Fate of the Union

Twenty-one

Patti Rogers sat in first class next to Joe Reeder, who had paid for both their airfares. She was taking a personal day to fly with Joe to Toledo, Ohio, for reasons that remained somewhat obscure. They were on their way to talk to Adam Benjamin. That was all she knew.

She had asked only one question: “What is this about?”

“When we get there,” he said, “just follow my lead.”

She knew Reeder well enough to know that was the end of that discussion.

The immediate aftermath of Reeder taking down the blond assassin had been a media blackout as the federal government — by way of the Bureau, Homeland, NSA, and even the CIA — undertook a massive cover-up in the name of national security. Reeder appeared mildly outraged, but Rogers understood — public panic might ensue should it become known how close the nation had come to having every leader of its two parties killed, and the great symbol of the democracy — the Capitol Building itself — destroyed.

Beyond that was the issue of Senkstone, a weapon of such frightening proportions that the ramifications of any wide knowledge of its existence could hardly be calculated. Reeder said that the Pentagon was no doubt trying to get its “grubby hands” on the stuff: “They must be giddy finding a new way to kill people, with no consideration of how any enemy might use it against us.”

One thing could not be covered up: at the same time the blond was supposed to be blowing up the Capitol, three men thought to be the dead man’s comrades-in-arms assassinated Secretary of Agriculture Alexander Clarkson at a supposed safe house in Arlington, taking out a team of four Secret Service agents, including two Reeder had worked with.

As the pundits speculated on the reason for such an obscure assassination — absent the context of the greater plot — Reeder said, “Makes perfect sense. The idea was to remove the government, and that meant taking out the remaining man in presidential succession, too.”

Over the past two weeks, the task force had remained in place, putting the pieces together but very glad those pieces weren’t of a destroyed Capitol Building. Through the efforts of every team member — but of course especially Miggie — it had all come together.

First, pictures of DeShawn Davis, aka Karma Sabich, had been found on Frank Elmore’s laptop.

Next, a subsidiary of Barmore Holdings proved to have paid off the Constitution Hall shooter, Thomas Stanton, by way of the Cayman Island trust funds for Stanton’s children.

Meanwhile, the hacker monitoring Miggie’s computer turned out to be a tech support woman just two floors down who’d been a Common Sense Movement true believer — in custody now.

And finally came the dropped shoe everybody had been waiting for — the identification of the blond assassin.

Fingerprints led to Evan Carpenter, a Michigan boy who’d done poorly in school but excelled in the military — US Army Special Forces, as the arm tattoo in the hotel video indicated.

“We might have IDed him sooner,” Miggie said to Reeder, “if he hadn’t already been dead when you killed him.”

She and Joe were pulled up at Miggie’s temporary workstation in the task force bullpen.

“Explain,” Reeder said.

“Remember that dustup with the Muslim extremists in the Philippines back in 2019? According to service records, Carpenter and his whole squad went missing in action, presumed dead — declared legally dead three years ago.”

“How many men?”

“Including Carpenter, eight.”

“And none has ever turned up?”

“Other than Carpenter, no.”

Reeder’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not so sure. Three of them may have helped him remove Chris Bryson. And the same three may be behind the killings of Secretary Clarkson and his Secret Service team.”

“They don’t have a leader now,” Rogers pointed out. “We’ll find them. Bohannon and Wade are working with the Secret Service on the investigation of Clarkson’s assassination. Anyway, I have a vested interest.”

Miggie said, “You do?”

But Reeder answered the question: “One of them took a few shots at Patti coming out of that diner — remember?”

The next day Miggie had more for them: he’d managed to track down a string of the mercenary’s aliases, one of which led to a Swiss bank account where a money trail ended at another Barmore subsidiary.

“That was the missing piece,” Reeder said. “Now we know.”

“We do?” Rogers asked.

“Unless, of course, Frank Elmore and Lynn Barr were suicidal.”

“Why suicidal?”

Reeder’s eyebrows went up. “Well, do you think they hired Carpenter to assassinate themselves?”

Later that day, Reeder had announced he was heading back to ABC Security the first of next week.

“Understood,” Rogers said. “You have a business to run.”

“And media to duck. But there’s one thing left for us to do, if you’re up for it.”

“What would that be?”

“Call on Adam Benjamin.”

Rogers drove the rental Chevy from Toledo to Defiance, where they had a two o’clock appointment with the small town’s favorite son. She had made the arrangements herself, getting through to Benjamin surprisingly fast, almost as if he expected her call. Maybe he had.

At any rate, she’d merely said the FBI wanted to speak to him, off the record; essentially this would be an unofficial visit, and she’d appreciate it if he paid her that courtesy. He had readily agreed.

Now she was driving along a quiet, snowy street in Defiance, Ohio, where Adam Benjamin lived in a two-story Prairie School — style house built around the turn of the twentieth century, the kind of home that had a lofty bearing without losing its middle-class flavor. The homes on either side, neither as imposing, were also owned by Benjamin — the 1920s bungalow to the right had been Frank Elmore’s, the 1950s crackerbox to the left was a bodyguard station.

But just driving by, the notion that America’s richest man lived here was the last thing that would occur to you.

They parked on the street in front of the house, the sloped lawn snowy but the sidewalks clear. Rogers had gone the dark suit/sensible shoes route, under her peacoat, no gun, and Reeder wore a Brooks Brothers number beneath his Burberry. No one was in sight, but by the time they were up the short flight of stairs to the covered porch, a bodyguard in a black suit emerged, flat-nosed, dead-eyed, with military-short hair as dark as his suit.

She displayed her credentials. “Patti Rogers, FBI. This is my consultant, Joe Reeder. We’re expected.”

The bodyguard frowned. The voice came thick, like he was tasting molasses. “You’re expected. He isn’t.”

“Check with Mr. Benjamin, please.”

The door closed on them, but reopened only thirty seconds or so later. The bodyguard gestured them in.

Dark wood stairs rose before them, a living room to the right, decorated with vintage mission furnishings — they could be Frank Lloyd Wright originals for all she knew — and the floor was a gleaming parquet. Somebody well-off lived here. You might not guess billionaire, but no other home on this street would likely rival it.

Adam Benjamin emerged from sliding double doors at left, smiling warmly. The silver hair, the dark-rimmed glasses, the kind, professorial manner, all of it was in full force, set off perfectly by a light-blue sweater over a yellow shirt and baggy tan trousers. Your favorite uncle.

“Joe,” Benjamin said, offering his hand. “I was hoping you might come along. Pleasure to see you. Special Agent Rogers, a pleasure seeing you again, as well. Please, join me in my study. Anything to drink? Coffee, tea, something stronger?”

“We’re fine,” Reeder said.

Then they were seated before a big old pine desk that had seen a lot of years and plenty of use, probably dating back to Benjamin’s teaching days, and indeed the whole study had a warm folksiness suited to their host. The only sign of money was the wall of books whose famous titles, both fiction and nonfiction, went back not just decades, but in some cases centuries. One shelf was devoted to multiple copies of Benjamin’s own Common Sense for the Uncommon Man.

The only clue that this wasn’t 1952 was the sixty-inch wall-mounted monitor to his left on the far wall, above a tufted leather couch on which his briefcase sat. But his desk lacked any sign of a computer setup, just some framed photos and the usual suspects, pen holder, stapler, IN and OUT box and so on.

“Thank you for seeing us,” Rogers said. “And again, this is an informal, off-the-record chat.”

Benjamin nodded, smiled. “Certainly... though I believe I know why you’re here.”

“Probably you do. We’d like your thoughts on Frank Elmore, in particular, and possibly touch on Lynn Barr.”

A sorrowful expression washed away the smile and he rocked back in his swivel chair. “Let’s start with a question. Why has there been nothing in the media about their actions? Other than the assumption that they were... what is the unfortunate phrase? ‘Collateral damage’ in the second attempt on my life?”

Reeder said, “Well, that will come. The Bureau has been investigating, and a full in-depth report to the public is imminent.”

Rogers kept her face blank — Reeder had taught her well — but of course what Joe had just told Benjamin was an outright lie.

Their host rocked. “I’d be interested to know what’s in that report... if I’m not stepping into some kind of classified area.”

Rogers said, “We’ll be glad to share at least some of what we’ve discovered, only... what’s your take on Frank Elmore and Lynn Barr?”

But Reeder jumped in. “First, Adam, we should update you, specifically on those two. Seems Thomas Stanton, the would-be Constitution Hall assassin, was hired through a subsidiary of Barmore Holdings.”

“Good heavens. How can you be sure of that, Joe?”

“Stanton was dying of cancer. You’re a student of history — remember Zangara, who was hired to pretend to go after FDR, when Chicago Mayor Cermak was the intended target all along? Barmore set up one-hundred-grand trust funds for both of the dying man’s kids.”

Benjamin’s expression was grave; he shook his head slowly. “That confirms my worst suspicions.”

Rogers asked, “Which are?”

“That you were right in advising me that Frank and Lynn betrayed my trust and feathered their own nests, in a scheme of widespread corporate embezzling. Starting companies I knew nothing of, and stuffing their own pockets with the results. Do their bank accounts indicate payments beyond their salaries?”

“They do,” Rogers confirmed. “For the last three years. They were both millionaires several times over.”

“But if I’d discovered their actions,” Benjamin said firmly, frowning, raising a fist, “they’d have had those funds seized, and gone to prison. I have no compassion for traitors.”

Reeder said, “Their scheme was much more than monetary, Adam. What I’m about to tell you won’t come out until tomorrow. We need your word that you won’t share this with even your closest and most trusted inner circle... if any have survived.”

“You have my word,” Benjamin said.

Reeder told him that the plot to blow up the Capitol had been confirmed, indeed using the next-gen explosive perfected and stabilized in Barmore laboratories. He did not get into how the plot was foiled.

“It’s fantastic,” Benjamin said, seemingly stunned. “But why is this being kept from the public?”

“That’s just for now. Until the report is made public.”

He was shaking his head, staring into nothing. “Then it may be possible that Frank and Lynn were well-meaning but misguided souls, who thought they were helping me. Who misunderstood and perverted my goals.”

Reeder asked, “What do you think they were trying to accomplish?”

He sighed, shook his head again, apparently overwhelmed. “Frank, like many of us, thought that our great country might be... beyond repair. Certainly America has been paralyzed by the extreme right and their equally feckless counterpart on the left. My guess is... Frank must have thought the only way to return this country to the people, the majority in the sane middle who have been so badly served by major-party loyalty to special interests... was to... start over. Tabula rasa, clean slate.”

Reeder said, “Sounds more like scorched earth.”

Another grand sigh was followed by a grander shrug. “I only mean to say, I understand his motivation. I abhor and condemn his methods... if indeed my theory about the ‘why’ of his actions is correct.”

“Let’s explore your theory further,” Reeder said.

“All right. If that’s really necessary.”

“Necessary or not, it might be... illuminating. Would you agree that Elmore and Barr hired Stanton in order to boost your popularity as a presidential candidate? By having you survive an assassination attempt?”

“That seems a bizarre reading of the facts. If they wanted me to become president, would they expose me to so terrible a risk?”

“Was it a risk?” Reeder asked. “Jay Akers was right there on stage, and for that matter, so was I, and Agent Rogers. Seems to me the person at risk was the man coming up out of the audience with a gun in his hand.”

Benjamin was shaking his head. “Improbable. I might say preposterous.”

“Well, maybe Elmore and Barr were fanatics. Assassinated, you become a martyr, and someone else from the Common Sense Movement steps forward.”

Benjamin frowned. “I... I suppose that’s possible. But there’s not really anyone else in the movement who could step in and effectively mount a campaign...”

“No, I guess there really isn’t,” Reeder said. “But of course, it wasn’t Elmore or even Barr who saw to it that I was on stage that night. That was your doing.”

“Was it? That’s kind of a blur at this point. I know I offered you a position on my staff.”

“It’s possible,” Reeder said, “that Elmore and Barr wanted you out of the way. If they were, as you say, embezzlers on a grand scale. Maybe they wanted to get rid of you before you got onto them.”

He nodded. “A possibility.”

“But there’s a problem with both interpretations of Elmore and Barr’s actions. Whether these failed assassinations were for monetary reasons, or were intended to boost your candidacy... you don’t hire an assassin to kill yourself. And for either theory to work, that’s exactly what Elmore and Barr would’ve had to do.”

He shifted in the swivel chair. “Not sure I follow.”

“Have you ever heard the name Evan Carpenter?”

“No.”

Rogers wondered if the people reader had picked up anything in the suddenly blank expression Benjamin presented them.

“Carpenter’s a mercenary,” Reeder said. “Hired to tie off loose ends. The one-man army who committed all that mayhem at the Holiday Inn Express. And the man I captured before he could use a cell phone to trigger the explosives in the scaffolding around the Capitol Building.”

Everybody wore a blank expression, including Rogers, who hoped she had in no way betrayed Reeder’s lie.

“Mr. Carpenter is an interesting man,” Reeder said, “with a strong sense of survival instinct. He appears to be waiting for just the right deal before giving up his employer.”

And Rogers saw it: the slight relief around Benjamin’s eyes.

“My only explanation for all of this,” Reeder said, “is that Frank Elmore really was a true, pass-the-Kool-Aid believer in the Common Sense Movement. So extreme that he did add himself to the list of the loose ends Carpenter was hired to tie off, and added Lynn Barr, too.”

“It’s incredible,” Benjamin said softly. “But Frank truly was dedicated to the movement... and to me... what a tragic outcome.”

Shaking his head, Reeder asked, “But whatever would possess Elmore to think blowing up the Capitol was in any way a good idea?”

Benjamin thought about that, staring into nothing again. “I suppose... he must have thought that, had the Capitol been destroyed, the people who stand in the way of progress would be gone. The country would be... would have to be... reborn.”

“With you as the new father of the country.”

He waved that off. “I would give of myself in whatever way my country needed.”

“Think you’ll still run?”

“Too early to say. Not an appropriate time to even consider it. But — whatever my country needs.”

Reeder smiled. “Well, we’ll see what your country needs from you, when that report comes out tomorrow.”

Benjamin frowned. “You really believe that will have an impact on their decision, and mine?”

“Yeah, I do. One thing I forgot to mention. Carpenter hasn’t talked yet, but before you reach out and find some way to silence him, don’t bother. Seems he recorded all the cell phone calls between you two. I’m guessing he doesn’t know who hired him, and you didn’t contact him directly until after Elmore was dead. See, killing off your insulation was not smart. The techs have already done voice comparisons between the man on Carpenter’s cell phone and you. Perfect match.”

Benjamin didn’t say anything, although in a way he did, since all the blood was draining from his face.

Rogers, rather stunned by the enormity of Reeder’s bluff, did her best not to show it.

Reeder was saying, “We’re only here, Adam... I’m only here... because I was once a fan. And I think you started out meaning well. But you’ve pushed this ends-justify-the-means thing over the line. Your middle-of-the-road followers are not going to take to your brand of megalomaniacal extremism.”

The voice that emanated deep from Benjamin’s chest was one neither Rogers nor Reeder had heard before, as if it came up from dark depths within the man.

“Why did you come, Mr. Reeder?”

“Out of respect for who you were. Of how you started. On the assumption you once were who you’ve come to pretend you still are. And if you’re thinking that your money will bail you out? Well, keep watching the financial news, and the little scrolling down below, and see just how far and fast your stock drops after the report comes out. Think of this as a courtesy call.”

Behind the black-framed glasses, the dark eyes were cold and unblinking. “Courtesy?”

“Yes. Advance warning. For you to get your affairs in order. Ducks in a row kind of thing. Your next visit from the FBI will not be unofficial. They will bring warrants and disgrace. You may still have enough money to fight this for a while, Adam. But it’s over. I hope you have the common sense to know it.”

They were almost to the car when they heard the gunshot.