DEPT. OF JUSTICE
60
Lines of authority were never especially clear in Washington, D.C., where the jurisdiction of a dozen different law-enforcement agencies all overlapped. The presence of so many people with guns and badges made it impossible to figure out who was in charge of what. So when men with guns and badges had gone to several locations in the District of Columbia during the last few days and laid claim to numerous parking spaces - some on the street, some in parking lots of federal buildings - there had been disputes, arguments, even threats. But the issues raised could not have been untangled short of calling a convention of Constitutional scholars and locking them all in a room until they made up their minds. The people who had the parking spaces won the argument. The decision was sealed when those parking spaces were occupied by flatbed semitrailer rigs with big GODS shipping containers on their backs. One of them took up a position in front of the headquarters of the Teamsters Union on Louisiana Avenue, only a block north of the Capitol Building. From there, it had a direct line of sight across Taft Park and Constitution Avenue on to the Capitol grounds; a person could climb on to the roof of the truck and get a clear, side-on view of President Cozzano delivering his inaugural address, not much more than a thousand feet away.
Another GODS truck seized a position along Lafayette Park, across the street from the White House. Others parked on Fourteenth Street, in the shadow of the Commerce Department; on C Street, in front of the State Department; in front of the Treasury Department on Fifteenth Street; and in the parking lot of the Pentagon.
Once the trucks were in place, they weren't likely to move. The owners - and the mysterious people who went in and out of the containers on their backs - seemed to have an infinite fund of bewildering paperwork, from various D.C. and federal agencies, justifying their presence. Any authority figure, at any level, who tried to move those GODS trucks, would soon find that each one had a lawyer living in the back, on call twenty-four hours a day, complete with cellular phone and portable fax machine. These were not just plain old lawyers either; they were asshole lawyers, ready and willing to issue threats and talk about their friends in high places at the slightest provocation.
And if things escalated beyond that level, each truck also had a couple of imposing plainclothes security guards who would emerge, crack their knuckles, flex their muscles, and glare threateningly when anyone tried to get them to move. The only people in the world who had the guts to confront these people were D.C. meter maids, and so the GODS trucks stayed where they were, accumulating stacks of D.C. parking tickets under their windshield wipers but incurring no further retribution.
At eleven o'clock on the morning of Inauguration Day, Cyrus Rutherford Ogle could be found in the truck that was parked in front of the Teamsters Building, a thousand feet from the inaugural podium. He was seated in the Eye of Cy, keeping tabs on the PIPER 100, and trying to reestablish radio contact with the chips in Governor Cozzano's head.
The radio transmissions were short-range, line-of-sight affairs and so they were used to breaking contact whenever Cozzano strayed more than a couple of thousand feet from the truck. But Cozzano had gone out of his way to be elusive this morning. The listening devises secreted in his clothing and in that of this children were not transmitting any sounds other than the soothing burble of running water. The Secret Service had converged on Rock Creek Park, hindered by a nightmare traffic jam, and found no sign of the Cozzanos other than the abandoned clothes.
It looked a hell of a lot like a kidnapping. But the outgoing President, and several news outlets, had received brief, untraceable telephone calls from Mary Catherine Cozzano, assuring them that everything was okay. She promised that her father would show up for the Inauguration.
Ogle had been planning to reinstate contact with Cozzano's biochip from the truck in Lafayette Square when he paid a call at the White House, which was traditionally what an incoming president did on Inauguration morning. Then, as the outgoing and incoming presidents made their way down Pennsylvania for the inaugural parade, control would be relayed to the truck at Treasury and then at Commerce. Then there would be a blackout of several minutes as the motorcade proceeded down Pennsylvania.
But those moments of freedom were useless to Cozzano. He would have to come to the Capitol eventually. As the motorcade emerged from the shadow of the U.S. Courthouse, the truck at Teamsters - Cy Ogle's truck - would be able to establish contact with the biochip. From that point onward, Cy Ogle would have full control through the inauguration.
William A., James, and Mary Catherine Cozzano emerged from the Farragut West Metro station at eleven o'clock. They had reached Pennsylvania Avenue before anyone recognized them.
The person who did was a well-dressed man in a trench coat, with a neatly trimmed beard and very short hair, proceeding west on Pennsylvania. He was standing at a street-corner waiting for the light to change when he saw the Cozzanos coming toward him. "Good morning President Cozzano," he said.
The light changed and all of them crossed Seventeenth Street together. The Old Executive Office Building was on their right, the White House a stone's throw away.
"Good morning. How are you today?" Cozzano said.
"Just fine, sir, and you?"
"I'm great, thank you," Cozzano said.
"How's your head?" the man asked, as they reached the east side of Seventeenth Street. They stopped at the corner and waited for the light to change. Across Pennsylvania, in front of the White House gates, was a mob of cops and Secret Service. One of them noticed the Cozzanos. Binoculars swiveled in their direction. A Secret Service detail broke from the gates and ran toward them, plunging directly into traffic.
Cozzano looked at the man quizzically. "My head's fine," he said, "why do you ask?"
"I need to know if they're controlling your brain with radio waves," the man said, as the WALK light came on. "It's very important for me to know this."
Mary Catherine's and James's faces fell into expressionless masks. Crossing the street, they got between Cozzano and the man in the trench coat, and stared at the man coldly. But Cozzano laughed indulgently. "You know, there was a movie that I saw, at the Tuscola Main Street Theater, when I was a kid, about mind control. Some mad scientist had taken over people's brains and turned them into zombies ..."
"Don't tell me another anecdote!" the man said. "I don't want to hear any of your stupid anecdotes!"
"I'm just trying to answer your question," Cozzano said cheerfully.
"Ever since they started controlling your brain, you can't think any more - all you do is tell those heart-warming stories!" the man in the trench coat said.
They were approaching the south side of Pennsylvania. James pulled up close to the man and stared at him coldly. "You're out of line," he said.
The man in the trench coat stared back at James, not intimidated in the slightest. "I'm out of line, huh?" he said. His total lack of fear unnerved James a little bit. James almost tripped over the curb.
Suddenly, the Cozzanos were surrounded by men in suits and trench coats. Mary Catherine was startled for a moment before she realized that they were Secret Service men.
Then she looked back at the strange man. But he was gone. "That was weird," she said. "That man didn't show any of the external symptoms of an active psychotic. But he sure talked like one."