Conspiracy Page 3

  Neither Rubens nor anyone in the room could have possibly disagreed with McSweeney, but his unspoken implication that the administration did not follow the law nettled. Rubens felt like asking if the senator thought the government should have let terrorists blow up the offshore oil port, with the subsequent loss of perhaps a third of the country’s petroleum import capabilities.

  But as satisfying as that might have been momentarily, it was entirely the wrong thing to do. Senator McSweeney was running for his party’s presidential nomination. The purpose of his speech was not so much to make the present administration look bad—though he certainly didn’t mind doing that—as it was to make him appear both concerned and informed. Appearances to the contrary, he had no personal animosity toward the NSA and in fact had supported supplemental budget allocations for the agency several times in the past. As long as Rubens allowed himself to be used as a punching bag, McSweeney would still consider himself a friend when the supplemental budget came up for a vote in a few months.

  Make McSweeney look like a fool, however, and there would be no end of trouble.

  Rubens pressed his thumb against his forefinger, digging the nail into the fingertip, to keep himself quiet.

  “Time, Senator,” said the committee aide keeping track of the allotted time.

  “Of course, I hope that my remarks will not be interpreted as a criticism of the National Security Agency, which has done and continues to do an excellent job,” said McSweeney quickly, throwing Rubens and the agency a bone for being a good punching bag. “I would extend that praise to you as well, Mr. Rubens. I know you to be a man of the highest personal integrity.”

  Somehow, the remark irritated Rubens more than anything else the senator had said.

  Finally dismissed, Rubens tried hard to make his thank-yous seem something other than perfunctory, rose, and walked swiftly to the door at the back of the room. The sparse audience was about evenly divided between congressional aides and media types. The latter swarmed toward the door, eager to ask follow-up questions. Unlike the senators, there was no need to accommodate the reporters, and Rubens merely waved at them with the barest hint of a smile, continuing swiftly into the hall.

  “Sorry, sorry,” he said, head tilted forward, his pace picking up. “Already very late. You’re interested in the senators, not me.”

  He succeeded in distancing himself from the pack, and was so focused on getting out of the building that he nearly ran over Jed Frey as he turned the corner toward the side entrance. Frey, a short but athletic man in his late fifties, caught Rubens with both hands as he veered back in surprise.

  “William, how are you?”

  “Jed. I’m sorry. Are you here on business?”

  “In a way. Do you have a few minutes?”

  Frey was the director of the Secret Service. A lifetime government employee, he had held a number of jobs in the Treasury and State Departments after beginning as a Secret Service special agent.

  “I’m due back at Fort Meade,” said Rubens, referring to the NSA’s headquarters, often called Crypto City.

  “Perhaps I can ride with you awhile.”

  “Naturally,” said Rubens, starting toward his car. “President still giving you fits?”

  “Hmmmm,” said Frey noncommittally.

  Even more so than his recent predecessor, President Jeffrey Marcke seemed to delight in overruling or even ignoring the advice of the Secret Service. Marcke never saw a crowd he didn’t want to plunge into, much to the dismay of his bodyguards, and liked to point out that during George Washington’s day and for many presidencies afterward, anyone could walk into the executive mansion. Rubens knew of at least a dozen times when Marcke had gone places despite warnings from the Secret Service; Frey surely knew many more.

  But the director did not like criticizing his boss, and changed the subject. “You spoke at the hearing without an aide?” he asked Rubens.

  “I see no purpose in wasting someone else’s time as well as my own.”

  Though Frey laughed heartily, Rubens did not mean this as a joke. In fact, he had only taken a driver rather than driving himself because he knew he could get some work done on the way.

  Frey called his own driver, then joined Rubens in the backseat of Admiral Brown’s Lincoln.

  Rubens liked Frey; he was consistently honest and unpretentious. He also tended toward the laconic, a quality Rubens shared. In nearly every other way, however, the men were exact opposites. Frey’s father had been a policeman in Detroit, and Jed had grown up in one of the city’s tougher neighborhoods. The street still clung to him; though he was short and relatively thin, Frey had a way of dominating a space and did so now, shoulders squared and head pushed forward. His biceps bulged in his shirtsleeves as he folded his arms in front of his chest. The light gray hair on his forearms matched the color on his head.

  “This involves one of my agents, a man named Gerald Forester. You know about him?”

  Rubens shook his head.

  Frey’s entire body rose and fell as he took a deep breath.

  “Supposedly it’s suicide. But I don’t buy it.”

  7

  SENATOR MCSWEENEY DUCKED out of the committee room and began looking for his aide and driver.

  “Jimmy Fingers, where the hell are you?” McSweeney’s voice boomed in the hallway.

  “Behind you, Senator. Watching your back. As always.”

  “We’re late.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  James Fahey—alias Jimmy Fingers—caught up to his boss and began walking beside him. Fahey had earned his nickname as a young political aide in the state capital; a rival had claimed he had his fingers in everything. The nickname hinted of connections to the old-line Irish political machine as well as the Mob; it was meant as a slur, but Fahey took it as a compliment and somehow it stuck.

  “Quick stop at the Swedish embassy, fund-raiser at Brown’s Hotel, meeting at the Savoy, followed by dinner with Dr. and Mrs. Fox. Heavy rollers.”

  “You don’t have to tell me who Dr. Fox is, Jimmy. I’ve been at this almost as long as you have now.”

  Political columnists liked to style Jimmy Fingers and his boss as the “Original Odd Couple of Politics.” Born to a family of what the commentators politely termed “independent means,” McSweeney had rugged good looks augmented by impeccable tailoring and lightly moussed hair. Jimmy Fingers, about the same height but far more slender, looked frumpy and wrinkled no matter how fresh or expensive his suit. His hair, thinning rapidly, made a haystack look neatly ordered. And those who said he had a face only a mother could love were being far too kind.

  But the men were a matched set where it mattered—politics. Jimmy Fingers was often called the senator’s hatchet man, and one writer had even declared Fingers was the “dark genius behind the throne.” It was true that in local races Jimmy Fingers had generally favored tactics suited to X-Treme Boxing. But he could be subtle as well, just as McSweeney could use the knife when necessary.

  Both men were equally committed to one goal: furthering McSweeney’s political career. And they had shared that goal for more than twenty years, since Jimmy Fingers had taught McSweeney how to use direct mail to attack his opponent in an assembly race.

  McSweeney’s Secret Service bodyguard edged a little closer as they walked outside. The protection was optional, but since the campaign had received an e-mail death threat, McSweeney had opted for it.

  “When’s Wilson meeting me?” said McSweeney as they walked toward his car.

  “He’ll be upstairs at Brown’s Hotel.”

  “Let’s blow off the Swedish embassy reception,” said McSweeney. “I’d like more time to talk to Wilson.”

  “Svorn Jenson is going to be at the embassy. He and his pals will be good for a hundred thousand in the campaign. All you have to do is smile at him and leave. He’ll be thrilled.”

  “Oh, all right. What’s Wilson going to tell me, anyway?”

  “What he always does. The numbers are ba
d, but they’re improving. He needs to justify the money you’re spending on him.”

  “The numbers better start moving soon,” said the senator. “Or he’s going to have to find a real job.”

  “Worry about the primaries, not the polls,” said Jimmy Fingers. He opened the door but didn’t get in.

  “Aren’t you coming?” asked McSweeney.

  “I have to pick up some dry cleaning before we head back to the district. I figured this would be a good time—the Swedes didn’t invite me to the reception.”

  “You could go in my place,” said McSweeney.

  “Maybe next time, Senator,” said Jimmy Fingers, pushing the door closed.

  ONE THING GIDEON McSweeney had to give Jimmy Fingers—the guy was never wrong when it came to potential donors. Svorn Jenson’s face lit up the second he saw McSweeney enter the reception; McSweeney pumped his hand, then went off to pump a few more before ducking out the side door. Even though he was in the embassy for no more than five minutes, he had made a friend—and campaign donor—for life.

  Brown’s Hotel, his next stop, was located in suburban Virginia, a few miles from the Beltway. McSweeney spent the ride there calling potential campaign donors. Running for President took an incredible amount of money, and raising it took an incredible amount of time, especially when you were the second or third favorite candidate in the upcoming Super Tuesday primary. Despite his upset victory in New Hampshire and his efforts since, McSweeney’s campaign was faltering, and privately he felt he’d need a miracle to make it through the next month.

  He was about a quarter of the way through his list of calls when they reached the hotel. McSweeney took his time getting out of the car. A knot of people gathered on the opposite sidewalk. They were gawkers rather than well-wishers; McSweeney could tell from their expressions that they didn’t recognize him. That was a disappointment—his television spots had been in heavy rotation in the state for a week—but he didn’t let on, waving enthusiastically and urging them to remember him in the upcoming primary.

  Turning back toward the building, he began striding toward the lobby door. Each step stoked his confidence, and by the time he reached the edge of the red carpet in front of the glass, he felt invincible.

  Number three? Two? No way. He was going to surprise everyone. It was New Hampshire all over again.

  Something caught his attention and McSweeney turned his head to the right. He saw a figure in black clothes standing beyond a knot of tourists.

  The man had a gun.

  “Get down!” yelled someone. In the next moment, McSweeney felt himself falling to the ground.

  8

  THERE WAS NOTHING in Frey’s description of the agent’s death that convinced Rubens it was anything but a suicide. The man was going through a painful divorce that promised to separate him from his children. Even Frey admitted that Forester could occasionally be moody and was most likely disappointed that he hadn’t advanced rapidly up the Secret Service hierarchy, despite early promise. And while Forester had handled literally hundreds of investigations during his career, he didn’t seem to have generated any enemies from them. The cases he had been working on before his death were typical ones as far as the Secret Service was concerned. The most serious involved an e-mailed death threat against a candidate for President—ironically, the candidate was Senator McSweeney, who had just finished grilling Rubens. Forester hadn’t closed out the inquiry, but Frey’s cursory review of the case made it appear there wasn’t much there.

  The state police and the local prosecuting attorney had made it clear that, as far as they were concerned, the agent had killed himself. But Frey had ordered the Service to conduct its own investigation.

  “There are some interesting loose ends,” said Frey. “Before he died, Jerry received some e-mails that we’d like traced to the source.”

  Frey reached into his jacket pocket and took out two pieces of white paper, which had printouts of the e-mails. Both e-mails had a Yahoo return address, and there was standard header information.

  “The e-mail address has been falsified,” said Frey. “It originated somewhere overseas. It says Vietnam, but we think that’s false. We’d like to know from where, of course.”

  Rubens took the paper. Among the Secret Service’s lesser-known duties was the investigation of identity theft, and the agency had its own array of computer experts. If they couldn’t trace it, Rubens thought, the message must be suspicious.

  “We don’t have the e-mails that Forester sent,” added Frey. “I’m afraid we don’t know whether that is significant or not. He worked on the road a lot, and routinely would have ‘shredded’ sensitive information on his laptop. The e-mail would have been erased.”

  Rubens looked at the first e-mail.

  Sir:

  The business was a long time ago. All information long gone.

  The second e-mail was much the same:

  Sir:

  I cannot be of assistance. Please.

  “The business?” asked Rubens.

  “I have no idea what it means. The e-mails seem to have come as he was investigating the threat made against Senator McSweeney. That e-mail was tracked to a library just outside Baltimore, where someone used a public-access computer. But we couldn’t find a connection. Forester looked at constituents and other people who may have had a beef with the senator. Doesn’t look like he found a link. He was still checking into it—he was going back to the area where McSweeney first served as assemblyman when he died.”

  Rubens folded the e-mails and placed them into his pocket. “Did you know the agent very well?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. I broke him in. He was a good man.”

  Before Rubens could find a way to tactfully suggest that Frey’s opinion might be clouding his judgment, the Secret Service director’s phone buzzed.

  He answered it, and immediately his face turned grim. “I’m on my way,” he told his caller after listening for a few moments.

  He snapped off the phone and turned to Rubens.

  “We’ve just had a report of shots fired at Senator McSweeney. I’ll need to get to my car.”

  9

  THE TARGET MOVED at the very last moment, complicating the shot, but the shooter stayed on mission, pulling his finger steadily and smoothly against the trigger. The roar of the gun in the closed room was greater than he’d expected, but the recoil curiously less. The bullet sailed true, a perfect shot.

  He had no time to think about these things, however; the entire enterprise had been carefully timed, and to make his getaway cleanly he had to leave immediately.

  In the stairs on the way down, his heart double-pumped. It was a brief clutch, nothing more than a hiccup—a reminder of his age, nothing more. Rather than slowing down, he doubled his pace: he was too old to fail now. The chance to succeed would not come again.

  The door slapped behind him as he made it to the street. He heard sirens the next block over. Quickly, the shooter slipped the steamer trunk with the rifle into the side door of the minivan, then slammed the door shut. The motor, started by remote control as he came down the steps, was already humming.

  He fought against the instinct to press his foot too firmly on the accelerator. When he reached the corner, he stopped, signaled, then carefully pulled out into traffic.

  Ten minutes later, he was on the Beltway. Only then did he give in and press the button for the radio.

  The first report made his heart double-pump again.

  “Senator McSweeney has been shot in Washington, D.C., just outside the Capitol Building!” said the announcer breathlessly.

  The fact that the reporter had gotten the location wrong should have tipped the shooter off, but for the next few miles he drove in a kind of fugue state, believing that everything had gone wrong.

  And then a different reporter came on, one who was actually at the scene.

  “The senator appeared to be unhurt,” said the reporter. “He was immediately taken into Brown’s Hotel
, where he was to be the guest of honor at a campaign fund-raiser. I was just arriving myself. Let me repeat, Senator McSweeney appears to be OK.”

  Thank God, thought the shooter. Thank God.

  10

  MCSWEENEY RESISTED UNTIL he realized that his bodyguard was trying to drag him into the hotel, away from the chaos and commotion on the street.

  “I can do it myself,” he muttered, struggling to get to his feet.

  McSweeney tripped over the carpet as he came through the door and flew into the lobby, crashing against one of the hotel workers before regaining his balance. People were ducking or cowering or simply standing in dazed silence, unsure what was going on.

  “Down, we’re going down, through this door,” said the Secret Service agent next to him. “Steps. Watch the steps.”

  McSweeney’s lungs were gasping for air by the time he and the agent reached the bottom landing. They turned left, entered another hallway, then went into a room at the right. The Secret Service agent, face beet red, stood by the door, pistol out.

  “Why are we here?” McSweeney asked the Secret Service agent.

  “Please, Senator, until the situation is secure.”

  “Why are we in this room?”

  “It’ll just be a moment. It’s under control.”

  McSweeney reached into his pocket for his phone.

  “Sir, please—no communications until we’re sure everything is copasetic,” said the agent. “Just to be safe.”

  “My wife is going to be worried.”

  “It shouldn’t take very long.”

  McSweeney put the phone back reluctantly. “Who shot at us?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” said the agent. He put up his hand, then held it over his ear, obviously listening to something on his radio.