While Philindros testified, the silence in the chamber was absolute. Even Attenborough had closed his glittering eyes and put on the headphones of a pocket video receiver in order to concentrate on his words. The Senate stenographers had switched from the chamber’s sound system to headsets attached to the more sensitive television feed in order to record his words. Hammett did not strain to hear; he already knew what this man was going to say. The Chief Justice felt a great sense of tranquillity. The exchange with Clark and Whipple in that obscenely ornate room backstage (dying empires build coffins for their useless leaders) had told him something important. They had surrendered; he was in control. He could make things happen. He could write the ending of this drama. He was not in the least surprised that this should be so. He had always known that the Establishment would collapse one day under the weight of its own corruption and hypocrisy, and that the fall would be sudden and complete when at last it came. This was the fate of empires and the law of history. But he was surprised that it had happened so quickly, so logically, and that there had been so little resistance.
In the witness chair, Philindros sat without gesture or motion, lips moving soundlessly as he whispered his account of his fateful conversation with Lockwood into the microphones; air could not carry the sound of his voice, only electrons could. This was the first time the world had heard the details of the Ibn Awad assassination plot from the lips of a participant. Even amplified by the latest digital technology, the horrifying truth was barely audible. In the gallery, Attenborough briefly opened his eyes. But instead of fixing Hammett with another beady stare he gazed into space. On his podium, the Chief Justice enjoyed perfect privacy; even the cameramen were fascinated by Philindros.
Bob Laval finished his direct examination of the witness. This had been little more than a recapitulation of his earlier testimony before the House Committee of Managers. Steady as a rock, Philindros sipped water from a paper cup. Olmedo was in the act of rising, a yellow tablet in his hand, waiting for Hammett to invite him to cross-examine.
Instead Hammett said, “It’s getting late. If the Senate pleases, the Chief Justice will suggest that the examination of this witness continue on Monday at half past noon as provided by Rule Twelve. President Lock-wood’s counsel will have an opportunity to cross-examine at that time. Is that agreeable, Senators?”
There was no objection. Amzi Whipple rose, presumably to move for adjournment, but Hammett ignored him. “Before entertaining a motion for adjournment,” he said, “I have a written question for the witness from the senator from California. As provided by Rule Nineteen, I will put the question. Will you indulge me, Senator?”
Whipple stood mutely in place, uplifted hand frozen in midair.
Hammett folded his own hands on the Greek Bible and fixed his attention on the witness. “The question concerns the nuclear devices purportedly in the possession of Ibn Awad at the time of his death,” Hammett said. The Senate stirred. Philindros waited. Camera lights glowed. The Chief Justice unfolded the paper. “Actually, I see it is a series of questions concerning the two ten-kiloton nuclear devices to which you have referred in your testimony today and previously,” he said. “I will read the first question. Would you agree, Mr. Director, that the existence of those devices constituted the best proof of Ibn Awad’s intentions to hand them over to terrorists?”
Philindros cleared his throat. “Yes.”
“And was that intention the rationale for the assassination order?”
“Yes.”
“No question in your mind on either of those points?”
“No question, Mr. Chief Justice.”
Hammett absorbed these answers, then went on. “And is it your opinion that gaining possession of those two bombs and thereby preventing their falling into the wrong hands was an important objective of the mission?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you. Now, sir, I will ask you this: After Ibn Awad had been eliminated as ordered, did you in fact locate the two ten-kiloton nuclear devices and disable them?”
Philindros sipped water from a paper cup. “We located them, yes,” he said.
“Can you describe them?”
“The devices were described by experts on the scene as two plutonium compression bombs of the Nagasaki type, each about the size of a Pullman suitcase. Except for their portability, the weapons were quite primitive, technically speaking.”
“Where did you locate them?”
“In a cave in a remote area of the desert.”
“When?”
Philindros hesitated. Then he said, “On October fifteenth of last year.”
For the first time Hammett raised his voice. “Four months ago, Mr. Director?” he said. “Is it your testimony that it took the FIS four years after the death of Ibn Awad to locate those devices, which are capable of destroying New York City and killing several million people?”
Philindros still held the water cup in his hand. He looked at it thoughtfully as if restraining himself from crushing it, then set it down on the gleaming tabletop. “It took that long to locate them, yes. More precisely, three years seven months, Mr. Chief Justice.”
Hammett said, “Thank you. And for that entire period of time their whereabouts were unknown to anyone in the United States government?”
“That is correct.”
“When you found the devices after four years, did you disable them?”
“An attempt was made to do so.”
“And did this attempt succeed?”
Philindros took a deep breath, audible over the loudspeakers, before replying. “No,” he said. “It did not. The devices were booby-trapped. Our technicians withdrew from the cave when this was discovered.”
“Why was that, Mr. Director?”
“The booby traps were extremely ingenious.”
“It is your statement that there was more than one booby trap?”
“Yes, several on each bomb. They were set up in such a way that disarming one activated another. We believed that the risk of detonation was unacceptably high. The bombs were dirty because they were primitive. An explosion would have released radiation—gamma rays, radioactive particulate matter, all the other debris associated with fission bombs—into the earth’s atmosphere in amounts roughly equivalent to that released by the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombs combined.”
“Even though the bombs were in a cave?”
“The mouth of the cave was open. Weaponry experts believed that the cave would act as a chimney or mortar tube, if you will, concentrating the radioactive dust of the explosion into a fast-rising column which would enter the upper atmosphere and be carried around the globe on the jet stream, eventually falling to earth and contaminating the food chain. Also, the site would have been rendered highly dangerous almost indefinitely.”
“How long is ‘almost indefinitely’?”
“Plutonium,” Philindros whispered, “has a radioactive half-life of eighty-three million years.”
“I see,” said Hammett. “So what action did you take to deal with this problem, Mr. Director?”
“We are still studying the problem.”
“The bombs have not been disarmed?”
“No, Mr. Chief Justice, they have not. We haven’t disturbed them again.”
“You mean the bombs are still where you found them four months ago, still not disarmed?”
“That’s correct.”
“And the danger of an accidental explosion is undiminished?”
“So long as the bombs are undisturbed, the risk of accidental detonation is small.”
“But not nonexistent?”
“No.”
“Why did you not seal the cave and detonate the bombs inside it?”
“Two reasons, sir. First, the cave is not deep enough to contain an explosion of that magnitude. Second, the vibration set up by the heavy earthmoving equipment required to seal the mouth of the cave might set them off. One of the booby traps is sensitive to vibration. If you move eit
her bomb, it goes off and could conceivably detonate the other sympathetically.”
“I see,” Hammett said. “What else might set them off, Mr. Director? A wandering shepherd? Terrorists?”
Philindros refused to rise to this sarcasm. “Those risks are small,” he said evenly, “inasmuch as only we know the location of the cave and it is under constant guard.”
“Are you telling the United States Senate and the American people that there is nothing to worry about?”
“No, because that is not the fact. The chief risk is from earthquake. The cave lies quite close to the fault line between the Arabian and Eurasian plates.”
“How close is ‘quite close,’ Mr. Director?”
“On the order of ten miles.”
Hammett put down the list of questions. “I must ask you this, Mr. Director,” he said. “Is it your testimony that you reported all these facts to President Lockwood?”
“No, it is not,” Philindros said. “I have never discussed the matter with the President.”
“Why not, sir?”
“He has refused to see me.”
“Did you report your findings to anyone in authority?”
“I reported the incident to the person in the White House designated as my liaison with the President.”
This person, as everyone in the Senate chamber knew, had to be Julian Hubbard, but Hammett did not ask Philindros to identify him by name. He said, “And what was the reaction of this person who was the liaison between you and President Lockwood?”
“He instructed me to restrict knowledge of the existence of the bombs to those who already knew about them.”
“Did that list include the President himself?”
“I don’t know if he ever was told.”
“Why would he not be told, Mr. Director?”
“I can’t speculate on that, Mr. Chief Justice.”
“But at the time you and he discussed the matter, the presidential election was less than two weeks away.”
“Yes.”
A few senators stirred; a noise, more like a murmur of fear than the buzz of curiosity, ran through the gallery. Hammett struck a ringing blow with his gavel. The flutter subsided. He said, “Mr. Director, did you realize that the facts you have just related might, if they had become public knowledge, have jeopardized the President’s chances of reelection in what was already an extremely close contest?”
“I recognized that as a possibility,” Philindros answered. “Yes.”
“And did you think that was why the President’s man ordered you to keep this matter secret?”
“I don’t know what was in his mind.”
“But you followed orders, as you had done in the case of the assassination four years before, and concealed what you knew from the Congress of the United States and the American people.”
“Until now, when the question was finally put to me, I treated it as I would treat any other sensitive classified matter.”
“Well, Mr. Director, you seem to have protected the secret,” Hammett said. “But I’m sure the American people are grateful for your candor under oath today.”
The Chief Justice nodded his head in silent thought, several slow, deliberate nods, as if giving his mind time to absorb and program the bizarre data that had just been put into it. By now the hush in the chamber was absolute; not even the media were stirring. At last Hammett said, “One final question.” He paused again, as if reluctant to put the question that duty required him to ask, then went on. “Isn’t it a fact, Mr. Director, that the failure to recover the bombs meant that the assassination of Ibn Awad accomplished absolutely nothing?”
Philindros did not reply. Hammett said, “The witness will answer the question.”
Philindros cleared his throat. “I am not,” he said, “competent to make that judgment.”
“I wonder who is, Mr. Director,” said Hammett. He averted his eyes, a seemingly involuntary gesture of deep weariness and shock that was captured by all the cameras present. “Senators, I have no further questions. Is there a motion from the floor?”
Sam Clark moved for adjournment until Monday at half past noon. This time there was unanimous consent.
Hammett struck the gavel, picked up his Greek Bible, and leaving Philindros motionless in his chair and the senators at their desks, strode from the chamber, all cameras tracking his thoughtful and somber figure.
Outside the chamber, the news media awaited Baxter Busby. Morgan Pike, looking herself again, held her pink microphone to his lips. “Senator, what prompted you to submit that particular question?”
Busby was somber, reluctant to answer. “I thought it should be asked.”
“Did you know the answer before you asked the question?”
“It would be improper for me to say any more about an evidentiary matter while this impeachment is before the Senate. But I will say this. The United States of America has been vouchsafed a superb Chief Justice in an hour of great constitutional peril.”
Morgan, frowning, listened over her earpiece to a question from Patrick Graham. “Do you think Archimedes Hammett has the makings of a President?”
“You mean President of the United States?”
“Yes.”
“My goodness, that’s a thought,” Busby said, as though the same thought had never occurred to him. Who, he wondered, had been putting ideas in Patrick Graham’s head? Or was it a case of great minds running in the same channel? “I’d love to comment,” he said. “But, Morgan, to do so would be a disservice to our country, to our President, who is on trial here, and to Chief Justice Hammett. The whole country knows that this fine American is the man of the hour. Let’s just leave it at that.”
6
It had been a long session. After the adjournment, in the men’s room reserved for the press, queues of journalists formed at every urinal. Macalaster, who had remained to watch the Senate floor empty, was among the last to arrive. At the end of the shortest queue stood Montague Love, dancing in place. Though he had phoned Love two or three times while he was convalescing, Macalaster had not seen him in the flesh since he had left him lying unconscious in the men’s room of the Library of Congress on Inauguration Day. Evidently Love’s insurance claims had been satisfactorily settled because he was wearing a spotless new British-tan Burberry trench coat instead of his old chocolate-brown fly-front Kmart raincoat with the zip-in acrylic fleece liner. Nothing else about him had changed: While he waited his turn at the urinal, sucking in breath through clenched teeth, he was absorbed by the voluminous notes he had made on his wad of newsprint.
Macalaster tapped him on the shoulder. “Monty, how are you?”
Love regarded Macalaster without interest. “So-so,” he replied. “Did you get Philindros’s exact words on the booby traps?”
“I think so.”
“Can I see it while we wait? I’ve got to call in my copy.”
Macalaster tapped the over-the-shoulder bag that held his computer. “It’s all in the computer’s memory. I’ll access it for you after I pee.” They moved forward a step. Macalaster said, “How’s the head?”
Love looked mournful. “Aches all the time,” he replied. “Double vision, grinding noises inside the skull. Aspirin does nothing for it. Fracture your skull, there’s bound to be aftereffects. Like temporary amnesia. Couldn’t remember a thing about what happened for weeks afterward.”
“What about now?”
“It’s coming back.”
“All of it?”
“Who knows? I may never remember parts of it, they say. Another little aftereffect.”
“Does it come back bit by bit or all at once?”
“In flashes,” Love said. He was in distress. “Let’s move it up there! Funny, I could remember things in the past, way back when I was a kid—faces from the third grade, my teacher’s name, the picture on my cereal bowl, which was a dinosaur. Stuff I hadn’t thought of in years. Just couldn’t remember anything between the time I sat down on the crap
per and woke up in the emergency room.”
“Monty, tell me,” Macalaster said. “What exactly do you remember now?”
“What difference does it make?” Love waved a hand in dismissal. It was his turn at the urinal. Groaning in relief, he used it. Then, leaving Macalaster’s question unanswered, he hurried toward the door.
Macalaster called after him, “Monty, wait a minute.”
“It’s okay, I don’t need that stuff about the booby traps,” Love said over his shoulder. “I just thought of a way to write around it.”
The man next in line behind Macalaster, an aging wire-service reporter who had a chronic hangover and an adversarial relationship with everybody, said, “Take it out and aim it or get out of line, hotshot.” Macalaster left the line and ran after Monty Love, who was already through the door, limping with astonishing rapidity on his built-up shoe through the milling crowd of journalists who had come from all over the world to cover the Senate trial.
Macalaster caught up with him as he reached the bank of telephones reserved for the press and found them all in use. Because of his lowly status, Love did not rate a phone of his own, but he had to call his radio stations in time for the six o’clock news. “Shit,” he said, whirling around in desperation. “Gotta find a phone.” Macalaster pulled his own cellular phone out of his pocket and offered it to Love. It was the same one with which he had called 911 on the day Love was assaulted. “Use mine,” he said.
“Thanks,” Love replied. His mind was fixed on what he was going to do next: utter five sentences in his weedy Nebraska voice into a conference hookup to seventeen 500-watt AM stations scattered across five states between the Platte and the Arkansas rivers. On Macalaster’s bill. At no cost to himself or his clients.
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