Capitol Conspiracy (25 page)

39

U.S. C
APITOL
R
EADING
R
OOM

T
here were few places in the Capitol more incongruously named than the Senate Reading Room, Christina mused, since no one ever went there to read. By all rights, it should have gone the way of the Senate Library, another large room no one ever seemed to visit. In this case, however, some energetic majority leader had seen fit to convert the Reading Room into the Viewing Room, with theater seating and a large projection screen. In addition to getting about five hundred cable channels, it had a closed-circuit link to the floors of the House and the Senate. It seemed to Christina that if someone really wanted to know what was happening on the floor of the Senate, they would just walk across the hall and look. Unless, perhaps, a senator did not wish to be spotted by his fellow senators. Or the folks at home watching on C-SPAN.

All day today, the screen had been following the House floor debate on the proposed constitutional amendment. Christina and Jones and several others had been watching for hours. It was a long shot, but if the House rejected the amendment, any Senate vote would become irrelevant. She and Ben could put this behind them and move on to something more important, like the Alaskan Wilderness Bill or the antipoverty bill. Or their honeymoon.

But it was not to be. “Blast,” Christina muttered under her breath, halfway through the voting.

“Don’t give up yet,” Jones whispered. “There are still several congressmen who haven’t voted.”

“Not enough. This monster has passed the House. And last night’s polls show popular support is greater than ever. And you know what that means.”

“Bye-bye civil rights?”

Christina pursed her lips. “It means it all comes down to what happens in the Senate. If the bill passes—it’ll be law in a matter of months.” She paused, shaking her head. “And our Ben is leading the charge.”

“Well, that should be a comfort. It’s not as if Ben has a reputation as a Senate power broker.”

“Jones, how long have you known Ben?”

“Almost as long as you.”

“And has Ben ever had a reputation as a power…anything?” She sighed. “And yet, he usually manages to get the job done. He finds a way.”

Jones looked at her gravely. “And you think he’ll do that again. For the amendment.”

Her voice was quiet. “I know he will.”

She was about to say more when she heard a commotion outside the back door of the Reading Room. “What on—?”

She didn’t need to watch the rest of the vote anyway. It was like watching the last third of the
Titanic
sink beneath the waves—she knew how it was going to end.

Outside, dozens of people raced down the central corridor, mostly Capitol Police. One of the officers nearly knocked Christina to the floor. She took a step back into the relative safety of the doorway.

“What’s going on?”

She tried to ask questions, but the police officers raced by her without even acknowledging that she had spoken. Off to the right, she saw Jimmy Claire, the Senate Information officer, sprinting double-time.

Him, she could handle. At least he didn’t carry a gun.

She ran toward him and grabbed an arm. “Jimmy!”

Held fast by her grip, he slingshotted back and nearly barreled into her.

“What’s happening?”

His eyes were wide and wild. “Haven’t you heard the news?”

She took a guess. “The House approved the proposed amendment.”

“No. Senator DeMouy has been murdered.”

“What?”

“He was found a few minutes ago. He’d been dead for a while.” Jimmy paused to catch his breath. “Looks like another case of ricin poisoning via mail.”

Her hand instinctively covered her mouth. “Oh my God. How could that happen? You said that all the security measures had been tripled. How could—?”

“That’s what we have to figure out. Please, I need to—”

“But why would anyone want to kill Senator DeMouy?”

“Hell if I know. They already killed the minority leader. Maybe the majority leader was next in line. Or maybe it has something to do with the amendment.”

Christina felt a cold chill race up her spine. “What do you mean?”

“Figure it out, Christina. The amendment will beef up antiterrorist laws. Maybe this terrorist doesn’t want the laws beefed up.”

“So he’s taking out the leading proponents of—” She froze in midsentence. “Oh my God. Oh my God.”

She raced toward the electronic tram that would carry her back to the Russell Building while simultaneously dialing her cell phone.

“Pick up, damn it. Pick up!”

No one answered.

“Ben!” She sprinted toward the downward staircase that led to the subterranean passageway. “For God’s sake, Ben—don’t open the mail!”

40

U.S. S
ENATE
, R
USSELL
B
UILDING
,
O
FFICE
S-212-D
W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

B
en found the office empty. How often did that happen? At first, it seemed rather refreshing. Then, inevitably, insecurity and neurosis tainted the peaceful picture. Did everyone know something he didn’t? Was there someplace he was supposed to be?

What the heck. He’d been working like a dog for days. If he missed one briefing on some issue somewhere, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. He already had some meetings with Senator DeMouy on the amendment that he couldn’t get out of, wheeling and dealing to get the remaining votes they needed to assure passage. He wanted to make sure he got home in time tonight. Christina told him she’d been shopping at Victoria’s Secret during her lunch hour.

Yes, he definitely wanted to get home tonight.

He noticed a stack of mail on his desk. Was he imagining it, or was Jones getting lazier on a daily basis? Pretty soon he’d have to answer his own phone. Of course, back in Tulsa, he’d always answered his own phone. But now that he was an important D.C. senator—well, that just wouldn’t do anymore. Besides, when people called a senator they always seemed to want something. He supposed when people called a lawyer, they usually wanted something, too. But at least they expected to pay for it.

He reached for the mail—then stopped. No, the mail, too, would only bring him more work. He could let that slide for now. He opened his briefcase and pulled out his notes from the last meeting and began to read.

A few moments later, he felt his cell phone ringing. He flipped it open.

“Hello?”

There was no caller ID. And there was so much static on the line he could barely make out the voice, except he could tell it was female, and he thought he heard his wife’s name.

“Christina, is that you?”

More static. “Sweetie, I can’t hear you. Are you somewhere near? I can go meet you.”

If anything, the static intensified. He could pick out only a few words here and there. “…open the mail…don’t let Jones…surprise…”

“What? Are you saying you want me to open the mail?”

“…don’t let Jones…”

This was impossible. Why would she not want Jones to—?

Oh, wait. His birthday was coming up, wasn’t it? Must be a present, or the receipt for something she ordered, something like that. Another perk of marriage. She remembered birthdays; he always forgot birthdays, even his own. Now she could shop for both of them.

“Christina, tell me which envelope,” he shouted, trying to be heard over the static.

There was a clicking sound; then the line went dead.

Well, hell’s bells. What was he going to do now?

He picked up the stack of mail, but one envelope immediately caught his eye. It was long, oversize, and cream-colored, with blue lettering. No stamp, which meant it must have come from somewhere within the building. Handwritten on the front was the word:
PHOTOS
.

He just hoped they were photos of Jones. Last time someone mailed him photos featuring himself…well, he preferred not to think about it. He was very fortunate Christina had been understanding—once. He didn’t care to push his luck.

Seemed like as good a place to start as any. As soon as he was ready, he slid one finger under the flap. The envelope opened easily, and Ben detected a faint odor emanating from the package….

41

U
NDISCLOSED LOCATION IN
G
EORGETOWN

T
he room was so dark, it was difficult to tell if he was awake or still dreaming in fitful sleep. His head felt as if it were made of lead, and a blacksmith was hammering away, battering the metal into another shape. Slowly he tried to stretch one muscle after the next, but he found he could barely move at all. Something was restricting him; all he could do was lift his head, and even that caused an enormous amount of pain, so he abandoned the effort.

Someone else had the courtesy to do it for him.

Loving felt the hand grip his chin roughly, as he might grab a tomato he was planning to squash.

“Are you awake?” someone in the darkness growled, in a thick Eurotrash accent.

Loving considered answering, but it seemed like too much effort, too likely to hurt.

Unfortunately, the man holding his face began to shake it, and that hurt even worse. “I said, are you awake?”

Loving’s throat felt dry and creaky, like a gate hinge in serious need of oil. “Gettin’…there.”

“You Americans. You think you are so tough. You will conquer the world. And then, a few little blows to the head and you are gone for days.”

Days? Had it really been days? Good God—what had happened to him? Where was he?

“Pretty sure…two blows…”

“Yes, and then you tumbled like the proverbial sack of potatoes. We had much more fun with you after you could no longer resist.”

It was Emil, gloating like the pervert pig he was. Loving wondered just exactly what they had done to him. He’d been in some tough scrapes before, but he’d never felt this bad, this…hurt. He thought his body was cut and bruised all over. He wasn’t wearing any clothes, or perhaps they were so torn there wasn’t enough left to matter, he couldn’t be sure. He seemed to be tied to a chair, his arms stretched behind him, his ankles tied to the chair legs. There was not the slightest give in any extremity. Duct tape, probably. There was no chance that he might escape.

“You thought you would be the great rescuer, no? You, the all-powerful American, the cavalry, come to save the day, just as you ride in all over the world to force your will on people who do not wish it.” He leaned in close to Loving’s face. “Did it ever occur to you that perhaps not everyone wishes to be saved by you? Or did that thought only arise when you saw the young girl bringing the baseball bat to your head?”

“You…brainwashed her.”

“You are a fool.” He slapped Loving harshly across the face. “If it were up to me, I would have killed you long ago. But the General thinks you might have some information, something I doubt very much. You are just a stupid American who has blundered where he does not belong. But this is not my decision to make.”

Loving heard the blip that told him a cell phone was being activated.

“He is awake.”

The cell phone snapped shut.

“Prepare yourself, American. Angela told me you sought a meeting with the General. Your wish is about to be granted. You will not enjoy it.”

All at once, the light flashed on from an overhead fluorescent hanging fixture. Loving winced and closed his eyes—he had not realized they were open. Even with his eyes closed, the light seemed blinding.

When he finally managed to open his eyes a crack, the General was standing directly before him.

The first thing Loving couldn’t help but notice was that the man was short, almost little-person short. It was hard to judge when he stood so close, but Loving suspected that he was not even five feet tall. And yet he stood erect, with military bearing, in some sort of uniform, his hands behind his back, a billy club clutched between them.

Napoleonic complex, big-time.

“This is the General, Mr. Loving.”

Loving’s head twitched.

“Oh yes, we know who you are.”

Loving grunted. “Flattered.”

Almost the instant he spoke, the General whipped his right arm around and clubbed Loving on the side of the neck. He wanted to cry out at the sudden blow, but he was determined to not give the bastard the satisfaction.

“You will speak when you are spoken to, and only when you are spoken to. You will answer all questions. If you do not, you will be punished. Severely.”

What,
Loving wondered,
you gonna lock me up in one of your safe houses and sell my sexual favors for fifty bucks a pop?
But he decided it probably wouldn’t be prudent to say that.

The General hovered over him, his club poised. “Why did you break into my house?”

Despite the sad shape his brains were in, Loving tried to determine his best course of action. His natural inclination was to be a smart aleck, but again, he sensed that might not be the best way to handle a would-be Hitler like the General. He remembered reading somewhere—possibly in an issue of
Maxim
—that the first rule of surviving a torture interrogation was to answer the questions without conveying any information of value.

“I was lookin’ for you,” Loving said, his voice hoarse and gravelly. He still couldn’t focus; the room seemed to be swirling around him.

“And why did you look for me? Why do you even know that I exist?”

“Hey, you’re famous. In certain circles.”

“Who told you about me? Who gave you the address to my house?”

“Your pal, Emil.”

Emil stepped into the light. “It isn’t true, General. I would never tell him anything. I did not even speak to him.”

“Your ace assassin kept the address in his pants,” Loving sneered.

The club swung again, this time bashing against the side of Loving’s head.

“I did not ask you a question,” the General intoned. “You will only speak when I ask you a question.”

Loving’s head was swimming. He was still tap dancing on the edge of consciousness. “You hit me with that damn thing again…I won’t be able to answer anythin’.”

The General laughed, loud and obnoxiously. “You think you have been hurt? You do not know the meaning of what it is to be hurt! We can hurt you so badly, you will never recover. We can make it go on for days!”

Even if he were a pip-squeak, Loving didn’t doubt the General could deliver on his threat. He’d noticed that people were always more effective when they were doing something they enjoyed.

The General grabbed Loving by the hair and pulled his head backward as far as it would go. “Tell me what you know about my business! And who have you told?”

“I know everything. I’ve told everyone!”

“Have you told the senator?”

Despite the numbness creeping through his body, Loving felt a cold chill race down his spine. “What senator?”

“Your boss, Mr. Loving. The one who thinks he can get anything he wants by invoking God, Abraham Lincoln, and the United States of America!”

“What would you know about it?”

“I know far more about the Senate than you can imagine. How do you think I’ve managed to stay clear of government interference for so long?” He jerked Loving’s head back again. “Tell me what I want to know! Who have you told about my business?”

Loving closed his eyes, bracing himself for what he knew would follow. He didn’t want to do it. But he had no choice. If he knew Loving was connected to Ben, he couldn’t even dance around the truth. Couldn’t even give the man a hint. “Are you in business? You look like some kinda military officer. Thought you worked at the Pentagon, maybe.”

The General threw his head forward in disgust. He raised his club into the air, then stopped himself. “No,” he growled through clenched teeth. “That is not nearly enough for such as you.” He turned. “Emil. Bring me the instrument.”

Loving didn’t like the sound of that at all.

A moment later, the General stood before him again, holding a long cylindrical black wand. Being from the Southwest, unfortunately, Loving knew that wasn’t made for doing magic tricks. It was an electric cattle prod.

“You’ll tell me what I want to know,” the General said, doing his best to maintain an even tone. “You’ll tell me now.”

“I already told you. I don’t know nothin’. There’s nothin’ to tell.”

The General touched the cattle prod to Loving’s exposed gut. Thousands of volts of electricity shot through his body, cauterizing open wounds. He could prevent himself from crying out, but he couldn’t stop his body from wrenching back and forth, heaving, twisting like a snake in a vise.

“Tell me,” the General said quietly.

“I don’t have any answers for you,” Loving said, when he had regained the power of speech.

This time, the General placed the prod against his left nipple. The electricity radiated through his soft tissue. He lurched forward, as much as possible while strapped to the chair. He began spasming uncontrollably, his body jerking one way then the other. The juice flooded his brain, confusing him, making it difficult to think, difficult to do anything except experience the intense agony from which there was no escape.

“How long do you wish this to go on, American? Answer!”

Loving wasn’t even sure he could speak, but he was certain there was nothing he could say that would appease this sadistic bastard, not without putting others in immediate danger.

“Don’t…know…nothin’,” he managed, with great effort. “Told…no one.”

The General placed the cattle prod against his genitals.

He couldn’t help himself. This time he screamed. Screamed so loudly, the sound was deafening to himself. His body twisted with such intensity that for a moment he thought he might actually wrench himself loose, but of course that was a delusion, a wishful thought. The screaming and the crying continued as his body spasmed uncontrollably. The General jabbed him with the prod again and again and again until finally, blissfully, he was enveloped in darkness once more.