She was getting nervous as she saw the clock in the back of the room. Secret Service teams with dogs would be sweeping the hotel in a matter of hours and then the security would clamp down like a fortress, and nobody would be able to come in or go out until the president left the breakfast in the grand ballroom at 10 a.m. If Conrad didn't get back soon…
"The whole point of 'one nation under God' in the American pledge of allegiance is recognition that the government isn't God. Individual rights are the basis for the foundation of the United States, and much of this philosophy came from American preachers like Thomas Hooker, who argued for the 'priesthood of believers,' insisting that since the Holy Spirit resided in the heart of every person, each person should be able to vote and live their conscience. In short, we're the government. You and me and all the people."
She looked at the sea of faces in the room, many of them familiar talking heads on TV who would have plenty to talk about if they only knew the truth.
"Sometimes I wonder if my evangelical friends in America have forgotten this. Are we people of faith in the halls of power? Or are we people who have faith in the halls of power? It's an important distinction. One leads to an open, diverse society. The other leads to something like we have in Russia today, where the former KGB spy agency has effectively taken over the government. One begins to wonder if something like that could even happen here."
She was thinking of the Alignment and the average American citizen. The Romans had bread and circuses. The Americans had TV and the Super Bowl. The members of the "chattering class" represented in this room were part of this Great American Conspiracy. But they also reported on it and thus shaped it. Which is why she had accepted this invitation in the first place.
"All of this underscores the primary role the Fourth Estate or free press performs in a democratic society, for it is you who inform the electorate and help us make sense of our world so that we, the people, can decide the fate of nations, not the other way around."
It was over soon enough and she was standing before a line of appreciative journalists. And then Brooke Scarborough walked up.
Serena hadn't seen her until now in the room, and never in person. She was much…taller than she expected, with very big hands that now clasped her own.
"Sister Serghetti," Brooke said. "I think we have a mutual friend who is in trouble."
Serena feigned ignorance, but knew from Brooke's eyes that each woman completely understood the other.
"You'd tell me if you've seen Conrad, wouldn't you?" Brooke pressed.
"Ms. Scarborough, I had assumed that you would be the first person Dr. Yeats would go to if he were in trouble. Are you no longer together?"
It was Brooke who feigned ignorance now, as she was forced to move off and let the person behind her say hello to "Mother Earth," but even out of sight Serena could feel Brooke's eyes watching her every move.
26
CONRAD LISTENED to the soft strains of Mozart on his iPhone's earbuds as he walked along Constitution Avenue in the rain. The dome of the Jefferson Building at the Library of Congress gleamed proudly under dark skies tonight, its grandeur almost eclipsing that of the U.S. Capitol across the street. It was already a few minutes past midnight, which meant it was already July 3, and meant he was running out of time. He turned up the collar of his trench coat and walked into the researchers entrance.
The guard on duty looked up from his station and immediately recognized Conrad from all his previous, legitimate visits to the Library over the years. Conrad's heart sank. Good ol' Larry was shaking his shaved head, whistling the spooky theme song to Conrad's old reality series Ancient Riddles of the Universe, which could be seen only in syndicated reruns on late-night TV and which said everything Conrad needed to know about Larry's social life.
"The Library closed to the public at 5:30 p.m. and to researchers at 9:30 p.m., Dr. Yeats. Only congressmen or their staff allowed now. You know the rules."
"Still a little wet behind the ears, Larry, as you can see." He wiped his wet hair back and put on a smile, his gut churning at the thought that Larry might get hurt.
"If you'd just stick to the tunnels connecting all the buildings here, Dr. Yeats, you'd stay nice and dry on a night like this." Larry, unable to resist, had to repeat the show's tag line. "After all, 'the truth is DOWN there.'"
"You know I'm claustrophobic, Larry. Besides, I needed some fresh air."
"What you need is to get yourself a date," Larry said. "Say, whatever happened to that blonde Nazi babe from Fox News Channel? She didn't like your salute?"
"My salute's just fine, Larry. It seems I have trouble following orders."
Larry chuckled, but Conrad could tell he was disappointed. The guard's head was filled with images of Conrad in Egyptian pyramids and Mayan temples, with beautiful graduate "researchers" assisting him on his digs-when they weren't working auto shows. What on earth was an astro-archaeologist like Dr. Conrad Yeats, "the world's foremost authority on megalithic architecture and the astronomical alignments of Earth's oldest monuments," doing roaming the musty hallways of Washington, D.C.?
Conrad emptied his pockets of his wallet and keychain and made a face.
"Let me guess," Larry said. "You forget your user card again?"
Conrad nodded. In truth he had a bogus ID card with another name, which he obviously couldn't use now. And even if he had his own ID, Larry wouldn't be able to swipe it without all sorts of "apprehend and detain" directives popping up on his screen.
"I won't be long in the stacks," Conrad promised, looking at his watch. "Just give me twelve minutes."
Larry looked doubtful as he handed him a clipboard. "Just give me your John Hancock and ID number."
Conrad scribbled a signature, put down a bogus six-digit number and hoped that Larry would manually key it in later.
Larry took the clipboard without a glance. "Come on through."
Conrad turned up the volume of his iPhone and approached the multisensor detection gate. Serena had told him this particular piece of music would throw off the new brainwave scanners the feds had installed around the Mall. As he passed through the gate, he watched Larry study the thermal-like images on the bank of monitors. It was the curious monitor at the end Conrad kept an eye on, which could detect what the feds called "hostile brainwave patterns." The colors changed, and Conrad could see that Larry saw it too. But Larry's voice betrayed nothing, and his hand hadn't reached for the silent alarm yet.
"Your iPhone, Dr. Yeats."
"Oh, I'm sorry." Conrad removed his earbuds and handed the iPhone to Larry. "You want the fedora and bullwhip, too?"
"Hee, hee."
Larry passed the phone through the detector, but Conrad only motioned to pick it up along with his wallet and keychain.
"You have yourself a good evening, Dr. Yeats. Don't go reading so many old books you scare yourself shitless."
"Too late," Conrad said as he walked away.
"Hey, Dr. Yeats," Larry called after him. "You forgot your-"
Conrad turned, pressed the remote on his keychain and heard the crack of the iPhone explode behind him. Larry started coughing, and Conrad waited for the invisible knockout gas to work. But it wasn't. Larry staggered a bit, down but not out. He was reaching for his radio to call for help.
Damn sufentanyl, Conrad thought. So much of its effect depended on the biology of the individual.
Holding his breath, Conrad marched over to Larry and gave him a good, sharp chop to the back of the neck, knocking him out the old-fashioned way.
"Sorry, Larry."