Beck figured it was time to put all his cards on the table.
“I’ve got a bomb!” he shouted, using his gun hand to open the raincoat and his jacket as best he could.
Now everyone could see the vest with its wires and plastic explosives.
Again, the agents did not move back. But Beck could see their faces grow even more tense.
“You shoot me, and the bomb goes off!” he shouted.
This was not precisely true, of course, unless the bullet hit the explosives. He had no control over the bomb. He wondered why it hadn’t been detonated already. Howard’s voice had stopped yammering in his ear a few moments earlier, and he didn’t miss it.
Beck knew that this bought him just a little time. Eventually, someone was going to take a shot.
That would kill everyone in the room. Beck decided to remind the agents of that fact. “If anyone takes a shot, this bomb will explode!” he shouted. “Put away your guns or I’ll detonate!”
Now he had some leverage. He could see it in their eyes.
At first, Lucas had told Beck, you have to agree to everything. Never say no. We do whatever the wackjob wants until we can get control of the situation. A plane to Cuba? No problem. Luxury box at the Redskins game? You got it. Pizza with anchovies? It’s on its way. Whatever you want.
So Beck was not surprised—relieved, but not surprised—as one by one, the laser-sights dotting his chest winked off, and the armed men and women surrounding agreed with his wish and put away their guns.
Senator Pierce, however, was shocked. And not at all happy about it.
“What are you doing, you idiots?” she shrieked. “Shoot him!”
“They can’t risk it,” Beck said to her, over his shoulder. “A stray bullet might trigger the bomb. Wouldn’t look good on the news if they accidentally blew up a presidential candidate because of an itchy trigger finger.”
Pierce didn’t say anything. Good. At least she’d be quiet for a while.
Then Beck noticed something. He got a weird sense of seeing a mirror in the corner of his eye. He looked up at the big TV screens again, and there he was. Holding a gun on the senator with a bomb strapped to his chest. Bruised and hollow-eyed. He looked very much like the stereotypical lone gunman. For a brief, idiotic moment, he noticed his hair looked terrible.
The footage was going out live over the networks.
He scanned the room and saw that one of the TV news crews covering the debate had not fled with all the other people in the lobby. They’d stuck around to get the story of the year.
The Secret Service noticed at just about the same time. “Get those people out of here,” one of the agents snarled.
That wouldn’t help Beck at all. He needed as many witnesses as possible.
“Wait!” he shouted. “I want them to stay!”
The more people watching, the less likely it was that he’d be shot. He knew Morrison and Howard and Pierce—and whoever else Damocles had here—wanted him dead. But they’d think twice before executing him live on TV.
The agents hesitated. They seemed to be trying to judge how serious Beck was. He decided to amp up the crazy for a moment.
“I mean it!” he yelled. “They can transmit my demands to the American people! I want the truth to come out! Or I pull the trigger!” He shoved his handcuffed hand in his pocket and came out with the useless plastic trigger, still connected to the vest via several wires.
“No way!” shouted one of the Damocles personnel. But two of the Secret Service agents—a man and a woman—exchanged a glance. Beck realized they must be the senior agents on the scene. They were the ones really in charge.
So he held the trigger up as high as its tether would allow, as close to Pierce’s head as possible. “You’ve got five seconds to decide!”
Again, he was following Lucas’s advice. We always try to slow things down whenever possible, Lucas had told Beck. Drag it out. Suck the momentum out of the room. If they start pushing us to do things quickly, make snap decisions, we’ve lost control.
The Secret Service agents nodded. “All right,” the woman said. “They can stay. Now just tell us what you want. Nobody else has to get hurt. What do you want?”
Good question. Beck wanted to get this bomb off him. He wanted a cure for cancer. World peace. Maybe a pony.