With some wrangling and sleight of hand they had garnered tickets for a VIP tour of the almost completed U.S. Capitol Visitor Center. The nearly 600,000-square-foot three-level complex was located beneath the east Capitol grounds. This was because its footprint was larger than the Capitol building and the planners didn’t want it to detract from the historic structure. The visitor center included orientation theaters, gift shops, food services, a great hall, exhibition space, an auditorium and other attributes both functional and ceremonial, including much- needed space for the operations of the House and Senate. Once open, it would host millions of visitors a year from all around the world. And in keeping with Washington’s stellar reputation for efficiency and integrity, the project was only years behind schedule and only several hundred million dollars over budget.
Finn was most intrigued by two elements: first, the connecting tunnel from the visitor center to the Capitol itself, and second, a service tunnel for truck deliveries. The delivery he had in mind was one that no member of Congress ever would have wanted.
Each member of the team carried a buttonhole digital camera and surreptitiously snapped byte after byte of the underground site. Unfinished tunnels and hallways veered off in interesting directions that would come in very handy to Finn and his people later.
Finn asked several questions of the guide, innocent enough on the surface. Yet just as he did with phone freaking, these queries were subtly designed to elicit information that the guide would never have knowingly revealed. On cue, other members of Finn’s team asked tagalong questions that revealed even more. Once all was put together, the unsuspecting tour guide had given them nearly enough information to take down the Capitol and everyone in it.
Outside, Finn studied the bronze Statue of Freedom that crowned the dome of the Capitol. It was a nice image, he thought. Yet he didn’t know if the people who worked inside the building deserved such a nice topper to their digs. It seemed to him that concepts like freedom, truth and honor were the last things on people’s minds here.
He and his team strolled through the Capitol’s nearly sixty acres of grounds, compiling still more useful data. They congregated at an empty deli off Independence Avenue to go over their results and form new additions to their planned assault on the Capitol.
“I guess congressmen like to keep safe,” said one of the team. “Because the operation we’re putting together is costing Uncle Sam a bundle.”
“Just another drop in the federal budget,” the woman said. “We’ve heading back to the office now, Harry. I’ve got some phone freaking to do on the Pentagon assignment.”
“You can go back,” Finn said. “I’ve got something else to do.”
He left them at the deli and headed to the Hart Senate Office Building, the newest and biggest of the three complexes devoted to taking care of America’s one hundred senators and their enormous staffs. It amazed Finn sometimes that a hundred people couldn’t manage to fit their operations inside something less than the over
The Hart Senate Building was located at Second and Constitution and was named after Philip Aloysius Hart, a Michigan senator who died in 1976. The deceased Hart, as the inscription above the main entrance to the building said, “Was a man of incorruptible integrity.”
The gent would feel quite alone in the Capitol these days, Finn thought.
He strolled around the interior of the building admiring the ninety-foot-high central atrium and its major feature, a mobile-stabile entitled,
While there were over fifty senators in the Hart Building, Finn was only interested in one: Roger Simpson of the great state of Alabama.
The security in the building, even post-9/11, was a joke. Once you passed through a metal detector, you could pretty much go wherever you wanted. Finn took the elevator up to the floor where Simpson’s office was located. It was hard to miss. The Alabama state flag was standing at attention next to the man’s portal. As Finn waited near the glass door he took several shots of the office’s interior with his buttonhole camera, focusing on the young female receptionist. He noted all other details on this floor and was about to leave when the door opened again and the man himself came out, accompanied by a considerable entourage.
Roger Simpson was tall, nearly six-five and fit, with blondish hair that had white infringing all over, and the calm, aloof air of a man used to having his personal boundaries respected and his commands followed.
The elevator door down the hall opened and a tall blonde woman stepped out. When he saw her Simpson smiled and stepped forward, giving her a quick embrace. She in turn favored him with a peck on the cheek that to Finn’s eye was all show and no substance. This was Mrs. Simpson, a former Miss Alabama, with an MBA from an Ivy League school. It was an unusual resume for a potential First Lady.
Finn noted the two men next to Simpson. They had earpieces and were armed, maybe Secret Service. Simpson had no doubt taken extra precautions, particularly since the three former Triple Sixes and Carter Gray had died. Finn’s plan did not involve a direct attack on Simpson. The only problematic piece might be the picture of Rayfield Solomon. Simpson needed to know why his life was ending. Yet Finn would think of a way; he always did.
He quietly left the building.
CHAPTER 35
STONE ROSE EARLY but Annabelle was already downstairs having hot tea in front of the fireplace. He nodded to her as he came into the room, and then looked for others about.
“We’re it,” she said bluntly. “You want some breakfast?”
They ate in a chilly room off the small kitchen. Annabelle barely looked at her food while Stone chewed his eggs and toast and shot her glances.
“Did you hear back from Milton and Reuben after they called you?” she asked. “Did they find out anything else?”
“Not yet but I’m sure they’ll let us know.”
As soon as he finished his cup of coffee she rose. “You ready?”
“Are we going to see the house?”
“We can’t. They knocked it down and put up a monster in its place. But we can still check out the area.”
Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes looked unfocused. Stone wondered if she was ill.
As though in answer to his thoughts she said, “I’m fine. I just didn’t sleep much.”
A half hour later they were standing in front of the plot of land where Annabelle’s mother had been murdered.
Annabelle said, “That’s it. Or at least where it was. My mom’s place was just a little cottage.”
The current house wasn’t a little anything. It was a ten-thousand-square-foot shingled and turreted
“How long ago was the cottage knocked down?” Stone asked.
“Six years. Not too long after she was killed. Ocean views trump brutal murder every time.”
“Okay, how do you want to do this?” he asked.
“I suggest we’re a father and daughter, no offense, looking for someplace for you to retire. We grab a local Realtor and start asking questions.”
Later that afternoon Annabelle and Stone followed a short dark-haired woman built like a keg of beer around
