Conspiracy

10

McSweeney resisted until he realized that his bodyguard was trying to drag him into the hotel, away from the chaos and commotion on the street.

“I can do it myself,” he muttered, struggling to get to his feet.

McSweeney tripped over the carpet as he came through the door and flew into the lobby, crashing against one of the hotel workers before regaining his balance. People were ducking or cowering or simply standing in dazed silence, unsure what was going on.

“Down, we’re going down, through this door,” said the Secret Service agent next to him. “Steps. Watch the steps.” McSweeney’s lungs were gasping for air by the time he and the agent reached the bottom landing. They turned left, entered another hallway, then went into a room at the right.

The Secret Service agent, face beet red, stood by the door, pistol out.

“Why are we here?” McSweeney asked the Secret Service agent.

“Please, Senator, until the situation is secure.”

“Why are we in this room?”

“It’ll just be a moment. It’s under control.” McSweeney reached into his pocket for his phone.

“Sir, please — no communications until we’re sure everything is copasetic,” said the agent. “Just to be safe.”

“My wife is going to be worried.”

“It shouldn’t take very long.”

McSweeney put the phone back reluctantly. “Who shot at us?”

“I don’t know, sir,” said the agent. He put up his hand, then held it over his ear, obviously listening to something on his radio.

McSweeney’s phone began to buzz. He checked the caller ID window on the phone and saw that it was Jimmy Fingers. McSweeney flipped it open despite the bodyguard’s frown.

“I’m OK, Jimmy,” he told his aide. “The fucker missed me.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, thank God! Do you know the radio just said you were dead?”

“Well, I’m not.”

“We’ll want to get a statement out right away.”

“Rumors of my death are greatly exaggerated,” said McSweeney, echoing Mark Twain’s famous comment.

“No, something more serious,” said Jimmy Fingers, always thinking of the political ramifications. “A potential slogan. ‘My work won’t be stopped by a madman.’ If you were in the lead, then you could joke. No, it has to be just right.

We’ll work it out when I get there. I’m a few minutes away.” McSweeney felt a twinge of resentment at Jimmy Fingers’

tone, even as he knew from experience that Fingers’ advice would prove correct.

“I’m glad you’re OK, Senator,” added the aide. “This will help us. You’ll see.”

“Help us?”

“No one tries to assassinate a loser.”