Against All Enemies Read Free Page B

off government contracts, long experience with the political establishment had taught him caution. Partisan politicians were not above turning a system like the Project against their fellow Americans. Fortunately, the National Security Agency was well insulated from the politicians because of its technical nature.
    They walked into the secure office built into the side of the mountain. Durant sat down in an easy chair in front of a bank of TV monitors. An image of Jonathan Meredith sitting at a conference table in a roomful of people filled the center screen. “We ran the test at Meredith’s headquarters,” Rios explained. “We had no trouble getting past security.” He laughed. “They caught the FBI at the door. We’re satisfied with the picture but the sound needs work. Couldn’t get it all.”
    “What was the meeting about?” Durant asked.
    “It was a planning session for a rally in Sacramento on the first of May. We caught some reference about a ‘bombshell.’”
    “Stay on top of it,” Durant ordered.
    “Will do, Boss.”
    Durant arched an eyebrow. Rios only called him “Boss” when he wanted to get Durant’s attention or was very upset. “What’s the matter?” Durant asked.
    “It’s Meredith.” He spat the name.
    Durant was surprised at the emotion in the big man’s voice. Normally, Art Rios only got emotional about his wife, children, and flying. Not necessarily in that order. “You’re really worried?”
    Rios nodded. “He’s dangerous. Very dangerous. Someone’s got to stop him before he turns into a Hitler.”
    Whatever joy Durant felt was gone and the day turned sour. “That’s the President’s job,” he grumbled. “Not mine. What else is on the schedule this week?”
    “The Project is still scheduled for start-up tomorrow. You might want to be there.” Rios’s face brightened. “The weather’s clear all the way to Virginia and the Staggerwing is good-to-go.”
    Durant smiled. Rios knew how to cheer him up. “Well, if the weather’s cooperating, the day won’t be a total loss.”
    11:30 A.M. , Tuesday, April 6,
Sacramento, Calif.
     
    Hank Sutherland sat alone at the prosecutor’s table listening carefully as the famous R. Garrison Cooper ended the defense’s closing arguments. Sutherland still wore a small bandage on his forehead to remind the jury of the San Francisco bombing, but nothing in his face betrayed what was churning beneath its surface. The great Cooper, the nemesis of every district attorney, was blowing it.
    “The prosecution’s case,” Cooper bellowed, his gravelly voice betraying years of boozing, “hinges on the testimony of two low-life scumbags—” Cooper paused, waiting for Sutherland’s objection. There wasn’t one. “—who are convicted rapists of a thirteen-year-old girl.”
    Sutherland folded his hands and nodded, knowing every eye in the courtroom was on him, not Cooper. He glanced at the defense table, the rank of high-priced and famous defense attorneys who took up the left side of the courtroom, the troupe the press delighted in calling “the dream team of the century.” To a man, they all wore solemn expressions.
    The three worried defendants refused to look Sutherland’s way. The memory of his destruction of the first defendant who had taken the stand was still painful. Sutherland had pursued the first defendant so relentlessly that the dream team refused to let the other two testify. Now the three solid citizens, the pillars of their community, were crouched behind the pile of law books, documents, computer monitors, and briefcases that littered the defense table.
    Like everything else in his life, Sutherland’s table was clean and neatly arranged with only a legal pad, a pencil, and a thin folder arranged squarely in front of him as he sat alone. At first, the dream team had exuded confidence and spoke in patronizing tones when alluding to the lonely prosecutor in their statements to the media. But as the trial wore on,