“. . . Me?”
“Well, suppose . . . this is just a hypothetical now . . . you discovered this crazy plot by these true believers of yours. Maybe they’d drunk a little too much of the Kool-Aid and convinced themselves if they could reduce the government to rubble, the right man—Adam Benjamin—would step in and begin again.”
He shook his head vigorously, put the glasses back on. “If that were true, I would never condone it. Never in a million damn years.”
Reeder smiled, just a little. “No, but you might hire someone to remove the evidence—including human evidence. Because if any of this came out, even if you were wholly ignorant of a crazy plot launched by your followers? You couldn’t get in the White House on a goddamn tour.”
The former small-college professor gazed at Reeder with cold disappointment, as if his top student had handed in a grotesquely substandard paper.
“That’s an interesting scenario, Joe. Ridiculous, preposterous . . . but imaginative, at least.” The thin lips peeled back in a contemptuous smile. “Might I suggest a far more simple solution, even assuming this absurd Guy Fawkes plot has any reality? Have you considered that I was indeed the target tonight? Just as I was at Constitution Hall?”
“I’ve considered it,” Reeder said.
“And have you considered that the logical people to want me, and my closest confidants, liquidated are not in the middle—where I am, and for that matter you are—but on the far left, and the far right. The fringes. If such a demented scheme exists as to destroy our beloved Capitol Building, God forbid, it was born on the lunatic fringe . . . one side or the other, or both . . . in a dark wedding of the damned.”
“Wow,” Reeder said. “I bet you write your own speeches.”
Benjamin’s expression turned hard and cold. “Please leave me, Mr. Reeder. I’m afraid I must ask you to go as well, Agent Rogers. It’s indeed been a long and exhausting evening. And I hope, with a good night’s sleep and this horrible evening put into context, the two of you will come to your senses. I may even be gracious enough to accept your apology. But not tonight. Not tonight.”
They went.
“Few will have the greatness to bend history itself; but each of us can work to change a small portion of events, and in the total of all those acts will be written the history of this generation.”
Robert F. Kennedy
NINETEEN
On Monday morning, just a day away from the State of the Union address, Patti Rogers and Joe Reeder were again headed to the Capitol. What others might perceive as a mutual funk was more a sense of shared frustration merging on desperation. They had been unable to convince AD Fisk—or anyone else for that matter, including her task force team—that a threat to the Capitol was still out there.
Over the weekend, the “Holiday Inn Express Massacre” (the Fox News characterization, picked up by one and all) had dominated the news, with the cable outlets covering little else. As Reeder predicted, the victims were portrayed as martyrs, many of whom died trying to prevent Adam Benjamin’s assassination, as opposed to helpless victims cut down in a mercenary’s cold-blooded assault.
The Sunday morning opinion shows were devoted to trying to make sense of (as the Meet the Press host put it) “the targeting of America’s greatest grass roots populist.” This included much speculation by the right that an extreme leftist group might be responsible, and from the left assuming the same of the right. Both sides were careful to avoid directly mentioning either the Inhabit America group or the Spirit of ’76 Movement.
For his part, the billionaire was avoiding the media storm by lying low back in Ohio. The media called it “mourning the loss of his friends and coworkers.” Reeder referred to it as getting out when the getting was good.
Behind the wheel, Rogers said, “Catch any of the news shows this morning?”
“Do I look like a masochist?”
“Remember how Benjamin’s popularity tripled after the Constitution Hall attempt? Well, now that figure’s doubled. Everybody’s favorite noncandidate is polling stronger than President Harrison himself.”
Reeder said nothing.
“Better watch out, Joe,” she said with a wry twist of a smile, “or Benjamin’s going to be even more popular than you are.”
“Finally,” he said, “a good result.”
Rogers, Reeder, and the task force team had spent the weekend searching for the blond assassin, scouring the District and its surroundings, calling in favors from contacts in the criminal life, and recruiting DC police and their own network of confidential informants . . . getting nowhere. The recovered Nissan was still going through forensics tests, but initially the results were nil—not even a fingerprint.
Rogers asked Reeder, “Have you had any luck with Amy?”
With the investigation still under way, the lid was on the apparent plot to blow up the Capitol, so Reeder was limited in what he could say to his daughter, to convince her not to attend the State of the Union address in the company of Senator Hackbarth.
“No,” he said. “I asked her as a favor to her old man to take a pass, no questions asked.”
“And?”
“She asked questions. And I couldn’t answer them.”
“We don’t know that the State of the Union is the target. And we’re alone in thinking there still is a target.”
“If we have shut this thing down,” he said, “great. But the State of the Union is optimum for the purposes of whoever is behind it. Taking out the President, the VP, Congress, cabinet members, Supreme Court justices, in one fell swoop? Broadcast live? The next American revolution could be won with just this one battle.”
Rogers parked in a Government Only spot not far from the Capitol. As they walked, she was accompanied by thoughts of the one hundred sixty-nine dead and nearly seven hundred injured in the bombing of the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City in 1995, the largest single domestic terrorist attack in US history.
Amy Reeder would be one of upwards of a thousand people in the Capitol tomorrow night.
Chief Ackley was waiting for them just inside the door and escorted them quickly through security. The trio immediately descended into the lower reaches of the building. Workers were putting new ductwork into place, adding percussive notes and the human voice to the oppressive thrum of machinery.
“PVC for the new furnace getting replaced,” Ackley said, nodding that way.
FBI techs had determined that the innocent-looking pipe had been formed of Senkstone; removal had been after midnight, when the Capitol was at its closest to empty. The late Lester Blake had gotten it past security, as a longtime employee with clearance.
“When we were down here last time,” Rogers said, “our blond friend must have been checking to see if everything was in place.”
“That’s my guess,” Ackley said. “Happy coincidence that we showed up just then—otherwise, what they cooked up just might’ve worked.”
Reeder said, “Do we know where the Senk is now?”
“Last of it was taken out Saturday. FBI bomb squad hauled it away. Where they carted it off to, I couldn’t tell you.”
Rogers asked, “How much of it was there?”
“Hundred feet or so.”
Reeder grunted. “Our computer guy says a pound of this stuff could decimate a three-story building. A hundred feet, weighing maybe half a pound a foot? We’re talking fifty pounds. The Capitol, and anybody in it, would just be . . . gone.”
Ackley nodded. “Damn good thing we stopped it! Now and then we earn our paycheck, huh?”
The chief was feeling pretty damn good about himself. Rogers knew all too well that convincing this civil servant that a threat remained would be a tough sell.
Reeder asked, “How was it wired?”
“Remote device. Whoever planned this was no suicide bomber—he had zero plans on being in the building.”
“Specifically.”
“Cell phone hooked to the detonator, hidden in a pipe.”
> Reeder’s eyes narrowed as he gazed out at the jungle of pipes and machines and a few workmen.
Rogers said, “A mobile phone call from anywhere in the world, to the cell in the pipe, would set it all off?”
“That’s how I understand it,” Ackley said.
His eyes still traveling, Reeder asked, “Can we be sure all the Senk is out of here?”
“According to the Bureau’s bomb squad,” Ackley said, “it’s all gone. They did mass spec tests on the furnace, and any other work done down here in the last two years. The FBI’s top hazardous devices guy says it’s all clear, and that’s good enough for me. Now I can get some good sleep tonight, and watch the speech from my upstairs office tomorrow.”
“Can you,” Reeder said.
Ackley put a hand on Reeder’s shoulder and grinned. “Of course, Peep, I reserve the right to keep the sound down. I didn’t vote for Harrison.”
“If you’re wrong, Chief,” Reeder said pleasantly, “you won’t need the sound turned up.”
They left him to think about that.
On the way to the car, Rogers asked, “You figure we’re wasting our time?”
“Trying to convince Ackley? Definitely. He’s a good meat-and-potatoes cop, but this is way over his skill level.”
She shook her head. “No, Joe, are we the ones who are wrong?”
They were at the car now.
Reeder said, “We might be, but a lot of lives hinge on ‘might.’ Something in that Capitol basement smells, and I don’t mean dead rats . . . Let’s get in and get the heater going.”
They did, then she asked, “What does your delicate breathing apparatus tell you?”
He answered her with his own question. “Whoever is behind this conspiracy has been very careful, even methodical . . . right?”
“Right,” she said. “Until the hotel shooting, at least. But otherwise, months, maybe years have gone into this. I was relieved, frankly, to hear they went back two years to check on any work done.”
Reeder’s face was typically blank but his eyes were moving. “The plot has accelerated. Tying off loose ends started at an almost leisurely pace. But even that frontal attack on that Holiday Inn—it was planned to the second. Doesn’t it seem like we stumbled onto their Senkstone surprise package a little too easily?”
She goggled at him. “Are you kidding, Joe? Nothing’s been easy about this investigation.”
“That’s because everywhere we go, the bad guys are a step ahead of us.”
“No argument there.”
His upper lip curled in a bitter smile. “So then is it just a ‘happy coincidence’ that our blond prick turns up in the basement of the Capitol, at the precise moment you and I are there?”
Her chin came up. “So that’s what’s got your smeller twitching. You don’t think . . .”
“Don’t I?”
“Did he want us to see him?”
“Oh yeah.”
“But why?”
“So we’d think we caught him in the act. Setting the fuse, so to speak.”
“Joe, I’m not sure I’m following . . .”
“Patti, a conspiracy this large, with this many moving parts? Whoever’s behind it had to plan for the possibility that someone would begin putting the pieces together.”
“Triggered by the double-taps, maybe.”
“Yeah. So, if you anticipated that, why not have a dummy bomb set up?”
Her eyebrows climbed. “A bomb that we would find! . . . And then assume that the threat had been removed.”
“Threat removed,” he repeated. “Guard lowered.”
“So it could still be in there.”
He nodded gravely. “I think it is. And in this whole great big government . . . with its alphabet soup of law enforcement and antiterrorist agencies . . . nobody but us is looking for it.”
At the task force bullpen, the team pored over everything relating to Barmore Holdings, should anything have been overlooked. Again, all hands were on deck, Hardesy and Nichols pitching in, behaviorist Ivanek, too, everybody following Miggie’s lead.
As the day dragged on, a long list of companies that Barmore had interests in had come to light: Clayton Pharmaceuticals, Davis Construction, Elgin Computer Services, even a one percent holding in ABC Security, Reeder’s company.
“You’re shitting me,” he said.
“It’s right here,” Rogers said, showing him the updated list. “Maybe somebody was keeping an eye on you. Does your company send out e-newsletters and quarterly reports?”
“Of course.”
“Well,” she said, and shrugged.
“Damnit!” Miggie said.
Every head in the room turned the computer god’s way, their expressions confirming that this was the first such outburst anyone here could remember from him. Rogers gave the room a look that said get back to what they were doing, and she and Reeder went over to Miggie’s desk, pulling chairs up alongside him.
His voice down, his expression embarrassed, Mig said, “You were right, Joe. We were hacked. Sort of. Anyway, I figured out how they’ve been a step ahead all the time . . . They’ve been lying in the weeds, remotely monitoring everything I do.”
Rogers frowned. “That’s possible?”
“Absolutely . . . but they were buried so deep, it took me forever to even figure out they were there.”
Reeder asked, “Can you track them?”
“I’m honestly not sure.”
Rogers and Reeder exchanged surprised expressions—they’d never heard Miggie admit defeat so readily.
He was saying, “They’re cloaking themselves well and have a revolving IP address that changes every thirty seconds. Tracking them will be next to impossible.”
“Well,” Rogers said, “how about shutting them down?”
“That I can probably do . . . but they’re going to try to find another way in.” He shook his head. “Most likely, we’ve been their best intelligence source about who’s trying to stop them.”
Rogers said, “Well, then, let’s slam the door in their damn face, now!”
Reeder held up a hand. “Let’s not be in too big a hurry . . . Do they know you’re onto them?”
“Not necessarily. I spotted them when I was digging into the diagnostics, but backed out before letting them know I was there. Pretty sure of that, anyway.”
“Perfect opportunity for some disinformation, don’t you think?”
Rogers held out an open hand. “What about in the meantime? If things don’t look like business as usual, we’re blown.”
Miggie shook his head. “No, Joe’s right. We can do this. I go ahead and use my computer just like I have been, looking into aspects of the case. Every time I find something that might be helpful, I switch to a non-FBI device before pursuing it further. Rest of the time, they see me running into dead ends.”
“Giving them more confidence in our incompetence,” Reeder said. “I like it.”
Rogers said, “Me, too. Pursue that approach.”
By the end of the day, with everybody thoroughly beat, Rogers and Reeder gathered the team in the conference room to kick around theories, share discoveries, and exchange thoughts.
Ivanek, the deep-set eyes frowning under the shelf of brow, asked Reeder, “How did your friend Bryson get involved in this, anyway?”
“My guess? Chris was likely offered the same top security job I was, which Jay Akers had already taken—the kind of high-dollar position that discourages much due diligence before saying yes. But Chris Bryson started digging, and putting things together. Me, I turned ’em down flat, due diligence not an issue. Akers jumped in with both feet, but still noticed things that didn’t seem kosher. That’s why he wanted to talk to me . . . and maybe why he got killed.”
Rogers said, “What Chris Bryson noticed, among other things, were the double-tap victims. Anne, you and Luke have been working on that. Anything?”
Nichols said, “Michael Balsin, the congressional aide, was looking into
the sale of Senkian Chemicals. Must have been enough to get him killed.”
Hardesy—his shaved head dark with five o’clock shadow—said, “Harvey Carroll did some accounting work for Senkian. Another loose end tied off.”
“Presumably,” Reeder said, “the factory foreman, William Robertson, was in some way moonlighting at Senkian, weekends maybe.”
Hardesy said, “Now it gets really interesting. DeShawn Davis aka Karma Sabich was Frank Elmore’s lover. Somebody in the conspiracy, not necessarily Elmore, considered the transvestite a poor security risk . . . or possibly an embarrassment . . . and she was next.”
Reeder nodded. “Jay Akers may have been collateral damage in the first assassination attempt, although I tend to think he’d already learned too much. Like Chris Bryson. And like Chris, he tried to talk to me.”
Ivanek said, “Lester Blake, Capitol maintenance man, did what he was paid to do . . . and his bonus was getting eliminated.”
Reeder nodded. “People who will sell out for a buck forget that those they sell out to? Know that.”
“Which brings us,” Rogers said, “to the massacre at the hotel. Do we think Lawrence Schafer, Benjamin’s personal accountant, is just more collateral damage?”
No one had an opinion on that one.
Going on, she said, “Then we have Lynn Barr and Frank Elmore, the putative coconspirators at the top . . . but if so, who ordered them killed?”
“The only person who can answer that one,” Reeder said, “is their killer. Our ever-popular blond mercenary. It all comes down to him.”
“We skipped one,” Rogers reminded them. “Why was Carolina Uribe killed? Our reference librarian. No ties to anyone or anything else in the case that we know of.”
Miggie said, “Actually, I think I know. Took a while, but I found something interesting, not fifteen minutes ago. Take a look at this, everybody.”
On the big mounted monitor came grainy black-and-white footage of a library reference desk and an attractive Latina woman working behind it.
“This,” Miggie said, “is the Burke Centre Library counter where Uribe worked. Security video.”
A middle-aged, fairly average-looking guy, vaguely blue collar, came up to the counter and asked a couple questions that led to some brief, smiling conversation, then got her tapping away on a computer. After receiving his information, he walked away, frowning.
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