The Washington Decree

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  Next it zoomed in on the damage done to the front of the presidential residence. The row of bodies before the sea of flames and the battling firemen was growing constantly. A real-life soundtrack was provided a second ahead of the silent pictures on the screen by the actual tumult and screaming Wesley was hearing outside the Cabinet Room. It was a heartbreaking moment, and if he could, he would have cried. If only he could have prevented it all from happening. But now the hungry TV camera lenses really had something to chew on; it was like a prime-time show, disastrously out of control.

  “Can’t we turn that off?” Sunderland cried out, when he noticed the British PM standing with the remote control.

  Then the picture on the screen changed. It was the head of NBC himself, Alastair Hopkins, looking straight at America from under his bushy eyebrows. He began speaking the words Wesley had been hoping to hear for weeks: “We have a history-making news flash from our direct line to the White House pressroom, where a moment ago we received evidence that high-placed public servants—in whom the American voters have placed their utter confidence—have possibly been responsible for a series of treasonous and tragic events leading up to, and including, today’s attack on the White House.”

  Wesley lowered his head again, looked under the conference table, and watched Sunderland’s shoes as they strode towards Prime Minister Watts, taking no heed of the wounded lying on the floor. Sunderland’s dark agenda for reaching the pinnacle of power had turned into a frantic fight for his life as people in the room blocked his path, and the scene on the TV changed once more.

  The clip that was now being shown meant the end of the road for Thomas Sunderland. Wesley ought to know because he had taped it himself. It was Sunderland’s conversation with Ben Kane. So Doggie had succeeded in coupling the video machines to the intranet! Thank God for that. The picture quality wasn’t good, but there was no mistaking the leading actors.

  A sense of indescribable relief and deliverance swept over Wesley. Now he could begin to believe this nightmare would have an end.

  “You got Burton out of the way?” came Sunderland’s voice from the television screen.

  Wesley could see President Jansen’s foot twitching on the table end above him. The room was silent apart from the sound from the TV and Sunderland’s heavy breathing. Then, on cue, all the feet under the table turned in the direction of Sunderland’s, like a colony of spiders that had simultaneously spotted a fly caught in its web. In the meantime the damning video clip continued flickering mercilessly, inescapably over the screen.

  “It’s been manipulated!” screamed Sunderland. “Turn that shit off; none of it’s true, goddammit!” But no one was listening. All ears were concentrating on hearing about what Kane and Sunderland had done with Chief of Staff Lance Burton. Then Sunderland’s feet suddenly disappeared upward, and footsteps bounded across the conference table.

  Sunderland jumped straight from the table out through the double doors, into the smoking inferno of the corridor.

  “Stop that man!” yelled Prime Minister Watts at the top of his voice. This caused the firemen outside to turn around instinctively, in time to see a desperate Sunderland, unable to decide in which direction to run. Then one of them trained his fire hose on the vice president, knocking his feet out from under him and shooting him across the terrace like tumbleweed in a prairie storm. But when the firefighter turned his hose back on the flames, Sunderland was on his feet again. Then he disappeared from Wesley’s field of vision.

  “What’s he doing?” came the president’s weak voice from above him.

  “As far as I can see, he’s trying to get the gun out of his bodyguard’s hand,” answered one of the doctors.

  “Trying?”

  “Yes, the guard’s body is lying crushed under a column, and the vice president can’t get to the hand with the gun.”

  “Bring Sunderland in here; don’t let him get away,” whispered Jansen weakly.

  Wesley no longer had the strength to keep his hand pressed on his chest wound. His heart wasn’t beating so hard now. It felt good, almost liberating.

  Then indistinct shouting was heard outside.

  “I think they got him,” said one of the doctors. “The guards down at Executive Avenue spotted him.”

  “Tell them to make sure he doesn’t escape,” whispered Jansen.

  Try as he might, Wesley was losing his powers of concentration, and the sounds in the room and on the TV merged into one.

  “Have they got him?” asked the president.

  “No, but it seems he’s coming back here voluntarily,” said a doctor.

  Suddenly a dripping-wet silhouette stood in the opening of the veranda door, thinning hair plastered to its head and jaw jutting defiantly. A totally debased human being.

  For a moment the vice president stared down at Wesley with an insane look in his eyes that shone with a combination of confusion and contempt. Wesley gave a sunny smile in return.

  This apparently was more than Sunderland could take. Stepping over to the oaken chair from which he’d dispatched many official duties, he gripped it so hard his knuckles turned white. Then he took a couple of deep breaths and suddenly raised the chair over his head, ready to smash in the skull of his defenseless commander in chief.

  In spite of his failing heart, it gave Wesley a start. Then came the dry, popping sound of two quick shots, and Sunderland froze with the chair in midair, his spine splintered in two.

  Wesley heard the chair and then the vice president crash to the floor around him, with Ben Kane still on the TV monitor, explaining to Sunderland how the militias were just about to storm the prison in Waverly and slaughter Bud Curtis.

  Then he heard no more.

  CHAPTER 44

  Doggie stood for a long time, watching the ambulances work their way towards the southwest exit. She had a hard time relaxing, even though the doctors had assured her Wesley would survive and was in good hands. She’d done all she could to persuade the doctors to let her come along, but they refused. He was already getting blood transfusions, and the operating table was ready—that’s what counted, they told her.

  Then a Secret Service agent approached and said she’d have to come along and answer some questions.

  She tore her eyes away from the red, flashing ambulance lights and followed the agent to the West Wing, still a flickering inferno, with rubble and battling firemen. The firefighters were silent. What was there to say?

  The agent showed her into Lance Burton’s reception room and asked her to wait until they were finished with their present interviewee. Would she like a cup of coffee in the meantime, he asked.

  She shook her head. She was happy just to sit down. It was exactly 4:00 P.M., Sunday, and it looked like she had succeeded in her mission.

  “Are you sure word’s been given to the prison to put off my father’s execution?” she asked the agent. The man nodded briefly, just as he had the first two times she’d asked.

  She stretched out in Lance Burton’s secretary’s chair and closed her eyes. She was totally burnt out. They’d have to awaken her when they were ready.

  * * *

  —

  She awoke with a start when Billy Johnson placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “It’s your turn now, Doggie Rogers,” he said.

  She looked up at him, unfocused. “How long have I been sitting here?” she asked.

  “You’ve slept for three hours. It’s seven o’clock in the evening. Sorry you’ve had to wait so long.”

  There were many people assembled in Burton’s chamber that she recognized but hadn’t seen in several weeks. This included the Senate’s president pro tem, Hammond Woodrow, the Speaker of the House of Representatives, the minority leader, the acting Chief Supreme Court Justice, Homeland Security Chief Johnson, and finally Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Omar Powers. Their heads turned in her
direction as though she were an oracle, about to reveal the future.

  The first words out of her mouth were: “My father is innocent. The killing of Mimi Jansen was Sunderland’s work. I can’t prove it right now, but the evidence is there. Will someone please assure me that his execution will be stopped and his case reviewed? You have to promise me before I can start answering questions.”

  She looked at them, one by one, and saw with horror how they avoided her eyes. Finally, Billy Johnson spoke. “I’m sorry, Miss Rogers, but it’s too late.”

  Her body reacted before her brain, in the form of a cold sweat and something that felt like a blow to the stomach. She was ready to throw up, and a security cop rushed over to her.

  No, no, no—she wasn’t having it; it couldn’t be! The words had never been said; her ears must be playing tricks on her. How could a man in Johnson’s position say it was too late? How could he feed her such a rotten lie?

  She wanted to scream but couldn’t.

  “I regret it with all my heart, Doggie,” Johnson concluded softly, and folded his hands.

  She tried to collect herself; the battle wasn’t lost yet. She just had to ask the right questions in the proper fashion. “How do you know it’s too late? It’s not until tomorrow.”

  He looked at her sadly. “It’s not that, Doggie. Something else awful has happened, I’m afraid.” He nodded to General Powers, who took over.

  “My condolences, Miss Rogers, but your father was killed at about the same time as the attack on the White House.”

  She stared at him. What was it he’d said?

  “Yes, I’m afraid it’s true. The militias stormed the prison this afternoon to free their compatriots, and at the same time all the other inmates were liquidated—pardon the expression. We suspect they didn’t want any witnesses.”

  The militias, he’d said. No, she wasn’t about to accept that. What could they have had against her father? These men were lying; it was just a nasty, psychological tactic to destabilize her before they hit her with their damned questions.

  “The militias blew open the doors to the prison with hand grenades, then they forced their way to death row and freed their men,” the general continued. “We found your father’s body in his cell. He’d been shot, like all the rest of the prisoners. My deepest, deepest regrets, Miss Rogers.”

  This was when her tears started rolling. His deepest regrets, he’d said.

  Johnson laid a hand on her shoulder. It felt like an electric shock going through her body. “Here,” he said, handing her a handkerchief.

  She dried her eyes as he explained they’d gotten their information from the local police, and that their own technicians were on the way. Apparently, there were still several unanswered questions, including what had become of the prison warden and one of his men. They were expected to be hiding out in a nearby marsh and could likely shed more light on the situation when they were found.

  As though more light could bring her father back.

  * * *

  —

  When she had drunk a little tea and could once again look them in the eye, she accepted Johnson’s thanks for the resourcefulness she’d shown earlier by shouting her accusations against Thomas Sunderland into the badge microphone.

  She nodded. “So you heard that,” she said quietly.

  Johnson confirmed that the machinations of the Department of Homeland Security had been regrettably slow. Otherwise they could surely have minimized the deadly extent of the attack, he admitted sadly, adding that she also deserved praise for having saved Wesley Barefoot’s life and for having gotten hold of the terrorists’ technical sketches. Both acts had been instrumental in saving the life of the president. Furthermore, there were strong indications that Barefoot was one of the few men who hadn’t abandoned his honor to let himself be corrupted by Sunderland’s pathological agenda or Jansen’s systematic abuse of his office.

  “Where did you get those drawings, by the way?” Johnson asked.

  She looked at him blankly. Did he mention men of honor? What about himself? Was he just passing the buck; had he nothing at all to answer for?

  Johnson repeated the question.

  She looked straight at him. “The drawings? It’s a long story, and not particularly important. And besides, there are plenty of other people to thank. Where is Sheriff T. Perkins, for example? Nothing’s happened to him, I hope.”

  “He’s being questioned in one of the other offices.”

  “He’s not going to be charged for throwing that dart, is he?”

  “I rather believe he’ll be recommended for a medal, Miss Rogers,” said Johnson. That was good.

  “And Wesley? How is he doing?”

  “He lost quite a bit of blood and is hopefully lying on the operating table as we speak. Luckily, none of his injuries were life threatening. He’s trying to get the doctors to let him come over here tonight, but I doubt they will.”

  She thought about her father and tried not to cry; she’d have plenty of time for that. Right now, there were other things to concentrate on. Like Wesley’s well-being. And that this nightmare didn’t continue.

  “And Lance Burton?” she asked.

  “He’s hospitalized at Bethesda and is doing all right. But unfortunately we found the body of John Bugatti about an hour ago, down in the basement. Wesley Barefoot gave us a brief report on the way to the hospital. That’s how we knew where to find Bugatti.”

  “John’s dead. . . .” she said softly, seeing him before her as he waited for her in vain in the tea salon. It was she who had gotten him to come to Washington; it was her fault. Lips pressed together, she told herself she’d have to be careful now if she didn’t want to break down altogether.

  “We saw how he was killed on the video.” Billy Johnson shook his head. “Yes, John Bugatti also played a major roll in unraveling this mess. We have a lot to thank him for, especially knowing how ill he was.”

  She looked at her feet. “Was he ill? I didn’t know.” She shook her head. “And his boyfriend, Uncle Danny. Does anyone know anything about him?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry to say the police found him dead at home when they came to deliver the message about John Bugatti’s death. He’d apparently been strangled.”

  This was too much to bear. She hit her knee with her fist again and again until General Powers stopped her. She didn’t want to have any more to do with it. She wanted out.

  “I have to go home and get some sleep,” she said, rising to her feet. “I can’t take any more. Will someone please have me brought home?”

  Here the Senate’s president pro tem Woodrow straightened up in his chair. “Miss Rogers! At this moment the country is without a leader, and the vice president is dead. Time is of the essence here. The Constitution demands that we find a solution quickly, as I’m sure you’re aware. You must assist us in our work. There are plenty of others who are being interviewed regarding the present situation, and we will surely be wanting to speak to you again. By tomorrow we must decide under which conditions we can continue governing this land and have some idea who is to be held accountable for what has happened. You’ll be brought home, Miss Rogers, but it will have to wait. I hope you understand.”

  Billy Johnson tried to straighten up in his chair as well, but with less success. “We have to use the time on these hearings that they require, Doggie,” he said. “I know it’s rough on you, but right now congressmen are already holding meetings, gossip is rife, and we have to inform these people about what is going on. The guilty must be found out, and the rest of us will have to try to redeem ourselves. We must take responsibility, we must take our punishment, but first we have to do our best to grasp all the aspects of what has befallen us. Don’t you agree?”

  * * *

  —

  It was nighttime and lights were burning all over the White House. It was as though a
clear message was being sent that a new page was being turned in American history.

  Doggie had cried. She had answered questions, she had dozed a little, answered new questions from new people, and had cried some more. Many tears were to fall, but that’s how it was to grieve alone. What did it matter that people she didn’t even know came up and hugged her? It was she whose father lay in his own blood in a cell where he never should have been.

  Her crazy, clever, loving father was dead. Not even her mother would despair over his loss. So it was all up to her.

  Outside Doggie’s little sphere the Senate was about to gather. The House Speaker had returned to ask more questions, this time in the company of former vice president Michael K. Lerner, who’d been hiding out in a hunting cabin near Knoxville with two former Senate colleagues. And there were questions enough. About Sunderland and Ben Kane and his men—who were either dead or under arrest—and about Wesley’s and her relationship.

  But most of their queries dealt with the president—his mental condition and what she knew about it. She had a strong feeling they had already made up their minds: The president couldn’t be held responsible for Sunderland’s criminal acts but was still guilty of grossly abusing his office.

  Which was true enough. Thousands of people had lost their lives, fortunes had evaporated, and “American values” and the judicial foundation of the country had been trashed. She could tell from the eyes of her questioners that they weren’t interested in reinstating the judicial and constitutional apparatus exactly as it was before. It was more about respecting the individual citizen’s set of values. They wanted to find their way back to the middle of the American road, they said. It was just a question of whether they could.

  Finally, Doggie could sense their urgency in having the nation’s highest positions filled as quickly as possible. She could tell the two men sitting across from her considered themselves prime candidates.

  Just before they let her go they informed her there would be a Senate hearing, and she was very welcome to participate.