“So I made myself indispensable to him, his dark-side secretary. I was going with it long enough to learn the game, get away from him on my terms.”
Ali laid the strips across the cut, tugging them to seal it closed.
“I know escorts who work the bar at the Hay-Adams, and I know the society ladies in Georgetown in their Chanel jackets. The difference is a divorce and a degree, going to the right schools, knowing the right people. That’s what I wanted, to be on the inside, to have my own piece of it. I thought I was learning about how power worked. I guess I did. I had no idea how fucked up it would get. I’m sorry. For whatever happened to Emma. For what I did to you.”
“You’re on the right side of this now.”
“I better be,” she said as she took out a bandage. “They’re going to try to get rid of everyone who knows the truth about them.”
Nick tapped the device she’d plugged into Sam MacDonough’s phone. “So you’re only helping me because you think this is going to work?”
“I don’t even know if it will. But I think you’re going to stop them one way or another. You got away from Widener’s house. I saw you in that room with Sam. You were so close. I know what you’re capable of.”
“You just switched teams, then, looking for a better killer, looking out for yourself?”
She snugged the bandage down over the cut. The pressure brought a stab of pain. “What else would I do?”
Car tires ground up the gravel road. Ali watched over her shoulder.
Nick got out, looking for someone coming, but only heard the low whine of an electric vehicle, out of sight, getting quieter. Delia came walking up the hill, her bag over her shoulders. She’d taken a Lyft to get here—her car was still back at the house where Jeff had ambushed Nick—and had it drop her just out of sight.
Nick met her on the path. She hugged him close.
“Did you get him?” Delia asked.
Nick handed her the device. “We got him.”
She swung her pack off her shoulder. “Let’s get to work.”
68
Behind a locked door, unmarked and unremarkable, on the third floor of the Capitol, Sam MacDonough collapsed into a Windsor chair, a glass of bourbon, neat, in his hand. He took a long sip. In the daylight it seemed to burn particularly bright on his palate, but as he choked it back, he could still smell the gun oil, still see down the barrel of Nick Averose’s pistol.
His foot shivered against the ground like the needle of a sewing machine. He forced it to be still.
He looked around at the mahogany built-ins, the marble fireplace, the views straight down the Mall to the Lincoln Memorial. That fireplace was where, according to legend, the British had lit their torches before they burned this whole mosquito-infested town to the ground.
This was Sam’s hideaway, a second office given to senators, known only to them and a few select staffers, where they could disappear to work or hold confidential meetings while staying close enough to the floor for votes.
This was the same place where he’d met with Malcolm Widener, where he first understood that the truth of that night was coming for him.
He looked into the empty fireplace. His dog rested beside him. He ran his hand over the sleek muscle of its back but found no comfort.
Afraid. He was afraid. Of Nick Averose. Of David Blakely. What did David really have on him? There had to be a way out.
Sam knew how the game worked. It had served him well. You look out for your donors. They look out for you. Someone had shown him the numbers once. For every dollar a company spends lobbying, they make an additional two hundred. David and the other moneymen had made hundreds of millions off his back, and in exchange they’d paved the way for his rise. He was a bagman with pomp. All of it was lawful as long as they avoided the quid pro quo. Everything was unspoken. Everything was perfectly clear.
The scandal wasn’t the corruption but how much of it was legal. That was the real business of the Capitol, finding enough money to get reelected, spending 90 percent of your days dialing for dollars from corporations, donors, and interest groups and then voting accordingly.
The Capitol, this massive edifice of steel and stone around him, was for sale. He knew because he had put up the sign, but that didn’t make it any less bitter. All of the pageantry—the bald eagles and wigged statues and Columbia holding aloft her flags—was a cover story for the oldest grift, turning wealth into coercion and calling it by the best names: divine right, mandate of heaven, social contract, whatever.
He stood, walked toward the window, and looked out through the Corinthian columns. He saw David Blakely’s building, a shining block of glass, and the cranes beyond. There was so much money flowing through this city now. Once you at least had to pretend it wasn’t all about cash, but now everything was so blatant. People ran for Congress as a stepping-stone to a job lobbying or contracting, selling influence, the real wealth, the real sway.
He would need one billion dollars to win the White House. That was what a campaign cost. Next to that a few lives were a rounding error, his soul some loose change.
But he wasn’t going through all this to end up as another man’s servant. He and David looked out for each other. That’s what he told himself, but now, with everything coming into the open, he had to face it. David was in control because of what he had seen that night twenty-five years ago, because of the secret he held.
Blakely was always in the right place, always showing up uninvited. His old friend, he thought, curled his lip, and took another swallow of bourbon.
No. He couldn’t stand the kid back then. He was always trying too hard at school with his flashy clothes, dressing up like some Ralph Lauren ad, paying for everything, a pretender buying his way into Sam’s world. His father had been a serious player in New York and New Jersey construction, got rich by steering state government contracts to his companies, and he’d sent his son down to DC to work his way into the heart of Washington. He figured he could level up and get in on the federal action. David’s whole life was a long con, a play for access, and it had worked beautifully.
He was an operator, and Sam had watched him transform, leaving behind that hungry kid from New Jersey. David was always looking for the right hand to shake, the right chance to get leverage. He’d seemed to trail Sam his whole life, prep school, then college. Sam had no idea how David had ended up outside that room on the Fourth of July.
But David had found his moment. Sam had sold him his soul over a dead girl’s body and had been trying to buy it back ever since.
He put his hand to the worn stone of the window frame and looked toward the White House.
He was so close. He’d done unthinkable things to keep the past in the past, to get here, to this day. And that was what made his stomach turn. He would have everything, and he’d still be under David Blakely’s thumb.
He laughed, long and loud, the sound echoing around the empty hideaway. It felt good, broke through the dread.
The dog cowered.
How had he let himself get so twisted up about this? He was the fucking candidate. That was going to be his house. He was in charge. There was a way to get back control.
He took a breath and drained his glass. “Sorry, David. This is my show.”
He lifted his phone. It was time they had a talk. David answered on the third ring. Sam told him he wanted to meet him in the quiet place where this had all begun.
69
Nick drove along the Anacostia Freeway, weaving through traffic, while Delia worked on a laptop in the passenger seat. A map was open on the screen, tracking MacDonough’s position. Her bug had worked.
“I’m up on his audio now,” she said. “If anyone calls, we can listen.”
“Did you get anything else?” Ali asked.
“Just the location data. I’ll start pulling down his texts and emails.”
“They were careful about writing anything—”
“Hang on,” Delia said to Ali, and narrowed her e
yes to focus. “He’s talking to someone.”
She pressed a button on the laptop. A voice came over the speakers. “I’ve got this, Sam.”
“No, you don’t. Nick Averose had a fucking gun in my face.”
“I’ll meet you there. I can get you someplace where we’ll both be safe until this is over. We’ll get through it. He’ll be under control.”
“How exactly does that work?”
“I’ll tell you in person. But this is going to end tonight.”
The call finished, leaving only dead air coming from Delia’s speakers, like the soft rush of a stream.
“That was David Blakely,” Ali said. “But that’s not enough. They didn’t say anything.”
“Can you hijack his mic or his camera?” Nick asked.
“Not with that phone,” Delia said.
Nick turned to Ali. “Will there be anything in his texts or emails we can use?”
“Maybe, but I doubt it,” Ali said.
“Where is Sam now?” Nick asked.
“The Capitol,” Delia said. “But he’s moving. He must be headed out. What do you want to do?”
“Sam and David will be together. We’ll know where. We can get to them.”
“What does that mean?” Delia asked.
“I can stop them,” Nick said.
“How does that work?” she asked while Nick checked the mirror. “You just, what, kill them?”
Nick pushed the gas down and passed the car ahead. “It’s protection. They’re not going to stop until they’ve gotten rid of everyone who knows what they’ve done.”
Delia looked from him to Ali, who just nodded her head. “He’s right.”
“We’re inside,” Delia said. “We can find something.”
He clenched his jaw. He was tired of questions, of waiting, of putting all his faith in the truth like it was some old idol. There were other ways to stop them. Nick knew how.
“That’s not you, Nick,” Delia said.
It hadn’t been. But a lot had changed in the last two days.
“They’ll slip,” Delia said. “They’ll give us something. We can do it the right way.”
There wasn’t enough time. Nick couldn’t stop thinking about David Blakely’s calm reassurances over the phone, about one word: “tonight.”
“Tonight?” Nick said. “How could he end this tonight?”
“I don’t know,” Delia replied.
“If they got enough leverage on me?”
“Oh, god.” Delia saw it too. “Karen.”
There was one way they could get control of Nick—if they had something Nick loved, someone Nick would trade anything for, even his life.
The car jumped forward as he pressed down the accelerator and forced his way into the left lane. He was going home.
Nick’s phone rang in his pocket. He answered it.
“Nick.” It was Karen, her voice strained. “Where are you?”
70
“I’m driving,” Nick said. “By the Anacostia. Are you okay?”
“I think so . . . I don’t know, Nick,” she said, her voice thoughtful.
“Are you safe?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“Did you see anyone outside? Is anyone watching the house?”
“I haven’t noticed anything.”
“You need to go. It’s not safe there.”
“Why not? What’s happening?”
“They could be coming for you. I’ll meet you somewhere.”
“Nick, please. Just go to the police. I can meet you there.”
“Karen, I know how this sounds, but I can’t trust the police. I can’t trust anyone. Did you get my message?”
“There was no message. I didn’t even see you called. Let’s just get together and talk, okay? What about—”
“Karen, no.” He realized that if Jeff and the people he worked for were able to intercept calls and delete messages, they could listen in as well.
“What?” she asked.
“Don’t say where. They might be listening. Stay away from Jeff Turner. Don’t believe a word he says. You need a new phone. This isn’t secure.”
“Who’s listening, Nick?” Her voice sounded desperate now, a whisper. “You’re scaring me with this.”
The traffic slowed, and Nick cut over into the right lane.
“I’ll meet you. I’ll explain everything. Is there a place that only you and I would know? Is there a way to tell me so anyone listening wouldn’t be able to find it?”
Silence.
“Karen?”
“Sancerre,” she said.
Nick thought for a moment, back to when they first started dating.
“Do you remember where that was?” she asked.
“Of course. I’m on my way.”
Silence.
“Karen? Karen!”
“I’ll be there,” she said.
The line went dead.
71
Sam MacDonough powered up the hill through the exposed roots and drifting leaves. He put his hand to the rough bark of a beech tree for balance and saw the low concrete platform beside the stream. David Blakely stood at the edge, his back to him.
David didn’t seem to notice Sam’s arrival. Then he turned and raised his hand.
“I don’t remember this being that steep,” MacDonough said as he approached him, though he was barely breathing hard.
“It was. We just got old.”
Sam climbed onto the platform. “God. It hasn’t really changed. I should have picked up a bottle of J&B. Remember that?”
“What swill,” David said.
“We didn’t have much choice.”
“People’s dads must have had some better liquor.”
“We didn’t know what was what.”
David moved closer, tilted his head slightly as he looked into Sam’s eyes.
“Are you okay? I’m sorry my guys didn’t get in there earlier.”
“I’m fine.”
He walked to the edge of the platform. This was where he and a group of friends from St. Albans would come after practice, to hang out and drink stolen scotch. A few would smoke weed they bought near the canal when Georgetown used to be seedy, the last traces of its life as a port town. The others would always let the joint pass them by—booze was fine, but no drugs. They were fourteen and fifteen years old and already thinking about security clearances and future campaigns.
They would walk down here from their school on top of Mount Saint Alban. There the National Cathedral towered over the whole city, and the Bishop’s Garden, designed by Frederick Law Olmsted, stood perfectly arranged at the center of the elite precincts of upper Georgetown.
Sam remembered when Malcolm Widener came to him while they were stretching before lacrosse and told him that there was a construction crew getting ready to pour concrete near the hangout, which meant they could leave their mark on this place forever. It was a refuge from the McLean backyards with their putting greens and fieldstone fences and fathers looming over. Those boys would inherit the city one day, if they survived the papered-over family strife and impossible weight of expectations.
Sam brushed away some leaves with his toe.
“Is it still there?” David asked.
Sam nodded as he looked at the names scrawled in the concrete. There was Ambler’s. And his own. And there, at the bottom: Malcolm.
Sam crouched down and touched the letters, tinted red with the last sunlight. He remembered the boy, all sinew back then, dragging his finger through the wet concrete. He thought of the words he had spoken to David about Malcolm Widener: “I need you to handle this.”
With that vague phrase, Sam had ordered his death. The memory filled him with nausea, but he pushed it away. He’d gotten very good at that.
And there was David: DB. Sam didn’t remember ever inviting him down here, but somehow he’d always shown up. Now he was part of Sam’s life fore
ver, set in concrete.
“Are you all right?” David asked.
Sam nodded and rose, stayed calm even as David’s gaze lingered on his face. There was dampness along Sam’s neck and back, the sweat going cold now, but Sam put that mask up, hid the fear.
“This has all gone too far,” Sam said. David’s stare unsettled him, but he moved closer. “You should never have gotten rid of Malcolm Widener.”
David remained still, except for a slight narrowing of the eyes. Sam waited, felt a quiver working into his calf.
David raised one corner of his mouth and looked up slightly.
“But don’t you remember, Sam? You, Sam MacDonough, killed Malcolm Widener two nights ago.”
Sam stepped back, raising his hand. “No, no.” He was at the edge of the platform, but David kept coming. Blakely brought his face close to Sam’s and then looked down.
“Can you hear me, Major Tom?” he whispered, and then sang it in a strange tenor. “Can you hear me, Major Tom?”
He crossed his arms and scanned the woods in every direction.
“I guess no one’s coming, then,” he said, and held out his hand. Sam angled his hip back a quarter inch. The motion was barely noticeable, but David slipped his hand into Sam’s jacket pocket. He came out with a small digital recorder with a red light glowing at the top.
David turned off the device, then examined it.
“Come on, Sam,” he said, the words like a razor over ice.
Sam started moving to the side, scanning the trees, looking for one of David’s killers, but David grabbed his arm before he could get away.
72
“Sam, you’re fine,” David said. “It’s not like that. No one is coming. There’s no one else here.” He let his arm go. “You think I’m going to hurt you? After everything we’ve done?”
Sam kept his weight on the balls of his feet. He wiped his hands together, trying to dry off the sweat.
Hour of the Assassin Page 17
