Capitol Punishment (An Art Jefferson Thriller Book 3) (11 page)

“Is SCOOTER quiet?” O’Neil inquired, speaking into the microphone hidden under his left cuff.

“For a change,” the agent reported.

O’Neil smiled to himself. The president’s son was an “active” child, and one who had demonstrated that he had a pair of lungs to challenge the most bellicose inhabitant of the Hill. And the code name was quite appropriate. O’Neil had personally taken two tumbles trying to avoid the tyke as he scooted out from behind some piece of furniture in the Oval Office or in the first family’s private area of the main building. He was a handful. He was also damned cute.

“Early wake-up tomorrow?” the agent asked.

“Five,” O’Neil reminded the night detail leader. “He has a speech at NYU.”

“All right. See you in the morning.”

O’Neil pulled his wrist away and checked his watch. Morning. That would give him about four hours of sleep, which was about the norm. Not as much as he wanted, but enough. Enough for this job.

A stiff breeze blew in without warning, reminding him that he didn’t have an overcoat on. But the chill was somehow welcome, just as the end of each day was welcome and satisfying. Another day behind them. The mission of the Secret Service presidential detail fulfilled. The president and his family were tucked safely into bed. As the snow tickled O’Neil’s face he had a feeling that all was right with the world.

Then, as the combination of agents and Army officers came back for a second load of the gear O’Neil hoped was never needed, that feeling became more a hope than a measure of reality.

*  *  *

“A little wine?” Anne half-asked, half-prodded.

Art held his finger and thumb an inch apart, spreading them to an inch and a half as Anne’s smile grew. He watched her walk back to the kitchen and wondered how any woman could look so good in sweats, or in nothing at all for that matter.
Ease up, Arthur. You’ve got all night.

“I can feel your eyes on my behind, Art,” Anne said, glancing back over her shoulder with a smile.

“Can you blame me?”

“Hmmm.” She filled two glasses with Chardonnay, hers more than his, and re-corked the bottle.

“You’re the one trying to get me drunk, sweetheart,” Art said.

Anne walked back in and sat next to her own private G-man. She handed his glass over and clinked hers lightly against it. “A girl has to get lucky somehow.”

Art grunted. He was worried about being too forward all the time, then she would let loose with a line that made him feel like a prude.
You gotta love her, Arthur
. He did.

Anne leaned over, her T-shirt-covered breasts pressing against his arm, and kissed Art on the neck, tasting upward until the lobe of his ear was between her teeth. She nibbled, knowing it was having an effect by the long, slow breaths he was taking. “You like?”

“I love,” Art said.

“You’re going to let work keep you away from this?” To the neck again as she set her glass blindly on the coffee table, the newly free hand coming to his chest and undoing the shirt buttons from top to bottom.

“You’re bad, woman.”

“I’m good, too.”

Art swallowed hard. “I know.”

Anne pulled back, a Cheshire grin on her soft face, and rubbed his chest through the open shirt. “You know I’m just kidding about work.”

“I know,” Art assured her. He lifted her hand from his chest and kissed it. “I am going to be busy, though.”

“Really busy?”

“A night here and there, sweetheart,” he promised hopefully. “Maybe.”

“It sounds important.”

“It is,” Art said, knowing Anne would ask no more if he didn’t volunteer it, and he couldn’t. “So, how was your day?”

“I did another seminar tonight,” Anne told him.

“For Rabbi Levin?”

“Yeah. The sixth one.” She picked her glass up and sipped slowly. “Tonight was a little interesting, though.”

“Oh?”

She wondered for a second if she should say anything, but Griggs wasn’t really a patient yet, and she actually wouldn’t be revealing any confidential information. “Do you remember the St. Anthony’s massacre?”

“Sure,” Art answered. “Remember Thom Danbrook? He was the agent killed last year.”

“With you and Frankie,” Anne said.

“Yeah. He was involved in the investigation of the guy behind it. Thom was the one who could have closed the door on John Barrish, but he never got to testify.”
Or do anything
. “Barrish walked a few days ago.”

“I know,” Anne said. “I had a walk-in tonight, a face that you might say would stand out in the crowd.”

“Who?”

“The father of one of those four little girls.”

“You’re not serious,” Art said. “You are.”

“His name is Darren Griggs, and he’s just devastated,” Anne explained. “His family is in shambles. He saw the flyer and came to the seminar. He said he was starting to hate people in the same way Barrish does. Art, this man was suffocating. It was hard to talk to him because I could almost feel his pain. It has to be eating him up.”

Barrish. He was free because the legal system protected him from scurrilous prosecution, but who protected those he wanted to harm?
You do
, Art thought. “Jesus, Anne, I don’t know how you can handle what you do.”

“I do it to help people like Griggs,” she said, the admission worn like a badge of honor.

“Are you going to see him?”

“I made the offer. All he has to do is call.”

Art saw that glint of altruism in her eye. “Pro bono?”

“Drink your wine, G-man,” Anne said, skirting the issue.

Art smiled. It was her prerogative, one she seemed to exercise often. Then again, she made enough money for four people and felt it was something she had to do. Give something back. Such a soft spot for a very strong woman.

Anne made a loose fist and tapped Art’s stomach. “You may just win that race.”

“Well, I’m now officially in the senior division,” Art said, shaking his head. “Fifty. Can you believe that?”

Her hand opened and slid down over his belt. “You’re still eighteen in certain respects.”

Art put his glass down, taking Anne’s and doing the same. “Come on,” he said, putting his hand out. “Let’s go upstairs.”

She looked into his eyes, the mischief at the core of her personality seizing control. “What’s wrong with right here?”

“The couch?”

Anne glanced to the soft shag carpet at their feet.

“You little devil,” Art said.

“I’m a good girl,” Anne protested as she slid off the couch to the floor, pulling Art with her.

“You’re a bad girl,” Art said, leaning closer as Anne pulled him. She eased onto her back between the couch and coffee table, which Art slid aside.

“I’m both.” Anne took his head in her hands as he came close. “Tell me which one you like better.”

“I will,” Art said, kissing her softly and pulling away for just a second. “In the morning.”

*  *  *

John Barrish looked upward through the windshield, gazing at the star-filled, limitless sky as Toby pulled the Aerostar into the driveway and to the storage yard’s access box.

“Stan and I figured this was as safe a place as any,” Toby said, taking the white plastic card from his jacket and inserting it into the slot. The arm restricting access to the facility jumped upward, allowing him to drive through.

“I missed the stars while I was locked up,” John commented. “Do you remember what Trent said about the stars?”

Toby pulled in a slow breath, steadying himself for a recital of some more wise musings of the renowned Dr. Felix Trent, long-dead purveyor of the racial purity theories his father held dear.

“He said the stars burn bright for one reason,” John began. “So that one can navigate by them.
‘Chart your course by the stars you see, and ignore the rest.’
” He nodded, a wistful smile coming softly to his face. “He was a wise man, Toby.”

“Yeah. We’re here, Pop,” Toby said, stopping and hopping out of the Aerostar.

John got out and followed his son to the door, slightly larger than one typical for a residence. Toby flipped through several keys on his ring before finding the right one for the single padlock. He opened it and hung it on the unlatched hasp, then turned the light on inside the ten-by-eight storage room he’d rented a month earlier.

“Where is it?” John asked, looking over the motley combination of boxes and old furniture piled against one wall.

Toby closed the door behind them and went to the pile. “Stan and I moved this stuff in here to make it look legit.”

John watched his son paw through a box that was partially covered by a pair of old chairs. “Did Allen know about this place?”

“Nope. Just me and Stan.”

“Not that it matters now,” John observed. “I’m glad he’s out of the picture.”

“Here,” Toby said, pulling both hands from the box and holding the twin cylinders out for his father to see.

“They’re so small.”

Toby nodded. “He asked how big we wanted them. I told him as small as they could be and still do the job.”

Barrish gave an approving smile. “You did so good while I was away, Toby. Real good.”

“Just carrying on, Pop.”

The elder Barrish examined the cylinders visually, bending to get a close look.

“Here,” Toby said. “Take one.”

The stainless-steel cylinder was very cold to the touch. “Unbelievable.”

“I know,” Toby said with a smile. “They’ll fit almost anywhere.”

“When is Stanley checking out the test site?”

“Tomorrow,” Toby answered. “He’s got the plans of the unit already.”

“How?”

“He just called and asked,” Toby said, laughing. “He said he was some sort of engineer and needed space for some trouble at an overseas construction project.”

“And they just sent it to him?”

More laughter preceded Toby’s answer. “I mean, it’s not a secret, but the guy didn’t even blink, Stan said. He got the plans yesterday at the P.O. box.”

Barrish smiled and shook his head. “Stanley can do good when he puts his mind to something.”

“He’s a sneaky little guy, Pop.”

“I guess that can be useful.” John turned the cylinder around in his hand, looking closely at the small black cube that capped one end. “What does this do?”

“It’s the release control,” Toby answered, pointing to a recessed switch and a blacked-out digital readout with two tiny buttons beneath it. “The timer is right there, flip the switch, and at the right time it all happens.” Toby chuckled a bit. “We pick the time, and someone else does the dirty work.”

“Who did you choose?”

“Some revolutionary outfit called the New Africa Liberation Front. They advocate some hoo-ha about giving the old slave states to the
New Africans
.” Toby’s eyes rolled. “Real small in number, but the guys in it have records. Freddy’s AB contacts checked what kind of time they’ve done. All the skills we need, and the proper skin tone.”

“Excellent,” John commented. The foolish Africans were going to do their dirty work, and all that white America would see and hear on TV would be “Black Revolutionaries carried out a heinous attack today...” But that would only be the beginning. The beginning of an end. The beginning of a wake-up call, the first step in showing white America what the Africans’ true self was...with a little help, of course. But the ends justified the means. These ends justified any means. “Absolutely excellent.”

Toby saw the pleasure on his father’s face. He would do anything to make that man happy and proud. But there was still a question before them. “Pop, we’re getting low on cash.”

“We can get more.”

Toby drew in a breath, considering his father’s confident statement for a moment. “We had trouble getting money from him while you were locked up.”

“I’m out now, Toby,” John said with a steely tone. “Monte will have to deal with me again. Besides, it’s not his decision. I’ll straighten him out”

Toby was glad he no longer had to deal with their reluctant benefactor, a man drawn into their fold quite by manipulation, a little willingness, and chance. A chance his father had exploited perfectly.

John handed the cylinder back and gestured at the second one. “One for the money, and two for the show.”

“It’s gonna be a hell of a show, Pop.”

“That it will be,” John agreed, thinking briefly on the spectacle aspect of what they were about to undertake. The opening shot—the test before the show—would captivate the nation, and even the world. It would make those in power nervous. But all that would be dwarfed by what was still to come. The coup de main. To be witnessed live on television, in Moscow, in London, in Tokyo, and, most important, from Maine to Hawaii. The 300 million people who called themselves Americans would have front-row seats, and network play-by-play, as their government was dismantled in one fell swoop. How would they react? John Barrish was betting heavily on what he believed to be the answer. Betting with the confidence of a prophet. “Quite a show, son.”

FOUR

Confession

He had a choice office in the Rayburn House Office Building, one that gave him a commanding view of the west front of the Capitol, and a chairmanship of one of the most powerful committees in the House of Representatives, but Congressman Richard Vorhees would have traded it all to be diving out of a perfectly airworthy C-141B Starlifter into the Uwharrie National Forest once again. Rubbing his left leg, though, as he stared out upon the glistening power center of the United States, he knew that the only battles he would fight were destined to erupt right there. The limb was hard to the touch, though softer than the one he’d had until a few months earlier. Advances in prosthesis design and manufacture made the newer, lighter limb possible, but it would never be close enough to what he had, or what could have been his. A Cuban mine had seen to that as he led his company of 82nd Airborne troops into battle in Grenada so long ago. Ten pounds of explosives and steel. That’s all it took to end an Army career. And to begin one in Washington.

The new wars, Vorhees thought, as he turned his attention back to the
Los Angeles Times
. It was one of the four papers he read each day, and, like the others, a front-page story in today’s edition chronicled the budget battle over funding of research for a new fighter. Of course such a benign topic would never have made it to page one if there hadn’t been accusations of corruption by the anticipated lead contractor on the project, but that was a lot of bull. Everything was corrupted, the representative from Massachusetts knew. All you had to do was point a finger and you’d be right. He was corrupt. The speaker was corrupt. The president was corrupt. The system was corrupt. It was tit for tat, I’ll do this if you do that. Legalized influence peddling and vote swapping, interrupted every two years by the song and dance needed to get reelected. Vorhees laughed every time he heard the complaints about when an actor came to D.C. to be president, because he knew that getting elected to Congress was the perfect training for a career in acting, something reinforced each time one of them was reelected.