Paul Johnston - Maps of Hell

Inside the building, there was an atmosphere of controlled alert. Clergy from the Episcopal Diocese of Washington, dressed in their most formal robes, moved about their duties with studied calm. They were accustomed to state occasions, even though there were more military and plainclothes security people around than they would have liked. This was the house of God, after all, and the United States’ greatest men were commemorated here, with separate bays for presidents and wartime leaders from George Washington to Woodrow Wilson, Abraham Lincoln to Franklin D. Roosevelt and Harry Truman. By the north transept was a bay with a likeness of Martin Luther King Jr., proving that all men were brothers in this, the great stone tabernacle of the nation.

One of the six men in the honor guard flanking the high altar watched as a deacon made his final checks. The cleric took out a handkerchief and wiped a minuscule blemish from the surface of one of the hundred and ten carved figures surrounding the statue of Christ. Nearby, a stone from Mount Sinai had been encased in the floor. The guardsman looked up at the great rose window in front of him, the reds and blues of the glass illuminated gloriously. To his right, ranks of wooden pews led toward another rose window at the far end of the nave. By any standards it was a wonderful spectacle, but the soldier was unmoved. He had no time for a religion that saw all men as equal and gave encouragement to members of the subhuman races. He had seen the carving called Creation above the main entrance on his way in, mankind being formed out of chaos. That was a perversion of reality. The overwhelming majority of mankind had never, and would never, rise beyond chaos-that was the destiny only of the chosen few.

The members of the honor guard stiffened even more as their commanding officer approached. Everything had been rehearsed over and over again-there was no need for spoken commands. The organist started to play and service personnel representing all the minorities filtered into the cathedral from various entrances to take up their positions. The guardsman kept his eyes to the front, showing no emotion as various minorities, all the scum of the earth, formed up close by him-no doubt there would be Jews in attendance, too, they got everywhere. But no Germans. They weren’t a minority. They had been the U.S.’s biggest immigrant group, but now they were fully integrated-they had become part of the majority. They had even served in their hundreds of thousands against the Fatherland.

That mistake would never be repeated. The Fuhrer would see to that, starting today.

The security checks started long before we got anywhere near the cathedral. Chief Owen’s clearance got us through initially, with him vouching for me. But soon that wasn’t enough. We were asked to get out of the vehicle halfway up the slope that led to the great church, and I was patted down.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the perfectly turned out master sergeant said to the chief. “You and your…friend need special authorization for the ceremony. I can’t let you proceed any farther.”

“But it’s an emergency,” Rodney Owen said, taking out his phone.

I briefly considered trying to get into one the cars that were being allowed to drive on, but decided against suicide-the soldiers at the checkpoint had their assault rifles at the ready. I’d spoken to Peter Sebastian and he had said he would spread the word, but I hadn’t heard anything more. I crushed my nails into the palms of my hands. Karen, I thought. Our son…

“Chief Owen! Wells!”

I recognized Sebastian’s voice. I turned and saw the FBI man get out of a car on the other side of the checkpoint. He held up his badge.

“These two are with me.” He lowered his voice. “Code Treadstone 23.”

The master sergeant called it in and then waved us through.

“Thanks a lot,” I said, as we got into Sebastian’s car. “I thought we were going to be stuck there. What’s going on?”

The FBI man looked round at me from the front passenger seat. “Relax, everything’s under control. There’s almost as much security up there as there was at the president’s inauguration-secret service, army, marines, special forces, take your pick.”

I stared at him. “That’s the point. If people have been coffined…I mean, brainwashed like Marion Gilbert, they could be part of any or all of those. Did you make that clear to whoever is in charge?”

Sebastian nodded. “Of course I did. It was even passed to the president’s people. The man himself said he wanted things to go ahead as planned. The service is very important to him… Besides, it isn’t as if we have a lot of hard evidence about Marion Gilbert’s state of mind. I mean, I believe you, Matt, but you’ve got to admit, it’s all a bit circumstantial.”

I grabbed his arm. “Circumstantial? She killed four people, for God’s sake. And Rothmann came clean about the conditioning process.”

“To you, and you were a suspect for a while, with a lot to gain by blaming Marion Gilbert,” Sebastian said.

“Fuck!” I slammed my head against the seat back. “What more do you guys need? It wasn’t only Marion Gilbert who was brainwashed. Gwen and Randy took out the detectives.”

“I know, but you can’t blame the official channels for some healthy skepticism. Besides, you said that Rothmann got to you, too, Matt. Have you any idea how lucky you are to be here? If it wasn’t for Karen Oaten, I’d have left you at the checkpoint back there.”

I sat back, thinking about what he’d just said. “If it wasn’t for Karen? What do you mean?” He didn’t answer, keeping his eyes off me. “You bastard. You don’t trust her, do you? You think she could have been conditioned, too.”

Peter Sebastian turned to face me. “Think about it, Matt. You’ve already said that you’ve been affected by the word that the Rothmanns used-notice that I’m not repeating it. And you were in captivity for less time than Karen.”

“So what are you doing allowing her anywhere near the justice secretary, let alone the president.”

Sebastian looked away. “It’s not my call. I’ve told the director and he’s passed on my suspicions to his counterparts in the other agencies. The problem is, the justice secretary thinks Karen is a hero and we all know how much politicians like to be seen with their heroes. Your woman’s also a foreign dignitary. The last thing anyone wants today is a diplomatic incident.”

Rodney Owen leaned forward. “I still don’t get why you’re letting Matt here attend the service.”

The FBI man looked to the front. “I’m rather hoping he’ll have a beneficial effect on Karen Oaten-maybe put her off trying anything.” He shook his head. “Not that I expect her to. She had her chance at the party and nothing happened… Despite your fears, Matt.”

I was about to lay into him for his cynicism, but then I realized it was to my advantage-I desperately wanted to be with Karen, whatever happened.

The car was stopped at the final checkpoint by the cathedral. We got out and I watched as a convoy of heavy limousines swept past. Large men with wires coming from their ears scanned the area and then opened the doors. I caught a glimpse of the president and his wife. They waved and smiled as they went into a side door. I looked up and around. Above the gargoyles and pinnacles, I saw numerous black-clad personnel toting guns. It only took one of those to be a renegade shooter…

“Come on,” Sebastian said, heading toward the entrance the president had used. “It’s nearly showtime.”

My throat was dry and my stomach performing somersaults. I couldn’t have had a worse feeling if Rothmann himself had been on the door.

Karen Oaten sat down after the president and first lady had taken their seats at the front of the nave, three rows in front of the justice secretary and herself.