Max Collins - Fate of the Union

They went.

On Monday morning, just a day away from the State of the Union address, Patti Rogers and Joe Reeder were again headed to the Capitol. What others might perceive as a mutual funk was more a sense of shared frustration merging on desperation. They had been unable to convince AD Fisk — or anyone else for that matter, including her task force team — that a threat to the Capitol was still out there.

Over the weekend, the “Holiday Inn Express Massacre” (the Fox News characterization, picked up by one and all) had dominated the news, with the cable outlets covering little else. As Reeder predicted, the victims were portrayed as martyrs, many of whom died trying to prevent Adam Benjamin’s assassination, as opposed to helpless victims cut down in a mercenary’s cold-blooded assault.

The Sunday morning opinion shows were devoted to trying to make sense of (as the Meet the Press host put it) “the targeting of America’s greatest grass roots populist.” This included much speculation by the right that an extreme leftist group might be responsible, and from the left assuming the same of the right. Both sides were careful to avoid directly mentioning either the Inhabit America group or the Spirit of ’76 Movement.

For his part, the billionaire was avoiding the media storm by lying low back in Ohio. The media called it “mourning the loss of his friends and coworkers.” Reeder referred to it as getting out when the getting was good.

Behind the wheel, Rogers said, “Catch any of the news shows this morning?”

“Do I look like a masochist?”

“Remember how Benjamin’s popularity tripled after the Constitution Hall attempt? Well, now that figure’s doubled. Everybody’s favorite noncandidate is polling stronger than President Harrison himself.”

Reeder said nothing.

“Better watch out, Joe,” she said with a wry twist of a smile, “or Benjamin’s going to be even more popular than you are.”

“Finally,” he said, “a good result.”

Rogers, Reeder, and the task force team had spent the weekend searching for the blond assassin, scouring the District and its surroundings, calling in favors from contacts in the criminal life, and recruiting DC police and their own network of confidential informants... getting nowhere. The recovered Nissan was still going through forensics tests, but initially the results were nil — not even a fingerprint.

Rogers asked Reeder, “Have you had any luck with Amy?”

With the investigation still under way, the lid was on the apparent plot to blow up the Capitol, so Reeder was limited in what he could say to his daughter, to convince her not to attend the State of the Union address in the company of Senator Hackbarth.

“No,” he said. “I asked her as a favor to her old man to take a pass, no questions asked.”

“And?”

“She asked questions. And I couldn’t answer them.”

“We don’t know that the State of the Union is the target. And we’re alone in thinking there still is a target.”

“If we have shut this thing down,” he said, “great. But the State of the Union is optimum for the purposes of whoever is behind it. Taking out the President, the VP, Congress, cabinet members, Supreme Court justices, in one fell swoop? Broadcast live? The next American revolution could be won with just this one battle.”

Rogers parked in a Government Only spot not far from the Capitol. As they walked, she was accompanied by thoughts of the one hundred sixty-nine dead and nearly seven hundred injured in the bombing of the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City in 1995, the largest single domestic terrorist attack in US history.

Amy Reeder would be one of upwards of a thousand people in the Capitol tomorrow night.

Chief Ackley was waiting for them just inside the door and escorted them quickly through security. The trio immediately descended into the lower reaches of the building. Workers were putting new ductwork into place, adding percussive notes and the human voice to the oppressive thrum of machinery.

“PVC for the new furnace getting replaced,” Ackley said, nodding that way.

FBI techs had determined that the innocent-looking pipe had been formed of Senkstone; removal had been after midnight, when the Capitol was at its closest to empty. The late Lester Blake had gotten it past security, as a longtime employee with clearance.

“When we were down here last time,” Rogers said, “our blond friend must have been checking to see if everything was in place.”

“That’s my guess,” Ackley said. “Happy coincidence that we showed up just then — otherwise, what they cooked up just might’ve worked.”

Reeder said, “Do we know where the Senk is now?”

“Last of it was taken out Saturday. FBI bomb squad hauled it away. Where they carted it off to, I couldn’t tell you.”

Rogers asked, “How much of it was there?”

“Hundred feet or so.”

Reeder grunted. “Our computer guy says a pound of this stuff could decimate a three-story building. A hundred feet, weighing maybe half a pound a foot? We’re talking fifty pounds. The Capitol, and anybody in it, would just be... gone.”

Ackley nodded. “Damn good thing we stopped it! Now and then we earn our paycheck, huh?”

The chief was feeling pretty damn good about himself. Rogers knew all too well that convincing this civil servant that a threat remained would be a tough sell.

Reeder asked, “How was it wired?”

“Remote device. Whoever planned this was no suicide bomber — he had zero plans on being in the building.”

“Specifically.”

“Cell phone hooked to the detonator, hidden in a pipe.”

Reeder’s eyes narrowed as he gazed out at the jungle of pipes and machines and a few workmen.

Rogers said, “A mobile phone call from anywhere in the world, to the cell in the pipe, would set it all off?”

“That’s how I understand it,” Ackley said.

His eyes still traveling, Reeder asked, “Can we be sure all the Senk is out of here?”

“According to the Bureau’s bomb squad,” Ackley said, “it’s all gone. They did mass spec tests on the furnace, and any other work done down here in the last two years. The FBI’s top hazardous devices guy says it’s all clear, and that’s good enough for me. Now I can get some good sleep tonight, and watch the speech from my upstairs office tomorrow.”

“Can you,” Reeder said.

Ackley put a hand on Reeder’s shoulder and grinned. “Of course, Peep, I reserve the right to keep the sound down. I didn’t vote for Harrison.”

“If you’re wrong, Chief,” Reeder said pleasantly, “you won’t need the sound turned up.”

They left him to think about that.

On the way to the car, Rogers asked, “You figure we’re wasting our time?”

“Trying to convince Ackley? Definitely. He’s a good meat-and-potatoes cop, but this is way over his skill level.”

She shook her head. “No, Joe, are we the ones who are wrong?”

They were at the car now.

Reeder said, “We might be, but a lot of lives hinge on ‘might.’ Something in that Capitol basement smells, and I don’t mean dead rats... Let’s get in and get the heater going.”

They did, then she asked, “What does your delicate breathing apparatus tell you?”

He answered her with his own question. “Whoever is behind this conspiracy has been very careful, even methodical... right?”