Sedition (A Political Conspiracy Book 1)

by Tom Abrahams

  “Why were you talking to the asset?” Matti was growing impatient. Her involvement in the operation seemed unlikely from the beginning. The fact that her superior was communicating with her asset without her knowledge seemed to bolster her theory that something was amiss.

  “I had the asset leak to you the information about the opening,” he admitted begrudgingly. “We wanted you there.”

  “Why?” Matti was confused.

  “We needed the Daturans to be distracted. And I knew that with your…”

  “With my what?” Matti’s body language changed. She went from cornered puppy to pit bull in an instant.

  “With your charms, we hoped to get additional intel from the other analysts attending the event. It was working. You had Edwards and Thistlewood and Spencer Thomas wrapped around your finger, didn’t you?”

  Matti said nothing. She wasn’t looking at her boss. Her eyes were directed at her desk, her sight aimed inward. She thought back to the way the men reacted to her at the art opening. She was a decoy. Her entire involvement, from the beginning, was a setup to help “real” agents get the intelligence they were lacking. Her boss never expected her to contribute anything to the effort other than a tight body and disarming smile. For all she had done at the agency, she was nothing more than a piece of ass. She looked up at her boss the way a daughter looks at a father when she first realizes her daddy isn’t perfect.

  She looked at him the way she looked at her father when he finally admitted that he’d known about his wife’s cocaine problem and that he’d been unable to stop it. She didn’t want to believe it. She couldn’t believe it. Just as she refused to believe her boss was using her.

  “Then you screwed up, Harrold. Now we’ve got what we’ve got—a plot to blow up a cemetery. Think about it. There’s a Lockerbie memorial at Arlington right next to the spot where Foreman is to be buried. Lockerbie. Semtex. It adds up.”

  Matti fought hard to keep tears from welling in her eyes. She was a tough woman, but the revelation that she was nothing more than a wooden duck in a blind was almost debilitating.

  “As for your future here”—the boss was relentless now—“that’s yet to be determined. Now do as I instructed. Go home.”

  Chapter 31

  George Edwards and Jimmy Ings were pleased to find the back door to Harrowby’s unlocked. As soon as Edwards received the coded “NOW” text from Thistlewood, he and Ings mobilized into position.

  Ings backed through the door first. He was rolling a small rubber-wheeled hand truck loaded with three large cardboard boxes stacked atop one another. He cleared the threshold and turned around to wheel the cart from behind. He stepped quietly into the hall and waited for Edwards.

  Edwards entered the office and quietly spun the knob as he shut the door. He knew Thistlewood was somewhere in the building with his girlfriend, and he wasn’t sure how close they might be to the office. He didn’t want to alert Laura Harrowby to their intrusion. Edwards carried a large backpack across his left shoulder.

  He met Ings in the hallway and squeezed past him to lead the way. Edwards winced when he moved by the drunk, his nostrils catching the rough mixture of Camels and blended scotch.

  Edwards saw an open door to their left, revealing a set of descending steps. He adjusted the backpack on his shoulder, pulled a small flashlight from his front pants pocket, and switched on a thin yellow beam. He aimed the light down the steps and motioned Ings into the doorway.

  “Be careful, Jimmy,” he said, placing his hand in the square of Ings’s back as the drunk slowly backed the hand truck downward one step at a time. “And be quiet.”

  “I’m trying,” Ings whispered forcefully, dribbling spit onto his chin. He grimaced and narrowed his eyes to slits each time the wheels dropped from a step, past the return, and landed, bouncing slightly, on the step beneath. The weight of the task, both literal and figurative, was on the edge of being too heavy. Each man could sense it in the other. Neither said anything about it. Step by step they inched downward until they reached the floor.

  Once they’d leveled the dolly onto the floor, Edwards swung the flashlight to where he thought he might find a light switch. He found one to his right and flipped it. The light illuminated a room much larger than either of them had anticipated.

  “Big,” opined Ings. He was sober enough not to have lost depth perception.

  “Yeah,” Edwards agreed. “Look at that casket. That’s gotta be expensive.” He approached the centerpiece of the room and rubbed his right hand along the mahogany. It was sealed in a thick lacquer and almost glowed in the fluorescent light hanging from above.

  “It is the president,” Ings said, affecting a knightly impression. He did not impress Edwards, who wouldn’t acknowledge the joke at all.

  Edwards ran his hand lightly across the cool steel of the support bars and leaned into the opening of the Dutch lid to survey the satin lining. He knew getting underneath the lining to the metal frame without damaging the thinly woven fabric would be tricky.

  He’d done his homework and knew that the metal frame could be adjusted so as to rest the body in varying positions. He also knew that the most common types of support frames were a set of L-shaped rails connected at the ends to form a rectangle. The shorter end rails were attached to the long rails with small fasteners. In between the end rails there were often additional supports. Running across the middle of the casket were more rails to support the middle of the body. They strengthened the overall integrity of the casket.

  The parts that would provide the best camouflage for the explosive riggings were the thin, flexible metallic straps that extended from one end rail to the other and were attached at those ends with springs. They supported the length of the body. Edwards envisioned them as the mattress support of a cheaply framed metal bunk.

  It was between those thin straps, underneath the lining and the body, that he believed they could effectively hide the metal components of the bomb assembly. No metal detector would distinguish the types of metal. And, from the intelligence the knight had gathered, there would be no X-ray of the casket anywhere along the route, at the Capitol, or at Arlington Cemetery. It was the perfect cover.

  While Ings returned to the top of the steps to turn off the stairwell light and lock the door, Edwards set down the flashlight and began searching the lining of the casket for a seam. He was bent awkwardly at the waist, poking into the lining with his fingers.

  He tugged gently at the fabric with his fingertips until he felt a loose edge tucked between the wall of the casket and its base. Wiggling his finger underneath the small gap, he freed a three-inch section from its place just below the hinges for the Dutch lids of the box.

  “I think I’ve got the spot.” He pointed to it when Ings rejoined him beside the casket. “Could you please hand me the small utility knife out of my backpack? I think I can pull the seam here and maybe remove the padding without damaging anything.”

  Ings unzipped the pack on Edwards’s shoulder and found the small plastic knife. It was red and contained slide-up blades that snapped off when dulled. It was cheap but effective. Within a few minutes, Edwards had managed to successfully remove the lining and thin pad, exposing the metal frame.

  Between the lattice of the frame and the bottom of the box, there were four inches of space in which the explosive mechanisms could fit. The trick was slipping them underneath the frame and then attaching them securely to the underside.

  Edwards used a small hook on the handle of a rubber mallet to extend and then release the springs on one end of the casket. Once they were loose, access to the underside was improved significantly.

  “Do you have the phones?” Edwards turned to Ings, expecting to see him just over his shoulder, but he wasn’t there. He was sitting on the steps, elbows perched on a step behind him, bracing his weight. His eyes were closed and his head bobbed up and down, twitching as his body reacted to the discomfort of falling asleep while sitting up.

  Edwards rolle
d his eyes and walked over to the drunk quietly. He gently placed his hand on Ings’s left knee. It was enough to wake up the barkeep.

  “Huh?” He belched as he got his wits about him. “I’m awake. I’m up.” He sat forward and looked up at Edwards. “Sorry.”

  “I need your help.” Edwards walked over to his backpack and pulled out two six-by-six-inch pieces of plywood with the Nokia 6210s attached. He rested them on the edge of the casket as he checked the connections between the phones and batteries, the clips and model rocket sparker. He made sure the copper leads from the vibrators to the screws were secure then slipped them underneath the wire frame lattice and set them on the floor of the casket.

  “I have the zip ties,” Ings said from behind him.

  Edwards took the plastic zip ties and looped them around the metal frame. He picked up each board and ran the ties through small holes at each corner of the plywood boards. He tightened the ties on all four corners, using a pair of small shears to cut the excess plastic from the ties. The boards were pressed up against the underside of the metal straps that ran the length of the casket and were placed such that they would sit underneath the shoulder blades of the body.

  Edwards turned. “Now for the fun part.” He motioned to the dolly and looked at Ings as if to say “Fetch!” He was irritated that Sir Spencer saw fit to team him with the member most likely to hinder the effort.

  Ings retrieved three yellow-orange bricks wrapped in plastic, stepping carefully as if trying not to spill vodka from a full glass. Edwards thought the care a little ridiculous, given how the drunk had been nonchalantly wheeling around three times the amount on a dolly.

  “Should we remove the plastic?” Edwards asked Ings.

  “I don’t know if it matters,” Ings remarked. “We probably should.”

  “How much do the bricks weigh?” Edwards took the first brick from Ings and then knelt on the floor beside the casket. He’d placed a thin Visqueen sheet on the floor for the next phase.

  “Twenty-four ounces.”

  “So…” Edwards quickly did the conversion in his head. “A pound and a half?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s use three.” Edwards knew they wouldn’t need all ten bricks, but thought it better to be overprepared.

  He took a large plastic knife that he’d slid from his backpack and pulled back the cellophane from the brick. He gently cut the brick into several thin slices, laying each slice onto the top of the metal frame, making certain the pieces were evenly spaced. He’d chosen a plastic knife to avoid any chance of it sparking with standard metal cutlery.

  A thin layer of yellow powder coated the Visqueen and plumed as Edwards squared another brick to cut on the plastic. It was a tedious but necessary step to ensure the secrecy of the material. There could be no hint of anything askew or the plot would be blown without any explosion. Edwards wiped the perspiration from his forehead with the back of his wrist as he cut the second and third pieces of Semtex.

  “All finished, I think.” He leaned up from the casket after positioning the detonators and looked across at Ings, who’d been watching quietly. “How much elapsed time?”

  Ings looked at his watch. “Thirty-three minutes.” Their goal was forty-five. They set about replacing the lining into the base of the casket to cover their handiwork. They knew they were on schedule. The professor’s promised stamina and his girlfriend’s alcohol-induced narcolepsy would buy them that long.

  “I think we’re good, Jimmy.”

  Edwards was on his knees, carefully folding the Visqueen so as not to spill any of the residue onto the floor. He then slid it into his backpack and zipped it. “Do you see anything we might have forgotten?”

  Ings was walking around the casket, looking for anything amiss. “I don’t think so.” He got down onto all fours to scour the floor. The cement was cold against his palms. He found nothing. “We’re clean. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Agreed.” Edwards slung the backpack over both shoulders for the trip upstairs. “Let me help you with this.” He held one end of the dolly and walked backwards up the stairs as Ings shuffled forward.

  The men quietly huffed up the steps in the dark until they reached the small platform inside the door. Edwards held the dolly with his left hand and reached behind himself to grab the doorknob with his right. He slowly turned it, leaned into the door with his backpack, and stepped into the hallway to the left. He was backing up to help Ings into the hall when his heart stopped. He felt something press into the small of his back.

  Edwards froze with Ings perched on the top step just inside the door. He didn’t breathe. He didn’t turn around. He was certain that someone was standing right behind him sticking the barrel of a gun into his back. He could feel breath on his skin just behind his ear.

  “Is it done?” the voice whispered. “Is everything in place?”

  He recognized the voice and spun around. It was Thistlewood with his finger cocked like a pistol and a big smile on his face. His cheeks were flushed. Even in the dim light of the hallway, Edwards could see that. His heart resumed beating.

  “Damn it, Art!” Edwards snapped in a fierce whisper, slapping the professor’s hand. “Why would you do that? You about scared the life out of me.”

  “Calm down, George,” Thistlewood said, still smiling. “Laura’s asleep and not waking up anytime soon.” The professor had known what he was doing. He wanted to irritate Edwards, wanted to make him sweat.

  “Whatever,” Edwards snapped again, clearly not amused. “It’s done. Everything is in place.” He motioned for Ings to finish his trip up the stairs. The drunk was still standing at an awkward position in the open doorway. Ings said nothing as he stepped onto the landing and backed past the doorway. He and Edwards kept moving toward the office and the building’s exit as Thistlewood followed behind them.

  “Good, then,” said Thistlewood. “So we’ll see each other tomorrow?”

  “After the body’s in the box,” Edwards replied as he and Ings made their way from Harrowby’s to their awaiting car. “We’ll meet at Cato Street.”

  Thistlewood stood at the back door, watching the two men load into the vehicle. The plan was working, he thought. His worries over what the government might know and which of his compatriots was betraying his trust were momentarily allayed.

  Maybe, he thought to himself, just maybe we will pull this off. He shook his head, thinking about the possibility of success. He was almost giddy as he shut the door and locked it. Thistlewood looked at his watch. He needed to get Laura and himself out of the building before the president’s body arrived early the next morning.

  Chapter 32

  “Do you want some dumplings?”

  Felicia Jackson wasn’t much for sharing, but Crystal Thai delivery was too good to keep to herself. And she had an ulterior motive.

  “No, thank you. I’m good with what I’ve got.”

  Her husband was not a big fan of dumplings. He assumed her offer was based on that knowledge. Felicia, he knew, didn’t concede as much as a dumpling without having first determined the cost/benefit. He loved her but knew better than to think she would freely give without expecting something in return.

  “What did you order?” she asked even though she knew the answer; it was the green curry chicken.

  “Green curry chicken.” Felicia’s husband looked up from his plate and smiled. “Would you like a bite?”

  “If you won’t eat all of it, I’ll take the tiniest of tastes.” It was a courtship dance where she always took the lead. Of course he allowed her to lead. That was his way. He was the strong man behind the good woman. It was his idea to decompress for a couple of hours with their favorite take-out food.

  Crystal Thai was an Arlington restaurant not far from their Clarendon Boulevard loft, that offered free delivery on orders over eighteen dollars. They were open late and the food was authentic. The Jacksons loved Asian food, and good Thai was a mutual favorite.

  “You know,”
he offered after watching her relish the curry chicken, “it’ll be okay no matter the end result.” He’d thought better of saying anything until now. They were sitting at the small bistro table in the kitchen. The idea of the dinner was to ease the tension and help his wife relax, but he couldn’t ignore the elephant in the room.

  “What do you mean?” Her words echoed as she pulled a glass of ice water to her lips.

  “Whatever happens with the presidency,” he said. “Whether the court agrees with you or Blackmon, it’ll be okay.”

  Felicia took a deep breath. She flicked her tongue across her front teeth to clean them before swallowing then pulled a napkin from the table and wiped the corners of her mouth. She couldn’t look her husband in the eyes. She knew he was well intended, but she didn’t want to hear it.

  He was a typical man, offering a solution to a dilemma for which none was asked and none was required. Why couldn’t he let her enjoy the momentary diversion of spice and curry?

  “You know,” she started slowly, pausing just long enough to intone displeasure with her husband’s observation, “it won’t be okay. Not for me, not for you, not for this country. Do you understand what constitutional ramifications exist should the court side with him?” She was revving up. “Do you follow how damaging this would be to the power I currently have? Not only would we be the laughingstock of the Hill, but my opponents would seize upon the snub to try to replace me as speaker. Losing the court battle would be like a no-confidence vote from Parliament.” She stopped and took another sip from her glass.

  “I don’t think you can compare the two, really,” her husband countered. He spoke forcefully but without much volume. “Losing the court vote has nothing to do with you. It’s all about the law.”

  “You are so naïve!” she snapped, her condescension surprising both of them. “Of course it’s about me.”