Triggers

The people who were supposed to protect him.

He still couldn’t believe it.

“What happened to the…” He kept wanting to call him “the assassin,” but that wasn’t right; he’d failed at his job. “…the assailant?”

“He was trying to escape, sir. He’d been in the elevator at the Lincoln Memorial and—”

“What elevator?” Seth said.

“There’s one for handicapped access, sir. It was installed in the 1970s.”

“Oh.”

“He was shimmying up the elevator cable, trying to get away, and the elevator started up and he fell. Broke his neck.”

“That’s the passive voice,” he said.

“Sir?”

“ ‘The elevator started up.’ Surely someone pushed the button.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who?”

“Agent Jenks, sir. Dirk Jenks.”

Shit, Seth thought. Maybe the assailant hadn’t been acting alone after all. “Investigate him,” he said.

But Susan nodded. “Way ahead of you, sir. The FBI apprehended him at Reagan. He hasn’t broken yet under interrogation, but it seems almost certain that he was in cahoots with Gordo.”

Seth would have sat up if he could. “Gordo?”

“Sorry. That’s what most of us called Agent Danbury. Not Gordon but Gordo.”

That name was ringing a bell. He’d heard it recently…somewhere. From someone.

No, no, he hadn’t heard it—he’d overheard it. At the White House…in the Oval Office. He’d come in through his private door while Leon Hexley, the head of the Secret Service, was talking on his BlackBerry, but…

But what had he said? It was just a couple of days ago. Damn it, what had Hexley said? “Tell Gordo to…”

Tell Gordo to…what?

It had been intriguing, he remembered that much, even not knowing then who Gordo was. But, damn it, he couldn’t dredge it up.

The door to Singh’s lab burst open, and in strode lawyer Orrin Gillett. “Dr. Griffin told me I might find you here, Agent Dawson. How long until you let us go?”

Susan had been busily thumb-typing to her boyfriend Paul on her phone, bringing him up-to-date on what was going on. She finished the message she was sending, pocketed the device, and let Gillett wait in silence for five seconds, then said, “I haven’t made that determination. Frankly, I’m not sure it’s safe for people to leave the hospital.”

Gillett stared at her through his round glasses. His tone was cool, measured. “You actually don’t have the power to detain people indefinitely.”

Susan looked over at Professor Singh, who was running simulations on his computer, then back at Gillett. “We’re dealing with an unprecedented situation,” she said.

Gillett helped himself to a chair, crossing his long legs and leaning back. “That’s right, Agent Dawson. But in the law, precedents are what matters—precedents and regulations. And so I did some research.” He pulled out his iPhone and consulted its screen. “Under Title 18, Section 3056, of the United States Code, Secret Service agents have very limited powers. You can execute warrants issued under the laws of this country—but no warrants have been issued in this matter.” He looked up. “You can make arrests without warrants for any offense against the United States committed in your presence, or for any felony recognizable under the laws of the United States, if you have reasonable grounds to believe that the person to be arrested has committed such a felony. But you have no reason to believe any offense or felony has been committed in this matter. Beyond that, all you’re allowed to do is”—he read from the screen—“ ‘Investigate fraud in connection with identification documents, fraudulent commerce, fictitious instruments, and foreign securities.’ ”

“Don’t gloss over that so quickly, Mr. Gillett. The Secret Service does indeed deal with cases of identity theft.”

He slipped his phone into his breast pocket. “But no one here has committed any such crime, have they?”

“Not yet, but they’re all surely capable of it now. They know every personal detail, every possible answer to any security question—mother’s maiden name, first-grade teacher, what have you.”

“This is the United States of America, Agent Dawson, not some third-world police state. You can’t imprison people because you think they might someday commit a crime; indeed, you slander them by suggesting they might do so.”

“I’m not talking about imprisoning,” Susan said, folding her arms in front of her chest. “I’m talking about, well, protective custody.”

“What for?” demanded Gillett.

“We simply don’t know what’s going to happen to you, to me, or to anyone else who has been affected. Our brains have been messed up; we might have seizures—anything could happen.”

“For your own part, you may take whatever personal precautions you see fit,” Gillett said. “And you may certainly advise all affected parties of the potential dangers. Indeed, I urge you to do so. But you also have to be honest with them: you have to say you have no reason whatsoever to think people will undergo seizures, lose touch with reality, or otherwise have any difficulties beyond the ones they’ve already experienced.”

“This is a medical matter,” Susan said.