Capitol Conspiracy by William Bernhardt Page A

recognition, the director of Homeland Security had been former deputy director Carl Lehman. And he always seemed to be accompanied by his new deputy director, Nichole Muldoon, the only woman he’d ever known capable of giving him both a hard-on and chills simultaneously.
    He found Lehman and Muldoon leaving the ballistics range.
    “Did you see that?” Lehman said, bubbling with enthusiasm like a kid at Christmas. “Did you see how high I scored?”
    Even though the question was directed at Salter, Nichole Muldoon took it upon herself to answer. “I did. You scored quite well. Almost as well as I did.”
    He waved her away. “Ah—you have younger eyes.” He showed Salter the target he had hand-pumped two rounds into. “Sweet, huh?”
    Salter resisted the temptation to roll his eyes.
Amateurs. You pull people who haven’t had the proper training out of nowhere and suddenly make them more important than the FBI, and this is what you get. They think the ballistics range is a toy shop.
“I understand you wanted to tour the labs?”
    Lehman and Muldoon exchanged a look. “Well…”
    “The FBI crime labs were established by J. Edgar Hoover in 1932. They were the first of their kind, and they are still the best forensic laboratories in the world. What would you like to see first? The DNA lab? Hair and Fiber unit? Blood works, maybe? Luminol is always fun to play with.”
    Lehman and Muldoon did not indicate any interest.
    “Okay, there’s the spectrograph—great for paint analysis. Chemistry? Can probably find the boys doing an autopsy or boiling human organs. Serology? Explosives? Firearms and Toolmarks? Investigative Computer Training? Physical Training? Practical Applications? Forensic Science Research?”
    “To tell you the truth,” Muldoon said, stepping forward slightly, “we’d like to meet with you privately.”
    She was still flushed and sweaty from the firing rage. Salter could feel the heat radiating off her. Could it be accidental? Or did she know what effect the words “meet with you privately” would have on him, coming from her?
    “Follow me.” He escorted them into a nearby interrogation room and locked the door behind them. It was a standard room—table and two chairs, with a one-way mirror so interrogations could be observed. Salter offered Muldoon a chair but, of course, she didn’t take it.
    “Can we just cut straight to the point, Salter?” Lehman said, direct as ever, now that he’d been removed from his playthings. “I’d like to know how the Feebs feel about this bill the president has proposed.”
    “I don’t think there’s a consensus on that.”
    “But you must have some idea what people are thinking.”
    He shrugged. “Mixed bag. Some think it’s a dangerous precedent. Others think it’s the only chance we have to protect ourselves in the modern world.”
    “And what about your boss? What does he think?”
    Salter considered for a moment, but in the end, he couldn’t think of any reason not to be honest. “He’s against it.”
    “Really? Hanging Bob Banner? Worried about civil rights?”
    Salter offered a weak grin. “I think he’s more pissed off because the bill makes you the chairman of the Emergency Security Council instead of him.”
    Lehman let loose a belly laugh that could probably be heard in the next room. “I like that. At least it’s honest.”
    Muldoon arched an eyebrow. “Engaging in a little schaden-freude?”
    Lehman stared back at her with a look that suggested he thought she might’ve just said something dirty. “I just like to see Hanging Bob get his comeuppance. See who the president really trusts and who he doesn’t.”
    “The director doesn’t think it has anything to do with trust,” Salter said. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Or competence. Or talent. He thinks it has to do with the fact that you play golf with the president every other Tuesday. And that you made a big contribution to his campaign fund.”
    Lehman laughed all