William Bernhardt - Capitol Conspiracy

As they walked, Ben saw a face he recognized.

“Brad Tidwell. My senatorial comrade.” Ben held out his hand. “Good to see you.”

The tall, lanky man in the blue suit took Ben’s hand cordially. “Kincaid, you are the worst liar I have ever met.”

Ben’s face colored.

“Seriously. Worst liar in the history of humanity. Which explains why you’ll never make it in politics.”

“Or,” Mike grumbled, “explains why his approval rating is so much higher than yours.”

Tidwell responded with a thin smile that, were Ben in a less charitable mood, he might have called a sneer. “Senator Kincaid has never had the pleasure of conducting an actual campaign. Believe me, if he ever does, his numbers will drop.”

Tidwell was a two-term senator based in Oklahoma City. After Senator Todd Glancy resigned, he had become the state’s senior senator, with Ben as his very junior partner. Since they represented different parties, they had spent much of the past few months canceling out each other’s votes.

“Since you’re a newbie, I wanted to make sure we were clear on protocol: when the president approaches us, I shake his hand first.”

Ben caught Mike rolling his eyes.

“Maybe I’m crazy,” Ben said, “but shouldn’t we let the president decide who he wants to greet first?”

“And he will. He knows how the game is played. You’re the one I’m worried about. No grandstand plays for the cameras and the folks back home. Don’t lunge for the man’s hand.”

“If he were stupid enough to lunge for the president’s hand,” Mike noted, “he would probably be tackled by a dozen Secret Service agents.”

“Another good point. See, Kincaid-I’m just looking out for your best interests. Brother senators should be friends.”

Riiiight, Ben thought. And with a friend like you…

They stopped walking as Agent Zimmer approached with another similarly garbed older man. “Senator Kincaid, this is Agent Gatwick, my immediate superior. Everything in place, Tom?”

“Right on schedule.”

“Snipers?”

“In place.”

“Agents?”

“As planned. Domino Bravo.”

“Excellent.” Zimmer turned toward the north end of the street. “Here he comes.”

Ben followed his gaze and saw a large black sedan followed by what appeared to be an endless stream of black sedans flanked by motorcycle cops. “How many cars are in the presidential motorcade?”

“Twenty-two.”

Ben’s eyes bulged. “Are you joking? Who’s in all of those cars?”

“Secret Service in several. Homeland Security in a few. Local police. Press vans. One car carrying the president’s doctor and several refrigerated pints of the president’s blood. Various important dignitaries, not important enough for a personal meet-and-greet like you, but important enough to walk to the dais in the president’s wake. A counterassault team, to deal with potential attacks. The ‘bomb sweep’-that’s the first police car. It has the unpleasant and dangerous job of clearing the way for the motorcade. Another eight or so vehicles-the ‘secure package’-will split off from the motorcade and take the president somewhere safe in the event of an emergency.”

Ben continued to stare. “Is that the president’s car?”

“Nah. The Beast will be packed somewhere in the middle.”

“The Beast?”

Agent Gatwick nodded. “That’s what we call the president’s car. Cadillac One.”

“Why ‘The Beast’?”

“Because it’s a monster. A real leviathan. A Caddy DTS stretch sedan with satellite GPS and communication equipment. He could call an astronaut on the moon from that car. Carries its own air supply in case someone gasses the outside air. Totally bulletproof-the body is constructed of antiballistic steel paneling and the windows are made from inch-thick polycarbonate glass. In the event of a puncture, the tires can heal themselves.”

“It’s the Batmobile.”

“Basically, yeah. Without the tail fins.”

“What’s a car like that cost?”

“Last I heard, about twelve million.”

Ben whistled.

“And for all that-it gets lousy gas mileage.” Behind the sunglasses, Ben sensed a twinkle in Zimmer’s eye. “But it has a hell of a sound system.”

Far above the motorcade, in a grandstand recon office temporarily constructed on the roof of the adjoining Oklahoma City Memorial Museum, three sets of eyes were trained on the activities below.

“So she made it in time,” the oldest of the three, an extremely tall black man, commented.

“Just barely,” said the other man in the group. “But from what I hear, they had a little snuggle on Air Force One.”

“Never underestimate a woman,” said the only female of the three. “She can do anything she wants to.”

“I don’t doubt it,” the younger of the two men replied. “The question was whether she wanted to.”

“Don’t be absurd. If this is a marriage of political convenience, then it would be pretty stupid to miss a television spot that more than forty million people are expected to view live.”

“You seem to have some real insight here. Maybe you should go into politics.”

“Tempting. But I would hate campaigning. Can’t keep my mouth shut long enough. And I have a few skeletons in my closet.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Nerds are the only people who can run for political office in this country these days. To get elected, you have to be one of three possible things: old, homely-or male.” She smiled. “I’m none of the above. Also, I enjoy a healthy, unmarried sex life. I’m unelectable.”

“But if the reports and rumors I’m getting about the first lady are true-”

“She’s here, isn’t she?”

“But the scuttlebutt-”

“And she’s always there when he needs her, right?”

“But-”

“Don’t be so easily misled,” the woman said, pointing a finger so close, it almost touched his nose. “All the sex in the world can’t compete with the thrill of receiving the applause of millions of potential voters. Remember what Kissinger said.”

“And that would be?”

Her upper lip curled in a distinctively naughty manner. “Power is the greatest aphrodisiac.”

Joel Salter felt a shiver creep up his spine. Bad enough he had to be the only Feeb in the outpost without that woman here making him supremely uncomfortable. He could still recall a time when this would’ve been an FBI operation and the Secret Service agents, nominally under the direction of the secretary of treasury, would’ve been managed by the deputy director of the FBI. Ever since the Secret Service had been transferred to Homeland Security, though, he hated these assignments. He was worse than a third wheel; he wouldn’t be useful even in the event of a flat tire. Unless he had some intel to provide, they didn’t want any part of the FBI. The general attitude seemed to be that if the FBI had been doing its job, Homeland Security would never have come into existence. People like Carl Lehman and Nichole Muldoon didn’t want him tainting their operation.

Muldoon was watching through high-powered binoculars that allowed her to peer through the green-tinted windows of Cadillac One. “My God,” she said, “they’re not even sitting on the same side. I guess absence does not make the heart grow fonder.”

Salter cleared his throat. “My understanding is that she sits facing him so that when the rear door is opened, spectators and cameras will only see the president. An unshared spotlight. A generous gesture, really.”

Muldoon snorted. “More likely she wants a minute to pull up her pantyhose.” She lowered the glasses and gave Salter another one of those looks. “You might know that, Joel. If you’d ever seen a woman’s pantyhose.”