Sedition (A Political Conspiracy Book 1) Read online

  “No,” he responded. “I mean, yes, I can keep up. No, it’s not too much.”

  “Good, then,” she replied and pressed her lips together. “Turn my mic back on, please. Let’s do this last interview and move on with the day.”

  Chapter 19

  “Harrold, this is good.” The supervisor was leaning back in his chair with his left leg crossed over his right. He was reading the report she’d generated from her phone interviews with the asset. “What made you assume the mechanism is Semtex?” He peeked over the top of the document.

  “It’s there in the report, sir.” She half nodded toward it. “I detailed the conversation.”

  “Yes.” He leaned forward and uncrossed his leg, his tone agitated and almost whiny. “But what made you draw the conclusion? It’s quite a leap.”

  “That’s somewhat complicated, sir.”

  “Try me.” He dropped the paper onto the desk and squared himself to face Matti.

  “I began by making certain assumptions.” She exhaled. “First, the asset was clear people would die. That’s a very careful choice of words. So that rules out, in my mind, hostage situations or anything that involves the possibility of targeted survivors.”

  “Go on…”

  “Then there was the short rant about patriotism and terrorism. I thought that was somewhat revealing in that terrorists tend to use high-powered weapons and/or explosives. There is the possibility of poison or gas, as was the 1995 case with the AUM Shinrikyo attack on the Tokyo subway. They used sarin in that case.”

  The pieces were fitting together.

  Matti sucked in another breath and continued. “But the mention of the bombing of Pan Am flight 103 was an unusual reference point, so I quickly checked information on that attack. I found the suspected explosive used was Semtex.” She gauged her supervisor’s expression. It was blank, almost as though he were still processing what she’d said.

  “Hmmph.” He leaned back and pulled the papers from the desk. “Interesting.”

  She could tell he wasn’t going to give her any additional credit. Matti drew the conclusion he was actually disappointed in her ability to exceed his expectations.

  “Is there anything you did not include in the report?”

  “Yes.” Matti cleared her throat. “He invited me to an art exhibit opening tonight.”

  “What do you mean?” He dropped the papers again and his eyes narrowed.

  “As you know, one of the conspirators is an artist. He has an opening tonight.” She sat up straight, her hands folded in her lap. “The asset suggested I might be better able to assess the threat by attending the event. All of the players are planning to attend.”

  “How would this help you?”

  “This is HUMINT,” she reasoned. “I am better off analyzing what the asset reveals about the plot if I’m able to observe the conspirators’ interactions with one another.”

  “And they can observe you.”

  “I suppose,” she conceded.

  She watched him think about the pros and cons of the proposal. Were the potential gains mitigated by the possible losses? He folded his arms and swiveled in his chair and didn’t speak for several minutes.

  “Okay.” He nodded. “For observation only. Do not engage the subjects.”

  “Yes, sir.” Matti tried to conceal her excitement, resisting the smile creeping from her lips.

  “Before you go,” the supervisor cautioned, “get some sleep. Buy a dress. You look like hell.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, offended at his insensitivity but too pleased with his decision to let it sting. She stood and thanked him again before leaving.

  As soon as she’d shut the door behind her, the supervisor was on his secured line, dialing a series of numbers. He tapped his hand on the desk as he awaited an answer.

  The supervisor was hurried. There were developments. There were arrangements to make.

  Chapter 20

  Bill Davidson wasn’t much for watching television. While he was often on the tube, he rarely found the time or inclination to participate as a viewer. But when he received a “Breaking News Alert” email from The New York Times, he decided to find the nearest set and watch the developments. It happened to be inside the lobby of the Capital Hilton, two blocks from the White House.

  Given the hotel’s proximity to the seats of power in central Washington, DC, Davidson had imbibed frequently at the Statler Lounge inside the hotel. He loved its private, orange-curtained seating areas. The bar was a tribute to the hotel’s original name, the Statler Hotel. It was built in 1943 and was historically significant in that it was one of the few hotels built during World War II.

  He walked past the doorman and straight to the television mounted on the wall near the concierge. The volume was low, but he could hear it as he approached.

  “The District Court has sided with Secretary Blackmon’s case and has granted the injunction,” explained the reporter standing outside the Perryman Courthouse. “This means that Speaker of the House Felicia Jackson is stopped from taking the presidential oath. Her team has already responded with an appeal. It is a foregone conclusion this is headed for the Supreme Court, should the justices agree to hear the arguments. It is most likely they will, given the constitutional implications on each side of this case.”

  Davidson checked his phone again. It was buzzing against his hip. Another “Breaking News Alert”. This one was from the “editors of PlausibleDeniability.info” and also reported the District Court’s ruling. He looked back at the television.

  “We’ve also learned,” the reporter said breathlessly, lending to the sense of urgency he was trying to manufacture, “President Foreman will lie in state in the Capitol Rotunda beginning tomorrow afternoon until his burial the following day. His memorial service will be that evening. The public will have a chance to pay their respects after the memorial.”

  That doesn’t give us much time, Davidson thought. They would need to accomplish all of their objectives within one day. It seemed impossible. He felt a sense of relief. Maybe they wouldn’t have to go through with it.

  He turned to leave the hotel and was about to pull his journal from his jacket pocket when he was stopped cold, startled to see Sir Spencer Thomas standing in his path.

  “Sir Spencer?” Davidson said in puzzlement at what he thought was a coincidence. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m here to see you.” He winked. “We have many things to discuss and not much time in which to discuss them.”

  He stepped to Davidson and placed his arm around the AG’s shoulders. His massive right hand guided Davidson as a ballroom dancer would lead his partner.

  “What do we need to discuss?” Davidson asked, sensing something untoward in the knight’s tone and demeanor. Against the woody musk of the knight’s Bois Rouge cologne, he resisted slightly.

  “The Capital City Club and Spa are here in the hotel,” the knight explained. “I am part of what they call their ‘Presidential Wellness Plan’. Between you and me, it’s just a fancy name for their most expensive membership. I play along and act as though I’m impressed with their astounding commitment to my health. It’s quite exclusive and relaxing for a hotel spa. Rather convenient. I have a locker here. They have a wonderful sauna.” The knight was still guiding Davidson toward the spa entrance. “I’d be delighted to have you join me.”

  Davidson shook his head. “Oh, I couldn’t,” he said.

  “No, Bill.” Sir Spencer stopped walking. He stood next to Davidson and leaned in to his ear. “I insist,” he said. “This will be good for us. You and I will benefit from some time together. Just you and me. No interruptions. I think we’ll be able to clarify our positions.”

  Davidson said nothing.

  “I have to tell you, Bill,” offered Sir Spencer, “the sauna here is a wonder. It will clear your head, I assure you.”

  *

  The asset was conflicted. Cooperation with the government was essential to personal surv
ival, but every time the asset thought about the group and what would happen to them, the feeling of guilt was almost overwhelming. The depth of the betrayal was bottomless. The men had bared their souls and agreed to share the risk for what they believed was a high calling. And even if there was reluctance to employ violence, all of the Daturans understood it was a means to an end. The death of a few was a fair price for the freedom of many.

  The asset sat in a booth at Androphy’s Delicatessen, hands cupped around the warm, wide ceramic mug on the table. It was a glazed white mug with “Androphy’s” scrolled across the face in brown cursive writing. It was the kind of lettering one might find on an old baseball pennant.

  On the plate next to the mug were the crumbs from a toasted “everything” bagel with butter and a crumpled paper napkin. The asset’s attention was focused upward and across the restaurant to a large flat-screen television along one of the walls opposite the succession of booths. The volume was turned down, but the closed-captioning was on, revealing the on-screen conversation in black rows featuring white lettering. The letters appeared as if typed onto the screen, rolled up a row, and then disappeared as new words appeared beneath them. It wasn’t the optimal way to watch television, but it served its purpose.

  The phone rang.

  “Yes?” the asset said softly and waited for the voice on the other end to respond. “No, I’m not busy at the moment.” As if that mattered.

  A waiter came over and motioned to the plate on the table. He didn’t want to interrupt the phone call, but wanted to remain attentive to his customer. When the asset nodded, the waiter removed the plate and walked off toward the kitchen.

  “What about the analyst? Does she know we’re communicating?” That part of the equation hadn’t added up yet. “Risky, isn’t it?” The asset was told not to ask questions above pay grade. Given the pay was nothing, the asset had no room for interrogatives.

  “Fine,” the asset huffed. “I’ll head over there in a minute and I’ll check in later.”

  The waiter was back again. He had the check ready. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “Yes, actually. I’ll take a fill-up on the coffee. And toast, please.”

  “Sure.” The waiter took out his pen and scribbled on the check. “We have white, wheat, sourdough, rye…” He trailed off as though the list was longer but he didn’t want to make the effort to recite it.

  “Wheat is good. Two pieces, please, butter on both.”

  The waiter nodded and scurried back to the kitchen to place the order. The asset lifted the mug and drank what was left of the coffee. It had cooled but wasn’t cold.

  In the restaurant, there were young couples laughing together between bites of granola and fruit. Old men sat alone with newspapers and bowls of oatmeal. Some tables paired business types in suits. They drank coffee and ate egg whites with Canadian bacon on the side. They did not know of the psyche-altering blitzkrieg that awaited them. The asset could have told them and imagined running from table to table announcing the plot.

  “What do you mean terrorists?” they would ask.

  “How could this happen?” they would question.

  “But I thought the government had us protected!” they would assume.

  “Oh no,” the asset would tell them. “The government isn’t protecting you. It’s protecting itself.” The asset laughed at their naiveté and how their view of the world would shatter as they learned, a table at a time, what civilization was really about. The asset knew the secrets of powerful men and the crooked thrones upon which they sat.

  “Excuse me?” The waiter was standing next to the table again. He noticed the asset was deep in thought. “Hello?” He waved his hand in front of the asset’s face.

  “Yes?” The asset snapped to attention, blinking and then turning to look up at him.

  “Your toast.” The waiter used his left hand to place the plate in front of the customer. He then poured more coffee with his right. “Is everything okay?”

  “I’m good,” the asset said, pulling a new napkin from the stainless steel dispenser on the table. “Thanks.”

  “Okay then.” The waiter thanked his customer again, placed the check on the edge of the table upside down, and floated off to another guest.

  Chapter 21

  Felicia Jackson’s Capitol Hill suite was in an unmarked corridor between Statuary Hall and the rotunda. She was standing just outside of the offices on the balcony overlooking the National Mall, her eyes aimed west toward the Washington Monument. It was a spectacular view. She often used the outdoor space to entertain small groups of colleagues or lobbyists. The location usually made for great conversation, but not as she listened to her attorneys explaining their morning loss in district court.

  “This is a nightmare!” She would not turn to face the men as she stood, arms folded, with her back to them.

  They didn’t respond. After explaining to her that the granting of the injunction was expected, that they’d planned an appeal, that the case was headed to the high court, and that none of this was anything to worry about, they stayed quiet and listened.

  She finally turned to face them. “I am this close,” she said, holding up her hand and pinching her thumb and index finger together. “Do you know only one Speaker of the House has ever become president? Did you know that? I bet you didn’t. Only one. James Polk. Do you know why? Because he didn’t have to rely on lawyers.” The Speaker began pacing with her arms folded. She was looking at her feet as she walked. She would not look the attorneys in the eyes.

  “I bet you Joe whatever-his-name-is, that news guy from this morning, is rejoicing. I’m going to guess he has a copy of the ruling in one hand and is masturbating into it with the other.”

  She stopped pacing momentarily and eyeballed the lawyers. “Really!”

  She was pacing again now and simulated manual stimulation with her left hand. She looked like she was shooting craps. One of the attorneys snickered.

  “Is that funny?” She walked up to the lawyer and got inches from his face. He was taller than her, but she was commanding his space and he shrank. “It’s not funny to me! It’s embarrassing. We have the US freaking Constitution on our side. We have US Code on our side. We have the 1947 Act of Succession on our side. And you can’t win. Why is that?”

  She backed off of the attorney far enough to look at the group as a whole.

  “You, the one in my office last night.” She pointed at the young attorney who’d explained the case to her the previous evening. “You seem smart. You’re balding a little early for someone so young, but you’re knowledgeable, so explain this to me.” She was as mean as a snake when she felt cornered, and her rattle was often followed with a bite.

  “It’s not so much that we lost, Madam Speaker,” he began, “it’s that they won.”

  “Oh good lord!” Felicia put her hands on her hips and threw her head back. “Are you kidding me?”

  “No,” he continued, but not before he self-consciously touched the back of his head with his hand. “There is a difference.”

  “Go ahead,” she said, dramatically dropping her chin and looking directly at the young lawyer.

  “This is a constitutional question, pure and simple. The judge is going to err on the side of caution.” He spoke calmly, charming the snake. “We knew, as I tried to explain last night, that this would happen. If for some crazy, unforeseen reason we’d won this morning, Blackmon’s attorneys would have filed an emergency motion and appeal as we did. We know the Supreme Court ultimately will hear the argument. We’ve lost nothing.”

  Felicia opened her eyes to look at the attorney. She took in deep breath and then exhaled again slowly.

  “I still don’t like it,” she said, her tone slightly less poisonous. She rubbed her neck, slipping the fingers of both hands beneath her hair. “I still think you guys are full of it.”

  Tired of standing outside, she ushered the team back inside and followed them into the suite.

 
; “You men do whatever it is you need to do,” she said without turning around. “I have business to attend to.”

  The men continued out of the office and past the statue of Stephen F. Austin into the hall. Felicia walked alone into her private office. She shut the doors behind her and locked them. Her hands stayed on the door while she thought about the exchange she’d just had with the lawyers. She hated lawyers.

  She walked over to the love seat that framed one end of the room and sat. Whether it was the stress, the anxiety, or the loss of a president, she wasn’t sure, but as she sat there, tears welled in her eyes. They were followed by a thick, dry, painful lump at the base of her throat. Felicia held it in as her lips and chin quivered. It was all too much. The tears poured down her cheeks as she buried her face in her hands. She was weeping and shaking uncontrollably.

  An aide knocked on the door and tried the handle. “Are you okay, Madam Speaker?”

  “Yes.” She sobbed. “I’m fine.” As quickly as the emotions had overcome her, they receded. She felt purged.

  Felicia stood and puffed out her cheeks then laughed at herself. She was a mess. She walked to her desk and pulled some tissues from a box, then dabbed the corners of her eyes and her nose.

  A woman in power had such an unfair balance to maintain. Toughness and femininity were contrary attributes; compassion and leadership were difficult to manage simultaneously.

  Publicly she chose the tough, impervious persona, which cost her both politically and personally. Many of the friends she had accumulated on her way to the top abandoned her when they found her methods too prickly.

  Was it too late to swing the pendulum in the other direction? Regardless of the outcome of the court case and the presidency, she wondered if it was possible. Could she soften her image and still lead effectively?