confirmation hearing. The citizens of Washington, conditioned to swallow daily doses of political high drama, prepared to dine on the choicest of political meat.
Political appointees on the skewer were nothing new to veterans of Washington warfare, but what made this day, this happening different, was the killer, the Bear. He’d slipped through one of the most intense, widespread dragnets in American history, and like a modern day Jack the Ripper had managed to immerse much of the city in terror, turning them into children, children afraid of a diabolical, mass murdering bogyman.
The area around the Russell Senate Office Building, Constitution Avenue, First Street, Delaware Avenue, and C Street N.E., locked down as tight as a military base, made members of the Senate and their administrators feel constricted. There were roadblocks and an obvious increase in police patrols. More than a quarter of the staffers and passersby, including a small group of imitation reporters were undercover police, Secret Service, and FBI. To the rest of the world it looked like everyday political theater instead of a desperate attempt to keep a Supreme Court nominee alive.
Inside the Russell Office Building, a distinguished mix filed through the Roman-style rotunda, past a milky white marble statue of former Senator Richard B. Russell, Jr. Several lucky lottery winners, excited to claim their coveted seats, pointed and gawked like wide-eyed neophytes, at every small detail of the impressive structure.
The Russell Caucus Room, grand, well ordered and richly detailed, boasted a history of important hearings, including those devoted to the Sinking of the Titanic, Organized Crime, the Vietnam War, Watergate, the Iran Contra Affair, and the Supreme Court Nomination of Clarence Thomas.
The architectural influence and mastery of Ecole des Beaux-Arts of Paris was stunningly evident in the seventy-four by fifty-four foot room; treated with paired Corinthian pilasters standing on a continuous pedestal, supporting a richly detail entablature, including, dentils, modillions, and egg-and-dark moldings. The breathtaking ceiling was decorated with a variety of gilded classical motifs-rosettes, guilloche, and Greek key. Six windows stood like exquisite picture frames on the courtyard wall, and four, three tiered chandeliers, original to the room, seemed to float above the fray like crystal clouds, featuring globes etched with national emblems, including, the U.S. Seal, American Indian, and Liberty Cap.
The broadcast crew and sound technicians put the finishing touches on camera equipment and microphones for a broadcast forecasted to be seen by more than sixty million viewers, a hundred fifty million worldwide. Some would watch to see if Fiona would be confirmed, but most, out of a morbid curiosity, wanted to see if she would live.
The members of the hearing committee took their seats. Fiona and her team filed in behind the tables set up below the tribunal. The room fell silent. A grip dropped a microphone and the speakers exploded against the quiet, causing some to clutch their chests and others to clench their bladders. At the pound of a gavel, silence returned. Fiona folded her hands on the dark oak table and smiled. The committee didn’t smile back.
32
Latex, make-up, and collagen lip injections molded Andre’s face, giving it a full, pudgy swell. His hair, double-dyed jet black and mowed down into a military buzz cut, gave him a dedicated, take-no-shit aura.
False teeth, fit tightly over his own, pushed out into a slight overbite.
His eyes flashed ocean blue.
A fifty thousand dollar microchip, surgically implanted by a German black market surgeon, irritated his vocal chords, but gave his voice a perfect baritone pitch.
His identity, flimsy and tenuous, cost him three million dollars.
Much of it spent on street and government contacts who could never surface again, it would buy him a week, maybe two.
Sitting in a small reception area outside the office of Captain Mark Reasons, a new crew of security officers for the Supreme Court Building sat waiting for their assignments.
The five men and one woman talked sports and politics, but primarily discussed the confirmation hearings going on in another building less than a hundred yards away. Andre took it all in.
“If you ask me, the guy’s just a super nut case,” said Bill Hardy, a lean wiry guard with pointy ears and bald head. “How stupid can you be to try and kill a Supreme Court nominee?”
“He can’t be that stupid,” said Judith Staten, a big boned blonde who reminded Andre of women back home. “If you ask me, he’s pretty clever. He managed to get by a full secret service detail and Robert Veil.”
Andre’s ears burned.
“Robert Veil?” Andre asked.
“Yeah,” Judith continued. “My brother humped with him in Iraq during Desert Storm. Use to be a Company man. Real black bag stuff.
Now he works on his own.”
“If he’s that good, why is he on his own?” asked Andre, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
“Don’t know,” said Judith. “My brother lost track of him after the war.”
“Well he can’t be that good,” Bill smirked. “That maniac got close enough at the hotel to kill her.”
Andre smiled.
“Thomas Flagg,” called the receptionist.
Andre stood.
“Captain Reasons will see you now.”
He walked, shoulders back, chin up, across the plain, well-trodden carpet and, upon entering, took a mental snapshot of Captain Reasons’ office. Large but plain, the only noticeable items were a picture of his wife and two daughters and a photograph of the Captain shaking hands with Ronald Reagan.
They shook hands and Andre sat down in front of the square shouldered black man’s government issue gray metal desk. Captain Reason’s picked up a file folder Andre recognized marked Personnel: Classified Information.
“Thomas Flagg. Born and raised in Cleveland, Ohio.”
“Cleveland Browns country,” Andre added, for effect.
“I see you transferred in from the Federal Building in Los Angeles and spent some time in Oklahoma City.”
“Yes sir. Oklahoma City was my first assignment out of training. I moved to L.A. just before the bombing.” Andre let his voice quiver slightly.
“I understand, son,” said the Captain, sympathetic and sincere.
“Thank you sir. I’m glad they buried him,” Andre lied. He considered Timothy McVeigh a hero.
Captain Reasons continued to thumb through the file. “I was considering you for assignment on the main floor, near the Justice’s chambers.”
Andre forced down the urge to smile. “Thank you sir, that would be an honor.”
Captain Reasons stroked his chin. “But I noticed you have extensive experience in electronic surveillance, so I’m putting you in the watchroom at the monitor’s desk in the basement. We can’t let experience like yours go to waste.”
Andre forced a smile. “Thank you sir. I’ll do my best.”
33
Edward watched the 60” inch plasma television imbedded in his conference room wall, eager for the morning proceedings to start.
“You can’t really believe this is putting pressure on Veil,” said Vernon.
Edward spun around and faced his three minions. “Never underestimate the heart, Vernon. I have it on good authority, no thanks to you, that she’s something very special to him. And I know for a fact he’s feeling the
