“That’ll be mission accomplished,” Toby commented. The right color blood, though. “The name’s on a card in the bag, and the address of his office. That’s job one.”
Darian picked the shopping bag up. “Consider it done. And don’t forget you still owe us.”
“Nine hundred grand.” You’d sell your mother…
Darian gave a single nod and walked back to the Volvo. He heard the white boy pull out of the lot as he got behind the wheel.
“How’d it go?” Moises asked. He took a sip from the bottle and twisted the plastic cap back on.
Darian looked to his newest recruit. But not the last. ‘Cause after this we’re gonna have an army of brothers wanting their piece of the pie. “Good.” Anarchy. God, it was going to be paradise. “Real good.”
Senator Curtis Parsons and Congressman Jack Murphy had been to the White House many a time, sometimes to consult with the president, other times to counsel him, as leader of their party, on policy matters destined for a fight on the Hill. This crisp Wednesday morning, though, the Senate majority leader and the speaker of the House of Representatives were conveying something else: a request. That was the polite term, because they were certain it would be received for what it actually was: a demand.
The majority leader and the speaker arrived at the White House together in the back of a Secret Service Lincoln that had picked them up at Washington National an hour earlier. It was waved through the gate on West Executive Avenue and pulled to a stop between Old Executive and the West Wing. Five minutes later the nation’s top legislators walked into the office of the president’s assistant for national security affairs.
“Senator, Mr. Speaker.” Bud DiContino had two chairs arranged facing the small couch in his office. Parsons and Murphy shed their overcoats, hanging them on the brass tree near the door, and took the seats. The president’s chief of staff and national security adviser lowered themselves to the couch. “Can we order anything from the cafeteria for you? Croissants? I have coffee in the pot.”
“No. No.” Senator Parsons undid his tie and made a sour face at the offer. “My damn stomach’s boiling. Goddamn red-eyes.”
Speaker Murphy chuckled at his colleague. He had fifteen years on the man, and twenty pounds, yet the good Curtis Parsons of the fine state of Louisiana had the ailments of an older man. He also had a liking for Kentucky bourbon.
“Mr. Speaker?” Bud asked.
Murphy shook his head. “Sorry for the hurry-up on this.”
Whatever ‘this’ was, Bud thought. “Sorry we had to make it this early, but you wanted no press around.”
“They’re off with the boss,” Gonzales explained.
“Where the hell is he this early?” Parsons asked, popping a chewable antacid into his mouth.
“Norfolk for a prayer breakfast,” Gonzales answered. “For a veterans’ group.”
“Praying on a Friday.” Parsons sniffed. “We Catholics save that for Sunday.”
“The pope here protests,” Murphy joked. “But, seriously, Bud, we appreciate you and Ellis seeing that this was quiet.”
Bud sat forward, almost to the couch’s edge. “I have to admit I’m guessing as to the reason.”
Jack Murphy scooted forward also, his imposing Montana frame a hard figure to ignore. Few on the Hill had done so and walked away with their political careers intact. “Succession, Bud. The odd man out.”
The NSA’s face curled a bit at that. The “odd man out” was nothing more than a colloquial term for the lone member in the line of presidential succession who was normally kept away from events where all the other members were present, such as the approaching State of the Union message. It was a matter of security, a safety measure that, should some catastrophe strike when all the other members were together, ensured there would be a constitutionally recognized successor to the presidency available to assume the powers of state. For the State of the Union the choice had already been made: Energy Secretary Raleigh McCaw would do the honors, watching the constitutionally required report to Congress from the safety of his home — guarded by the Secret Service for that one evening. All very simple. All very proper.
So why were the most powerful men on the Hill sneaking into the White House to discuss the matter? Why indeed? Bud wondered. “The odd man out? It’s Secretary McCaw. What’s to discuss?”
“Whether he’s the right choice,” Parsons responded flatly. He didn’t like McCaw, but then he didn’t like the president, either. Neither, though, was behind the reasoning of his questioning.
“Right choice?” Bud snickered a bit. “You lost me, gentlemen.”
“Me, too,” Gonzales joined. “Raleigh did the duty last year. Energy isn’t exactly tops on the agenda for the speech. He doesn’t need to be there.”
“He’s second to the bottom, Bud, for Christ’s sake!” Parsons challenged.
Murphy raised a hand to quiet his excitable colleague, then focused his attention on the president’s advisers. “Listen. Curt and I don’t make a habit of flying back to D.C. during recess for just nothing. We’ve had calls, my good men. From our friends across the aisle. They have a bug in their bonnet about McCaw. You know that. After that MicroGen bullshit he had to prove himself innocent of, and then laying it on one of their boys. Well, they don’t like him. And they don’t trust him.”
“Wait,” Bud said. “This isn’t 1963. Soviet bombs are not going to drop during the State of the Union.”
“No, but those black revolutionaries—”
“Terrorists!” Parsons interjected.
“Whatever,” Murphy said. “Those fellows have the ability to do some major damage, Bud. Kill a lot of people. And that vehicle they found in the river not fifteen minutes from here is making folks on both sides of the aisle nervous. Real nervous.”
“Mr. Speaker, there is no way they’re going to be able to do anything during the State of the Union.” Bud turned to the chief of staff. “The Service already went heads-up on that, right, Ellis?”
Gonzales nodded emphatically. “They’re working close with the FBI, and from what I understand there will be an airtight lock on anything near the Capitol that night. It’ll actually start a few days before, I recall. Ted O’Neil gave me a brief rundown. Plus every African-American group and organization from the NAACP to the most radical fringe has offered to help. The odds are on our side, gentlemen.”
“Promises,” Parsons commented. “Those did our president’s predecessor a hell of a lot of good in L.A. a few years back.”
“There’s a damn big difference between shooting rockets at the president’s motorcade, while it’s sitting still, and sneaking a tank of nerve gas into the most heavily guarded building in D.C.” Bud took a breath, realizing he was letting Parsons get the best of him.
“Tank,” Parsons observed. “I saw the Bureau report on the damn thing. It’s smaller than a football.”
“And made of metal,” Bud pointed out.
“Even you gentlemen are going to have to go through metal detectors on January nineteenth,” Gonzales said. “Unless the president himself carries it in, it’s not getting in.”
“They could release it outside,” Parsons suggested. “Upwind.”
Gonzales shrugged. “There’ll be gas alarms galore. Plenty of warning, and plenty of—” It was the chief of staffs turn to look to Bud. “What does the Army call them?”
“MOPP suits,” Bud answered.
“Plenty of MOPP suits,” Gonzales continued, “for everyone.”
“An attack outside would be stupid,” Bud observed. “That doesn’t mean they wouldn’t try it, but it would fail. Period.”