by Joseph Flynn
With no one around to see or hear her, Ellie called Hugh Collier.
She almost sobbed in relief when he answered on the first ring.
“You’ve got to get me out of here, Hugh,” she told him.
He understood intuitively what she meant.
“You’re inside the perimeter?” he asked. “On the church grounds?”
“Yes.”
“Put her on speaker,” a muffled voice said.
Ellie heard a click and then Sir Edbert said to her, “Ms. Booker, are there any other reporters on your side of the line?”
“Line, what line?” Ellie demanded.
“You have no TV?” he asked.
“I can get a video feed on my phone.”
“Whilst you continue to talk?” Sir Edbert asked.
“Yes.”
“Go to our streaming feed,” Hugh told her.
Fearing what she might find, Ellie followed instructions. She saw a satellite view of the Salvation’s Path campus. Around it was a telestrated line glowing in green and red.
“I’ve got it,” she said. “The line is the wall they’re building?”
A section of the green part of the line turned turned red as she watched.
Ellie started to sway. She had to put a hand against the building to steady herself.
“You’ve got to get me out of here,” she demanded. “Call whoever’s in charge out there; tell them I’m being held here against my will. I’m not one of these maniacs. I want out!”
The lack of a response made her wonder if she’d lost the signal.
“Are you there? Hugh? Sir Edbert?”
“Ellie,” Hugh said, “this could be a tremendous opportunity.”
“You are the only reporter in the midst of an historical event,” Sir Edbert told her. “The story will be ours exclusively. Don’t you see, the longer it lasts the better. We’ll have more material, more human drama. We’ll be able to play it out indefinitely and you’ll be the star.”
Ellie hissed, “They plan to commit mass suicide if they don’t win.”
The words had no sooner left her mouth than she realized she couldn’t have handed two TV executives a better ending.
“You’re not going to get me out, are you?” she asked.
There was no response, but this time she heard persistent static.
The video feed was gone, too.
The cell signal was being jammed. Neither Hugh nor Sir Edbert was going to tell any of the authorities about her plea for help. She’d bet her stash of krugerrands on that.
She saw what looked to be the same group of armed men again. This time they were running in the opposite direction. Like they were extras in a bad comedy. Only they had real weapons and she was sure it wouldn’t be long before people started dying for real.
Then a loud voice speaking from directly overhead startled her.
Not God, but it might as well have been.
“This is United States Attorney General Michael Jaworsky. The Federal Bureau of Investigation and supporting elements of our armed forces are here to arrest Reverend Burke Godfrey.”
The armed forces, Ellie thought. Looking up, squinting at the bright sky, she saw the silhouette of a familiar shape. A drone. That was the source of the public address speaker. She wondered if the drone had Hellfire missiles, too.
If so, mass suicide might be unnecessary.
The AG continued, “If Reverend Burke surrenders immediately, everyone else will be able to go home tonight. If he doesn’t, we will complete building the wall and every adult found inside of it will be charged with obstruction of justice, at a minimum. Reverend Burke and those of you aiding him have fifteen minutes to decide.”
The comic book commandos were back again. Two of them stationed themselves at the corner of the administration building. This time they looked at her. Their expressions were unfriendly, and now they looked purposeful.
Ellie realized what task they had been given. It was neither offensive nor defensive. It was restrictive. No one would be allowed to dash to freedom. The Richmond Wall would go up as its predecessor in Berlin had and there would be no escape to the West or any other point of the compass.
A new thought entered Ellie’s mind: With all the guns in this place, there had to be one she could get her hands on.
GWU Hospital
Dr. Jones, the chief oncologist on Kenny McGill’s medical team, was in her office reviewing the schedule for bone marrow transplants that would be done that day when Barbara Marcos knocked on her door.
Jones looked up, surprised and a little displeased by the interruption.
Barbara both saw and understood the reaction. You didn’t want to break a doctor’s concentration when people’s lives depended upon her.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Doctor, but there may be a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“I called the White House to confirm that the president would be here on time to make her donation. The first person I talked to said that he couldn’t confirm anything about the president’s schedule and demanded to know how I had come by the phone number I’d called. When I explained about Kenny McGill’s BMT he backed off a bit and agreed to transfer me. Someone else came on and said he would see if he could get my message to the president. I told him this was a matter of life and death. He said right now it was the president’s life they were worried about. Then he said, ‘Oh, shit.’ Like he shouldn’t have let me know that. Then he broke the connection.”
Dr. Jones’ face fell. “My God, is there a threat to the president?”
“I don’t know. But even if she’s delayed for very long, what do we do?”
The doctor fought hard to keep her focus but it wasn’t easy. Both the president and Clare Tracy had spoken to her in confidence. Fortunately, their desires meshed. The president wanted her bone marrow to go to Kenny McGill; Clare Tracy wanted hers to go to Annabelle Chalmers. So that worked. Both women wanted their decisions to be kept from the other. That worked, too. The president asked that her choice be kept from her husband and everyone else. Dr. Jones had agreed to that as well. Though Clare Tracy hadn’t asked for the same confidence, the doctor decided to extend it to her.
Barbara Marcos said, “If the president can’t make the donation in time, do we honor Ms. Tracy’s request to give her donation to Annabelle?”
The second half of the question — Do we let Kenny McGill die? — went unspoken.
Before she could process all the consequences of the choice, Dr. Jones nodded.
Then she asked herself if that was really the ethical choice.
Clare Tracy’s original motivation had been to try to save the life of Kenny McGill.
Would it still be her choice to donate to Annabelle if she learned the president was unable to donate to Kenny?
Could Ms. Tracy reverse herself now and let nine year old Annabelle die?
Would it be ethical to ask her to make such a terrible choice?
Dr. Jones said, “I’m going to call Artemus Nicolaides. He’s the White House physician. He has to get through to the president and tell us what the situation is.”
“And quickly,” Barbara replied.
Number One Observatory Circle
McGill found that two front row seats on the green where the wedding ceremony would be held had been reserved for Patti and him. Welborn was talking with Francis Nguyen, the former Catholic priest who would bless the young couple’s union. He spotted Sir Robert Reed, Welborn’s father, whom he’d met last year at the dinner given by the Queen at Buckingham Palace. With Sir Robert was an attractive woman who looked too much like Welborn to be anyone other than his mother.
McGill nodded to the couple and went to speak with Welborn. He shook hands with Francis Nguyen and asked if he might borrow the groom for a minute.
“Of course, but don’t keep him too long, if you wish the ceremony to start on time.”
“No worries, Pastor,” Welborn told him.
He and McGill moved off to one side of the flower-covered wedding trellis.
“What is it, Jim?” Welborn asked. He still had trouble not calling McGill sir.
“Do you know Zachary Garner by sight? I’m looking for him.”
“He’s the guy?” Welborn asked. “He did the K Street killings?”
“It’s complicated, Welborn. Do you know him?”
The young Air Force captain nodded. “He introduced himself to me earlier. Told me how lucky I am to marry Kira. I thanked him and said that I knew.”
“Have you seen him recently? I need to find him.”
Welborn turned toward the gathering crowd and looked around.
So did McGill. He didn’t see Garner but he noticed Sir Robert was looking his way.
“There he is, Jim,” Welborn said.
McGill followed the younger man’s gaze but didn’t see Garner.
“Where?”
“You’re looking too low. Top right window in the VP’s house.”
McGill followed Welborn’s directions, saw a figure seated behind the window but couldn’t make out who it was.
“You’re sure that’s him?”
“Yes, sir,” Welborn said, reverting to military courtesy.
The form of address reminded McGill that Welborn had a fighter pilot’s vision.
McGill said, “Thank you.”
“Do you need any help … Jim?”
“Yeah, if I’m not back in time for the wedding, ask the president to grant me clemency.” Welborn gave McGill a dubious look until he added, “Just kidding.”
He was about to leave when Sir Robert stepped forward, “Is there any way I might be of service, Mr. McGill?”
McGill thought about that. He said, “Yes. Mingle a bit until the ceremony starts. If you hear anybody express an interest in my whereabouts or those of Congressman Garner or Putnam Shady, please direct them to the room at the top right of Vice President Wyman’s house.”
“Top right from this vantage point?” Sir Robert asked. “The room with … ah, there’s Representative Garner in the window. Yes, I see.”
And McGill saw where Welborn got his eyesight.
Turning to Welborn, McGill said, “If you’re not busy getting married and you see Putnam and Sweetie, please send them up, too. Right away.”
McGill congratulated Welborn and Sir Robert on the happy occasion and left.
He wasn’t sure what would happen putting everyone in the same room.
In Washington, there were three likely possibilities. Might be a happy resolution. One party or the other might walk out. Or the whole thing could blow up in their faces.
Preoccupied with his thoughts, McGill missed seeing Rockelle Bullard get up from her seat and start to follow him. Neither McGill nor Rockelle noticed Derek Geiger’s arrival, but Geiger saw them head for the mansion, and then he noticed the groom and a distinguished looking gentleman watch McGill and the woman following him depart.
Newburyport, Massachusetts
Both Galia Mindel and Attorney General Michael Jaworsky made the trip to the nondescript house on the edge of the town in the northeastern corner of the state. The I-95 highway was close at hand for swift ground transport. A boat stood ready on the nearby Atlantic. The yard behind the house was large enough to land a helicopter. The federal government stood ready to evacuate Erna Godfrey by any means necessary.
Six special agents of the FBI, three male, three female, worked rotating eight-hour shifts guarding Erna. Another dozen agents formed an undercover security perimeter, watching Newburyport and scouting parks and woodlands, looking for any sign of strangers appearing in the vicinity, tourists who looked like they might have packed firearms and/or explosives in their vehicles.
No one was supposed to know where Erna had been taken once she was removed from the penitentiary in Hazelton, West Virginia, but secrets were more slippery than mercury, and once revealed could be equally toxic. Living in the age of WikiLeaks, every precaution had to be taken.
Even so, Galia and Jaworsky knew that the greatest risk would be their conversation with Erna Godfrey. Revealing what was happening at the church she had co-founded with her husband might serve their purpose or it might turn Mrs. Burke Godfrey against them. They’d know which within a matter of minutes.
The FBI agent driving them to the house from Boston said, “The subject has been notified she has visitors coming. She’ll be waiting in the living room.”
Jaworsky said, “What’s her state of mind?”
The agent spoke softly into his radio and got a reply.
“Calm but curious is the evaluation.”
“As much as we could hope for,” Galia said.
The car pulled up to the house. Trees shielded it from the nearest neighbors. The front door opened as Galia and the AG approached it. An agent let them in and closed and locked the door behind them. He radioed his counterparts, advising them of the safe entry.
Erna Godfrey, wearing a tracking anklet and clothes from K-Mart, sat on a love seat. She looked at her visitors and her eyes widened. She clasped her hands tightly, as if bracing for bad news.
“Have you killed Burke?” she asked.
The visitors sat in arm chairs across from Erna.
Jaworsky placed a briefcase on his lap.
He said, “Your husband is alive, as far as we know, Mrs. Godfrey.”
Galia added, “But he has placed himself in a great deal of jeopardy.”
“How?” Erna asked.
Jaworsky said, “He’s resisting arrest.”
“Oh, Lord,” Erna said. “I never thought he’d actually do it. Not after what happened to me.” She paused to think about that. “Maybe I’ve got that wrong. It could be he’s doing it because of what’s happened to me.”
“What is it you think he’s doing, Mrs. Godfrey?” Galia asked.
“It’s not a matter of thinking. If Burke won’t give himself up, Ms. Mindel, I know what he’s doing. He’s using the church grounds as his last redoubt. He’s planned for something like this for many years.”
Both Galia and Jaworsky drew the inference that Erna had been privy to those plans, knew details that would help them keep Godfrey and his followers bottled up. Maybe even provide ideas on how he might be persuaded to surrender.
But all Galia asked for the moment was, “You know who we are?”
Erna laughed. “Of course, I do. We study our enemies almost as hard as we study the Good Book. The attorney general has a higher public profile than the president’s chief of staff, at least in the Grant administration. You stay out of the limelight, Ms. Mindel, but there are photos of you in the public record.”
Despite the lack of a direct threat, Galia felt a chill.
“We’re your enemy, Mrs. Godfrey?” she asked. “Even now that you’ve come to recognize that killing people isn’t the way to save lives.”
Erna gave the question a moment’s thought.
“No, you’re not the enemy — you’re the opposition. Someone to be converted with prayer and reason. Someone to be shown the error of your ways.”
“Someone whose ultimate fate is to be left in God’s hands?” Galia asked.
“Yes, exactly.”
“We can live with that. Would you like to see how your husband’s plan to resist arrest is working out?” Jaworsky asked.
Erna was curious. “Yes, I would.”
The attorney general opened his briefcase. He handed three eight-by-ten photographs to Erna. The first was an aerial view of the campus, its roads blocked, men with rifles on rooftops. That was just as she’d heard Burke describe how he’d start out. The second picture showed construction machinery being brought in, and she wondered what that was for. The third photo answered her question: A huge ugly wall had been put up around the beautiful grounds she and Burke had worked so long and hard to build.
She looked up at Galia and Jaworsky clearly distressed.
Galia told her, “What we’re trying to do, obviously, is contain
the situation without anyone being hurt. In the event that your husband and the others with him hold out long enough to run short of food and water, we will resupply them.”
“They’ve got enough to last a very long time, Ms. Mindel.”
The visitors kept straight faces but were happy to learn something they hadn’t known. They were less than pleased by the idea the siege might continue up to or through the next presidential election. They’d have to work on that.
“That’s unfortunate, Mrs. Godfrey,” Galia said. “The more drawn out this situation becomes, the more likely it is someone will get hurt. One of your husband’s followers already has taken shots at an FBI helicopter.”
Erna blinked. “Was anyone hurt?”
“No, but that was only by the grace of God.”
The AG handed Erna three more photos.
He said, “These pictures show where the bullets fired at the helicopter came back to earth.”
One showed a shattered window in a house. Another went through a storefront window. The third went through the roof of a parked car.
Galia told Erna, “The one that hit the house went into a kitchen. A woman was in it at the time. She’d just gotten up from her kitchen table to rinse out her coffee cup. Otherwise she would have been hit.”
“Did your husband plan for that, Mrs. Godfrey?” Jaworsky asked. “If that woman had died, the charge would be capital murder.”
Erna looked stricken.
Before she could say anything, Galia added. “There was one loss of life.”
The AG handed her a final photograph. Lying on its side on a lawn, blood pooled near its head, lay a golden Cocker Spaniel.
“The dog’s name was Molly,” Galia said. “The family that owned her is heartbroken.”
Jaworsky added, “Quite angry, too. Angry at your husband and his people.”
Galia followed. “Mrs. Godfrey, if your husband and his people hold out for long, others will get the idea they can flout the law and do the same thing. If that happens, there’s no way human lives won’t be lost. Possibly quite a lot of them.”