“Hold on, hold on, hold on,” Murphy said, repeating the mantra-like admonishment familiar to all in the House chamber. “The plain truth is that enough people are uncomfortable with the idea of McCaw possibly ending up as president — God forbid — that it just won’t fly. Whether you two want to admit it or not, there is a risk here. A real one where there usually isn’t, and that requires careful consideration.”
“Are you saying you want someone else to be odd man out?” Gonzales asked.
“Exactly,” Parsons answered.
“Someone more suited to the potential,” Murphy explained. “McCaw was, what, some sort of computer executive before taking over Energy? That’s not what the country needs if…”
Bud slid back on the couch. “This is really concerning you?”
“Bud,” Murphy began, tapping his own chest with a thick thumb, “I’m number three on the list of succession. I was elected. People voted for me. But I’m gonna be sitting right up there behind your boss next month. The vice president is gonna be right next to me. Pardon what comes next, but just about everyone else who can take over according to the Constitution are appointed schmucks. Normally, sure, McCaw wouldn’t raise an eyebrow. But this isn’t a normal time. People on the Hill want to fry Gordon Jones for what happened in L.A. last month, and they aren’t sure they trust promises of security.”
“It will be secure,” Gonzales said forcefully.
“Fine,” Murphy responded. “Then we’ll all walk away happy. But McCaw has got to go. Choose someone better suited to the ‘maybes,’ not the promises.”
“If someone doesn’t take care of this before too long there’re going to be public calls from some of our Republican friends for a change.” Parsons’s stomach rumbled loudly as the antacid began its fight with the remnants of the previous night’s revelry. “Some on our side, too. That can be damn embarrassing.” He pointed a long, tan finger at Gonzales. “You more than anyone should be tuned in to that. Earl Casey is going to have your ass if this blows up.”
“It doesn’t need to blow up,” Murphy countered. There was conciliation in his voice, but also direction.
Embarrassment. Ellis knew all too well the ramifications of that. In a way he was the president’s point man, walking ahead of the chief executive through the election-year minefield. It was important the rest of the term, also, but now was the time when it most counted. People wouldn’t vote for a man whose own party fired a shot across his bow. No way. This wasn’t worth risking that.
“All right,” Ellis said. “I’ll talk to the president.”
“Soon,” Murphy prodded.
“This week,” Ellis promised.
“Make it someone everyone can accept,” Parsons directed.
Gonzales nodded.
Bud stood. “That does it, then. Crisis averted.”
Murphy and Parsons also rose to their feet and gathered their coats.
“Thanks for the hurry-up, Bud,” the speaker said, putting a hand on the NSA’s shoulder.
“Thanks for dropping in,” Bud said with a slight chuckle attached, then closed the door behind their visitors. He turned back to the chief of staff. His face was blank. “Parsons can be an ass.”
Gonzales quietly nodded. “Do you think there’s a reason to worry?”
“Worry?” Bud sat in the chair vacated by the speaker. It was still warm. “No. Concern, yes.”
“It’s a hell of a thought, you know,” Gonzales observed. “You know what kind of mayhem there’d be.”
“That’s why there’s an odd man out,” Bud reminded him.
“Still…” The chief of staff was quiet for a moment. “Do you think that’s what these NALF guys are thinking about?”
Bud half-shrugged before answering. “The Bureau thinks they have more nerve gas. And that car they found in the river puts them in the vicinity. They’re here for a reason. And I guess this is a good place to be if you want to do damage.”
Damage. That was a mild way of putting it. How many were dead in Los Angeles? Gonzales thought. The final body count was one thousand eight hundred and twenty-two. That was damage, all right. But killing just a fourth of that number — the right fourth — in this city could mean more than death. It could mean chaos. Or worse. “You know, they may have been right to bring this to us.”
Bud saw Gonzales’s eyes come up to meet his. “It’s not going to happen, Ellis.”
“Neither was Pearl Harbor,” Gonzales said in response.
TWENTY ONE
Give and Take
Montrose Road skirts the southern limits of Rockville, Maryland, running west-east between Interstate 270 and the Rockville Pike. Dr. John Conrad turned his Chevy Suburban east onto Montrose from the interstate in a driving rain, heading for home. That was a brand-new, five thousand-square-foot tri-level done in western red cedar. It wasn’t cheap, but his practice was good. As good as any orthopedic surgeon’s inside the beltway, the perfect place to do his kind of business. Bad backs and bum knees abounded, as did referrals. Tons of those. Enough that he had two associates working for him. Work weeks were four days long now, with Wednesday as a play day in the middle, and weekends sometimes ate up a Friday or a Monday. Usually a Monday. Sundays were just too short.
Life was good, the family was good. About the only thing not good was the damn road that the county never seemed to fix right. As usual the potholes, hidden under a glaze of rainwater, were assaulting his suspension and wearing the tires long before their time. Two letters already, and golf with a honcho from the roads department obviously hadn’t had the desired result. Well, now they’re going to —
The motion his Suburban made this time wasn’t from a pothole. It lurched forward, pressing Conrad against his seat. He looked to the rearview to see a pair of headlights easing back, and a flashing turn signal as the car pulled to the shoulder.
“Son of a bitch!” Conrad swore, hitting his own signal. “The idiot doesn’t know his following distance!” A rear-ender. A moving rear-ender! At least the insurance company couldn’t lay any of this on him…if the fool had insurance. He stopped on the hard shoulder of the road, the idiot doing the same right behind, as a line of cars zipped by. Conrad popped his door and opened the umbrella through the crack, then walked to the rear of his Suburban to go through the rigmarole.
“Hey man, sorry,” Darian said, gesturing embarrassment as rain cascaded off the brim of his baseball cap.
Conrad gave the guy a look, and one for his buddy still in the car, and checked the bumper. “Oh, wonderful.”
Darian bent a bit to survey the damage, pointing with one hand and keeping the other in his coat pocket. To his rear the passenger door of the Volvo opened. That was the signal — no traffic from behind. “Oh, shit, down on the fender, too.”
“Where?” Conrad asked, following the outstretched finger. “I don’t see—”
The leather sap came down hard at the base of Conrad’s skull, but not too hard. Just enough to stun, as Darian had been taught by the brothers in Soledad. The doctor grunted loud and fell to all fours. By then Moises was up with his leader.
“Down!” Darian commanded, stomping on Conrad’s back with his boot and pushing his chest to the ground. “Get his hands.”
Moises put a knee in the small of the doctor’s back and pulled both arms behind. He wrapped a looped cord around the wrists and drew it tight, then wound the remaining length between the arms and tied it off. Next came the feet, and then the mouth, which was gagged by filling it with a wadded-up sock. “Ready.”
Darian looked back. No cars. To the front the large Suburban blocked the view and shrouded their actions. “Let’s go.”