“All right.” She looked at her watch, then promptly rose. “Their office is across town. Let’s go. I don’t want to be late.”
Seated at her desk at the command post, Margaret Wellington clicked to Congressman Fischer’s website to read his issue statements.
Last night she’d reviewed his voting record, but today, in light of what Agent Bowers had told her-or at least insinuated by his lack of an answer-about the congressman influencing Rodale, she’d decided to study the man’s votes and platform more carefully.
From living in his district, she knew that he was for shrinking the military and FBI, decreasing the national debt, strengthening abortion rights, creating more green jobs, and expanding health care benefits to seniors, but she hadn’t been aware of how strongly he felt about justice reform until she saw his record of cast votes.
Among other things, Fischer was adamantly against the death penalty.
That one brought her pause.
The man who’d tried to kill his brother had been a pro-death penalty advocate. After the assassination attempt, public opinion had pendulumed the other direction toward the congressman’s position, and Director Rodale had been one of those swayed to change his mind.
During Richard Basque’s retrial, Margaret had gotten into a discussion with Rodale about the justice (or lack of justice) of the death penalty-something he’d grown to oppose but she supported. And, knowing she was for reducing the number of abortions, he’d challenged her: “How can you claim to be pro-life when you’re for the death penalty?”
“Greg, we’re talking about the death penalty, not about-”
“I’m only saying, Margaret, that your view is inconsistent.”
“Frankly, I’m not sure it’s appropriate to compare-”
“See?” He looked satisfied. “Your position is untenable.”
“I am for life,” she said, “as well as for justice. With all due respect, Greg, how can you claim to be for either when you support letting the guilty live and putting the innocent to death?”
Rodale had looked at her coldly. Had not replied.
Even at the time, the fact that he’d confronted her in such a way had seemed inexplicable to her. Why was he so emotionally invested in the issue as it pertained specifically to Basque’s case?
The computer screen stared at her and her thoughts switched from Rodale to Fischer.
She turned back to his policy statements.
He supported ways to “enhance human potential and reduce unnecessary suffering,” which included his endorsement, along with that of the National Science Foundation, of nanotechnology and transhumanism-the emerging field of genetically altering DNA to treat blindness, epilepsy, paralysis, cancer, and so on.
Margaret wasn’t familiar with transhumanism, but it didn’t take her long online to discover that it was controversial since much of it involved not just augmentation but species advancement-through neuro-implants and gene therapy-creating humans with better eyesight, strength, or mental capabilities than the human race had ever developed on its own.
Through genetic manipulation, scientists would soon be able to give people the reflexes of a panther or the strength of a gorilla or the eyesight of a falcon. And by implanting chips into their brains, provide them the ability to remember nearly everything they learned or experienced. Because of transhumanism’s ultimate goal of improving the human race, transforming it even, into a superior species altogether, some people were calling it twenty-first-century eugenics.
Neuroscience. Nanotechnology.
Metacognition.
The primate research. Could the Gunderson Foundation be doing transhumanism research? Gene splicing with animals?
Hmm.
Perhaps approach this from a different angle.
She’d heard that Vice President Fischer wasn’t exactly best buddies with his brother-resentful of how the congressman had tapped into his political clout to promote his own standing in the House. She decided it might not be a bad idea to have a chat with the former vice president.
It took a few calls, but finally she found out he was at a climate change conference in Tokyo. His people said he’d return her call as soon as he could, but she knew how soon “as soon as possible” could be for a politician, so she wasn’t about to hold her breath.
The congressman was pulling Rodale’s strings. She didn’t like Or maybe it’s the other way around.
She paused.
Now that was an interesting thought.
Yes. Very interesting.
She found Doehring and told him she was heading to her office at FBI headquarters for a couple hours to catch up on a few things.
“Don’t worry, I’ll hold down the fort,” he said.
“I know you will.”
She left the command post with a realization that she was on a trajectory that would either end her career or just possibly land her in the job she’d been eyeing since she joined the Bureau.
91
6 hours left…
3:29 p.m.
Brad opened his laptop.
He knew that the task force had unwittingly found the bomb.
And he knew that ever since the anthrax scare nearly a decade ago, the FBI Headquarters and all of the field offices had been x-raying all incoming mail, packages, shipments, and deliveries as well as checking them for traces of biological or chemical compounds.
However, the Bureau did not x-ray or bio-scan evidence that was collected at crime scenes unless the specific nature of a crime warranted such action, such as evaluating evidence from an arsonist’s or bomb maker’s home.
And so.
Good.
Brad sent the email that would start the computer’s internal timer.
An anonymous-looking Viagra ad.
In exactly six hours, the bomb he’d prepared on Wednesday morning, the one he’d left for the task force to find, would go off.
Now, he just needed to wait.
The explosion would set up everything for the perfect ending to the game.
He set his watch to vibrate at 9:29 p.m. so that whatever he was doing he would know.
Dr. Calvin Werjonic.
Gregory Rodale.
Annette Larotte.
A puzzle with so many interlocking pieces.
And Bowers would see all the pieces laid so neatly in place.
But only in retrospect.
Only after it was too late to save the girl.
The Law Offices of Wilby, Chase amp; Lombrowski
Suite 17
4:05 p.m.
“I’m sorry.” Paul Lansing’s lead lawyer, Keegan Wilby, shook his head. “We simply cannot allow her into the meeting.”
Wilby had a squarish face and a Clark Kent curl of black hair on his forehead that only served to make him look like a middle-aged middle-schooler. His clothes told me he had wealth; his smug grin told me he knew it.
We’d arrived on time, over half an hour ago, but incomprehensibly, Wilby hadn’t even shown up until 3:55 and had subsequently spent the last ten minutes arguing about letting Tessa attend the meeting. She was standing beside me, seething, but I had my hand on her shoulder to let her know she needed to keep quiet.
Missy said sternly, “Mr. Wilby, tell Mr. Lansing that this is not up for debate. She comes in or we are leaving.”
He drew in a sigh. “All right. I’ll go and speak with my client one last time.” He spoke condescendingly, as if Missy were a child. “But I am not guaranteeing anything.”
He left.
Tessa’s teeth were clenched. “I feel like I’m a piece of furniture people are trying to shuffle around.”
“I understand,” Missy said. “However, Mr. Wilby does have a point. It would be highly unusual for the child-for you-to be present at a meeting like this.”
“Yeah, well, unusual works for me.”
Five minutes later Wilby returned shaking his head. “I’m sorry, my client said he does not want to upset her.”
“Good.” Tessa strode toward the hallway to the conference room.
“No, I mean by having you attend the meeting.”