“Certainly, Mr. Gonzales.” The name was finally coming automatically to him. He wondered if it would change again now that they were on the move. “And your computer drive?”
“Take it. Did you double check with the cleaning crew?”
The bodyguard had. He also confirmed that movers would be arriving in another hour. By midnight, the luxurious condo would be empty and wiped clean. A bank would handle the sale.
“Then let’s go.”
Gonzales breezed through the lobby without a word to the building guard at the front desk. He was happy to be heading to a warmer climate and out of the United States, where soon there would be hell to pay.
“Thank you, Congressman Patrick,” Bridgeman began. The nation saw the two men together. “You are a true American, who like everyone here today, deserves far better. We’ll see that day together.”
The crowd cheered again for the duke and the general. The opening line gave further credence to the rumor circulating the country: A Bridgeman-Patrick ticket would be on the ballot. Patrick waved for the cameras and left, as ordered. Now it was time for Bridgeman to get to his prepared remarks. He did so with great gusto.
“America — our defenses are down,” Bridgeman said quietly. The powerful opening salvo surprised the crowd. It instantly silenced them. “Our defenses are down. They are down to nothing. These are not the technological defenses that protect our skies. No, they’re the defenses that protect our God-given personal freedoms. Those defenses have eroded to nothingness, not by enemies from foreign lands, but from those at home who seek to destroy our way of life.”
In another time, Bridgeman could have been inspiring the colonial army to cross the Delaware, or the American forces to take the beaches at Normandy. He was that kind of leader: inspiring and charismatic. Soon he might lead America’s voters to the polling booth for another victory. For without announcing his intentions, John Bridgeman was already the people’s candidate. He was preaching to the converted in a populist movement where people believed that America was being destroyed from within.
“But there is hope,” General Bridgeman continued, “Because of you. The torn fabric of ideas, the fading words on the parchment are replaced by the strength of your presence. The heart of our nation boldly beats again because of you. So, right here, right now, in this very place, we stand together and pledge ourselves to a new American revolution. And no one will be able to rise above our defenses!”
The multitude, which had remained utterly silent, suddenly broke into a deafening cheer that eclipsed anything in Washington’s history.
As Richard Cooper listened to the radio coverage, the intensity of the moment, the mood of the crowd, the very feel of the event took him back a year earlier, when he was peering out of a hotel room in Hudson, New York. He shouldered a Galil sniper rifle then. He remembered the ease at which he set up his shot. That day, his target was merely fifty yards away. It wasn’t a matter of sharp shooting as much as timing. His view was partially obstructed. It was only when Congressman Teddy Lodge moved that he had the clear shot of his target.
He remembered listening to the cadence of Lodge’s speech. At the appropriate moment in his delivery, the congressman bowed his head forward. That’s when Cooper pulled the trigger and Jennifer Lodge breathed her last. Pandemonium replaced calm that day in the small upstate New York community. No one suspected — at least for months — that the candidate wasn’t the target. The deception worked that day, as another one would today.
Cooper smiled and listened to the rambling of another would-be president.
Chapter 74
“Yes, who is this?”
“Mr. Roarke? Mr. Scott Roarke?”
Roarke didn’t recognize the voice. Louise Swingle put it through because the caller insisted he had to speak to Agent Roarke about Katie Kessler.
“Yes! Who the hell are you?”
“Go to the Washington Monument now,” the deep, deadly serious voice intoned. “Your girlfriend is approaching the west side. She is in great danger. If you expect to save her, you must get there immediately. She will be dead by fifteen-thirty.”
“What? Who…” His caller disconnected. Roarke caught a clock straight ahead. 1517 hours. Thirteen minutes!
“Our defenses are down at our borders, too,” Bridgeman exclaimed. “Foreigners easily walk across, taking American jobs and exhausting American resources. Our defenses are down on our morals. The media programs indecency as it deprograms and desensitizes our minds. Our defenses are down on our values. We have divorced ourselves from the traditional family unit. And, our defenses are down on our faith, for we have taken God out of our laws, our schools, and our lives. But, here, in this place, now, where we stand, we will lead a new American revolution.” The crowd could feel where he was going. The cheering started anew. “And no one will be able to rise above our defenses!”
Jesus! Katie exclaimed to herself after pushing through at least a hundred Bridgeman supporters. That was simply to cross Constitution Avenue. She couldn’t imagine getting through the crowd ahead and making her way to The Washington Monument. But Roarke said —
After enough “Excuse me’s”, she gave up on pleasantries. The only good thing about trekking toward her destination was that she could at least see it. Why in the world did he pick this spot? And today? It suddenly didn’t seem right.
She twisted and turned her way through the crowd. Katie heard General Bridgeman echoing across the Mall, amplified through speakers under the television projection screens. All in all, she hated it. It was hot and muggy. She wished she had worn lighter clothes and her heels were absolutely ridiculous. She felt like turning around. But according to the guy on the phone, Roarke said… When another person bumped her from behind, she cursed. This was too much. Fuck it! I’m calling Scott.
Katie stood in the shadow of the Washington Monument and dialed. She thought she heard Scott’s “Hello,” but no matter how high she turned up the volume or how hard she pressed the phone to her ear, she couldn’t hear.
“Scott! I can’t hear you. I’m on my way. Are you coming?”
He wore a loose-fitting March2Washington sweatshirt and faded jeans, and size 12 cowboy boots. His stature gave him more mobility than most others. And yet, he remained invisible. No one paid attention to the man with the ponytail stuck out the back of a Washington Nationals baseball cap. No one saw that he kept his right hand under his shirt. He was very close to where he wanted to be; close enough to do what he’d been contracted to do; precisely the way he’d been told. Everyone else wanted to press nearer to Bridgeman or a TV monitor. He wanted to stay where he was…until it was time.
Katie still had a few hundred yards to reach the Washington Monument. While she made her way, she tried to catch some of what Bridgeman was saying…why the crowd was cheering.
“America is watching us. America is listening to us. We are the new voice of politics. The new face of reason. Together, we are a mighty instrument of change.”
So many people came out for this?
“Congress! Can you see us? Do you hear us? If you don’t now, you will! Look across the street. To the Supreme Court. Those great justices. Do you see us? Do you hear us? If you don’t now, you will! Now look to the White House, to Henry Lamden who sits again in his chair. Do you see us? Do you hear us? If you don’t now, you will! For we are here to stay!”
Katie tuned out. She finally saw some breathing room that led to the west side of the monument. That’s where she was supposed to meet Scott. It looked fairly open. Probably because the view sucks. She looked at the time. Come on Scott, spare me from being a political casualty out here!