty yards away.

  Had Sunderland gotten wind of their presence? God forbid.

  “I just want to have a couple of words with the president,” he said casually to Kane. He turned to head for the podium, but Kane’s hard grip on his arm stopped him in his tracks. A quick, professional move that went unnoticed by the guests and media.

  “Don’t you think it can wait?” Kane said indulgently, trying to make it sound like a question while his eyes betrayed a carrion hawk that had just gotten wind of rotting flesh.

  There could be little doubt that Kane had put two and two together when he caught Wesley stepping out of Burton’s surveillance room. And now Kane could sense that Wesley was about to relay what he knew to the president.

  He attempted to alleviate Kane’s suspicion with a wide smile. “The president may have a last-minute statement he wants me to make. This is normal procedure, so what’s the problem?”

  But Kane’s expression didn’t change, and his grip tightened. “Normal procedure? But you know that’s not true, Mr. Barefoot.”

  Wesley had to control himself. Let fucking go if you don’t want me to start screaming all your dirty, treasonous deeds to the whole world, he thought—but said nothing.

  “You just go up there and introduce the president and Watts, okay?” It was like Kane was speaking to a child.

  Wesley stared at the restless fingers of Kane’s right hand. Was he about to reach for his automatic and shoot the White House press secretary in front of all these people? Did Kane sense so clearly what Wesley would say when he went up to the microphone? Wesley was convinced he did. Kane was standing motionlessly, waiting to make his next move. But how did Kane imagine he’d ever get away with shooting him?

  Wesley nodded. “Yes, of course it can wait. I’ll introduce them now.”

  In the second when Ben Kane released his grip, Wesley was ready to bolt the short distance over to the president. But a second later a paralyzing blow to his throat stopped him in his tracks. He heard utterances of surprise from people behind him as Kane grabbed him to support him, waving people away as though it was a simple case of dizziness. Wesley was stunned, able to neither move nor speak, but Kane’s assurances made the guests relax again.

  It was all over in a matter of seconds.

  Then he got Wesley over to an empty seat in the back row near the rostrum and waved over one of his men to ask him to give the president a message.

  “Wesley Barefoot has suffered a dizzy spell,” he said, adding that there seemed to be something contagious going around since Lance Burton had apparently been struck by the same bug. Therefore the president was going to have to make the introduction himself.

  Kane leaned down over Wesley as soon as the man was gone. “Just so you know: I just don’t trust you, Barefoot,” he whispered. “Sunderland is determined to keep you; he’ll need a witness from the White House staff he can trust when this is all over, but it won’t work, if you ask me. You know and see too much, and you talk with too many people. You’re going to be a problem, I can feel it. What the hell was it you were doing in Burton’s surveillance room? Can you answer me that?”

  Wesley attempted to straighten his shoulders to allow his lungs to give him a better chance to breathe. His tongue lay immobilized in his mouth, blocking that source of oxygen. He was just capable of moving his head slightly to follow his surroundings with his eyes but was incapable of reacting.

  Kane lay a hand on his shoulder and let it slowly glide towards his neck. “No, Barefoot,” he repeated, “I don’t trust you at all. I can see it in your eyes, you’re not on our side. I can almost smell it.”

  He could feel Kane’s fingers edging towards his carotid artery. Then came the slightly increasing pressure. He stared at his numb legs that sprawled before him on the wet grass and his useless hands lying in his lap, palms up. As he was concentrating on trying to move one of his fingers, an icy wave spread out from his shoulders as Kane continued squeezing.

  He’s going to do it. He’s going to kill me in front of all these people and cameras, Wesley convinced himself. Afterwards, Kane’s hand on Wesley’s neck would be explained as an act of caring, that he’d been taking Wesley’s pulse because he was worried about the press secretary’s condition. He would be admonished for not having called a doctor immediately but would respond that he had no idea it was so serious, that death had struck so unexpectedly.

  In the meantime Wesley’s lungs were again beginning to function. He turned his eyes to the empty rostrum, thinking that what used to be his altar was going to become his tombstone. It was nothing dramatic, just a sorrowful, solitary feeling of not having achieved what life had to offer.

  Then some of the British delegation showed up and sat down on the chairs in front of him, noticing neither him nor Kane. They were all looking at the empty lectern and whispering to one another. Then a couple of female delegates arrived who were not quite as discreet.

  “What do you think Watts is going to say to all this?” one of them asked. Wesley tried to kick the woman’s chair leg, but his foot barely moved.

  “Watts? Hah! He’ll keep the facade in place, my dear, you can rest assured,” the other one whispered back.

  The pressure of Kane’s hand on his neck stole his power of concentration. He was beginning to feel a sensation like approaching sleep. It was not unpleasant, more a feeling of relief.

  He looked out at the Washington Monument in the distance. Majestic clouds swirled above the obelisk, leaving more and more ice-blue sky. The buds on the cherry trees were already threatening to blossom.

  It was an immensely lovely day to die.

  He managed to notice a shadow moving across the lawn as his head fell to his chest and everything became grayer. When the silhouette came to a halt next to him, he could somehow sense that it hadn’t stopped by chance. Then he could feel a new hand on his shoulder, moving slowly towards Kane’s tightening fingers and finally grabbing them and pulling them away from his neck.

  He could feel a struggle of hands on his shoulders and then how Kane took a hard grip on the hand of the stranger.

  Even though Wesley couldn’t see Kane, he could sense he was not in control of the situation. He thought he heard Kane’s voice, and then his eyelids began feeling less heavy and his blood resumed its job of pumping oxygen to his brain. He took a huge gulp of air and felt the prickly return of feeling to his legs and arms. Then he tipped his head up, and there stood Doggie in her pleated dress, caught in the grip of Kane’s viselike paw.

  Kane stuck his head between Wesley and Doggie’s. “I’ll kill him if there’s so much as a peep out of you, Doggie Rogers,” he hissed. “What the hell are you doing here, anyway? Don’t you value your life more than that?” He raised his head again and prepared for an opportune moment to neutralize the two of them.

  What’s he going to do? Wesley wondered. What excuse is he going to
invent this time? With his body beginning to function again, he turned his head farther so he could see the row of Cabinet members.

  On the far side of the VIP tribunal one of Billy Johnson’s bodyguards was whispering to his boss. At first the secretary of the Department of Homeland Security’s expression remained calm, then it changed dramatically. He nodded curtly to his bodyguard, and then they both began scrutinizing the horizon in all directions. Wesley tried to follow their gaze; something serious must be happening out there. Then he turned his head away from Johnson and spied Sheriff T. Perkins over in the direction of the south entrance to the Oval Office, standing behind two of Kane’s men. At just that moment their eyes met, and T lifted his hand slightly in recognition, but Wesley was unable to reciprocate.

  Then the assembly stood up. Many began clapping, but far from everyone, including the diplomats sitting in front of Wesley.

  Wesley tried standing up, too, but his body was not yet ready to obey. Then Doggie suddenly gave Kane a shove and managed to drop a sheet of paper in Wesley’s lap without being noticed. Wesley stared at the paper, trying to focus. It seemed to be some kind of technical drawing, but he didn’t know of what. It looked like a cross section, along with a series of numbers and a couple of curves emerging from the cross section. At the top of the page were written the words assassination attempt?, ballistic trajectory?, and Monument? in smudged lipstick. It was Doggie’s handwriting. He raised his eyes to the Washington Monument once more.

  His hands began to quiver, then his whole body. He couldn’t tell whether it was his blood circulation returning or the realization of impending disaster.

  Wesley could feel Kane’s rage through the one hand he still had positioned behind his neck. In reality, Kane knew he should be figuring how to get out of there, but first he had to see to it that Wesley and Doggie didn’t wreck the plan.

  Wesley’s mouth was getting drier as his anxiety grew; the danger was imminent. They were planning a gruesome attack from the top of the monument, and Kane knew all about it. No wonder Thomas Sunderland hadn’t shown up for the press conference!