Conspiracy by Stephen Coonts Read Free Book Online Page B

school, Tina Ricco, now Tina Ricco Kelly, well into the eighth month of pregnancy. Besides a healthy glow and a constant need to pee, Tina’s condition had apparently short-circuited several parts of her brain, causing her to use the word “precious” at least twenty times an hour and to speak of herself in the plural, as in, “We just think that’s adorable,” and, “We’ll have that drink super-sized.”
    Visiting Tina and her husband in their new home in North Carolina for a few days had seemed liked a good idea when Tina invited Lia. She envisioned long afternoons by the shore, sipping a cool drink from a tall glass. She might even get in a little shopping.
    But the weather had turned out to be on the cool side, and Tina was generally too tired to spend more than fifteen minutes on her feet at a time. She was also too busy to go out—Lia’s arrival had come in the midst of a relentless stream of relatives and other friends, who dropped by nearly around the clock to “chat” and offer encouragement. Tina had made the mistake of saying that she planned on having the baby without painkillers, and her visitors felt obligated to let her know how foolish she was. They did this with war stories about their own excruciating times in labor, stories so vivid that even Lia got sympathy pains.
    Fortunately, the pains of labor were no longer the topic of choice at the shower. Unfortunately, it was replaced by nonstop horror stories of babies with colic, babies who never slept, babies who never kept food in their stomachs. The odd thing was that the stories were told in the most cheerful way imaginable, and generally capped off with words to the effect of “You’ll love being a parent.” Lia resorted to vodka-spiked lemonade to remain calm.
    If I ever have a baby, she thought, I’m going to keep it a secret until he’s eighteen.
    Lia’s cell phone rang just as Tina unwrapped her third Diaper Genie. She jumped up to take the call, so thankful for the diversion that she would have bought storm windows from the most obnoxious telemarketer.
    â€œLia, this is Chris Farlekas. Can you talk?”
    â€œAlmost,” she said, walking out into the hallway.
    â€œWe need you here by eight A.M. tomorrow for a briefing. I know it’s Sunday, I know you’re off, but—”
    â€œNot a problem.”
    â€œWe’ll book a commercial flight from Raleigh-Durham. When do you want to leave?”
    A burst of high-pitched giggling cascaded down the hall.
    â€œI’m calling a cab for the airport right now.”

 
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    â€œTHE ATTACK ON Senator McSweeney involved at least two people: the man with a pistol, who appears to have been a decoy, and the actual shooter, who was located in this building across the way.”
    The screen flashed as a picture of the office building across from the hotel appeared. Dean rolled his arms together in front of his chest, leaning back in the seat. He hadn’t been able to sleep on the plane coming back from Montana, nor had there been time for anything more than a quick nap before reporting to the Desk Three operations center in the basement of OPS/2B.
    A face flashed on the screen. It belonged to a man about thirty years old. He had buzz-cut chestnut hair and a moon-shaped bruise below each eye. He seemed to be in pain.
    â€œThis was the decoy,” said Hernes Jackson, standing at the side of the room as he gave the briefing. “He had a pellet gun that looked like a Beretta. His name is Arthur Findley.”
    Jackson clicked the remote control in his hand, bringing two more pictures of Findley on the screen. In both, Findley looked heavily medicated, with a vacant gaze.
    â€œMr. Findley has been in and out of mental institutions for several years. His last known address was at an outpatient facility in Washington, D.C., two years ago,” continued Jackson. “Since then, he’s had no known