There had been some skepticism in these ranks about Rogers and Reeder’s belief in that possibility. But no one was questioning it now.
“We’re at the end of our workday,” Rogers said. “We’re less than twenty-four hours from the State of the Union. Joe feels that’s when this conspiracy will come to fruition. And no one outside of this room thinks there’s a problem. Who wants to go home?”
Nobody said anything.
“We’ll break for supper,” Reeder said, “and come back and hit it. Name your poison — I’m buying.”
Twenty
“We have it in our power to begin the world over again.”
Joe Reeder and Patti Rogers sat across from Margery Fisk’s Omaha Beach of a desk. The perfectly coiffed, expensively dressed assistant director of the FBI was at her computer looking at the task force report they’d sent an hour before, explaining why the team believed a bomb still remained somewhere in the Capitol Building...
... and why tonight would likely see its detonation.
In two hours, the State of the Union speech would begin. Cutting it this close was nothing Reeder relished, but he had hoped the various cops and snitches out there, searching for the blond assassin, might come through for them.
They hadn’t.
And nobody else in government, besides Reeder, Rogers, and their team, anticipated any problem tonight worse than some far-right Republicans heckling President Harrison at the big event.
Finally Fisk turned from the monitor toward them, her expression unreadable, even to Reeder.
“I’m not saying you haven’t made a convincing case,” she said.
It hit him like a blow. Amy would already be in that building.
Fisk continued: “But while you have solid facts here, the evidence for the continuing existence of a plot is highly circumstantial. And, if anything, you demonstrate that the threat has been found and removed. Dealt with.”
Reeder said, “If we’re right, Director Fisk, allowing the State of the Union to proceed isn’t just a bad career move — it’s a tragic mistake of epic proportions.”
Her eyes flared, and that he could read.
But her voice remained cooclass="underline" “If you think that President Harrison can be moved to cancel the biggest night of his political year, you are welcome to go over there, lean on your celebrity and prior dealings with the president, and see how far you get.”
And that was that.
In the hallway, Rogers asked him, “Could you do that? Could we get in to see the President?”
“No. As a former Secret Service agent, I can assure you of that. No, no, and no. Fisk knows that. She blew us off.”
In the task force conference room, Rogers informed the team of the fate met by the report they’d labored on for so many hours. Their response was a shroud of silence that draped over the room and everyone in it.
The image on the big wall-mounted monitor was divided into four panels of CNN, MSNBC, Fox News, and C-SPAN coverage. Wide shots on the exterior of the Capitol Building were interspersed with various angles inside the chamber itself, as it slowly filled up with dignitaries and guests.
Finally, their behaviorist, Ivanek, asked, “How many people will be in the Capitol tonight?”
Reeder, as if reading from a grocery list, said, “Five hundred thirty-five members of Congress, the President and Vice President, the Justices of the Supreme Court, a gallery full of visitors...” including my daughter “... the Cabinet, save for the one member who won’t attend to preserve the line of succession.”
Luke Hardesy frowned. “Who is that?”
Miggie already knew. “Secretary of Agriculture Alexander Clarkson, the eighth man in line.”
“Never heard of him,” Hardesy said with a sour smirk. “I don’t think anybody has.”
“Unless we figure out a way to stop this,” Reeder said, “that will change tomorrow.”
Silence again. Able as they were, brilliant and brave though they might be, helplessness was pulling them down like quicksand.
Sighing glumly, Anne Nichols said, “All we have is the blond.”
“But we don’t have him,” Hardesy said.
“I mean, in the sense that he holds the key. He can lead us to the man who hired him, and in all likelihood, he set the detonation device itself.”
Rubbing a hand nervously over his shaved head, Hardesy said, “But we don’t know that. And even if we do find him — and we’ve tapped every resource available to us, without success — who’s to say he would talk in time?”
Nichols, with a hardness unusual from the woman, said, “Maybe we march him into the Capitol Building and see what happens as the clock ticks.”
But Hardesy was shaking his head at his partner. “Annie, the guy may be a fanatic! He may relish being part of the big boom. All those famous people dead, and the next day, he’s the one getting talked about.”
“No,” Reeder said firmly. “This isn’t a suicide bomber. This isn’t a muddled Muslim looking forward to virgins in the afterlife. He’s a mercenary. In it for money. But, Luke, just the same — you still might be onto something.”
“Yeah?”
“He’s been handling everything himself.”
Rogers said, “Not always, Joe. He was one of three or four who faked the Bryson suicide. And the timing is such that he probably wasn’t the one who took those shots at me at the diner.”
“You’re right,” Reeder said. “He’s working with a small crew of other mercenaries — that’s my thinking. But when it’s something important... not to diminish somebody shooting at you, Patti... our blond has done the job himself. You can bet the double-taps are him. He came to Bryson’s security office looking for what Chris had, then came back and torched it the next day. He was in the basement of the Capitol when we were. And he was alone at the Holiday Inn Express, wiping out nine people.”
Rogers gazed at him with narrowed eyes. “He appears to be taking orders from the top. That seems to include not just loose ends, but high-up coconspirators. So maybe he’s the man who’ll detonate the Senkstone.”
Hardesy was shaking his head. “We can’t know that.”
“For a certainty, no,” Reeder said. “But it follows.”
Ivanek was nodding. “I agree with Joe. Our mastermind, if you’ll forgive the melodrama, has been delegating all his dirty work to this one mercenary. And the mercenary’s mind-set — well, consider that the entire hotel massacre was carried out by him alone. He has an inflated ego. A self-image of considerable worth, with underlying doubts that only proving himself again and again can overcome.”
“What he said,” Reeder said.
Miggie’s brow was knit. “But, Joe — if it’s a cell phone detonator, like the one in the Capitol cellar, he can set it off from anywhere.”
Reeder frowned. “No. I don’t think he can.”
“Of course he can,” Miggie said. “He just has to dial the cell wired to the bomb and... you know the rest. He could be on the other side of the city, hell, by this time, the other side of the world.”
“Not likely,” Reeder said. “He takes pride in his work, and he’s a micromanager. Trusts only himself with anything he deems important. Like detonating the bomb. Trevor, are we on the same page?”
Ivanek said, “We are. This individual will not only be compelled to push the button himself... he’ll want to witness the result of his handiwork.”
“Okay,” Hardesy said, raising his palms in surrender. “I’ll go along with all of this, since I don’t have a better theory. But we still don’t know where the bomb is, or what it looks like. Then there’s the small detail of where the hell our blond is, and how do we keep him from making a mass-murder cell phone call?”