Capitol Conspiracy by William Bernhardt Read Free Book Online

excuse.” She slumped into the nearest available chair and stared out the window. Her normally chipper, freckled face was drawn and haggard. The crow’s-feet around her eyes were more pronounced than their sparkling blue color. “Did I mention that I’m supposed to be on my honeymoon?”
    Jones felt a tug at his heart. Even his normally acerbic exterior was melting. “You didn’t have to.”
    “I’m supposed to be sipping French wine in a Parisian café, having a tête-à-tête with my
grande passion.
Not dealing with the worst security crisis on American soil since 9/11.” Her shoulders sagged. “I’m tired of talking on the phone.”
    Jones sat beside her and placed his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll take your calls.”
    “And I’m tired of trying to explain why Senator Kincaid isn’t in his office.”
    “I’ll make up a story.”
    “And I’m sexually frustrated.”
    Jones removed his hand. “That you’re going to have to handle on your own.” Christina’s head drooped even lower. “Did I mention that I was tired?”
    “I’m pretty sure you did.”
    “I can’t do this by myself. I mean, I appreciate your help, Jones. You’re the best aide-de-camp in the building, as far as I’m concerned. But it’s too impossible. Loving is still off with that Trudy woman, right?”
    Jones coughed into his hand. “Loving is still with, um, Trudy, yes.”
    “And Ben hasn’t been in the office since the attack. He has to take control of this situation. He has to decide if he’s going to run for reelection. He has—” Her voice choked. “He has to take me on my honeymoon, damn it.”
    “I’m so sorry, sweetie.”
    Jones squeezed her hand, then returned to his station where his phone was ringing off the hook, while Christina continued to stare blankly at the office around her. She had put a lot of effort into improving the decor here during the past few months. Even though the name on the door and the desk read BENJAMIN J. KINCAID , she knew she couldn’t leave the interior decoration to him. The office would end up resembling a monk’s cell: two chairs and a dead plant. At best, it would be a reproduction of his office back in Tulsa, and that was not a work space that deserved the opportunity to reproduce. So despite the budgetary restrictions that accompanied working for an unelected senator with no war chest and a law practice that had not practiced for months, she tried to improve the joint. On weekends, she frequented flea markets—there were dozens of them in the Washington, D.C., area—looking for salvageable furniture and knickknacks. She nurtured plants at her apartment until she thought they were strong enough to survive Ben’s negative botanic energy. Christina even replaced some of the fixtures, which apparently hadn’t had any attention since before the first World War. Her efforts had turned a sterile government office into a cozy workplace.
    Today it seemed colder than a tomb.
    She knew the specifications of the building all too well; she heard a tour guide leading a group of citizens down the corridor or around the rotunda almost every day. She knew this capitol building covered 153,112 square feet, which worked out to about three and a half acres. Somehow, though, it managed to have a floor area of more than fourteen acres. And 435 rooms, 554 doors, 679 windows.
    Didn’t matter. It was still a tomb. The first lady was dead, along with eight Secret Service agents and four civilians, one a little girl of three. Two U.S. senators. And Mike…
    She closed her eyes tight. She couldn’t allow herself to wallow in the misery that had blanketed the country. Someone had to keep this office together.
    But who was going to keep her together?
             
    “We just got a memo,” Jones said, back at his desk by the front door. “Want to hear the latest?”
    “You tell me, Jones. Do I?”
    He made it succinct. “DEFCON Three.”
    There it was. Just as she had feared. The Strategic