The Washington Decree_A Novel

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  No one answered, and how could they? They were shocked. Come on, Jansen, deny it. Don’t let it be true, said Wesley Barefoot to himself, but the president remained expressionless.

  Wesley was on the verge of getting up and leaving, but he couldn’t.

  A few feet away the vice president was sitting with his jaw clenched. As rival presidential candidates, he and Jansen had courted the same voters, and Lerner had lost badly. Thus their present alliance was strictly one of convenience that no one expected would last. On the other hand, nobody could have predicted it would be ending almost before it began. “Yes, gentlemen,” Lerner said, “I can see the cat’s got your tongue for once, which is something you may want to learn to do more often, because what I’m telling you is true: Everything we say in the White House is taped and can be used against us if it becomes expedient. But this is only the first step. Just wait. This law-and-order package will eventually have the whole country under surveillance; isn’t that correct, Mr. President?”

  “For a limited time, yes.”

  Wesley looked over at Betty Tucker, whose rapid career advancement was the envy of Washington, but she seemed unperturbed by what she was hearing. Did he have the guts to speak up? He shook his head. No, he didn’t.

  “And the purpose being . . . ?” continued Lerner.

  “The purpose is control,” answered Jansen.

  “So this is about control.”

  “If we seriously want to change things—yes!”

  Lerner nodded as though he’d heard it all before. “The law-and-order proposal states that it can become necessary to override democratic principles. Are you willing to do this, Mr. President?”

  “If necessary.”

  “Censor the media?”

  “Yes.”

  “Forbid people to bear arms?”

  “No. That goes against the Second Amendment,” came Jansen’s measured reply.

  “But forbid them to buy ammunition, am I right?”

  “Yes. The Second Amendment doesn’t forbid that.”

  “And you’d go against the courts and grant amnesty to thousands of convicted criminals?”

  “Yes, that, too. We must give the out-of-prison resocialization program very high priority.”

  “But you’d execute the inmates, even though they haven’t exhausted their possibilities of appeal?”

  “Yes.”

  The vice president shook his head. “And those who oppose the plan will just have to comply?”

  “That’s correct.”

  This brought on a few moments’ silence—some of the most significant, unforgettable seconds in Wesley’s life.

  Here he sat, paralyzed but for his shaking hands, in fear of losing everything he’d believed in. He was caught in the net because he hadn’t had the courage to get up and leave when he could have. But his legs were useless, and all he could manage was to raise his head and take a good look at his president—this all-powerful figure—and try and understand why all this was happening so suddenly. The more he thought about it, the more Lerner’s sharp critique sounded like an understatement.

  No one present in the Oval Office spoke.

  Then President Jansen got up slowly. He wore a dark expression as he finally stood erect, towering over them.

  “Michael . . .” he said, and paused until the vice president returned his look. “Our duty is to make the United States a better place to live. We’ve always had to fight threats from abroad—battles that have cost us dearly—but we’ve kept our country free. If things are to remain this way, then it’s now we must act, only this time the enemy threatens us from within.” The words made the vice president’s expression even more hostile, but Jansen was unfazed. “You know the enemy I mean, don’t you, Michael? It’s an enemy with many names. I’m talking about the mafia, the militias, the crime rate, the ignoring of weapon laws and misuse of freedom of speech, violence of all kinds, injustice, and misuse of power. An enemy with many names and many faces, and all too many people are in their power—willingly or unwittingly—so obviously not everyone will be fighting this battle that must be fought.”

  “It sounds so noble, the way you put it, Mr. President,” said Lerner, barely able to control his voice. “But we still need to follow the legislative process!”

  “We’re going to try.”

  This reply was finally too much for the vice president. He sprang out of his chair. “This isn’t a goddamn case of trying! Don’t you get it, Bruce? You follow the rules set down by Congress and the Constitution, understand? Else I swear we’re going to have you removed from office, whatever the cost!”

  Vice President Lerner’s face was bright copper-red. Rumor had it that he’d had heart problems, and Wesley expected him to collapse any second.

  The president stepped towards him. He was at least a half head taller than his vice president and twenty pounds heavier. Here it comes . . . thought Wesley, but it was just a kind of posturing, like a male lion ready to shake an unruly member of its brood by the nape of its neck until it did as it was told. He was letting everyone know who was king of the jungle. Lerner kept out of his way as Jansen strode past him to his desk. He looked at everyone in turn and sat down.

  “Tomorrow I’m going to address the nation and present this country’s citizens with the program which from now on I’m calling ‘A Secure Future.’ Anyone who has a problem with that should say so now.”

  A long silence followed. Wesley couldn’t believe his ears. Did he actually dare expose his plan to the American public tomorrow? No lobbying, no negotiating with Congress on compromises, no backroom deals or handshakes to help him towards his goal? It was pure insanity. Then a thought struck him that was even more unbearable since it applied to him personally: Jansen was going to give this speech tomorrow and maybe he was expecting him to formulate all this bullshit in a press release.

  Betty Tucker broke the silence. “I’m in.”

  Then Sunderland nodded his agreement.

  Next was Lance Burton. “Me, too,” he said, and looked at Wesley. “We’re not going to have much time to get that speech ready, but both Donald and I are in.” This was the only answer one could expect from a president’s chief of communications.

  Attorney General Lovell nodded. “I’ll inform Chief Supreme Court Justice Manning as soon as this meeting is over and hold a Justice Department meeting this evening.”

  Wesley was speechless. Was that it? What tempting prospects were being held out to Lance Burton and Donald Beglaubter since they had no more to say on the matter? Were they by any chance maneuvering themselves into position for two of the Cabinet jobs that were bound to be vacated as a result of the inevitable showdown that was approaching?

  Wesley kept quiet, and no one asked him what he thought. What could he do—just one man? If he said nothing, the others would assume he agreed with them. This notion set his knees bouncing nervously under the table.

  “Mr. President, who will be your interim appointee when I notify the press of my resignation in a couple of hours?”

  It was Lerner who spoke the words. His red-faced rage had turned to an icy, measured calmness. Clearly his fast-working, calculating brain was trying to figure out ways to turn the situation to his advantage. He was going to be a tough opponent of Jansen’s “secure future.”

  “Oh, I think we’ll be able to sort that out, Michael” was all he said.

  * * *

  —

  He felt guilty as hell, peering apprehensively into the shadows as he crept home to write the president’s speech. Why didn’t you get up and protest immediately? he admonished himself. You dumb, fucking coward!

  He spent the next three hours forcing his fingers to punch computer keys. He’d exchanged e-mails with Donald Beglaubter and spoken on the phone with Lance Burton about crucial details of the text. Now he was just about finished. Three
empty soft drink cans sat next to the computer, and two TV screens were flickering behind him. Every few seconds he readjusted the position of his work chair.

  There was an air of despondency in the room that was hard to ignore.

  * * *

  —

  The first interviews with Vice President Lerner came on the news at five minutes past midnight. Full of self-confidence, he stated that he’d expressed to the country’s new president his strong lack of confidence in him and had been forced to step down. That was how he worded it—nothing about it being his own initiative. No, he was “forced to step down.” It was a clever way of putting it, and the commentator immediately implied that Lerner had been fired. Lerner was merciless in his criticism but knew how far to go without compromising his oath of confidentiality. So instead of naming concrete details of his disaffection, he dwelt on the president’s mental instability since he’d taken office and the dangerous effect the tragic deaths of his two wives was having on his powers of judgment.

  It was tailor-made for implying that the president was showing increasing signs of mental derangement that would soon manifest themselves in drastic, misguided decisions.

  Within ten minutes, Wesley had John Bugatti on the line.

  “Hey, Lerner’s resigned. What’s going on?” asked Bugatti.

  “I don’t have time right now, John. I’m in the middle of writing a press release that has to be ready in half an hour.”

  “Wesley, I’m sitting in some godforsaken hole in Montana, dammit. Media access here is terrible. Come on, buddy, give us a clue.”

  “The president’s gone mad!” Wesley regretted his choice of words immediately, but it was too late.

  “Mad? What’s he done?”

  “No, nonsense!” Wesley tried swallowing, but his mouth was too dry. “Naw, I didn’t mean it, John. Jansen’s presented a new, extremely controversial law-and-order plan that Lerner won’t go along with. I can’t give you any concrete details right now, but it will be brought up in Congress tomorrow in some shape or form.”

  “Controversial? How? Come on, Wesley, just one word!”

  “Press censorship.”

  “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come on, give me an example. I’ll say I got it from the veep himself, if anyone asks. Jesus, I’m sitting here watching a tiny TV screen in this shitty little town, and there isn’t even a DSL connection in the hotel, so please—make my day.”

  “Okay, here’s your example: All TV programs that glorify violence will be taken off the air.”

  “Oh, yeah? That’ll piss off Tom Jumper, ha-ha!” This was something Wesley knew Bugatti would love hearing. John Bugatti truly hated Tom Jumper’s “reality show” featuring society’s most pathetic losers. Stuffing their faces, balling left and right, and beating each other up—that’s what the show’s contestants were good at. Who’d ever miss a program like that? Not Wesley, that was for sure.

  He paused with his mouth open, but the next sentence came out anyway. “And the cessation of the sale of ammunition to civilians.”

  “Okay . . .”

  Wesley could clearly hear Bugatti take a deep breath. He was beginning to realize the gravity of the situation, and his mind must be racing to figure out what other sources could confirm this amazing bit of news, knowing he had to make sure to keep Barefoot’s name out of it.

  So Wesley dropped the next bomb. “All prison inmates will be granted amnesty, except for those on death row.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  Then Wesley hung up and began reading through his statement to the press. Why the hell hadn’t he stood up to Jansen and handed in his resignation? Instead he’d written his best speech ever.

  CHAPTER 10

  John Bugatti had been hanging out all night in the portion of Johnson’s Quality Hotel that a cracked enamel sign euphemistically called THE RESTAURANT. In reality it was a dilapidated appendix to the hotel that served as a truck stop café for long-haul truckers. Otherwise, restaurants seemed to be an unknown concept in this town.

  Like the cafeteria, the hotel itself was unusually unappealing, a quickly erected prefab job, full of impressive examples of slovenly workmanship and nonexistent maintenance. The carpeting and furniture had definitely seen better days, and crooked, yellowed tourist posters shamelessly depicted scenes of breathtaking beauty awaiting lucky lodgers just beyond the hotel’s crumbling walls. Everything about the place awoke disquieting memories of the early days when Bugatti’s status at the bottom of the journalistic hierarchy meant he had to pay for his own hotel rooms.

  But it was the only joint they called a hotel in Taver’s Cliff, Montana, and it was this territory his current interviewee had chosen as the setting for reaping his share of media limelight.

  It had taken him and his television team three weeks to locate Moonie Quale, founder of the Montana militia called the White-Headed Eagles, and the interview was to take place the following morning.

  Wanted by the police, Moonie Quale was a headline maker, a big guy with black hair like Rock Hudson, charming in his own way, and he had many admirers. Most important, he was the country’s biggest proponent of merging all the paramilitary organizations in the United States, with himself as leader. In that respect he was an extremely dangerous person who’d used his considerable rhetorical talents to threaten all kinds of people with fates worse than death. Getting a one-on-one interview with someone like him was every journalist’s dream. It was Quale who decided if, when, and where such an interview took place. There were no second chances.

  Instead of being thrilled with his news scoop and waiting to hear from Quale about the exact time and place they’d be meeting, Bugatti was hoping that when his cell phone rang, it would be his boss calling him home to cover the incredible events that were unfolding in Washington.

  * * *

  —

  Earlier in the evening he’d briefed his office about the information Wesley Barefoot and a couple of other reliable sources had entrusted him with, and then had watched NBC to see what use they’d made of this information. Now he was practically in a state of shock as he followed the intense furor that had erupted in the aftermath of the vice president’s resignation. Watching these events unfold on an ancient, nearly colorless television set in this dingy cafeteria made everything seem unreal. Never before had NBC’s newscaster or the vice president looked so lousy as on that screen.

  At 6:00 A.M. the hotel manager unlocked the glass door to the parking lot to let the first guests into the cafeteria. Then, without bothering to ask Bugatti, he changed the TV channel to Tom Jumper’s reality show, where overweight airheads were hurling insults at one another. With Wesley’s tip about Jansen’s plans for the nation’s media still fresh in his mind, John regarded the show from a new perspective. It wouldn’t be long before this kind of entertainment would be history. Still, in this case maybe media censorship wasn’t such a bad idea.

  Bugatti changed the channel back to NBC the moment the hotel manager went out to the lobby. The waitress was oblivious, busy racing around, serving plates of eggs and toast. It was hard to say which was less appealing—the food or the waitress.

  Judging from the truckers’ accents, the majority of them were from the South. Their noisy commentary regarding what they were seeing on the TV screen was predictably, depressingly unintelligent.

  It’s good I don’t have to listen to shit like this every day, thought Bugatti, as he tried to follow what the newscaster was saying.

  There’d been yet another sniper killing on the streets of New York, and people were scared as hell. This time the victim was an old man; he’d died from the shock to his aged body, not his bullet wound. Although sad and sickening, it still wasn’t quite as horrible as the previous week’s shooting of two children.

  The parking lot was getting crowded with huge, flashy six
teen-wheelers, and the café was filling up with red plaid shirts and baseball caps that promoted everything but sports teams. “Why the hell don’t that New York police catch the sonabitch?” growled a long-haul driver as he sloshed a bottle of ketchup over his scrambled eggs.

  “To keep themselves working, so they’ll wind up with fat pensions!” came a voice over the clatter of forks and coffee cups. Most of those present laughed.

  “They should catch him quick and toast him in the chair,” came the final judgment from the corner, and everyone concurred.

  Cameraman Marvin Gallegos, one of Bugatti’s regular team, came down the stairs and sat down heavily across from him. “It’s coming on now,” he said in a tired voice and looked up at the screen, where yet another breaking-news program was being announced.

  Two breaking-news shows in a row, and there they were, stuck in Nowheresville! Bugatti cursed his fate for the hundredth time.

  The washed-out TV image of the news anchorman switched the scene to the White House pressroom.

  Wesley Barefoot strode up to the podium, exuding calm and self-confidence, impeccably clad as always. He nodded to the journalists, but they didn’t get the trademark flash of his perfect white teeth because his smile was absent.

  Then Wesley introduced the president, and Bugatti sat up in his chair. For a moment the drone of voices behind him subsided.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” began President Jansen, nodding to the press. “I hope you’re sitting comfortably and that you’re in a good, patient mood today because this is going to take a little more of your time than usual.”

  Jansen slicked down his hair and put on his reading glasses. “I know you all would like me to make a statement regarding Michael Lerner’s resignation, but I’m afraid you’re not getting one today, and no, no one has been chosen to take Lerner’s place, either. What I wish to speak about today has to do with fear.”