Capitol Betrayal (36 page)

Zimmer cleared his throat. “I’ll step down pending a further investigation. Agent Gioia, you’re in charge.”

“I appreciate your cooperation,” Cartwright said, “but I’d just as soon you didn’t do anything. At least till we’ve got this thing figured out.” He turned back toward Ben. “You got anything more, or is that it?”

“Of course I’ve got more,” Ben said. “If I didn’t have more than that, I would’ve kept my mouth shut. I’m only speaking now because I figured it out—eventually. Took way too long, I know. But I didn’t pick up the key clue until a few minutes ago. When I saw something I never expected to see.”

“What’s with all the dramatic pauses?” Ruiz said. “Just get on with it!”

“Right, right,” Ben said, nodding. “Sorry. I’m used to being in the courtroom. Here’s the thing. I’ve theorized about the president being exposed to foreign substances in all the ways I just described. But so far as I could tell, none of them led to one of these episodes. But a few minutes ago, I saw the president taking something. And not ten minutes later he plunged into the latest irrational scene—while he was testifying.”

“What are you talking about?” Secretary Rybicki asked. “What did you see?”

Ben took a deep breath, then continued. “I saw the president smoking.”

Lips parted. Brows knitted. Sarie was shaking her head.

“It’s true. I was as shocked as anyone, because my wife reminded me earlier today that the president had given up smoking as a promise to his wife. No one wants to break a promise to his wife—or for her to know that he has. Which explains why he has been sneaking around so much lately. Seeking privacy—away from his wife.”

Ben took the general wordlessness as a good sign. They were all processing this new information, running it through their brains, trying to make all the pieces of the tangram fit together.

“I never meant to hurt anyone,” Kyler said softly. “I just… couldn’t quit.”

“You’re not the first person to have trouble giving up smoking,” Ben replied.

“If I had more time to focus on it, maybe,” Kyler added. “But I don’t.”

“Exactly. And you’re under enough stress already, without the added stress of trying to wean yourself off nicotine.” He turned toward Dr. Albertson. “This is what you meant when you referred to the president being under the added stress of giving up bad habits, isn’t it? You were talking about the difficulty he was having giving up this addictive substance. Nicotine.”

Dr. Albertson frowned. Ben knew he still wasn’t exactly on the doc’s top ten list. “I was aware he was having trouble with it, yes.”

“And this also explains why you kept ditching your security detail, doesn’t it?” he asked Kyler. “You’d sneak off for a cig in the little boys’ room or wherever. And that in turn would lead to another hallucinatory episode. So by the time Sarie found you, you would be in the midst of another crazy-seeming episode.”

Kyler looked up at him, his mouth gaping. “I never put the two together. I just thought… well, I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know what was happening to me. I was afraid…” He hung his head down low.

“I can imagine your worries,” Ben said. “You were losing control of yourself—and you didn’t know why.”

“Speculation is all well and good, Kincaid,” Cartwright said. “Do you have any proof of this?”

“Not yet. But Mr. President—and yes, I am talking about President Kyler—can you loan me a cigarette?”

With considerable reluctance—and embarrassment—Kyler reached inside his coat pocket and withdrew a cigarette.

Ben handed it to the doctor. “Dr. Albertson, could you examine this, please?”

“You trust me?”

“I do.”

Albertson opened his doctor’s bag and withdrew a small scalpel. He laid the cigarette on the black table and slowly cut it open.

The cigarette fell apart, spilling its contents. Ben saw lots of tobacco, a filter, and, when he looked closer, tiny white granules.

“Any idea what that is?” Ben asked.

Albertson touched a finger to a few of the granules, then touched it to his tongue. “Just an educated guess,” he answered. “But I’m thinking it’s LSD.”

The reaction in the bunker was electric.

“That’s lysergic acid diethylamide,” Albertson expounded. “A psychedelic derived from ergot, a grain fungus that grows on rye. It traditionally produces effects such as the extreme reduction of inhibitions, a sense of time distorting, and irrational reasoning.”

“In other words, exactly what President Kyler has been experiencing.”

“Yes. It’s normally ingested orally on an absorbent surface, such as a sugar cube or blotter paper. It can also be taken in liquid form. Inhaled as a crystal, like this, it would probably be less potent—but it would be enough to create the brief episodes the president has experienced.”

Kyler slowly rose to his feet. His face was as stony as granite, but Ben sensed lava boiling beneath that surface.

“I want to know who did this,” he said succinctly. “And I want to know now.”

“I think we all do,” Admiral Cartwright said. “Can you help us out here, Kincaid?”

“I can. Mr. President, where do you keep your cigarettes?”

“I have a silver cigarette tray—a gift from the British prime minister—that I keep tucked away in a desk drawer. I take a few out each morning and tuck them into my coat pocket.”

“Is the desk locked?”

“Not during the day.”

“So anyone with access to the Oval Office could have planted tainted cigarettes. Anyone in this room, to be blunt.”

“But why?”

“That’s a factor to consider, too,” Ben continued. “Because I don’t believe anyone would commit a crime of this magnitude for money. Or revenge, love, extortion, the desire to humiliate, or any of your traditional motives. It has to be politically motivated. Nothing else makes sense.”

“Someone wants us out of Kuraq. Badly,” Secretary Ruiz said.

“Or perhaps,” Ben said, “out of the Middle East altogether.”

Swinburne pressed a hand against his chest. “What are you saying? Are you accusing me of being the traitor? Is that what you’re saying?”

“You don’t have to speculate,” Ben said. “If I decide to accuse you, you’ll know it.”

“How about it, then?” Secretary Rybicki asked. “Do you know who it is?”

“I do,” Ben answered. “I’m surprised no one else has figured it out. I told you all a long time ago that we had a mole among us. I would’ve imagined everyone was trying to figure out who it was.”

“Frankly,” Cartwright said, “I thought you were just trying to stir up trouble. Playing typical lawyer games.”

“Well, then, your infantile prejudice against lawyers prevented you from stopping a potential national catastrophe. That might be worth remembering in the future.”

Cartwright looked appropriately chastised.

“Here’s the thing,” Ben explained. “Someone gave Colonel Zuko inside information. They told him the president was in the bunker, or was on his way there, and then later told him that the vice president was down here, too.”

“I’m the president now!” Swinburne insisted.

“Oh, give it up already,” Ben said. “You’re not. Anyway, who was tipping Zuko off? No one could know the vice president was here until he was, and by that time we were all stuck down here. Cell phones don’t work. Only Agents Zimmer and Gioia had access to the communications station. But would they have had access to the cigarettes? Doubtful.”

“So how did the mole get the word out?” Sarie asked.

“Only one way possible. When Agent Zimmer gave three of us the chance to make a short phone call to the outside world. To comfort our loved ones.”

He could see eyes rolling upward as everyone struggled to remember who had made a call.

“I was one of the three, but I knew it wasn’t me, so that left two. And I’m certain it wasn’t Sarie. For one thing, I think our spy gave Zuko the computer codes and passwords that helped him hack into our defense system. As chief of staff, Sarie would not have access to top-secret defense information. She was our eyewitness, the one who told us about the episodes she witnessed. If she had been the mastermind behind all this, she would have told far more dramatic stories. She would’ve said she wrestled the gun from the president’s head, or had him threatening to blow up Australia or something. No, she was cast in the role of the observer, the one who would report all that she had seen—and her testimony would be all the more tragically believable, because everyone knows she loves and is devoted to this president. No, it couldn’t be her. So that only left one other person who could have tipped off Zuko. Who could’ve made the cigarette substitution.”

“Spit it out, Ben,” Kyler said. “I want to know.”

“Don’t you remember?” Ben said. “The only other person who has had contact with the outside world was our dedicated secretary of defense, Albert Rybicki.”

Christina had reached her limit.

She had tried to be patient. She had tried to be calm. She didn’t want to be one of those strident, pushy wives who were always keeping tabs on their husbands. But at the end of the day, she wasn’t exactly the stay-home-and-knit type, either.

It had been hours since Ben had called her. Hours since she had heard any useful news. All she knew was what she heard on CNN, which wasn’t much. She almost pitied those poor commentators. They had so much time to fill and so little to say. A dollop of information was buried in a mountain of pointless chatter. The news had turned into speculation and gossip, and now she wasn’t sure what it was.

And now she was railing against the media when of course that wasn’t really what was bothering her. She was worried about Ben.

She pushed herself out of her chair. She had waited here long enough. She was going to get out there and do something. Shake some bushes. She’d been in Washington for a while now and, as Ben’s chief of staff when he was a senator, she had developed a pretty good rep as someone who could get things done.

So it was time she got something done.

Ben hadn’t told her his exact location—probably wasn’t allowed to tell her. But he said he hadn’t left the White House. So that was where she would start. She had provisional White House clearance. She could get to the back door. After that, she would just have to take it one step at a time. Bully her way through. She’d done it before. Granted, not at what was perhaps the most heavily guarded private residence in the entire world… but she never shrank from a challenge.

She was going to find her husband, damn it, and make sure he was safe. And she had nothing but pity for anyone who got in her way.

The two men were back in the side room where Scarface had tortured Seamus. It was tempting to pin the man up on the wall and get out the pliers. But Seamus resisted the urge. Zira would never approve, and even if she did, he didn’t have enough time. He would have to find his own way to instill terror.

He held Scarface—that is, Minoz—down by his throat and watched his face turn blue. Zira had said he couldn’t hurt the man—which, translated into CIAese, meant: he couldn’t leave any marks. So he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t even punch the man in the neck, the usual target when you wanted to do maximum damage without leaving a mark. In his experience, strangulation had a strange way of getting tongues wagging.

Minoz’s arms flailed about uselessly. He was pinned down like a bug and he wasn’t getting up until Seamus decided to let him. It didn’t take him long to discover that. He only made a halfhearted effort at pushing Seamus away. Lying flat on his back, he just didn’t have the leverage.

Seamus pressed down hard on his trachea. “You already know how I feel about you. So let’s not waste time with the part where I convince you I would kill you. You know I would kill you. You know I want to. And I will if you don’t tell me everything you know.”

Seamus let up on his throat for a second. Minoz gasped for air, but before he had gulped it all down, Seamus reapplied the pressure. The resulting sucking noise even sounded painful. “I want to know where the nuclear suitcase is. I will give you one second to answer. If you do not answer—immediately—I will choke you until you are dead. Understood?”

He took the eyes-wide expression for a nod and let go of the man’s throat. “Talk.”

“I do not know.”

Seamus started to clamp down.

“I had it! I admit that. You know I had it!”

“Whom did you give it to?”

“I do not know his name.”

Seamus squeezed his trachea tightly in his fist. Minoz squealed.

Ten seconds later, Seamus let up slightly. “Tell me!”

“I never knew his name. Colonel Zuko was the go-between. After we failed at the Washington Monument, I took the suitcase to a computer expert to have the triggering mechanism altered. Programmed with a fail-safe password. Then I left it at the designated drop-off point. I don’t know who picked it up later.”

“You left a nuclear device for a man you did not know?”

“I did what the colonel told me to do.”

“What did Zuko call him?”

“He never used a name.”

Seamus pressed in with his fingers.

“Wait! Wait, I do remember a time. It stuck in my memory because it was so odd.”

“What?”

“Someone—not the colonel—referred to him as a secretary.”

Secretary? Seamus’s eyebrow knitted together. Colonel Zuko was working with someone’s secretary? Perhaps a high-placed military advisor’s, or—

Wait a minute. In these politically correct times, you couldn’t call a secretary a secretary. He’d be an executive assistant. In this town, a secretary could only be—

Good God. Was it possible? Did Zuko have a cabinet-level informant?

Seamus felt cold fingers tickling at the base of his spine.

“What was the password your boss had programmed into the suitcase?”

“I don’t know. That had nothing to do with me.”

Frustrating, but probably true. They wouldn’t tell anyone who didn’t need to know.