Conspiracy Read Online Free PDF Page B

Secret Service agent, face beet red, stood by the door, pistol out.
    â€œWhy are we here?” McSweeney asked the Secret Service agent.
    â€œPlease, Senator, until the situation is secure.”
    â€œWhy are we in this room?”
    â€œIt’ll just be a moment. It’s under control.”
    McSweeney reached into his pocket for his phone.
    â€œSir, please—no communications until we’re sure everything is copasetic,” said the agent. “Just to be safe.”
    â€œMy wife is going to be worried.”
    â€œIt shouldn’t take very long.”
    McSweeney put the phone back reluctantly. “Who shot at us?”
    â€œI don’t know, sir,” said the agent. He put up his hand, then held it over his ear, obviously listening to something on his radio.
    McSweeney’s phone began to buzz. He checked the caller ID window on the phone and saw that it was Jimmy Fingers. McSweeney flipped it open despite the bodyguard’s frown.
    â€œI’m OK, Jimmy,” he told his aide. “The fucker missed me.”
    â€œJesus, Mary, and Joseph, thank God! Do you know the radio just said you were dead?”
    â€œWell, I’m not.”
    â€œWe’ll want to get a statement out right away.”
    â€œRumors of my death are greatly exaggerated,” said McSweeney, echoing Mark Twain’s famous comment.
    â€œNo, something more serious,” said Jimmy Fingers, always thinking of the political ramifications. “A potential slogan. ‘My work won’t be stopped by a madman.’ If you were in the lead, then you could joke. No, it has to be just right. We’ll work it out when I get there. I’m a few minutes away.”
    McSweeney felt a twinge of resentment at Jimmy Fingers’ tone, even as he knew from experience that Fingers’ advice would prove correct.
    â€œI’m glad you’re OK, Senator,” added the aide. “This will help us. You’ll see.”
    â€œHelp us?”
    â€œNo one tries to assassinate a loser.”

 
11
    THERE WAS A knock on the office door. Rubens reached for the silver security blanket and covered the desktop. It didn’t matter that the desk was bare at the moment. Even
that
might mean something.
    â€œCome in, Mr. Gallo,” said Rubens.
    â€œJohnny Bib sent me up,” said Robert Gallo. One of the computer experts assigned to Desk Three’s Analysis and Research section, Gallo defied the normal definition of “geek.” He stood just over six feet and, while no muscle builder, certainly looked as if he could hold his own in a fight. “It’s, uh, that Secret Service stuff.”
    â€œHave a seat, Robert. Tell me.”
    â€œWell, like, OK, the thing is, these e-mails really
were
sent from Vietnam,” said Gallo, handing paper copies of the e-mails to Rubens. “That wasn’t an alias or some sort of spoof like the Secret Service guys thought. I mean like, duh.”
    One of the unfortunate downsides of choosing the best people in the business, thought Rubens, was that they tended to
know
that they were the best, and thus came across as a little too arrogant for their own good. He liked Gallo; he would have to talk to him about this.
    â€œSee, everybody was probably thinking, Fake-oh, because when you look at the port information—”
    â€œIf you could move ahead to the point.”
    â€œSo, OK, like, I check the phone records to see who like called. I hack into the Vietnamese phone company—”
    â€œWhat exactly did you find?” asked Rubens.
    â€œSee, there were three people who had connections around the time the messages were sent. The e-mails are a couple of days apart. But I have three people. So I checked them, like, and—”
    Clearly, thought Rubens, Gallo was being influenced far too much by his boss, John “Johnny Bib” Bibleria, who always followed the most circuitous route to the point.
    â€œThe thing