Capitol Conspiracy

54

“…and so, good citizens of Baltimore, I will speak to you with the same words my mother gave me many years ago when I was facing the darkest moment of my political career: Extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures. Can any-one doubt that we live in extraordinary times? I think not. I am reminded each and every day, when the Pentagon gives me its briefing on current events, when science and technology seem to reinvent the world every few years. Or when I gaze at the picture I keep on my desk, or the one by my bedside, of my dear lamented Emily, the first lady of this great nation. Emily always wanted the United States to be a strong, secure place to live. And so I urge you-”

Agent Gatwick was talking into his sleeve again. “All clear on the western front?”

“Roger that,” Zimmer said, wondering how long it would be before they communicated with little lapel pins, like on Star Trek. People at the airport held extended conversations with those little clips on their ears. Why was the Secret Service still talking into their sleeves? “The Scarecrow is safe.”

Gatwick grinned a little. After Oklahoma City, Blake needed a new code name, but this one was considerably more accurate than most. He liked it. Just as long as no one started calling him Dorothy. “SWAT teams in position?”

“Ready to go on your order.”

“Excellent.” Gatwick paced along the rim of the stage, just below where the president was speaking. Even though they were largely invisible, he knew there were agents and soldiers and government snipers all over the arena. Fort Knox couldn’t be more secure. “Harold still watching the cameras?”

“Like they were showing One Life to Live. ”

“That’s my boy.”

“I think I’m going to amble through the crowd. Keep an eye out for anything suspect.”

“Works for me. Check in every five or so.”

“Will do. Tom-”

“Yeah?”

“We really are going to be okay here, right?”

“We’ve done everything there is to do.”

“You’re not exactly answering my question.”

“Do your job, Max.” His eyes scanned the horizon, the innumerable throng packed into one small place to hear the president speak. “We’ve done everything there is to do.”

“I think we’re fine,” Nichole Muldoon said, peering through her binoculars. Homeland Security had barricaded a large observation box at the highest point of the amphitheater. They could see almost every nook and cranny of the arena from here, and most of the places they couldn’t see directly were covered by closed-circuit cameras. “I mean, how could anyone get past all the security we’ve got here? Even if an assassin could get in-and I don’t think anyone could get in here with a slingshot, much less a rifle-he couldn’t get off a shot before our SWAT team converged.”

“I hope you’re right,” Director Lehman said, his lips frozen in a perpetual frown.

“I told the president I was against this.”

“And did he listen? No. Too damn worried about his amendment. Damn-I want the thing to pass too, but I don’t want anyone to die for it.”

“I know you don’t, Carl. No one does.”

He pressed his fists against each other. “I’m good at this job, Nichole. You know I am.”

“I know you are.”

“I can protect a president against almost anything. Except his own stupidity.”

“Carl, please try to relax. Your pacing is making my skin crawl.” She placed a hand gently on his shoulder. “You’ve done everything it’s possible to do. The sniper couldn’t possibly get in here. And he’d have to be insane to try.”

“Yes,” Lehman said, slowly blowing air through his teeth. “Unfortunately-he probably is.”

“…that in generations to come, this historic legislation will be remembered as Emily’s Amendment and that she will be remembered as not only a wife but as a patriot, someone who made the ultimate sacrifice to remind us what we always have been and always shall be-strong. Fearless. Ready to face whatever challenge this world throws at us. Therefore, speaking to you as your president, I urge you-call your congresspersons. Call your neighbors. Call everyone you know and tell them that America will be strong again-and you want to be a part of it. Tell them that-”

In the days following the attack, it would be remarked upon repeatedly how fortunate it was that the Blue Goose was bulletproof, because if it had not been, the president would be dead. Despite the enormous security precautions and the literally hundreds of people standing ready to protect him, the president would have been shot and killed but for the protective maze of translucent TelePrompTer screens and a bulletproof podium.

Barely a nanosecond after the shot rang out, eight Secret Service agents piled on top of President Blake. The audience screamed. The outdoor amphitheater, filled to capacity with spectators arranged in concentric circles of seats radiating away from the stage, left little room for maneuvering. Pushing and shoving commenced immediately as panicked spectators desperately tried to get out of the line of fire.

More shots rang out. Amid all the confusion, a horde of dark-jacketed agents moved swiftly through the amphitheater. Another wave of fire blanketed the stage, bringing the first victim to his knees.

“Not again!” the president cried, but his words were smothered beneath the weight of the agents shielding him, trying to pull him upright so they could move him to safety. “Dear God in heaven-not again!”

On the stage, Agent Tom Gatwick left his colleagues once a secure defensive perimeter had been formed around the president. Even though he knew this could make him a target, he was determined to convey as much information as possible from his key vantage point.

“I think he’s in the second balustrade, stage right,” Gatwick murmured into his sleeve.

“Roger that.”

“Either of those turrets could make a suitable sniper’s nest. I thought we posted guards.”

“Must assume he took them out somehow. Commandeered their weapon.”

Which meant it was possible they had lost even more lives. Gatwick didn’t allow himself to dwell on the thought. He had to keep his head clear. They might not be able to prevent attacks like this, especially when the president was being so bullheaded. But they could at least make sure that this time they caught the bastard. Or killed him. Personally, Gatwick hoped for the latter.

This one was for Emily. Not the plastic Barbie doll her husband was trying to turn her into up on that stage. The real, vital, flesh-and-blood woman he had come to care so much for. And miss so desperately.

“Dick? Deploy the SWAT teams.”

“Already moving into position.”

From the stage, Gatwick saw the wave of black fatigues infiltrating the amphitheater. Good. All they needed was to get a bead on the target. Those guys never missed.

“Tom, I’m moving in.”

“Zimmer, is that you?”

“Roger. I’m leaving my post. Heading for the balustrade.”

“Negative. I repeat, negative. Do not move.”

“I’m practically there.”

“Zimmer, listen to me. The SWAT team is on their way. Let them take him out.”

“They might not arrive in time. This guy knows how to disappear.”

“Zimmer-!”

“Look, Tom, last time you changed the protocol. This time, I’m changing it.”

“This is completely different!”

“Not to me. We’re both trying to do the same thing-make sure this son of a bitch doesn’t take any more lives.”

“Zimmer-!”

“I’ll update you at the first opportunity.”

“Zimmer!”

Too late. Radio communication was silent.

Stupid kid-what was he trying to prove? But Gatwick already knew the answer to that question. The first lady had been killed while he protected her. Or perhaps he just wanted to prove that the Secret Service was still able to protect the president-and anyone else in their ambit. Zimmer wasn’t a hero and he certainly wasn’t a martyr. He was doing his job. It was still a mistake-there was no excuse for ignoring protocol or direct orders-but Gatwick couldn’t help admiring him a little, just the same.

“Dick, tell your men to watch out for Zimmer. He’s making a play for the sniper. He’ll get there before they do.”

“Understood, Tom. But if he gets in the line of sight-”

“I know. Just-tell them to do their best.”

“Roger that.”

The instant he stopped talking, Gatwick heard another gunshot. But this one didn’t come anywhere near the stage. This bullet ricocheted somewhere off to the right. Near the balustrade.

The sniper had found a new target.

Gatwick just hoped to God it wasn’t Special Agent Zimmer.

Zimmer crept up the stairs. Logically, the place to build a sniper’s nest would be at the top. But there was nothing typical about this killer so it was best to be careful. One step at a time…

He heard a sound and froze. It was a miracle he could hear anything. With the screaming down below, the frenzied rush of the panicked crowd, the buzzing in his communicator that he was pointedly ignoring, there was a blanket of white noise muffling ambient sound and rattling his brain. But he had always had good hearing. He could distinguish all that background clatter from this last sound, something that was coming from somewhere much closer to him.

Just around the bend at the top of the stairs. Barely five feet away.

The sniper could be waiting for him. Zimmer would be entirely vulnerable as he rounded the corner.

He took another tiny step closer. What should he do? The whole point in coming up here was to grab the killer before he had a chance to pull another miraculous escape. He couldn’t do that by taking baby steps all the way to the top.

At the same time, he had no desire to die. He admired heroes who had given their lives, but he wasn’t ready to join their ranks.

If he didn’t want to die, why the hell was he making this suicide plunge?

Easy to answer. Because he had sworn to serve and protect. Because the Secret Service’s reputation had been seriously tarnished by the last attack. He was ready for a little payback, and more important, he was ready to show the world that his department still had what it took.

He was doing it for Emily Blake.

This time they were bringing home the bad guy.

Zimmer stepped closer to the bend in the stairs. Then ever so carefully and silently, he took one more step and prepared to pivot around the bend…

“Turn around!” Nichole Muldoon shouted.

Behind her, Director Lehman frowned. That was as expressive, certainly as visibly worried, as he got. Over the years he’d managed to develop a perfect poker face. Worked well in his line of work.

But he was plenty concerned.

“Can you see him?” Lehman asked.

“I can see his thermal image,” Muldoon replied, peering through what might appear to the untrained eye to be a pair of binoculars. She was stationed at the highest point of the amphitheater, where Homeland Security had built its watch post so it could keep an eye on all the proceedings. The suspected sniper’s nest was below her and to the right. “And another thermal image creeping up behind him.”

“I thought the sniper was at the top.”

“So does Zimmer. But if we know anything, it’s that this guy knows how to move.”

“Maybe it’s one of the counterassault team members. SWAT.”

“No. I’d pick up their beacon.”

“Damn!” Lehman pounded the glass panel that separated them from the rest of the amphitheater. “And you tried calling him?”

“He’s turned off his radio. Probably so the killer won’t hear him coming.”

“This is unacceptable.” Lehman’s fists clenched. “I’m going in.”

Muldoon grabbed his arm. “You can’t do that.”

Lehman shrugged free. “Watch me.”

“You’re not a field agent.”

“I was.” He marched toward an elevator at the side of the room.

“But you’re not anymore. You’re the director of Homeland Security. You’re fifty-three years old! You don’t go running into dangerous situations.”

“This time, I do. I’m not letting any more of our men be killed.”

“Carl, listen to me. I’ll call the SWAT leader-”

“I can get there first. This elevator will take me to the base of the stairs. If I run, maybe I can get to the killer before he gets to Agent Zimmer.”

“Carl, no. You’re too important to this department.”

“Sorry, Nichole. I’m doing this.”

Muldoon prepared to spew out more commands and invective, but the elevator doors closed between them. A moment later, Lehman was on his way to the balustrade.

Zimmer rounded the corner, gun poised in both hands, ready to shoot anything that moved.

There was nothing there. Nothing and no one. Not even a sign that anyone had ever been there.

Zimmer slowly released his breath. Had Gatwick been wrong? It seemed unlikely. But there was no one here. And no apparent means of egress…

Wait a minute. He took a step closer. There was a hatch in the floor.

He pulled the short hank of rope and lifted the lid. There was a ladder beneath, and as near as Zimmer could tell, the ladder went down at least two flights to the base of the staircase.

If the killer climbed down this ladder, he could easily join the crowd and make his escape. Or he could…

Zimmer whirled around.

The dark-skinned face leered at him, grinning in an exaggerated, grotesque manner, like a cat that has finally caught its elusive mouse.

“Surprise,” the man said, and a second later, the butt of a high-powered rifle slammed into Zimmer’s face.

Zimmer hit the floor immediately. The assailant had knocked a tooth out, bloodied his mouth, and dropped him to the ground, all with one unexpected blow.

So, Zimmer thought, his face to the concrete, it comes down to this. All that training. All that experience. So he could be taken out with one blow by a terrorist. He wasn’t a hero. He was a loser.

Zimmer felt a boot in his gut, then he felt it again, then again. Consciousness was wavering.

“I wish I had more time to play with you,” the man said in what sounded like a Russian accent. His face was alarmingly happy. “I enjoyed playing with your former leader. That went on for hours. But I do not have the time now. I must simply kill you and move on.”

He flipped the rifle around and pressed the business end to Zimmer’s neck. “Farewell, American pig. I will laugh as-”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence. All at once, he lurched forward, face first. His rifle flew across the stairwell.

Through blurred eyes, Zimmer saw his boss, Carl Lehman, standing behind, fists clenched. I must be hallucinating, he thought.

“Don’t bother getting up,” Lehman said. He drew his handgun and pointed it. “The SWAT team is on its way. You can’t escape. Don’t make this-”

Like a flash of lightning, the assassin leaped forward and wrapped himself around Lehman’s legs, knocking him sideways. Lehman fired, but the bullet went wide of its mark. He fired again just as his considerable bulk hit the concrete. The fall knocked the weapon out of his hands.

“Stupid old man,” the killer snarled. “Are you so feeble you don’t realize this is what I wanted all along? To kill another director of Homeland Security!” He crawled over Lehman, then brought a fist down hard on his face, flattening his nose. Blood spurted everywhere, including into the killer’s face. He hit Lehman again. The blows rained down, fast and hard, pummeling Lehman’s face. Lehman tried to resist, but he didn’t have the strength. He was a punching bag, a tired old punching bag being terminated, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

The assassin adjusted his aim to Lehman’s solar plexus. Lehman felt as if his lungs were exploding. He couldn’t catch a breath. He doubled over, trying to protect himself, but it was no use.

The next volley of blows went to the groin. Then the man rose and began kicking, shattering Lehman’s knee with a single blow. The pain was excruciating. And just when Lehman thought he couldn’t possibly bear any more, he felt the nose of his own handgun pressed against his neck.

“Your predecessor fought harder. He was much your superior. It took hours before he talked. In ten minutes, you would tell me everything you know. But I don’t have ten minutes.”

He pulled back the hammer. Lehman closed his eyes.

He heard the shattering report of a gun.

And then Lehman was shocked to find he could open his eyes. It took a moment for the thought to register: I’m still alive!

The assassin was crumpled on the concrete. Behind him, wobbling on his knees, was Agent Zimmer-holding the dead man’s assault rifle.

“On your knees,” Zimmer barked. The killer was wounded, but far from dead. “Hands behind your head.”

The killer did not immediately respond. He seemed confused-perhaps dazed by the fall.

Down the stairwell, Zimmer detected the sound of many heavy footsteps.

“Hear that?” Zimmer barked. “That’s the SWAT team coming to have their way with you. My advice is that you tell us everything we want to know, and then there’s a chance, just a chance that one day, far in the future, you might possibly-” He broke off. “No!”

The sniper’s hand had darted to his pants pocket, then a second later, to his mouth.

Zimmer rushed forward, but the killer rolled away before he could grab him. His body had become limp, as if someone had removed his spine. White foam spewed out of his mouth.

“Damn!” he shouted. “He’s taken poison. Medic!”

Zimmer was vaguely aware that the SWAT team emerged and filled the space behind Director Lehman. The crisis had passed.

What a fool he’d been. He was never meant to be a hero. And he’d screwed it up. But fortunately, Lehman gave him the chance he needed to recover himself and finish the job.

The danger was over. The bad guy had been caught. The president was safe. The Secret Service had redeemed itself. He had redeemed himself. And somehow, he’d managed to remain alive.

That was good enough. For today, anyway.