The president slowly lowered himself into his seat. The formerly bickering room became silent, motionless. The giddy, infantile exuberance of only a few minutes earlier seemed completely replaced by the grave despondency of a leader who realizes a tragedy has just befallen his nation.
And, Ben imagined, who realizes that he might have prevented it.
Ben kept his eyes focused on Zimmer. At this moment, the Secret Service agent knew more about what was going on out in the world than anyone else in the room.
“I want updates in real time,” President Kyler said to Zimmer. “I want to know what you know, when you know it.”
“Yes, sir.” Zimmer covered the mouthpiece. “The reports are coming in slowly. Our people got out of there in time, but I’m getting intel from two agents in helicopters.”
“And?”
“It isn’t good, sir.”
“Just tell me, damn it, and stow the commentary.”
“Yes, sir.” As always, even in the face of presidential wrath, Zimmer remained totally implacable. “The Jefferson Memorial has been obliterated. It’s gone. Chunks of white marble are scattered across the Mall. We don’t know of anyone who was still in the building-but we can’t rule out the possibility.”
“Understood. The target was destroyed. Collateral damage?”
“I would imagine quite a bit, sir, given that the Jefferson Memorial was just struck by a ballistic missile. We can assume damage all across the area, all the buildings, monuments, statues, everything. There’s still a lot of smoke and dust, hampering visibility, but I think we can assume that our men will find considerably more damage with time.”
“Tell me about people,” the president said softly.
“I’ve also got a report that the Metro is down,” Zimmer continued, and Ben wasn’t sure if this was supposed to be an answer to the question, the one on everyone’s mind. “Apparently the station closest to the detonation has collapsed. There was no train in the station, but no trains can get through there, either, so the line is effectively disabled. It probably shouldn’t be run until we’ve had a chance to get structural engineers out to check over the entire system. There’s no telling where the foundations might have been weakened.”
“People,” the president said, with a little more force than before. “Tell me about people.”
Zimmer took a deep breath, then continued. “We had begun the evacuation of the National Mall before the missile struck. Theoretically, there should have been enough time to complete it. We don’t know of any casualties there or anywhere else in the vicinity.” He paused.
“But?” the president said. “I sense we are coming to a but.”
Zimmer sighed heavily. “But there is no way I can guarantee no one was in that building or any other structure in the area. I can’t guarantee no one was in the Metro station. There’s no way of knowing what the shock waves from the explosion might have done in the surrounding area.”
“Numbers, Zimmer. I need numbers.”
“I don’t have them, Mr. President. But I would be astonished if there were not a casualty somewhere. Probably… several.”
“Damn,” the president said. His fist tightened. “Damn. On my watch.”
“This might not be a welcome comment, sir…”
“No, go ahead. You’ve earned the right.”
“I know you think Colonel Zuko is a madman. But the truth is, he chose a target that was largely symbolic-not all that lethal. He probably knew we were evacuating the Mall. If he’d wanted to take lives, he could have sent the missile elsewhere.”
President Kyler stared at him with astonished eyes. “Are you saying… Zuko did us a favor?”
“Of course not. I’m saying it could have been much worse. If he had moved the target a mile in any direction, it would have been.”
“Thank you, Zimmer. For whatever that’s worth.” Kyler rose. “If you’ll excuse me, my friends, I’m going to step into the other room for a moment. Please let me know if-”
“Mr. President!” Zimmer said suddenly.
“Yes?”
“I have Colonel Zuko back on the line.”
Kyler’s eyes closed wearily. “What does that malicious bastard want now? To gloat? To rub my face in it?”
“I don’t know, sir. He’s just asking to talk to you.”
Kyler pressed his head against the wall. “Put him on.”
“President Kyler.” There was no levity in the colonel’s voice this time, no urgency, and, to Ben’s surprise, no malice. “I’m sure you are not anxious to talk to me. I am calling to express my regret for what I was forced to do.”
“Regret?” Kyler exploded. “If you regret it, why’d you do it in the first place?”
“You left me no choice.”
“We always have a choice, Colonel Zuko. From the day we’re born. The choice to do good. Or the choice to do evil.”
“If my experiences in the world have taught me anything, it is that in real life, conflicts can rarely be reduced to anything so simple as good and evil.”
“Is that why you called, Colonel? So we can debate philosophy?”
“No.” There was a pause. Ben thought he might be projecting, but he sensed a certain degree of reluctance in the colonel’s voice. “I have called to again request that you remove the invaders from Kuraq’s borders.”
“You’re asking me to bargain with a terrorist.”
“According to my sources, your men will touch ground in a little over two hours. We will have to meet them with force to defend our land. Bloodshed will inevitably result. I would prefer to avoid that.”
“Then do.”
“And allow your soldiers to invade unimpeded? To take over my nation?”
“They’re just coming in to rescue the men who went down in that helicopter.”
“With all due respect, Mr. President, I don’t believe you. They were out there before the helicopter went down. And their number is far greater than would be necessary for a simple rescue operation.”
“I don’t have to convince you of anything, Colonel. And I’m not taking orders from you.”
“All I ask is that you respect our sovereign soil.”
“And I’m telling you that the United States does not negotiate with terrorists and the United States does not retreat!”
All at once, Vice President Swinburne rose to his feet, an incredulous expression on his face. His message to the president seemed self-evident: What the hell are you doing?
“I am sorry that you do not see the need to respect international law,” the colonel said, and Ben sensed genuine sorrow in his voice. “I am hoping that your advisors will be able to talk you into a more sensible position, so I will give you more time to reflect before we strike again. If you do not retreat, however, the next missiles will launch in two hours. At twelve noon, your time. Precisely.”
Ben felt his spine stiffen. Not again. Please, not again.
“And this time, Mr. President, this time-” To Ben’s astonishment, the colonel’s voice cracked as he spoke. He started again. “This time I will not be able to do you the courtesy of choosing a symbolic target. This time there will be civilian casualties. Many of them.”
“You can’t do that!” the president spat out.
“I have no choice. If you have not withdrawn your troops in two hours, we will send three missiles into neighboring residential areas. I will not bother telling you where so as to save you the trouble of attempting an evacuation. There is no time, no possibility. This time thousands of your people will die. People you could have saved. The collateral damage will be the blood of innocent Americans. And you will have to answer to the world for your own aggression.”
The line went dead. Silence blanketed the bunker.
The vice president broke the silence. To everyone’s surprise-and horror-he walked right up to the president and grabbed him by the lapels. “Are you insane?”
Everyone watched dumbfounded as the vice president shook Kyler back and forth in rhythm to his words. “I’m asking you a question! Are you completely insane?”
The president said nothing, but looked back at Swinburne with a mixed expression Ben didn’t know how to read-horror, shock, confusion, defeat. In any case, it was not what the VP wanted.
Swinburne threw the president down into a nearby chair. His eyes were wide and bulging. “My God,” he said, “you are, aren’t you? You’re completely insane!”
Dr. Anderson rose slowly to his feet. “Now wait just a minute-” Swinburne waved him away. “Don’t bother. It’s obvious now. It’s been staring us in the face the whole time. How else can you explain this bizarre behavior we’ve witnessed?”
“The president has been under a tremendous amount of stress…”
“Every president has stress. Everyone in this room has stress. But most of us aren’t singing TV show themes.”
“Now just you look here. I’m the medical man in the room-”
“And I’m the vice president of the United States!” Swinburne barked back. “And I am not going to sit here and let that monster take thousands of American lives for no good reason.”
“We both know there’s a reason.”
“Not a good one. Not for a sacrifice at that level.”
“The president has a free hand to make decisions in the foreign policy arena.”
“Not if he’s insane!” Swinburne clapped his hands down on the president’s shoulders. “Roland, listen to me! Pull back those troops. At least until we get that murderer out of our computer system. You can always go back later.”
“The United States cannot be seen backing down,” Rybicki said. “If we do, every tin-plated madman in the world will come after us.”
“They will understand this exception. We’re acting to save lives.”
“It will set a precedent. If we back down this time, who will be next? Who will be the next petty dictator with a grudge?”
“I don’t care!” Swinburne bellowed. Ben had to wonder if he was bordering on the brink of crazy himself. “I just don’t want thousands of Americans to die for nothing.”
Kyler folded his arms across his chest. “I will not alter my decision.” Swinburne spoke through gritted teeth. “Then you, sir, must be insane. And due to your mental incapacity, you must be replaced.”
Dr. Albertson stood again. “Mr. Vice President-”
Swinburne reached into his back pocket and threw something down on the table between them. It hit the tabletop with an impressive thwack.
Ben leaned forward to peer at the cover.
It was a pocket-sized copy of the United States Constitution. Just like the one Hugo Black used to carry in his back pocket. It seemed Conrad Swinburne had the same habit.
“You know what it says as well as I do, Doctor. The Twenty-fifth Amendment. When the president is incapacitated and unable to perform his duties-as this man clearly is-he will be replaced by the vice president. That’s me. So I’m taking over right now. Before this horrific day gets any bloodier.”
Ben picked up the small booklet and began turning to the amendment in question, the one that governed presidential succession. He had read it before, of course, but not recently. And never before had it been so relevant.
“You can’t do that!” President Kyler roared. “As long as I’m still standing, I’m the president.”
“Not if you’re incapable of performing your duties!” Swinburne shouted back.
“I don’t become incapable just because we have a difference of opinion.”
“No, you’re incapable because you’re insane!” Ben scanned the amendment as quickly as he could. He didn’t enjoy watching the president when he seemed so beaten and ineffectual, and it was hard to forget the bizarre behavior he had witnessed twice that morning. He forced himself to remember the Roland Kyler he had followed throughout the campaign, the inspirational leader who had given the country new hope, the possibility of alleviating the problems, both domestic and foreign, that confronted the nation. That was the man he wanted to remember, and that was the man he wanted to see rise again.
He also reminded himself, not for the first time that day, of the gigantic favor Kyler had done for Christina. This man, despite being probably the busiest person on earth, had taken time to do a kindness for his wife.
Ben would not let him down when he needed a return favor.
He quickly read the amendment. Section 1. In case of the removal of the President from office or of his death or resignation, the Vice President shall become President….
“You don’t have the authority to take me out of office on your own,” President Kyler said.
“The Constitution gives me the right to take over in the event the president in stark raving mad!”
“As determined by the vice president? If that were the law, no president would be in office very long. Especially not if you were their vice president!”
“Gentlemen,” Secretary Ruiz said, “please calm down. This isn’t a playground. The nation is in peril. Let’s proceed with this in a calm and orderly fashion and-”
“Proceed with what?” the president asked. “The delusions of this man who would be king? President Swinburne’s thinly veiled political coup?”
Ben read all the faster.
Section 4. Whenever the Vice President and a majority of either the principal officers of the executive departments or of such other body as Congress may by law provide… their written declaration that the President is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office, the Vice President shall immediately assume the powers and duties of the office as Acting President…
Swinburne continued. “In the event that the president is found to be mentally unbalanced-”
“You don’t have the authority or expertise to make that decision.”
“I shouldn’t have to!” Swinburne glared at Dr. Albertson. “Look, Doctor, no more mollycoddling. It’s time for you to step up to the plate. I know Roland is your longtime friend, but there are lives on the line now, so you’re going to have to cowboy up.”
Albertson coughed into his hand. “I don’t-I don’t know what you’re saying, or implying, but-”
“I’m saying I know how it pains you to have to make a decision, particularly if someone might get a little mad at you, but the time has come. You’ve seen the president’s aberrant behavior. You know he’s off his rocker. So say so. Make a formal medical declaration that he is unfit for office. So I can take over and save thousands of lives.”
Albertson looked down at the carpet. “I’m just-I’m-I’m not prepared to-”
“If you need to make a little examination or something, then do it already. Get on with it!”
“No, I’m saying, I don’t-I mean-I don’t believe-I don’t want-”
Swinburne slapped his forehead. “Would you stop stuttering already? Give me what I need. All you have to do is say the word and it’s a done deal and we can get the country out of this mess!”
“Actually, you’re wrong,” Ben said.
Everyone in the room looked up. Ben had spoken so much more quietly than anyone else who had spoken recently that it had the impact of a cry of “Fire!” in a library.
“What are you saying?” Swinburne said, his neck twisted to one side.
Ben cleared his throat. Here we go… “You don’t have the authority to declare the president incapable. Not even if you have the support of the president’s doctor. I’m sure his thoughts are worth hearing-nothing personal, Doctor-but the Constitution doesn’t mention the president’s doctor at all.”
“It mentions the vice president.”
“True. But you have the authority to displace the president only with the agreement of the majority of the leaders of the various executive departments. In other words, the cabinet.”
“Do you see the cabinet down here, Mr. Lawyer?”
“Only two members. The secretary of state, Mr. Ruiz, and the secretary of defense, Mr. Rybicki. But even if you have their votes, they don’t constitute a majority or even a plurality, so you still don’t have the constitutional requirement for forcing the president out of office.”
“Look, if the rest of the cabinet is unavailable-”
“That’s not what the Constitution says. It doesn’t cover that contingency. I’m sure the framers of this amendment never foresaw a situation like this one. But the fact remains. You don’t have the authority.”
Swinburne came right up to Ben, hovering over him. “Do you want to see innocent people killed, you fool? What are you doing?”
“My job. Advising the president on the law-and, if necessary, enforcing it.”
“This isn’t just a game, kid!”
Ben stood up and looked the vice president squarely in the eye. “No, sir. It is not. This is very serious. And that is why it is so important that the law be strictly followed. To the letter.”
“We don’t have time-”
“These constitutional protections were inserted into the amendment for a reason-to protect the president against any undesirable power plays or conspiracies.”
Swinburne seemed inflamed. “Are you suggesting-”
“All I’m suggesting is that the president, like any other U.S. citizen, is entitled to constitutionally provided procedural protections. Like due process. Like the right to a fair trial. Part of the reason these constitutional guarantees were created was to prevent hasty, reactionary decisions in difficult times that would undermine the fundamental philosophy of the nation.”
Swinburne turned and slapped his hand on the table. “Then what do you suggest, know-it-all? I for one will not just stand here yapping while this man takes us to the brink of disaster. I won’t be paralyzed just because we can’t contact the other members of the cabinet.”
Seemingly out of nowhere, Agent Zimmer popped into view. “Actually,” he said, “we can.”
Ben walked toward him. “Do you know where they are?”
“Yes. The other cabinet members have all been moved to-” He stopped short. “A safe location.” Ben was glad to see that someone in the room hadn’t forgotten that they very likely had a mole in the bunker. “But I am in contact with them. I can put them on speaker-phone. I can arrange for them to hear all of you in here. In fact, I can use my webcam to set up a video line so they can see what’s going on.”
“Perfect,” Ben said.
“Wait just a minute,” Swinburne said, stepping between them. “What are you talking about?”
“What I’m talking about,” Ben said, “is a trial.”
“Are you joking? We don’t have time for a trial.”
“You’re going to have to make time. The Constitution sets out a procedure. We will follow it.”
“But the missiles will be launched in-”
“I understand your opinion. However, the Constitution doesn’t make allowances for the suspension of constitutional rights in the event that the vice president is in a big hurry. Or even for a national emergency. The Constitution guarantees due process. To all citizens.”
“What is this, Kincaid, some kind of power trip? Indulging your ego? The trial lawyer wanting to pull everything into his arena? I won’t stand for this!”
“With respect, sir.” Ben took a deep breath. “You don’t have any choice.”
Swinburne slapped the table again and walked away.
Cartwright spoke up. “If we’re going to have a trial… even a quick one… don’t we need some kind of procedure?”
“To the extent possible, we can follow the normal federal rules of civil procedure,” Ben explained. “We might have to make some adjustments, since as far as I know I’m the only lawyer in the room. But I think the vice president has made it clear he can argue his case forcefully. He can be the acting prosecutor, presenting the case for removal. With his permission, I’ll represent the president-in effect, the defendant.” He shrugged. “It’s kinda what I do. Normally, anyway.”
The president gave him a little salute. “I’m honored to have you in my corner.”
Ben was touched by his response, although also mindful that the president at this point didn’t have a wealth of choices.
“Why does he need a lawyer?” Swinburne barked. “Can’t he represent himself?”
“The right to a fair trial includes the right to counsel. Surely you’re familiar with Gideon v. Wainwright?”
Swinburne made a grunting sound. “I think I saw the made-for-TV movie.”
“Well, as you may recall, the happy ending came when Henry Fonda got a new trial, with a lawyer. Which totally changed the outcome.”
“That’s all well and good,” Admiral Cartwright said. “But if this is going to be a trial-a real trial-don’t we need a judge?”
“We do,” Ben said hastily. He could see already that with stakes this high-and tempers high as well-this would rapidly descend into chaos without some sort of restraint. “Perhaps Agent Zimmer can patch in the chief justice.”
“I think that’s a poor idea,” Zimmer said. “I can understand contacting the cabinet. It’s necessary, and they all have top-level security clearances. But that doesn’t extend to the judiciary. Let me just remind you all that these are extremely sensitive matters and we don’t want any leaks. Especially to the wrong people.”
Admiral Cartwright tossed down his pen. “Well, then, I guess this is where I have to make my ugly confession.”
Swinburne squinted. “What?”
Cartwright rose to his feet. “I guess none of you are aware of the fact but… well, Kincaid, you’re not the only lawyer in the room.”
Ben arched an eyebrow.
“I was a lawyer back in the day,” Cartwright said. “Spent years in the JAG Corps, till I moved onto bigger things. Never cared to look back, either. But I still remember the drill.”
“What are you saying?” Swinburne asked.
“I’m offering to be your judge,” Cartwright said succinctly.
Ben pondered a moment. Cartwright had the qualifications, and he was here. On the other hand, did Ben really want the judge to be the person in the room who hated him most?
“Well, Kincaid?” Swinburne said. “Don’t just stand there like a damn wax statue. Say something!”
Ben realized that Cartwright was now no longer the person in the room who hated him most.
“The defense will accept you as the judge for this constitutional proceeding,” Ben said.
“And so will I, if it moves this thing along any faster,” Swinburne said. “Have you people forgotten that we are facing a dire countdown?”
“I haven’t,” Ben said. “But before we can proceed… Mr. President?”
He seemed almost dazed, slow to respond. “Yes, Ben?”
“Does this proposed procedure meet with your approval?”
Swinburne slapped the table once again, right in front of Ben, making a thunderous noise. “I don’t approve of the procedure, but that didn’t matter to you. Why does he get to decide whether he approves of the procedure?”
Ben slammed the table equally hard, bringing his hand down nearly on top of Swinburne’s. He leaned forward and gave Swinburne a cold glare right in the eye. “Because, at least for the moment, he’s the president of the United States. Got it?”
Swinburne slowly drew his head back. “Fine. Let’s just get started.”
“Mr. President?”
Kyler nodded. “Yes, Ben, it does meet with my approval. And… thank you.” He crossed the room and took the seat beside Ben. Apparently this side of the room was going to be the “defendant’s table.”
“Don’t thank him yet,” Swinburne muttered.
“I’m thanking him for restoring some sense of law and order to this potential modern-day lynching.”
“Oh, give me a break.” Swinburne waved a hand in the air.
“It’s true,” Sarie said, looking up at him with the first friendly eyes Ben had seen in a good while. “Thank you for intervening, Ben.”
Ben tilted his head to one side. “It’s nothing.”
“I disagree. Right now, Ben, you’re the most important person in the room. Maybe the most important person in the country.”
Well, geez, he hadn’t thought about it like that. Nor did he want to.
Ben turned to Agent Zimmer. “Do you have the rest of the cabinet?”
“Yes,” Agent Zimmer said, pushing several buttons at once. “I’m patching them in right now.”
One of the overhead screens came to life. The blackness flickered away and was replaced by a ceiling-eye view of thirteen men and women seated around an oval table. Ben had no idea where they were located, but he could see that they were all present and waiting.
“I’m Ben Kincaid,” he informed them. “I’ll be representing the president. I assume you all already know the vice president, who will be acting as prosecutor. Have you all been briefed on the situation?”
The man in the center pulled a microphone toward him. Ben recognized him as Arnold Cross, the secretary of the treasury. “Yes, Ben, we have. I’ve been chosen to act as spokesperson on this end.”
“Good. Can everyone hear me?”
He saw many heads nodding.
“If you lose the signal or lose track of the argument at any time, please let me know.”
Cross nodded. “We will, Ben. We’re ready.”
“Very well.” Ben saw that, while he was talking, Admiral Cartwright had taken a seat at the head of the table. “Your honor, I believe we’re ready to proceed.”
Cartwright nodded. All at once, his expression was blank and unemotional. Judicial. He apparently had the ability to rein in his hyperactive emotions when the situation called for it. “Very well, gentlemen.
We don’t have a lot of time here, so let’s get started. I will ask you to both keep everything brief and to the point. No unnecessary legal games or tricks or stunts. We just don’t have time for it. Call the witnesses you need and then get the hell out of the way. Understood?”
Ben and Swinburne answered together. “Yes, your honor.”
“All right then.” Cartwright leaned back in his chair. “Mr. Prosecutor-call your first witness.”
Seamus gripped the steering wheel tightly and kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
D.C. Bytes was in Anacostia, and it was taking them forever to get there. Traffic was never good this time of day, but now they were caught in a steady stream of people fleeing the Mall, not to mention the chaos that can be expected anytime a ballistic missile has been exploded in the vicinity. He wasn’t normally given to fits of road rage, but on this occasion, when every second was precious-could be the last-he had a different attitude about people who drove slowly in the passing lane and grandpas who left their turn signal blinking.
He and Arlo had both been silent since they turned away from the scene of devastation. Seamus could see something was on the kid’s mind, but at least for now, he was content to let the silence extend as long as possible.
But nothing good lasts forever.
“Is the Jefferson Memorial really your favorite?” Arlo cleared his throat. “I think, statistically, the Lincoln Memorial is the most popular.”
“ Lincoln was a great man,” Seamus answered succinctly. “ Jefferson was a genius.”
“Oh, yeah? He was the guy who slept with his slave, right?”
Seamus ground his teeth together. “Jefferson was the third president of the United States. The second vice president. The founder of the University of Virginia. The architect of Monticello. And, oh yeah, the guy who wrote the Declaration of Independence. Maybe you’ve heard of it.”
“Is that the one that starts, ‘Fourscore and seven years ago’?”
“No,” Seamus said, tucking in his chin. “That would be the one that begins, ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.’”
“Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. I remember now. That’s a good one.”
“You could say so.”
“I think I memorized part of it in the sixth grade or something. No wonder you like Jefferson.”
“It’s more than that. Jefferson was brilliant. The most learned man of his time. A serious scholar. A man with a heart.” He paused. “Couldn’t balance his checkbook and was constantly in debt. But that’s the way it usually is with geniuses.”
“That’s cool. I should read more. I mean, you know. Offline. The old-fashioned way.”
“Yeah, you should. There’s more to life than killing computer zombies.”
“You read much? I would think it would be hard to keep up with the latest bestsellers when you’re out in the caves with bin Laden.”
“You might be surprised, kid. If you want something bad enough, you find a way to make it happen.”
“So you really do like to read?”
“I was an English major in college before-”
“What? You?”
Seamus looked suddenly embarrassed. “Never mind.”
“Seriously. You? Gliding down the New York Times bestseller list?”
“I don’t worry about the latest bestsellers. They come and go. I much prefer the classics. The books that have stood the test of time.”
“Who are your favorite writers?”
“Like you’re gonna recognize the names?”
“Try me. Who’s your all-time favorite?”
Seamus took a deep breath. “Dickens.”
“Charles Dickens? As in ‘Please, sir, I want some more’?” His voice took on a sepulchral tone. “As in ‘I am the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Commmmmme’?”
“There’s a lot more to Dickens than that. He was a reformer. He cared about other people, the events of the day. He wrote about the evils in his society and exposed wrongdoing. His writing changed the world in which he lived.”
“Oh. That’s cool.”
“Yes, it is.” Seamus screwed his hands tighter around the wheel. “I wish someone would write a book that changes the world we live in. For the better.”
“Maybe you should do it.”
“I’ve tried to write. But I can’t find the time. I start something, and then-” He stopped short, suddenly embarrassed. “And why are we talking about this?”
“I don’t know. I’m just trying to get to know you. As a person.”
“Why?”
“Well, we’ve been hanging out together. This is our chance to bond.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Ah, don’t be so tough-guy macho. You must have a human side in there. Somewhere. Let’s really get to know each other. You saved my life.”
“If you say, ‘I love you, man,’ I’m throwing you out of the car.”
“All right, stay calm.”
“We’re trying to stop a madman from firing missiles at American citizens. Not starting a bromance.”
While he drove, Seamus called Zira, who gave him the latest updates. Specifically, on the positive side, that so far no fatalities from the missile launch on the Jefferson had been detected. On the negative side, Colonel Zuko was promising a flurry of additional missiles in less than two hours if the president didn’t give in to his demands. Which the president seemed keenly disinclined to do.
The conclusion was inevitable, Seamus thought as he snapped his phone shut. They needed to find the terrorists’ base of operations. As soon as possible.
Seamus pulled into the downtown commercial part of Anacostia. The streets were mostly deserted. Probably everyone wanted to be safe at home after a missile explosion so nearby. He remembered that after 9/11, the streets of New York City had seemed almost barren for days, at least by comparison with the usual crowds. It would be even easier for most Washingtonians to avoid the main arteries of commerce-the most likely targets.
He was making a sharp right turn when he heard Arlo shout so loudly he almost jumped.
“That’s him!”
Seamus put his foot on the brake and slowed, staying several feet behind the figure on the side street. “That’s who?”
Arlo jumped up and down in his seat. “You remember me saying there were only so many people in the area with the level of computer expertise to be useful to these terrorists?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, the only one who isn’t in prison just came out of D.C. Bytes. That guy in the Lisa Loeb glasses.”
Seamus glanced at the tall, skinny man in the turtleneck-which seemed a little heavy for April in D.C. Still, he had a grown-up haircut-unlike Seamus’s current companion-and very nice shoes. Guccis, if he wasn’t mistaken.
“This guy isn’t poor.”
“No. Well, he might be now. Not a few months ago.”
“Explain.”
“Harold Bemis is the inventor of the Cobra operating system, probably the most widely used system in business and industry worldwide. Anyone too intelligent to use Microsoft uses Cobra. He got filthy rich-until it was discovered that Cobra contained a tiny little worm that surreptitiously fed information about the computer in which it resided to the Cobra central office, where Bemis then sold it off to the highest bidder.”
“Ouch. I’m guessing some people weren’t happy.”
“You would be guessing correctly. Lawsuits flew, all around the world. He settled them eventually, trying to stay out of the papers and out of prison. But it cost him a fortune. To be specific, his personal fortune.”
“A rich boy suddenly poor. Exactly the sort of person who might welcome the opportunity to make some quick cash.”
“You mean like from terrorists?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“But that would be against the law.”
“He probably thinks he’s too smart for all that. Leopold and Loeb with a pocket protector.” Seamus followed Bemis till he reached his car. There was no way to stop and wait without being obvious, so he passed him and circled around the block. He wanted to remain unobtrusive, which wasn’t easy when you were driving a car with a shattered windshield.
By the time he returned to the same street, Bemis was pulling away in his BMW.
“Any idea where he might be headed, kid?”
“Beats me. Home? Girlfriend?”
“Do you computer types have girlfriends?”
“I think the ones who can afford to drive BMWs do.”
“Well, let’s hope not.” Seamus squinted, his eyes trained on the back of Bemis’s car. “Let’s hope he’s seen that the first mission was accomplished, so now he’s going to return to the tiger’s lair to help them target the next wave of missiles. Because if that’s his game, he’s headed back to the operations base.”
“And you’re going to follow him?”
Seamus kept his eyes on the back of Bemis’s car. “Exactly.”
“And once you get to the base? It’s bound to be swarming with terrorists and guns and… you know. Crazy people. What are you going to do then?”
“Don’t know,” Seamus said. “Tell you when I get there.”
“You mean you’re just making this up as you go?”
“That’s how all us geniuses operate, kid.”
“Give me a break. You’re no Thomas Jefferson.”
“No,” Seamus said quietly, leaning into the wheel. “ Jefferson never hurt anyone. But I will.” He drew in his breath. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure these killers don’t fire another missile. Ever again.”
Vice President Swinburne seemed more subdued as he stood and smoothed the line of his suit coat. It was amazing, Ben thought, how the merest suggestion of a courtroom, even when the participants hadn’t altered their location, altered people’s behavior. Civilized them, in a way. At least until the accusations and objections started flying. “The prosecution calls the president’s doctor, Dr. Henry Albertson.” Dr. Albertson stood, his hands extended. “What do I do?” Ben pointed to a vacant chair next to Sarie. “Let’s make that the witness stand.”
Albertson took the chair as directed.
“Since we don’t have a bailiff,” Admiral Cartwright said, “I hope no one will object if I administer the oath.” No one objected. “Let me just point out that even though I don’t have a Bible, this oath is still binding, and anyone who lies under oath will be subject to the penalty for perjury, which is a federal crime.”
“I don’t tell lies,” Albertson said. “And I don’t reckon I’ll start now.”
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do.”
“Please take your chair. Mr. Prosecutor, you may proceed.”
To save time, Cartwright announced that all witnesses could describe their backgrounds in brief narrative form, rather then through the usual question-and-answer process. Ben learned much that he had not known about Dr. Albertson: Dr. Albertson and President Kyler had known each other since they were college roommates at Yale, he had been named the national doctor of the year twelve years before, he was a widower, and he kept a cocker spaniel named Pierre.
“Have you had a chance to observe the president recently?” Swinburne asked.
“Of course. I see him almost every day.”
“Does he have any health problems or conditions of which you are aware?”
The doctor hesitated before answering. Ben saw him glance at the president.
“The witness will answer the question,” Cartwright said.
“It’s all right, Henry,” the president said softly. “You’re under oath.”
“Yes,” Swinburne echoed, “you are under oath, so tell the truth. The complete truth.”
“I understand my oath,” Albertson said, “and I don’t need lessons on telling the truth from you. But I’m this man’s doctor, understand? He’s my patient. My only patient at present. That means we have a privileged relationship, and I’m honor-bound to keep his confidences and medical condition private.”
“He’s right,” Cartwright explained. “He can claim privilege. In fact, I think he has to.” Cartwright paused. “But the patient always has the option to waive privilege.”
“I waive it,” the president said without hesitation.
“That doesn’t mean I have to say anything,” Albertson said.
“No,” Cartwright agreed, “it doesn’t. But may I remind you of the magnitude of the stakes here? Literally the leadership of a nation. And may I also remind you that we are very pressed for time?”
Dr. Albertson tightened his lips, glanced at the president again, and finally nodded. “Just as you say, then. I’ll answer the question.” He looked at the vice president. “Yes, I am aware of a few health issues. Nothing that should impact the performance of his duties.”
“Could you please tell us what those conditions are?”
“For the past few weeks, the president has experienced what I would call a mild form of asthma. Just a little trouble breathing.”
“Has he ever experienced this before?”
“Not to this degree. He’s always been a bit of a wheezer. Lots of allergies. But nothing like this.”
“What, in your medical opinion, could bring on asthma attacks at this stage in his life?” Swinburne asked.
“Well, the obvious answer would be stress. There are lots of stressful jobs out there, but nothing like being president of the United States. He’s the leader of the free world, for Pete’s sake. Everyone is watching him. Everyone is either counting on him or waiting for him to make a mistake. You try making policy in a pressure cooker and see if you don’t wheeze a bit.”
“We’re all familiar with the strain of public office.”
“With respect, sir, no one is familiar with the strain of being the president unless they’ve experienced it firsthand. Not even the vice president.”
Swinburne made a grumbling noise but added nothing.
“He’s only been in office a few months,” Dr. Albertson continued, “but he’s had to move, to meet hundreds of people, to totally alter his way of life. He’s had to change his traditional habits-had to break some bad habits. He’s been separated from his family for extended periods of time. Eventually the strain will show. His hair is already dramatically grayer than it was before he took office. There are new lines on his face, especially around the eyes. So it’s easy to see where his respiratory ailments might be exacerbated.”
“Have you prescribed any treatment?”
“All I’ve done is given him an inhaler. ProAir HFA. It’s a minor-league bronchial stimulant, but it seems to be sufficient to take care of the problem for now.”
Vice President Swinburne pondered a moment. “Haven’t I seen you passing him that inhaler?”
Albertson nodded. “I am the president’s doctor. Always at the ready with whatever he needs.”
“Couldn’t he carry his own inhaler?”
“We tried that, but it always seemed to end up in the same place as the man’s car keys. Lost.”
“Doctor, tell us the truth. Could this respiratory condition affect the president’s ability to reason?”
“No,” Albertson said flatly.
“Could the medication you’ve prescribed affect his ability to reason?”
“Absolutely not.”
“But if he’s unable to breathe, surely that could render him unable to function. Disabled.”
Ben winced as Swinburne used the magic word from the amendment. If the doctor agreed that the president was disabled, the trial would be over.
“No, not at any time,” Albertson insisted. “His condition would have to be significantly worse than it is at this time before I would agree that he was disabled, even for a brief period of time.”
“I see.” The vice president batted a finger against his lips. He was thinking. Ben could almost see the wheels whirring in his head. “I noticed you used the plural earlier, Doctor. You said the president had medical conditions. What are the other ones?”
Albertson’s lips thinned again. It was evident he did not want to proceed.
The president gave him a nod.
“The president,” Albertson said with a sigh, “is diabetic.”
Ben could feel the shock waves filtering through the room. Everyone stared at the doctor, surprised and incredulous. Even Agent Zimmer looked stunned, and he rarely even changed his expression.
“How can that be?” Swinburne said finally. “There was no mention of this during the campaign.”
“No. There wasn’t.”
“His medical records were revealed.”
Albertson nodded. “As with the asthma, this condition did not become evident until after he took office. He has chosen not to disclose it to the general public.”
“How did you discover this condition?”
“The president was complaining of headaches, excessive urination, constant thirst. When I heard that, I didn’t really even need an examination. That’s a textbook case of the symptoms that accompany the onset of diabetes.”
“Is this also induced by stress?”
“Well, I don’t have any science to back me up, but I sure wouldn’t be surprised. When you put a body under that kind of strain, it starts to weaken, pure and simple. Things fall apart, to quote Yeats. The body is no exception.”
“Thank you for your opinion,” Swinburne said, with a tone that did not suggest much gratitude, “but what would be the cause according to medical science?”
“It occurs when either the body does not produce enough insulin or the cells in the body ignore the insulin. It’s the product of a disordered metabolism. The result is abnormally high blood glucose levels.”
Swinburne seemed to be having trouble believing the president was a closet diabetic, but then, so did everyone else in the bunker. “Is he receiving any treatment?”
“Yes. He’s controlling the condition with a combination of diet, exercise, medications, and insulin injections.”
“So the president is dependent upon these insulin injections to sustain his life?”
“At the present, yes.”
“Doesn’t that leave him… vulnerable?”
“No more so than any of the other twenty-four million diabetics in the United States. As long as he receives his treatment, he’s fine.”
“Is there a cure?”
“The only real cure at this time is a pancreas transplant.”
“Has the president considered that?”
“Yes.”
“Will he have it done?”
“Not while he’s in office.”
“Why not?”
Ben knew he could object here-Swinburne was asking one witness to explain another person’s reasoning. But the doctor apparently knew the answer, and given the time restrictions they were functioning under, Ben suspected Admiral Cartwright would not appreciate any unnecessary objections.
“If the president were to have surgery of this nature, he would have to be rendered unconscious by anesthesia. That would mean that, for a few hours, anyway, he couldn’t govern. Therefore, under the Twenty-fifth Amendment, he would have to transfer power temporarily to the next in line.”
“Yes? And?”
Albertson averted his eyes. “And he said he’d turn into a pillar of salt and die before he’d turn the presidency over to you.”
Ben saw Admiral Cartwright cover his mouth and turn away. The judge couldn’t be seen laughing at the prosecutor, right? But it was good to know that, behind his stern exterior, Cartwright had a sense of humor.
Swinburne threw back his shoulders. He looked mad, not that he had exactly appeared delighted before. “So the president has been hiding not one but two serious medical conditions?”
“I wouldn’t use the word hiding. He’s chosen not to make these matters public. That’s his right.”
“The public has a right to know the condition of the president’s health.”
“Do they really? Why do they need to know?”
“Well-”
“And of course if they know, then so does everyone else. Does Colonel Zuko need to know the intimate details of the president’s health? What about the leaders of North Korea? Pakistan? Do they need to know when the president is not feeling at his best?”
“If he’s not fit for the job,” Swinburne countered, “he should step down.”
“Let me tell you something, mister. No one has perfect health. And even if they did, one month in this job would wreck it. Nonetheless, the president’s health is not something that should be detailed to anyone who does not have an immediate need to know. If nothing else, it’s a national security issue.”
“That’s your opinion.”
Albertson smiled. “Well, son, that’s what you asked for.”
“Dr. Albertson, I assume that if the president’s diabetes were not treated, or were not treated properly, he might exhibit some… odd behavior.”
“Mental symptoms are possible,” the doctor replied. “But what you’d more likely see is a man in pain, perhaps a man in shock or even a coma.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Yes. And anyway, what’s the point? His diabetes has been treated. There has been no time since his diagnosis when he suffered for want of treatment.”
“But he has been exhibiting aberrant behavior.”
Ben felt his eyes twitch. This was where things were bound to get sticky.
The doctor pushed himself up in his seat. “Was that a question?”
“You witnessed the sorry spectacle of the president of the United States, just a short while ago, reacting to a crisis with the behavior of a three-year-old. Singing, laughing…”
Albertson shrugged. “He’s the president. He can sing if he wants to sing.”
“The theme from The Brady Bunch?”
“If he wants.”
“So a foreign dictator has flung one of our own missiles at a domestic target-and you think the appropriate response is to sing sitcom songs?”
“I think different people release stress in different ways. Who cares? Whatever works.”
“Objectively speaking, if you didn’t know the president personally and you heard that a man in his mid-fifties was behaving in this manner, what would you think?”
Albertson tried to appear casual-not entirely convincingly. “I try not to be judgmental. I’m not a psychiatrist. Different strokes for different folks.”
“Well, then, since the members of the cabinet who are watching on the webcam did not see this themselves, let me describe it. And then you can tell them whether I described it accurately.” Swinburne took a deep breath. “Abruptly, in the middle of a discussion regarding our response to the colonel’s threat to launch one of our missiles, the president began singing the Brady Bunch theme song. If I recall correctly, he also played the air guitar.”
Ben observed the faces of the ten men and two women in the cabinet on the closed-circuit screen. When Swinburne mentioned singing, their expressions became somewhat quizzical. When he mentioned playing air guitar, their expressions became concerned.
“He did that for maybe a minute,” Dr. Albertson said. “Then he stopped and-”
Admiral Cartwright pounded on the table. “This is not a time for making speeches. The witness will restrict himself to answering questions.”
Ben arched an eyebrow. Usually it took a judge more than ten minutes before he contracted “judgitis.”
“The point is,” Swinburne said, turning his attention back to the witness, “for a period of at least five minutes, the president was not behaving as a capable leader. He was behaving like someone suffering from mental illness.”
“Objection,” Ben said, rising to his feet. “Sorry, your honor, I know time is of the essence. But that was not a question and the prosecutor is not qualified to render a medical opinion.”
“Sustained,” Cartwright said. “Try again, Mr. Swinburne.”
Swinburne pursed his lips. “Dr. Cartwright, did you not find the president’s behavior during this episode… disturbing?”
Ben glanced over at his client. The president was keeping a good poker face, but he clearly did not like being talked about as if he were not there. Particularly when the subject of the conversation was his sanity.
“As I said, he’s under a lot of stress.”
“And it would appear he snapped under that stress!”
“It would appear to be that he was letting off some steam, perhaps as a coping device.” He looked up at the camera. “But I did not at any time see anything that I took to be a sign of mental illness or incapacity. Never!”
Ben hoped that this ringing declaration made an impact on the de facto jurors on the closed-circuit television, but he had a disturbing intuition they were still hung up on the reference to air guitar.
Swinburne paused for a moment and took his chair. Ben had started to wonder if the examination was over when Swinburne said, “Dr. Albertson, isn’t it true that the president saved your life?”
An audible murmur ran through the room, reassuring Ben that he was not the only one who did not know this story.
More eye contact passed between the two men. They were sitting only about five feet apart, but for the moment, Ben felt as if a gulf had come between them that was immeasurably wider.
“Yes,” Dr. Albertson said quietly. “Yes, that is true.”
“When did this occur?”
“When we were in college. We were at a party. A private organization. Something for those who were too cool-or too poorly connected-to be members of Skull and Bones. I’d had a few-well, more than a few. Way too many more than a few. I was up on the roof, messing around like an idiot. Like most damn fools that age, I thought I was invulnerable.”
“What happened?”
“Long story short, I lost my footing. Went tumbling down the roof. I would’ve been a big drunk blood splatter on the pavement-except Roland Kyler grabbed my foot and held on for dear life. I was dangling off the edge, watching my life play before my eyes. I must’ve weighed a ton. But he held on to me. Held on for almost twenty minutes, sweating and straining, his bones aching, but he never gave up, he never let go, until finally some help arrived.” Albertson paused reflectively. “These people have heard me say that President Kyler is the only reason I’m here today, and they think I mean because he appointed me White House physician. But they’re wrong. I mean that if it hadn’t been for him, I wouldn’t be alive. I wouldn’t have gone to medical school, wouldn’t have been doctor of the year, wouldn’t have been anything. But for him.”
“That’s a great story,” Ben said, rising, “but I don’t see the relevance.”
“The relevance is this,” Swinburne said. “Dr. Albertson, you are totally loyal and devoted to the president, aren’t you?”
“One hundred percent.”
“That is why, even when he exhibits clearly disturbed behavior, you refuse to draw the obvious conclusion.”
“That’s not true. I-”
“What’s true is that this man could be standing on his head wearing a bunny suit and you still wouldn’t acknowledge that there was anything wrong with him!”
“Objection!” Ben said.
“Sustained,” Cartwright replied, but Ben knew it didn’t matter. Swinburne had made his point.
“That’s all right, Judge,” Swinburne said. “I think I’ve established this witness’s obvious bias. It’s unfortunate that a personal friend-particularly one with a debt of gratitude-was given an important executive post, especially since it has significant ramifications. But I can’t change that now. What I can suggest is that the members of the cabinet take the witness’s bias into account and consequently disregard his medical assessment. If there’s going to be an unbiased determination as to the president’s sanity, it’s going to have to come from the cabinet.”
Ben looked at the closed-circuit screen and saw several of the cabinet members nodding in agreement. That was not a good sign.
Swinburne had established that the president was acting insane and that the president’s physician would never declare him insane, no matter what he did. Which meant it was a job for the vice president and the cabinet. And Ben had no doubt they would do it, and quickly-unless he gave them a reason not to.
Ben thought a moment about how to proceed. Normally, on cross-examination his job would be to undo whatever damage had been done to his client’s case by the witness. In this instance, however, the doctor himself hadn’t done any damage to President Kyler, at least not directly. Technically, the only person Dr. Albertson had damaged was himself-his own reputation and credibility. But Ben knew that was going to have a negative impact on President Kyler’s case. He needed to find some way to salvage Albertson’s credibility as a medical witness who believed Kyler was absolutely sane.
“Dr. Albertson,” Ben began. This tiny room in the bunker made for an awkward ersatz courtroom. Under normal circumstances Ben had some distance from the people he was grilling, not to mention the judge. That was done for a reason. Given the raised tempers that attended most trials, it was important for the participants to have some space. Here they were practically on top of one another, breathing down one another’s necks, with no room to maneuver or escape. “Let’s start with that last bit of business first. You’ve testified that President Kyler saved your life once and you are grateful to him. The unanswered question is whether your gratitude renders you incapable of issuing a reliable medical opinion.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Well,” Ben said, playing the devil’s advocate, “that’s easy to say, but-”
“Mr. Kincaid, I have been a doctor for almost thirty years now. I know what I’m doing.” Good. Ben had managed to raise his dander a little, which was exactly the reaction he wanted. The doctor needed to get a little feisty if he was going to salvage this mess. “I took the Hippocratic Oath. I have an obligation to the AMA. So when it comes to rendering a medical opinion, it’s just as if I were under oath-every time I do it. I give the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, no matter what. No matter who it is.”
“So you’re saying your friendship with the president has not influenced your medical opinion.”
“That’s exactly right. My testimony is based upon observation and constant, almost daily mini medical evaluations, plus a complete workup done not two weeks ago. There is simply no evidence of negative brain function, nor of any physical ailment, such as a stroke or brain tumor, that might affect his mental condition. The president may have unique coping mechanisms, but so what? The question here is whether he’s sane. And that question I can answer with certainty. He is.”
Beside him, Ben could see his client sitting up a little straighter. He was glad he’d had this opportunity to rehabilitate the witness.
“Let me ask you a few questions about the coping mechanisms you mentioned. Can you explain what you mean?”
“Of course. We all deal with stress in different ways, some healthier than others. Some cope by drinking too much, or turning to drugs, or other alleviators. Nixon became an alcoholic in the White House. Some think Clinton became a sex addict. Those are obviously unhealthful coping mechanisms. Roland, on the other hand, likes to sing and act a little childish. So what? He isn’t hurting anyone. It’s not as if he’s on national television. And it’s a good sight better than drinking himself to death.”
“So you see no problem with it?”
“Why would I? He has to do something-he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’s given up some of his favorite stress relievers. Why not let the man have this one harmless indulgence?”
“Would it be fair to say everyone has coping mechanisms?”
“Of course. Everyone.” Albertson pointed. “Even the esteemed vice president.”
Ben saw Swinburne sit up a little straighter in his chair. They definitely had his attention now.
Dare he press further?
“Okay, I’ll bite. What does the vice president do?”
“Have you not noticed how often his hand goes into his suit coat pocket? And then his arm gets all stiff and tense. I think he’s got one of those squeeze balls, those stress relievers you buy in Hallmark stores. Either that or a big wad of Silly Putty.”
Ben turned slightly toward the vice president, as did almost everyone in the room.
A moment later Swinburne somewhat sheepishly reached into his pocket, then rolled a yellow squeeze ball onto the table. It looked like a tennis ball but obviously had a different, squishier consistency. The impressions of Swinburne’s fingers were still visible on it.
“Nice work, Sherlock,” Swinburne said.
Albertson grinned, probably for the first time since he took the witness chair. “Elementary, my dear Swinburne.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Ben said. “No more questions.” Ben felt he had done about all he could do. Most of Albertson’s testimony had been favorable. He had shored up the holes as best he could. The cabinet might still suspect that Albertson was not an impartial witness, but Ben had given them a plausible alternative explanation for the president’s behavior. He hoped that would be enough-at least for the present.
Vice President Swinburne rose to his feet. “Judge, may I redirect?”
Cartwright tapped a pencil against the tabletop. “May I remind you that we have a countdown ticking here?”
“No one is more aware of that than I, Judge. The whole point of this trial is to make sure no more people die when that countdown is completed. But I do think I have something valuable to bring out.”
“I have to object,” Ben said. “And I don’t want to protract this unnecessarily, either. But he had his direct examination and he rested. He cannot bring out new matters on redirect.”
“This is not new,” Swinburne insisted. “This is simply a continuation of what was said before.” He looked directly at Cartwright. “I would beg the court’s indulgence. It’s not as if we had time to prepare for this trial. We’re all working off the cuff here. What is paramount is that all the most relevant information is revealed.”
Ben started to protest, but the judge cut him off.
“Very well,” Cartwright said. “I’ll allow it. But be brief!”
“Yes, sir. I will.” He turned toward Dr. Albertson once more. “Doctor, during your previous testimony, you mentioned hyperglycemia. Would you please explain the difference between that and hypoglycemia?”
“Well, hypoglycemia is just the opposite-it’s abnormally low blood glucose.”
“Does this condition ever occur to people suffering from diabetes, such as the president?”
“It’s rare, but it does happen. Usually as a reaction to treatment. Too much insulin, or insulin delivered at the wrong intervals, something like that. Sometimes excessive exercise can bring it on.”
“The president exercises regularly, does he not?”
“Yes. That’s one reason he’s in such good shape.”
Swinburne nodded. “Can you describe the symptoms of hypoglycemia?”
Albertson slowed considerably. Ben suspected he was beginning to understand where this line of questioning was headed.
“Most commonly, it produces agitation, sweaty palms, that sort of thing. Patients suffer from sympathetic activation of the autonomic nervous system, which can produce altered emotional states such as dread and panic.”
“You’re saying they can experience panic attacks.”
“I guess that’s one way of putting it. Panic attacks to such an extreme that they can become immobilized. Consciousness can be altered or even lost, which can lead to the induction of a comatose state, seizures, or even brain damage and death.”
Swinburne pounced, as Ben knew he would. “You said consciousness can be altered?”
“Yes.”
“Meaning the victim’s behavior might be altered.”
“But this is very rare-”
“Could this altered behavior involve things such as… well, singing at inappropriate moments?”
Dr. Albertson’s lips pursed. He did not answer.
“I’m waiting for your answer, Doctor. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, remember?”
Albertson frowned, then replied. “Yes, I suppose that it is theoretically possible. But that doesn’t mean it is the cause of the president’s behavior.”
“But it could be.”
“I disagree. I have personally monitored his insulin intake to make sure he doesn’t get too little or too much.”
“Doctor, is it possible for even a very experienced, capable physician to make an error in judgment?”
“Of course, but if he had hypoglycemia, I’d know it.”
“How? Are you able to do lab work on his blood down here in the bunker?”
“No. But I have a blood glucose meter and-”
“At this moment in time, you don’t know if he has hypoglycemia or not. Correct?”
“I suppose I can’t rule it out as a medical certainty. But there are other symptoms I ought to be able to observe, and they aren’t present.”
“So far as you know.”
“Right.”
“And let’s be honest-even if he didn’t have those symptoms now, he could develop them in the future, right?”
“Well… anything is possible.”
“So the president is quite literally a ticking mental time bomb.”
“That’s an overstatement.”
“This disease he has hidden from the public eye could have a profound impact on his ability to govern. Perhaps that’s why he’s chosen to hide it.”
“Objection!” Ben said forcefully.
“Sustained,” Cartwright replied, but it didn’t matter. The damage was already done. The seeds of doubt were planted in the cabinet members’ minds.
Dr. Albertson leaned forward. “I keep a careful eye on our president. Nothing is going to happen to him without my-”
“Have you had a chance to do blood work today?”
“No, but I could if-”
“Have you performed a psychiatric examination?”
“I don’t have-”
“And you won’t till we get out of this bunker.”
“Well, true, but-”
“So at the very least, for the period of time we are restricted to this bunker, you cannot make any guarantees about the president’s health or sanity.”
Albertson flushed, obviously angry. “How can I-”
“Exactly!” Swinburne shouted, cutting him off. “How could you?” He paused a moment and let everyone ponder the question. “I’ll answer that one for you. You can’t.”
Swinburne turned his attention to Admiral Cartwright. “I’m finished with this witness, Judge. No more questions.”
Ben glanced at the president. He was still keeping his poker face on, but Ben knew he was concerned. Who wouldn’t be? The doctor was likely the most favorable witness they could possibly get, but Swinburne had still managed to use him to make his case-and Ben had done little or nothing to stop it.
He didn’t have time for recriminations. He had to focus on the future, not the past. He had to make sure he did the best he could with the next witness and stop Swinburne’s momentum.
Before it was too late.
Seamus remained focused on the back of Harold Bemis’s BMW. The sky was overcast, but he didn’t know if that was a Washington spring rain coming in or the smoke from the explosion at the Jefferson Memorial drifting across the city. The streets were still mostly deserted. He and Arlo were passing one of the most popular shopping malls in Georgetown -in fact, in the whole D.C. area-but it appeared largely empty. Presumably the hideous news of a missile strike so close to home was keeping most everyone indoors. That was understandable. What kind of person could watch the CNN footage of a disaster of this magnitude and think it was time for a new pair of shoes?
The happy advantage of this depopulation was that it made it easier to track a suspect. The downside was that it greatly increased the chances of being spotted. And Seamus did not want to be spotted. He couldn’t afford to lose him. He wanted to catch the people behind the attack on the Jefferson Memorial so much that he could feel it in the marrow of his bones.
Harold Bemis pulled his car to the side of the road to parallel park. Seamus managed to find a place for his own car before he passed him- something that would have been impossible on a normal day in this neighborhood.
“What do you think your boy genius might be visiting in the mall?”
Arlo shrugged. “There’s an Apple Store in there. I think there’s a GameStop.”
Seamus shook his head. “I just don’t see the guy in the Gucci shoes dropping by to pick up an iPod. He probably has people to do that. A personal shopper. Possibly a fleet of them.”
“He probably got his hand-delivered by Steve Jobs.”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
“But now that he’s fallen upon hard times-”
“I can’t see it. People don’t change that much. Even when they’ve fallen on temporary hard times.”
Bemis got out of the car and headed toward the double glass door entrance to the mall.
“Stay here. I’m going to follow him.”
“Wouldn’t it be smarter to just stay here until he returns to his car?”
“How do you know he’s going to return to his car?”
Arlo’s head bobbed. “I suppose you have a point.”
“You stay in the car. That’s an order.” He scribbled a number on a scrap of paper. “If you see anything suspect, call me. Otherwise-don’t.”
“Got it, chief.”
Seamus trailed Bemis into the mall, careful to keep a discreet distance, which was all the harder because there were so few people milling about. Seamus was a little surprised it was even open, but he supposed that time and retail wait for no man.
He was barely a hundred feet inside the mall when Bemis slowed his steps. Seamus could tell by his shoulders he was about to turn around, so he ducked behind the nearest escalator.
Now he couldn’t see Bemis. How could he know how long he needed to stay out of sight? This was impossible. He counted slowly to ten, then inched back into the open.
Bemis was gone. Damn. Had Seamus waited too long? Or worse, had the man suspected he was being followed and intentionally turned in an effort to ditch him?
He walked toward the fountain in the middle of the common area. It was on a raised platform and gave him a better view of the surroundings. Attempting to remain as casual as possible, he cast his eyes around the interior.
Where was Bemis? How could he have disappeared so quickly? Was there some secret hideaway in here somewhere? Maybe he’d ducked into a tailor’s shop and entered the secret terrorist lair…
Shades of Man from U.N.C.L.E. He was really going to have to stop letting his imagination carry him away.
Seamus spotted him. Somehow Bemis had gotten to the upper level. He was entering the food court.
Seamus raced to the bottom of the escalator and bolted up the steps. He didn’t want to attract attention, but he knew that if he moved fast enough, he could get to the court before Bemis had a chance to-
A gunshot whizzed by his ear, so close it felt as if it had sizzled itself into his tympanic membrane. A second shattered the glass panel just a few inches from his leg.
Seamus flattened himself against the moving metal steps. The sharp edges cut into his chin-but that was the least of his worries. Another bullet hummed its way just above his head.
He heard several cries of alarm, both from above and below him. Whatever few people might be shopping that day, they’d heard the shots, too. The next sound Seamus detected was of rapidly moving feet. That was good. Given what had just happened at the Jefferson Memorial, they didn’t need any urging to take this seriously, and that was all for the better. He couldn’t help them right now, but he didn’t want any collateral damage.
He reached for his gun-but what would he do with it? He didn’t know where the shooter was. He would nail Seamus long before Seamus spotted him. He was pinned down-trapped on this escalator. And even if the sniper was the worst shot in the entire terrorist cell, he’d hit his target before Seamus reached the top.
Only one chance if he wanted to live. It was a long way down-but it wasn’t getting any nearer.
Seamus pressed both hands on the moving black handrail and side-jumped off the escalator.
He plummeted at least twenty feet down to the tile floor, just a few yards from the fountain. The impact hurt. How many times had he fallen too far in the last few hours? Too many. His right ankle stung. He had probably sprained it, but given the distance, he was lucky it wasn’t broken. Didn’t matter. He had no time to think about it now. He shook it off and kept moving.
Gunfire rang out again, but it came from farther away this time. As long as Seamus kept moving, he could stay ahead of his assassin. A moving target was much more challenging to catch.
It wasn’t Bemis firing. He was certain about that. The shots came from the wrong direction, plus Bemis just didn’t seem the assassin type. Quisling and technical advisor, sure. Sharpshooter, no. In a situation such as this, Beamis would be useless.
Seamus raced down a branch of the mall. Even if the shooter was following him from above, he would have a hard time getting a bead on him over here. Seamus ducked into the nearby Macy’s.
He hated the smell of the perfume counter that greeted him at the door. It was nothing against their selection; he just had yet to encounter a perfume that didn’t make him wish women would simply let themselves smell the way they smelled. But he would have to tough it out. If that killer wanted a piece of him, he would have to leave his safe perch and come out into the open.
Seamus found a safe place behind the jewelry counter and waited. He didn’t have to wait long.
Two minutes later the sniper entered the store.
No doubt Seamus’s many years of experience were helpful when it came to spotting gunmen. It also helped that there were so few people in the mall. But he felt confident that he would know this clown was trouble anytime, anyplace, even if he had met him during a game of blindman’s buff. Some people just smelled like trouble, and that was a smell Seamus received loud and clear, even when he was inundated with artificial musk and clove and a thousand other laboratory-concocted aromas.
The killer wore a black Adidas warm-up suit with black-and-white sneakers. It was the pimps, then the gang members, who had first adopted this form of casual wear for their everyday enterprises. Now it had apparently infiltrated the terrorist world. He looked scruffy and nervous. Seamus didn’t need a close-up of that bulge under his zip-up jacket to know that it wasn’t a potbelly.
His first instinct was to jump out into the middle of the walkway and start shooting, but his experience told him that wasn’t the right play. The guy might still get the drop on him, if he was quick enough, and there were still employees manning the counters who might be hurt in any cross fire. If possible, Seamus needed to take this man down without an exchange of bullets. Slowly he stepped back and waited patiently for the shooter to come to him.
As soon as the man had passed him, Seamus swiveled back into the walkway behind him. He brought the butt of his gun down hard on the back of the man’s head. The gunman hurtled forward and crashed into a glass jewelry display counter.
Glass shattered, flying in all directions. Seamus heard several cries behind him.
“Get out of here!” he shouted. “And stay down!”
He hoped the sales personnel would listen and obey. He didn’t have time to check. The assailant was already scrambling to his feet, trying to crawl out of the debris. Reaching inside his warm-up jacket, he pulled out a gun with a long nose. Seamus recognized the compressed-air silencer. The high-speed ammo it fired would do a hell of a job on his stomach.
He wasn’t about to give the punk the chance. Running forward, he kicked the gun out of the man’s hand before he could fire. Then Seamus brought his shoe down hard on the man’s gut, like he was stomping a particularly virulent spider. The man cried out, his face reddened, and his head crashed back on the floor amid the shattered glass and blood.
Seamus bent over him, but the man suddenly lurched forward, a shard of glass clutched in his hand. Seamus scooted backward. The jagged blade missed him by less than an inch.
That dirty son of a bitch. Well, fine. If that’s the way he wants to play it…
Seamus picked up a nearby glass bottle of perfume and hurled it at lightning speed. It shattered against the assassin’s forehead.
Blood erupted. Head wounds were the worst. On top of that, the pungent alcohol-based mix dripped into the wound and the man’s eyes. He screamed and clutched at his face, desperate to remove what could not be removed.
Seamus crouched down and grabbed him by the collar. He slapped his hands away. “Maybe now you’re ready for a little chat?”
The man whimpered, babbling incoherently. Temporarily blinded, he was undoubtedly wondering if he would ever see again.
“If you tell me what I want to know, the pain might not get any worse. Though I’m not promising anything.”
The man spoke through sobs and clenched teeth. “I want… immunity…”
“You’ve been watching too many cop shows on TV. Immunity is not a option. I don’t have that power and I don’t have time to get it. Your choices are pain or no pain. And you have five seconds to decide.”
There was no immediate response, which really pissed Seamus off. He realized he had a short fuse, but given what he had been through today, who could blame him?
He pressed his finger into the wound on the man’s forehead.
The man screamed. “I’ll talk! I will! I’ll talk!”
“Thank you,” Seamus said, smiling. “I appreciate a positive attitude. Now tell me where the operations base is. Don’t hold anything back or-”
Seamus was cut off by a sharp blow to the back of his skull. He lost his balance and fell forward, tumbling into the broken glass.
His head ached, and he had trouble seeing clearly, but he rolled over onto his back, trying to react, trying to salvage himself before it was too late…
He looked up.
Harold Bemis was hovering over him, clutching a metal jewelry case.
Guess the geek wasn’t quite as harmless as I thought, Seamus realized dazedly.
“Why the heck couldn’t you just stay in the car with Arlo?” Bemis said in a nasal, high-pitched voice. “Now we’re going to have to kill you.”
C hristina sat in her office and stewed. She was embarrassed at herself and her lack of productivity, but she just couldn’t help it.
She was worried about her husband.
She had canceled the interviews with the three candidates for the associate’s position. With missiles flying through the skies, the couldn’t focus on business. Besides, she didn’t like deciding on these business matters without Ben. Even if he was currently “of counsel,” he was still her partner, in every possible way, and she preferred working with him to working without him.
And the fact that he wasn’t here just reminded her that she didn’t know specifically where he was or what kind of danger he might be facing. Ben was a good man, smart as they came, in an intellectual sort of way. Not necessarily in a self-preservational sort of way. When things got sticky, he needed her there. She had a different kind of smarts: seat-of-the-pants, save-your-neck street smarts. She filled his gaps. That’s why the relationship worked so well, in her opinion. That, plus the fact that he was the most terrific man she had ever known.
Thank goodness he had managed to make that call to her. At least she knew he was alive. But the call had raised almost as many concerns as it assuaged. She would never really feel safe until this crisis-whatever it was-was over and she and Ben had their arms wrapped around each other again, preferably in bed. Only then would the story come to an end.
She heard a knock on the office door.
Jones poked his head through the opening. “Anything I can do for you?”
“No, thanks. I’m inconsolable.”
“Make a decision on the associate?”
“No, I can’t. Toss a coin.”
“Tempting, but I think I’ll wait for you to pick.” He paused. “That guy at LexiCo is still calling.”
“Take a message.”
He frowned. “In my role as office manager, client relations come within my purview, and I think-”
“Stow it, Jones.”
“Ooookay.” He thought a moment. “Look, I’ve been monitoring the news. So far, no one knows anything.”
“Like who blew up the Jefferson Memorial?”
“If CNN knows, they’re not talking.”
“Then they don’t know. Is there a pending threat? Are there going to be more explosions?”
“Beats me. But the general consensus seems to be that the danger is not over.”
She pressed her lips together.
“I’m sure Ben’s fine,” Jones hastened to add.
“I’m sure he is, too. But I still want to see him.”
“I know.” Jones shuffled his feet on the carpet a minute. “I’m going out. Anything you want?”
“I want my husband!”
He nodded. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything.” He closed the door behind him.
Great. Now she felt guilty, too. She hadn’t meant to be sharp with Jones. She wasn’t fit for human companionship right now.
It just wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. She and Ben hadn’t even been married that long. She had waited so long for this! To think that she might lose him just when-
Just when she had a message she wanted to give him. She glanced at her watch. She would give it another hour. Tops. Try to get some work done. And if nothing happened by then…
Then she would make something happen.
The president requested a short recess before the next witness was called, and Admiral Cartwright granted it-with a strong emphasis on the word short. Kyler and Ben stepped into the small adjoining room where the president had received his initial briefing from the Secret Service agents.
“Ben,” the president said, “I appreciate all you’re trying to do for me. But this trial isn’t off to a good start.”
“I know,” Ben said, “and I’m sorry. Swinburne turned out to be a much sharper prosecutor than I expected. Has he been to law school?”
“No, he came straight out of the oil industry. But I think he has all the DVDs of the old Perry Mason series.”
“Well, that explains it.”
“There’s something you need to know about that jury you’ve got.” President Kyler leaned forward and spoke confidentially. “I know you’re probably thinking we have the edge, since I appointed them. You’re probably thinking they’ll be loyal, indebted, or at least self-interested enough to keep me in office. But the truth is I just barely won this thing, as you know. If Florida had gone the other way, I’d be toast.
I had such a thin mandate, I had to make compromises when I selected my cabinet. Try to appeal to all interested parties.”
“And how does this relate to the current trial?”
“What I’m saying, Ben, is that at least half the people in the cabinet, I don’t really know or like all that much. And the feeling is mutual.”
Well, that was just peachy. “Any other secrets you’d like to let me in on?”
“Yeah.” Anytime his client broke eye contact, Ben knew it was going to be bad. This time proved no exception. “The truth is-I haven’t been feeling… quite myself.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know exactly. I just don’t feel quite… right.”
“Are you telling me you have a problem?”
“I don’t know what it is.”
“Let’s cut to the chase, Mr. President. Should you step down?”
“No! No!” He waved his hands in the air. Ben had never seen the man look weaker. Was he doing the right thing here, trying to keep him in office? Or should he step aside and let the Swinburne locomotive take the presidency? “You can’t do that. I mean-you shouldn’t. You can’t. You know what Swinburne would do.”
“Pull our troops out of Kuraq.”
“Exactly.”
“And that would be bad.”
“We cannot do that!” the president insisted. Ben wasn’t sure if this was a show of strength or desperation. “We can’t abandon our troops. And especially not the men and women who went down in that helicopter.”
Ben stared into the man’s eyes, wondering what was going on in there. He felt more confused than ever.
“Mr. President, please just answer this one question for me. I’ve seen you experience these… episodes. Twice now. How do you explain them?”
The president shook his head helplessly. “I can’t.”
Ben winced. “Do you remember them?”
“Yes. No. I mean-sort of. It’s… hazy.”
“Do you feel as if you lose control?”
“No. I mean-I feel like I’m in control, but afterward… it’s like being drunk. Have you ever been drunk, Ben?”
“Can I plead the Fifth?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not incompetent. And I’m not crazy.”
Ben swallowed. “Mr. President, forgive me for saying so, but it sounds to me as if there is… something going on inside your brain. Something not right.”
“I’ve been under enormous stress. Did you not hear what the doctor said? The question is whether I’m competent to govern. I don’t have to be perfect. Just competent.”
Ben supposed that was true enough.
“And I am competent. More than that. I’m ready and able to work. And I won’t sell this country out when the going gets tough, like Swinburne wants to do. Not on my watch.”
Ben nodded. He wasn’t sure what was going on with the president. But, at least for the moment, he seemed capable, if not a tower of strength. And he shouldn’t be displaced just because his ambitious vice president differed with him on a matter of foreign policy.
And he had done that favor for Christina. Ben would never forget that.
“All right, then,” Ben said. “I’m sure they’re getting agitated out there. Let’s go back. And I’ll try to do a better job with the next witness than I did with the last.”
Ben reentered the main room, followed by his client, the president of the United States. Now that, he thought, was a line he’d never expected to see on his résumé.
As he made his way back to his station at the table, he passed close to the secretary of defense, Albert Rybicki. He felt something brush up against his hand.
He looked down quickly.
Rybicki had just passed him a note.
What was this, grade school? Was note passing really necessary? But when he thought about it for a moment, he realized that, trapped down here in this pressure cooker with everyone else, it would be very difficult to have a private conversation-and impossible to do it without the others knowing.
So he palmed the note and remained quiet.
As soon as he was back in his chair, Ben casually unfolded the note, careful not to attract attention.
Beware Ruiz, it said. He’ll do anything to get our troops out.
Down at the bottom, in smaller writing, Ben saw a postscript: Ask about Apollo.
The sun god? The corporation Ben used to work for, way back when?
What did it mean?
Ben glanced up at Rybicki and made a curt nod. Rybicki returned nothing. Ben really wanted to ask a follow-up question or six, but he got the distinct impression Rybicki would not welcome it. If he had wanted to chat, he wouldn’t have passed a note.
Rybicki wanted to be helpful without anyone else knowing about it.
Interesting.
What was going on in this cabinet? Was Ruiz another dissident who was not really friendly toward the president? How many others like him and Swinburne were there, people working with this president but more than willing to bring him down given the opportunity?
In a way, Ben was almost sympathetic; he had opposed the latest Iraq war and he had always believed he would do anything to get the troops out. But did that include undermining the commander in chief? In effect, a political coup? Plus Kuraq was not Iraq. What Zuko proposed in Benzai was genocide, pure and simple, and there was little doubt about what would happen to the people who’d gone down in that helicopter if Zuko found them first. Should Kyler be deposed because he didn’t want to see those people slaughtered?
Somehow, that just didn’t seem right, even if the ultimate goal-saving the troops-was understandable.
Ben’s reverie was broken as Swinburne called his next witness. “Your honor, I’ll call Michael Ruiz to the stand.”
Ben couldn’t help wondering about the coincidence-or was it?-as he watched the man take his seat on the makeshift witness stand. First Rybicki had warned him about Ruiz-and now he was being called to the stand. Had Rybicki known he would be next? If so, how much more did he know? Had there been a conversation of import in here while Ben was in the other room?
Swinburne began with an abbreviated run-through of Ruiz’s qualifications. It was even briefer than Albertson’s. Although some of the cabinet members might not have known the president’s doctor, they all knew the secretary of state. Most of them had worked with him at one time or another. He had been in Democratic politics for most of his adult life, had served four years as an ambassador to the Court of St. James, and had briefly served as national security advisor for the last Democratic president. There was no question-when it came to foreign policy, Ruiz knew what he was talking about.
“I’m sure everyone reads the newspapers,” Swinburne said, “and is aware that Kuraq is currently a hot spot of unrest, but they may not know all the salient points about that nation and its dictator, or their relationship to the United States. Could you please give them all a quick and dirty primer on the situation? Sort of a Kuraq for Dummies?”
Ruiz smiled slightly, then complied. “Kuraq is located in the Middle East, with one border on the Gulf of Hormuz. Although a relatively small nation, it is a major oil producer and a member of OPEC. It ships millions of barrels of oil each year into the world market via tankers traveling out of the Gulf. This export has made it important to the global economy, not only to the United States but also to Russia, China, and many other nations.
“Unfortunately,” Ruiz continued, “like all too many of the nation-states in this region, its importance to the world economy is accompanied by a perpetually unstable government. Kuraq has been buffeted through a series of different leaders going back to the fifties, many of them theocrats. Diplomatic relations with the United States have varied depending upon the reliability of the government in question.”
“If you would, sir, please give us the essentials about Colonel Zuko.”
“Zuko is a military leader who managed to take over the country from the previous Sunni religious leader. Like Osama bin Laden and so many other honchos in this region, he fought in Afghanistan in the 1980s against the Russian invasion, with the United States. Yes, that’s right. He was on our side back then. His later enmity toward us has nothing to do with Israel and nothing to do with oil. It’s all about Afghanistan, specifically the way the United States abandoned Afghanistan after we won there against Russia. And let’s face it-the man has a point. What we did in Afghanistan was shameful. We left the nation in total disarray. No infrastructure whatsoever. No educational system, no working economy. Our attitude was, as long as the Commies aren’t invading, we’ll take our money and go home. Millions were left destitute, hungry. This tumultuous situation gave rise to groups such as the Taliban and al-Qaeda, many of the strongest terrorist enemies of the United States.
“Colonel Zuko didn’t resort to terrorism, at least not initially. He had lived in the West. Been educated at Oxford. It’s possible this gave him a different perspective on geopolitics. At any rate, he preferred to work with the military and to strengthen his home nation from within. His plan was to build Kuraq up first, then go after revenge against the United States. It was a smart plan. He was one of the first to use the army he controlled domestically to shore up struggling businesses and maximize oil production. As Kuraq’s economy became more robust, so did his control. By the onset of this decade, Kuraq had one of the strongest economies in the region. That was when Zuko decided it was time to control more than just the military. He staged a coup, planned so effectively and efficiently that it was almost bloodless. He removed the religious leaders and took over, though careful the whole time to do so in the name of ‘the one true religion.’ In a sense, he didn’t replace the theocracy. He simply replaced the previous ayatollah with himself. The only difference is, this ayatollah has an iron grip on the army.”
Ruiz looked up. “So you can see the difficulty. When one guy controls a booming economy, the military, and the religious establishment, good luck getting rid of him.”
“Do we want to get rid of him?” Swinburne asked.
“Certainly the president would like to do so.” Ben noticed that Ruiz was looking up and to the right-careful not to let his eyes wander anywhere near the president of whom he spoke. Was he one of the cabinet members not all that attached to their commander in chief? “He’s been obsessed with the desire to topple Zuko almost from the first moment he took office.”
“Objection,” Ben said. “The witness is, at best, expressing an opinion. Not stating facts.”
Cartwright nodded. “The court would appreciate it if the witness would limit his testimony to what he has actually seen and heard.”
Ruiz nodded obediently. “Yes, your honor.”
Swinburne resumed. “Can you tell us the first time you recall the president addressing the subject of Kuraq or Colonel Zuko?”
“Of course. I’m sure you recall that just a few days after the president took office, an unidentified terrorist bombed our marine headquarters in Lebanon. No one took credit in the immediate aftermath, and we were scrambling to determine what had happened. We were getting intelligence reports from all over the world, most of them contradictory and inconclusive. But when it came time for the first briefing and planning session, the first day after the incident, the president sat down and immediately said, ‘Tell me what Zuko has to do with this.’”
“What did that question suggest to you?”
“What it suggested was that the president had already determined that Zuko was responsible or, worse, that he wanted to pin it on Zuko regardless of what really happened. I found that appalling. We were trying to find out what happened, but the president didn’t seem to care. He just wanted Zuko’s head. As you know, in the weeks that followed, his rhetoric against Kuraq only increased. First he applied the most extreme economic sanctions. Insisted upon a total embargo of the country, which resulted in short- and long-term shortages of food and medicine within the country. Soon thereafter we were sending troops and positioning them just outside Kuraq’s borders.”
“Excuse me,” Swinburne said, “but weren’t those troops sent in response to the Kuraqi occupation of the Benzai Strip?”
“That was the official explanation. Whether you want to believe it or not is another matter.”
“Is there any reason to doubt it?”
“As I already mentioned, the president seemed strangely preoccupied with Zuko and his country. And there was nothing new about their claim to the Benzai Strip.”
“Moving in troops was new, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. But Zuko’s explanation was that he needed to seize their food and medicine stockpiles to help his own people, which is understandable under the circumstances. Outside aid was still reaching Benzai, but not Kuraq.”
“What about the alleged genocide?”
“I would put a heavy emphasis on the word alleged. A few people were killed during the struggles relating to the initial occupation, but we haven’t confirmed any deaths since. We hear rumors of Zuko’s genocidal plans-but so far there has been no known attempt to actually start a massacre. That’s why the president has been unable to get support for a UN resolution against Kuraq.”
“They haven’t found any evidence of genocide, either?”
“No. In the eyes of too many around the world, this looks like another excuse for American imperialism. We come up with excuses for every invasion we’ve made into the Middle East, but in the eyes of many, those excuses are just that-rationalizations for doing what we want to do, even if it amounts to little more in reality than a war of aggression or a flat-out theft of natural and economic resources.”
Swinburne stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Is there any reason the president would be so obsessed with Kuraq?”
“Objection,” Ben said. He suspected this one was not going to do much good, but at the very least it would interrupt the flow of this damaging assault on the president’s credibility. “Calls for speculation about a third party’s motives.”
“Not really,” Swinburne responded. “The question goes toward the president’s mental state. Shows that he may not be exercising the intellectual prowess we would want from our president. That is very relevant to this proceeding.”
“No,” Ben insisted. “The fact that the president may have a different opinion than the secretary of state does not in any way suggest mental instability. Surely we’re mature enough to be able to differ without labeling opposing viewpoints as crazy.”
“I understand what you’re saying,” Admiral Cartwright said. “But I think this is relevant. I’m going to allow it. I will caution the witness to avoid speculation, however.”
Ben frowned. This was not going to be helpful. He felt certain Ruiz could accomplish his goals without violating the judge’s rule against speculation-at least not too obviously.
“I think President Kyler blames Zuko for taking away his honeymoon. You know, the first one hundred days or so of a new presidency when the press and the public are still excited and his approval ratings are high and a president can typically start instituting a good deal of his campaign agenda. The bombing so preoccupied political thought that Kyler didn’t get that grace period. But why he assumes that Zuko was responsible and has obsessed on him so, I just couldn’t tell you. It doesn’t seem rational to me.”
“Objection,” Ben said, rising.
“I’m sorry,” Ruiz said quickly. “I don’t mean to testify about the president’s mental state.”
Ben found this apology profoundly unconvincing.
“I’m just trying to understand why I and many others at State were mystified,” Ruiz continued. “It didn’t make any sense. There are worse dictators in the world, and bigger threats to the security of our nation. North Korea. Pakistan. Just to name two.”
“Maybe he’s just being careful,” Swinburne suggested. “Is there any downside to being careful?”
“In this case, yes. Kyler has committed so many of our resources to this region that, in the event that a real threat developed, we would be hard-pressed to mount an effective response quickly. Furthermore, it’s extremely damaging to world opinion about the United States. I just don’t think the rest of the world is going to tolerate another Middle Eastern invasion by American forces. At least not unless we have positive proof that they were behind the bombing. Or that people are being slaughtered in Benzai. And at present we don’t.”
“Have you seen any further evidence that the president is obsessed with some kind of personal revenge against Zuko?”
“Objection, leading.” Ben hated to make so many objections. He knew that excessive objections irritated the jury, who usually would like to hear the answer to any question interesting enough to draw an objection. He could only imagine the effect on a group of cabinet members, people used to getting their information in succinct briefings, and in this case, people who could see the deadline till the next missile launch approaching all too quickly.
Cartwright tilted his head to one side. “Well… it was a leading question, Mr. Swinburne. Do you understand what we mean by that term?”
“I think I’ve got the general idea, judge. I’ll try again.” Swinburne cleared his throat. “Have you observed any indications of what might be the basis for the president’s preoccupation with Kuraq?”
“I think he wants revenge,” Ruiz said.
Ben rolled his eyes. Swinburne had used the inappropriate leading question to tell Ruiz how he wanted him to answer. If he needed cash after his vice presidency, he could have a fine career as a prosecutor.
“Why would he want revenge?”
“The attack could have come during the previous administration. Whoever was behind the attack seems to have purposely waited until Kyler was in office before they made the strike. But there seems to be more to it than even that.”
“How do you mean?”
“It’s hard to explain. It’s almost as if there were… some sort of grudge match between Kyler and Zuko. As if the president has personal reasons for wanting to put him down. I’m sorry I can’t explain it any better. But it really does seem to have a personal aspect to it.”
“And how is that not speculation?” Ben said, rising.
“The man’s doing the best he can on short notice,” Cartwright said curtly. “It’s not as if they’ve had time to rehearse their testimony.”
Point taken. Ben sat down.
“One last question, Mr. Secretary. Excluding what you have witnessed today in the bunker-I assume everyone has already heard enough about that-have you observed any behavior by the president that you considered irrational?”
“I think sending troops to the Kuraqi border was irrational. More than just a mistake. It was wrong on so many levels that I believe it was not the action of a man in full control of his faculties. I think his ongoing aggression toward a petty Middle Eastern dictator shows a lack of clear reasoning. And I think his refusal to withdraw troops when Zuko has control of our ballistic missiles and possibly a nuclear suitcase is positively insane!”
“Objection,” Ben said again. “He’s not qualified to render that opinion.”
“I don’t think he’s using the term in the sense of a medical diagnosis,” Cartwright said. “He’s just saying that what has happened doesn’t make any sense to him.”
“That’s exactly right,” Ruiz said.
“So your objection is overruled. Honestly, Mr. Kincaid, we need to move faster so we can get this job done within our deadline.”
Ben sat down, frowning. And by “this job,” did the judge mean simply finishing this trial-or booting Kyler out of office?
“I have no more questions,” Swinburne said. “But before we proceed any further, judge, I have to ask if we can’t bring this matter to an immediate close.”
Ben stood beside him. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m just trying to be reasonable. This isn’t a real trial.”
“It isn’t?”
“We can be flexible. And we’ve already had evidence of the president’s irrational decision making, of erratic behavior, of a life-threatening medical condition that could potentially affect his reasoning and that for all we know may be the cause of his unstable behavior.”
“Is this a motion,” Ben asked, “or a closing argument?”
“I just think we’ve heard enough, judge. And we have too little time before Zuko strikes again. I say we ask the cabinet members for an immediate vote. Right now.”
“What?” Ben said incredulously. “I haven’t called a witness. I haven’t even cross-examined this one.”
Swinburne shrugged. “I just don’t see that it will make any difference.”
“I’m sure you don’t,” Ben replied. “And I’m sure every prosecutor would like to end the trial before the defense has a chance to put on their case.”
“I’m not-”
“Gentlemen, please.” Admiral Cartwright held up his hands. “I understand what you’re saying, Swinburne, but I think due process-”
“Due process may be fine for other trials,” Swinburne said, “but not when deadly missiles could be fired at any minute!”
Cartwright’s expression darkened. If Ben had had any doubts before about how quickly and thoroughly he had taken to the role of a judge, it disappeared instantly when he saw that-like every other judge on earth-Cartwright did not like to be interrupted.
“Mr. Vice President, I know you’re not trained as a lawyer, so let me give you the basics right now. You never interrupt the judge. Never!”
“But-” Swinburne started, though he had the good sense to stop before it went far.
“Believe me, no one is more aware of that ticking clock than I am. But we can’t honestly say that the Constitution has been honored if we haven’t given Kincaid a chance to put on a defense.”
“Exactly,” Ben said.
“Now, if you’d like to speed things up, Mr. Swinburne, you can rest your case with this witness.”
Swinburne looked down at the floor and made a grumbling noise. “Well, I have one more person I want to call.”
“Then why don’t we dispense with this preemptive strike and get on with it? Motion overruled.”
Well, at least it wasn’t going to be over that quickly, Ben thought as he returned to his position at the table. Although he had to wonder whether it would ultimately make any difference.
Before he launched into his cross, he took a card from Secretary Rybicki’s deck and passed the president a note: Why does Ruiz think your actions in Kuraq are personal?
The president responded with lightning speed: Because they are.
Ben crumpled the note in his hand and put it safely into his pocket. This was just great. They would have to talk later. For now, he needed to cross-examine this witness.
“Mr. Secretary, your testimony seems to express your opinion that the president is not acting objectively.”
“To say the least,” Ruiz replied.
“Are you?”
Ruiz seemed taken aback at the question. He stumbled a few moments before answering. “I-I believe so.”
“To me, sir, you seem just as rigid in your belief that we should not be in Kuraq as the president is in his belief that we should.”
“I hardly think-”
“Would it be fair to say you have made up your mind on this subject?”
“Well, yes.”
“And you firmly believe that we should pull out of Kuraqi waters?”
“Yes.”
“So how do you differentiate your firmness-some might say your obsession-from the president’s? They sound like much the same thing to me.”
“But my decision is based on a rational analysis of the available facts.”
“And we know that how?”
“Well-because-because-”
“I’m sure if we ask him-and we will-the president will say exactly the same thing. I’m sorry, Mr. Secretary, but it sounds to me as if you’re labeling the president’s decision making as irrational and insane because he has the temerity to hold an opinion different from your own.”
“No, not at all.”
“This isn’t really about the president’s purported insanity. It’s about your intolerance!”
“Hear, hear,” the president said, clapping.
Cartwright thumped the table. “The defendant will refrain from comment and interruption!” he barked. Then he added, as an afterthought, “Even if he is, you know, the president of the United States.”
Ben couldn’t help smiling.
“Let me explain something,” Ruiz said, sounding a little strained. “I’ve been working in the foreign policy arena for almost twenty years. I know my stuff. So I probably don’t have as much patience as I might when I know someone is making a wrongheaded decision. I’m sure you feel the same way, Mr. Kincaid, when someone makes an incorrect statement about the law. But this goes far beyond just making a bad decision. This is a position that simply makes no rational sense-especially now, when we’re under attack from our own missiles!”
“Have you never before heard anyone say that they will not negotiate with terrorists?”
“Well, of course.”
“Is that irrational?”
“No, not-”
“Isn’t that basically what the president is saying now?”
“Perhaps that’s what he’s saying, but I think there’s a lot more to it. Even Ronald Reagan, the cold warrior, ended up working with terrorists in the Iran-contra mess. He didn’t like it, but he thought it was necessary given the circumstances. Similarly, President Kyler needs to realize that this is a time when he needs to step back, if only temporarily, and give Zuko what he wants. For the security of the nation.”
“But other leaders have stuck to the no-negotiation policy, have they not? Even when there were serious consequences? And they weren’t removed from office. Right?”
“I suppose. But-”
“Thank you, Mr. Secretary. You’ve answered the question.” Ben tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that he had gained something. It might not be much, but it was something. “And speaking of bias, sir, didn’t we hear earlier that you know-or at least knew-Colonel Zuko personally?”
“Yes. I knew him slightly in college. So?”
“Well, perhaps that’s why you don’t think he’s as much of a threat as the president does. You still remember the larky good ol’ days going to keggers and frat parties.”
Ruiz’s upper lip actually curled. “They don’t have fraternities at Oxford. But I suppose you wouldn’t know that.”
“No, I wouldn’t. I went to school in Oklahoma, where everyone has the sense to know that anyone crazy enough to seize control of our missile systems is a serious threat.”
“I know he’s a threat,” Ruiz said, cutting off Swinburne’s objection. “I just don’t believe the president is handling the threat in the right way. And to continue sending in troops when we can’t get him out of our computers is nuts!”
“Isn’t it possible that Zuko might back off when he sees our troops marching up his front lawn?”
“I think the U.S. East Coast will be gone before that happens.”
“That’s your prediction. I asked if it was possible.”
“Anything’s possible.”
“So it’s possible the president is right.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I didn’t ask what you think. I asked if it’s possible.”
“I suppose. Remotely possible. Very remotely. More remote than the Andromeda galaxy.”
“But possible.”
“Remotely.”
Well, at least he’d gotten that concession. If you could call it that. But there was still something nagging at the corners of Ben’s brain.
“Secretary Ruiz, didn’t we learn earlier that your relationship with Colonel Zuko is deeper than a mere college friendship? That he actually contributed to your first political campaign?”
Ruiz shrugged his shoulders. “It was a tiny contribution. Maybe five hundred dollars. I don’t really remember.”
“And he never contributed again to any subsequent campaign?”
“No.” He paused. “Colonel Zuko never contributed to any of my subsequent campaigns.”
Ben thought a moment. Something about the way Ruiz said it bothered him. Yes, he looked up and to the right as he said it. His good friend police detective Mike Morelli had told him once that that was the sure sign of someone who either had extreme attention deficit issues-or was lying. But Ben also noted the way he’d said it. He hadn’t used the pronoun he, as one normally would in response, since Ben had just used his name. Instead he’d said “Colonel Zuko never contributed”-as if he were making some sort of distinction in his own mind.
“Secretary Ruiz, did someone else make a contribution to your subsequent campaigns?”
Ruiz’s brow knitted. “I would guess something like several thousand people made contributions to my subsequent campaigns. What are you getting at?”
“I’m asking about contributions that may be relevant to this proceeding.”
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”
Ben thought for a moment. He felt certain he was close to something. He just wasn’t sure how to get there.
Beside him, he saw President Kyler tilting his head and making bug eyes. Was he having another episode? No, he was trying to tell Ben something.
And then he remembered Rybicki’s note.
“Secretary Ruiz, did you ever receive any contributions from… Apollo?”
As soon as he spoke the word, Ben saw Swinburne twitch a little. That was a good sign.
Ruiz leaned forward slightly, looking confused. Ben was pretty sure he wasn’t. “Apollo?”
“Yes. You know what it is, don’t you?”
Ruiz looked at Swinburne. Swinburne looked away. On your own, buddy.
“Are you… talking about the energy company?”
Ben took a shot. “Obviously.”
“Sure. I’ve heard of it. Hasn’t everyone?”
“And did they contribute to your campaigns?”
Ruiz acted nonchalant. “I… think they may have done so on occasion.”
“And what’s their connection to Colonel Zuko?”
“Is there one?”
Ben was getting tired of this cat-and-mouse game. “Yes, there is one, and I want you to stop wasting our time and tell the cabinet about it right now.”
Ben saw Swinburne twitch again. He was probably thinking about objecting but didn’t want to do so in a futile effort that might give the appearance he was trying to cover something up.
“I don’t know any of this firsthand.”
“Tell us what you do know, Secretary.”
“It’s my understanding that Apollo may have some drilling leases… in Kuraq.”
At long last. “And that would require the express consent and involvement of Colonel Zuko, right?”
“I suppose so. He pretty much runs the whole economy.”
“And if the colonel is removed from office, Apollo would lose those leases.”
“It’s possible.”
“So Apollo has a direct financial interest in the perpetuation of the colonel’s dirty little dictatorship.”
“I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t. Because Apollo has you deep in its pockets.”
“Objection,” Swinburne said. “I don’t know what the technical ground would be, but that can’t be permissible.”
“I think the ground might be that it’s argumentative,” Cartwright suggested. “Or perhaps failure to ask a question.”
“Fine. I object because of those.”
“Objection granted. Mr. Kincaid, you’ve made your point. Save the rest for your closing.”
Sound advice, but Ben wasn’t ready to take it. “Secretary Ruiz, are you suggesting that your relationship with Apollo doesn’t have any impact on your reasoning?”
“Exactly.”
“Then why were you trying to cover it up?”
“I wasn’t!”
“Well, you certainly weren’t forthcoming.”
“I didn’t see what it had to do with the matter at hand. I still don’t!”
“Let me ask you a hypothetical question, Mr. Secretary. If you found out a member of your staff had been receiving money from a company with financial holdings in North Korea, would you send him out there to negotiate a nuclear arms treaty?”
“Of course not. But that’s totally-”
“So you admit that financial interests could potentially influence decision making?”
“No. I mean-sure, but I don’t-” He paused and took a deep breath to clear the befuddlement. “Look, just because Apollo contributed a little campaign money does not mean they own me.”
“So I guess you’ve never done a favor for someone who contributed to your campaign?”
“Well…”
“Of course you have. Probably everyone has. The question is, how do we know you’re not paying back a campaign contribution right now?”
Swinburne shouted his objection, but Ben plowed on ahead. “How do we know you’re not paying Apollo back by protecting their leases-by ensuring that Colonel Zuko remains in office?”
Cartwright banged on the table, Ruiz protested-and Ben kept right on going.
“How do we know you’re not trying to help out your buddies at Apollo-and the colonel-by eliminating his greatest threat, the president, and advocating the removal of our troops from Kuraq?”
Ruiz rose to his feet. “That’s preposterous!” he shouted. His words echoed through the tiny room. His face was red. “I would never do that. It’s just a contribution. It’s-”
“No more questions,” Ben said, turning away.
“But I’m not done,” Ruiz sputtered.
“Apparently you are,” Admiral Cartwright said. “Please step down.”
“But he’s accusing me-”
“We all heard it, Secretary. We don’t need a recap. Step down!”
Ruiz reluctantly tucked his head and left the witness chair. Ben wanted to lean over and give Secretary Rybicki a big kiss, but he restrained himself. If the man wanted to remain in the background, so be it. His intel had salvaged that cross-examination and, Ben hoped, given the cabinet members a reason to disregard Ruiz’s testimony.
But would that be enough to make them disregard the disturbing image of the president of the United States singing the theme from The Brady Bunch while the world was on the brink of disaster? That was another question altogether. And as long as they held that image in their heads, it would be hard not to vote him out of his office.
Seamus lay helplessly on the department store floor, gazing up at the high-level geek who had just knocked the hell out of him and sent him crashing down into the shattered glass.
Life was just full of ironies sometimes.
“So… what do you want me to do next?” Harold Bemis said, in a voice so shockingly high that Seamus wondered if it was possible the man had not yet been through puberty. Who would know? He doubted there were any women who could testify on the topic.
The fallen sniper lying only a few feet away slowly pushed himself up. He was cut in about a hundred places and his forehead was caked with blood. He was obviously having trouble seeing. The perfume and blood mixture still stung, but he was managing.
“Son of a bitch,” the assassin growled. As soon as he was fully on his feet, he reared back and kicked Seamus right in the ribs.
Seamus winced. That hurt, and the man had kicked him exactly where he had been injured before. He had suspected he might have damaged a rib earlier. Now he was certain of it.
And just to add a little more pain to the situation, the bastard kicked him again.
“Goddamn Americans,” the man swore. He spat into Seamus’s face. “All you know is the torture!”
Seamus suspected it wouldn’t help him to remind the guy that this had all started because he was trying to kill Seamus in cold blood. Logic probably wasn’t his strong suit.
“Can we get out of here?” Bemis said nervously. “It’s only a matter of time before mall security shows up.”
“Then I will shoot them down like the dogs that they are,” replied the sniper.
“Yeah, unless they get you first. Let’s just get out of here.”
“And let this scum live?”
Bemis shrugged in a goofy way that suggested that he couldn’t decide whether he wanted vanilla or rocky road, not that he was deciding whether someone lived or died. “I don’t care. Whatever you’re going to do, just do it already.”
“Perhaps I should call Ishmael.”
Ishmael, Seamus thought. Almost certainly a code name for some high muckety-muck in the terrorist cell. Of course to him, Ishmael brought to mind Moby Dick. But to these people, it was much more likely a reference to the second son of Abraham. The progenitor of the Islamic faith. The ancestor of Muhammad.
“Don’t you think he has enough on his mind right now? He asked you to bring me to the location. As quickly as possible. I gather there’s a problem.”
“Yes. The military are fighting against your virus. They are making some progress.”
Bemis nodded. “I’m not surprised. I warned him they would react quickly if you announced what you had. Better to just do it.”
“That is not what the colonel wanted.”
“Whatever. We don’t have time for this. Do it and let’s get out of here.”
Seamus glanced one way, then the other. No one was visible. Had no one called in a disturbance?
He looked all around himself for a potential weapon-and found nothing. They had him pinned down like a dead butterfly. There was simply no way he could do anything in time.
The assassin recovered his gun from where it had fallen, then crouched down on one knee and pressed the pistol against Seamus’s left temple.
“If you have a God you pray to, this is your last chance.”
“You know we’ll stop you, don’t you?” Seamus said defiantly. “You and all your buddies. You’ll end up in prison. Or dead.”
“It is you who is about to die.”
“There won’t be any virgins at the penitentiary. And the only sex you’ll be involved with will be exceedingly unpleasant.”
“Goodbye, American pig.” He smiled a little as his finger tightened on the trigger.
At first Seamus couldn’t tell what had happened. The killer looked at him quizzically, then his neck stiffened, and a moment later he dropped to the floor like an anvil.
Keys were sticking out of the back of his neck. Two were embedded deep in his flesh. He wouldn’t be getting up for a good while. If ever.
Seamus didn’t wait for an explanation. He pushed himself up as quickly as possible and grabbed the gun. He whirled around-
Arlo was pointing a weapon at Bemis.
“What are you doing here?”
Arlo kept his eye trained on his fellow geek. “Saving your butt, that’s what.”
“I told you to stay in the car!”
“Well, I disobeyed. Which is why you’re still alive.”
Seamus squinted. “What is that you’ve got, anyway?”
Arlo twitched. “Have you got the gun?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” Arlo flipped the black object around. “It’s a thumb drive. Take it with me everywhere I go.”
Bemis’s brow creased. “I thought it was a taser, man.”
Arlo smiled. “You need to get out more.”
Seamus took the little piece of plastic and metal. “Does it shoot bullets?”
“Nah. It doesn’t do anything, unless you’ve got a USB port. Except it turns out to be useful against particularly stupid archcriminals.”
“I saw you in the car following me, Arlo,” Bemis said. “Why are you helping these clowns?”
“Why are you helping terrorists who are trying to blow up the country? I mean, I knew you were hurting for money, but this is treason!”
Bemis rolled his eyes. “Don’t be stupid. It’s all just a big game.”
“Well, your game almost got me killed this morning, Harold. And almost killed my friend just now.” He grinned. “Until I showed up to save the day.”
“Don’t get too proud of yourself, kid,” Seamus grunted.
“Why? You had a gun, and you ended up flat on your butt. I saved the day with a flash drive and your car keys.”
Seamus decided to let that go. The kid had handled the situation well, even if Seamus was never going to admit it aloud.
He grabbed Bemis by the collar. “Tell me. Now.”
“I-I don’t know what you want.”
“I think you do,” Seamus said, tightening his grip. “Spill it. Where’s the operations base? Where are they controlling the satellite?”
“I don’t know,” he said helplessly.
Seamus didn’t want to believe him, but at this point, he seemed well past any ability to dissemble. Or to do anything else other than possibly wet himself. “Didn’t I hear you say you and your friend were going there next?”
“Yeah, but I don’t know where it is. That’s why he was supposed to pick me up here. He was going to take me.”
“You weren’t there when they fired the first two missiles?”
Bemis shook his head furiously. “They didn’t need me.”
“But they do now.”
“Apparently so. I got a text. Want to see it?”
“Yeah. As a matter of fact, I do.” He took Bemis’s cell phone and began punching buttons.
“I think he’s lying,” Arlo said.
“I am not. I never lie.”
“Last week at D.C. Bytes you said you hadn’t done any programming in months.”
“Well… that wasn’t a lie. That was a cover story.”
“Same diff!”
“Children, please,” Seamus said. “I need information, not quarreling.”
Bemis stared up at the ceiling. “I’m not telling you anything. I don’t care what you do to me. I won’t talk.”
“I’ll bet you would. In about ten seconds. But unfortunately, I don’t think you know anything.”
“So I can’t tell you where this base is.”
“Ah,” Seamus said, pressing a hand against his aching rib cage. “That’s where you’re wrong. You’re going to tell me everything I need to know.”
Ben dearly desired to take the president into the other room for another confab, but he knew Cartwright was already impatient with the progress of the trial. Moreover, he’d seen several of the cabinet members on the big screen glancing at their watches. Understandably so-the clock had barely more than a hour left till the colonel had promised to deploy the next missile. He didn’t want to risk their ire by requesting another delay.
Oh, well. If the president had something to tell him, he could always slip him a note.
Swinburne cleared his throat. “Your honor, I’d like to call the president’s chief of staff to the stand. Sarie Morrell.”
Everyone was surprised, but Sarie herself was absolutely stunned. She pressed her hand against her chest. “Me? Why me? I don’t have anything to say to that polecat.”
Swinburne smiled, possibly the creepiest smile Ben had ever seen in his life. “Why don’t we determine that on the witness stand?”
Sarie looked pleadingly at the president. He smiled reassuringly and nodded toward the witness stand.
Sarie headed toward the chair. As she passed Swinburne, Ben heard her mutter under her breath, “You’re making a big mistake.”
Swinburne did not appear particularly threatened.
At first blush, Ben would’ve thought Swinburne was making a mistake, too. Secretary Ruiz’s loyalty to the president might have been in question, but Sarie’s was not. She had been with the president for many campaigns, not just the last one. She had served as his chief of staff when he was governor, too. She was renowned for her efficiency, her hard work, and her dogged devotion to her boss. She was known to go to great lengths, to stay up all night, to plunge into the lion’s den-or a nest of Republicans-to help her boss obtain his goals. Her loyalty was simply not in question.
But Swinburne was not a stupid man.
So why would he call such a potentially dangerous witness?
Well, he wouldn’t, Ben realized. Unless he had a very good reason. Unless he had a specific goal he wanted. Some information he thought he could get out of her.
What did Sarie know?
This time Swinburne didn’t waste time on her credentials or background, even though Ben knew both were impressive. Perhaps he wasn’t interested in making her look good. Perhaps his goal was exactly the opposite.
“Please state your name.”
“Sarah Lynn Morrell.” Ben loved the way her accent gave the last vowel in Morrell about three syllables.
“And your current position?”
“I’m the president’s chief of staff.”
“How long have you worked for him?”
“Counting previous positions, almost fifteen years.”
“So it would be safe to say that you like working for him?”
“Well, I’m not one to abandon ship while it’s still in the water.”
“Would it be safe to say you like the man personally?”
“I’ve never known a better man than Roland Kyler in my entire life. And I’ve known a lot of good men. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was a southerner.”
“And I suppose that makes you somewhat devoted to him?”
“Absolutely.”
Swinburne turned toward Admiral Cartwright. “Judge, given the witness’s obvious inclinations-one might say biases-I ask permission to treat her as a hostile witness.”
Ben arched a eyebrow. For a nonlawyer, he was making a savvy move. If she was a hostile witness, he could ask leading questions. Which might be necessary to lead her into whatever snake pit he wanted to visit.
Cartwright turned toward the witness. “Ms. Morrell, do you understand that Mr. Swinburne wants to declare you to be a hostile witness?”
She frowned. “Hostile isn’t a strong enough word for it.”
“So… that motion will be granted. Proceed.”
Swinburne adjusted the tie of his suit jacket. “Ms. Morrell, please tell the members of the cabinet what happened on the morning of March twenty-eighth.”
She stared back at him blank-faced. “Are you kidding? That was two weeks ago. Do you have any idea how busy I am? How would I know?”
“Are you saying you don’t remember?”
“Can I look at my Filofax?”
“Is it down here?”
“No.” Just as well. If she had used it to refresh her recollection, Swinburne would have had the right to examine the entire calendar. Heaven only knew what he might have found.
“Let me try to help you, Ms. Morrell. That was the day of the Easter egg roll.”
“Oh.” Sarie’s face seemed to flatten, as if someone had sucked all the life out of it.
“Ringing any bells yet?”
“Well… it was a very busy day.”
“No doubt. What happened?”
“Well, of course, they bused in all those schoolchildren. Lots of adorable little runts, most of whom had no idea where they were or why it was important. Dragged here by teachers, followed by parents chasing after bragging points. One kid slugged another over a pink plastic basket. Another tried to urinate in the rosebushes. A fight broke out over who got to stand at the front of the line. So they could chase after those inedible wooden eggs.” She sighed. “Lovely event.”
“And did the president play any role in this festivity?”
“Well, yes. He opened up the ceremony.”
“Was he on time?”
A stricken expression came across Sarie’s face. She looked as if she had been caught in a trap. Perhaps she had. Swinburne was frighteningly well informed.
“No. He did not appear on schedule.”
“What did you do?”
“Well, I’m his chief of staff. A big part of my job is making sure he is where he’s supposed to be. On time. So when he didn’t show up in the Rose Garden, I went to look for him.”
“And did you manage to find him?”
“Eventually. It took a good fifteen minutes.”
“So I will assume, knowing how quickly you move, that he wasn’t in any of the first fifteen or so places you looked for him. Where did you finally find him?”
Sarie pursed her lips. “In the Portrait Hall. Just beyond his secretary’s station outside the Oval Office.”
“And what was he doing there?”
“He was… looking at the pictures.”
“What pictures?”
Sarie took a deep breath, her shoulders heaving. Ben didn’t need a sixth sense to realize this was something she really didn’t want to talk about.
“Each incoming president gets to choose which of the full collection of presidential portraits in the White House gallery they wish to have hanging in the hallway, where they are bound to see them almost every day. Most everyone keeps Washington and Lincoln, but there’s room for more. Clinton chose Jefferson, because he was named for him. Dubya chose his father, an obvious gesture of respect. Reagan chose Coolidge, because… well, no one really knows why he chose Coolidge. Silent Cal had been in the basement so long they weren’t sure they could get all the dust off him.”
Even Swinburne smiled a little. “And whom did President Kyler choose?”
“Kennedy. And FDR.”
“And what was he doing in the gallery with these pictures?”
Sarie looked away. “Well, I don’t know that he was doing anything, exactly…”
“Ms. Morrell,” Swinburne said sternly, “you are under oath. Tell the cabinet members what he was doing.”
She sighed. “He was talking to them.”
Beside him, Ben saw the president avert his eyes, toward the floor.
A discernible susurrus flowed through the room. Swinburne appeared incredulous, although Ben suspected he wasn’t even surprised. He must’ve known what he was fishing for. “He was talking to the portraits?”
“Oh, you know how you do when you’re alone and you don’t think anyone is listening. You just start saying your thoughts out loud. It’s no big deal. I remember a deb who talked to the centerpiece at her coming-out party.”
“What exactly was he saying?”
Sarie squirmed uncomfortably in her chair. “I believe they-I mean he-was talking about… God.”
Swinburne blinked. “God?”
“Sure. I guess you’re probably unfamiliar, but he’s the head deity who created the universe and-”
“I know who God is, Ms. Morrell,” Swinburne said, confirming what Ben had long suspected: he had no sense of humor whatsoever. “What was the president saying about God to the inanimate portraits on the wall?”
“He was asking JFK if he believed in God.”
Swinburne nodded several times. “And did he?”
“Objection,” Ben said, without great hope. Mostly he just wanted to break up Swinburne’s maniacal flow. “How are JFK’s religious beliefs relevant to the matter at hand?”
“The point of the testimony,” Swinburne said with a sneer, “is to demonstrate the depth of the president’s delusional mental state.”
Cartwright nodded. “I’m afraid I’ll have to allow it.”
“So,” Swinburne said to Sarie, “did JFK believe in God?”
“JFK didn’t answer,” she said, smiling. “At least not so as I could hear him.”
“What did the president have to say on the subject?”
“He said he wondered about JFK’s immortal soul. He said that JFK mentioned God from time to time but that he doesn’t seem to have been very religious. He mentioned that JFK didn’t seem to observe at least one of the Ten Commandments.”
“I see.”
“He wondered if JFK had placed his faith in God when his PT boat was sunk. Then he asked FDR if he lost his faith when he contracted polio. And he asked about FDR’s lack of attention to the same commandment.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, I didn’t just stand there eavesdropping. I went to finishing school, you know. I have manners.”
“Of course. What did you do next?”
“I cleared my throat and made a lot of noise. I didn’t want to startle or embarrass him. Then I approached and laid my hand on his shoulder and told him the kiddies were waiting.”
“What did he say?”
“He… didn’t answer at first.”
“And then?”
Sarie looked like a caged cougar. Ben wondered how many other people knew this story-and who might have been able to call her on it if she hadn’t come forward with the details. “Then I noticed that he was crying. Big-time tears. All over his face.”
“Crying. I see. Did he say anything?”
“Yeah. He grabbed my hand and asked me if I would pray with him.”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, you heard what I said, you big bowl of grits. He wanted me to pray with him.”
“And what was your response?”
“Well, I’m aware there is some precedent for this sort of thing in the White House. I didn’t see as it would hurt anything. And we were celebrating a religious holiday. In a pagan sort of way.”
“So you prayed with him.”
“Sure. Why not? Nothing I didn’t do every week back at the Southern Baptist church in Birmingham. He did all the talking.”
“What did he say?”
“He prayed for guidance. He prayed for insight. And he prayed for, um, his immortal soul.”
“His immortal soul? Did he actually use those words?”
“He did.”
“Was there something he was concerned about? Felt guilty about?”
“If there was, he didn’t share.”
“Did he pray for anything else?”
“Yes. He also, um-” She cleared her throat. “He prayed for God to forgive JFK and FDR for their marital indiscretions and to take their souls up to heaven.”
“I see,” Swinburne said, steepling his hands. “How thoughtful of him.”
“Yeah. I thought so.”
“How did he look when all this took place?”
“I don’t know what you mean. He looked like himself.”
“Eyes, complexion, posture…?”
“His eyes were red, but he had been crying. His face seemed red, too. Kinda puffy. He’s so tan, though, sometimes it’s hard to tell about that. He was slouching. He didn’t have his presidential aura. He seemed tired.”
“And what happened after that?”
“Nothing. After we finished with the praying, he cleaned up a bit, then followed me outside and opened the egg roll. Just like nothing had ever happened.”
“No more odd behavior.”
“No. He was completely himself again.”
“But for a time, when he was talking to the pictures and all-he did not seem himself?”
Sarie thought for a moment. She had pretty much opened herself up to this one with her last remark, and she knew it. “I suppose not. Or perhaps it was just a side to him I hadn’t seen before.”
“In fifteen years of working with him.”
“Right.” Her eyes lowered. “Right.”
“Ms. Morrell, since President Kyler took office, how many other such erratic episodes have there been? Instances of the president behaving oddly.”
Ben wanted to object-it was clearly a leading question and assumed facts not in evidence. But since she was a hostile witness-albeit a pretty cooperative one-he knew Swinburne could get away with it.
“I don’t know. Most of the time he has been perfectly normal. Sharp as the best needle in my mama’s sewing kit.”
“But how many times has he been… odd?”
Sarie shrugged. “I dunno. Once or twice, maybe.”
“I’ll assume that means at least twice. Would you tell us about those incidents, please?”
She tossed her head back, swinging her long hair out of her face. “Well, there was that deal in the White House swimming pool. That was kinda…” She looked at the president apologetically.
President Kyler smiled. “Weird?”
She smiled back. “Your word, not mine.”
Swinburne made his trademark grunting noise again. “I will ask the witness to address her comments to me.”
“My pleasure, cutie pie,” Sarie responded.
“What happened at the swimming pool?” Swinburne demanded.
She leaned back. Ben got the impression this story was going to take a while. “It was another one of those disappearing-president deals. He was supposed to be taking a meeting-come to think of it, he was supposed to be meeting you, wasn’t he?”
“Was this the Tuesday before last?”
“I think so, yeah.”
“He was supposed to be meeting with me. He kept me waiting for more than an hour.”
Ben sighed. Now the prosecutor was actually testifying-but it would be pointless to object. They had to get the evidence before the cabinet as expeditiously as possible.
“Right. Well, speaking as the keeper of the president’s schedule-you got off easy. Next time bring a book to read.”
“I’ll try to remember that. So what was he doing in the swimming pool?”
“Strange as it may seem, he was swimming.”
“I’m guessing there was more to it. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have brought this up as an example of odd behavior.”
“Well, I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary at first. Till I stepped up to the edge of the pool to talk to him. That’s when I noticed…”
“Yes?”
“He wasn’t wearing any clothes. Forgot the ol’ swimsuit, you know what I mean?”
Ben saw several low-key looks exchanged across the room-and on the closed-circuit screen. The president was staring intently at the floor, making eye contact with no one.
“I mean, it’s not that unusual, is it? I know when I was growing up, the boys used to go to the Y early in the morning and they’d all swim naked. I don’t know what that was all about, but it was why Daddy never took me to the Y on Saturday mornings.”
“But the president apparently didn’t have your daddy’s scruples.”
“I don’t think the president expected me to drop by.”
“Wouldn’t he always expect his chief of staff to come get him when he’s overdue?”
“I think perhaps he had lost track of the time.”
“What was he doing?”
“Laps.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Eventually. Once he noticed me. He, um, asked if I wanted to get in.”
Swinburne arched an eyebrow. “How agreeable of him.”
“Yeah, I thought so.”
“And did you?”
“No.”
“But why not?”
“I didn’t have my suit.”
“Apparently that’s not a requirement in the presidential pool.”
“It is for me.”
“Did the president seem embarrassed by his nakedness?”
“Not really, no.”
“Did he provide any kind of explanation?”
“Well, I guess at one point he did say that he longed to be free, free like a butterfly, free like the wind. Maybe that had something to do with it.”
“And was he surprised when you declined to get in with him?”
“Actually, yeah. He was. A bit cranky about it, too. Almost as if he had forgotten about, you know, gender differences and such.”
“What happened next?”
“Oh, I eventually managed to get the little butterfly out of the water. I held out a towel-well, I held it between us to block the view, if you know what I mean. He was jabbering exuberantly about how good it was to be alive! Jumping up and down like an eight-year-old. At one point he asked if I thought it would be a good idea to hold the next cabinet meeting at a nudist camp.”
Ben saw several necks stiffen on the television screen.
“And your reply?”
“I told him I thought it would be an interesting experiment, but he would have to get a different chief of staff because I wouldn’t be there.”
“Thank God for that,” Swinburne said. “You may be the only thing that’s kept the executive branch from descending into total chaos.”
“Well, I try to help out where I can.”
“Was there anything else unusual about this encounter?”
“Wasn’t that unusual enough?”
“Any crying or praying? Talking to imaginary friends?”
“Not this time, sugar.”
“Fine. I believe there was at least one other instance of unusual presidential behavior that you observed.”
Darn. Ben had been hoping he might forget. He scanned the room, wondering if anyone else was as tired of this as he was. Unfortunately, all he saw was rapt attention. He decided that objecting on the grounds of repetition might be ill-advised.
“Yes. There was. Just one other. Three days ago.” Her face lost all traces of attitude and humor. Ben got the disturbing feeling that this episode was going to be the worst of them all.
“And what did he talk about on this occasion? Butterflies?”
“No,” Sarie said, lowering her eyes. “Suicide.”
With one word, Ben knew Sarie’s testimony had transformed from an account of eccentric behavior to something far more dire.
“Had the president gone missing again?” Swinburne sounded almost hopeful.
“In a sense. It was late at night. After hours. He wasn’t missing any meetings. His wife just wondered where he was. I think he was late for their weekly gin game or something.”
“Is tracking the president in your job description?”
“I was doing it as a favor for Sophie.”
“I see. How long did it take you to find him this time?”
“Over an hour.”
“Really? I would’ve thought a hyperkinetic sort such as yourself could’ve covered the entire White House in an hour.”
“Twice. But I still couldn’t find him. Because he wasn’t there. Not exactly.”
Ben wondered if she would wait for the obvious question. She did. There could not be any surer sign of her reluctance to proceed.
“Where did you find him?”
Sarie took a deep cleansing breath, then released it slowly. “On the roof.”
Swinburne went bug-eyed. “What?”
“His keepers were going nuts, naturally. He hadn’t logged out-not that he would’ve been allowed to leave by himself-but they couldn’t find him. He might still be up there if we hadn’t heard from a cook. Turns out there’s a service panel in the corner of the kitchen. Climb through and you’re out on the roof.”
“Sounds like a potential security hazard.”
“Of course it was bolted, but on the inside. Who even knew it was there?”
“The president, apparently.”
“Well, yeah. The cook just saw the tips of his shoes before they vanished out of sight. When I inquired, she pointed out the passageway to me and I dutifully scrambled up it. I really should be paid more than I am, you know?”
“As should we all.”
“So I grabbed this little iron ladder that looked as if it’d been there since John Adams first moved in, and pretty soon I was on the roof. Can you believe it? The roof of the White House. Who even knew that was possible?”
“Not me. But I didn’t know there was an underground bunker before they dragged me here today.”
“Good point. So the wind was horrible-practically blew me off the roof-and I knew this couldn’t be safe because we were probably vulnerable to snipers and such, but I toughed it out and looked around. Over by the railing-and by that I mean the edge of the roof-that’s where I found the president.”
Ben wondered if he should object on grounds that the witness was employing a horrendously run-on sentence. He decided Cartwright probably wouldn’t be amused.
“What was he doing?”
“He was… laughing.”
“Laughing? Not crying?”
“Well, that too. It was strange. He was doing both at the same time. And talking.”
“What was he talking about?”
“Oh, many things. Rapidly. One topic after another.”
“Let’s take them in order. From the top.”
Sarie frowned. “Well, at the start, he was talking about flying.”
Swinburne did a double take. “Flying? Like a butterfly?”
“I suppose. He said, ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I could get away from it all? Just fly away.’”
“Then what did he do?”
“He stood up.” Sarie licked her lips. It was obvious that this had been a difficult experience for her, one she did not relish recounting. “That was a bad idea in and of itself. I told you how strong the wind was up there. An accident would be easy. But he didn’t seem to notice. He extended his arms in front of him, like Superman, you know? He shouted, ‘Up, up, and away!’ Bent his knees and sort of… sprang. ‘I can flyyyyyyyy!’ he shouted at the top of his lungs. ‘Flyyyyyyy!’” She paused, caught her breath. “I thought he was really going to do it. I panicked. I grabbed desperately for his feet. The irony is, he wasn’t actually trying to fly, but my stupid groping almost knocked him off the roof.”
“Did his feet leave the roof?”
“No, thank God. But that seemed to puzzle him. He acted as if… as if he really thought it was going to happen.”
“As if he really believed he could fly?” Swinburne suggested.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “That was my impression. He expected it to happen and it didn’t. So he was perplexed.”
Beside him, Ben saw the president shaking his head. Did that mean it wasn’t true? That it hadn’t happened like that? Or just that the president was miserably embarrassed by this testimony?
“What happened next?”
“He sat down, eventually. But his mood had changed. He wasn’t talking ninety miles a minute anymore. There was a lot more crying and a lot less laughing. Somehow the fact that he had failed to fly seemed to have really depressed him. He became despondent. Difficult to talk to. So mostly I just listened.”
“What did he say?”
“I don’t remember it all. He just seemed so… hopeless. Helpless. Deep in despair.” She turned toward President Kyler. “I’m sorry, Roland.”
“You just go on telling them what you saw,” he said softly but firmly. “There’s never any harm in telling the truth.”
A noble sentiment, Ben thought. But he knew from personal experience that it was the truth that could often be the most damaging.
“Please continue,” Swinburne said, urging her on.
“He was sobbing. Tears were streaming down his face. He said things like, ‘What’s the point of it? What’s the point of going on? No one cares if I live or I die.’”
Even Admiral Cartwright, he of the stoic judicial face, reacted to this. This testimony was getting darker by the moment.
“He said he was barely getting started but he was already a terrible president. He said he had let the American people down. He said he knew things were going to get worse before they got better and he just couldn’t handle it. I tried to talk to him, tried to tell him that wasn’t true, that he was a good man, that people all around the world had tapped into his optimism, his desire for change, for world peace. But it was no use. He was inconsolable. That was the greatest irony, I thought. He had brought hope to people all around the world. But he couldn’t bring hope to himself.”
Swinburne nodded sadly. “What else did he say?”
Sarie thought for a moment. “He was particularly overcome with tears when he started talking about parenting. He said he had been a horrible parent, a failure. He said if there were anything at all he could do over in life, it wouldn’t be with his wife, or his education, or politics. He wanted a second chance to be a better father.”
Like everyone else in the room, Ben knew the president had only one child, a daughter, Jenny Kyler, who had been something of a rebel ever since she left home. She’d gone to school at Smith and was apparently bright, but she’d frequently made headlines by getting caught out after curfew, underage drinking. Once when Kyler was governor she was arrested while protesting outside the auditorium where her father was about to speak. Sophie Kyler had referred to Jenny among friends as “proof that no good turn goes unpunished.”
When Kyler had announced his candidacy for the presidency, it looked as though he might be the first candidate in some time with no children being used as campaign props. And then, to everyone’s surprise, Jenny came on board. She was even useful. Ben had heard Sarie say that she was very good at keeping her father on schedule, which apparently was an ongoing problem. And then, just after the first debate, a journalist’s microphone caught her referring to the opposing candidate as “a first-class asshole.” The next day, that was splashed all over the papers. Kyler’s campaign had no choice but to publicly apologize-since Jenny refused-and to remove her from the campaign staff. Jenny threw a fit, publicly vowing to never have anything to do with her father again. And she had been true to her word. Despite the best efforts of a number of people, she had not visited once in all the time her father had been in the White House. Ben had heard rumors that no one was even sure where she was.
Ben could understand how the loss of his only child could hit the president hard. Anyone could. But the thought of him blubbering about it on the roof of the White House was not going to encourage anyone to keep him in office.
“He said he couldn’t stand to go it alone,” Sarie continued. “He needed the support of his wife, his offspring. Without them, he was nothing.” She paused, though she was clearly not finished. Her eyes darted from one side of the room to the other. Even though Ben was sure she didn’t mean it this way, he knew the break was having the effect of giving particular emphasis to whatever blockbuster was yet to come.
“Yes?” Swinburne said. “Please go on.”
Sarie licked her lips. “He said he didn’t think he could stand to go on living.”
There was an audible gasp in the bunker. Papers shuffled on the television screen. The secretary of education stood and got a drink of water. The president slid deeper into his chair.
A suicidal president? That was simply unacceptable. On any grounds. No one would care now whether he was crazy or not. A suicidal president had to go, by whatever pretext was possible.
“How did you respond?”
“Of course I tried to bolster his spirits. I told him that he was wrong, that he was a great president, that he had done everything he could for Jenny. That it wasn’t his fault she was unmanageable. And I told him that in time she would come around. It’s true. I was a bit of a rebel myself back in the day. Didn’t talk to my parents for almost ten years over some grievance so petty I don’t even remember what it was now. I told him everything I could think of to say. But nothing seemed to help.”
“What else did he say?”
“He just went on and on in that vein, for probably almost half an hour. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to get the Secret Service-I didn’t want anyone to see him like this. So I waited it out.”
“And he was still talking?”
“Yes. Eventually he wrapped his hands around his knees and began to rock back and forth-” She cut herself short. “He said he was going to kill himself, just get it over with. Just jump off the roof and be done. Over. I tried to get him to think about what impact that would have on his wife, his child. ‘They’ll never miss me,’ he insisted. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘maybe they will at first, for a week or two. But they’ll get over it. They’ll move on. And they’ll be much better for being rid of me.’”
The other people in the room were shifting in their seats, wishing there were someplace they could go. This would be uncomfortable to hear in the best of circumstances, but when the president was sitting right there, only a few feet from all of them, it was awkward in the extreme.
“Did he talk about how he might do it?”
“Yes.” Another deep breath. “He realized in time that jumping off the roof might not be fatal, though it was sure to bring great pain. He talked about getting a knife from the kitchen and doing himself in hara-kiri style. He talked about grabbing a Secret Service agent’s gun and shooting himself through the head. Then-then-”
She choked. Ben realized it must be incredibly difficult for her to do this. She wasn’t presently married. As far as anyone knew, the primary man in her life was Roland Kyler. And now she was effectively betraying him, in what was perhaps his moment of greatest need.
“Then,” she continued, with great difficulty, “he talked about doing it at a press conference.”
The secretary of education gasped.
“He said he’d smuggle a gun in when no one was looking, and once the cameras were rolling he’d blow his head off in living color. That would show the bastards, he said. That would show Colonel Zuko and all the other people who were conniving to bring him down. He wouldn’t give them the chance. He’d just do it himself.”
Ruiz threw down his pencil and turned away. Rybicki covered his face. No one looked the president in the eye. The murmuring and whispering in the tiny bunker was so intense Admiral Cartwright had to pound the table several times. “There will be quiet in here! The witness is still testifying.”
“I’m really not,” Sarie said. “That’s all there is. That’s everything I’ve seen. Before today.”
“Let me ask you one more question before you go,” Swinburne said. “And let me thank you for your honest testimony. I know it wasn’t easy for you and I appreciate it. But my question is this: when you witnessed this spectacle on the roof of the White House, did the president seem… sane?”
“Objection,” Ben said. “She’s not qualified.”
Cartwright waved him down. “She sees the man virtually every day. She may be the best observer we’ve got of his daily condition. I’m going to allow her to answer the question.”
“But she’s not a-”
“I’ve ruled, Mr. Kincaid. Sit down.”
Ben unhappily returned to his chair.
Sarie shook her head. “I don’t know if I would call him insane. He didn’t seem himself. I will say that. He didn’t seem like the Roland Kyler I know. It’s was as if somehow he had been changed. Altered.”
“Incapable?”
“I’m not a psychiatrist.”
“I’m not asking for a medical diagnosis. But you can give us your own opinion, based upon what you saw and heard. I’m sure the judge will allow it.”
Sarie continued shaking her head, searching for the words. “I just don’t know what was wrong with him that night, or in the pool, or before the Easter egg roll. I don’t know what brings on these… episodes. But I know they’re real. And I know they’re scary.”
“But Ms. Morrell, did he seem stable? When he was threatening to kill himself? In graphic and bloody ways?”
Her head hung low. “No,” she said quietly. “I suppose not.”
“Thank you,” Swinburne said. “Your witness, Mr. Kincaid.”
Very generous of Swinburne, but what the hell was Ben supposed to do with this witness? She looked as if she couldn’t go on, at least not without a recess, something the judge couldn’t and wouldn’t grant. He didn’t doubt that she had been telling the truth. There was no chance that he was going to impeach her on cross. Her credibility and honesty were ironclad.
Still, he had to do something. He just didn’t know what that might be.
He stood and addressed the witness. Some of the people in the room were absolutely glaring at him. They didn’t want him to go on. They’d heard enough.
“Sarie,” Ben said, “I know this has been a terrible ordeal for you, and in most circumstances I would ask for a recess before proceeding. In this case, though, there just isn’t time. Do you think you could answer a few questions for me? I promise I won’t go on too long.”
She looked up. Her face was pale. “I’ll do my best.”
“Sarie, the whole purpose of this proceeding is to determine whether the president is incapable of serving as president due to some mental infirmity. The president can be as odd as he wants. That doesn’t matter. It’s only important if it prevents him from performing him official duties.”
“I understand.”
“And I know you saw some strange things. But I haven’t heard anything that suggests that the president couldn’t do his job.”
Ruiz slapped himself on the forehead, looking at Ben as if he had lost every marble he ever had.
“You’ve testified that these episodes come without warning or any discernible trigger.”
“That’s true.”
“And you’ve said that they eventually pass.”
“Yes.”
“After a brief time, he seems normal again. Able to perform as president?”
“Absolutely.”
“Has he failed to accomplish any work as a result of these odd interludes?”
“Never once.”
“Has he ever been unable to respond in a crisis or to take an appropriate action?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Does his ability to make decisions seem impaired?”
“Not after the episodes are over. He’s the most decisive man I’ve ever known.”
“Then would it be fair to say that you do not perceive him to be rendered incapable?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“But what about during the episodes?” Swinburne barked. “What if a crisis breaks out while he’s having one? Like now!”
Admiral Cartwright glared. “It is not your turn to speak, Mr. Swinburne. Please desist.”
Swinburne folded his arms across his chest. “My apologies,” he grumbled.
“So, Sarie,” Ben continued, “I gather you would not want to label the president incapable. Or insane.”
She hesitated. “No. I would not want to.”
Not quite good enough. Ben wanted her to distinguish these odd episodes from genuine and severe insanity. He tried again. “Sarie, do you have any experience with people suffering from mental illness?”
“Yes, actually I do.” She folded her hands in her lap. “You may not know this, but one summer when I was in college I worked at a state hospital. In the mental ward.”
Ben’s stomach was churning. Why did he suddenly have the distinct feeling he was going to regret having asked this question?
“I spent the whole summer changing sheets and dishing out pills. Caring for the inmates. It was educational-but also very chilling. I had never been around such disturbed people in my entire life. I never got used to it. There was just something… different about them. I’m not talking about their behavior. I mean, when I looked into their eyes. Shakespeare says the eyes are the window to the soul, and I guess that’s right, because whenever I looked into these people’s eyes, it seemed like something was missing. Something was… wrong.”
Ben tried to cut her off, but she ignored him. Tears began to trickle out of her eyes. “And when I sat beside President Kyler on the roof that night and I looked into his eyes, I saw the same look. The same vacancy. The same wrongness.”
The whispering in the room spiked. Cartwright pounded on the table, but it made little difference. On the television, the cabinet members watched with gaping mouths.
Sarie tried to control her broken voice. “I’m sorry, Roland. I’m so, so sorry. You are a good man. But you are not well. You need help. And I hope you will get that help, because I know there is so much you can contribute to the world. But not now.” Tears flowed. Her voice rose an octave, then cracked altogether. “I am sorry, but it’s true. We’re in a crisis situation, and we need a leader, someone dependable, not someone who might start having an irrational episode at any moment-might be having one now for all we know!”
She reached out to him with both hands. “Roland, you need to step down. You need to do it now. For everyone’s sake. Please!”
After that, the room descended into chaos. Cartwright tried to regain control, but it was useless. Everyone was talking at once, expressing their opinion, their contempt, their outrage. Ben couldn’t pick up the televised conversation, but he could see the discussion among the cabinet members was equally agitated. Everyone was talking.
Everyone except the primary subject of the chatter. President Kyler rose, quietly slipped into the other room, and closed the door behind him.
Swinburne moved toward Admiral Cartwright. “Judge, we rest our case.”
“I thought you might.”
“Furthermore, given what we’ve heard, and given the exigencies of time, I will ask again that we move to an immediate roll call vote. Honestly, Kincaid, what could you possibly put in evidence at this point that would change anyone’s mind?”
Which was exactly the question Ben had just been asking himself.
Ben was not a quitter. Not ever. Went totally against all his instincts, all his training.
But what was there to do? Kyler had been shown to have a serious medical condition, diabetes, and to be dangerously unstable, threatening to kill himself in front of millions of people. It was obvious he couldn’t function during these episodes. Wasn’t it?
What was left to do?
Of course, Kyler could’ve said the same thing when Ben had come to ask him a special favor…
Ben closed his eyes. He would not give up on the man. But he needed to talk to him. And he needed a minute to think. To plan. To come up with… something.
Because if he didn’t come up with something fast, something new, something unexpected, there was no question about how the vote would go. Not only was Ben certain that the president would be removed if the vote were taken at that moment, but he suspected it would be unanimous.