Capitol Conspiracy (9 page)

10

S
ENATE
O
VERFLOW
P
ARKING
G
ARAGE
W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

B
elinda DeMouy walked briskly through the dark underground parking garage. This was no place for a lady, much less a senator’s wife. It would have been smarter to park in one of the areas patrolled by the Capitol Police, but sometimes even a blue-blooded daughter of the American Revolution from Martha’s Vineyard didn’t make the smartest choice. Actually, she reflected, some might argue that her entire life had been a case study in not making the smartest choice. But it had worked out all right. She had her health, she had her weight back down into the double digits, and she was very popular with the other senators’ wives—even though most of them were considerably older than she was. She gave great tea. Even when she wasn’t smart, she was always proper.

Where exactly had she parked? If she got close enough to her car, she could use her keyless lock to flash the lights and make a beeping sound. Problem was, you had to practically be at the car before the keyless would work. Her Jag was equipped with a GPS so she wouldn’t get lost while driving. What a joke. She needed a GPS in her purse so she could find the car. Or she could leave it and take a taxi home. But no. That would not be proper.

Her mother’s favorite word. Proper.

She had been raised to do everything just so. There was a right way and a wrong way, and the Bradford girls did things the right way. Tasteful, fashionable clothes, matched and accessorized to perfection. Makeup. Hair styled and dyed and tone-matched to your complexion. Appearance. Presentation. Bradford girls must always be on their best behavior. Napkin in lap. The right fork. Appropriate dinner conversation. Dating only those boys deemed suitable for a Bradford girl. And even then—well, she was twenty-five before she let anyone get past first base.

Her marriage, to a politician twenty-two years her senior, had been calculated, strategized, and arranged. It was a good marriage, at least as judged by the society page. The engagement party, the bridal shower where she made the rehearsed speech telling all the guests how important they were to her, the wedding at Washington National Cathedral, and her elegant Vera Wang bridal gown. She had proved a great asset to her husband in his senate work, not to mention on the campaign trail. If nothing else, she ended the constant rumors and speculation that haunted every unmarried politico—the suspicion of gayness. And now they were saying Jeff would become the next Senate majority leader in the wake of Senator Hammond’s death. Amazing. In many respects, it would be the apex of his career—at least, so far. Much as he denied it, she knew he wanted to make a run for the presidency. This “apex” might well be the stepping-stone he planned to convert into a much bigger move. She knew something was in the offing. Jeff had always been busy, but these days she wasn’t even sure he slept. It wasn’t just the amendment debate, either, although he was doing a lot of wheeling and dealing on that. He was constantly over at Homeland Security, taking closed-door meetings at strange hours. Had been for months. What were they hatching?

She’d spent the evening being introduced to so many people, she couldn’t count them. She’d given up on trying to remember names after the first fifty or so. Of course, she always behaved properly at these little soirees—but that didn’t mean she had to remember all the guests’ names and the names of their children, and which was the scholar and which was the drug addict, and all the other biographical minutiae. Her husband’s chief of staff, Jason Simic, always took care of her. He was very good at what he did.

She turned the corner in the parking garage and saw the cobalt blue nose of her XJS poking out. Very chic. She and Jeff had never had children, so she was spared the whole minivan thing. This was much more to her liking. Sporty and elegant. Much like she herself. They went together like—

Did she hear something? She stopped for a moment to listen. Nothing. And for that matter, if she did hear something, stopping to listen would probably be about the most stupid thing she could possibly do. Better just to keep walking…

There it was again. Footsteps, and not hers. Of course, that was no cause for concern, even at this time of night. There were other cars in here. She didn’t expect a lot of traffic this late, but it was certainly possible.

Belinda resumed walking. The footsteps returned. Okay, that was a little creepy. She walked faster. At this point, the smartest thing she could do was get inside her car and get the doors locked. It was ridiculous to be scared, wasn’t it? She was a senator’s wife. She wasn’t that far from the Senate. Even in a city with a skyrocketing crime rate like D.C., it was absurd to think that anything could happen. She was perfectly safe. She was letting the lateness of the hour and the darkness and her imagination get to her. She was as safe as a pearl in an oyster.

She was still thinking that when she felt the hand clamp down on her mouth.

“Don’t scream!” a male voice barked into her ear. She tried to resist, but he had both arms wrapped around her, holding her immobile.

When she gave up trying to struggle, he spun her around. He was tall, thin, younger than she was. Dark, in his eyes and his hair and his…manner.

He pulled a knife from a sheath and pressed it flat against her neck. She shuddered, involuntarily recoiling from the cold blade. It was a large curved knife with a jagged edge—a bowie knife, she thought.

“I could skin you alive,” he whispered. “And I will unless you give me everything I want. Without hesitation.”

She started to speak, but he pressed the knife down harder. She felt the tip prick her neck. “Whisper,” he commanded.

She complied. “What—what do you want?” As she spoke she tried to look and listen for signs of other people. There were none. As far as she could tell, they were totally alone. “What are you going to do to me?”

“It’s not what I’m going to do to you, at least not at first. It’s what you’re going to do to me.”

“Look, my name is Belinda DeMouy. My husband is a senator. Senate Majority leader, in fact.”

“I know.”

“Are—are you some kind of terrorist?”

A thin smile curled on his lips. “Not in the way that you mean.” He removed the knife and took a step back, looking her up and down, letting his eyes linger where they would.

He poked the knife toward her blouse. “Take that off.”

“Here? I can’t do that.”

“You take it off or I’ll cut it off,” he growled.

Belinda’s throat went dry. “Look—I’ve got money. Lots of it. Plastic, if you want it. More in the car.”

“That’s not what I’m after.”

“If you’ve got some kind of…habit…I can get you what you need. Drugs, booze, anything.”

“That’s not what I want.”

Desperation crept into her voice. “What do you want?”

All at once, he grabbed the back of her hair and pulled her head back harshly. He pressed his lips against her ear. “I want your clothes off. I want your panties in my teeth. I want inside you.”

Oh, God. Oh, God God God God God.

“Now take off the damn blouse.”

Belinda trembled. His eyes were fierce and unrelenting. She knew she had no choice.

Her hands shook as she pulled the black silk blouse over her head.

“Are they real?” he asked, none too subtly.

She tried to cover her breasts with her hands. “I’ve…had some work done.”

“Thought they were pretty damn perky. Not that I mind. Take off the bra.”

“Please, no. Don’t make me.”

“Take off the bra, woman. Now!”

“No. God, God, no.”

“Then I’ll do it for you.” He pulled her hands away and then slid the tip of the knife under the right shoulder strap and cut it. He cut the other strap, letting his hand linger, pressed against her. He leered at her, then sliced the rear strap and watched the pink brassiere tumble to the concrete floor.

She tried to cover herself. He slapped her hands away.

“Are you—are you going to hurt me?”

“Depends on what you mean,” he said, pulling back her head by the hair again and burying his face under her chin, biting her and sucking on her skin. “I like it rough.”

“Oh, Goddddd…”

A second later, his hand was up her skirt. He shoved her down onto the hood of her car. He ripped her panties off in one quick violent motion.

He pressed himself on top of her. “Are you ready for it, lady? ’Cause that’s what’s going to happen now. I’m going to take you again and again, long and hard. I’m going to pound you and pound you until you just can’t stand it any longer, because it hurts but it feels good, too, ’cause you’ve never had anyone like me and you love it and you want more. You’ll beg me for it. You’ll beg me for more.”

“Oh, Goddddd…”

“Are you ready, lady?” With the tip of the knife, he drew a line up her exposed torso, drawing circles around both breasts, then moving upward and toying with her face, her lips. “Are you ready to find out what it means to have a real man?”

She was breathing so hard and heavily, she could barely speak. “Goddddd…”

“I’m going to take you now. You’re going to do everything I tell you to do, everything I want. And then next time…”

“Yes? Yes?”

“Next time,” he whispered in her ear, “next time remember to tell me where you parked before you leave the office. It took me ten minutes to find you.”

“Oh, God, yes. Oh yes. Oh, God, yes yes yes yes yes!…”

Her eyes rolled back into her head and she surrendered herself to him. She was going to come; she could feel it already building up inside her, with such speed that it frightened her. And felt so damn good.

“God, yes, Jason. God, yes. Don’t stop. Don’t stop….”

Her husband’s chief of staff, Jason Simic, always took care of her. He was very good at what he did.

11

T
HE
W
HITE
H
OUSE
1600 P
ENNSYLVANIA
A
VENUE
W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

P
resident Franklin M. Blake sat in the Oval Office, his head resting on the historic Resolute desk, feeling nothing so much as exhaustion. The past few days had been filled with grief, coupled with a profound need to take action. The rest of the world thought he was secluded in mourning, but this office had been the site of frenzied activity, many heads working together to produce a proposed constitutional amendment in less than a week. He had been driven, and not only by the need to fulfill his duty to serve and protect this nation.

He gazed down at the framed photograph still clenched in his right hand. It was an AP shot of the two of them on the stage at Springfield the night he was elected by a sweeping majority, their outward arms raised in triumph, their inward arms wrapped around each other.

He and Emily.

What had happened since that glorious day? Of course he had been busy—he was the leader of the free world, for God’s sake. She had been busy, too. A first lady’s agenda is almost as busy as a president’s, and in many ways more demanding—or perhaps, demanding in different ways. She had to be feminine without appearing weak, strong without appearing masculine, valuable without becoming political. It was an almost impossible balancing act. He couldn’t have done it—he knew that. But Emily could. She was something special, and her innate talent had made her one of the most popular first ladies in the history of the nation. Her approval ratings far surpassed his; by all indications, her popularity spilled over and improved his on a regular basis. She did incredible work.

And most of the time, she did it alone. No, not alone. Without him.

Was it any wonder…?

His staff had been concerned for some time. Much babbling about Caesar’s wife and all that rot. He didn’t believe it, not a word of it.

Not until it was impossible to ignore. Or deny.

Even now as he looked at the picture, as he gazed at those lovely blue-green eyes, he knew he was deeply in love with her, a love founded on respect and admiration. He had loved her since the day they met and the affection had never waned, not in the face of all the rumors, and not now, in the face of death itself.

And yet, so many times in the preceding months, he had found himself recalling the famous words of Henry II, frustrated by Thomas Becket, the man he had loved and once called friend: Who will rid me of this meddlesome priest?

My God,
he thought, his head almost pounding the desk.
What happened? What have I done?

He stared at the green leather blotter built into the top center of the Resolute desk, so called because it had been made from the timbers of the British frigate HMS
Resolute,
discovered by American whalers after being caught in the ice and abandoned. The ship had been repaired by the U.S. Navy and returned to England as a goodwill gesture. This desk, Blake knew, had been a reciprocal gift from Queen Victoria to President Rutherford B. Hayes, many years ago. Numerous great men had sat here pondering some of the most dire crises the nation had faced, confronting each challenge with courage and intelligence. Some had been brilliant; some had been crooks.

But no one had done what he had done. Not one of them.

He heard a knock on the northeast door. Who the hell’s idea was it, anyway, to make the president’s office oval-shaped? Made his head spin, some mornings. Imagine an office with four doors! The northeast door led to his secretary’s office; the northwest door led to the main corridor of the West Wing; the west door led to a small study and a dining room, and the east door led directly to the Rose Garden. The president could never tell what problem was going to confront him next unless his hearing was accurate enough to trace the source of the knocking. Assuming the problem was courteous enough to knock.

Only two people came in by the northeast door, and he was relatively certain this wasn’t his secretary, Emmylou.

He straightened himself, adjusted his tie, and made it look as if he had been working. “Come in, Tracy.”

Tracy Sobel entered with her usual alacrity. Even walking down a West Wing corridor, she moved as though she were running a footrace. “We need to talk, Frank.”

He leaned back in his chair. “What’s up, Tracy?”

“Got the intel you wanted. On the amendment.” She positioned herself in front of the fireplace at the north end of the room. The only three windows in the Oval Office were all south-facing and positioned behind the president’s desk. In her usual station by the fireplace, she was directly in front of him. Unavoidable. Just understanding that told you everything you needed to know about Tracy Sobel. Appointing a female chief of staff had seemed a brilliant idea when he did it, and to her credit, Sobel had performed efficiently and given him no cause for complaint. But he was never entirely comfortable around her and he suspected he never would be. It wasn’t that she was female. It was that she was Tracy. “I’d have to say it’s going down even better than you expected. But there are still hitches.”

“There always are,” Blake said amiably, trying to erase every trace of the grief and doubt he had been wallowing in only moments before. “That’s life in politics.”

“Your military advisors are all in favor of the amendment. For whatever it’s worth, I think you can count on one hundred percent support from the Pentagon.”

“No big surprise there.”

“No. And that generally goes for the federal and state law enforcement communities. Lots of talk about protecting the rights of the people, not the rights of criminals and terrorists. You know, the usual cant people use when they want to disregard the Constitution.”

Blake raised an eyebrow. That was telling. “What’s the word at Homeland Security?”

“Oh, Carl Lehman thinks this is the greatest idea since wheeled luggage.”

“He would. Started with a memo he sent, you know.”

Sobel batted her pencil against her clipboard. “Was it also his idea that he be designated chairman of the Emergency Security Council?”

“Well…” The president grinned. “He suggested it as a possibility. Makes a certain sense. They are supposed to be our first line of defense against domestic terrorism.”

“But it didn’t make the amendment popular with the director of the FBI. Or the CIA.”

“I thought about both of those possibilities. I even considered some sort of three-man tribunal. But you know that would only lead to chaos. There needed to be one person in charge. Someone who could set the agenda, make sure things got done.”

“I understand your reasoning, sir. But if the director of the FBI comes out publicly against this amendment—”

“He won’t. What could he say, other than he’s jealous because ever since Homeland Security was created, his agency has seemed less important? How could he explain to the law enforcement world why he objects to them acquiring additional powers in a time of great need? He’s not that stupid.”

“With all due respect, sir, it’s hard to gauge just how stupid a man can be when he’s really pissed off.”

Again Blake raised an eyebrow. The always professional Ms. Sobel did not often go in for profanity, even something as mild as that. Despite her measured and professional demeanor, he definitely detected an edge about her today.

“If the FBI had made any progress catching the assassin,” Blake responded, “I might be more sympathetic. Have they got any leads at all?”

“They’ve got hundreds of leads, Mr. President. And they’re following up on them. They’ve assigned all available manpower and then some to the case.”

“But so far—nothing.”

“They’re very interested in that Middle Eastern group that’s taken credit for the attack. Saifullah.”

“Because they have evidence indicating these people were behind the shooting? Or because they’re an easy and readily available target?”

Sobel paused before answering. “Because they’re investigating all possibilities. With great vigor.”

“Tell them I don’t give a damn about their vigor. I want to know who killed my wife.”

“Understood, sir. But if it is a Middle Eastern group—it may not be within the FBI’s jurisdiction.”

“I don’t give a damn about jurisdiction, either. Haven’t I made it clear I want everyone working together on this?”

“Yes, sir. You have.”

“This isn’t about who gets to take credit. This is about catching the bastards and making them pay for what they’ve done.”

“Yes, sir. Understood, sir.” Sobel brushed a strand of her yellow-blond hair off her forehead. Every lock perfectly in place.

“What about Congress? Do you have a feel for what’s going on there? I’ve been on the phone most of the morning, but I can’t get any straight answers.”

“I think we can count on early passage in the House,” she replied. “We still have a large majority there. Polls show most people favor the amendment. They’re not going to go against party lines and public sentiment. The Senate is a little more difficult to call.”

“And why is that, Tracy? I thought you had the inside track to everyone worth knowing.”

“Probably an accurate assessment, sir,” she said, without the slightest hint of irony. “But there’s still a certain amount of chaos in the wake of the Oklahoma City tragedy. Two Democratic senators gone. The new minority leader barely has his head on straight.”

“Some of those Democrats like to rattle on about constitutional rights, although sometimes I suspect the men have never actually read the document.” He pushed away from his desk and paced a moment, walking closer to Sobel, pausing at the north end of the room just beside the portrait of George Washington. “What about you, Tracy? What are your thoughts about the amendment?”

“My job is to make your policy reality, sir.”

“Yes, but that wasn’t the question.” He was standing close to her now, close enough that she was forced to look directly into his eyes. He prided himself on his ability to communicate, on his ability to talk to people and make them feel as if they were the only sentient beings in his universe while they talked. That, perhaps more than any other, was the attribute necessary for success in politics, at least in his opinion. He was giving Tracy that look now, and she was probably familiar enough with it to know that he wasn’t going to let her slip away. “I asked you what you thought of this amendment. You, personally.”

“Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

She stared at him a moment, blinked a few times, then answered, “Well, sir, since you asked, I think it’s a very bad idea.”

“And why is that?”

“I believe the Bill of Rights exists for a reason. To protect the people from the state. If we allow those rights to be taken away under any circumstance, we risk losing them forever.”

“Those rights have been suspended many times before when our security was threatened. Lincoln suspended habeas corpus. The NSA wiretapped private citizens—”

“Yes, but that was blatantly illegal and unconstitutional, even if they got away with it. It wasn’t done under the color of law. This amendment would change that. It would effectively repeal the Bill of Rights during a time of crisis. If we allow those rights to be taken away in this manner—we may never get them back.”

“I think you’re being a bit melodramatic.”

“Sir, the Founding Fathers—”

“They killed my wife, Tracy!”
He took a step back, his elbow resting on the Spanish ivy atop the mantel. His voice dropped to a whisper. “The bastards killed my wife.”

Sobel’s eyes dropped to her clipboard. “I know, sir.”

Blake took a moment, wiped his forehead, pulled himself together. “Sorry. I just got—”

“No need to apologize, Mr. President. None at all.”

“So,” he said, wiping his eyes, “I guess the question is whether you’re going to be able to work for me effectively on a bill you don’t support.”

“Of course I will, sir. No question about it. That’s my job.”

“Even if you oppose my policy?”

“With respect, sir—are you assuming this is the first time I’ve opposed one of your policies?”

Now that took him by surprise. Maybe this woman had hidden depths he’d never imagined. “All right then, Tracy. You’re my master architect. Tell me how I get this amendment through the Senate. As quickly as possible.”

“It won’t be easy, sir. It might be impossible.”

“Yes, yes, cut through all the ‘impossible odds’ chatter. I already know you’re a miracle worker, and I already know you have a plan. Spill.”

Sobel tapped her clipboard a few times before answering. “You are aware, I assume, that”—she drew in her breath—“Major Morelli has not come out of his coma. In fact, he’s still in ICU. Critical condition.”

“Yes, I read the update this morning. Your point?”

“He was—is—Senator Kincaid’s best friend. Has been for many years.”

“Isn’t Kincaid pretty liberal?”

“What I hear is that he’s very shaken up about his friend. Has spent days in the man’s hospital room.”

“Kincaid’s the most junior senator the Democrats have. At least until the governors appoint replacements for Tidwell and Hammond. How influential can he be?”

“How influential was he during the confirmation hearings for Justice Roush?”

The president pursed his lips. “Mmm. Good point. So you’re suggesting…?”

“I think you know what I’m suggesting, sir. And as it happens, I have the phone number right here.”