"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 fireworks 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 only removed 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.
Conrad was now clinging by his shot arm to a metal lightning rod that ran along the masonry wall, which was lined with tiny cracks.
He looked up at a square of starlight. Somehow Seavers had popped open the aluminum capstone at the top in order to release the aerosol form of the bird flu into the air. The square aperture framed the constellation Virgo, its alpha star Spica directly overhead, shimmering between bursts of fireworks and smoke.
The alignment, he thought. It's happening right now. Seavers is actually going to release his global plague at the exact moment the Washington Monument locks with Virgo.
Conrad climbed up the lightning rod toward Seavers, who was trying to raise the canister through the opening, but the base of the capstone was too small.
"Don't do it, Seavers!" Conrad shouted. "Think of all the people."
"This isn't a democracy, Yeats," Seavers shouted as he tried to force the aerosol canister through the aperture. "Your vote doesn't count. It never did. This is a republic. It was built to be run by elite overlords."
"Like the Alignment?" Conrad reached behind his back and pulled out the Masonic dagger that Seavers had lifted from old Herc before he killed him.
"Do you want to know why George Washington and the Founding Fathers wanted a representative government? Because they were the representatives!" Seavers shouted, finally forcing the canister through the aperture and lifting his finger to push the button. "They're the real Alignment. I'm the cure."
"Got a cure for this?" Conrad said and hurled the dagger across the air into Seavers's neck.
Seavers screamed and released his grip on the canister, which clanked down the pyramidion and disappeared into the darkness. Seavers himself began to lose his balance as he pulled the dagger from his neck and stared in fascination at the blade's Masonic markings coated with his own blood.
"Von Berg," he wheezed, gurgling up blood.
"What?" Conrad demanded. "Who?"
But Seavers's eyes rolled back into his head, his unconscious body wavering for a few seconds before it fell fifty feet to the observation deck below, killing him instantly.
Conrad reached up to the aluminum capstone, popped on its side like a hinge. It had been set atop the monument by Colonel Thomas Lincoln Casey, the same Mason responsible for the construction of the Library of Congress.
So close was Conrad that he could read the Latin letters engraved across the east face of the capstone, by design visible only to the heavens:
LAUS DEO
In Praise of God, Conrad repeated in English, and pulled it shut.
He climbed down the ladder and dropped down onto the floor of the observation deck. He leaned over Seavers's corpse and saw the twisted smile on his face. He then reached inside Seavers's jacket, removed the Newburgh Treaty, and pocketed it. He was about to pick up the canister of lethal virus when the thunder of boots rumbled up the stairwell and Sergeant Randolph in her flak jacket reached the observation deck.
"Drop the gun!" she shouted. "Hands in the air!"
Behind her popped up two more CPs with M-4s. A dozen more NPS officers clamored up behind them and surrounded him.
Conrad slowly lay the Glock on the floor and put his hands up. His left shoulder blazed with pain.
Sergeant Randolph kicked the gun away.
"Dang, Yeats," she said. "You killed Max Seavers."
"Before he was about to kill millions. That's a canister of bird flu on the floor. He was about to release it over the Mall. You're going to need a Haz-Mat team."
"You're going to need a doctor," she said, looking at his blood-soaked shoulder.
Conrad shook his head. "No time," he said. "Serena. You've got to get me back to her."
"Sister Serghetti?" Sergeant Randolph said. "Don't tell me you dragged her into this, too?"
***
Minutes later, while fireworks and cannons exploded over the Mall, Conrad and Randolph's R.A.T.S. burst into the secret underground laboratories beneath L'Enfant Plaza and found the Alignment boardroom empty.
Serena was gone.
And so was the terrestrial globe.
The shock of her betrayal stabbed Conrad like a dagger through the heart.
51
THE WHITE HOUSE
JULY 5, 2008
IT WAS JUST before nine the following evening when Conrad, his arm in a sling, was admitted in the Oval Office. The president was sitting on a sofa, sipping some Scotch, staring into the empty fireplace as a gentle rain drummed the windows behind him. To the right of the fireplace stood the celestial globe.
"You have the Newburgh Treaty, Dr. Yeats?"
"Yes, Mr. President."
Conrad sat down on the opposite sofa, eyes fixed on the globe, thinking of Serena, and wondering where she had gone. Above the fireplace mantle was a portrait of George Washington. Conrad almost felt like Washington was studying him as closely as the current president was. He wondered if the president knew that the East Wing of the White House was designed by architect I.M. Pei as a triangle to mirror the federal triangle, based on the slope of Pennsylvania Avenue as it intersects with Constitution Avenue and 16th Street. But now was not the time to bring it up.
"I suppose the other globe is safe inside the Vatican by now," the president said. "Somewhere even we can't touch it. But these globes are meant to go together."
"I wanted to talk to you about that, Mr. President," Conrad said. "Sister Serghetti has already seen the signatures on the Treaty. The damage is done. I think we could make an e
xchange: the Treaty for the terrestrial globe."
The president looked him in the eye. "How about the Treaty for your freedom, Yeats, so I don't throw you in military lockup?"
Conrad handed it over.
The president calmly unfolded it and then pulled out a pair of reading glasses. For a crazy second Conrad wondered if the president would repeat Washington's famous line from Newburgh:
"Gentlemen, you will permit me to put on my spectacles, for I have not only grown gray but almost blind in the service of my country."
But the president simply looked over the Newburgh Treaty once, and then again. Finally, he sat back and stared at Conrad over his reading glasses. "Some of the signatures on this Treaty…it's beyond shocking."
"Like your ancestor John Marshall, Mr. President?" Conrad said. "It's the sixth name down if you need help finding it."
"I see it, thank you," the president said tersely. "And no, Dr. Yeats, like you I had no idea of the extent of my family's dealings with the Alignment. But as you discovered, when your roots go that far back in American history, it's probably unavoidable. Some of these names will turn up modern-day Alignment figures. Some won't. It will be a tricky but necessary ordeal to ferret them out. But we will."
"Like Senator Scarborough?"
Conrad knew the FBI had raided Scarborough's home in Virginia that morning. News reports said a federal grand jury was looking into his ties to a defense contractor-biotech billionaire Max Seavers.
"It appears Seavers funneled money to the senator," the president said, sounding genuinely shocked. "Scarborough's position in Congress, where he sits on the Armed Services Committee that controls the Pentagon budget, could have allowed him to influence the flow of contracts to Seavers's company, or even Seavers's appointment to DARPA."
So that's how it's going down, Conrad thought. "So the only reason you wanted the Newburgh Treaty was to take names?"
"Hell no, Yeats," the president said. "This is America. Nobody gives a damn what your ancestors did. Or shouldn't. We're judged by our fruits, not our roots. The sins of the fathers should not be visited on their sons. I should think you would appreciate that more than anybody else."
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