Capitol Conspiracy (20 page)

“No one will believe you.”

“I think they will.” Smiling a genuine smile, Christina patted the phone on her desk. “Because you see, for the entire duration of our conversation, I’ve had you on speakerphone. A very amped up, powerful, speakerphone. And our office manager has been recording every word you say. It’s what we call Line X.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Believe it, fool. We come from the world of criminal justice, and some of the people there make you government twerps look like total amateurs. You take those photos anywhere near the press, and the recording goes with them.”

“I still don’t believe you.”

Christina glanced at the phone. “Playback.”

There was a sudden beep on the phone console, followed by the sound of the tall man’s own voice. “…we’ll play it your way. We want you to cease and desist putting any and all pressure on your husband to withdraw his support from this amendment…”

Both men rose to their feet, eyes wide. “What you have done, Ms. McCall, by recording our conversation without obtaining prior permission or giving notice, is a violation of the Federal Wiretapping Act.”

“How ironic that you should suddenly be concerned about civil rights.”

“I think it is incumbent upon us to confiscate this recording.” Both men moved toward the door.

“Don’t bother with the strongman tactics,” Christina said, stopping them. “Jones isn’t an idiot. He’s already halfway to the Senate copy room, making duplicate recordings with about a hundred other assistants. So unless you’re planning to take them all out, just chill and accept the fact that you’ve been beaten at your own nasty little game. And while we’re at it, let me inform you that I know perfectly well you’re not lobbyists. You’re Secret Service.”

The two men stopped in their tracks.

“For one thing,” Christina continued, “your idiot partner is still wearing his Secret Service lapel pin. For another, you’re packing a .357 SIG under your jacket, standard Secret Service issue. In fact—don’t I recognize you? Weren’t you in Oklahoma City on April nineteenth?”

“I think we’ll be going now. I’ll take the photos.”

“No,” Christina said, scooping them off her desk, “I don’t think you will.”

“We have copies.”

“No doubt. But I want these to show Ben. So we can have a good chuckle over them in the years to come. I think maybe I’ll file them with the wedding photos.”

The tall man squinted. “You are one sick puppy.”

“This from the man who was willing to destroy a new marriage to gain a political advantage. You’re the scum of the earth, buddy, and don’t try to tell yourself otherwise. Now get the hell out of my office!”

Christina watched with great pleasure as the two men did exactly that.

She settled back into her chair, allowing her blood pressure to return to normal, letting down the impervious facade she needed to keep those particular demons at bay.

Ben, Ben, Ben. What have you gotten yourself into this time?

But she already knew the answer to that question. And she knew something else as well.

As much as it made her stomach roil, as much as she hated to do it, she would have to support Ben. She would have to give him whatever help he needed, as long as he was determined to support this amendment. Otherwise, these sharks would eat him alive.

She hated this amendment. But there were worse things in the world than being needed by the man you loved.

29

S
OMEWHERE ON THE STREETS OF
G
EORGETOWN

L
oving tightly gripped the steering wheel of his van. “I still can’t believe it. Children?”

“Horrifying,” Shohreh said softly. “But sadly true.”

“In a third-world nation, maybe. But here?”

“The General’s principal operations are still overseas. But he has gained a foothold here. The federal government gives such scrutiny to large sums of money transported from overseas banks since 9/11. He needs a domestic source of income.”

“But—
children
?”

“You can see now, perhaps, why I am so determined to find him. And stop him. It is not only that he threatens my life. If the General is allowed to continue his revolting business—there is no telling how many lives could be destroyed. He is far from the first. He will not be the last. But usually, those who traffic in sex do not use their filthy profits to finance terrorism.”

“That’s just—sick,” Loving said, banging his hands against the steering wheel and swerving around a broken-down car blocking the fast lane. Loving hated D.C. traffic. Interstate 66 was the worst, but tonight he’d managed to skirt through it without any of the usual tie-ups. He’d taken the Key Bridge exit and followed the road across the Potomac, turned right onto M Street, and in less time than usual found himself in Georgetown. Hard to believe anything so sleazy could exist in this swanky college town. Sure, in the past he’d found art thieves here, and also, come to think of it, vampires. As he passed through the main shopping meccas surrounding the intersection of Wisconsin Street, he was reminded of the mall where two trained killers tried to drill him full of holes. Okay, those had been bad moments in Georgetown. But this was something else again.

“And you think this address I found on the assassin might be—what did you call it? A stash house?”

“I’m almost certain of it,” she replied. “I know it was used that way in the past. Once they have smuggled the young girls into the country, they must put them somewhere.”

“Where do these girls come from?”

“Eastern Europe and the Middle East, usually. Countries in turmoil. Remember—until the 1990s, prostitution barely existed in Russia. Almost all women had legitimate jobs. But after communism collapsed, things changed. Poverty soared, as did unemployment. Many young women, some of them well-educated, even married, were forced to become prostitutes. And what of the children? In such a world as that, it became easy for these traffickers to lure or kidnap unprotected girls.”

“How do they fly them in from the Middle East?”

“They bring them into the United States through Mexico.”

“To become prostitutes.”

“No,” Shohreh said, her voice low. “Sex slaves.”

“There’s a difference?”

“The difference is huge. These children become prisoners. They don’t speak the language. They have no money. They have no identification or travel papers. If they attempt to escape, they will be harshly beaten—perhaps even killed, to set an example to the others. They may be kept hungry, sleep deprived. Their mental state, probably never strong, begins to crumble. They can’t think clearly. They don’t know what to do—except follow instructions. They never earn any money. They are rented out for sex—sometimes ten times a day. They are sold cheap—the profit is made through volume. Perhaps fifty dollars for fifteen minutes of what you might call ordinary intercourse with most clothes still on. For a little more, clothes might be removed. Oral sex costs more. A hundred dollars might get a customer anything he wants.”

“That’s just…disgustin’.”

“Occasionally they will be sold outright to pay a debt to another trafficker or a drug lord. But that is worse, not better.”

“And you say this goes on a lot?”

“More often than you can imagine. No one knows the exact numbers. But the CIA says that approximately twenty thousand people are trafficked into the United States every year. Most people who have studied this horror think that at least half of those become sex slaves.”

Loving could not conceal his outrage. “In Washington, D.C.? The nation’s capital? Why doesn’t the government do something about it?”

“They’ve made noises. But there’s been no real action. The traffickers are too slick, too professional. They remain invisible. Your former President Bush called sex trafficking ‘a special evil’ and a multibillion-dollar ‘underground of brutality and lonely fear.’ He pushed for some sort of action from the UN. But nothing happened. He signed the Trafficking Victims Protection Act, which finally recognized that people trafficked against their will should not be treated as illegal aliens and made it illegal to traffic children for the purpose of sex. Violators can receive thirty-year sentences. But still the evil continues. It is too profitable to be eliminated so easily.”

“And that girl you mentioned—Djamila. She got caught up in this?”

Shohreh’s eyes darkened. “Yes.”

Loving nodded, his gaze fixed on the road. “I’ll do anythin’ I can to help you.”

She laid her hand gently on his shoulder. “I know you will.”

“It’s just around the corner. I still think we should call the cops.”

“I assure you that would be a mistake. They would know. The General would escape. The children would be relocated or, if there was not enough time, killed. Their only hope is that we get to the General. Bring him to the authorities.”

“Cut the head off the beast.”

“Exactly.”

“Okay, then. Let’s go find the beast.”

Loving stared at the house across the street, astonished.

“Are you sure we’re in the right place?”

“I am. I remember it well.”

Loving couldn’t believe it. He had expected to end up in a wretched poverty-stricken neighborhood. Instead, he was in a perfectly ordinary, perfectly respectable middle-class enclave. There were children playing on the street. Bicycles and basketballs. The house itself was two stories, Victorian-style, with an arched gable and yellow trim. Everything about it belied what apparently took place within.

“How can they…conduct their business…without the neighbors noticin’?”

“Have you ever lived in a neighborhood such as this?”

“Well…no.”

“These people do not socialize with their neighbors, for the most part. Perhaps once a year at the neighborhood block party. They may know the names of their immediate neighbors, they may wave to them as they pass by walking their dog, but little else. They know more about the celebrities on the cover of
People
magazine than they do about the people who live next door.” She sighed. “Drug pushers have also learned the advantages of living in a respectable neighborhood. They are more invisible than they would be in a lower-rent district, and much less suspect.”

Loving frowned. “We gonna find a lot of toughs in there? Protectin’ the merchandise?”

“If we are lucky, there will be no men at all this time of day. The children are usually cared for by women.”

“Women participate in this freak show?”

“I wish I could say this horror is solely the product of deranged and greedy men, but it is not so. Female accomplices become surrogate mothers to the children. They are better at gaining the children’s trust. They are much more adept at managing them, handling them, making sure they do as expected. They deliver the warnings—and the beatings. They teach them how to…perform. How to act sultry, sexy, scared—whatever the customer wants. Usually scared, especially with the youngest girls.” She inhaled deeply, as if purging herself from within. “The men may be the traffickers and controllers. And of course, the customers. But women operate the business on a day-to-day basis.”

Loving felt as if he were about to hurl.
Focus on the mission,
he told himself,
and try not to think about what goes on inside.
“See that basement window? I’m goin’ in.”

“I will follow.”

“No.”

“I insist.”

Loving held her back firmly. “You can’t get through that window with an arm in a sling and a wounded leg.”

“You might be surprised what I can—”

“Besides, you’re my backup. If I don’t come out in an hour or so, you can assume I screwed it up and the General has fled. Call Lieutenant Albertson at the DCPD.”

Shohreh reluctantly nodded. “I will do as you say. But I do not like it.”

Loving had no trouble getting inside the house. He slipped into the basement silently, without attracting attention from the neighbors.

The basement seemed perfectly ordinary. Tools, firewood, and lots of dust. Till he looked closer.

There were mattresses on the floor, more than a dozen, uncovered, filthy, putrid.

When he examined the nearest workbench, he found antibiotics, a large quantity of what he knew to be the infamous “morning-after” pill, as well as a stomach medication he knew could induce abortions.

Then he saw the girls, all huddled together in the far corner, staring at him. Some looked as if they were not even twelve; none appeared older than seventeen. Their faces were dirty, grimy. They smelled as if they had not bathed. Their clothes looked as if they had worn them for weeks. They stared back at him like freaks in a carnival show, their eyes unblinking, their minds barely comprehending.

One girl, a petite thing whose hair might be blond if it had been washed recently, stepped toward him. She had an air of comprehension about her, some small sense of resilience. Perhaps, he thought, her mind was not yet totally shattered. Perhaps that was why she acted as the leader.

“We’ve been expecting you,” she said with a thick accent, obviously attempting some grotesque parody of grown-up hospitality. “Are you my next customer?”

“No,” Loving said, his lips pressed tightly together. “I’m your last. We’re gettin’ outta here.”

30

U.S. S
ENATE
, R
USSELL
B
UILDING
T
HE
B
ASEMENT
W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

B
en hated these underground corridors. It wasn’t just that they were narrow and cluttered to such a degree as to induce claustrophobia in the sanest of people, although there was that. It wasn’t that he was reminded that many of the other senators had a private hideaway down here and he didn’t. It was that he was reminded of the first time he came here, after a corpse was found in Senator Glancy’s hideaway, the event that triggered Ben’s involvement in Washington and ultimately led to his becoming a senator. He would never forget the first time he stepped in and saw all the blood and that poor woman upended on the sofa with her neck—

Never mind. He did not need to go there today. Eyes on the prize. He was looking for Senator DeMouy, using the best clues he had available. There were no maps of the hideaways: in fact, on the official maps of the building, they did not exist. They weren’t even in the blueprints. But they were down here and they were highly coveted. The only way to find someone was if you already knew where his or her hideaway was. Or, as in this case, if you had a lead from a well-placed person such as the senator’s administrative assistant.

“You like Cajun?” she had asked, not waiting for an answer. “Follow your nose.”

Which Ben was trying to do, but he was feeling a little stuffy so he was not altogether sure this was going to work. What could be harder than finding someone who had come to a place that, after all, was called a hideaway, used for the purpose of, well, hiding away. When a senator like DeMouy wanted time alone, far from the prying eyes of reporters or the outstretched hand of the lobbying army—but didn’t have time to leave the building—he or she retreated to a hideaway, safely nestled in the subterranean basements of the three Senate office buildings. After the first ricin poisoning, many senators left their main offices but tried to conduct business here, and they came in droves after Senator Hammond was killed. Given the tumult currently under way upstairs, Ben should’ve known to check the hideaways first; even the Senate majority leader had to get away from the madding crowd on occasion. He probably liked to kick back, listen to some zydeco, maybe eat some takeout—

And that was when the aroma hit him like a blunt instrument. Had he been stuffed up before? Not anymore. He could feel his sinuses decongesting with every step.

He knocked on the door.

“Come on in!”

Ben was prepared for almost anything—he had found a corpse in one of these rooms, after all, and he’d caught senators making out with unauthorized personnel on more than one occasion—but nothing could have prepared him for this.

The leader of the Senate Republicans. Wearing a dirty apron. Swinging a large ladle like a baton.

“Ben! Therese told me you were coming. You’re just in time!”

Lucky me,
Ben thought, as he slowly approached. The pungent smell of Cajun cooking assaulted him. Although now that he thought about it, he was somewhat hungry. When was the last time he actually ate a meal?

“Are you a gumbo fan?” DeMouy asked, beaming. He dropped the ladle back into a huge pot on the stove and stirred.

“I’m…not sure I’ve ever had it.”

“What do you folks eat in Oklahoma?”

“Um…hamburgers? Chicken-fried steak? Mashed potatoes and white gravy.”

DeMouy gave him a long look. “Tell me you don’t eat grits.”

“Well…certainly not where I grew up.”

DeMouy pulled out a chair. “Sit down, my boy. You are about to have the best culinary treat of your young lifetime.”

Ben took the proffered seat. “And—you made this down here?”

“Absolutely. All by myself. Even chopped the okra. Five pounds’ worth.”

Ben grimaced. “You know…you can buy it already sliced. Frozen.”

DeMouy looked as if he had just been forced to eat a bug. “That’s not how my mama taught me to do it and that’s not what I’m going to do. Might as well just buy a bowl at Chili’s.”

“That would probably save time, too.”

“It’s not about saving time, Kincaid. It’s about creating something wonderful.” He smiled. “’Sides, I like cooking. Relaxes me. Forces me to think about something other than this damned amendment. Filé?”

“Uhh…”

“Yes, of course you want filé. What’s gumbo without filé?” He scooped a huge ladleful of gumbo into a bowl, sprinkled something green on top of it, and passed it to Ben.

Ben stared at the concoction. “Mind if I ask what it is?”

“I already told you, son. It’s gumbo!”

“Yes, but…what’s in it?”

DeMouy rattled off the ingredients like a cooking encyclopedia. “Okra, obviously, onions, celery, garlic, bell peppers, bay leaves, tomato sauce, shrimp, chicken broth, diced tomatoes, and rice.”

“Is that it?”

“No.” DeMouy winked. “But I can’t give away the secret ingredients. My mama would kill me.”

“Seven secret herbs and spices?”

“Salt and pepper.” He waited a beat. “So, Kincaid…you planning to take a bite?”

“Oh—you wanted me to eat this.”

“No, Ben, it only takes four hours to make. I was hoping you’d just use it to clear your sinuses.”

Ben tentatively raised a spoonful, blew on it, then slowly drew it toward his mouth.

“Well?”

Ben swallowed. “Actually, it’s pretty good.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“No, I really—awk!” He clutched his throat. “Bit—” He gasped for breath. “Bit of an after bite, huh?”

DeMouy grinned. “That’s the way we like it down South.” He slapped Ben on the back. “My mama raised six sons, all by herself. She needed something to help keep them under control.”

Ben shoveled in several more bites. It was growing on him. And he was breathing a lot more freely, too. “You really do enjoy cooking, don’t you?”

“Have to admit it.” He took the chair opposite Ben at the table. “Making meals is a lot more gratifying than making laws. A lot quicker, too.”

“No doubt.” Ben tried to time his remarks so as not to interrupt his devouring of the gumbo. “So, your AA told me you needed to see me desperately. I assume that wasn’t just because you thought I looked underweight.”

DeMouy chuckled. “Can’t say that it was. We’ve got ourselves a problem.”

“We do?”

“’Fraid so. On this amendment.”

Ben wiped the corners of his mouth. “Have the polls changed? Last I heard, it was a shoo-in in the House and the votes were about evenly divided in the Senate. All we need is a few more votes and we’re golden.”

“Yes, but that could be tricky.”

“Why? Everyone in the country’s talking about this amendment. It’s on the top of everyone’s agenda, whether they’re in the Senate or chatting at the watercooler. All we need to do is fling some major oratory at it. As a trial lawyer, I found that if you reference God, Abraham Lincoln, and the United States of America often enough, you can win anything.”

DeMouy laughed again. “That’s probably true, son. But even the president can’t force a bill to the Senate floor, and neither can we.”

“But—the bill got out of committee—”

“Ben, have you ever heard of a legislative hold?”

“Legislative hold…” He took another bite, hoping to buy time while he decided whether to bluff or not.

“Don’t feel bad if you haven’t. It isn’t something they teach in eighth-grade civics class. Some people refer to it as the Senate’s dark secret.”

Ben leaned forward. “Okay, now I’m interested.”

“It all goes back to the ancient and somewhat labyrinthine parliamentary procedure that still by common agreement governs congressional practice. It’s a cinch for any member to slow down or even stop the Senate’s business by making an objection before the bill hits the floor. The press talk about how the Senate bickers and bewails the death of collegiality, but that’s hogwash. Believe me, if there were no collegiality, we’d never get anything done. We wouldn’t even have anything to talk about.”

“I thought the Senate majority leader set the agenda.”

“True, but he does it by unanimous consent agreements on what’s going to be discussed and how long we’re going to discuss it. He tries to find out if anyone’s going to object before he takes a bill to the floor. He asks the party leaders in advance if anyone’s going to object. Since any senator has the power to object, the majority leader postpones a bill until the objections can be resolved—or horse-traded out of existence.”

“I don’t see anyone being bold enough to put a hold on this amendment. It’s much too high profile.”

“Actually, I’ve gotten word of three different senators willing to do exactly that. And one of them is a Republican!”

“But all the polls show that the people favor this bill. I would think the political fallout for those making the objection—”

“And now you’re going to see why this is called the Senate’s dark secret. The secret reason so many bills favored by the public never get to the floor.” He paused. “Legislative holds can be made anonymously. One senator can keep a bill off the floor indefinitely. There is zero accountability.”

“But that’s totally undemocratic.”

“You’re not the first to think so. But it still gets done all the time. Back in 1999, Tom Daschle and Trent Lott got together to broker a deal that would force all senators who put in a hold to be reported to the sponsor of the bill and have their name submitted in writing to the party leader. But the deal fell apart.”

“And this occurs frequently?”

“Ohio’s Howard Metzenbaum used to put a hold on every single tax bill that came through his door. It was so common the AAs started calling the holds ‘Metzes,’ as in, ‘Don’t waste your time, there’s a Metz on that bill.’ Sometimes the senators will use ‘rolling holds.’”

“Dare I ask?”

“One senator places a hold on the bill, does some trading, gets what he wants, and then someone else puts a hold on it. If they team up, they can keep a bill off the floor for a long time. With three senators already ponying up to play this game—it could be a good while before this amendment is voted upon. And I think time is of the essence here, both for political and national security reasons.”

“Certainly the president thinks so.”

“The longer this drags out, the less chance there will be of passing it. And if the president’s term ends—it’s over.”

Ben couldn’t resist the thought flashing through his brain.
Maybe that would be best. Maybe we need more time for reflection. Maybe these three senators are the voices of courage, not obstruction.

But he stopped himself. More thinking in that direction would only lead to madness. He had given his promise.

“So what are we going to do about it?”

“Well, the traditional approach would be to offer the three roadblocks something they want even more than they want to block that bill.”

“I’m the most junior senator in Congress,” Ben said wearily. “I don’t have anything to give.”

“Don’t feel bad—even I don’t have anything to give that they want more than they want to slow down this process. No, the only solution I can see is to out these guys. Go public. Let them feel the heat. Take responsibility for their actions.”

“Didn’t you say the holds were anonymous?”

“I sure did.”

Ben’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know who they are?”

“Wish that I did. But, no, I don’t. Well, I have a hunch about the Republican. But as for the other two, I have no clue.”

“Then how—?”

“But I understand,” DeMouy continued, “that pretty little chief of staff of yours really gets around.”

“Christina?”

“Yes, you remember. I believe you married her a while back.” DeMouy grinned. “I know you two haven’t been here that long, but apparently she really has a way with people. As well as a gift for sniffing out secrets.”

“That she does.”

“My secretary Therese has been with me twenty-one years, and she says she’s never seen anything like that little firebrand of yours. So I was thinking—”

“You want Christina to find out who the three holdups are.”

“Of course, you didn’t hear me say that.”

“Understood. If anyone could do it, it would be Christina. There’s just one problem. She opposes the amendment.”

DeMouy waved a hand in the air. “Yeah, I heard about that. So what?”

“So, she has been known to be somewhat…on the stubborn side. I could go back to my office now and ask, but she—”

“Office. Please. Ben.” DeMouy looked at him sternly. “You are married to this woman, right?”

“Riiight.”

“Don’t ask her in the office. Ask her tonight.”

“Tonight?”

DeMouy’s voice dropped an octave. “In the bedroom.”

“Why—?”

“You know.” DeMouy jabbed his elbow into Ben’s side. “After.”

“After she’s asleep? What would be the point?”

“Not after she’s asleep. After”—more jabbing—“you know.”

“I do? Oh.
Oh!
”

“Now you get the picture.”

Well, he had a distant memory, anyway. “I really don’t think—”

“Just give it a try, son. How do you think I captured the heart of that young little filly of mine? It’s the way to go.”

“It is?”

DeMouy nodded enthusiastically. “Might consider bringing home flowers, too.” He smiled, then retook his ladle. “Now how about some more gumbo? You did pretty good with that first helping.”

Why not?
Ben thought, as he held out his bowl. He needed some time to think. Somehow, he suspected this project was going to require a lot more than a bouquet of roses.