Rubens folded his arms across his chest, utterly surprised by the topic, though naturally he endeavored not to reveal anything except boredom. He listened with half of his brain and turned the other half to self-examination: How could he have allowed himself to be blindsided?
Obviously because the matter was absurd. The accidental death of a congressman, even from the president’s own party, was hardly a ripple on the ocean compared to the weighty matters the administration faced.
But surely that was one of the earliest lessons he had learned — Washington ran on absurdity. He should have anticipated this.
“What George is getting at,” said the president, cutting him off, “is that some people don’t think Greene’s death was an accident.”
“Nonsense,” said Rubens.
“You were there, Mr. Rubens?” asked Freeman.
It was obvious that he already knew Rubens had been there, and the obsequious note in his voice undoubtedly registered with the others as totally bogus. There was therefore no need to underline it.
“Greta’s my cousin,” said Rubens. “It was her daughter’s communion. I saw the guitarist jump into the pool,” he added, cutting to the inevitable chase. “It was an accident. Bizarre, freakish, unfortunate — but definitely an accident.”
“You weren’t there when the police arrived,” said Freeman.
“Really, do you think I should have stayed?” Rubens let his contempt peek out, ever so slightly. “There were plenty of other witnesses.”
The president’s horseshoes clunked against each other. He’d scored four ringers in a row.
“There are some legitimate questions,” said Freeman. “Reporters have theories. You know what happens.”
“Why don’t you spell them out?” said Brown.
Freeman told him that there were rumors that Greene had been preparing to use his influence to have Greta fired as committee counsel.
“So she picked up the guitarist and threw him into the pool?” asked Brown.
Freeman held up his hands.
Rubens looked through the trees toward the south fountain, its white water furled into a rectangular mist by the wind. It was counterproductive to say anything; his boss had actually done an admirable job defending him.
Perhaps that was intended as a blind, though. Perhaps Brown had put Freeman up to this.
Paranoia. Rubens realized he was overreacting because he had been taken by surprise. It was important not to overcompensate.
“Congress is concerned about the circumstances of Congressman Greene’s death,” said Freeman. “And there’s likely to be a call for an independent investigation.”
“I’m sure it will prove to be a freak accident,” said Rubens.
“One of my pathology experts says there should have been no electrocution,” said Freeman.
“Then I suppose it was poisoning that he died of,” said Rubens dryly. “Just like the media to get it wrong.”
“My point is, maybe the guitar or pool was tampered with,” said Freeman.
“By whom?” asked Brown.
Freeman shrugged. Rubens knew that as ridiculous as this all was, it could not be summarily dismissed. During the Clinton administration, the media and antagonistic congressmen had made quite a hash of Vince Foster’s suicide, basically accusing the president of pulling the trigger. At the time, Rubens was a young buck in the collection operations area, but he remembered the controversy well. If such a controversy tainted him, he would undoubtedly be asked to resign. The NSA depended on its image.
A thought occurred to him: This must all be the work of Collins, the CIA DDO, trying to make a power play for Desk Three. She had all sorts of media and congressional contacts, and she wanted his job. It was even conceivable that she had set the whole thing up. She’d murder her mother to move ahead.
More paranoia. But not necessarily misplaced.
Marcke threw his last horseshoe — another ringer — and then walked a few steps up the hill. He held out his hands and a member of the White House staff ran down with his suit jacket.
“Our problem here is crazy rumors,” said the president. “We all know that this was an accidental death. But in Washington, the more bizarre something is, the more plausible it becomes in the public mind.”
“There were rumors that Congressman Greene pressed for information about NSA operations and was denied,” said Freeman.
“Baloney,” said Brown.
“Actually, if you recall the hearings, he did make a bit of a fuss,” said the president, pulling on his coat. He looked directly at Rubens.
Surely the president did not believe that Rubens would assassinate a congressional opponent rather than let him join the Intelligence Committee.
However tempting that might be. Besides, Greene was hardly an opponent.
Now, someone like Senator Katherine Hilton…
“Anything else, Mr. Freeman?” Marcke asked the FBI director.
“We would like to interview Mr. Rubens informally.”
“Not a problem,” said Rubens. “If I can help the Bureau in any way, I’d be glad to.”
It was an immense lie, as most lies in Washington were, and Freeman accepted it with a smile twice as phony. “Very good.”
“Next appointment?” the president asked the man who had helped him with the coat.
“Education secretary for lunch.”
“I’d like him roasted and turned on a spit, with maybe a light gravy on the side,” said Marcke, starting back toward the White House. Freeman, walking beside him, gave a forced laugh.
“Take this seriously, Billy,” hissed Hadash, who had taken hold of his jacket to hold him back.
“It’s absurd and obnoxious,” said Rubens.
“Agreed. But if the press finds out you were at the scene of a crime and then left, there will be fallout.”
“Please,” said Rubens, though he knew Hadash was in fact correct. Still, it would have been bad to be there when they arrived.
Rubens turned back to find Admiral Brown frowning at him.
“Make this go away,” said the admiral, starting toward the front.
10
Malachi Reese unclipped his MP3 player from his waistband and held it in his hand as the chemical analyzer took its sample in the torture chamber leading to the Remote Piloting Chamber down the hall from the Desk Three Art Room. The sniffer was ostensibly designed to detect the small range of chemicals involved in the manufacture of explosives; Mala-chi figured that it was actually intended to keep cyborgs out. Which was why he had thumbed “Cyborg Trash,” an XeX2 tune, into the player and cranked the sucker to 10.
The black suits didn’t catch the irony, but that wasn’t their thing. Malachi stepped forward as the green panel flashed near the door and entered the empty room, which looked like a cross between a flight simulator and a dentist’s examining room. Dull blue lights in the floor led to the control seat, which was canted back about twenty degrees from vertical. Sensors snapped on soft yellow lights from the side of the room as Malachi sat in the chair, adjusting it to his preferences — he liked to sit upright, as if he were at a desk.
Which, in a way, he was. The controls in front of him included three keyboards as well as an oversize flight stick, which he wouldn’t need for this mission. At the front of the room was a large, configurable plasma screen; immediately in front of the seat were three large LCD panels. At the left of the seat were several smaller, dedicated tubes with an assortment of affiliated knobs, sliders, and dial controls. On the right were two more screens. The top tied into the Art Room down the hall, feeding either a general shot or a picture of whoever was speaking to him
