Mosaic

by Gayle Lynds

  Staffeld was a careful man, and he'd been through more crises than an MP with a closetful of jealous mistresses. He bloody well wasn't going to let this pussy blackmailer ruin his life. Controlling his rage, he considered what he knew—

  The blackmailer didn't want Julia Austrian to learn who'd killed her mother. He was well-connected to worldwide police and intelligence, or he'd never have been able to put together the so-called evidence that had been published in the London Sunday Times, and then quickly picked up by television and Sunday morning papers all across the States, or all the rest of the documents that now lay in Staffeld's lap.

  Who had the greatest stake in demolishing presidential candidate Douglas Powers? As plain as the nose on your face: Creighton Redmond.

  Putting all that together with the phone call coming from the Washington, DC, area, the blackmailer was most likely a Redmond with a home or office in DC. Creighton Redmond had owned a house there while he was on the Supreme Court, but Staffeld had just rung up DC and learned he'd sold it. The only other Redmond to fit was Vince Redmond, DDI at the Company. Creighton Redmond's eldest son . . . and Staffeld was as sure as he could be that this man was the blackmailer.

  According to his written instructions, Staffeld was to hold a news conference soon after he arrived in New York, at which time he'd deliver the brand-new revelations stipulated in his instructions. His Scotland Yard credentials and the unprecedented step of a high-ranking international police officer coming forward privately to interfere in American politics would add the dynamite authority to escalate today's news stories into a devastating whirlwind. No candidate, not even the popular Douglas Powers, could survive what Staffeld was supposed to disclose. Ergo: Creighton Redmond, president of the United States, ta-da!

  But the press soiree wouldn't end it. No bloody way. The Redmonds wouldn't just hand him his money and a pat on the back. He was too dangerous. They'd know he'd guess who was behind it. And he'd have no protection from a furious Whitehall, not to mention 10 Downing Street, Parliament, or the U. S. government. As soon as he held his "private-citizen" meeting with the journalists and meddled in U. S. politics, all bloody hell would break out back home. The Foreign Office would go apoplectic. No, he'd be on his own, and sooner or later the bastards would have to kill him.

  11:45 AM, SUNDAY

  GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, DC

  The Washington Post gripped in his hand, Vince Redmond stood on the back porch of his elegant Georgetown brownstone and sipped his Johnnie Walker Blue Label. He liked the best blended whiskeys, and Johnnie Walker Blue had been a longtime favorite. Even more, he liked the small news piece on the Post's front page. Although it was too early, he was drinking in celebration.

  Beyond the porch his three young children swung high on the swings he'd ordered installed as soon as the first was born. Now he had two boys and a girl, and his wife was pregnant with their fourth child—another boy. He smiled as he listened to their high-pitched laughter and squeals. They shot higher and higher, their toes fading toward the gray, metallic sky, and he felt pleasure surge into his marrow. He'd done everything right. They were daring. Bold. Real Redmonds.

  He turned back into the house. The news in the Post was excellent, setting the stage for the big revelations that'd come later today from Chief Superintendent Staffeld. He smiled to himself as he walked into the den. The room was similar to his office at Langley with its photos of his family with power brokers and heads of state. They reminded him of influence and connections, of everything he'd learned to want and use. He sat at his desk, lighted a cigarette, and drank deeply, savoring the comfort of the whiskey as it warmed the most distant parts of his body.

  He'd joined the Company after law school as his father had asked, "for the good of the family." Over the years he'd gradually done most of his father's dirty work, first in the Directorate of Operations and now in Intelligence. He'd passed on information, provided the means, covered their asses, and now he was about to deliver the presidency. Without him, his father wouldn't have had a chance. Competition was the foundation of success. He was the ultimate competitor—his father's son. It was a force with which others had to reckon, and it'd brought him quick success.

  When the phone rang, he snapped it up eagerly. Maybe it was Creighton to congratulate him on the story breaking now all across the country. "Yes?"

  "Good afternoon, sir. This is Pink Pinkerton." The agent's voice was wary. "You sent two of your people to see me earlier." They'd been in the Ford Escort he'd watched drive away as he'd been speaking with Sam Keeline. "I'd like to hear again why you sent them."

  Vince's spirits soared. Pink was Sam Keeline's best friend. Vince made his voice sound concerned. "Where is Keeline, Pink? I'm worried about him. He's dropped out of sight, and I'm afraid he may have gone too far this time. You'll be doing him, and us, a service to help find him."

  Pink cleared his throat. "Tell me again what the problem is." He was standing in his sister's living room, watching out the window. The house was in the heart of a quiet, residential neighborhood with big trees and lots of children. His two nieces were outside jumping rope. His sister was taking a bath. And his gut ached. It always did when he had to make an impossible decision.

  Vince had sent two Janitors to Pink, but he'd instructed them to say they were from his directorate. They'd explained everything, but now Vince did it again. "It pains me to say this, but my cousin Julia has finally slipped over into psychosis. She's stumbled into an important undercover operation concerning a foreign threat to my father. She's not responsible for herself or her actions, and she needs medical help. We want to bring her in before she hurts anyone else or blows our cover. And for some reason—you know how Keeline can be—he's decided to 'help' her. But all he's doing is making matters worse. He's delaying her capture, and he's digging himself into a big hole with the Company. I've been able to keep his name away from the media, but I can't much longer. Eventually they'll sniff him out, and then the Company will get a black eye. We don't need any more bad press, do we, Pinkerton?"

  There was a tense silence. Six months ago Pink had been in charge of a secret operation in Brussels to find out the strength of the European Union's position in telecommunications trade negotiations with the United States. Somehow along the way, rule-following Pink had fallen astray for the first time: He'd broken one of the Company's commandments by talking between the sheets to a woman he was having sex with while on the job. Even worse, the woman was with French intelligence, and she'd been sent to spy on him. She'd reported Pink's mission to her superiors, and they'd told the world. The Company had brought Pink home in disgrace, and now—a half year later—the situation was still so bad in Brussels, the stink from adverse media so ripe in Europe, that the Company had been unable to resume operations in Belgium.

  "You've got a point, sir," Pink admitted, his stomach sour.

  Vince smiled again. Better and better. He'd give Pink a compelling personal reason to cooperate, one that had all the markings of the Redmond touch: "I've heard rumblings about the mess you had in Brussels and that it's why you haven't had another assignment." The likelihood of Pink's ever getting another plum job was remote, but no doubt he already knew that. "But I think I can help. You've certainly helped me. Remember just a few days ago you convinced Keeline to come back to work. I figure I owe you for that, too. Tell me, where would you like to be assigned?"

  He could almost hear Pink's excited intake of air. Without hesitation, Pink said, "Bosnia. It's still hot over there. I'm sure, there's some operation I can help out on."

  Vince nodded to himself. He could arrange it. The Company was an old-boys' club in the finest sense of the word. Directorate heads exchanged favors like poker chips in an unending game.

  But before Vince could agree, Pink spoke again. "This whole thing with Sam has me worried. First he asked about an old Company Janitor who retired years ago: Maya Stern. Seems he ran into her—"

  "Damn, that's what I was afraid of," Vince invented
quickly. "He's got himself in the middle of a delicate operation without knowing what's going on. He's going to blow everything and maybe even get himself killed!"

  Vince was elated. He was going to "turn" Pinkerton. The perfect triumvirate of pressures: Pinkerton's loyalty to the country and the Company, his need to get out into the field again, and his devotion to his friend and his safety.

  "He's got to be brought in, Pink, before he hurts the operation, my cousin, or himself."

  On the other end of the line, Pink was silent. Then he said, slowly and reluctantly, "He called me. I've got a phone number you can trace." He hesitated. "But how can I be sure this is for the good of the Company and Sam?"

  Vince was amazed Pink would hold out against him so hard. This damned Keeline evoked strong loyalty. "Okay. Drive down here to my place. I'll talk to your boss over at operations. By the time you get here, I'll have everything arranged and I'll lay it out for you in detail. But I have to have that number now before any more damage is done. There's not much time left to help Sam before he's really over the edge."

  The silence was shorter this time. Pink sighed. "Okay, you better write it down."

  34

  9:01 AM, SUNDAY

  SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA

  The crowds were growing larger. Creighton sensed this, and so did the press. As he stood on the tailgate of the train beneath the sunny California sky, he gave his stump speech on education for the third time that day. His wife smiled adoringly up at him. His youngest children and four of their cousins fidgeted charmingly. It was a great photo opportunity, but the cameras weren't focused on him and his handsome family. Instead they were recording the supporters who'd gathered to cheer him on. His advance team had warned him California was going to vote for Powers, and the lousy turnout at his first two stops this morning had confirmed it.

  But he'd stopped twice since, and at each the crowds were larger. They'd read in the San Francisco Chronicle or Sacramento Bee or heard on CNN or the Today Show or on one of the network newscasts about the documents the respected Sunday Times of London had brought to light of Douglas Powers's disgusting sexual pursuits. Already Creighton's national poll numbers had climbed another point to forty-one percent, and his staff was soaring on a wave of optimism. If the revelations continued to build fast enough, this could be the miracle for which they'd hoped.

  Kept sharp by Creighton's rousing speech at Arbor Knoll, they'd swung into action. He'd instructed them to be non-committal but not to discourage speculation. At every stop he'd answered press questions with just the right appearance of sadness at the possibility any man could go so far astray, especially one of Powers's reputation and position. But also, statesmanlike, he'd cautioned the nation not to judge too quickly. After all, there could be a mistake.

  As Creighton talked to the rapt group standing beneath him on the railroad tracks, he smiled. He spoke rousingly of America's future. "We must never be so arrogant as to think we've simply inherited this great country from our forebears. Our responsibility—and our joy—is a much higher calling. Instead, we've borrowed America from our children. Their education must be paramount in our hearts and minds. . . ."

  When he finished speaking, the enthusiastic throng clapped and shouted. He signed autographs. The Secret Service tried to stop his supporters from approaching, but he stepped down into the sea of electric humanity. They smelled of suntan lotion and dreams. Their energy coursed through him like a mind-altering aphrodisiac. Grinning, he hoisted a toddler aloft. He hugged a woman on crutches. He laughed, shook hands, asked names, and let them take as many pictures as they liked. He was drunk with the excitement and the belief in him. This was what he wanted. . . a whole nation of admirers who'd turn their power over to him and let him know he was alive.

  "Judge! What do you think about the accusations about Doug Powers's sexual past?" The reporter was a square woman with a large bust.

  "Where are you from, ma'am?" he asked with a smile.

  "San Jose Mercury."

  "A fine newspaper. Well, tell your readers we don't want to get caught up in a witch hunt. Doug Powers has been a worthy opponent. We've discussed the issues. If the charges are true, then America will have to face them. Until then, let's keep ourselves above conjecture. Doug Powers could be innocent."

  There was a nervous rustle through the throng.

  "But what if he's not?" someone shouted.

  "What if it's true he's been involved in orgies with Communists in Prague?"

  Creighton was tempted. He could so easily tell them Doug Powers was a lout and an adulterer. That Powers had the most kinky zipper in U.S. history. But he knew it wouldn't serve him well. Not yet. He hoped all their minds went into the gutter and imagined unspeakable acts of sickly deviant sex with Powers in the starring role. But he couldn't let them believe he'd join them. He had to remain above it all. Pay attention to leading a clean campaign. Set the kind of presidential example that would inspire all to spread the word Creighton Redmond was the obvious candidate to vote into office.

  When the train whistle screeched and the tall wheels gave a shudder, the Secret Service finally intervened. Their determined hands parted the crowd, and before Creighton knew it he was back on board. Moses off to the next mountain.

  As the train rolled away, his wife laughed. The children collapsed giggling into their seats. The steward appeared with iced tea, sodas, and screwdrivers. As his wife took a long drink from her orange juice and vodka, Creighton felt the cell phone next to his heart vibrate.

  He excused himself. "Another call," he told them. "Probably the press or one of my so-called supporters deciding it's time to be vigorously loyal again." He went to the end of the car, where it was quiet and he'd constantly been on the phone between stops. He held onto the overhead bin as the train rocked. He answered the call on his special secure phone.

  Vince got right to the point. "I know where Keeline and Julia are."

  Creighton felt a surge of relief. This was turning out to be as great a day as he'd hoped. "Good work. Have you sent Maya Stern and her people?"

  "They're on their way."

  After he dispatched Stern to eliminate Keeline and bring in Julia, Vince spent an hour in the backyard playing with his children. The autumn leaves had been raked, and the grounds displayed the brown, windswept beauty of the earth at rest. As he threw a football back and forth with his children, he studied their glowing faces and listened to their lively chatter. He'd made the arrangements with the director of operations and was prepared to give Pinkerton everything he'd asked. It was a good decision, not just because it bought Pink's cooperation, but because it also got him out of the country before he grew too curious about Keeline's death and Julia's disappearance.

  When it was almost time for Pinkerton to arrive, he returned inside the house. The phone was ringing, and the maid answered it promptly.

  "Sir, it's for you."

  He took it in the living room, thinking it must be a social call. "Yes?"

  "You bloody bastard." It was Chief Superintendent Geoffrey Staffeld's voice. "I know what you're doing. I'm in New York, but I've checked out of that hotel you arranged for me. You think I'm such a fool I wouldn't look for bugs in my room? I'm not calling any reporters until I have the money. All of it!"

  Vince frowned. His first instinct was to deny he even recognized the voice, but that was ridiculous. He needed Staffeld to do his job, and right now that included accepting the risk that Staffeld had identified him. And there was no way Staffeld could escape. With the supreme will he'd developed over the years, he said calmly, "Very clever. I won't bore either of us by asking how you located me. But before we go any farther, let me call you back on my secure line."

  "Wrong, lad. Tell me the number. I'll call you."

  Irritated, Vince gave him the phone number to the secure line that went to only one phone in the house, which was in his office. They hung up, and before Vince could carry his drink across the living room and down the hall, the office phon
e was ringing.

  Vince snapped it up. "What do you want?"

  The chief superintendent gave a cool chuckle. "Now that I know what's up from reading your documents and instructions, it's obvious you need me to talk as much as I need you to keep silent. But who knows . . . dear old England's rather blasé and tolerant these days, so I'd probably keep my pension after I resign. I might even talk my way out of this mess entirely. In fact, you need me much more than I need you."

  Vince took a long drink of his Blue Label and paused as he waited for the liquor's warmth to reheat his system. Staffeld's revolting secret past had leaked to him over the years from various covert sources. He'd kept the information hidden, hoarding it for the future, because to have criminal evidence against a high-ranking official of Scotland Yard was something you saved for yourself. As it'd turned out, the obscene sex life of Staffeld had been the perfect material, manipulated of course, with which to shoot down Doug Powers. Reality, and all its concrete evidence, was always better than invention.

  Vince said carefully, "You're treading on quicksand, Staffeld. I have all the originals of those documents. If anyone were to seriously investigate. . . Well, you wouldn't just be finished in England, the police of four nations would have arrest warrants out for you. Sex deaths are hard to explain. Especially when one or two amount to outright murder, eh? I doubt Scotland Yard would give you your final paycheck, much less your pension. Your best move is to do what I ask and keep your goddamned mouth shut."

  In the shabby hotel on Manhattan's West Side he'd moved to, Staffeld found himself smiling. The lad had really done his homework and was keeping his head. "It's a standoff, wouldn't you say?" But the truth was, Staffeld knew his career was finished. The Americans were too nosy for their own good. Once he spoke to reporters, someone would begin digging. Eventually they'd discover Powers wasn't the one with the kinky sex past; it was Staffeld himself. It might take them a year, but they'd find out. The news would be far too late to save Powers's presidential bid, but not too late to destroy Staffeld, because Vince Redmond was right. Former Chief Superintendent Staffeld would be sought by the police of four countries.