“So I guess you’ve never done a favor for someone who contributed to your campaign?”
“Well…”
“Of course you have. Probably everyone has. The question is, how do we know you’re not paying back a campaign contribution right now?”
Swinburne shouted his objection, but Ben plowed on ahead. “How do we know you’re not paying Apollo back by protecting their leases-by ensuring that Colonel Zuko remains in office?”
Cartwright banged on the table, Ruiz protested-and Ben kept right on going.
“How do we know you’re not trying to help out your buddies at Apollo-and the colonel-by eliminating his greatest threat, the president, and advocating the removal of our troops from Kuraq?”
Ruiz rose to his feet. “That’s preposterous!” he shouted. His words echoed through the tiny room. His face was red. “I would never do that. It’s just a contribution. It’s-”
“No more questions,” Ben said, turning away.
“But I’m not done,” Ruiz sputtered.
“Apparently you are,” Admiral Cartwright said. “Please step down.”
“But he’s accusing me-”
“We all heard it, Secretary. We don’t need a recap. Step down!”
Ruiz reluctantly tucked his head and left the witness chair. Ben wanted to lean over and give Secretary Rybicki a big kiss, but he restrained himself. If the man wanted to remain in the background, so be it. His intel had salvaged that cross-examination and, Ben hoped, given the cabinet members a reason to disregard Ruiz’s testimony.
But would that be enough to make them disregard the disturbing image of the president of the United States singing the theme from The Brady Bunch while the world was on the brink of disaster? That was another question altogether. And as long as they held that image in their heads, it would be hard not to vote him out of his office.
27
10:50 A.M.
Seamus lay helplessly on the department store floor, gazing up at the high-level geek who had just knocked the hell out of him and sent him crashing down into the shattered glass.
Life was just full of ironies sometimes.
“So… what do you want me to do next?” Harold Bemis said, in a voice so shockingly high that Seamus wondered if it was possible the man had not yet been through puberty. Who would know? He doubted there were any women who could testify on the topic.
The fallen sniper lying only a few feet away slowly pushed himself up. He was cut in about a hundred places and his forehead was caked with blood. He was obviously having trouble seeing. The perfume and blood mixture still stung, but he was managing.
“Son of a bitch,” the assassin growled. As soon as he was fully on his feet, he reared back and kicked Seamus right in the ribs.
Seamus winced. That hurt, and the man had kicked him exactly where he had been injured before. He had suspected he might have damaged a rib earlier. Now he was certain of it.
And just to add a little more pain to the situation, the bastard kicked him again.
“Goddamn Americans,” the man swore. He spat into Seamus’s face. “All you know is the torture!”
Seamus suspected it wouldn’t help him to remind the guy that this had all started because he was trying to kill Seamus in cold blood. Logic probably wasn’t his strong suit.
“Can we get out of here?” Bemis said nervously. “It’s only a matter of time before mall security shows up.”
“Then I will shoot them down like the dogs that they are,” replied the sniper.
“Yeah, unless they get you first. Let’s just get out of here.”
“And let this scum live?”
Bemis shrugged in a goofy way that suggested that he couldn’t decide whether he wanted vanilla or rocky road, not that he was deciding whether someone lived or died. “I don’t care. Whatever you’re going to do, just do it already.”
“Perhaps I should call Ishmael.”
Ishmael, Seamus thought. Almost certainly a code name for some high muckety-muck in the terrorist cell. Of course to him, Ishmael brought to mind Moby Dick. But to these people, it was much more likely a reference to the second son of Abraham. The progenitor of the Islamic faith. The ancestor of Muhammad.
“Don’t you think he has enough on his mind right now? He asked you to bring me to the location. As quickly as possible. I gather there’s a problem.”
“Yes. The military are fighting against your virus. They are making some progress.”
Bemis nodded. “I’m not surprised. I warned him they would react quickly if you announced what you had. Better to just do it.”
“That is not what the colonel wanted.”
“Whatever. We don’t have time for this. Do it and let’s get out of here.”
Seamus glanced one way, then the other. No one was visible. Had no one called in a disturbance?
He looked all around himself for a potential weapon-and found nothing. They had him pinned down like a dead butterfly. There was simply no way he could do anything in time.
The assassin recovered his gun from where it had fallen, then crouched down on one knee and pressed the pistol against Seamus’s left temple.
“If you have a God you pray to, this is your last chance.”
“You know we’ll stop you, don’t you?” Seamus said defiantly. “You and all your buddies. You’ll end up in prison. Or dead.”
“It is you who is about to die.”
“There won’t be any virgins at the penitentiary. And the only sex you’ll be involved with will be exceedingly unpleasant.”
“Goodbye, American pig.” He smiled a little as his finger tightened on the trigger.
At first Seamus couldn’t tell what had happened. The killer looked at him quizzically, then his neck stiffened, and a moment later he dropped to the floor like an anvil.
Keys were sticking out of the back of his neck. Two were embedded deep in his flesh. He wouldn’t be getting up for a good while. If ever.
Seamus didn’t wait for an explanation. He pushed himself up as quickly as possible and grabbed the gun. He whirled around-
Arlo was pointing a weapon at Bemis.
“What are you doing here?”
Arlo kept his eye trained on his fellow geek. “Saving your butt, that’s what.”
“I told you to stay in the car!”
“Well, I disobeyed. Which is why you’re still alive.”
Seamus squinted. “What is that you’ve got, anyway?”
Arlo twitched. “Have you got the gun?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” Arlo flipped the black object around. “It’s a thumb drive. Take it with me everywhere I go.”
Bemis’s brow creased. “I thought it was a taser, man.”
Arlo smiled. “You need to get out more.”
Seamus took the little piece of plastic and metal. “Does it shoot bullets?”
“Nah. It doesn’t do anything, unless you’ve got a USB port. Except it turns out to be useful against particularly stupid archcriminals.”
“I saw you in the car following me, Arlo,” Bemis said. “Why are you helping these clowns?”
“Why are you helping terrorists who are trying to blow up the country? I mean, I knew you were hurting for money, but this is treason!”
Bemis rolled his eyes. “Don’t be stupid. It’s all just a big game.”
“Well, your game almost got me killed this morning, Harold. And almost killed my friend just now.” He grinned. “Until I showed up to save the day.”
“Don’t get too proud of yourself, kid,” Seamus grunted.
“Why? You had a gun, and you ended up flat on your butt. I saved the day with a flash drive and your car keys.”
Seamus decided to let that go. The kid had handled the situation well, even if Seamus was never going to admit it aloud.
He grabbed Bemis by the collar. “Tell me. Now.”
“I-I don’t know what you want.”
“I think you do,” Seamus said, tightening his
grip. “Spill it. Where’s the operations base? Where are they controlling the satellite?”
“I don’t know,” he said helplessly.
Seamus didn’t want to believe him, but at this point, he seemed well past any ability to dissemble. Or to do anything else other than possibly wet himself. “Didn’t I hear you say you and your friend were going there next?”
“Yeah, but I don’t know where it is. That’s why he was supposed to pick me up here. He was going to take me.”
“You weren’t there when they fired the first two missiles?”
Bemis shook his head furiously. “They didn’t need me.”
“But they do now.”
“Apparently so. I got a text. Want to see it?”
“Yeah. As a matter of fact, I do.” He took Bemis’s cell phone and began punching buttons.
“I think he’s lying,” Arlo said.
“I am not. I never lie.”
“Last week at D.C. Bytes you said you hadn’t done any programming in months.”
“Well… that wasn’t a lie. That was a cover story.”
“Same diff!”
“Children, please,” Seamus said. “I need information, not quarreling.”
Bemis stared up at the ceiling. “I’m not telling you anything. I don’t care what you do to me. I won’t talk.”
“I’ll bet you would. In about ten seconds. But unfortunately, I don’t think you know anything.”
“So I can’t tell you where this base is.”
“Ah,” Seamus said, pressing a hand against his aching rib cage. “That’s where you’re wrong. You’re going to tell me everything I need to know.”
28
10:59 A.M.
Ben dearly desired to take the president into the other room for another confab, but he knew Cartwright was already impatient with the progress of the trial. Moreover, he’d seen several of the cabinet members on the big screen glancing at their watches. Understandably so-the clock had barely more than a hour left till the colonel had promised to deploy the next missile. He didn’t want to risk their ire by requesting another delay.
Oh, well. If the president had something to tell him, he could always slip him a note.
Swinburne cleared his throat. “Your honor, I’d like to call the president’s chief of staff to the stand. Sarie Morrell.”
Everyone was surprised, but Sarie herself was absolutely stunned. She pressed her hand against her chest. “Me? Why me? I don’t have anything to say to that polecat.”
Swinburne smiled, possibly the creepiest smile Ben had ever seen in his life. “Why don’t we determine that on the witness stand?”
Sarie looked pleadingly at the president. He smiled reassuringly and nodded toward the witness stand.
Sarie headed toward the chair. As she passed Swinburne, Ben heard her mutter under her breath, “You’re making a big mistake.”
Swinburne did not appear particularly threatened.
At first blush, Ben would’ve thought Swinburne was making a mistake, too. Secretary Ruiz’s loyalty to the president might have been in question, but Sarie’s was not. She had been with the president for many campaigns, not just the last one. She had served as his chief of staff when he was governor, too. She was renowned for her efficiency, her hard work, and her dogged devotion to her boss. She was known to go to great lengths, to stay up all night, to plunge into the lion’s den-or a nest of Republicans-to help her boss obtain his goals. Her loyalty was simply not in question.
But Swinburne was not a stupid man.
So why would he call such a potentially dangerous witness?
Well, he wouldn’t, Ben realized. Unless he had a very good reason. Unless he had a specific goal he wanted. Some information he thought he could get out of her.
What did Sarie know?
This time Swinburne didn’t waste time on her credentials or background, even though Ben knew both were impressive. Perhaps he wasn’t interested in making her look good. Perhaps his goal was exactly the opposite.
“Please state your name.”
“Sarah Lynn Morrell.” Ben loved the way her accent gave the last vowel in Morrell about three syllables.
“And your current position?”
“I’m the president’s chief of staff.”
“How long have you worked for him?”
“Counting previous positions, almost fifteen years.”
“So it would be safe to say that you like working for him?”
“Well, I’m not one to abandon ship while it’s still in the water.”
“Would it be safe to say you like the man personally?”
“I’ve never known a better man than Roland Kyler in my entire life. And I’ve known a lot of good men. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was a southerner.”
“And I suppose that makes you somewhat devoted to him?”
“Absolutely.”
Swinburne turned toward Admiral Cartwright. “Judge, given the witness’s obvious inclinations-one might say biases-I ask permission to treat her as a hostile witness.”
Ben arched a eyebrow. For a nonlawyer, he was making a savvy move. If she was a hostile witness, he could ask leading questions. Which might be necessary to lead her into whatever snake pit he wanted to visit.
Cartwright turned toward the witness. “Ms. Morrell, do you understand that Mr. Swinburne wants to declare you to be a hostile witness?”
She frowned. “Hostile isn’t a strong enough word for it.”
“So… that motion will be granted. Proceed.”
Swinburne adjusted the tie of his suit jacket. “Ms. Morrell, please tell the members of the cabinet what happened on the morning of March twenty-eighth.”
She stared back at him blank-faced. “Are you kidding? That was two weeks ago. Do you have any idea how busy I am? How would I know?”
“Are you saying you don’t remember?”
“Can I look at my Filofax?”
“Is it down here?”
“No.” Just as well. If she had used it to refresh her recollection, Swinburne would have had the right to examine the entire calendar. Heaven only knew what he might have found.
“Let me try to help you, Ms. Morrell. That was the day of the Easter egg roll.”
“Oh.” Sarie’s face seemed to flatten, as if someone had sucked all the life out of it.
“Ringing any bells yet?”
“Well… it was a very busy day.”
“No doubt. What happened?”
“Well, of course, they bused in all those schoolchildren. Lots of adorable little runts, most of whom had no idea where they were or why it was important. Dragged here by teachers, followed by parents chasing after bragging points. One kid slugged another over a pink plastic basket. Another tried to urinate in the rosebushes. A fight broke out over who got to stand at the front of the line. So they could chase after those inedible wooden eggs.” She sighed. “Lovely event.”
“And did the president play any role in this festivity?”
“Well, yes. He opened up the ceremony.”
“Was he on time?”
A stricken expression came across Sarie’s face. She looked as if she had been caught in a trap. Perhaps she had. Swinburne was frighteningly well informed.
“No. He did not appear on schedule.”
“What did you do?”
“Well, I’m his chief of staff. A big part of my job is making sure he is where he’s supposed to be. On time. So when he didn’t show up in the Rose Garden, I went to look for him.”
“And did you manage to find him?”
“Eventually. It took a good fifteen minutes.”
“So I will assume, knowing how quickly you move, that he wasn’t in any of the first fifteen or so places you looked for him. Where did you finally find him?”
Sarie pursed her lips. “In the Portrait Hall. Just beyond his secretary’s station outside the Oval Office.”
“And what was he doing there?”
“He was…
looking at the pictures.”
“What pictures?”
Sarie took a deep breath, her shoulders heaving. Ben didn’t need a sixth sense to realize this was something she really didn’t want to talk about.
“Each incoming president gets to choose which of the full collection of presidential portraits in the White House gallery they wish to have hanging in the hallway, where they are bound to see them almost every day. Most everyone keeps Washington and Lincoln, but there’s room for more. Clinton chose Jefferson, because he was named for him. Dubya chose his father, an obvious gesture of respect. Reagan chose Coolidge, because… well, no one really knows why he chose Coolidge. Silent Cal had been in the basement so long they weren’t sure they could get all the dust off him.”
Even Swinburne smiled a little. “And whom did President Kyler choose?”
“Kennedy. And FDR.”
“And what was he doing in the gallery with these pictures?”
Sarie looked away. “Well, I don’t know that he was doing anything, exactly…”
“Ms. Morrell,” Swinburne said sternly, “you are under oath. Tell the cabinet members what he was doing.”
She sighed. “He was talking to them.”
Beside him, Ben saw the president avert his eyes, toward the floor.
A discernible susurrus flowed through the room. Swinburne appeared incredulous, although Ben suspected he wasn’t even surprised. He must’ve known what he was fishing for. “He was talking to the portraits?”
“Oh, you know how you do when you’re alone and you don’t think anyone is listening. You just start saying your thoughts out loud. It’s no big deal. I remember a deb who talked to the centerpiece at her coming-out party.”
“What exactly was he saying?”
Sarie squirmed uncomfortably in her chair. “I believe they-I mean he-was talking about… God.”
Swinburne blinked. “God?”
“Sure. I guess you’re probably unfamiliar, but he’s the head deity who created the universe and-”
“I know who God is, Ms. Morrell,” Swinburne said, confirming what Ben had long suspected: he had no sense of humor whatsoever. “What was the president saying about God to the inanimate portraits on the wall?”
Capitol Betrayal Page 17