He had done some preliminary research on Leffingwell, hoping to impress Mary Margaret Doyle with his initiative - just as he had done with Ramon Martinez and his bimbo, a revelation that had proved to be a thorn in the Senator's side roughly the size of a harpoon. But Leffingwell had apparently lived a virtuous life, damn him. War hero, Harvard Law grad, eight years in Congress, governor of one of the few states not running huge budget deficits caused by the recession. Married to the same woman for thirty-two years, father of three adoring, now-grown children, not one of whom had ever gotten into serious trouble. Robert Leffingwell might have stolen a candy bar from his local Rexall when he was ten, but if so, there was no evidence of it.
But now Mary Margaret Doyle had found something, it looked like. She had a genius for digging up dirt that was positively diabolical.
Greene looked at the small parcel on the seat next to him. The shape meant it didn't contain documents this time. Letters, maybe? More naughty photos, perhaps of a young Bob Leffingwell buggering a goat at a fraternity party? He decided to wait until he was home to find out. No one would ever accuse Nestor Greene of undue sensitivity, but there was something about the box that made him... uneasy. He would examine its dark treasures soon enough.
Sitting behind the desk in his study, Greene found that his little premonition had been well and truly justified. The box had contained no letters or indiscrete photos. In fact, the contents had nothing to do with Bob Leffingwell's life at all - but they might well play a role in his death.
Not political poison, after all - the witch sent the real thing.
Mary Margaret Doyle's little care package had contained four objects. Greene had them lined up on the desk in front of him, like soldiers in a firing squad.
The bottle of clear liquid was squat, with a stamped-on metal lid that had a small circle in the middle made of some semi-porous material. It was the kind of bottle you see in doctors' offices and hospitals all the time. Insert the point of a hypo through the little round membrane, and draw out the drug you were planning to inject into the patient.
Even if Greene had failed to recognize the bottle's nature, Mary Margaret Doyle had cleared up any ambiguity by including a small hypodermic needle, bubble wrap protecting its glass middle from any danger of breakage. The sharp tip gleamed wickedly under the bright light of Greene's desk lamp.
And then there was the money - a thick stack of hundred dollar bills that had added up to $50,000 every time Greene had counted it.
The fourth object was a folded square of paper that contained Mary Margaret Doyle's macabre instructions.
Three drops of the liquid in any beverage, hot or cold, will induce cardiac arrest, even in a healthy individual, within twelve hours. It is not expected that you will undertake the assignment yourself - there is enough money provided herewith to hire someone reliable. Any money left after you pay the subcontractor is yours to keep. Following the successful completion of the assignment, you will receive an additional $50,000.
It is vital that the assignment be carried out no later than 10 March. Refusal is not one of your options. Just as success will bring rewards, failure will have adverse consequences. They will be severe.
Nestor Greene read through the page twice. Then, as he sat there thinking hard, still holding the sheet of paper - it burst into flame. He dropped it onto the desk just in time to avoid scorching his fingers. Transfixed, he sat and watched as, within seconds, the paper burned to nothing - no ash, no residue of any kind. Soon the only evidence that it had ever existed was a faint odor of sulphur and a discoloration on his Danish teak desk, the size of a half-dollar, that would probably never come out.
That crazy bitch! How the fuck did she do that - and why?
The answer to 'how' continued to elude him, but after a while Greene thought he could discern several reasons behind 'why.'
The destruction of the paper eliminated any evidence that Greene had just been ordered to arrange for a political assassination. He didn't know if it was possible to trace a computer-printed document back to its source the way the cops could do with a typewriter, but the point was certainly moot now.
And the unexpected combustion was probably intended to serve as a warning, as well. Mary Margaret Doyle was reminding him that she could reach him anytime she wanted. If he failed to carry out his instructions by the deadline, she seemed to be saying, the next thing to catch fire could be him.
Greene regarded this latest assignment as outside his job description. He had destroyed many a reputation in his career, and sometimes the work resulted in collateral damage - Chesbro's suicide being the most recent example. But he had never gotten involved in something that could end with Nestor Greene strapped to a gurney, watching as a prison doctor inserted a needle into his arm. He hadn't signed on for anything like this, and he didn't have to do it. He could go to the FBI, or the Secret Service. He could tell them... what?
Let me see if I understand you correctly, Mr. Greene. You were ordered to arrange the assassination of Governor Leffingwell by Senator Stark's Chief of Staff, Mary Margaret Doyle. You've got a bottle of some drug, a hypo, and a big pile of hundred dollar bills as your only evidence of this conspiracy. No one has ever seen you with Ms. Doyle, phone records show no contact between you, and she denies even knowing who the hell you are. And the piece of paper on which she wrote your instructions for taking part in this conspiracy spontaneously burst into flame shortly after you read it. Have I got that right?
Suddenly, Greene sat up very straight. The package had been hand-addressed, in what Greene knew was Mary Margaret Doyle's perfect Palmer method handwriting. Even if there were no fingerprints (and he was betting there weren't), the handwriting would prove a connection between her and the package.
Greene reached out for the brown paper that had wrapped the little box of death. That, at least, hadn't burned up, and he could--
The wrapping was blank.
Where Mary Margaret Doyle had written his name and P.O. box information, and a fictitious return address, was nothing but unblemished brown paper. Greene tried to wrap his mind around what he was seeing. Okay, so she used disappearing ink. Any kid with a book on magic tricks can do that. Big fucking deal.
But then he thought some more. That package was sitting in the post office God knows how long - a day, two days, three? Not counting transit time from wherever she mailed it. How does the ink know enough to disappear only after I've opened the package?
Nestor Greene was beginning to think that maybe the FBI wasn't such a good idea, after all. In fact, he was rapidly coming to the conclusion that the best chance for his continued good health was to do exactly what Mary Margaret Doyle had told him to do - and the sooner, the better.
Greene had no idea how or where to find a professional assassin. But it might just be that he knew somebody who did.
He reached across his desk, grabbed his huge rolodex, and pulled it closer. Everything was computerized these days, but in some ways Greene was old school. He liked the feel of the cards under his fingers as he searched through them.
He put on the glasses he used for reading and started looking.
Another city, another hotel suite. Mary Margaret Doyle sometimes had trouble remembering what state she was in. But it didn't matter, much. Stark had plenty of people who would keep track of that sort of thing. As his performance in the primaries had improved, everything else about the campaign also got better - or, at least, bigger.
Stark's entourage had grown. It now included a media relations specialist who was supposed to ensure that the journalists who followed them around like sheep knew everything that Stark's campaign manager wanted them to know - and nothing more. A retired Marine Corps general had come on board as foreign policy/military affairs advisor. He was quite knowledgeable, but Mary Margaret Doyle had assigned one of the campaign's flunkies to keep a special eye on him. The General liked to take a drink or two in the evening, and he had an eye for the ladies. There were three others who had
joined the team - two men and a woman - but she kept confusing their names and was only vaguely aware of their function, if any.
She had once asked Sargatanas if the campaign needed all these people. "Garret says we do," he had said, "and I agree with him. I don't have much to learn from any of them, but their very presence testifies to my significance as a candidate."
"Yes," she'd said, "I suppose it does."
"Garrett says that in Hollywood it is axiomatic: the bigger the star, the larger the entourage. The same is true in politics which, to paraphrase my old friend von Clauswitz, is merely entertainment carried out by other means."
Stark was huddled with some of the entourage now, giving the illusion that he cared about their opinions. Mary Margaret Doyle glanced at her watch. They should be done soon. Her Lord and Master ran a tight meeting.
True to her prediction, two minutes later she heard the door buzz as someone inserted a key into the lock from the hall. That would not be Stark, she knew. One of the Secret Service apes would come in first, to make sure that no terrorists were hiding in the bathroom with AK-47s.
It was the one named Thorwald, whose blond good looks and earnest manner reminded her of the Cummings poem about a fool named Olaf: 'more brave than me, more blond than you.'
"Good evening, ma'am," he said, unsurprised to find Mary Margaret Doyle in the suite's living room.
"Good evening Special Agent."
"Everything quiet?"
"As the grave." This produced a look of perplexity on the stolid face for a moment, but Thorwald said nothing else as he quickly checked Stark's bedroom, then hers. Opening the door to the hall, he said "Clear," to someone out of her sight and stepped back to allow entry.
The creature whom the world knew as Senator Howard Stark came in, accompanied by Fernando Garrett and two more Secret Service types. One of them was Masterson.
As Stark and Garrett talked about something to do with media buys in Virginia, Mary Margaret Doyle put a sympathetic expression on her face, stood up, and walked over to where the three Secret Service agents stood, chatting quietly. She put a hand on Masterson's arm, and when he turned to her said, "Welcome back, Agent Masterson."
He nodded stolidly. "Thank you, Ms. Doyle. It's good to be back."
"I understand that a member of your family has become ill?"
"Yes, ma'am - my mother." His face portrayed no emotion. "Liver cancer. They're doing what they can for her."
She nodded solemnly and said, "I'm very sorry to hear that. But one thing puzzles me." She knew his face would betray nothing, so she was watching his eyes.
"Ma'am?"
"I thought I remembered hearing you say once that you'd grown up in an orphanage."
He glanced down for a second and when he looked back at her the pupils of his eyes had contracted. "That's true, ma'am - until I was twelve, when the Mastersons adopted me. Pretty unusual for a kid that age to find a home, let alone a good one, but I guess I lucked out."
"So the woman... the poor woman with cancer, she isn't really your mother."
"She's the only mother I ever knew, ma'am," he said, a touch defensively. "She'll do just fine."
A few minutes later, Garrett and the Secret Service agents were gone, and she was alone with Sargatanas.
"When I return to Hell - in triumph, I trust - I will have a suggestion for My Lord Lucifer regarding a new variety of torment to inflict upon the damned," he said.
"Oh?"
"Meetings - lots and lots of meetings."
She laughed at the joke, but was careful not to overdo it. It would not be wise to give the impression that she was laughing at him.
"I wanted to tell you," she said, "that I spoke to Masterson, about his alleged sick mother."
"And?"
"He said that he had, in fact, been reared in an orphanage - until he was twelve, when a couple named Masterson adopted him. That's the woman he thinks of as his mother, he says."
"It makes sense, given the stupid sentimentality you humans are prone to."
"Yes, but as he spoke I was watching his eyes. These government apes don't reveal much with their faces - they're trained not to - but pupil dilation and contraction is what's called an autonomic response, outside of the control of the will. Like blushing."
"How interesting. I did not know that." His tone of voice meant that neither of those statements was true.
"When I mentioned the orphanage, his pupils contracted. He knew he'd been caught in a lie - although he recovered rather well, I will say that for him."
"I see."
"Now the question is - well, it's two questions: where was he really, and why did he lie about it?"
"No, that's not the question. The real question is, considering the immense importance of this undertaking, why did I have to be afflicted with an idiot for a minion?"
"What? I mean, I... um, I'm not sure what you mean."
"Pupil dilation and contraction doesn't measure deception, any more than a polygraph does. It measures changes in emotion. Correct?"
"Well, yes, of course. But I assumed -"
"Don't assume - think, you stupid cunt. When Masterson's pupils reacted, what were you and he talking about? Hmmm?
"Uh, the orphanage he grew up in."
"Do you suppose that his memories of that experience might have some emotions associated with them?"
"Yes, um, I suppose they would. Probably. Yes."
"So, is it possible that the pupil dilation you so alertly observed might have occurred in response to his memories of the orphanage, rather than any lie he was telling you about it?"
"Yes, quite possible," she said with a sigh. "Sorry."
"And if he was lying about where he went, he probably wanted to spend a few days getting laid. Men do that, I understand."
"Yes, they do. I didn't mean to waste your time. I apologize."
"Idiot," he said. Then, after a moment he added, "There is something you should do tomorrow. Just in case your original instincts about Masterson were correct. Are you listening?"
"Yes, of course."
"See if you can find out what flight Masterson took when he went on leave, and where it brought him. Just to be on the safe side. I'll show you how to get into the airlines' computer system - it's not difficult at all."
"Yes, all right. I'll take care of it tomorrow."
Chapter 29
"Can you do it?"
The Rialto Bar and Grille in Fairfax wasn't busy at this hour, so Nestor Greene was careful to keep his voice down. His companion had been doing the same.
The man sitting in the booth opposite Greene had lifeless brown hair, a quiet brown herringbone sport coat, and a blue button-down shirt open at the collar. He looked like somebody who'd be sitting in your living room trying to sell you car insurance. He certainly didn't look like a professional killer.
I guess that's sort of the point, Greene thought.
The contact who had put this meet together had told Greene that nobody seemed to know the brown-haired man's real name, or even what name to call him by, since he changed identities with every job he did. The contact had said that some in the underworld referred to the killer as 'The Grocer's Boy,' although nobody was sure why. One story had it that his father, or maybe foster father, had been in the business, too, using a small grocery store as a cover. He had supposedly trained the kid in every aspect of the killer's trade. The Grocer's Boy, the story went, had killed his first man when he was fourteen years old.
On the table between them Greene had put a small paper bag, the kind people carry their lunches to work in. The killer opened it and looked inside at the plastic baggie in which Greene had put the vial of poison and the hypo, but didn't take it out of the bag.
"Does it have to be done this way?" the killer asked. "I'm not objecting, just asking."
"It has to look like a natural death, and you can bet there will be a damn thorough autopsy afterward."
"So any kind of natural death is acceptable?"
"I understand. Just checking to see what my options are." The killer paused for a small sip of the Scotch and water that was in front of him, only the second sip he had taken since sitting down. "The price is fifty thousand," he said.
Greene nodded glumly. So much for making a profit on the cash Mary Margaret Doyle had sent. Good thing more money was coming his way once the job was done.
He had been told that this man would charge fifty grand. And he had been warned not to haggle over the killer's fee.
"Half now, half when it's done?" Greene asked. "I understand that's customary."
"Not with me, it isn't. You pay me the whole fifty when the job's finished. If, for some reason, I can't get it done, you don't owe me a dime." He gave Greene a friendly-looking smile, as if he'd just agreed to buy the million-dollar whole life policy. "That isn't very likely, though."
Greene tried not to show his surprise. He had brought all of Mary Margaret Doyle's fifty thousand, in case the killer had demanded the full fee in advance. Greene had been prepared for that; he had not expected to pay nothing up front at all.
"You're thinking that it's stupid of me to trust you like that," the killer said.
"No, I wouldn't -"
"A guy tried to cheat me out of a fee, once. I killed him, and it was messy. There hasn't been any problem since. Nobody cheats me."
"Yes, I can imagine. Well, you don't have to worry about me making that kind of mistake."
"I'm not worried. Especially since you're going to give me a look at your driver's license."
"My - why the hell do you want to see that?"
"To determine your real identity, Mr. 'Smith.' Just in case you get an attack of the stupids between now and when it comes time to pay me. I want to know who to come visit."
"Well, I'm not sure I want to -"
Sympathy for the Devil Page 23
