“Walter,” he said. “Got your little radar kit?”
The short, paunchy man fished the device out of his back pocket. “You having the same thought I am?”
“Just curious to see how many of our buddies are hanging around.”
Walter switched on the device. A stable black dot indicated the base unit. Flashing X’s identified RFID transmissions, or in this instance, Scanlon men who were “chipped.”
“Nothing,” he said. “Let me run through some bandwidth.”
Abruptly, the Marine Corps Band stopped playing. All heads lifted to the Capitol steps. The air was quiet except for the distant thumping of the Blackhawk helicopters hovering at a thousand feet to maintain air security. The President and First Lady descended the stairs, followed by Senator McCoy, and the vice president and vice president-elect.
“Holy shit,” blurted Walter, bringing the tracking device closer to his eyes. “Man, they are everywhere. I’m counting eighteen at least within a hundred yards of us.”
“Just doing their job, right?” said Bolden.
James Jacklin took his seat on the reviewing stand next to the two men who had preceded him as secretary of defense. It was no coincidence that both were employees of Jefferson Partners. He pushed his hands deep into the cashmere-lined pockets of his overcoat. The vice president had been sworn in a few minutes earlier. Now it was time for the main event.
He looked around him. It was hard not to be awed by all the pomp and ceremony, the gold piping and crenellated bunting and the long, red carpets. The flags hanging on the Capitol building were as big as city blocks. It was the Roman Empire all over. Christ, he loved it. What a party this was.
He remembered his first inauguration, thirty years ago. Back then, it had been on the east side of the Capitol, where the winds howled at you across the Anacostia plains. In 1841, “Old Tippecanoe,” William Henry Harrison, had braved the fierce cold for ninety minutes to shout his inauguration speech. A month later he was dead from pneumonia. It took “the Gipper” to change things. Ronnie wanted to face west when he took the Oath of Office. West toward the open country. West toward opportunity. Manifest Destiny wasn’t dead. No, thought Jacklin, his chest expanding, it was just beginning. People talked about the American Century. It would be the American millennium. This country was born to rule. And he planned on being at its helm. Oh, not in office. Never. The real power was behind the throne. No truer words had ever been spoken. The French had the right word for it. An éminence grise. A gray eminence. He would rule from the shadows.
Catching Director Von Arx’s eye, he nodded. Von Arx looked away without the slightest indication he’d seen him. Charles Connolly sat behind the First Lady, her very own lapdog. Chief Justice Logsdon stood on the reviewing stand, the drab black jurist’s robes making him look more like a squat, dyspeptic funeral attendant than the nation’s ranking interpreter of the Constitution. For an instant their eyes met. Logsdon ducked his head, as if he were shaking off a bee.
They were wrong. All of them. McCoy would not join them. Not now. Not ever. She was the renegade. Her gall enraged him. Who did she think she was to turn down an offer to join the club? In six months, she would only be worse. Their only chance was now. Why was he the only one to see it?
Jacklin smiled smugly. He knew they were forming against him, whispering to one another, planning his ouster. None of it bothered him a whit. On this chill morning with the wind out of the east snapping the American flag and the sky as blue as faded denim, he felt supremely secure. In control. Jacklin had his own plans.
“They’re leaving,” said Walter.
“What do you mean?” Bolden stood at his shoulder. “Who’s leaving?”
“The Scanlon men. They’re taking a hike.” Walter held out the electronic device for Bolden to see. The X’s that denoted the Scanlon operatives moved steadily toward the perimeter of the screen. He looked around him, knowing it was hopeless in this crowd to try and spot them, but doing it nonetheless.
Bobby Stillman yanked the handheld tracking device out of Walter’s hands. “This is it,” she said. “It’s happening now. He’s pulling them out!”
The loudspeakers broadcast Senator McCoy taking her oath of office.
“I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.”
Bolden searched the rows of seats behind the President. It took him a moment to find Jacklin. The chairman of Jefferson Partners sat idly, his eyes on Senator McCoy as she took the Oath of Office. It made no sense that the Scanlon men were deserting their posts. Bolden was no expert on security, but he knew the goons didn’t leave until the President had left the podium and the event was officially over. Even then, there was the parade that would pass adjacent to the Mall.
“Are they meeting up somewhere?” he asked. “Maybe it’s a security briefing.”
“They’re headed to all points of the compass,” said Walter. “Off to hell and gone.”
McCoy’s voice died off and a great roar rose up from the crowd. The applause spread over Bolden, enveloping him in its enthusiasm, a wild, unfettered cry for democracy. It was done. The nation had its next President. The men and women behind the new President were on their feet, applauding, patting each other, some hugging. Bolden looked back toward Jacklin. His seat was empty.
69
Bolden collared the first police officer he saw. “Sir, I need to speak to a Secret Service agent. It’s urgent. It concerns the President’s welfare.”
The others were behind him watching, swallowed by the crowd. He didn’t care if he was risking arrest. There was no other way. If only he didn’t say the words “assassinate” or “murder,” maybe he could get his message through without being carted away.
The police officer was short and tubby, with two chins hanging over his collar. He took a long look at Bolden. “What about her welfare?”
“It’s imperative that I speak to a member of the Secret Service.”
The policeman shifted his weight. “You got something to say, say it to me.”
“I have some information that I think a Secret Service agent should hear. It’s very urgent.”
“And it concerns the President?”
“Yes.” It was difficult not to shout. Bolden wanted to grab this fat, badly shaven cop by his shoulders and shake some sense into him. He wanted to rip off his own shirt and say, “Look at my chest. This is what they’re capable of. They’re going to kill the President, and we have to stop them.”
The cop unclipped his radio and brought it to his mouth. But instead of calling for backup, he said, “When’s shift change?”
“One o’clock,” a voice squawked.
“Roger that.” The policeman stared dully at Bolden, as if saying, “You still here?”
President Megan McCoy was delivering her inauguration address. Her strong, vibrant voice carried through the air, offering a message of renewal and hope. Around him, all faces were raised toward the reviewing stand. Bolden spun away, sighing, the desperation rising in him. The sudden motion made him wince and he knew he’d opened up his chest again. He stepped toward the street. The nearest checkpoint was two blocks away. He would have to run.
“Sir, how can I help?”
Bolden looked over his shoulder. The man was dressed in a navy suit and overcoat, and wore the dark sunglasses and earpiece that had become the Secret Service’s uniform. “Something strange is going on,” Bolden said slowly, as if delivering a report. “All the men who work for Scanlon are leaving the area. They’re just getting the hell out of here. Moving off in every direction. I need to speak to the director of security. The guy who’s running the show.”