“Shit, you military people always scare me,” the engineer said, “skulking around down here like shadows.”
“And because of us you get to celebrate Independence Day,” Conrad said and kept walking, without looking back.
Conrad emerged from a utility door onto a lower platform of the L’Enfant Plaza Metro Station. With no less than three Metro lines intersecting here, it now made complete sense why the Alignment chose the bunker below as their place to meet. But he was spotted across the platform by a D.C. police officer instantly, whose hand went to his mouth as he radioed in.
Conrad ran up the escalators to a food court tunnel, where four more policemen were coming toward him.
The underground food court connected him to the Loews L’Enfant Plaza Hotel, and when he cut across the lobby he emerged into the bright light of day and blinked.
There must have been several thousand motorcycles and leather-clad bikers revving their engines in front of him. Their black leather jackets said Rolling Thunder, and the backs of their bikes boasted American flags.
Conrad caught up to the rear of the group and scanned the nearest tattooed and bearded bikers prepping their machines. He found an old-timer in his sixties with a handlebar mustache and beer gut wearing a black “Ancient Riddles” T-shirt. He was wiping the chrome fork of his BMW chopper.
Conrad stole a helmet on the ground and brazenly walked up to the man. “Hey, partner, my bike’s busted and I could use a lift,” he said as he offered his hand. “I’m Conrad Yeats.”
The rider rose to his surprisingly tall six-foot-four-inch height and looked down at him. “Anything for the Griffter’s kid. My name’s Marty. Hop on.”
Conrad jumped on the chopper as Marty hit the accelerator and they rode off to join the others in the parade.
49
THROUGH THE SIGHT of her sniper rifle atop the National Archives, Sergeant Wanda Randolph watched the tail end of the Independence Day parade march down Constitution Avenue. She scanned the crowds for any sign of Conrad Yeats. America’s most wanted criminal was presumably still on the loose after yesterday’s Presidential Prayer Breakfast.
More than 22 government agencies, including the U.S. Capitol Police, U.S. Park Police, and Washington Metropolitan Police Department, were coordinating security: There were jets overhead, chemical sensors in the subways, Coast Guard boats on the Potomac, and more than 6,000 cops and troops on the streets.
Members of the 49th Virginia Infantry Regiment Civil War reenactment group now marched below to the cheers of onlookers, from babies to grandparents. It had been a morning of high school and military bands, and the Civil War types prompted as many smiles as the group that usually followed them.
Wanda could hear them now—the roar of thousands of Harley Davidsons revving down Constitution, their riders in jeans and leather jackets. Rolling Thunder was a motorcycling group that supported veterans. Today they had come out in full force, headlights blazing and American flags extending from the back of their bikes.
Her eyes followed them down Pennsylvania as they turned onto Constitution, one oddball biker in sunglasses after another. Several times she had to look away from the glare of the setting sun bouncing off the medals on their vests and the chrome on their bikes.
One neon yellow-and-chrome chopper with two riders caught her eye, and she followed it to the turn when another glare off the chrome blinded her for a split second. When she caught up with the chopper again on Constitution, it had only one rider.
What happened? Where’d he go?
She jerked her rifle back to the parade turn at Pennsylvania and Constitution and scoped the crowds. Nothing. And then she saw the small pump station building behind the crowd.
Dang, it was him, she thought. It had to be. Conrad Yeats.
She wanted to believe that Yeats was one of the good guys, but regardless of which hat he wore—white or black—he was about to get himself picked off by her or another sniper unless she could bring him in safely.
“Code red,” she yelled into her radio. “Pump station.”
She scrambled off the roof and out the National Archives, ran a block to the station and burst inside. Two Metro cops were down, knocked out, and a hatch to the sewer was open. Six FBI agents, plainclothes types from the crowd, swarmed in as she pulled out a map.
“The SEAL will pick him up in the sewer,” one of the agents said.
But the SEAL swimming up and down beneath Constitution reported nothing. “He may have gone deeper,” crackled the radio, the voice of a SEAL breaking up. “Shit, he’s in the Tiber.”
Long after the hill beneath the U.S. Capitol had ceased to be called Rome, the river upon which ships ferried marble from the White House to the Capitol retained the name Tiber Creek. And to this day the Tiber still runs beneath Constitution Avenue along the northern edge of the National Mall.
Conrad sloshed through knee-high water in the ancient sewer built of brick masonry. About 30 feet wide and ten feet high, the old sewer ran along the upper portion of the bed of the old Tiber Creek. Conrad could feel its rotting floor planks give way under his shoes and prayed he wouldn’t step into a hole and get sucked into the bog, never to return to the surface.
He remembered the Tiber from a consulting gig when the feds asked him how to preserve downtown D.C. as the ancient Egyptians had preserved the pyramids. The Tiber, like the Nile, ran in front of the Capitol and through the Smithsonian.
The whole Mall, in fact, was one giant flood plain. The east wing of the Natural History museum, Conrad had discovered, was already sinking and pulling away from the main building because the Tiber still coursed beneath the Mall. Only a carefully built and even more carefully camouflaged levee kept the Mall from being under water. The feds did a great job planting trees on it to hide it. Only by lying down on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and looking out toward Constitution Avenue could you see the levee with the naked eye.
Inside the old Tiber Creek sewer, however, there was very little to see. Conrad looked around the battered side walls and the stone arch ceiling over the river channel, which had seen better days. The brick was crumbling, and refuse from the more modern sewer line—cut in the 1930s—was raining down on him.
The sewer emptied out near the Washington Monument, where the east branch of the Potomac used to be before the feds filled it in. It was here Conrad started his search for a planned tunnel that may or may not have ever been built to the monument.
The “Capitol Fourth” concert was just getting under way on the National Mall when Max Seavers arrived at the Washington Monument, which was closed to the public today due to security concerns as well as a very special “private function”—a White House reception for Chinese Olympic officials.
Seavers checked his cell phone GPS, which confirmed that the aerosol canister containing his bird flu was in place and activated. Once everybody was inside the elevator, he’d speed dial the silent detonator and the revolution would be over before anybody even suspected it had started. The very thought that he could kill billions with the push of a button gave him a special kind of thrill, but not nearly as much as the knowledge that his vaccine would make him a savior to the rest of the surviving world.
He slipped the phone back in his pocket, next to the folded Newburgh Treaty.
“Dr. Seavers!”
Seavers turned to see the enthusiastic head of the Olympic delegation, Dr. Ling, walk up with a smile. “I saw you yesterday at the president’s prayer breakfast. Very moving.”
Seavers smiled, assuming Dr. Ling was being polite and that the Chinese had learned from the mistakes of the former Soviet Union when its leaders allowed a Polish pope and a cowboy American president to undermine their entire empire and bring it to collapse. The only reason he didn’t release the virus at the prayer breakfast—his first choice—was that it was too easy to trace back to him as “ground zero.” This plan was much simpler: The Chinese Olympic delegation would go up to the observation deck to enjoy the firew
orks and by the time they came back down they’d be infected with the weaponized bird flu virus. The virus would incubate for 28 days until it made its day-and-date world premiere at the opening ceremonies of the Olympic Games in Beijing. From there it would fan across the world. And everybody would blame the Chinese.
Genius, he thought.
“Well, if you liked the breakfast, Dr. Ling, just wait until you see the fireworks! The National Symphony Orchestra plays Tchaikovsky’s ‘1812 Overture’ for the finale. The piece is accompanied by live cannons—four 105mm Howitzers set off by the U.S. Army Presidential Salute Battery.”
Seavers led a delighted Ling and the small line of Olympic officials to the monument’s new elevator. The glass cab held 25 passengers, and would take 70 seconds to go up to the observation deck at the 500-foot level. Special panels in the doors were timed to turn from opaque to clear at the 180-, 170-, 140-, and 130-foot levels, allowing passengers to view the 193 commemorative Masonic stones that lined the interior of the monument. Seavers, however, knew from a secret DARPA report filed during the Griffin Yeats regime that there were really 194 stones. He had yet to figure out which stone was omitted from the official count, let alone unlock its significance. But at this point, he concluded none of that Masonic nonsense mattered anymore.
As the group stepped inside the glass elevator, Dr. Ling shook his head. “My wife is never going to believe this.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take your picture,” Seavers said, holding up his cell phone camera as the doors closed and the elevator began its ascent.
50
FEW OF THE CAPITOL FOURTH concert-goers who sat on the white marble benches and low, curving granite walls ringing the Washington Monument knew that these amenities were actually part of a multimillion-dollar security upgrade in the wake of the attacks of Sept. 11, 2001.
The decorative walls, for example, were augmented by retractable posts that could spring up in an instant to stop any charging vehicle packed with explosives from ever reaching the monument itself. And fifty feet below the marble benches was a secret 17-foot-wide, 400-foot-long tunnel connecting the monument, which was closed to the public today, with an off-site screening facility near 15th Street.
But Conrad knew.
Soaked with scum he didn’t want to think about, he emerged from the ruins of the Tiber Creek sewer into the tunnel he had been searching for—the only piece of an official underground visitors center for the Washington Monument that the National Planning Commission could never get approved but built anyway. The feds wanted any acts of terror to occur at the base of the site rather than in the upper level of the monument itself, where the walls weren’t as thick and where a blast would cause the sides to peel away and the entire structure to collapse.
Unfortunately, Conrad realized, Max Seavers was in that most vulnerable part of the monument right now—more than 500 feet above him.
On the observation deck, Max Seavers hurriedly herded the Chinese delegation back into the glass elevator. The fireworks on the Mall were almost over, save for the grand finale, and some of the Chinese had started talking about walking down the stairwell to view the Masonic commemorative stones after the show. Seavers couldn’t allow it.
“The ride down is two minutes and eighteen seconds,” he said. “So you’ll have plenty of time to view 45 of the 193 then. Plus, you’ll get to see the grand finale over the Capitol dome from our special private viewing area for you on the east side of the monument.”
“Thank you so much, Dr. Seavers,” said Dr. Ling as the doors began to close. “This has been fantastic. My wife will be…”
The doors shut and the elevator began its descent.
Seavers pulled out his cell phone, pressed the number 3 key twice and walked across the observation deck to the east window. He looked outside in wonder at the New World Order.
It is done, he thought.
The aerosol canister he had placed above the elevator cab’s overhead compartment was slowly releasing its fine, imperceptible mist on the longer descent. He couldn’t do it on the way up because of the shorter trip; his bird flu took a good two minutes of inhalation to guarantee infection.
By the time the Chinese walked outside and gawked at the last orgasmic gasp of Independence Day in the United States, they would be dead and they wouldn’t even know it. Same for the republic.
His phone rang and he looked at the screen. It was a private number.
“Seavers,” he answered.
“It’s Yeats, you sick bastard. Your star-crossed plan failed. The Chinese aren’t going to be spreading your germs after all.”
The shock took a moment for Seavers to shake. How did he escape? Then a pit in his stomach formed. “How in hell did you get this number?”
The voice on the other end said: “I just ripped off the cell phone from your aerosol canister inside the elevator cab and returned the last call. By the way, I’m coming up for you right now.”
Seavers shut the phone and frantically looked around the observation deck. He wasn’t about to wait for the elevator doors to open and let Yeats take a shot at him. He was going to have to shoot first, and he knew he had less than a minute before the elevator reached the observation deck.
He ran past the gift shop a half-level below the observation deck and then bounded down the stone stairwell that lined the interior of the monument, several steps at a time. He had only made it to the 400-foot level before he saw the elevator coming up and positioned himself, bending down on one knee and aiming his Glock at the open air shaft.
The glass cab was coming up fast, its panel windows opaque. Seavers aimed carefully, his finger on the trigger as the glass began to clear.
But the elevator was empty.
Seavers’s hands holding the gun wavered as he stared. Too late he saw Yeats hanging on to the bottom of the ascending cab with one arm, the other swinging up with a gun, firing.
The first bullet caught Seavers in the leg, spinning him back against the Masonic stone. He crouched in pain as he looked up and saw Yeats approaching the observation deck. He could hear shouts hundreds of feet below. Police would soon be swarming up the monument.
He fired twice at Yeats. A bullet bounced off the bottom of the elevator with a spark, and Yeats let go, falling into the darkness below. He heard a loud shout.
Seavers peered down and saw nothing. Then a bullet whizzed past his ear. Yeats had landed somewhere, hurt but alive and coming back up.
Seavers knew he had no choice now but to release the virus outside on the crowds below. And he wouldn’t be walking out the front door of the monument now. He willed himself to stand and marched up the steps in the darkness, each footfall exploding in searing agony. He looked into the shattered cab at the top with caution and the empty observation deck. But he could hear footsteps coming up the stairwell.
“Game over, sport,” he shouted. “You lose.”
He unfastened the canister from the overhead compartment of the elevator. Thankfully, Yeats had removed only the remote detonator mechanism. The canister was still intact and full of the deadly virus.
If conditions were even remotely optimal outside, the virus could survive 24 hours after being sprayed like a small cloud into the air. Just one tiny droplet inhaled by one person on the Mall hundreds of feet below would start a time-delayed virulent chain reaction.
Seavers smashed the butt of his gun against one of the large reinforced observation windows, but the window wouldn’t break. He would have to find some other means to release the virus outside.
He looked up at the ceiling above the observation deck and pulled a hidden latch to open a secret hatch door. A metal ladder like a fire escape telescoped down.
Seavers climbed up the ladder into the 55-foot-tall structure above the shaft called the “pyramidion,” because of the way its four walls converged to form the point of the 555-foot-tall monument. It was packed with several banks of electrical machinery and classified surveillance equipment, but for the most part
was as empty inside as a church steeple.
Slowly he began his ascent in the dark toward the capstone at the top of the pyramidion as he listened to the strains of the Capitol Fourth concert outside.
When Conrad reached the observation deck, it was empty. So was the elevator cab. Seavers had taken the canister with the virus. Conrad looked out the west window. A remote network television camera was stationed there, pointed out to capture the fireworks. From the east window he could hear the National Symphony Orchestra on the Mall reaching a crescendo.
He felt a stab of pain in the back, pushing him to the glass, blood smearing across it. The bullet passed right through his shoulder. Conrad heard two hollow clicks and looked up to see Seavers disappear through a hatch in the ceiling above the elevator shaft. He was out of ammo and had climbed up into the monument’s pyramidion.
He’s got the canister. The son of a bitch is going to release the virus.
Conrad knew the pyramidion was about 55 feet in height. So Seavers had another 40 feet to go to reach the capstone.
Forcing himself to stand up, Conrad put a hand to his shoulder, applying pressure on the gunshot wound. It felt like a heavy power drill, boring into him full blast. But he reached up, grabbed the ladder and pulled himself up with a gasp of pain.
“You’ve nothing to gain and everything to lose by stopping me,” Seavers’s voice called down from the dark. “Think about it. A new world order. No China. No religion…”
Conrad pointed his gun toward the sound of the voice. “You mean no Serena, you bastard.”
Conrad paused. A thunderous boom outside from the cannons from the “1812 Overture” sounded.
At that moment Seavers swung down from the dark feet first and struck Conrad in the shoulder full force, knocking the gun out of his hand. Conrad watched it clink against the wall and fall fifty feet to the floor of the observation deck.
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