Max Collins - Fate of the Union

Miggie said, “Actually, I think I know. Took a while, but I found something interesting, not fifteen minutes ago. Take a look at this, everybody.”

On the big mounted monitor came grainy black-and-white footage of a library reference desk and an attractive Latina woman working behind it.

“This,” Miggie said, “is the Burke Centre Library counter where Uribe worked. Security video.”

A middle-aged, fairly average-looking guy, vaguely blue collar, came up to the counter and asked a couple questions that led to some brief, smiling conversation, then got her tapping away on a computer. After receiving his information, he walked away, frowning.

“Our factory supervisor,” Rogers said. “William Robertson.”

Miggie said, “This is the day before Carolina was murdered, and only a week or so before Robertson’s death.”

Hardesy was frowning at the screen, which Miggie had frozen on the frowning Robertson. “What the hell was he doing there?”

Reeder said, “Coming back from Charlottesville, most likely. Something about what was going on there bothered him. He stopped to ask someone who might have answers.”

“A reference librarian,” Rogers said.

“Exactly,” Reeder said. “Answering Robertson’s ‘innocent’ questions got her killed.”

Hardesy asked, “Any way we can know what she told him?”

Miggie said, “We can try video enhancement and a professional lip reader, but that’s a very long shot.”

Nichols, generally a cool customer, seemed aghast. “Who would kill a stranger for answering a few questions? Information available to anybody?”

“Maybe,” Reeder said, “somebody capable of blowing up the Capitol Building.”

There had been some skepticism in these ranks about Rogers and Reeder’s belief in that possibility. But no one was questioning it now.

“We’re at the end of our workday,” Rogers said. “We’re less than twenty-four hours from the State of the Union. Joe feels that’s when this conspiracy will come to fruition. And no one outside of this room thinks there’s a problem. Who wants to go home?”

Nobody said anything.

“We’ll break for supper,” Reeder said, “and come back and hit it. Name your poison — I’m buying.”

Joe Reeder and Patti Rogers sat across from Margery Fisk’s Omaha Beach of a desk. The perfectly coiffed, expensively dressed assistant director of the FBI was at her computer looking at the task force report they’d sent an hour before, explaining why the team believed a bomb still remained somewhere in the Capitol Building...

... and why tonight would likely see its detonation.

In two hours, the State of the Union speech would begin. Cutting it this close was nothing Reeder relished, but he had hoped the various cops and snitches out there, searching for the blond assassin, might come through for them.

They hadn’t.

And nobody else in government, besides Reeder, Rogers, and their team, anticipated any problem tonight worse than some far-right Republicans heckling President Harrison at the big event.

Finally Fisk turned from the monitor toward them, her expression unreadable, even to Reeder.

“I’m not saying you haven’t made a convincing case,” she said.

It hit him like a blow. Amy would already be in that building.

Fisk continued: “But while you have solid facts here, the evidence for the continuing existence of a plot is highly circumstantial. And, if anything, you demonstrate that the threat has been found and removed. Dealt with.”

Reeder said, “If we’re right, Director Fisk, allowing the State of the Union to proceed isn’t just a bad career move — it’s a tragic mistake of epic proportions.”

Her eyes flared, and that he could read.

But her voice remained cool: “If you think that President Harrison can be moved to cancel the biggest night of his political year, you are welcome to go over there, lean on your celebrity and prior dealings with the president, and see how far you get.”

And that was that.

In the hallway, Rogers asked him, “Could you do that? Could we get in to see the President?”

“No. As a former Secret Service agent, I can assure you of that. No, no, and no. Fisk knows that. She blew us off.”

In the task force conference room, Rogers informed the team of the fate met by the report they’d labored on for so many hours. Their response was a shroud of silence that draped over the room and everyone in it.

The image on the big wall-mounted monitor was divided into four panels of CNN, MSNBC, Fox News, and C-SPAN coverage. Wide shots on the exterior of the Capitol Building were interspersed with various angles inside the chamber itself, as it slowly filled up with dignitaries and guests.

Finally, their behaviorist, Ivanek, asked, “How many people will be in the Capitol tonight?”

Reeder, as if reading from a grocery list, said, “Five hundred thirty-five members of Congress, the President and Vice President, the Justices of the Supreme Court, a gallery full of visitors...” including my daughter “... the Cabinet, save for the one member who won’t attend to preserve the line of succession.”

Luke Hardesy frowned. “Who is that?”

Miggie already knew. “Secretary of Agriculture Alexander Clarkson, the eighth man in line.”

“Never heard of him,” Hardesy said with a sour smirk. “I don’t think anybody has.”

“Unless we figure out a way to stop this,” Reeder said, “that will change tomorrow.”

Silence again. Able as they were, brilliant and brave though they might be, helplessness was pulling them down like quicksand.

Sighing glumly, Anne Nichols said, “All we have is the blond.”

“But we don’t have him,” Hardesy said.

“I mean, in the sense that he holds the key. He can lead us to the man who hired him, and in all likelihood, he set the detonation device itself.”

Rubbing a hand nervously over his shaved head, Hardesy said, “But we don’t know that. And even if we do find him — and we’ve tapped every resource available to us, without success — who’s to say he would talk in time?”

Nichols, with a hardness unusual from the woman, said, “Maybe we march him into the Capitol Building and see what happens as the clock ticks.”

But Hardesy was shaking his head at his partner. “Annie, the guy may be a fanatic! He may relish being part of the big boom. All those famous people dead, and the next day, he’s the one getting talked about.”

“No,” Reeder said firmly. “This isn’t a suicide bomber. This isn’t a muddled Muslim looking forward to virgins in the afterlife. He’s a mercenary. In it for money. But, Luke, just the same — you still might be onto something.”

“Yeah?”

“He’s been handling everything himself.”

Rogers said, “Not always, Joe. He was one of three or four who faked the Bryson suicide. And the timing is such that he probably wasn’t the one who took those shots at me at the diner.”

“You’re right,” Reeder said. “He’s working with a small crew of other mercenaries — that’s my thinking. But when it’s something important... not to diminish somebody shooting at you, Patti... our blond has done the job himself. You can bet the double-taps are him. He came to Bryson’s security office looking for what Chris had, then came back and torched it the next day. He was in the basement of the Capitol when we were. And he was alone at the Holiday Inn Express, wiping out nine people.”

Rogers gazed at him with narrowed eyes. “He appears to be taking orders from the top. That seems to include not just loose ends, but high-up coconspirators. So maybe he’s the man who’ll detonate the Senkstone.”