“In eleven hours and change, the president puts his hand on that bible and takes the oath of office. That moment in time is the single most vulnerable few seconds this country faces every four years. The vice president, Congress, hell, the entire government is out there on the street standing with him. Tens of thousands of schoolchildren and—oh, Holy God.”
“Conch, listen to me. Can’t you get the president to postpone the ceremony? Move it?”
“Since General George Washington took the oath in 1789, the swearing-in ceremony has only been moved once. Bad weather and Andrew Jackson was ill. You think Jack McAtee is going down in history as the guy who called off his own inauguration at the last minute? What’s your next idea?”
“I see what you mean.”
“With or without that code, Alex. Take out Muhammad Top. I wish to God I could do it for you. But I can’t.”
78
ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND
J ust before dawn, Agent Rocky Hernandez swung the old Cherokee into the parking lot of an all-night diner. Across the street, the Annapolis harbor looked quiet, sailboats riding at their moorings, peace and tranquility disturbed only by the sound of halyards flapping against aluminum masts in the gusty wind.
The two men climbing out of the car looked frustrated, haggard, and worn. The excitement over Dixon’s breakthrough discovery in Rock Creek Park was long faded. Time was running out. They had spent the last five hours combing the countryside, coming up empty. There was hardly a park, isolated farm, or stretch of rolling Virginia or Maryland woodland within thirty miles of the capital that they had not yet searched.
“Ten minute break,” Hernandez said, “You go ahead inside. I’ll call in, see what’s going on. Please order me a black coffee and a couple of donuts. Maybe they’ll give you some water for Dutch, too.”
Dixon entered the empty diner and took a stool at the counter. He ordered coffee and donuts and a bowl of water for the dog. Abigail, a perky high school senior, brought him the food and drink. “What kind of dog is it?” She stood on tiptoes with the bowl in her hands, looking out the window.
“He’s a hero,” Dixon said, managing a smile.
“Can I take the water out to him?”
“I guess. Truck’s open. He’s in the back. His handler’s out there making a call.”
“Dutch says thanks, he was thirsty,” Hernandez said, taking a seat a few minutes later. He took two gulps of coffee and bit into his donut.
“How is it back in Washington, Rocky?”
The agent looked over at Dixon, his eyes red with strain. “It’s bad,” he said.
“I figured.”
“Chaos. A lot of pressure from the First Lady and others in the Service to evacuate, postpone, or at least move the swearing-in ceremony. Take the whole show inside. Some secret location they’re working on. Outside of Washington. My guys are going crazy right now. The media smells blood and they’re hounding the White House every step of the way. It’s a lose-lose situation.”
“What do you mean?”
“We postpone, we move, we evacuate? And nothing happens, we’re idiots. Don’t evacuate, don’t postpone, and something happens, we’re idiots.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“Doesn’t matter how I feel. I know how the president feels. In five hours, he’s going to walk down those capitol steps in the sunshine and put his hand on that bible. Period. End of report. I know that man better than I know my own soul.”
“I guess we were wrong about wooded areas,” Dixon said, taking a sip.
“We’ll keep looking, that’s all. The Virginia truck, the Rock Creek truck. Both wooded areas. Secluded. Where the hell else are you going to secretly unload something as big as a Suburban?”
Franklin stared down at his cup in silence.
“A garage,” he said quietly.
“What?”
Dixon, looked at him, his tired eyes alight. “Rocky, how long you figure it takes to run a cross-check on every garage and body repair shop in Washington? Cross-check the ownership? Match the owners against all the names on the DC counter-terrorist watch list?”
The agent slammed his fist on the countertop. “A garage. Jesus. Why didn’t I think of that? Let’s get started.”
Franklin put five dollars on the counter and headed for the door.
HALF AN HOUR later, they were on their third garage. The first two had been small one-man body shop operations, no way to back an eighteen-wheeler inside. The one they were headed for now was off Massachusetts Avenue, near Union Station. It was called the Teapot Dome Body Shop.
“This one feels good,” Rocky said as they cruised by the place and pulled around the corner to park, “I don’t know why, but it does.”
They got Dutch out of the back and sprinted around the corner to the entrance. They were moving fast, Dutch racing ahead as if he knew the schedule was tight. They had eleven more garages on their A list, six more on the B list. It was seven-thirty a.m. on what promised to be a clear blue Inauguration Day. The president’s address was now less than five hours away.
A tiny bell above the door tinkled when they pushed it open. The office reeked of sweat and oil. Old-fashioned nudie calendars hung on the walls. A fat dark-haired man in filthy white mechanic’s coveralls sat behind a battered wooden desk, littered with invoices, catalogs, and greasy automobile parts. He had an Arabic newspaper spread across his lap and looked up from it slowly.
“Help you?” he said, a smile spreading across his moon face.
“Secret Service,” Hernandez said, flipping open his badge. “Special Agent Hernandez.”
Franklin tipped his hat. “Dixon. Prairie County Sheriff.”
“Yeah. So. What can I do for you two?”
Dutch had something. Inside the desk. On the man. And behind a door on the right. He went for the door.
“Where’s the garage?” Franklin asked the man, moving quickly toward the closed door just right of the desk. “Through here?”
“Private property, cowboy. You got a warrant?”
Franklin ignored that, put his hand on the knob and turned it. Dutch bolted ahead of him through the narrow crack.
“Hey! I said, this is private—” The fat man was coming out of his chair.
“Gun!” Hernandez shouted, “Gun! Get down!”
Franklin shoved through the door and dove to the cement floor. He rolled twice, heard two loud shots explode inside the office, and pulled his weapon. Through the door he saw the gun still in the mechanic’s hand, his arm coming up, even though the upper part of his coveralls were soaked with blood.
Franklin shot the fat man in the head.
He looked through the doorway at Agent Hernandez. On the floor behind the desk, but he was getting to his feet.
“You hurt?” Dixon said.
“Not bad. Grazed my shoulder. What have you got in there, Dutch? It better be good.”
“You won’t believe it.”
“The Teapot is the Jackpot,” Hernandez said, smiling at Dixon and moving quickly past him to catch up with his dog.
