“You’re getting weird on me.”
“I’m not getting weird. Well, maybe I am. What I want to say, is, when I was hanging from that rope, you were there for me. Kind of like a big brother. I wanted to say thanks.”
Roy pointed at him. “I will not hug you. Understand?”
“How about helping with this bandage?”
“Not even if you had gold bars coming out your ass. Now get some sleep. We can do this bonding shit over some beers, after we save the world. Night, Bert.”
“Night, Roy.”
Bert took two pills, then changed the dressing on his wound, being liberal with the topical antibiotic. It was deep and ugly, and probably could use a few stitches, but that would have to wait.
He killed the lights, brushed his teeth, and then crawled into bed. The Vicodin kicked in, and he slept without dreams.
“Wake up. Time to save the world.”
Bert opened an eye and focused on Abraham Lincoln. Abe looked like he’d climbed out of a history book. His unruly hair had been professionally clipped, his beard was neatly trimmed, and he wore an antique black suit with creases in all the right places.
“How do I look?”
“Say something presidential.”
Abe cleared his throat and put his hands on his lapels. “Four years ago, I scored seven times.”
“I hope you have better material than that.”
“Actually, I’m going to recite the Gettysburg Address. I memorized it back in school, for an assignment.”
“Tell me you got an A.”
“I got a D+. A few of the words slipped my mind. But I think I’ve got it down pat now. Why did Lincoln have four fathers?”
Bert couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not. Rather than dwell on it, he rolled over and looked at the clock. It was going on one o’clock. He sat up in bed, a move that made him wince.
“Why’d you let me sleep so late?”
“We almost didn’t go. The only way to get into the gallery while Senate is in session is with a pass. Roy spent all morning trying to get some. He finally had to call his boss in Chicago for help.”
“But he got them?”
“I hope so. This haircut was thirty bucks.”
Bert forced himself to his feet. The bandage was stuck to him, and he had to take it off in the shower. Hurt like crazy, but no sign of infection. He slapped another one on and got dressed, jeans and a golf shirt. Room service sent up some aspirin—the Vicodin could wait until later.
When he was ready to go he knocked on Roy’s door.
“Do you have the gallery passes?”
Roy was also in jeans, and the sleeves were rolled up on his gray button down shirt.
“Damn things were harder to get than Janet Jackson tickets. Luckily, my Loot knows some important cops in this town, or we’d be spending the whole day getting the run-around at the Senate Offices.”
“I thought she suspended you.”
“I’m on vacation, remember? I can visit the nation’s Capitol like anyone else.”
They pulled Abe away from the TV and the three of them took a cab to the Capitol Building. It was a cold, gray day. Bert hadn’t been in DC for almost ten years, but he couldn’t conjure up much enthusiasm for the several monuments they passed. He was nervous. There was a potential for disaster that they hadn’t discussed. What if, despite their diversion, the VP got assassinated anyway? The Secret Service could mistakenly connect them with the crime. While Bert was all for saving millions of lives, he didn’t want to spend the rest of his on death row.
The driver let them out at the east side of the building. It had begun drizzling, and in the haze the dome of the Capitol looked dirty and oppressive. They walked up the entrance ramp slowly, hemmed in by a big crowd also waiting in line. Apparently the average American’s taste for tourism wasn’t limited to theme parks. Though Bert could probably make an argument that Washington DC was the biggest amusement Mecca of them all.
“Did we remember the matches?”
“Got them. Relax.” Roy patted his pants pocket.
“Everyone make sure their watches are synchronized. I checked mine this morning against CNN. Coming up on 2:38 right… now.”
Abe set his watch. “When do I start?”
“At 4:12. We don’t know how long you’ll have before they try to remove you. Are you okay with this? You know you’ll get arrested.”
“No problem. When it gets out that I’m a national hero, think about the chick factor.”
Bert didn’t bother telling him that it might never get out.
“Okay, are we all clear on everything? I don’t want any talking once we go in. Nothing to draw attention to ourselves.”
“Draw attention?” Bert snorted. “We’re two limping guys walking with Abraham Lincoln.”
“Don’t worry about it. Everyone will be looking at Abe. We’ll be invisible, especially once the show starts. Right, Abe?”
“Hmm? I wasn’t listening.”
Roy gave him a tap in the back of the head. “The future of the world depends on what we do in the next ninety minutes.”
“Gotcha. I’m all about helping the world. I freed your people, remember?”
The line moved at a steady pace, and after a tense moment walking through the metal detectors they were inside the Capitol Building. It was bigger than Bert remembered, all columns and arches and big works of art. There were three more long lines. Two had turnstiles and dividers, separating those who wanted to take a guided tour and those who preferred the self-guided option. All had to wait for tickets, which were free. The third line was for the gift shop.
Abe said, “What tour is complete without an official I Love America T-Shirt and the Strom Thurman in a snow globe?”
Roy ushered them over to the side, next to the Law Library doors.
“We’re supposed to meet some Senator’s aide at three. He’s going to take us.”
Bert noted, with some satisfaction, that Abe was drawing even more attention inside than he had outside. Maybe they could pull this off after all.
“Mr. Lewis and party?”
The kid was barely out of high school, pimple faced, red hair. He wore a tan blazer and brown slacks, and the knot in his tie was uneven.
“That’s us. You’re Senator Biltmore’s aide?”
“Kevin Dermont. Nice to meet you all. Does everyone have their pass? Go ahead and clip them to your shirts. Have you seen the rest of your party?”
“The rest of our party?”
“I believe nine businessmen, visiting from Japan?”
“I think they’re over there.”
Roy pointed to a group of well-tailored Japanese men, standing near the entrance of the rotunda and chatting among themselves.
“Of course, please follow me.”
They tailed Kevin to the group, where he failed to impress everyone with his halting Japanese greeting.
“We’re grateful for this opportunity,” one of the businessmen answered in flawless English. “Extend our thank you to the Senator.”
“Does everyone have a pass?”
“We received them at the Senate Appointment Desk, thank you.”
The kid led them through the lines and to the first of many guarded doors. Bert noted that the Capitol Police were abundant. All had uniforms, and all were armed. Maybe they wouldn’t even make it to jail. Maybe they’d be shot and killed before given the chance.
They walked through a hall, decorated with large paintings of fat guys with white wigs. The air was cool, dry, and it smelled like a museum. The Japanese seemed more interested in Abe than in their surroundings. They were too polite to point, but their stares were obvious.
“Our first stop is the Old Supreme Court Chamber.” Kevin bypassed another guard and ushered them into the room, where several dozen others milled about. “The impressive umbrella vault ceiling was designed by Benjamin Latrobe…”
He prattled on about some marble busts and the original desks and chairs
, and before they could get a good look around they were on to their next stop. Bert picked up a tour pamphlet from a kiosk and looked through it.
This was not good. Apparently, there were only two more rooms to view before the Gallery. At this pace, they’d finish the tour before four o’clock, too early to save the VP.
The group went up the grand staircase and made their next stop the National Statutory Hall.
“This is actually the old House of Representatives Chamber. It was converted in 1964, and then later restored to its original appearance in the 1970s. Feel free to take a complimentary brochure.”
The room was semi-circular, filled with marble columns and dozens of white, black, and gray statues of various dead guys. Kevin led them on a brisk walk-thru, pointing out the Car of History Clock, the Fireplace with the Declaration of Independence above the mantle, and the Liberty and the Eagle relief above the South entrance. Then he headed for the way out.
“Uh, Kevin? Can we take pictures?”
Kevin turned to Bert and frowned. “You don’t have a camera.”
“But several others in the tour do have them.” Bert turned to the group. “Would you gentlemen like to take some pictures?”
There were several enthusiastic nods. Kevin put on a fake smile and said, “Of course. Take your time, enjoy the many works of art.”
It bought them ten minutes, but that still wasn’t enough. Bert’s watch read 3:45. They had to somehow kill half an hour in the next room.
“This is the Old Senate Chamber. The Senate met here from 1810 until 1859. Then it became the Supreme Court Chamber until 1935. There, you can see the historic Franklin Stoves. Now, onto the gallery, where the Senate is currently in session.”
Bert and Roy exchanged a glance of extreme panic. It was much too early. They had to stall the tour.
“What, uh, were some of the historic things that happened in this room?” Bert’s voice came out more urgent than he would have liked.
“Quite a few. Did you have any particular event in mind?” Kevin’s smile was in place, but it was obvious he had no desire to answer questions. He was probably still bristling from having to spend ten extra minutes in the Statutory Hall.
Bert racked his brain. High school history class was fourteen years ago, and he could barely recall any of it. But he was Einstein, dammit. He had one of the greatest minds to ever grace mankind. It should still be in there someplace.
He closed his eyes, willing himself back to that class. In his head, his old history textbook appeared. It was diffuse, out of focus, but he forced it to become clearer. The details came slowly. The brown paper shopping bag he’d cut up to use as a book cover. His name written inside, right under a person named Sam Gold. He saw the table of contents, surprised that he was able to read it. As if it were right in front of him, Bert opened the book to the 1800s…
“Didn’t the Webster-Hayne Debate take place in this room?” Bert asked, meeting Kevin’s stare.
“I don’t recall. Perhaps you can enlighten us?”
“I believe it started as a plan to curtail western land sales in 1830. Senator Robert Hayne from South Carolina believed that an agricultural system built on slavery could only survive with an unlimited supply of cheap western lands, and argued that the states should have the right to set aside certain federal laws if they wished.”
Bert glanced at Roy, who nodded, urging him on.
“Senator Daniel Webster of Massachusetts extrapolated the debate to one of State’s rights versus national power. He argued for two days that the nation wasn’t just an association of separate states, but a government by the people. As such, it was responsible to the people and could be modified only if the people, not the special interests of the government, chose it to be.”
Several of the Japanese businessmen had gathered around Bert to listen.
“Thank you for that information. Now moving along—”
“This was also the room where the famous Missouri Compromise was reached, correct?”
“Yes, that’s correct. Now if—”
Bert addressed the tour group. “Missouri had petitioned to enter the Union as a slave state, which would have tipped the balance of power because free and slave states were equally represented.”
“Uh… did they allow it?” Roy asked.
“The compromise was that Missouri was admitted as a slave state only if Maine was admitted as a free state. And then slavery was barred from the rest of the land comprising the Louisiana Purchase. This kept the nation together for forty more years, until the slave states tried to secede over the issue, bringing about the Civil War. Almost as well known is the Compromise of 1850…”
Bert went on to talk about the debate among Henry Clay, Daniel Webster, and John C. Calhoun. It culminated in a Mississippi Senator actually pulling a gun on a Missouri Senator. This led to another Clay story, about the censuring of President Andrew Jackson in 1834, and Bert followed that up with the famous tale of the attack on Senator Charles Sumner by South Carolina Representative Preston S. Brooks. Brooks had taken exception to an address Sumner had given, and beaten the Senator with his walking cane in this very room.
The more Bert talked, the better his delivery became. He began to move around the floor, using his hands to gesture and point. While he couldn’t quite understand where the information was coming from, he didn’t stop to question the phenomenon. He just went with it.
When Bert checked his watch again, it was just after four o’clock.
“I could go on, but I’m sure you’re all anxious to see the new Senate Chamber, where many other acts of deceit and violence have occurred.”
Kevin gave Bert a weak smile and led them out of the room.
“How the hell did you remember all of that?” Roy took him aside, whispering.
“I have no idea. It was like I was reading it in my head.”
“You’ll have to teach me that trick. I have trouble remembering my phone number.”
They took the stairs to the third floor. There was another guard by the entrance, this one standing behind a desk. “Good afternoon, Gentlemen. We ask that you please leave all pagers, portable phones, and cameras here. The Senate is currently in session, so there is to be no talking. You’re welcome to walk anywhere around the upper level.”
He opened the door. Bert looked at Abe. His forehead was glossy from sweat, even though the building was cool. Then he turned to Roy, and the cop appeared positively sickly.
“Here we go,” Abe said to himself. He took a deep breath and held it.
They went in.
Tom tried his best to sleep on the flight, but exhausted as he was, his mind wouldn’t allow it. There was too much to think about.
Even if they did pull it off—if they could save both the President and the Vice President, it wouldn’t be over. Stang would simply try again. The man had too much money and power. Out of morbid curiosity, Tom had accessed the FBI Most Wanted List on his laptop, and wasn’t surprised to find himself on it. The others were as well. Unless they all desired to spend the rest of their lives hiding, surfacing only to stop assassination attempts, they had to end this.
Tom knew of two ways; killing Stang and son or gathering evidence. Since he was a cop and not a hit man, the choice was made for him. They would pay the former Senator another visit and try to find all of Harold’s notes on the cloning experiment. Maybe then they’d have enough to convince the authorities.
Of course, that also meant going public, and Tom wasn’t sure he could handle that. He was still having some trouble dealing with the fact that he was Thomas Jefferson. Once the world found out, the media attention would be never-ending. He would no longer be an average guy with an average job—he would be outed to celebrity status and become public domain. Tom Mankowski would no longer exist. While that might work for Joan, who already had a career in the spotlight, it wasn’t what Tom wanted out of life.
Of course, all of that was assuming they’d actually live through this.
He turned to Joan. She was sleeping, her head against the window. Remarkable woman, he thought. Strong, pretty, successful, smart, funny. Under different circumstances, she never would have given him the time of day. But fate, if you could call it that, threw them together and Tom sensed that she felt the same pull of attraction that he did.
Tom didn’t put too much stock in that; crisis situations tended to heighten emotion. Joan was a woman who really did have everything. What could Tom possibly offer her? Kids and a little house in the suburbs? That’s what she went to LA to get away from.
As if the situation was complicated enough, add some hormones to the mix.
Tom closed his eyes, thinking over their plan. It lacked the elegant simplicity of Abe’s idea. There were too many things that could go wrong, cause them to fail. Hopefully, they’d prepared for them, but real life tended to pay scant attention to plans, no matter how well thought-out.
Disaster scenarios coursed through his head—failing to save the President, getting arrested, getting killed. He tried to block them out, but couldn’t. If they failed, there could easily be a nuclear war in the immediate future.
Something touched Tom’s shoulder. He opened his eyes. Joan had switched positions, her head now resting on his arm. She snored softly. He lifted up the armrest between them and put his arm around her. She nuzzled against him, and all the bad thoughts were wiped from his head. He was asleep a few minutes later.
They arrived at Mirabel-Montreal Airport at a little after eleven in the morning, Eastern Time. Tom had seen so many terminals in the last few days that they were all beginning to blur together. This one had the distinction of being bilingual. All of the signs and all of the announcements were in French as well as English.
Joan looked good, certainly not like someone who had just spent eight hours on a plane. Somehow she’d managed to climb over his seat and freshen up without waking him. Her hair and make-up were pristine, and her blouse was wrinkle free. In contrast, all Tom had done to start the day was splash some cold water on his face and brush his teeth with his finger.
Joan handed the Custom’s Agent her passport, and Tom pulled out his Driver’s License.
J.A. Konrath / Jack Kilborn Trilogy - Three Scary Thriller Novels (Origin, The List, Haunted House) Page 46