Capitol Punishment (An Art Jefferson Thriller Book 3) (30 page)

Seventy-five miles away, Stanley Barrish hung up at the same time.

*  *  *

It wasn’t a long drive from their apartment, but, as Darian maneuvered through the shoppers’ traffic on Fayette Street, Moises Griggs was suddenly aware just how far he’d come in a very short time. And from where.

“There’s a lot of decorations,” Moises observed, his gaze jumping from lamppost to lamppost as they passed, at the plastic Santas, red-and-white candy canes, green doughnuts of simulated pine fifteen feet above the street.

Christmas was almost here. “We used to have a big tree.”

“Huh?”

Moises looked left to Darian. “My mom liked Christmas trees. More than presents, even. She used to say it was because of where she grew up. North Carolina. She said there were lots of trees there. She liked the smell.” Pine. Moises drew in a breath through his nose, looking forward again and trying to remember the scent of Christmas in the Griggs household. It seemed so long ago. And it seemed like yesterday.

Darian turned off Fayette at the appropriate street, parking in a small lot behind a brightly lit supermarket. He turned off the car and checked his watch. “Whiteboy should be here.” His neck twisted to look out the back window of the Volvo. “Probably is already. Checking us out, still, I’d bet.”

And the ham. Moises remembered the smell of that on Christmas day. They ate about two in the afternoon, but called it dinner. He never could figure that out. But who cared about the time? That ham was always the best, and it tasted all the sweeter because they had it only once a year. His mom said it was her mother’s special recipe for a smoked and barbecued ham, and it had been her mother’s before that. Something like five generations old, he recalled his mother telling him. All the way back to the slave days. The same Christmas dinner his chained ancestors had shared.

Damn
. Why was he thinking about this now? Why? There would be no more Christmases, at least not like the ones he’d had with his family.
What family?
That was right. It was easier to think of it that way. They were gone. Killed by the same bullets that ended his little sister’s life. She’d have no more Christmases.
Practicing for a Christmas concert when she got it.

December twenty-fifth. It conjured memories of warmth, and memories of darkness. Would it always?

Moises wondered. For him, he thought so, but what about his mother, and his father? Despite his attempts to mentally end their existence, he knew they lived on. Lived with the pain he did. Would they have a Christmas this year?
Not without you
. Would his mother make that ham?
You won’t know
.

Shut up!

Presents? Hell, who cared about presents?
They’d just want you back at home.
Too late for that. Moises knew he’d cast his future already. The path was set.
They’re probably worried about you.

I can’t do anything about that
.

He was his mother’s big strong boy. Too old to be called that now. Too old for a long time. The corner of his mouth twitched as he thought that, but the emotion was quickly squashed.
She’s worried about you. You know that. She doesn’t even know if you’re dead or alive.

I can’t do anything...
Moises looked straight through the windshield, to the blazing interior of the supermarket. There wasn’t only food in there; there were other things.
Maybe I can...

“He’s here,” Darian said, seeing the white boy step from a car two rows back in the lot.

“Brother Darian, I’m gonna get a Coke or something. You want something?”

“No.” Darian opened the door, stepping out as his young companion did. “Come right back to the car after you get it.”

“All right.”

Darian saw his contact wait by the front of his own vehicle and walked to him. “You white folks like cold climates.”

Toby smiled, no shades concealing his eyes this time. Dark glasses at night, aside from looking stupid, might draw attention. That was not what he wanted. “You go where the action is.”

Darian looked past the white boy to the empty car. “Where’s your sidekick?”

“Busy. Yours?”

“Getting himself a drink. So, you have something for me.”

So true to form, Toby thought. He reached through the open front window of the car and removed a shopping bag. The weight of its contents strained the twin paper handles. “A hundred and fifty grand.” He handed it to the African. “You did good on that little extra.”

“Turkey shoot,” Darian said, smiling. “White men can’t jump, or run.” He set the bag on the asphalt at his feet. “So, time for
the big one
.”

“Almost.”

Darian leaned against the fender and folded his arms, looking as casual and comfortable as possible. Just two guys, one white, one black, having a chat in a parking lot. “So, how do you plan to reshape the government? That’s what you said at our last get-together, wasn’t it?”

“I said that,” Toby confirmed. “I guess ‘starting with a clean slate’ is a better description. You know, kinda throw everything into the shitter and start again.”

“Un-huh,” Darian said with a slow, cautious nod. “Details, man. We did you right back in L.A. I want the whole story now, before we go on.”

Exactly one month, Toby knew. That was a long time to let the Africans keep a secret. But they would have to. It wasn’t trust; it was acceptance. “The president’s gonna give a little speech next month.”

State of the Union
. Darian knew that much, and also that it could be summed up briefly—fucked up. “Yeah.”

Toby smiled before he went on. “We’re gonna make it interesting.”

*  *  *

Moises looked through the market’s window to the parking lot. The cracker was jawing to Brother Darian about something. Good. That would keep him busy. He took a bottle of soda from a refrigerated case and walked down several aisles, passing magazines, a pitiful selection of wrapping paper, and a display of greeting cards before finding what he wanted. He picked through a rotating rack of postcards, choosing one with a winter scene—his mother always said she missed the snow— and flipping it over. A pen hanging by a string scrawled out the brief message, and then he went to a checkout stand, verifying first that Brother Darian was still occupied.

The checker ran the cold bottle over the scanner, which beeped once. “A dollar nine.”

“Do you have stamps?” Moises asked.

“Yeah. How many?”

He handed the postcard to her, his eyes darting right as the conversation outside seemed to be slowing. “Could you put one on this and mail it?”

And mail it...
‘Twas the season of giving, the checker reminded herself. “Sure.” A few touches to her keypad brought up the new total. The customer paid her in exact change and left before she could wish him a Merry Christmas.

*  *  *

Darian saw in his peripheral vision his young comrade exit the market and wait by their car. In the grip of his stare the white boy was still smiling.

“Is that enough detail for you?” Toby asked.

“Who thought this fucking thing up?”

Toby shook his head slowly. “It’s enough that someone did. The question is, are you going to be able to make it happen?”

Make it happen?
Someone had dreamed up a nightmare, all right. A nightmare that could be made real. “Oh, yeah. We can do that.” Holy shit. This was bigger than big, Darian knew. Bigger than what he’d imagined, even after wiping out the people in the World Center. Off the scale. And, he had to admit, brilliant, even coming from the whities. “The streets are gonna fill with blood, man.”

“That’ll be mission accomplished,” Toby commented.
The right color blood, though
. “The name’s on a card in the bag, and the address of his office. That’s job one.”

Darian picked the shopping bag up. “Consider it done. And don’t forget you still owe us.”

“Nine hundred grand.”
You’d sell your mother...

Darian gave a single nod and walked back to the Volvo. He heard the white boy pull out of the lot as he got behind the wheel.

“How’d it go?” Moises asked. He took a sip from the bottle and twisted the plastic cap back on.

Darian looked to his newest recruit. But not the last
. ‘Cause after this we’re gonna have an army of brothers wanting their piece of the pie.
“Good.”
Anarchy
. God, it was going to be paradise. “Real good.”

*  *  *

Senator Curtis Parsons and Congressman Jack Murphy had been to the White House many a time, sometimes to consult with the president, other times to counsel him, as leader of their party, on policy matters destined for a fight on the Hill. This crisp Wednesday morning, though, the Senate majority leader and the speaker of the House of Representatives were conveying something else: a request. That was the polite term, because they were certain it would be received for what it actually was: a demand.

The majority leader and the speaker arrived at the White House together in the back of a Secret Service Lincoln that had picked them up at Washington National an hour earlier. It was waved through the gate on West Executive Avenue and pulled to a stop between Old Executive and the West Wing. Five minutes later the nation’s top legislators walked into the office of the president’s assistant for national security affairs.

“Senator, Mr. Speaker.” Bud DiContino had two chairs arranged facing the small couch in his office. Parsons and Murphy shed their overcoats, hanging them on the brass tree near the door, and took the seats. The president’s chief of staff and national security adviser lowered themselves to the couch. “Can we order anything from the cafeteria for you? Croissants? I have coffee in the pot.”

“No. No.” Senator Parsons undid his tie and made a sour face at the offer. “My damn stomach’s boiling. Goddamn red-eyes.”

Speaker Murphy chuckled at his colleague. He had fifteen years on the man, and twenty pounds, yet the good Curtis Parsons of the fine state of Louisiana had the ailments of an older man. He also had a liking for Kentucky bourbon.

“Mr. Speaker?” Bud asked.

Murphy shook his head. “Sorry for the hurry-up on this.”

Whatever ‘this’ was
, Bud thought. “Sorry we had to make it this early, but you wanted no press around.”

“They’re off with the boss,” Gonzales explained.

“Where the hell is he this early?” Parsons asked, popping a chewable antacid into his mouth.

“Norfolk for a prayer breakfast,” Gonzales answered. “For a veterans’ group.”

“Praying on a Friday.” Parsons sniffed. “We Catholics save that for Sunday.”

“The pope here protests,” Murphy joked. “But, seriously, Bud, we appreciate you and Ellis seeing that this was quiet.”

Bud sat forward, almost to the couch’s edge. “I have to admit I’m guessing as to the reason.”

Jack Murphy scooted forward also, his imposing Montana frame a hard figure to ignore. Few on the Hill had done so and walked away with their political careers intact. “Succession, Bud. The odd man out.”

The NSA’s face curled a bit at that. The “odd man out” was nothing more than a colloquial term for the lone member in the line of presidential succession who was normally kept away from events where all the other members were present, such as the approaching State of the Union message. It was a matter of security, a safety measure that, should some catastrophe strike when all the other members were together, ensured there would be a constitutionally recognized successor to the presidency available to assume the powers of state. For the State of the Union the choice had already been made: Energy Secretary Raleigh McCaw would do the honors, watching the constitutionally required report to Congress from the safety of his home—guarded by the Secret Service for that one evening. All very simple. All very proper.

So why were the most powerful men on the Hill sneaking into the White House to discuss the matter?
Why indeed?
Bud wondered. “The odd man out? It’s Secretary McCaw. What’s to discuss?”

“Whether he’s the right choice,” Parsons responded flatly. He didn’t like McCaw, but then he didn’t like the president, either. Neither, though, was behind the reasoning of his questioning.

“Right choice?” Bud snickered a bit. “You lost me, gentlemen.”

“Me, too,” Gonzales joined. “Raleigh did the duty last year. Energy isn’t exactly tops on the agenda for the speech. He doesn’t need to be there.”

“He’s second to the bottom, Bud, for Christ’s sake!” Parsons challenged.

Murphy raised a hand to quiet his excitable colleague, then focused his attention on the president’s advisers. “Listen. Curt and I don’t make a habit of flying back to D.C. during recess for just nothing. We’ve had calls, my good men. From our friends across the aisle. They have a bug in their bonnet about McCaw. You know that. After that MicroGen bullshit he had to prove himself innocent of, and then laying it on one of
their
boys. Well, they don’t like him. And they don’t trust him.”

“Wait,” Bud said. “This isn’t 1963. Soviet bombs are not going to drop during the State of the Union.”

“No, but those black revolutionaries—”

“Terrorists!” Parsons interjected.

“Whatever,” Murphy said. “Those fellows have the ability to do some major damage, Bud. Kill a lot of people. And that vehicle they found in the river not fifteen minutes from here is making folks on both sides of the aisle nervous. Real nervous.”

“Mr. Speaker, there is no way they’re going to be able to do anything during the State of the Union.” Bud turned to the chief of staff. “The Service already went heads-up on that, right, Ellis?”

Gonzales nodded emphatically. “They’re working close with the FBI, and from what I understand there will be an airtight lock on anything near the Capitol that night. It’ll actually start a few days before, I recall. Ted O’Neil gave me a brief rundown. Plus every African-American group and organization from the NAACP to the most radical fringe has offered to help. The odds are on our side, gentlemen.”