Sedition (A Political Conspiracy Book 1) (17 page)

Felicia had spent time researching Wood after seeing the work in person, trying to find out his real intentions. She had no McCarthy-esque motive, but rather a real desire to understand Wood’s sense of things. Felicia, for all of her many faults and judgments of others, was one who loved loyalty. She considered patriotism the highest form of it and hoped Wood’s
Gothic
intended a conveyance of love of country and not a subtle mocking of it. She never figured it out definitively, though she long remembered what Wood said about the sum of his work, just before his death in 1942.

“In making these paintings,”
he admitted,
“I had in mind something which I hope to convey to a fairly wide audience in America—the picture of a country rich in the arts of peace; a homely, lovable nation, infinitely worth any sacrifice necessary to its preservation.”

“A homely, lovable nation worth any sacrifice necessary to its preservation,” she’d often repeated to herself while compromising and cajoling legislation into law.

She sat in the Indian Treaty room, learning the details of the memorial, recalling that Wood once earned money by sketching promotional flyers for a mortuary. It was ironic that he should come to mind as she passively listened to presidential funeral arrangements.

The gothic administrator told the room that Felicia was to begin the service with a short welcome address. She was also to end the ceremony with a brief thanks. Foreman’s speechwriters would provide her with a script from which she was told not to deviate.

She felt good about the assignment. Upon hearing of it, Felicia subconsciously found herself liking the dour Ceremonial worker. She noticed the flattering, natural color in the woman’s cheeks and the pale blue of her eyes. But the brief affair was over when the woman revealed Senator Blackmon’s role. It was inconceivable and it incensed the Speaker. She felt slighted and snubbed.

John Blackmon was the designated successor. Meaning, he would not attend the memorial service in the event that the unthinkable happened. His absence was to ensure governmental continuity. He was told to expect presidential-level security and that he would be taken to an undisclosed location until the end of the funeral service at Arlington. At the point that the majority of successors were no longer in the same location, his life would return to normal.

It was a tactical decision without any political gamesmanship brought to bear. But Felicia took it as such. She viewed it as a message to the public, and to the Supreme Court, that he was the one worth keeping alive. He was the one needed to carry on in the event of mass casualties.

It was difficult for Felicia to sit still. She was biting the inside of her lip, internalizing the perception that everyone in the room was staring at her.

Blackmon, she learned, would be one of only two cabinet members not in attendance. The other was the Secretary of Energy. His absence irked her too. He’d already agreed to appear as a political analyst for one television network’s coverage of the service. Despite his reluctance, Foreman’s widow asked him to do it so as to help control the message. He was low on the list of succession, but Felicia was still irritated. She was beginning to believe there was some sort of conspiracy to stop her from becoming president.

She tried not to look over at Blackmon; she could feel that he was looking at her. But she couldn’t help herself and slowly turned to look at him. His head was already turned in her direction, as she’d suspected. Blackmon leaned into her and spoke softly, so that nobody else could hear him.

“Practice makes perfect.”

He was such an ass.

Chapter 26

It was dusk when Matti slinked out of her cab in front of the Washington Post building on L Street between Fifteenth and Sixteenth. She’d taken the Red Line from Maryland to the Metro Center stop and then hitched a ride.

Matti didn’t like driving into the District. She usually parked at a Metro station, rode mass transit into the city, and then walked everywhere she went. Tonight, in her three-inch heels and new dress, a cab was the better choice.

She carefully stepped from the taxi onto the sidewalk. Her inexperience with uncomfortable shoes made her look comically similar to a newborn giraffe taking its first steps. Once she was standing, Matti gripped each side of her dress at the hips and gently inched the bunched fabric downward toward her knees. She unsnapped her black sequined clutch, pulled out a folded ten-dollar bill, and handed it to the driver.

The Post was a half block from the reception hall where George Edwards’s new collection was featured. She walked to the entrance of the two-story concrete façade, noticing the red-vested valet assisting the chattering class out of Town Cars and Cadillac limousines. She was glad to have exited the cab out of their sight. This was not her crowd. She expected odd looks and judgments.

She’d gotten a lot of those looks after her mother’s death.
Cocaine
. It was the red herring that had left her father and her alone.

As a child, Matti never asked her father about the whispers she’d heard. She was too afraid to bring it up. Years later, however, the detective assigned to the case told her that there was cocaine in her mother’s bloodstream and in her nasal membranes. She also learned that the autopsy indicated her mother had used the drug multiple times. It was a piece to the puzzle for which Matti did not want to find a place.

Was the drug related to her death? Did a dealer run her down? Did she owe someone money? Did her father know about the problem and keep it from his young daughter?

Following her father’s rules of compliance and solitude had done nobody any good, except that it had instilled in Matti a drive to find answers, a need to separate the black from the white.

Rules are there for a reason.

Maybe she’d be better off obeying her supervisor’s order not to mingle. Maybe the rules
were
there for a reason. Matti struggled against her nature, ultimately pushing through it.

Damn the rules.

This was as good a time as any to take the leap and blur the lines.

Matti let out a breath, turned back around, and walked past the doorman into the building. She remembered the clothing store pixie’s advice to hold her shoulders back and her neck up to elongate her body. Matti moved into the gathering crowd and worked it. She could feel the men and women watching her as she walked past them. It felt surprisingly good. The apprehension she’d felt just minutes before had evaporated. It wasn’t that she hadn’t come to realize how attractive others thought her to be; she’d just never felt comfortable embracing it.

Strutting with uncharacteristic confidence, she walked to the bar at the far left end of the large open room. The floor was a black and white veined marble, the walls white plaster lined with Edwards’s digital sculptures.

At the portable bar she ordered a ginger ale with ice and then turned to survey the room with more acuity. Most of the men were in what she imagined were their business suits minus neckties. The women wore cocktail attire in muted tones or black. Matti estimated there were already about one hundred to one hundred twenty-five people in attendance. She looked for familiar faces and saw none.

She scanned the room, observing the small groups gathered around various pieces on the walls. Some waved their arms and pointed with their wineglasses as they discussed the genius of the work. Others stood near the art but didn’t seem interested.

From Matti’s position in the room, she couldn’t see any of the pieces clearly. Absent the conspirators, she decided to take a look at some of the art for herself. Hanging on the wall opposite the bar, at the far end of the room, was a piece that resembled Leonardo da Vinci’s
Vitruvian Man
.

The
Vitruvian Man
was among the most recognizable drawings in the modern world. Drawn in 1487, it was da Vinci’s attempt to illustrate the relationship between man and nature, between science and religion. It depicted a nude male with his arms and legs extended at two different angles, superimposed upon one another. The man was within a circle within a square.

From a distance, Matti couldn’t see the modifications Edwards chose to make, but as she approached the canvas, she saw the differences clearly. Where the man’s left legs should have been, there were none. They were amputated at the knees, wrapped in cloth. The man’s right arms, instead of being fully extended, were bent at the elbows. At two different angles, the arms and hands were placed in salute. On the man’s head, instead of a Renaissance mop of hair, there sat a helmet. On the helmet’s front there was the drawing of an American flag. The chin strap was undone and hung from the ears.

The canvas was yellowed to mimic da Vinci’s work. Above and below the circle there was script, as there was adorning the original. But instead of the “mirror writing” that da Vinci employed to explain the mathematical proportion of man and architecture, Edwards wrote in Arabic. It appeared to Matti that the text was repeated multiple times:

جئنا ، نحن رأينا ، نحن غزونا.

Though not fluent, she’d learned to read bits of Arabic. It was the second most popular alphabet in the world behind Latin. Her supervisors had recommended a rudimentary ability to read and write at the very least.

Her fluency in multiple romance languages did little to help with her study. But she managed. She looked at the script from right to left and slowly worked out the sounds in her head.

“We came. We saw. We conquered,” she murmured.

It was an adaptation and pluralizing of the Latin phrase “Veni, Vidi, Vici”. Julius Caesar was said to have announced his victory in the battle for Turkey in 47 BC by telling the Senate, “I came. I saw. I conquered.”

She didn’t understand the meaning until she looked at the small white placard to the right of the work:

Cannons of Iraq
, 2010

George Edwards

Digital Sculpture, 36 x 36

Matti got it. A lesser-known name for da Vinci’s popular ink drawing was
Canon of Proportions
. It was a simple but profound message.

Brilliant.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” The voice came from behind Matti’s right shoulder. She turned, not sure if the question was intended for her. Standing behind her was George Edwards. She pretended she didn’t recognize him.

“Yes, it is. It’s very angry though.” She was still facing the wall but opened her stance toward his body.

“Angry?” His eyes widened and eyebrows arched as he looked into her eyes. “How so?” he said, his tone flirtatious more than defensive.

Matti considered her response before answering. She folded her arms and took a sip of the ginger ale then motioned toward the canvas by tipping her glass. “An amputated leg, a sarcastic salute, the sardonic homage to Caesar. It’s angry.” She was pleased with herself. “I’d say the artist has some serious issues.”

“Hmmm.” He stepped back from Matti. “Quite the critic, aren’t you?”

Edwards slipped his hands into his pockets. He was wearing chinos, a long-sleeve, sky blue linen shirt and a dark blue single-breasted blazer.

“You asked.” Matti pulled the glass to her lips but didn’t drink. She hinted at a smile and blinked. “I answered.”

“True.” He inched closer again, admiring the curve of her shoulders. They were covered only by the thin straps holding up the dress. Edwards liked black on her. Upon further inspection, he would have liked anything on her. Or not on her. “So what are the serious issues?”

“Well, I’m no psychiatrist.”

“But…?”

“But,” she continued, laughing as she explained herself, “a lot of the pieces here are angry. They’re politically clever and insightful, but sometimes the brilliance is lost in the grievance. It’s too much.”

“You know, I’m the artist.” She said nothing as he extended his hand. “I’m George Edwards.”

“I know.” She shook his hand. He seemed so much more charming than she’d imagined from his dossier. But then again, she reminded herself, Bashar al-Assad had a cult of personality.

“Oh,” he feigned offense, still holding her hand, “
that
makes it easier to take the criticism. Even if you aren’t a shrink.”

“I’m sorry.” She wasn’t. “I do think you’re incredibly talented, and I understand why you are so successful.”

“Buttering me up now?” He’d let go of her hand, still holding her gaze.

Matti knew that her supervisor didn’t want her engaging the conspirators. But she also knew there was something he was keeping from her. The rules, as far as she was concerned, no longer applied.

*

Professor Thistlewood watched Edwards from across the room. He didn’t recognize the young woman with whom Edwards was talking. He couldn’t take his eyes off them, even with his girlfriend standing right next to him.

The girlfriend, Laura Harrowby, had her arm looped around Thistlewood, but she was turned away from him, talking with another couple about wine. She lovingly popped him in the ribs with the back of her hand.

“Art,” she asked, “what is that joke you always tell about the foreigners and their wine?” She looked up at him adoringly and then back at the couple. “This is so funny. Go ahead, honey. Tell them.”

The professor obliged and shared his joke. The couple laughed politely, and after a few more minutes of small talk, they excused themselves. Once they’d left, Laura pressed her body into Thistlewood’s side and wrapped her arms around him, still holding her drink in one hand.

“Do you know that girl talking to George Edwards?” Thistlewood motioned with his head and spun so that Laura could get a better look through her glasses.

“No.” She squinted. “Should I?”

“Probably not.” He placed his hand on the small of her back and kissed her on top of her head. “I’m going to walk over and introduce myself.” Thistlewood now was suspicious of everyone and everything.

Laura released her hold on Thistlewood, but grabbed his hand and followed him over to Edwards and the mystery girl. They sidestepped through the still-growing crowd and reached the artist. His back was turned to them, but Thistlewood and Laura could tell he was laughing.