Capitol Betrayal

by William Bernhardt

  “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.

  22

  10:31 A.M.

  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 distan
ce, 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.”

  23

  10:30 A.M.

  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.