No Corner to Hide (The Max Masterson Series Book 2)

by Mark E Becker

  He passed the plaque on his way toward the stairs, and paused to read the inscription, resting the large backpack at his feet.

  Give me your tired, your poor,

  Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore; Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door! “I’m just doing my job,” he said aloud. He kept his voice low,

  but there was no audience for his words. The building was officially closed to the public until repairs had been completed, and security provided by the National Park Service was reduced to a skeleton crew while workers completed their repairs inside. He was more than an hour and a half early, plenty of time to unpack his payload and slip out of the building in the gray morning, as if he had never been inside.

  He made his way slowly up the stairs toward Lady Liberty’s arm and the torch, ever-mindful that it was too fragile to accommodate the constant wear and tear of public access. That route to the top had been closed to the public since 1916, and that insured he would have no visitors while he placed the small bomb at the peak. He was an expert locksmith, and any barriers between him and his goal were quickly dispensed with. All thoughts he had about his weight causing a catastrophic break in the famous statue were dispelled quickly, when he realized that the arm and torch had already been fully restored in recent years.

  He was alone.

  CHAPTER 39

  M

  ax held Rachel’s hand as they walked through the colorful field of wildflowers that graced the Fairlane estate. There was no lawn, replaced by his father years before his birth in a fit of practicality. Senator Masterson had

  ordered the green expanse of nothingness plowed up and hauled off, and replaced by a hundred sacks worth of native wildflower seeds that gave birth to a garden that bloomed year-round. The senator had been practical that way.

  The seeds had naturalized the landscape over the years, and the only landscaping was the addition of a flagstone walkway that wound through the grounds toward the Potomac and back, over small babbling brooks and through the forest that lined the river banks. It was an idyllic escape that Max and Rachel made a part of their daily routine whenever they were home, once in the early morning when the song of birds served as their alarm clock, and once before or after dinner, depending on when the golden glow of the setting sun was touching the tops of the trees.

  “I don’t feel like the White House is home to me, Max said. “It’s more like a symbolic home built into a fortress. You can’t be alone there, free to walk around naked if you want to.” Rachel giggled. She and Max had spent many an evening lounging nude or walking around the spacious estate without a stitch of clothing, but those evenings had gone the way of their privacy.

  “I remember that game of strip hide-and-seek we had that night when the moon was full.” She laughed as Max pulled her close, their bodies melting into one. He could feel her heart pounding in excitement, and she could feel his desire building. It happened every time he held her.

  “So do I.” He recalled their passionate lovemaking under the stars. “You and I really left our inhibitions with our clothes that night.” He smiled, reminiscing of the days when nobody knew where they were or what they did, a carefree time.

  Rachel was his, and he was her one and only. She had never told him that, but he had never asked. She knew the stories of his early years, throughout his twenties and early thirties. He had a reputation for being a suave and confident, dedicated to bedding beautiful women and getting constant exposure in the press. Max’s image got more exposure than his words. He was known for one sentence interviews, but that suited glamour reporters well.

  The press had no interest in depth or insight. They wanted a cutline beneath an image and something to run for fifteen seconds by deadline, showing Max in the company of yet another “female companion.” If they dated more than once, the name of the woman would be found, and she would have her brief glimpse of fame as a possible romantic interest. Three dates would elevate her to relationship status, accompanied by an article detailing her background. If the young woman consented to an interview, Max invariably terminated their relationship. There were few who had lasted beyond the romantic interest stage.

  When Rachel attracted Max’s attention, all of the carousing with social-climbers had ended abruptly, and the press immediately went into withdrawal. They attempted to dig into Rachel’s background,

  MARK E. BECKER

  but the information they found was sketchy. No previous romantic relationships beyond the puppy love stage during high school. No arrest record or any indication that she had any vices at all.

  Her father had been a highly decorated pilot who served in the first Gulf war, and he had gone on to start his own helicopter manufacturing firm, designing high-tech helicopters for military and business applications. Rachel’s mother shared her striking dark hair and svelte figure, staying at home to rear Rachel and her younger brother, Tom, who had grown up to be a married CPA with a nice wife and three kids. It was all bland fare for the readers and viewers accustomed to the glamour and fabricated scandal of Max’s past, and it was deemed not newsworthy.

  The fascinating information about Rachel had to do with her interests. She shared her father’s love for flying, and at 13 she had soloed her first single-engine plane. In the years between her first flight and her 26th birthday, she became licensed to fly nearly everything from her dad’s helicopters to passenger jets. Flying was her passion, and she had accompanied Max on the campaign trail on most of his forays, acting as his pilot. That way, she could spend more time with him while remaining active doing the things that gave her the most satisfaction. While Max was off doing his own thing, she could usually be found at an airport.

  Although the press could sometimes predict where she could be found, they were totally stymied in their ability to get a statement from her. Their frustration wore on for the first two years of the relationship between Rachel and Max, until the information became sensationalized gossip, rumor, and speculation.

  Articles with the headlines Max Dating Mute Beauty and Masterson’s Female Companion; Talk Much? were featured in one week, to Max’s delight. He loved messing with the press. Rachel had the intuition and intelligence to know that any words that came out of her mouth would be sensationalized, chopped, and slanted to suit the particular audience that each segment of the press serviced, and she had steadfastly refused to fall into that slippery pit.

  “The earth laughs in flowers,” said Rachel, quoting Emerson. She paused to pick an Indian Paintbrush from a naturalized bed of identical flowers that covered a small hill that faced the sun. Its orange, red, and burgundy colors were visual therapy that helped them slow down from their hectic lives, if only for the duration of their visits to this special place.

  They kissed and held each other for a long time, turning their heads to the west to gaze at the setting sun. From the private vantage point where they lay, they were invisible to the world, but to each other, a sexual intensity grew. Max ran his fingers through Rachel’s long, brown hair. When he reached the back of her head, he pulled her even tighter, until they were fused in passion. They made love in the darkening shadows—the highlight of the day—and into the night.

  u

  CHAPTER 40

  Washington DC

  I

  nauguration Day is traditionally held on January twentieth of the year following the November election, and the significance of the date has been lost to history.” Postlewaite paused for effect and took the occasion to take a long draw on his splendid cigar and

  survey the faces of 200 elected officials who had been invited to attend. “The reason for the delay between the vote and the swearing in is simple, I guess, but it is no longer logical,” he continued. “It was to give our ancestors time after the election to make it to the occasion on horseback in the dead of winter. They then partied for five days prior to the ceremony and for five days after, before they g
ot back on their horses and rode home with a glorious hangover.” He was addressing his students, the politicians he had trained since childhood to excel in the business of politics. They were there to honor his two prize students, Max Masterson and Scarlett Conroy, who were about to become the President and Vice President of the United States of America. They had attained the pinnacle of all politics, and they were the culmination of his life’s work.

  In keeping with Max’s disdain for mindless tradition, the site for the inaugural ceremony was moved from the Capitol Grounds to the Jefferson Memorial, where he had begun his campaign for the presidency by making his announcement at dawn. He also scheduled the nation’s first annual Jefferson Memorial dance competition, in recognition of the National Park Service’s well-known fetish for arresting people, all of them law-abiding citizens of the United States of America, for doing just that. Dancing. A meaningless regulation, and the law that made it more ridiculous, were obliterated from the mindless path that politics has been known to follow. Max had no intention of following traditions that had no meaning or to punish people trying to be Americans.

  His audience that time was a hastily-assembled collection of the Washington press corps, who had been summoned before coffee to hear a speech from a political unknown. They were enraged when Max produced a one-minute soundbyte rather than the typical hourlong self-aggrandizement that politicians are known to produce on such occasions. They had nothing more to report on Max Masterson in the early morning hours of that day other than the words he spoke, and the words that resonated with the voters could be reduced to one message: Max Masterson was unique. That quality immediately set him apart from the usual suspects, the perennial candidates who spoke long about nothing other than the stale ideas that had been recycled from their previous failed attempts.

  This time, they were all there, and they didn’t know what to expect from this new president. The politicians and the press were there of course, but so were the glitter people, the ones who flew in from Hollywood to be seen. Max and Scarlett were ready, and the Chief Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court was there. The inaugural parade was ready, with the Marine Corps Marching Band and the high school bands, too. It began in the traditional way, with the flyovers of military jets and the huge mass of humanity who drove in for the occasion. It happened every four years, and the pomp and circumstance of the occasion was broadcast to the unlucky souls who couldn’t make the trip.

  This was the capitol at its best, the swearing-in of a new administration, with hope for the future and the discard of the old. In government, it was the most hopeful time. Most people attended the inauguration from the comfort of home. The audience for the event was expected to be over a billion viewers worldwide. Here was a man who was not a politician that was running for president, and America became curious about his reasons for doing such a damn fool thing. When he chose Scarlett Conroy to be his running mate, the viewership increased dramatically, and the special occasion took on an aura of royalty. Washington had not seen so much “new blood” since the Camelot days of the Kennedy administration.

  The agenda for the day began with the swearing-in of the new president by the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court and the muchawaited inaugural address by Max. It was to be followed by the swearing-in of Vice President Scarlett Conroy. Her speech was allocated a larger segment on the program, which was provided to the attendees in paper form. There was no guest list. The inauguration is the welcoming celebration of the people, and anyone who chose to attend could do so if they could fly, drive, or get there somehow.

  The sheer size of the audience was staggering, and they weren’t just there for a parade. The inauguration of this president had a new life to it, a hopeful and visionary sense of purpose. Max sat in the black limousine, waiting for the motorcade to transport him the two blocks from the White House to the Jefferson Memorial directly across the Potomac Tidal Basin. Rachel was at his side, dressed in a coral white sequined dress with matching hat and gloves, looking very much like a young Jackie Kennedy. She had been swarmed upon by fashion designers and event planners for the previous three days, and she felt like the runner-up on a fashion makeover show, transformed into an image she hadn’t chosen for herself and very uncomfortable with her new image.

  Regardless of how she felt, her female admirers loved it. They gasped and clapped as she walked down the front steps of the White House, and she assumed that her life would never be the same again. Designer clothes were mandatory garb for times when she had to make a public appearance. Any other time, she could wear jeans and a T-shirt or her flight suit, which suited her just fine.

  They sat silent for twenty minutes before Max had enough of the waiting. He was notoriously impatient when it came to down time, and when he reached that point, he had to move. “Why can’t we just walk over there? I can see it from here,” he exclaimed. Armstrong, who sat in the front seat, turned, his face ashen, and addressed his passengers. “Mr. President, we have our web of security deployed at the Jefferson Memorial and at all points in-between, but you would have to walk through the Ellipse, past the Washington Monument, and around the Tidal Basin to get there. My best guess is that there are close to a million people between here and there, and they are all going to want to touch you, shake your hand, and touch Rachel, too. It would be a breach of protocol for us to change plans at the last second, and I advise against it.”

  “Well, we’re just going to have to breach protocol then, because I’m not going to sit in this limo one more second. Rachel, would you like to take a little walk with me? I have to make a speech over there on the far side of the cement pond.”

  Rachel giggled and held out her hand. “I’d be delighted to accompany you on your walk, kind sir,” she replied. Max opened the door and stood. He smoothed his topcoat and extended his gloved hand to Rachel. She beamed at him and waved to the crowd, who stood en masse, hoping for a view. The weather was sunny and unseasonably warm for January, a perfect winter day. “I see that you have arranged a nice day for a tour of our national landmarks,” she replied.

  Max smiled. “I assure you, pretty lady, that this will be a day like no other.”

  They waited for a few seconds to allow the Secret Service to scurry to new positions along the way, and two Capitol Police motorcycles zoomed ahead to part the crowd. Capitol police on horseback were frantically summoned for crowd control. Then they walked, and the applause began.

  The crowd did want to touch them, to the apoplectic consternation of their protectors. To avoid being pulled and detained, Max and Rachel extended their hands far enough to touch, but not close enough for a formal handshake, and that seemed to satisfy the surprised onlookers. With no way to cordon off the sidewalk, the motorcycles cleared the path while secret service ran slightly ahead and to the side of Max, and they were able to part the crowd with little difficulty. Most people were satisfied with a picture of the occasion, something to tell to their grand-children, taking a part in history. The entourage rounded the end of the tidal basin without incident, and they were able to maneuver inside of the cordoned area within two minutes, to the relief of the security team.

  u

  CHAPTER 41

  T

  he improvised EMP bombs were a new generation of terror device. They didn’t kill people unless they were within a fifty yard radius of the blast. The gamma radiation that caused the damage could be focused by cone-shaped charges, and

  the tritium gas that enclosed the enriched plutonium core served as a magnifier, enhancing the explosion by a large factor. The net effect of this development allowed the bomb makers to be able to conceal the device inside a small container.

  The disguise for the EMP bomb that was installed at Arlington House, the national landmark home of Robert E. Lee, was concealed inside of an air compressor tank. It had been placed under a tarp along with other construction equipment at the home, which was closed to the public during roof restorations. The antique furniture of the home, a legacy of Lee’s fam
ily, had been wrapped with care in bubble wrap and trucked to a warehouse while repairs were made. On inauguration day, the tourist attraction would be closed, and no restoration would be done. All government workers have a day off when the next president comes into office.

  Darkhorse had personally delivered the bomb two days before the event. It was as a matter of pride for him to do it right; there would be no second chance. He drove the pickup truck with the compressor towed behind on a small trailer that could be maneuvered by hand once it was removed from the hitch. He was dressed in coveralls festooned with the logo of the sub-contractor that had been the low bidder for the roof repairs. The truck and trailer drove slowly onto the grounds and approached the security station from the service entrance as he had observed the other workers do over the previous week, concealed from view by a stand of heavy woods along the river.

  He presented a counterfeit work order to the uniformed security guard, who examined it with the nonchalance he expected.

  “I thought you weren’t going to start until next week on account of the inauguration and all,” the young guard said in a strong Virginia drawl.

  “I’m just here to drop this here compressor off before the whole town turns into one big traffic jam. Ya’ll know how it gets,” said Darkhorse, mimicking the drawl perfectly. He was a human chameleon when it came to entering and leaving unobtrusively, and he had learned from experience that the more alike he could appear to the victim of his deception, the easier it would be. He had no intention of lingering longer than it would take to unhitch the trailer and situate the EMP bomb due east. When he was done cranking the hitch to a level position on top of a cinder block and using a level and compass to assure that the orientation was spot on, he stood and looked across the river toward the Capitol. The morning sun made the white of the monuments appear golden, and the panorama of sights was special. Satisfied, he turned and yanked the door of the pickup open with a creak. He waved to the security guard as he left the manicured grounds of Arlington House, slowing to marvel at the huge limestone columns of the portico. They don’t make them like that anymore, he thought to himself.