Lights flashed by, illuminating the papered-over windows. They had rolled through the Smithsonian station without stopping and were now swinging through the broad curve that would take them eastward into L’Enfant Plaza.
Two Yellow Line trains, pointed in opposite directions, were being held for them at L’Enfant Plaza. One of them was a northbound train that could take them straight back up to the Archives station, right along the parade route. They could reemerge at that point and continue on to the Capitol as if nothing had happened.
The other train was southbound. It could take them to National Airport, where a private jet was waiting for them. It would take them far, far away, if that was necessary. Hopefully, it would take them somewhere with good hospitals.
The train doors opened to reveal L’Enfant Plaza. Their way out onto the platform was lined with large and serious-looking men. Standing right in the middle was Mel Meyer.
Bell wheeled Cozzano out onto the platform and right up to Mel, who kneeled down and looked Cozzano in the face. He grabbed one of Cozzano’s limp hands and squeezed it, then reached up and patted his friend gently on the cheek. His face was tight, a study in controlled intensity. “Willy,” he said, “Willy, do you feel like being President today? Or do you feel like going to a nice rehab center in Switzerland? You have to give me some indication either way.”
Cozzano’s head had been rolling around loosely. Finally, with some effort, he raised it up and looked Mel in the eye.
“Let’s take this thing downtown,” he said.
Mel stood up. His eyes were glistening. He turned toward one of the crew. “You heard the President,” he said, “tell the guys at the airport we won’t be needing them.”
The escalator at Archives brought the Cozzanos up into the sunlight only a few minutes after the presidential motorcade had gone by. A phalanx of some thirty-six ex-NFL players, hand-picked by Rufus Bell for their height and bulk, materialized around them. Cozzano was on his feet now, still a little unsteady, supported on either side by ex-Bears. The phalanx got itself organized and then accelerated to a slow jog, moving en masse into the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue and heading straight for the Capitol, two-thirds of a mile away. The crowd along Pennsylvania had begun to disperse, believing that all of the important people had already gone past them, and none of them knew what to make of the solid bloc of beefy men—some of them quite famous in their own right—who ran down the center of the avenue in tight formation, headed straight for the Inauguration, surrounded by M-16–toting outriders on foot, car, and motorcycles.
But it was a strange enough sight that it was picked up by the television cameras. The media were on their toes. They were aware that Cozzano had done something highly unusual during his morning jog, that he had arrived at the White House on foot—contrary to the planned itinerary—and that he had abandoned the motorcade at Twelfth Street. When their cameras on the parade route picked up the phalanx, it went out over the networks. Nothing interesting was going on anyway; the outgoing President had already reached the Capitol, and was now in the Rotunda, awaiting the change of power.
Cy Ogle, seated in his truck in front of the Teamsters Building, saw Cozzano’s Praetorian Guard jogging down Pennsylvania and had a pretty good idea of what it meant. He had watched on television as the motorcade had passed in front of the U.S. Courthouse—the point at which radio signals from his truck should have been able to reach Cozzano’s biochip. It hadn’t worked. Nothing was there. He’d known then that Cozzano wasn’t in the motorcade.
He was still telling himself that it didn’t matter. By one route or another, Cozzano had to show up at the Capitol. Sooner or later they would reacquire the chip. The only question was when.
The appearance of the phalanx moving down Pennsylvania answered that question. The cameras were kind enough to track it all the way through its slow, thundering, five-minute march on the Capitol. When it passed in front of the U.S. Courthouse, Ogle tried once more to reestablish the radio link.
Nothing. Cozzano wasn’t in the phalanx; it was just a diversion. Either that, or the biochip wasn’t responding anymore. Which was impossible. Cozzano had only been missing for about ten minutes, from his disappearance at the Old Post Office to the reemergence of the phalanx at Seventh Street. You couldn’t do major brain surgery in ten minutes.
Ogle kept watching the TV. There was nothing else to do. Eventually the phalanx reached the Capitol and converged on a small entrance on the northern end. No one had been expecting this particular entrance to be used; no camera crew was anywhere near it. But one intrepid minicam operator from CNN managed to get close enough to zoom in on the doorway, just as William A. Cozzano himself entered the building. There was no mistaking him.
Ogle tried the radio link again. Nothing.
The phones in the truck were ringing like mad. He had turned off the ringers a long time ago, but he could tell they were ringing by all the flashing lights. The people at the Network were paranoid: they were into micromanagement, they wanted Cozzano monitored twenty-four hours a day. Which was totally unnecessary. Cozzano was a good politician. He knew how to handle this.
There was nothing more Ogle could do today. In the breast pocket of his suit was a personal invitation, and a pass that would get him a seat on the inaugural platform—the hottest ticket in town. He had been dreading the idea of spending all day sitting in the Eye of Cy. Now he had an excuse to go out there and sit a few chairs away from the Cozzanos and bask in their glory. He grabbed his coat, said goodbye to the guards and to the twenty-four-hour on-site lawyer, and headed into Taft Park, aimed at the West Front of the White House.
It did not take a genius to figure out that the entire Inauguration had been set up for the benefit of a tiny minority of rich people. Floyd Wayne Vishniak had arrived well ahead of time and made one complete circuit of the Capitol grounds, strolling down the west bank of the Capitol Reflecting Pool, east on Independence, north on First Street between the Capitol and the Library of Congress, and now westward again on Constitution.
Up to a certain point, an ordinary citizen could walk anywhere he felt like walking, especially if he got all gussied up in nice fancy-looking clothes as Vishniak had. If you wanted to watch the Inauguration from two miles away at the far end of the Mall, that was no problem at all. But if you wanted to actually stand close enough to make out the figure of the new President with the naked eye, you had to enter special zones that were cordoned off and patrolled by cops.
Vishniak had traveled to many parts of the United States, seen many different types of police officers, and even been arrested by a few of them. But he had never seen anything like the variety of cops that were running around this place. It was like a cop zoo or something. Some of the cops had uniforms and some didn’t. Some of them looked like souped-up Park Rangers. Some of them looked like glorified mall cops. They had all staked out different parts of different border zones whose sole function was to separate the common people from the rich and powerful scum.
It did not look like there was any way to get within a quarter mile of the inaugural platform without shooting a whole lot of those different cops. This was bound to attract attention, bring in even more cops, and scare away his intended victims. So Vishniak had himself something of a conundrum here. The closest he could get to the platform was on the north side, in a little park north of Constitution. He spent a while reconnoitering this area, looking for gaps in the security, and found none.
Instead he found something even better: a GODS truck. Just like the one he’d glimpsed under the stage at McCormick Place—except this one was practically right across the street from the Capitol. Vishniak began to walk across the park, and even as he did, the door in the back opened and a man climbed out of it.
Something about the man with the close-cropped hair and the neatly trimmed beard seemed vaguely familiar to Cy Ogle. He fit the profile for a Secret Service agent. But this man did not behave like Secret Service. He was not scanning the crowd. He was l
ooking straight at Cy Ogle.
Ogle had already reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his engraved invitation. The man in the trench coat was reaching into his breast pocket too. But he hadn’t pulled anything out yet.
“Hey,” the man said.
“Morning,” Ogle said, “excuse me, but I got a party to attend.”
“Hold on a sec,” the man said, “I recognize you from that article they did about you in the New York Times Magazine in 1991. And also from the little article in Time magazine last year. They both ran photos of you.”
“That’s nice,” Ogle said. By now he had realized that the man could not possibly be Secret Service.
“Don’t you recognize me?” the man asked. “You should. I’m a very important person in your life.”
Ogle took a good look at the man’s face.
At the face of Floyd Wayne Vishniak.
His lips parted and he felt stunned and weak in the legs, as if he had been struck on the head.
Vishniak grinned and turned sideways to Ogle. He moved his hand inside his trench coat and Ogle could see the barrel of the gun pressing on the fabric from the inside. “I’m covering you with the same gun I used before,” he said, “and if you say anything, I’ll pull the trigger.”
“What do you want?” Ogle said.
“I want to see your truck,” Vishniak said, nodding across the park. “You know us farmboys. We’re just crazy about big ol’ trucks.”
Ogle turned his back on the Capitol and started walking back across Taft Park. Every few paces he would look back behind himself hoping that Vishniak would have disappeared. But he was always right there. Almost as bad, he never shut up. “I figured you had to have some kind of secret transmitter to control Cozzano’s brain. Because when I busted up your control room at the shopping mall over there, it didn’t make any difference at all. Let’s go on over there and take a look around.”
Ogle crossed Louisiana, climbed up the temporary steps behind the truck, and opened the door to the Eye of Cy. He was thinking of trying to slam it in Vishniak’s face, but Vishniak shoved him through and closed the door behind him.
The security men and the lawyer were climbing to their feet.
Ogle saw a white light flashing in the corner of his eye and felt, did not hear, a quick series of explosions pounding him on the side of his head. The three men in front of him jerked, crumpled, cowered, and collapsed to the floor; behind them, blood was showering all over the equipment.
Ogle couldn’t hear anything except a pure tone in his ear. He sagged against a wall and closed his eyes, feeling faint.
Vishniak cuffed Ogle’s hands behind his back, stepped over the corpses, and proceeded to the Eye of Cy. Ogle could see his lips moving as he commented upon it, but couldn’t hear what he was saying.
Vishniak looked around the trailer. His eyes landed on a fire extinguisher mounted to a wall. Vishniak holstered his gun, picked up the fire extinguisher, and then used it as a blunt object to smash all of the screens in the Eye of Cy. At first he worked slowly and methodically, but after a few minutes he really got into it and began to pound away at them in a frenzy. Finally he threw the extinguisher on the floor, battered and scraped.
He turned to Ogle with a triumphant look on his face and said something else. Then he approached. He reached into Ogle’s pocket and pulled out the personal invitation. He shoved it into his own pocket. Then Floyd Wayne Vishniak walked out of Cy Ogle’s life.
sixty-one
WILLIAM A. Cozzano took the oath of office at twelve noon. Holding the Bible was Mary Catherine. Administering the oath was the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. After a very intense quarter of an hour running and subwaying across D.C., the Cozzanos had reached the Rotunda in plenty of time and been able to hit the bathrooms and freshen up a little. They looked great and showed little trace of the earlier excitement; television viewers who had heard rumors of wild goings-on up and down the length of Pennsylvania Avenue were comforted to see the Cozzanos looking calm, relaxed, and happy.
Only one detail seemed out of place: as Cozzano had emerged from the West Front of the Capitol and walked through the passageway in the center of the stands, he had moved slowly and with a limp. He moved like an old man, not the spry athlete who had become so famous during the campaign. And when he raised his hand and recited the oath of office, his voice sounded different: deeper, slower, not as distinct. He tripped over a few words, something he had never done during the campaign.
But it didn’t matter. He looked great. He smiled confidently through the oath, presenting a strong profile for the cameras, towering over the Chief Justice. His daughter was facing directly into the cameras and her face was suffused with joy and pride. She wasn’t bothered by her father’s gait, or his voice; why should America be?
It was over. President Cozzano shook hands with the Chief Justice and bent down to kiss Mary Catherine on the cheek.
Then he stepped up to the Presidential lectern, still moving slowly and carefully. Before him, the Mall was covered with people, all the way to the Lincoln Memorial, and all of them were applauding. The applause from the invited guests on the platform, and from the lucky few just below, around the Capitol Reflecting Pool, was distinct. Beyond that it merged into a generalized hissing roar, coming from the horizon.
President Cozzano reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a few typewritten sheets folded in half down the middle, and flattened them out on the lectern. He waited for a few moments, smiling to the crowd, as the applause died down.
“Thank you,” he said, “thank you.” That brought the applause to a close. Then he began to read from the notes on the lectern, calmly, pronouncing the words with conspicuous precision, like a drunken man who is trying not to sound drunk.
“My first act as President is to declare martial law in the District of Columbia and to suspend the following constituted bodies: the Secret Service, the Drug Enforcement Administration, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, the U.S. Marshals Service, the Park Police, and the Capitol Police. The CIA is reminded that their activities begin at the water’s edge. Any violation of martial law may be penalized by summary execution. In their place, to maintain order among executive branch and the government, I federalize the police force of the District of Columbia for a period of one week and place it at the disposal of the Department of Justice.”
At this moment, half of the men on and around the platform stood up and stripped off their jackets and dress shirts to reveal black T-shirts emblazoned with white stars on the front and “DEPT. OF JUSTICE” across the back. As Cozzano continued his address, these men converged on all of the uniformed Capitol police officers in the area, and on anyone who looked like a Secret Service agent.
The men in the black T-shirts—the Justice Posse—looked as though they were ready for a fight, and they were. Some of them actually got into fights. But most of them didn’t. The President’s words could not have been any clearer.
The Posse men were not very discriminating. They went after anyone in a uniform and anyone who looked like Secret Service: that is, men with earplugs. Unfortunately that included one or two journalists. The journalists put up a scuffle. The scuffles ended pretty quickly.
All of these movements took place against a backdrop of dead silence. Everyone else, within a quarter-mile radius of President Cozzano, was utterly motionless and perfectly silent. Everyone was in shock. Beyond that, out on the Mall, it was possible to hear murmuring from the crowd, and even a few screams. But most of the people in the vicinity of the President were directly, personally, massively affected by the words coming out of his mouth. They didn’t want to miss anything. Especially since a misinterpretation could lead to summary execution.
Cozzano continued without pause. “The FBI, one of the few federal agencies to live up to its oath to protect, defend, and uphold the Constitution and laws of the United States, will coordinate all security arrangements at all levels during the period of martial law. I
hereby designate Melvin Israel Meyer the acting Attorney General and place the FBI and the D.C. Police under his direct authority. In my capacity as Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces, I hereby suspend the authority of the Joint Chiefs of Staff for a period of one week and place all military forces under my direct command. I order the Air Force and all other military aircraft in the continental U.S. grounded immediately and until further notice. I order the Federal Aviation Administration to ban all air traffic over the District of Columbia, effective immediately, and to close National Airport until further notice. This air traffic moratorium is to be enforced by the new Attorney General.”
Men had already begun to appear on the roof of the Capitol and atop other buildings around the Mall, carrying long, bulky equipment cases. They flipped the cases open and pulled out four-foot-long, tubular objects with flat, slotted antennas that unfolded on their tops: Stinger missile launchers.
“I assure our allies and promise our adversaries around the world that this is a purely domestic affair and that the global balance of military power will not be affected.
“I declare a one-week holiday on all banks and stock exchanges. I call upon our financial leaders to cooperate with me so that calm can be restored to the markets as soon as possible.
“Finally, I ask the indulgence of the American people in this time of crisis. While the steps I have just taken are unprecedented and severe, I can assure you all that the peak of the crisis has passed, and that within hours, or at the most days, the government will be returned to an even keel.
“A complete explanation of what has happened to me, my family, and the electoral process of this country would fill a lengthy book. I cannot give you a full account here. But the people deserve an explanation, and so, at this moment, a summary of these events is being transmitted over all wire services worldwide. The same information is being provided to all governmental offices and major military bases. Videotape cassettes are arriving at all major networks and television stations.”
Interface Page 63
