“Sir, please step out of the vehicle,” one of the Secret Service agents said. Both agents were intensely clean-cut and looked like they might have been scholarship athletes in college, and both wore blue rubber gloves. While the canine guy kept an eye on Collier, Wilmot was thoroughly frisked. Collier came next. There were no we’re-just-doing-our-job pleasantries, no banter or discussions of the weather. The Secret Service didn’t believe in that shit.
Wilmot appreciated the kind of commitment they displayed. Their job was to protect the president and Congress, not to make you feel good. Wilmot felt like he was floating above himself, looking down. He made no attempt to control his emotions.
Notwithstanding the fact that he appreciated the professionalism of the agents, they pissed him off. He didn’t like being searched, didn’t like being told what to do. And he saw no reason to pretend he did. You didn’t want to arouse suspicions, but you didn’t want to come off like you were pretending either.
Once the frisking was done, the K9 guy asked Collier to open the rear of the truck. Wilmot felt a pleasurable pressure in his temples. Now they’d see whether Collier was as smart as he said he was. He claimed that the cleaning process he’d used on the “refrigerant” tanks would make it entirely impossible for the dogs to smell the cyanide.
“Bring out whatever tool you’ll need,” the dog handler said.
Collier rolled the steel tool caddy to the rear of the van, and then together he and Wilmot lowered it to the pavement. Wilmot noticed that Collier’s fingers were shaking a little. There was nothing that could be done about that. Collier was who he was.
“You’re planning on taking that whole thing?” the dog handler said.
“Yep,” Wilmot said.
The dog handler looked at the senior agent, who shook his head. “Then we’ve got a problem. Pressurized tanks aren’t permitted.”
Collier swallowed, face stiffening. Wilmot knew he needed to talk before Collier got all twitchy and said something stupid. What the Secret Service agents would be looking for right now was fear.
So Wilmot knew that he had to display a complete lack of fear.
“We’ve been asked to fix the heat,” Wilmot said in a conversational tone, his eye1; s. s pinned on the Secret Service agent’s face. “See that? In them two tanks there? That’s R410A refrigerant. The HVAC unit at the Capitol is a combo heat exchanger and gas unit. What happens when the two-point-three-point-one controller software update has not been properly downloaded by the bureaucrats in the logistics office is the refrigerant overflow lines do an emergency bleed, the whole system loses priming, and you can’t restart the system until they’re reprimed.” He gave the agent a broad smile. “How that’s done, is you put fresh R410A in the fucking bleed lines. Now unless you plan to be the guy handing the earmuffs and the mittens to the president of the United States this evening, then I suggest you get on the phone to somebody capable of making a reasoned decision and get this sorted out, how we’re gonna bring this stuff over to the Capitol. ’Cause I could give a shit. My grandson’s got a wrestling match at his high school tonight, and I’d much rather be watching a bunch of sweaty teenage boys roll around on the floor than babysitting an HVAC unit. Which gives you a sense just how high my enthusiasm is riding for this job at this point in time. Sir.”
The agent’s face flushed and his jaw clenched. But Wilmot knew this kind of guy. You had to back his ass into a corner where he couldn’t maneuver. Then he’d be sweet as milk. The agent exchanged glances with the dog handler and then spoke quietly into the microphone in his sleeve.
When he was done whispering into his sleeve, he turned to the K9 handler and said, “Get the dog all over that cart. Then I will personally escort this gentleman to the X-ray machine at Bravo Checkpoint.”
Wilmot was tempted to prod the guy with an I-told-you-so remark. But he knew that now was not the time. It was a delicate thing riding herd on a guy like this. You overplayed your hand, he’d go out of his way to wreck your day. But if you didn’t stand up to him, they’d spend all day making phone calls to get clearance for the tanks.
Wilmot simply folded his hands over his chest and looked impassively into the distance while the dog sniffed at virtually every item on the cart.
Finally it was over.
“Gentlemen, come with me,” the agent said.
“Get the cart, John,” Wilmot said. Collier needed something to keep him busy right now or he was liable to pass out or throw up or do something stupid. “Come on, John, chop-chop.”
Collier scrambled to get the cart in motion, pushing it toward a doorway on the far side of the parking lot indicated by the Secret Service agent.
“I will now be taking you to the credentialing checkpoint,” the agent said. “You will be entering a highly secure perimeter. You will be issued access badges that you will need to carry with you at all times. Each and every room in the Capitol is designated as a separate zone. Your authorization will be time limited and zone specific. If you overstay your pass or attempt to enter a zone for which you are not credentialed, you will be subject to immediate arrest and imprisonment. Clear?”
“Absolutely,” Wilmot said.
They passed through a doorway into a dim concrete passageway. One of the front wheels on the cart was improperly adjusted and the cart vibrated loudly. Wilmot knew that he had done about as much as he could do to keep the agenial
“You look like shit, kid,” he said. “You eat something bad this morning or something?”
Collier made a grimacing attempt at a smile. “I don’t know . . . I—maybe I did. I feel a little under the weather.”
“Son, we got a job to do, so get out your Vagisil and get your shit squared away.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wilmot had come to a realization early in life that you were always playing a role. If you wanted to be successful, though, you had to play a role that was close to your own character. Right now he was playing a role he knew well. He was pretending to be his own father. His old man had been a paratrooper in World War II, and when he wasn’t drunk, he was one seriously tough son of a bitch. It was a role, Wilmot knew, that sucked the air out of a room, that kept attention focused on one person. And right now they couldn’t afford for even half a shred of attention to be paid to Collier. The kid was a genius, but he’d blow away in a stiff puff of wind.
Wilmot clapped his hand on the Secret Service agent’s shoulder. “Didn’t mean to be hard on you, son. But I’m here to do a job. Just like you. The reason they send me to do stuff like this is because they know the job gets done when Wilmot shows up.”
The Secret Service agent walked them through a second door into a large room. “The credentialing station is right there.”
Wilmot surveyed the room. Everything was set up the way their intel had indicated that it would be. An X-ray machine and a metal detector, both of them similar to the ones used in airports, stood between two steel traffic barriers. On each side of the barrier stood an agent in tactical garb, each one holding an FN P90 on a tactical sling. Between them stood a Capitol police officer operating the X-ray machine.
The agent turned to the officer at the X-ray machine and said, “I know it’s against regs to bring in pressurized canisters once final sweeps have been made, but I spoke to my supervisor, so you’ll need to take this up with her.”
The officer, a tall black woman, shook her head. “I am not admitting compressed gases through my checkpoint. You can forget that.”
The Secret Service agent said, “Hey, I’m just bringing them here. You do what you gotta do. I’m going back to my post.”
The Secret Service agent turned on his heel and walked out of the room.
Wilmot crossed his hands over his chest, looked at the police officer behind the X-ray machine, and said, “You want to be the one to explain to the president why it’s twenty-four degrees in the House chamber? Hm? You got those kind of balls, young lady?”