Capitol Betrayal

by William Bernhardt

  “Didn’t you just do that? I gave you five full precious minutes.”

  “I need more. Just one minute will do.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Kincaid. In another world I’d probably say yes. But we just can’t afford all these time-outs. Please proceed.”

  Ben looked at the president and hoped he could read minds. The message he was sending was: Write me a note. Explain. Unfortunately, his telepathy must be waning, because the president did not begin writing.

  He would have to proceed in the dark.

  “Agent Zimmer, have there been any other occasions when the president took you into his confidence?”

  Unlike the other witnesses, Zimmer was not bashful about looking where he wanted to look. On this occasion, he was looking at the president.

  He was seeking permission.

  This message the president seemed to understand. He gave a firm nod. Zimmer returned it, though the expression on his face was grim.

  “And,” Zimmer said, “you understand the consequences?”

  It took Ben a moment to realize Zimmer was talking to the president, not him. Swinburne was slow on the uptake, too. He was just getting ready to object when the president answered.

  “Do it.”

  Zimmer directed his next comments to Ben. “Yes, there was one such occasion.”

  “Can you tell us what happened, please?”

  “The president contacted me because he wanted to arrange a visit with an individual living in Pennsylvania. A man named Abe Malik. It was a weekend trip, sandwiched between two speaking engagements.”

  Sarie sat up straight. It was obvious she hadn’t known anything about this.

  “Was there a reason he couldn’t just arrange it in the normal fashion through his chief of staff?”

  “Yes. He wanted it to be private. In fact, he didn’t want anyone to know about it.”

  “Is that so hard?”

  “For the president, yes. Remember, Air Force One carries reporters with it. They would notice an unexpected detour to Pittsburgh.”

  “So how did you manage it?”

  “After his second speaking gig, which was only about a hour away from where he wanted to go, we put an agent who resembled him into Cadillac One-the president’s usual car-and put President Kyler in another car almost equally well protected but not quite so high-profile. The press were told he’d gone out to do some shopping for his wife. When he finished with his meeting, he returned to Air Force One and no one was the wiser.”

  “Did you accompany the president on this journey?”

  “Of course. Anytime he’s out in public, I’m with him.”

  “So did you learn where he was going?”

  “I already knew where we were headed. That was a condition of the arrangement. We had to check out the individual in advance. And we had to do a security sweep of his apartment, where the meeting took place.”

  “What was the reason for the meeting?”

  Zimmer inhaled, then slowly released the air through his teeth. “The president wanted to talk him out of joining the Red Cross.”

  “But hasn’t the president been an ardent supporter of the Red Cross?”

  “So I gather.”

  “Why did he want to talk anyone out of joining?”

  “The president felt the assignment was too dangerous. Mr. Malik was planning to travel to one of the world’s most treacherous hot spots. The Middle East.”

  “The president wanted to keep him out?”

  “Exactly. But his arguments were unavailing. Mr. Malik departed the next day. We tracked his progress as long as possible-till he was beyond our supervisory range.”

  “Once he was overseas?”

  “Yes. At that point, he was beyond Secret Service supervision. But I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that the CIA was asked to keep an eye out.”

  It was time to bring everyone else up to speed. Ben asked the critical question.

  “Why was the president so concerned for the safety of this one individual?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? You’ve heard what was centermost in his mind. How often he lamented that he had been a poor father.”

  “What are you saying?”

  Zimmer folded his hands in his lap. “I’m saying that, according to the president himself, Abe Malik is his son.”

  34

  11:31 A.M.

  Judging from the astonished reactions in the room, Ben surmised that Agent Zimmer had done a very good job of keeping the president’s secrets. “How can the president have a son that no one knows about?”

  “A few people know. His wife. His daughter, Jenny. Me. Maybe a handful of others. He’s several years older than Jenny. I gather it was a pregnancy in a prior relationship, before he was married.”

  So the president had an illegitimate son. A surprise-but did anyone really care these days? Sarah Palin’s daughter had had a baby out of wedlock, but that didn’t seem to stir up much controversy. Would this? Or would it just be passed off as a youthful indiscretion?

  “Did Abe Malik join the Red Cross?”

  “He did. He was a pilot, and they always need more experienced pilots. He was posted to the Middle East, as planned, where he ran several emergency supply runs of food and medicine. Most recently, he was piloting runs to the beleaguered people in the Benzai Strip.”

  “And where is he now?” Ben asked.

  “Haven’t you guessed?” Zimmer spread wide his hands. “He was flying the helicopter. The one that went down in Kuraq. The one the president has sent troops in to rescue.”

  At last it all began to make sense. Everyone was talking at once, barely bothering to whisper.

  Cartwright pounded on the table. “I will ask again that everyone please remain quiet so that we can proceed. Our time is running out!”

  The din slowly subsided.

  Surely now, Ben thought, people would understand why the president was determined to send troops into Kuraq-and why he wouldn’t back off and abandon the people who went down in the helicopter. Even when the missiles were pointed at his head, how could anyone expect him to abandon his own son?

  Ben glanced down at the president. His head was hung, his eyes were downcast. Ben had brought out the testimony they needed if they were to have any chance of salvaging this presidency. But it had come at an enormous cost. His secret was out. And his powers of judgment were still in dispute.

  Ben didn’t know if Kyler was making the correct foreign policy decision or not, but he knew this: it was not insane to want to protect your own son. Zimmer had provided a perfectly sane motive for the president’s decisions. And right or wrong, that was what they needed to keep him in office.

  “I have no more questions,” Ben said. “Pass the witness.”

  “Very well,” Cartwright said. “Mr. Swinburne, it’s your turn.”

  Swinburne skittered back to the table. He seemed eager to proceed. If this new development had caught him by surprise-and Ben was certain it had-he was adjusting admirably.

  “Agent Zimmer,” he began, “are you familiar with the Twenty-fifth Amendment?”

  “Well, I’ve heard a lot about it since you showed up.”

  “Are you familiar with its provisions?”

  “Not really.”

  “Basically, it provides for the removal of the president when he is rendered incapable. We primarily think about that in terms of situations involving death and disease, but those aren’t the only possible events that could cause a president to be rendered incapable.”

  Ben knew where this was heading and he didn’t like it, though to be honest, the same idea had already occurred to him.

  “Isn’t it possible,” Swinburne continued, “that the president could be so personally involved in a political scenario that he is unable to be objective?”

  “I suppose that’s theoretically possible,” Zimmer said.

  “In this instance, we now know that the president’s actions have at least in part been motivated by the fact that
his only son is currently behind enemy lines. How is it possible that would not influence his decision making?”

  “That’s not for me to say, sir.”

  “But you must see how having a child at risk would skewer your thinking process.”

  “I’ve never had children, sir. I wouldn’t know.”

  “Even if you haven’t had children yourself, you must see my point. Couldn’t his own personal ties to the crisis leave him incapable of dealing with it in a rational manner? Or make him susceptible to improper influence-especially if Zuko captures his son?”

  “Objection,” Ben said. “This whole line is inappropriate. Mr. Zimmer is a Secret Service agent, not a constitutional scholar.”

  “I think that point is well taken,” Cartwright said. “Sustained.”

  “I’m not asking him to render a legal opinion,” Swinburne said. “I want him to tell us, based upon his own personal observations of the president, whether he believes that the man can be objective when his son is in the line of fire.”

  “I have never seen anything that suggested to me that the president is incapable of fulfilling his duty, not in this situation or any other.”

  “Well, what about that streaking business? Was that just par for the presidential course?”

  Zimmer shrugged. “It’s not the strangest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Do you think the country would be well served by a naked president?”

  “If I may remind you,” Zimmer said with admirable calm, “he didn’t do it.”

  “But he might’ve. You thought he was going to.”

  “That was my first impression. That changed later. But what does it matter? He didn’t.”

  “Next time he might.”

  “Next time you might. Who knows? None of us can predict the future.”

  “I can assure you I won’t be streaking. At least not until I lose thirty pounds.” Nice attempt, but things had become too dark for anyone to appreciate humor. “The president has become utterly unpredictable. Talking about streaking and flying and… killing himself in disturbing ways. Sneaking off on secret assignations. And keeping secrets from the American public, secrets about his own family.”

  “I suspect President Kyler is not the first president who wanted to keep his family secret.”

  “Yes, but the others didn’t. They faced up to the truth and took whatever hits came from honesty. President Kyler chose to hide.”

  “I don’t know why he decided to keep his son in the closet. And I don’t think you do, either.”

  “I think it’s obvious. He had an illegitimate child whom he abandoned. Why else would he not acknowledge what had happened?”

  “As I said, I don’t know.”

  “Has he had any other contact with Mr. Malik?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “How did he learn that Malik was planning to join the Red Cross?”

  “I don’t know. But I suspect the message was transmitted by his daughter. As I said, she knows about Malik, and I believe they stay in contact.”

  “I would think most fathers would be proud to have their sons join the Red Cross.”

  “The president said he would support his participation in missions to any other part of the world. Just not the Middle East. President Kyler knew that the region was unstable, and about to get worse. Which proved correct.”

  “Wouldn’t that be the time to acknowledge his son to the world? When he’s about to make such a noble gesture?”

  “I think it would be more complicated than that.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I believe this particular announcement would do critical damage to the president’s support ratings-particularly in the South. And that consequently would erode his ability to lead.”

  “The South?” Swinburne took another moment. “Are you saying this son of his is of mixed race?”

  “Exactly.”

  Swinburne took a step backward. The light was dawning. “So there would be immediate political consequences. Because the man is half African American.”

  Zimmer’s head tilted to one side. “Uh… no.”

  “He’s not part black?”

  “No.”

  “But you said-”

  “I’m sorry. I thought it was obvious. He’s not of African descent.” Zimmer paused just long enough to whet everyone’s interest. “He’s Middle Eastern.”

  Swinburne’s jaw dropped so low it almost thudded against the floor. “Middle Eastern? His son is from the Middle East?”

  “Well, his son’s mother was.” Zimmer frowned, glanced at the president, then added: “To be specific-she’s Kuraqi.”

  35

  11:31 A.M.

  Seamus sped down the highway toward a remote location in rural Maryland. They were still near enough to D.C. that the traffic from fleeing Washingtonians complicated travel, as did Zira’s erratic come-and-go information.

  They had managed to triangulate on the cell phone’s signal to determine its location. The signal was emitted, however, only when the phone was turned on, and the user was apparently turning it on only when he wanted to use it. He was probably savvy enough to know that those times were when the phone was vulnerable, so he limited it as much as possible. He probably did not count on the efficacy of the CIA’s latest Sidewinder triangulation program, which could track a cell phone down in less than a tenth of the time it had taken the previous iteration.

  Seamus pulled up beside what appeared to be an abandoned industrial plant of some sort. Seamus knew that this was one of many. The downturn in the economy had hit this part of the country particularly hard. The unkempt, weed-ridden lawn was enough to tell him that this place was no longer in use-at least not in any official capacity. Not doing any business the IRS would be notified about. At the far corner he spotted a broken sign: Barlow Bros. Manufacturing. He gave no clue what the plant had made.

  “You stay here,” he told Arlo as he unbuckled himself.

  “Okay,” Arlo replied.

  Seamus gave him a narrow-eyed look. “I mean it. You stay right here. I’ll give you the car keys. If you see any trouble, leave. In fact, if you see anyone at all, leave. Here’s a number you can call if you need help. Do not leave this car under any circumstances.”

  Arlo took the number. “Okay.”

  “I’m not sure I believe you’re taking this seriously. I am serious. This could be very dangerous. I want you to stay out of it. Do not leave this car.”

  “I said okay.”

  “Yes, but your eyes are saying, ‘I helped him once. Maybe I can help him again.’”

  “I don’t know where you’re getting that.”

  “I’m getting it from twenty years of field experience.”

  “Look, I have no desire to get hurt. I’m not going anywhere. You’re on your own.”

  Seamus’s eyes narrowed still further. “And you mean that? You won’t leave the car?”

  “Absolutely. You want me to pinky-swear?”

  “That won’t be necessary. Just don’t leave the car.” Seamus pushed himself out. His ribs still ached where he had taken the boot several times. But he blocked that out of his mind. He had to focus on the task at hand: figuring out what, if anything, was going on in there, and then figuring out how to stop it.

  The building was so expansive he assumed that the base wouldn’t use all of it. Even if they had the most elaborate James Bond-esque headquarters imaginable, it wouldn’t take up half of this facility, and Arlo had told him that the satellite control operation he envisioned wouldn’t require that much space at all. What he had to do was figure out where they were and then go in somewhere else.

  He hung close to the building-so he couldn’t be seen from the inside-and called Zira.

  “I’m there. Have you got the heat readings?”

  “Yes. I’m sending it to your cell.”

  Barely three seconds later, he had it. Another trick in the CIA magic show-one not many people knew about-was that t
he United States had satellites capable of zeroing in on any building in the country and using infrared imagery to get heat impressions of what was going on inside. Was this constitutional? Well, who knew? With the current conservative Supreme Court, almost anything the government wanted to do was potentially constitutional. For the time being, what mattered was that it told him where the heat was-where the people were. And at the moment they were primarily concentrated at the north end.

  So he moved to the south.

  “I don’t get that much definition on my cell screen,” Seamus said. “Can you tell how many there are?”

  “Not to any degree of certainty. Looks like about ten people.”

  Which meant they outnumbered him by nine. At least.

  “Do you want me to send in reinforcements?” Zira asked.

  “Let’s make sure this is the place first. But have them standing by.”

  “It’s not as if I have a ready army, Seamus,” Zira said. “We’re dealing with several national crises here. I’ll have to pull people away from their current assignments.”

  “Understood. If I need reinforcements, I’ll let you know.”

  He closed the phone and approached the south wall.

  He had two means of entry: a door and a window. The door would be suicide. Even if they were trying to keep their numbers small, he had to assume someone would be watching all the doors. The window might be unguarded, but entering by that means inevitably would be noisy and, well, he never liked to risk his neck on a “might.”

  So he decided to try the roof.

  He found a planter on the back end of the building that brought him four feet off the ground. Standing on that, with a concerted leap he was able to pull himself up onto the roof, though his ribs ached from the strain.

  He didn’t have many advantages in this situation. In fact, the element of surprise might be his only one. And he couldn’t even be sure about that. By now, they must have noticed that the thug he left back at the mall hadn’t shown up with Harold Bemis. So they might well be on their guard.

  Seamus hoped not.

  If this were a movie, he reasoned, by now he would’ve spotted a curved air exhaust that led to an extensive network of ventilation shafts that would allow him to crawl anyplace in the building, overhear key information, and then penetrate their ranks and blow the whole operation sky-high. But here in real life, he had never yet seen a building with a passable network of ventilation shafts, and even if there were one somewhere, he probably couldn’t fit inside it. He was limber and in good shape, but there were limits.