Sedition (A Political Conspiracy Book 1) by Tom Abrahams Page B

excitement. “The casket itself, whether wooden or metal, would be the shell of the bomb.”
    “Fantastic!” Sir Spencer was giddy. “Do you believe, Arthur, that you can rely on that friend to help you?”
    “I can make it work,” Thistlewood said confidently. “But I have a question.”
    “Go ahead.” Sir Spencer nodded.
    “Let’s assume we are successful,” Thistlewood said, leaning forward to look at each of the conspirators. “How do we change anything? The American people will hate us.”
    “Yes,” replied Sir Spencer, “but we’ll be in power. Everyone in the line of succession, save one or two, will be nearby when the bomb explodes. Whoever lives is the president.”
    “How does that help us?” Thistlewood said. “We’re just five men. None of us are in the line of succession.”
    “No.” Sir Spencer shook his head. “We are six.”
    “Six?” asked a suddenly re-engaged Ings. “Who’s the sixth?”
    “A friend who has asked that I withhold their identity,” Sir Spencer said coyly.
    “Even from us?” Davidson asked.
    “Especially from you ,” Sir Spencer shot back. “The sixth member has been with us since the beginning, but needed to remain physically disconnected until the right time.”
    “And now is the right time?” Edwards asked.
    . “Now is exactly the right time,” Sir Spencer said smugly. He straightened his back and raised his chin slightly. “The sixth Daturan is the successor not there when the bombs explode.”
     

PART TWO: THE PLOT
    “Our own Country’s Honor, all call upon us for a vigorous and manly exertion, and if we now shamefully fail, we shall become infamous to the whole world.”
    —George Washington, 1776
     

Chapter 13
    On the top floor of the Wooster & Mercer lofts, in a modern 2500-square-foot Alexandria, Virginia, condominium, Felicia Jackson couldn’t sleep. She had underestimated Blackmon’s drive and acumen. He was an unexpected roadblock.
    A weary Felicia walked up the wrought-iron staircase to the second-floor catwalk/balcony which ran the length of the space directly above the kitchen. She stopped at the top of the steps to run her hand along the exposed brick in the corner.
    She turned to her left and leaned on the balcony railing, gazing through the picture window opposite her when her cell phone rang. She looked at the caller ID. It was her Chief of Staff.
    “Yes?” she answered.
    “I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”
    The Speaker liked surrounding herself with ambitious backbiters who went beyond the pale to please her. She wanted young, energetic politicos who hoped to accumulate power and large Blackberry address books.
    Her employees were typical of the young Capitol staffing corps, but they were better at the game than most. They were intensely loyal. Felicia Jackson was their ticket and they knew it.
    “I’m fine.” She wasn’t. “I just wish I’d been more in control tonight. I was too emotional.”
    “You’re passionate about this,” he countered.
    Felicia paced at the railing along the balcony. “Tomorrow will be better. I’ll be less passionate, if that’s what it takes. Do you think we need to hit the morning shows? Should I make myself available?”
    “That’s why I’m calling. I’ve already arranged back-to-back interviews with a few of the morning shows.”
    “Network or cable?”
    “Both,” he replied. “We’re in a studio from five to nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”
    She was rethinking strategy. “Don’t we need to be in White House briefings? Shouldn’t we be available for court? Aren’t there a dozen other things I could be doing that are of more importance than spin and public perception?”
    “We’ll have a couple of staffers at the White House, and our attorneys will be in court. I think it would appear either presumptuous or desperate for you to be in the West Wing tomorrow, and showing up in court makes you seem defensive.”
    He made good points, she conceded.
    “The