Rubicon, page 22
Ryan slipped lower in the leather chair. In a precise, methodical motion, he tapped his fingers together as he stared at the ceiling. He had taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.
“The American Empire.” The words rolled slowly off his tongue. “There are some parallels.” He gestured toward a stack of books on the credenza behind him. “I’ve been reading a little, some of the histories I was supposed to read in college. The Romans went to war with their neighbors and kept fighting until they had conquered Italy; we fought the Indians and the British and then the Spanish until we had conquered the continent. The Romans kept expanding - we kept expanding. In both cases, a republic without setting out to do it became an empire, and in the process became powerful and rich.” Ryan turned his head until his eyes met Hart’s. “Remember, back in school, American history - Jefferson’s yeoman farmer: self-sufficient, independent, able to write and speak his mind because he was not dependent on anyone else for what he needed to support himself and his family. And how that all changed with the industrial revolution: how wealth got concentrated in fewer and fewer hands; how everyone became in a certain sense dependent on everyone else. It happened in Rome - great disparities of wealth led to great differences in power; equality disappeared and everything was left in the hands of a favored few. Rome became corrupt, and Caesar triumphed.”
“Bread and circuses, and now television,” said Hart, remembering what he had heard a British stranger say on a tour bus in Rome. “All right, I agree. The parallels are all there, with one important exception.”
Ryan sat up and nodded emphatically.
“Right. Caesar came with an army that was more loyal to him than it was to Rome. That isn’t the situation we face. If we’re right, Rubicon is a conspiracy designed to produce fear, and to stop, or at least postpone, an election. But why? Why postpone it? What can that achieve?”
“Burdick seems to think -”
“Burdick doesn’t know. He knows a lot, but he doesn’t know that. If they had murdered Taylor and left Douglas alone, then it would have been obvious that they were trying to decide who would be the next president. But this! - no one left alive?”
“That’s the phrase Farabi heard at Guantanamo: When it was over, there wouldn’t be anyone left. This was the plan from the very beginning: Kill every candidate....”
“But for what? To postpone the election until other candidates are chosen - and then what? There is something else, something we can’t yet see, something that only works if you have precisely this situation: a presidential election that can’t take place, an election that has to be delayed.”
Growing impatient, Hart had begun to pace around the room.
“Whatever it is, its right in front of our eyes and we’re too damn blind to see it.”
Ryan had an idea.
“If you read those histories, you begin to see that what happened in Rome was almost inevitable: that the decision to cross the Rubicon had been decided a long time before, that when Rome began to send armies far away, when.... But you see my point. Certain things had to happen, once you had that situation. Why not the same thing here? Harrison - and if it was Harrison, it had to be the vice-president - knew how people would react. They knew what would happen when the only question was what we had to do to protect the country against another attack. And look what they’ve gotten! - martial law, the use of the military for domestic purposes, the virtual suppression of any political opposition. The question is what else do they want? Something permanent, a fundamental change in the way the country governs itself, but what, what exactly?”
When the president addressed the joint session of Congress the next evening, armed troops had begun to patrol the streets around the Capitol and tanks were stationed at each of the major intersections. No one was allowed within a quarter of a mile without proper identification. Senators, Congressmen, even members of the Supreme Court had had to pass through metal detectors and then were searched.
The mood inside the House chamber was somber, reserved and, above all, uncertain. Everyone, whatever their party, believed that things could not go on this way, that something had to be done; though no one seemed to have any idea what it should be, or, if they did, were willing to say it.
Speaking with the same stiff rectitude with which he had addressed the Congress before, the president called for tighter security and greater unity, promised retribution and pledged to continue and intensify the war on terror. He asked for immediate passage of legislation, long stalled in committee, expanding the power of the government to conduct regular surveillance of all telecommunications both foreign and domestic. He asked for a number of things, each of them a power needed to fight terrorism more effectively, and each time he asked, the Congress responded with applause. Finally, at the end, the president spoke about the election and what was going to have to be done about it.
“The tragic deaths of three candidates for the presidency, the cowardly attacks on our citizens, will not be allowed to destroy our democratic institutions. The presidential election will go forward, as soon as it is safe to do so. We will not allow terrorists to dictate the outcome of elections by murder. We will not allow terrorists to prevent a full and fair debate between candidates for the highest office in the land. We will do whatever is necessary to make certain that we have a normal election as soon as it is possible to do so. Democracy in America will be made safe.”
The applause rolled over the chamber, spontaneous, prolonged, a great outpouring of support for the president, the leader of the nation, determined, as they all were, to protect the American democracy from anyone who would dare threaten it.
When the speech was over, after the president had left and the House chamber was all but deserted, Charlie Ryan had not moved from his chair. There was a strange defiant certainty in his eyes and a thin, knowing smile on his face. He looked up at Hart.
“‘When it’s safe.’ We’re going to delay the election of a new president until its ‘safe.’ And who gets to decide when that might be? I think we begin to see where all this is going, what Rubicon was always meant to do.” He jumped to his feet. “When it’s safe! Who the hell do these people think they are?”
Charlie Ryan was not the only one who had questions about what the president meant. Quentin Burdick emphasized precisely that part of the president’s speech in the front page story he wrote the next morning in the Times. Alvin Roth, however, did not need a newspaper to tell him that a serious constitutional issue was at stake. The chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee thought the administration had better explain itself. Three days after the president addressed the Congress, the attorney general was back on Capitol Hill, listening to another lecture he thought he did not need.
“Attorney General Lopez,” said Roth in obvious frustration, “we have an election - a presidential election - scheduled two weeks from next Tuesday. Thanks to these terrorist attacks, neither party has a candidate. We all understand that the election has to be postponed. What I don’t understand is your reluctance to support legislation setting a new date. You agree, do you not, that its important that we set a new date as soon as possible so that things can go forward in an orderly process - the parties can select their candidates, the candidates can begin to campaign. Electing a president is a very serious business, Attorney General Lopez.”
“I’m perfectly aware of that, Mr. Chairman, which is the reason it can’t be done.”
“Can’t be done? I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”
“We can’t just randomly pick a date. We have to know first that it’s safe, that we won’t have a repetition of what has just happened. We have to make certain its safe, Senator Roth. The president made that quite clear in his speech. And I don’t think it’s irrelevant to note that the great majority of the American people believe we should delay the election until all the terrorists involved in the three attacks are captured and put away.”
Roth made an effort to be patient.
“We have never in the history of this country failed to have a presidential election at the time it was scheduled, Attorney General Lopez. We may not have any choice now but to postpone this one, but we ought to set the new date immediately. And it should not be any later than the middle or, at the very latest, the end of December.”
Lopez flashed a fervent smile.
“That may be possible, but at this point it’s just too early to know.”
Roth eyed him coldly.
“It seems to me, Attorney General Lopez, that the Congress has the authority to set a new election date; that the Congress, not the Executive, has the power to decide what is important here: achieving perfect safety before we have an election or running whatever risks are necessary to keep intact our democratic institutions.”
Lopez leaned forward, a tight, unfriendly smile on his mouth.
“No one is more committed to keeping our democratic institutions safe than the president, which is the reason we are determined to make certain our elections are safe, senator. And with respect to your other point, I doubt there is much support in the Congress for legislation that would undermine the president’s ability to prevent terrorists from murdering any more candidates for the presidency.”
Ryan was not surprised when Hart told him what had happened; nor did he appear to be particularly disappointed.
“Alvin Roth has a fairly limited understanding of most things, including the Constitution,” he said sharply. “But his instinct is right. There should be legislation. The president can’t be allowed to decide when the next election is going to be held. But Roth hasn’t yet grasped that the power to delay, the power to postpone, is the power to prevent. Let the president decide when it is safe to have an election, we might never have another one. Roth doesn’t understand that yet, but there are a few things that Lopez doesn’t understand either.”
Ryan was almost manic, pacing back and forth, punctuating his speech, inexplicably, with short bursts of laughter and then, suddenly, swearing under his breath. Hart was not sure what to make of it.
“It’s all right, Bobby.” There was that same look of grim defiance in his eyes that Hart had seen the night of the president’s speech. “I haven’t lost my mind.” He paused. “Have you ever argued a case in front of the Supreme Court?”
“Argued a case in front of...? I never practiced law. I have a law degree, that’s it. Why? What are you....?”
“You’re on the Judiciary Committee. That’s probably better preparation than a few years in private practice.” He said this as if it were a matter of some importance. “The main thing is you’re as good on your feet as anyone I’ve ever seen.”
“What are you talking about?”
Ryan came back to the chair in front of Hart’s desk. He glanced across at a portrait of the Constitutional Convention that hung above the marble fireplace on the far side of the room.
“I’m talking about that - the Constitution, and what you and I are going to do to save it. We’re filing a lawsuit on behalf of the Congress of the United States against the president of the United States.”
Ryan reached inside the briefcase next to his feet. He tossed Hart a thick document, the brief he intended to file with the court.
“Read through it. See what you think. If you agree, we’ll file it first thing tomorrow morning.”
Hart glanced at the cover, and then thumbed through the pages to get some idea how long it was.
“You did this? When did you have time?”
“It wasn’t that difficult, once you understand what’s really at issue.”
Hart could see from his expression that Ryan was not talking about some narrow legal technicality. Ryan was always at his most understated when the stakes were high and the risk enormous.
“What’s really at issue?”
Ryan looked straight at him. There was not the slightest doubt in his eyes.
“Whether this country stays a republic or becomes a dictatorship.”
“And you’re taking this…?”
“We’re taking this,” Ryan corrected him “you and I. It has to be like that. We’ll get some others to sign on, but it’s the two of us - one Democrat and one Republican - that are going to argue this thing. This can’t be some partisan contest, where it looks like one side is trying to gain some political advantage.”
“We’re taking this to the Supreme Court? The chief justice was appointed by the president. A clear majority are conservatives.”
“That’s what I’m counting on,” said Ryan as he got up to go. “They’re always talking about original intent, what the Constitution meant to the men who framed it. That’s the best hope - maybe the only hope - we have.”
Hart glanced again at the brief. He turned automatically to the last page, where the plaintiff lays out the relief he is seeking, what he wants the court to do. He almost came out of his chair.
“You’re asking that the Court order that the election go forward as scheduled? That’s impossible!”
“No, actually, it isn’t,” replied Ryan. A crooked grin made a crooked line across his slightly freckled face and gave it a boyish glow. “Read the brief in its entirety. Then you’ll understand.”
He was almost to the door when he remembered.
“By the way, you better cancel anything you had planned for this weekend. We’ll need at least that much time to get ready.”
“Get ready? Why, when are we supposed to...?”
“This will be considered an emergency proceeding. The Court will set a hearing for Monday morning.”
“Monday morning? This is Thursday.”
“And our brief is already written,” said Ryan, amused at the look of panic in Hart’s eyes. “Think how much work the bastards on the other side have in front of them!”
It was nearly seven thirty when Ryan left. Hart slipped into David Allen’s office and told him what had happened.
“I can’t leave, I can’t go back to California now.”
“There is nothing to do there anyway. No one is campaigning. No one quite knows what to do. They’re all just waiting.”
Hart tucked the brief under his arm. He looked around Allen’s cluttered office, at the files full of legislation, proposed, considered, sent to committee, considered some more, dropped; then picked up again, rewritten, amended, changed into something completely different that what was first intended; and then, finally, passed, become a law - or not passed and become a cause. It was messy, wasteful, hugely inefficient; and still the only thing that worked, the endless battle in which someone won and someone lost and then, armed only with the written and the spoken word, fought some more.
Allen knew what he was thinking. He gestured toward the brief that Hart was taking with him to read through that night.
“You think Ryan can do it?”
“I never practiced law, but I’ve met a lot of lawyers. Ryan is better than all of them put together. But can he do this? - convince a court like this one that.... I don’t know. Maybe. Unless someone on the Court is involved in....”
“Rubicon?”
They exchanged a glance. Hart turned to go and then, quickly, turned back.
“Have we heard anything from the lieutenant? Has he called?”
“No, nothing, not a word. Why? Were you expecting to hear something about...?”
Hart shook his head. There was a look of discouragement in his eyes.
“I just keep hoping that something breaks. I don’t mind that everyone thinks I was crazy. What I mind is that these people - Harrison, Lattimore, the vice-president, and all the rest, whoever they are, however high this thing goes - seem to have gotten away with it.”
“They’ll make a mistake,” said Allen as Hart opened the door. “People like that always do.”
Hart was not so sure. Not every murder was solved, not every murderer was caught and locked up in prison. And now, except for Leonard Coleman, no one was even looking. No one was interested in who murdered Dieter Shoenfeld, or who might have killed Raymond Caulfield; no one cared that Henry Lattimore was still on the loose or that H.L. Harrison had disappeared. The country had been attacked, and there might still be other terrorists out there, part of the same network, the same cell, planning another, even more lethal, assault. This was war, not a time for conspiracy theories.
Outside the Russell Senate Office Building, the only vehicles in the street belonged to the army. Every corner was now a checkpoint, no one allowed to pass without proper authorization. Public buildings were no longer open to the public.
The night air was cool and crisp. Hart decided to walk a while. He wanted some exercise and a chance to clear his mind. It was only after he had gone a couple of blocks that he realized that there was no one else around. This time of evening, especially when Congress was in session, the streets were usually full of people who worked on the Hill, some of them going home, finished for the day, others taking a break for dinner before they went back to something they had to have ready the next morning. It was as if the whole town was in hiding, afraid to go anywhere that was not protected by armed security. He turned at the next corner and found himself staring down the wrong end of a rifle.
“Identification!” demanded a young soldier.
“And if I don’t have any, what are you going to do, shoot me?” In the shaded light of a street lamp, Hart could see that the question had not registered. “Are you going to shoot me?” he repeated with careless indifference. “If I left my office - just decided to go for a walk - and did not remember to bring my wallet, is that what you’re ordered to do - shoot me dead?”
The private was becoming nervous. He held the rifle in a stiff, awkward position.
“Identification!” His voice was thin, hollow, and forced.
The rifle in Hart’s face seemed the culmination of every terrible, violent thing that had happened. He did not think about what he was doing; it was all instinct, reaction, an eager belligerence that put aside any thought of his own safety.
“Answer my question, soldier! I don’t have the right piece of paper, you’re going to shoot me? You don’t know who I am, you don’t know anything I’ve done except to walk down the street, and you’re going to shoot me?”
