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C APITOL H ILL

B ill Blackwood was the epitome of aging gracefully. When his jet-black hair went white, he didn’t fight it, he embraced it. He traded the vanity of contact lenses for glasses with heavy, accetate frames, which drew even more attention to the white of his hair.

Tall and distinguished, he was an impeccable dresser and had often been referred to as the Cary Grant of the United States Senate.

Like the Hollywood icon, Blackwood was not only possessed of humble origins and a deeply cleft chin, but the sixty-five-year-old senior senator from Missouri had been married and divorced four times and was currently on his fifth wife, Katherine, who spent most of her time back in St. Louis—something many D.C.

insiders whispered might actually help this marriage work.

Having survived decades in Washington, Blackwood’s greatest talent was his ability to sense which way the winds were blowing and to shift accordingly. His ability to function as a political weathervane was without equal. Which had made his treatment by President Mitchell so shocking.

Blackwood had picked up on the rising, pro-Mitchell tide before anyone else and had been the first United States senator to endorse him. He had campaigned tirelessly for Mitchell, warming up rally crowds from coast to coast and becoming a fierce pro-Mitchell surrogate on TV.

Every Sunday, he could be found doing a “Full Ginsburg” for Mitchell—an unofficial term named after Monica Lewinsky’s lawyer for someone who makes the rounds on all five major Sunday talk shows in a single day.

Blackwood had pulled out all the stops for Mitchell, but he hadn’t done it out of the goodness of his heart. He had done it because he wanted something in return—a seat at the table.

Having held senior positions on the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, and the Senate Appropriations Committee, Blackwood fully expected to be appointed secretary of state.

That appointment, however, never came. Mitchell offered it to someone else—someone who had committed far less time, energy, and personal capital to getting him elected.

In the days after the general election, Blackwood worked the phones, sent emails, and dispatched emissaries to lobby on his behalf. Surely there had to be a position in the new administration worthy of his stature.

But as cabinet positions and plum ambassadorships continued to be doled out to others and his name faded in the press, the truth began to dawn. Mitchell had used him.

Soon enough, Blackwood’s disbelief shifted to anger, but he kept it in check, because in addition to being a D.C.

weathervane, there was another talent that had served the senior senator from Missouri well—knowing how, and when, to get even.

Nobody was better at shivving a political opponent than Bill Blackwood.

The key was knowing when to take your shot. As the saying went, if you come for the king, you’d best not miss. Blackwood had no intention of missing.

Just behind the Supreme Court, at the corner of East Capitol Street and Third, Blackwood turned left and walked halfway up the leafy block.

At a gray town house he swung open a small wrought-iron gate and followed a flagstone path to a short set of steps leading down to a door for the garden apartment.

Taking out his AirPods and returning them to their case, he pressed the specially modified doorbell, which would trigger a light to come on at the front desk.

When the lock released with a distinct click , he pushed the door open and stepped inside. The rush of cool air-conditioning felt good against his skin.

The receptionist pointed to the ON AIR sign and placed her index finger against her pursed lips. Blackwood nodded and closed the door gently behind him.

Through the large panes of glass that surrounded the broadcast booth, the man he had come to meet was wrapping up his show.

With a blazing American flag of red, white, and blue neon lit up behind him, radio host and podcaster Chuck Coughlin leaned into his microphone. He was a sweaty, overweight, middle-aged man with highlights in his receding hair.

Via overhead speakers in the reception area, Blackwood could hear everything.

“Let me make this perfectly clear for you,” Coughlin said as he stared directly into the camera and paused for dramatic effect.

“We were told that James Mitchell would be the man to stand up to the system. We were promised that he’d give us the revolution we’ve all been waiting for.

The only thing we had to do was vote for him.

Once he won the election, things were going to change.

“Well, since he’s been in the White House, something has definitely changed—and that something is James Mitchell.

He’s gone soft, folks. He campaigned on fighting corruption and standing up for the people.

And what do we have now? An attack, on Mitchell’s very own supporters, right outside the Vice President’s Residence.

“And let me ask you something. Where was the Secret Service while all this was happening? Where was the Secret Service while decent, hardworking Americans were being gunned down right outside the gates?

“If you listen to Mitchell’s secretary of propaganda—excuse me, I mean press secretary , the Secret Service was following its mission. It was protecting the Vice President’s family and his residence.

“But let me ask you something. They couldn’t spare a single agent? In the worst attack on American soil we’ve seen in God knows how long, they couldn’t have rolled one of their armored vehicles onto the street and taken the attackers out?

“It makes you wonder. What was Mitchell doing while all of this was unfolding? I’ll tell you what he was doing. He was cowering in the White House, worried that the attackers were coming for him next.

“All of us were told that Mitchell had steel in his spine. That when the moment came and America was tested, he would rise and meet that test. Well, I’m here to tell you, ladies and gentlemen, he failed.

And because of that failure, Americans are dead.

Our fellow countrymen and women, who were peacefully redressing their grievances and practicing their First Amendment rights, were slaughtered—all because President James Mitchell didn’t have the courage to act when his supporters, when his fellow American citizens, needed him.

“I don’t know what more I can say. It is a dark, dark day for our country.

We’re rudderless morally and we’re leaderless politically.

America needs a miracle, but miracles seem to be in short supply these days.

It’s going to take action. Action from all of us.

I just hope we have the willpower, the patriotic fortitude, to do what needs to be done.

“And that’s going to do it for us today, folks. Another three hours of Bunker Radio in the can. I’ll see you right back here tomorrow. Until then, remember—when you’re under attack, Chuck Coughlin has your back. And we are all, definitely , under attack. Stay safe, America.”

He kept his gaze steady, focused right into the lens until his producer stated, “And we’re clear. Great job, CC.”

When the red light on the camera went off, Coughlin pointed at the small blender on his desk filled with green juice and growled, “Get that crap the hell out of here. Just the smell of it makes me want to puke.”

The producer walked into the booth, stuck his nose over the top of the blender and took a whiff. “Doesn’t smell too bad to me. In fact, you know what I think it smells like?”

“No matter how I answer that, you’re still going to tell me, aren’t you?” replied the host as he gathered up the papers on his desk.

“It smells like money.”

“And it tastes like dog shit. I don’t know how I let you talk me into actually drinking that stuff on camera.”

“Because by drinking it on-air, the company agreed to pay us even more. It’s good for our bottom line.”

Coughlin was about to push back when he noticed Blackwood out in the lobby.

“How long has the senator been here?” he asked.

The producer glanced over his shoulder. “Just arrived. Should I send him in?”

“I’ve got to take a piss. You can put him in my office.”

“You got it, CC.”

The producer showed Blackwood to the rear of the basement space where Coughlin’s office was.

Despite air fresheners plugged into almost every outlet, the place smelled dank and musty with a strong top layer of cigar smoke. Blackwood never could figure out what the appeal for Coughlin was other than being able to live right upstairs.

The producer offered to bring Blackwood a water, and told him to make himself comfortable.

Driven by his love of political scandals and conspiracy theories, Coughlin easily had one of the wildest and most unique offices in D.C. Grabbing a seat, Blackwood sat down and took it all in.

There were reel-to-reel Watergate-era tapes allegedly from Nixon’s tape recorder, along with a vintage press pass from the time.

Near a collection of rebel memorabilia from the Iran-Contra scandal was a framed copy of the 1964 Warren Commission Report.

A shadow box showcased a 2000 voting ballot, complete with a “hanging chad.” Personal items supposedly belonging to Marilyn Monroe sat side by side with intelligence reports from the failed 1961 Bay of Pigs invasion.

Objects supposedly connected to the assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert F.

Kennedy Sr. were juxtaposed with pieces of “alien metal” allegedly taken from Area 51.

Magazine covers and newspaper articles covered every inch of wall space, while political posters covered the ceiling.

Chuck Coughlin was an eccentric piece of work. He was also an incredibly skilled propagandist. Using him to foment Mitchell’s base had been an inspired choice. He not only understood them, he was one of them himself. Or at least he had been. Until Mitchell “went soft.”

“Senator Blackwood,” said Coughlin as he entered the office and walked over to shake his guest’s hand. “It’s always good to see you.”

“You too, Chuck. Congrats on a real barnburner of a show today. You hit Mitchell hard, dead center.”

“That was the plan, right?”

“Correct,” Blackwood replied. “It was also the plan to talk up the Vice President.”

“Then Vice President Cates is going to have to do more than walk out of his house and leave flowers at the site. What kind of a split screen is that? Mitchell is at the hospital, visiting the survivors, and Cates is standing at a fence surrounded by crime-scene tape. Which one looks more like a leader to you?”

Blackwood couldn’t argue. “You’re probably right.”

“I’m definitely right,” replied Coughlin. “Mitchell’s PR people are good. They know what they’re doing. Cates and his team need to be better.”

“What should he do?”

“He needs to get out ahead of Mitchell. He needs to show that he’s not only a capable leader, but a better leader.”

“Okay,” said Blackwood, “but in what world does Mitchell allow his vice president to upstage and outshine him?”

“Politics,” said Coughlin, “like anything else in life, is all about timing.”

“Meaning?”

“ Meaning the next time something breaks, make sure Vice President Cates just so happens to be standing in front of a mountain of microphones. That’ll be his moment. Whether he pulls the sword from the stone or not is up to him. But if he does, we’ll be able to send his polling through the roof.”

Once again, Blackwood couldn’t argue. He knew the man was right.

He also knew that the perfect opportunity, the next big breaking-news event, was just around the corner.

The only question was whether his coconspirators would agree.