F Paul Wilson - Novel 02 by Implant (v2.1) Page A

He
climbed to the top of the Capitol steps and gazed back along the green expanse
of the Mall. A mile and a half away, past the Capitol Reflecting Pool, past the
towers of the Smithsonian and the museums and galleries that lined the Mall,
the obelisk of the Washington Monument gleamed like a spearhead in the morning
sunlight and cast a narrow shaft of shadow toward the white rectangle of the
Lincoln Memorial behind it. Above them, the Delta shuttle glided toward a
landing at Washington National.
                 Flanking
the Mall to the right and left, Pennsylvania, Constitution, and Independence
avenues were thick with traffic, all heading this way.
                 And
all around him a steady stream of men and women, mostly men, dressed in suits
and carrying briefcases or attache cases, scurrying up the steps. They
obviously were not tourists, no Bermuda shorts, cameras, and "I
Washington" caps, and he knew they weren't senators or representatives or
staffers. The people who worked here, who belonged here, moved back and forth
between the Senate and House office buildings on underground shuttles. These
were lobbyists, armed with checkbooks loaded with the grease that keeps the
wheels of Congress turning.
                 The
kakistocracy was in session.
                 Duncan sighed as he watched their hurried,
purposeful climb toward the House and Senate chambers. God, there were an awful
lot of them.
                 The
Congress of the United States , he thought with a grim smile. The best
government money can buy.
                 Far
below, at the bottom of the steps, the soundman nodded as the reporter checked
his mike. Good. They were ready. All set up and waiting for U. S. representative Kenneth Allard. Duncan was waiting for him too.
                 And
then he saw him. Allard stepped out on the House side flanked by three of his
aides. Pushing sixty, medium height, and on the glabrous protuberance that
passed for his head, a thatch of dark brown hair that had once belonged to
someone else. He had a paunch but a small one.
                 It
had been much larger before Duncan had gone to work on it with the liposuction tube. What had been
protuberant and tremulose was now flattened and firm.
                 Not
a bad job, he thought as Allard started moving toward him across the open,
granite-paved expanse, even if I do say so myself.
                 But
a face only a bacteriologist could love.
                 A
good many of the arriving lobbyists smiled deferentially and waved to Allard as
they passed. He was something of a legend on the Hill, admired, almost revered,
by his colleagues in the kakistocracy for the innovative approach to campaign
financing he developed while serving on the Committee on Energy and Commerce. A
couple of campaigns ago, when Congressman Allard became aware that his
reelection coffers were down to their last million or two, and the PACs weren't
coming up with fresh money fast enough, he introduced a flurry of bills that
would have devastating impact on the coal, oil, gas, and timber industries.
                 Suddenly
the energy PACs and lumber trade associations, not to mention the associated
unions that would be hit hard by the new Allard bills, were swarming around him
with open checkbooks. He collected eight million in three months, some of which
probably paid for his surgery.
                 After
gorging himself on the pecuniary viands, he withdrew the bills from committee.
The procedure had been imitated by his colleagues many times since.
                 But
none of that had anything to do with why Duncan was here today.
                 He
watched Allard nod to a few of the passing lobbyists, but the congressman was
more interested in conferring with his aides, he looked like a quarterback
huddling with his coaches, only they were all in suits.