Capitol Betrayal (17 page)

“So you’re saying your friendship with the president has not influenced your medical opinion.”

“That’s exactly right. My testimony is based upon observation and constant, almost daily mini medical evaluations, plus a complete workup done not two weeks ago. There is simply no evidence of negative brain function, nor of any physical ailment, such as a stroke or brain tumor, that might affect his mental condition. The president may have unique coping mechanisms, but so what? The question here is whether he’s sane. And that question I can answer with certainty. He is.”

Beside him, Ben could see his client sitting up a little straighter. He was glad he’d had this opportunity to rehabilitate the witness.

“Let me ask you a few questions about the coping mechanisms you mentioned. Can you explain what you mean?”

“Of course. We all deal with stress in different ways, some healthier than others. Some cope by drinking too much, or turning to drugs, or other alleviators. Nixon became an alcoholic in the White House. Some think Clinton became a sex addict. Those are obviously unhealthful coping mechanisms. Roland, on the other hand, likes to sing and act a little childish. So what? He isn’t hurting anyone. It’s not as if he’s on national television. And it’s a good sight better than drinking himself to death.”

“So you see no problem with it?”

“Why would I? He has to do something—he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’s given up some of his favorite stress relievers. Why not let the man have this one harmless indulgence?”

“Would it be fair to say everyone has coping mechanisms?”

“Of course. Everyone.” Albertson pointed. “Even the esteemed vice president.”

Ben saw Swinburne sit up a little straighter in his chair. They definitely had his attention now.

Dare he press further?

“Okay, I’ll bite. What does the vice president do?”

“Have you not noticed how often his hand goes into his suit coat pocket? And then his arm gets all stiff and tense. I think he’s got one of those squeeze balls, those stress relievers you buy in Hallmark stores. Either that or a big wad of Silly Putty.”

Ben turned slightly toward the vice president, as did almost everyone in the room.

A moment later Swinburne somewhat sheepishly reached into his pocket, then rolled a yellow squeeze ball onto the table. It looked like a tennis ball but obviously had a different, squishier consistency. The impressions of Swinburne’s fingers were still visible on it.

“Nice work, Sherlock,” Swinburne said.

Albertson grinned, probably for the first time since he took the witness chair. “Elementary, my dear Swinburne.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Ben said. “No more questions.” Ben felt he had done about all he could do. Most of Albertson’s testimony had been favorable. He had shored up the holes as best he could. The cabinet might still suspect that Albertson was not an impartial witness, but Ben had given them a plausible alternative explanation for the president’s behavior. He hoped that would be enough—at least for the present.

Vice President Swinburne rose to his feet. “Judge, may I redirect?”

Cartwright tapped a pencil against the tabletop. “May I remind you that we have a countdown ticking here?”

“No one is more aware of that than I, Judge. The whole point of this trial is to make sure no more people die when that countdown is completed. But I do think I have something valuable to bring out.”

“I have to object,” Ben said. “And I don’t want to protract this unnecessarily, either. But he had his direct examination and he rested. He cannot bring out new matters on redirect.”

“This is not new,” Swinburne insisted. “This is simply a continuation of what was said before.” He looked directly at Cartwright. “I would beg the court’s indulgence. It’s not as if we had time to prepare for this trial. We’re all working off the cuff here. What is paramount is that all the most relevant information is revealed.”

Ben started to protest, but the judge cut him off.

“Very well,” Cartwright said. “I’ll allow it. But be brief!”

“Yes, sir. I will.” He turned toward Dr. Albertson once more. “Doctor, during your previous testimony, you mentioned hyperglycemia. Would you please explain the difference between that and hypoglycemia?”

“Well, hypoglycemia is just the opposite—it’s abnormally low blood glucose.”

“Does this condition ever occur to people suffering from diabetes, such as the president?”

“It’s rare, but it does happen. Usually as a reaction to treatment. Too much insulin, or insulin delivered at the wrong intervals, something like that. Sometimes excessive exercise can bring it on.”

“The president exercises regularly, does he not?”

“Yes. That’s one reason he’s in such good shape.”

Swinburne nodded. “Can you describe the symptoms of hypoglycemia?”

Albertson slowed considerably. Ben suspected he was beginning to understand where this line of questioning was headed.

“Most commonly, it produces agitation, sweaty palms, that sort of thing. Patients suffer from sympathetic activation of the autonomic nervous system, which can produce altered emotional states such as dread and panic.”

“You’re saying they can experience panic attacks.”

“I guess that’s one way of putting it. Panic attacks to such an extreme that they can become immobilized. Consciousness can be altered or even lost, which can lead to the induction of a comatose state, seizures, or even brain damage and death.”

Swinburne pounced, as Ben knew he would. “You said consciousness can be altered?”

“Yes.”

“Meaning the victim’s behavior might be altered.”

“But this is very rare—”

“Could this altered behavior involve things such as… well, singing at inappropriate moments?”

Dr. Albertson’s lips pursed. He did not answer.

“I’m waiting for your answer, Doctor. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, remember?”

Albertson frowned, then replied. “Yes, I suppose that it is theoretically possible. But that doesn’t mean it is the cause of the president’s behavior.”

“But it could be.”

“I disagree. I have personally monitored his insulin intake to make sure he doesn’t get too little or too much.”

“Doctor, is it possible for even a very experienced, capable physician to make an error in judgment?”

“Of course, but if he had hypoglycemia, I’d know it.”

“How? Are you able to do lab work on his blood down here in the bunker?”

“No. But I have a blood glucose meter and—”

“At this moment in time, you don’t know if he has hypoglycemia or not. Correct?”

“I suppose I can’t rule it out as a medical certainty. But there are other symptoms I ought to be able to observe, and they aren’t present.”

“So far as you know.”

“Right.”

“And let’s be honest—even if he didn’t have those symptoms now, he could develop them in the future, right?”

“Well… anything is possible.”

“So the president is quite literally a ticking mental time bomb.”

“That’s an overstatement.”

“This disease he has hidden from the public eye could have a profound impact on his ability to govern. Perhaps that’s why he’s chosen to hide it.”

“Objection!” Ben said forcefully.

“Sustained,” Cartwright replied, but it didn’t matter. The damage was already done. The seeds of doubt were planted in the cabinet members’ minds.

Dr. Albertson leaned forward. “I keep a careful eye on our president. Nothing is going to happen to him without my—”

“Have you had a chance to do blood work today?”

“No, but I could if—”

“Have you performed a psychiatric examination?”

“I don’t have—”

“And you won’t till we get out of this bunker.”

“Well, true, but—”

“So at the very least, for the period of time we are restricted to this bunker, you cannot make any guarantees about the president’s health or sanity.”

Albertson flushed, obviously angry. “How can I—”

“Exactly!” Swinburne shouted, cutting him off. “How could you?” He paused a moment and let everyone ponder the question. “I’ll answer that one for you. You
can’t.”

Swinburne turned his attention to Admiral Cartwright. “I’m finished with this witness, Judge. No more questions.”

Ben glanced at the president. He was still keeping his poker face on, but Ben knew he was concerned. Who wouldn’t be? The doctor was likely the most favorable witness they could possibly get, but Swinburne had still managed to use him to make his case—and Ben had done little or nothing to stop it.

He didn’t have time for recriminations. He had to focus on the future, not the past. He had to make sure he did the best he could with the next witness and stop Swinburne’s momentum.

Before it was too late.

Seamus remained focused on the back of Harold Bemis’s BMW. The sky was overcast, but he didn’t know if that was a Washington spring rain coming in or the smoke from the explosion at the Jefferson Memorial drifting across the city. The streets were still mostly deserted. He and Arlo were passing one of the most popular shopping malls in Georgetown—in fact, in the whole D.C. area—but it appeared largely empty. Presumably the hideous news of a missile strike so close to home was keeping most everyone indoors. That was understandable. What kind of person could watch the CNN footage of a disaster of this magnitude and think it was time for a new pair of shoes?

The happy advantage of this depopulation was that it made it easier to track a suspect. The downside was that it greatly increased the chances of being spotted. And Seamus did not want to be spotted. He couldn’t afford to lose him. He wanted to catch the people behind the attack on the Jefferson Memorial so much that he could feel it in the marrow of his bones.

Harold Bemis pulled his car to the side of the road to parallel park. Seamus managed to find a place for his own car before he passed him— something that would have been impossible on a normal day in this neighborhood.

“What do you think your boy genius might be visiting in the mall?”

Arlo shrugged. “There’s an Apple Store in there. I think there’s a GameStop.”

Seamus shook his head. “I just don’t see the guy in the Gucci shoes dropping by to pick up an iPod. He probably has people to do that. A personal shopper. Possibly a fleet of them.”

“He probably got his hand-delivered by Steve Jobs.”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

“But now that he’s fallen upon hard times—”

“I can’t see it. People don’t change that much. Even when they’ve fallen on temporary hard times.”

Bemis got out of the car and headed toward the double glass door entrance to the mall.

“Stay here. I’m going to follow him.”

“Wouldn’t it be smarter to just stay here until he returns to his car?”

“How do you know he’s going to return to his car?”

Arlo’s head bobbed. “I suppose you have a point.”

“You stay in the car. That’s an order.” He scribbled a number on a scrap of paper. “If you see anything suspect, call me. Otherwise—don’t.”

“Got it, chief.”

Seamus trailed Bemis into the mall, careful to keep a discreet distance, which was all the harder because there were so few people milling about. Seamus was a little surprised it was even open, but he supposed that time and retail wait for no man.

He was barely a hundred feet inside the mall when Bemis slowed his steps. Seamus could tell by his shoulders he was about to turn around, so he ducked behind the nearest escalator.

Now he couldn’t see Bemis. How could he know how long he needed to stay out of sight? This was impossible. He counted slowly to ten, then inched back into the open.

Bemis was gone. Damn. Had Seamus waited too long? Or worse, had the man suspected he was being followed and intentionally turned in an effort to ditch him?

He walked toward the fountain in the middle of the common area. It was on a raised platform and gave him a better view of the surroundings. Attempting to remain as casual as possible, he cast his eyes around the interior.

Where was Bemis? How could he have disappeared so quickly? Was there some secret hideaway in here somewhere? Maybe he’d ducked into a tailor’s shop and entered the secret terrorist lair…

Shades of
Man from U.N.C.L.E
. He was really going to have to stop letting his imagination carry him away.

Seamus spotted him. Somehow Bemis had gotten to the upper level. He was entering the food court.

Seamus raced to the bottom of the escalator and bolted up the steps. He didn’t want to attract attention, but he knew that if he moved fast enough, he could get to the court before Bemis had a chance to—

A gunshot whizzed by his ear, so close it felt as if it had sizzled itself into his tympanic membrane. A second shattered the glass panel just a few inches from his leg.

Seamus flattened himself against the moving metal steps. The sharp edges cut into his chin—but that was the least of his worries. Another bullet hummed its way just above his head.

He heard several cries of alarm, both from above and below him. Whatever few people might be shopping that day, they’d heard the shots, too. The next sound Seamus detected was of rapidly moving feet. That was good. Given what had just happened at the Jefferson Memorial, they didn’t need any urging to take this seriously, and that was all for the better. He couldn’t help them right now, but he didn’t want any collateral damage.

He reached for his gun—but what would he do with it? He didn’t know where the shooter was. He would nail Seamus long before Seamus spotted him. He was pinned down—trapped on this escalator. And even if the sniper was the worst shot in the entire terrorist cell, he’d hit his target before Seamus reached the top.

Only one chance if he wanted to live. It was a long way down—but it wasn’t getting any nearer.

Seamus pressed both hands on the moving black handrail and side-jumped off the escalator.

He plummeted at least twenty feet down to the tile floor, just a few yards from the fountain. The impact hurt. How many times had he fallen too far in the last few hours? Too many. His right ankle stung. He had probably sprained it, but given the distance, he was lucky it wasn’t broken. Didn’t matter. He had no time to think about it now. He shook it off and kept moving.