Brink of Chaos (26 page)

The task was to keep Senator Hewbright alive.

Deborah Jordan momentarily thought this was an audacious assignment — bordering on crazy. But with her military training at West Point in clandestine operations, and her desire to work in national security matters, did she really have a beef after all? She would have been happier if John Gallagher was closer, but Abigail had assured her that the former FBI agent was out of pocket. Even if he wasn’t, his past government profile and current association with the Roundtable disqualified him from trying to pose as some nondescript campaign volunteer. Besides, he was not the kind to quietly blend in.

As Deborah wheeled her rental car off Auraria Parkway and headed to Chopper Circle to park as closely as possible to Denver’s massive Pepsi Center, she wasn’t thinking about the frenzied political convention about to take place there. Instead, she thought about her mother’s final instructions. “Stay as close as possible to Senator Hewbright — but even closer to Zeta Milla. Milla was the most likely threat against Hewbright, but only when we get clear evidence against her can we afford to blow your cover and reveal it all to Hewbright.”

Everyone in the family said that Abigail had the gift of spiritual discernment when it came to people.
Okay
, Deborah thought.
True enough. But the initial facts were sketchy
. A dead campaign director in Wichita. The fact that Milla was wearing a ring that matched the
one worn by U.N. Secretary-General Coliquin. Plus Milla apparently lied about being a refuge from Cuba as a child. And Hewbright’s economic plan had been stolen by someone, apparently in China, who had hacked into his Allfone. That was all they knew.

Until, that is, Gallagher dug around in Wichita and learned that Zeta Milla was the last person who was with Perry Tedrich at his health club, then at a restaurant for lunch, shortly before his disappearance. In Deborah’s mind, that blew everything wide open.

Gallagher had shared the news with FBI Agent Ben Boling, with whom he had been working, but then, incredibly, Boling had gone silent. Maybe it was because the Secret Service had already checked Milla out, along with other staff, and had given her a clean bill of health.

Or maybe it was something else.

So Deborah had decided to do some digging of her own. She checked into Milla’s position on the campaign team by making a few calls and using some of her contacts at the Pentagon, hoping to cinch the case against Milla as some kind of saboteur. But the stuff she came up with was pretty benign.

Not surprisingly, Milla’s job with the campaign was to help Hewbright bone up on issues relating to Central and South American affairs, including Mexico and the island republics in the Caribbean. She wasn’t hired to give immigration advice, however; that was strictly the territory of Hewbright’s domestic advisors.

Deborah learned that Milla had a master’s degree in international affairs from American University, with credits toward her Ph.D. She worked for a while in the State Department, first during President Corland’s tenure, and then in President Tulrude’s administration. She was a middle-level staffer, and as far as Deborah was able to determine, she had not distinguished herself. She had kept a low profile. Milla had joined Senator Hewbright’s staff just in time for his decision to run for president.

As Deborah made her way through the crowds that swarmed the cavernous lobby of the ten-story glass convention center, and headed toward the Hewbright staff registration desk, she kept asking herself
the same three questions. No matter how many times she turned them around in her head, they all seemed hopeless, particularly as she stepped into the monolithic chaos of a presidential convention.
First, why would someone like Zeta Milla pose a threat to Hewbright? Second, even if she is a threat, how am I going to find out about it? And third, if I find out — how am I going to stop it?

A political volunteer, a tall, blond, athletic-looking guy was behind her in line.

“Hi, there,” he said, bending forward to catch Deborah’s attention.

She broke out of her mental distraction. “Oh, hi.”

“Diehard or newcomer?”

“Pardon?”

“I’m a diehard Hewbright supporter. Helped him in his last senate race. Just local canvassing stuff. My home state is Wyoming. How about you?”

“Oh, yeah I’m pretty diehard. I work in Washington.”

“State?”

“No, D.C.”

“So you’ve jumped on board recently, I bet.”

“Something like that.” She smiled politely but wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

“There’s already some trash talking from Governor Tucker’s group,” he said.

That got her attention. “Oh?”

“Yeah, they want to disrupt the ballot and to throw it into a brokered convention. Maybe these lamebrains can’t add, but Hewbright’s already got the delegates sewn up. He swept almost all the primaries, but the Tucker Troops just won’t give up. Just thinking about it makes me sick. What a rotten deal if Tucker actually wrangles the nomination. He’s like Tulrude lite, don’t you think?”

She was mildly impressed. “Absolutely,” she responded.

“The guy’s cut from the same cloth as Tulrude ideologically; so why doesn’t he just switch parties? And he came across on the TV debates like a college professor. Practically put me to sleep every time he opened his mouth. Reminded me of my history prof at Colorado State.
Anyway, Tucker’s so totally unelectable it’s tragic. No sweat though. Absolutely no chance of him pulling it out. Hewbright’s got this locked up. I mean, really, Hewbright would have to get hit by an asteroid to lose this.”

Deborah’s head snapped. She thought,
Whoever you are, you have no idea what you just said
.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “I’m Rick. And you’re …”

“Deborah.”

He shook her hand. He had a strong grip.

“Maybe we’ll run into each other during the convention. Tell you what, if we do, I’ll buy you coffee.”

“Sure, but I have a feeling we may be pretty busy,” she said, keeping a poker face. “You know, coming to the rescue of our candidate.”

As soon as Abigail finished her oral argument she snatched up her file and made her way to the back of the courtroom, preparing for the worst. It was every bit as humiliating as she had imagined. In full view of the court, the federal officers jumped to their feet. Then, one agent on each arm, they escorted her into the hallway — where they cuffed her.

Abigail had a single, dismal thought.
Ball game’s over. Now we just wait for the score
.

She had expected to be hustled to the federal detention center and booked and put into a cell. And she may have been heading that way. But while she was in the back of the agency car with her hands manacled, the SIA agent in the front seat received a call. When he hung up, he then turned to the driver and said only, “Change of plans. We’re going to the U.S. Attorney’s Office.” On the way they perfunctorily advised Abigail of her Miranda Rights. She knew what that meant.
Here we go
, she thought, bracing herself.

The new U.S. attorney for the District of Columbia, Tanya Hardcastle, was a recent appointee of President Tulrude’s. That was all Abigail knew. But that was enough. When they arrived at the building just off of Second Street, the squad drove down into the underground parking. Surprisingly, the cuffs were removed and Abigail was walked through the structure and up into the lobby. She couldn’t help but
smile when the BIDTag scanner gave her the green light. Her captors were not amused.

She was taken to a small conference room on the same floor as U.S. Attorney Hardcastle’s expansive office. She was offered coffee but replied that she preferred tea. They brought her some in a cup with a saucer, and whatever it was, it wasn’t bad. Several hours passed. Assistant U.S. attorneys and their staffers scurried by. She caught glimpses of them through the window in the door. And she waited.

When Tanya Hardcastle, a short, bony woman with a smoker’s voice, finally entered, she smiled and sat down across from Abigail at the conference table.

Tanya Hardcastle knew that Abigail had no clue that the three federal judges in her case went into their standard closed conference immediately after the morning’s oral arguments to consider their votes. And she would not have known how they had made such quick business of the case in
United States v. Jordan
, that it only took one vote to secure a decision among the three appeal judges. It was unanimous. Hardcastle also knew how Judge Agnes Lillegaard had drafted an order. When that judge emailed that order to the court clerk, it was read by another clerk, who called a friend at the Department of Justice. Swearing the friend to secrecy, he disclosed the contents of the order. But the word spread rapidly, and then a deputy attorney general called Hardcastle’s office to alert her to the rumor, knowing that she already had Abigail in custody in the high-profile case. So Hardcastle knew the end of this legal story and what the court order said. And Abigail knew none of it.

Sitting across from Abigail, Hardcastle started off with a good-cop routine. “I’ve checked you out,” the U.S. attorney said in an even, pleasant tone. “You have a reputation as a very sharp attorney here in the District. Some impressive victories. And, as you and I both know, it’s a man’s world, Abigail … may I call you that?”

Abigail smiled tightly and nodded.

Continuing, Hardcastle said, “It’s been a man’s world in the practice of law. Back when I graduated from Princeton law, the partner in my first firm had me working in the secretarial pool. Can you imagine? But women like you and me, we’ve changed things — for the equality of women. Don’t you think?”

Abigail took a sip of tea. “Are you trying to turn me into a feminist, Ms. Hardcastle?”

“I think you’re already one. You just don’t know it.”

Pushing the cup and saucer away from her, Abigail replied, “What I am, madam, is a believer in the U.S. Constitution. When the Fourth Amendment says that every citizen has a right to be ‘secure in their persons,’ it means what it says. It means that the federal government cannot force Americans to receive a laser-tattooed tracking device imprinted onto their skin, even if it doesn’t hurt and even if it’s invisible to the naked eye.”

“Federal courts have disagreed with you, Abigail.”

“Only because the Supreme Court has refused to take the issue up. I’m guessing that Justice Lapham can’t muster the necessary four votes to grant a writ of certiorari on all those appeals from nontaggers.”

“Well, I’m not here to debate the finer points of the law …”

Hardcastle paused, but Abigail didn’t fill in the blanks for her, so the U.S. attorney continued, “I’m here to offer you complete immunity from prosecution if you simply give me some facts.”

A brief flash of shock registered on Abigail’s face before she returned to a neutral glare. “Such as?”

“Who gave you your fake BIDTag. It’s pretty impressive. It passed all our scanners.”

“Does it matter? I’ve been BIDTagged one way or the other.”

“Oh, I think we both know you haven’t. Not legally. The point is that we know someone out there is minting this counterfeit version. Just tell us who, and we’ll grant you immunity.”

Abigail had suspected that Chiro’s forgery would be of interest to the feds, but she didn’t expect they’d offer her immunity in return. Surely, they’d lock her up anyway and try to force the information
out of her. But something wasn’t right. Abigail thought back to the eccentric Chiro Hashimoto and her pledge to him before leaving his compound that she would keep his identity and his location confidential. “You’re asking me questions that are covered by the Fifth Amendment of the Constitution,” Abigail replied. “And I recall being given my Miranda rights earlier today,” she added.

Hardcastle bristled. “Go ahead and try to play tough with me. But remember — all I have to do is make just one call and guys with guns show up here and lock you in a metal cage.”

“Sounds unpleasant.”

“Jail cells generally are.”

Abigail could smell a rat. Tanya was trying to sneak something past Abigail. Her best guess, and greatest hope, was that Hardcastle had already heard some inside information about the court’s ruling in her case. Abigail was banking on that. And she was now also banking on the fact that Hardcastle knew that the government’s case against Joshua may have just gone down in flames. “I’ll have to respectfully decline your offer,” Abigail said.

The U.S. attorney fluttered her eyes. “The thing about smart people,” Hardcastle said, this time not trying to hide the edge in her voice, “is that they can sometimes outsmart themselves.” Then she got up and headed to the door, but halfway there she halted, as if tempted to try again to manipulate Abigail into yielding information, but then she thought better of it. To cover her abrupt stop, she bent down and scooped up the teacup and saucer off the table. Abigail had to stifle a laugh. She’d made the right call.

“Thanks for the tea,” Abigail said brightly.

“Don’t move,” Hardcastle said, irritation all over her face.

Outside the room, Hardcastle shoved the teacup and saucer into the hands of an assistant and then stormed into her office. She snatched off her desk the hard copy of the Per Curiam Order of the D.C. Circuit Court of Appeals that she had printed out from her email just before
talking to Abigail. Now she read its infuriating contents again. One more time. Just to make sure.

Still in the conference room, as Abigail wondered whether she would be spending the night on a metal cot, an agent entered the room and asked her to follow him. Five minutes later, she was outside on the public sidewalk, unaccompanied and smelling the welcoming though automobile-congested air of Washington, D.C. Her only guess was that Hardcastle, having suffered a humiliating defeat in the case against Joshua, was not going to risk charging Abigail with her apparent failure to get a timely BIDTag, especially since she now appeared to have one that inexplicably passed through the federal scanners.

But Abigail was struck with the question she did not have a chance to ask Hardcastle. For Abigail, it was the most important question of all.
Where is Cal?

But that thought was interrupted by her Allfone. She opened her email and noticed a message from the D.C. Circuit Court of Appeals. The Per Curiam Order was attached.

She took a deep breath and read it with a trembling hand. For good measure, she read it again. That is when, there on the sidewalk, Abigail
burst into tears. She continued to cry and laugh amidst the busy pedestrian traffic, murmuring a prayer of thanks about the goodness of God and His love of justice. She didn’t care about the passersby who gawked at her. She was finally able to vent the emotions she had carefully managed for so long while she had waited for God’s vindicating hand.

Abigail spoke out to no one in particular, “Josh, I miss you.” She had been out of contact with him for a while. She knew it was necessary — avoiding phone calls and even encrypted emails while she was dodging the government surveillance — but soon the waiting would be over. “Josh, I can’t wait to fly to Israel to see you, darling …”

A voice behind her broke in. “How about your trusty legal intern?” It was Cal. Abigail jumped and even more tears started trickling down.

“Mom,” Cal said, “you look surprised. I told you there was no way I could be charged. Victoria McHenry was released too. Man, she’s one cool and collected customer. But then, considering her spy background, I shouldn’t have been surprised.”

“I need to thank that dear woman for sticking her neck out for me,” Abigail said, wiping a tear away and not worrying about her messed-up eyeliner. “And yes, you’ll join me as soon as we can get our jet ready — and Deborah too.”

“I called her,” Cal said, “as soon as I was released and gave her a status on what’s happening here, left it on her voicemail. I got a short text message back. She said she’s in orientation meetings with the convention team in Denver. Doesn’t sound promising.”

“Give her time. She’s the right person for that assignment. We need to keep praying for her too. This could be dangerous.”

Cal nodded and then glanced at his Allfone. “I got a message from Phil Rankowitz. Didn’t tell me much, just that he needed to talk to us. It’s about the two stories he’s working on for AmeriNews, both of them shockers — the Alexander Coliquin exposé and the investigation on the possible poisoning of President Corland. Phil reminded me that I need to get Corland to sign an authorization so we can get testing done on that blood sample his family doctor took. His wife had suspicions
and ordered the blood draw taken right after that last near-fatal attack he had.”

“When was your last contact with Corland or his wife?”

“Last week.”

“You may want to double-back with President Corland,” she said, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. “I’m sure getting his medical consent is no problem, but we need to prepare him. If the tests show he was poisoned, the story will set off a firestorm.”

“Right,” Cal said, “but first, I’m starving. Let’s grab something to eat. Backpacking in the Northwest, escaping SIA agents, and facing federal arrest has given me a monster appetite.”