Her body didn’t move an inch, but internally she cowered, hunching down into the smallest fetal position she could imagine, hands shielding her face from the monster that stood over her like a giant. The monster looked down upon her, then walked past. It could have stepped on her if it wanted.
It might still, she knew.
* * *
“I can’t believe we’re here,” Felicia Griggs said to her husband as they were escorted to the upper level of the House chamber.
“I’m in a suit,” Darren said. “Believe it.”
“I can’t get him in a suit even for church,” Felicia joked, looking back to Anne.
“I can’t get mine out of his,” Anne responded, realizing from the shocked look on her newest friend’s face that there was too much interpretation possible in that statement. “You know what I mean.”
“I know,” Felicia said.
“There was a lot of security outside,” Felicia commented. “There were soldiers on the roof of the Supreme Court building.”
“Just a few,” Darren reminded her, though he had noticed, too.
“Art promised it was safe,” Anne assured them. Of course he was miles away watching the whole thing as the guest of some government bigwigs. Well, they were guests of the biggest bigwig, Anne knew.
The House usher stopped and motioned a left to the guests of the president. “This way. To the second row on the right. You’ll be behind the first lady.”
Felicia froze momentarily, as did Anne. Collectively they thought, The First Lady!
“Come on,” Darren prodded. He led them down the steps, past the half-filled rows to the seats indicated by the usher. It was still early, and the House chamber was only sparsely populated, but more legislators were entering every minute.
“Do you think there’s someone selling peanuts?” Anne asked.
Felicia giggled at the joke and looked toward the podium where the president would be speaking. They were above and to the left of that spot, one of the choicest seats for the yearly event. It was where those whom the president had chosen for special recognition of some sort sat, along with the first family.
“Do you think she’ll bring the baby?” Felicia inquired.
“Not if he yells like he did at that speech the president gave last summer,” Darren answered.
“The child has lungs,” Anne commented.
“I think he’s cute,” Felicia said in defense of the little boy. She squeezed her husband’s hand as thoughts of another little boy filled her head. Darren, not surprisingly, squeezed back.
* * *
He shouldn’t have been surprised, but Art Jefferson was when Secretary of State James Coventry met him in the foyer with a long-neck hanging lazily in one hand.
“Jefferson. Good to see you.” Coventry shook the agent’s hand and took his overcoat. It was dry outside, but cold and breezy. “Did the guard dogs give you any trouble?”
Art noticed the smile attached to the inquiry, but doubted that the two Secret Service agents who’d given him the once-over out front would appreciate the secretary’s characterization. “Just doing their job, sir.”
“I know. Come on in.” Coventry led the evening’s final arrival into the main area of the foyer. A long, sweeping staircase curved up to the left, forming an arch over the passageway to the back of the house. To the right was a parlor, and beyond it a dining room. To the left, through twin doors that were open, was the secretary’s study, and the gathering.
“This is a nice house, sir,” Art commented. Nice, big. It was definitely beyond his means, but soon there would be another set of means to add to his. And he would have to start looking for a new place. Correction, he caught himself...they would be looking.
“Thanks,” Coventry answered, bringing Art into the study. Bud DiContino and Gordon Jones stood to greet him. “You know this fella.”
“Mr. Director.” There was no way around the formality, Art knew. Mister this, mister that. All evening.
“Glad you could make it, Jefferson,” Jones said.
“And you’ve met Bud DiContino.”
“Yes. A couple years back.”
“Good to see you again,” Bud said, shaking the agent’s hand.
“Have a seat, Jefferson,” Coventry offered. “Take your jacket off. You want a beer?”
Oh, wonderful! He was being told to get comfortable and have a brew in front of the director! Art could see it was a loose-tie and rolled-up sleeves night, but he had a gun on his hip—although Jones did, too, and his Smith & Wesson was there for all to see.
“Relax, Jefferson,” Jones suggested with an amused smile. “Consider it a night off.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Beer?” Coventry asked again as Art hung his jacket with the others.
“Do you have any nonalcoholic stuff?”
“One light-light coming up.”
Art took a seat next to the national security adviser on one of the room’s two couches. Two chairs completed the U around the coffee table, and at the far end, built into a large display case that held some of the secretary’s memorabilia, was a good-sized TV.
“I wish you were in D.C. under better circumstances,” Bud commented.
“To be honest, I try not to find many circumstances to be in D.C.”
Bud smiled and looked to a grinning Jones. “He knows the first rule of surviving this place, Gordy: stay away!”
Jones chuckled quietly. He wasn’t a man given to overt laughter. “So, Jefferson, the word is you’re going to Chicago.”
“I called Bob Lomax yesterday and accepted.”
“What’s this?” Bud asked.
“Jefferson is going to be the new assistant special agent in charge of the Chicago field office,” Jones explained. He looked back to the agent. “You’ll like Lomax.”
“I worked with him in Chicago about a dozen years back,” Art said nodding.
Clinking bottles announced the secretary’s return. He handed Art a bottle, and the second round to the others, then sat in one of the chairs. Jones was next to him in the other.
“Good seats, gentlemen,” Coventry observed as the TV picture showed a filling House chamber. “Bud says you have someone there in the guest box?”
“Yes, my...” Well, she’s not really your girlfriend anymore. “...fiancée.”
“Congratulations, Jefferson,” Coventry said.
“A new job, a new wife,” Jones commented.
Bud lifted his long neck. “To a successful marriage and warm winters in Chicago.”
Art lifted his bottle with a wide smile. “Hear! Hear!”
* * *
The Volvo had been ditched in favor of a brand-new minivan whose owner wouldn’t miss it for a few hours yet. Darian was behind the wheel, easing it carefully north of the Leesburg Pike. In the back, Moises and Mustafa were making final preparations.
“How long since you’ve fired that?” Darian asked.
Mustafa swung the front of the break-open M79 grenade launcher upward, closing the breech-loaded weapon and making it ready to fire. In its chamber was a 40mm fragmentation round, and affixed to the bandolier slung across his chest were eight more. “About six months. But you never forget, Brother Darian.”
“Good. You know what to do.” Darian looked to Moises in the rearview. He sat straight in the second bench seat, the headlights from oncoming traffic washing pale over his face. “We’re almost there, Brother Moises. You ready?”
Moises looked straight ahead, his hands tight on the Ingram, and only nodded.
Fire. Darian saw it in the stare. Saw it on the face. A fighter had been born.
* * *
The metal detectors were four wide for House and Senate members, and were located just off Statuary Hall to the south of the grand rotunda. Begrudgingly, the elected representatives of the citizens of the United States had accepted this “indignity” after stern warnings by leaders of both political parties, but the lines were slowed by secondary checks after
keys and various other items set off the sensitive instruments.
“Can you believe this?” Congressman Cal McCrary asked, as he and his fellow representative from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts inched closer to the portals manned by the Secret Service.
“Ridiculous,” Congressman Richard Vorhees agreed, the discomfort in his knee transferring more to his face as time wore on.
“Sore tonight, Dick?”
“Tonight, today, tomorrow, next week. Until I get a new leg.”
“Count your blessings, my man,” McCrary said. “You were lucky.” He checked the shade of his surroundings. “I think they enjoy killing middle-aged white men despite the statistics. Thank goodness yours was a lousy shot.”
“He didn’t want me chasing him,” Vorhees explained. “It was no accident he shot me in the leg. I’m just glad he picked the one made of plastic and steel.”
“Flesh and bone are expensive to replace, eh?”
“Don’t I know it?”
The mass of bodies became lines nearer the metal detectors. Vorhees followed McCrary through, and, as he expected, set off the buzzers. “Down here.”
A senior Secret Service agent, aware of the congressman’s condition, stepped forward. “We’ll just wand you, sir.”
Vorhees lifted his arms, letting the agent run the metal detecting wand up and down both sides of his body. The only reaction was from the prosthetic limb.
“Okay, sir. Go on in.”
Vorhees nodded and continued on, entering the House chamber just as the networks were throwing their “Presidential State of the Union Message” graphics up for a nationwide audience.
* * *
John Barrish sat with his youngest boy in front of the TV. Louise Barrish was nowhere to be seen.
“There he goes,” Stanley said at the sight.
John said nothing, but wore an uncharacteristic broad smile. It was no coincidence that this formed as the somewhat less than cheerful Congressman Richard Vorhees took his seat in the fourth row. “What time is it?”
Stanley looked at his watch. He knew what his father wanted to hear. “He should be doing it now.”
Sixty miles away, Toby Barrish was hanging up the pay phone at a truck stop just off Interstate 66, leaving a confused and alarmed 911 operator talking to a dial tone.
THIRTY
Setup
Article II, Section 3, of the Constitution of the United States of America charges the President with the responsibility of, from time to time, reporting to the Congress on the state of the union. That seemingly simple obligation had developed over the years into a pivotal time for many presidents, an occasion when their legislative agendas and special programs for the coming year were to be presented to both houses of Congress. With the coming of television coverage of the State of the Union message, image was thrown into the mix of factors deemed important. Combining that with the general seriousness of a constitutionally required address, there was a choreographed quality to the event.
After the vast majority of legislators had entered and located their seats—committee chairpersons and members of great seniority always had the choicest seats near the front of the chamber—the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Joint Chiefs came forward up the center aisle and took their seats in the second row on the left, as one looked toward the podium. On the riser behind the podium the vice president stood on the left, acting in his capacity as president of the Senate, with Speaker of the House Jack Murphy on the right. An American flag hung vertically behind them. They had the best view up the center aisle—which is slightly off-center to the Republican side of the chamber—and were the first to see the House doorkeeper make his first trek a third of the way in.
“Mr. Speaker, the Chief Justice of the United States and the Associate Justices of the Supreme Court!”
The bellowed announcement was followed by a procession of the nine men and women who formed the judicial branch of the United States government. They walked up the aisle to unrestrained applause and turned right to take their front-row seats on the GOP side of the chamber. The applause subsided after a moment and then the doorkeeper made his second of three appearances that night.
“Mr. Speaker, the President’s Cabinet!”
Again the clapping began, with some cheers this time, as the long line of Cabinet secretaries moved forward, accepting greetings and shaking hands as they did. At the front of the chamber the senior and most important Cabinet positions turned left, taking the front row on the Democratic side. The remainder of the Cabinet turned right into the row behind the justices of the Supreme Court. Smiles were the expression of choice.
But the revelry eased as the speaker tapped the gavel, drawing all attention to the center aisle for a final time. The House doorkeeper again came forward.
“Mr. Speaker, the President of the United States!”
The chamber erupted in applause and cheers as the president entered, followed by a beaming Senate Majority Leader Curtis Parsons. The president progressed slowly toward the front, taking some hands pressed toward him, ignoring others out of sheer necessity. He greeted the chief justice at the head of the aisle, then walked to the left past half of his cabinet, stopping at each. He ascended the raised platform next and stepped up to the podium, taking a quick glance at the Tele-Prompter to confirm that his speech was scrolled to the beginning. The raucous welcome continued as was customary, one of the few times the United States Congress outdid its counterpart across the Atlantic in London in the area of enthusiasm expressed. He looked up to his left, seeking out his wife, and smiled at her, thinking how strange it was to see her without their son. But this was not the place for him, nor the time. He was, hopefully, fast asleep by now.
The barrel-chested speaker pounded his gavel repeatedly, bringing the exuberant members of Congress to a very temporary simmer. Murphy smiled over the chamber that was his domain before speaking. “Members of Congress, I have the high privilege, and the distinct honor, of presenting to you the President of the United States.”
Once again the assembled legislators rose to their feet and demonstrated their respect with continuous, if somewhat superfluous, clapping. After a minute the gavel began to strike again, the sharp wood-on-wood crack slowly overcoming the enthusiasm. The applause began to fade, those on the right side of the aisle taking their seats first, then those of the president’s party. When it was quiet the president found his place on the teleprompter, glanced upward again, though this time to the row just behind his wife, then looked out to the men and women to whom he was here to report on the State of the Union. He wondered if they would want to hear what he had to say.
“Thank you. Thank you very much. Mr. Speaker, Mr. President, members of Congress, my fellow Americans...” He paused, thinking of the words he was about to speak, wanting to do that instead of simply reading them. “... I stand before you tonight as leader of the greatest nation on earth, a nation that has triumphed over tyranny abroad, and tyranny at home. A nation that has seen the good, the bad, the indifferent in the rest of the world, and has seen the same at home. A nation whose future is limitless, and whose past has challenged it to do better. I stand before you to say that there is much that is good about this nation, but good is not better, and we live today in the shadow of the darkest part of our past, the remnants of a tyranny that infects us all and makes any progress we achieve on other fronts as tenuous as the proverbial straw man. I speak of that which separates us, and makes us all victims.
“But I stand before you not only as your president to tell you this. I stand before you as the great-great-grandson of slave owners to say that the divisive hate which grew from the actions of my ancestors is here, my fellow Americans, and we have seen with tragic clarity in recent months that it is alive. I stand before you to say that before anything else can truly be accomplished with an eye toward perpetuity, that hate must be confronted, and rejected.”
* * *
The action outside had subsided considerabl
y. No more legislators rushing up the steps of the Capitol’s east front. No reporters scurrying about looking for the last tidbit before the show. It was quiet where Frankie Aguirre stood. Disquietingly so.
“Let’s hope this is the dullest spot in town tonight.”
Frankie looked left with a start. David Rogers had come out from the Rotunda and now stood next to her. “So far, so good.”
Rogers glanced at his watch. “He’s a windy one. How much you want to bet the next hour seems like twelve?”
Frankie surveyed the mostly deserted landscape out to the Supreme Court building across First Street. No one wanting to do harm could even get that close. The outer perimeter this night began a quarter-mile farther out at Fourth Street, and ringed the Capitol for a similar distance in all directions. Secret Service. FBI. Park Police. D.C. Police. DEA. ATF. They were all out there somewhere, manning the barricades that blocked streets leading to the Capitol. Marines were atop several buildings in the vicinity with shoulder-fired Stinger antiaircraft missiles at the ready just in case a threat materialized from the air. Sewers sealed. The Senate subway closed. Every precaution had been taken. Frankie knew she was standing at the most heavily guarded spot in the country at the moment. No one was getting in.
“This is too clean,” Frankie said, puffs of white breath billowing with each word.
“Huh?”
She gestured to her front. “Wouldn’t you think that someone wanting to hit this place tonight would know there’d be security like this?”
“Sure, but that does not mean they could find a way through it.”
Frankie thought on Rogers’s statement for a moment. It didn’t settle her. “We missed something, David.”
“Or our chain is being royally yanked.”
“Maybe,” Frankie said, though the rising sensation in her stomach allowed no more surety in that response. “Or maybe not.”
Capitol Punishment (An Art Jefferson Thriller Book 3) Page 30