Benjamin, frowning deeply, said, “They didn't give you dinner?”
“There was fruit and stuff in the room,” Meehan assured him, because he didn't want to make a huge complaint about it. He wanted either for these people to come clean, or to take him back to the MCC, and probably both. Whatever they had in mind, it seemed to Meehan much better than even money that they'd get caught doing it. What good was freedom, if it came attached to disaster?
“The interesting thing,” Benjamin said to Jeffords, breaking a silence with which Meehan had been very comfortable, “is that we now have what I would call a very clear demonstration that we were right in the first place.”
“I suppose so,” Jeffords said, though he sounded gloomy about it.
“Pat,” Benjamin said, “look on the bright side. You did pick the right man, and he has already proved that we do need such a person.”
“Well,” Jeffords said, with a sigh, “I do look pretty clumsy there, don't I, seen in the clear light of day.”
“Because that's not what you're good at, Pat,” Benjamin told him, back to being avuncular. “What you're good at is logistics, moving people and funds and transport in an open, clearcut, aboveboard manner.”
“Filling out reports,” Jeffords added, a bit resentfully, “every bloody step of the way.”
“Precisely. You are not a thief,” Benjamin went on, “and nor am I. And nor is anyone else in the committee, nor anyone we are likely to know. We were right to outsource, and now we must follow through.”
Jeffords sighed. “Not what I expected,” he said, “but I must agree. You know best.”
“Thank you, Pat.” Benjamin turned his benevolent gaze on Meehan. “In truth, we wish to put you in the position of our vendor in this matter, and we now realize, which I'm sorry we didn't realize before, that as our vendor, it is necessary that you be put in the picture.”
“Hit me,” Meehan said.
10
FIRST THEY ALL had to fortify themselves with provisions: sausages and toast for Benjamin, two kinds of melon for Jeffords, and more black coffee for Meehan, who wanted his wits somewhere he could find them without trouble.
At last, they were ready. “As you know,” Benjamin began, “here we are, coming down to the wire in the election campaign, and—” He broke off, frowned at the expression on Meehan's face, and said, “The election campaign. The reelection of the president.”
“You know,” Jeffords encouraged.
“I've been kinda busy,” Meehan reminded them. “Though, yeah, I guess I did see some headlines.”
Benjamin was having trouble believing this. “Man, are you telling me you didn't know the president of the United States is running for reelection?”
“I don't usually pay that much attention to politics,” Meehan admitted.
Benjamin gave Jeffords a helpless look. “You try and you try,” he said, “to get your story out there.”
“I know,” Jeffords said, sounding sympathetic. “And every time, it's eighty-five percent didn't know a thing about it.”
“I must admit, there are moments,” Benjamin said, “I have my doubts about democracy. But you know what Churchill said.”
“Of course,” Jeffords said.
Meehan didn't know what Churchill said, but he was afraid, if he asked, Benjamin might start to cry, so he kept his mouth shut.
Benjamin took a deep breath and a forkful of scrambled egg, and then apparently felt better, because he said, “Well, let me be the first to tell you, Francis, there is a presidential election campaign under way even as we speak, and it's moving into an extremely critical phase—”
“Last minute,” Jeffords said.
“That, too,” Benjamin said. “And you, Francis, if you so choose, can be a significant factor in how this election works itself out.”
They didn't bring me all this way to ask me to register to vote, Meehan told himself. “I wouldn't mind being a good citizen,” he allowed.
“I was sure that's how you'd feel,” Benjamin told him. “Now, Mr. Jeffords and I are, apart from other things, members of the CC, and we—”
Jeffords said, “Wait, Bruce,” and to Meehan, “the Campaign Committee. We're part of the team to help reelect the president.”
“Got it,” Meehan said.
“Good,” Benjamin said. “Now we have learned, fortuitously and fortunately, that there is a piece of very bad evidence in existence—”
“Videotaped confession,” Jeffords put in, “supporting documents.”
“Exactly,” Benjamin said. “Extremely dangerous material in re POTUS. We have to—”
“Whoa,” Meehan said. “Could you back to the last traffic light?”
Jeffords said, “POTUS is president of the United States.”
“Yeah? Sounds more stupid that way.”
Reproving, Benjamin said, “We think it lends a homey touch.”
Meehan shrugged. “Okay.”
Jeffords said, “The point is, the Other Side has this material, and we very much need to get it away from them.”
Meehan said, “But they've already got it? For how long?”
“Two months,” Benjamin said, “possibly a bit more.”
“We just learned about it,” Jeffords added, “this week.”
Meehan said, “And they're just sitting on it? What are they gonna do, blackmail?”
Benjamin said, “No, no, that's not the way it works. They're waiting for an October Surprise.”
Meehan shook his head. “I don't know what that is.”
Jeffords explained, “Elections are held early in November. You hit the other side late in October with some really bad press, they don't have time to counteract it.”
Meehan said, “Counteract? If this is such hot stuff, how do you counteract?”
“Given time, Francis,” Benjamin said, “and the spin doctors at our command, we could counteract the crucifixion of Jesus Christ and you'd vote for Pontius Pilate.”
Jeffords said, “That's why they save the Surprises for October. No time to massage the news.”
“This is October,” Meehan pointed out.
Benjamin said, “And now we come to you.”
11
“YOU WANT ME to get it,” Meehan said.
“As I said,” Benjamin agreed.
“With our assistance,” Jeffords pointed out.
“There, you see,” Meehan said, “there's our problem.”
Benjamin said, “Our problem?”
“You don't trust me,” Meehan told him, “and you're right. You give me a doorway and a running start and I'm outa here.”
Drily, “We know that,” Jeffords said.
“We all know that, or I wouldn't mention it. On the other hand,” Meehan said, “I don't do my best work with amateurs in the room.”
Jeffords, again on the edge of being miffed, said, “Meaning?”
“It's the old carpenter-to-homeowner wage scale,” Meehan explained. “Twenty-five dollars an hour to do the job, thirty-five if you watch, forty-five if you help. I don't want you to watch, and I sure don't want you to help. So you'll have to leave me alone to do it my own way, and as soon as you do, I'm outa here.” Meehan spread his hands. “I'm sorry, but there it is. I'd lie to you if I could, but we all know the situation.”
Tentatively, Benjamin said, “A mere observer could—”
Meehan shook his head.
Benjamin and Jeffords frowned at one another, baffled. Jeffords said, “He refuses to do it if we observe, but he says himself if we let him out of our sight, he'll disappear, so he still won't do it.”
Meehan wished he could help here, because he really didn't want life in a federal pen, but what was the alternative? In truth, Francis Xavier Meehan, though very bright, did not know how to think ahead. Witness his ruined marriage, his not very stellar criminal career, his very presence in the MCC. If he'd had a motto, other than the ten thousand rules, which was more mantra than motto, it would have been “one problem at a
time.”
Most of the guys he knew were the same. The people who thought ahead were the ones with the jobs and the mortgages and the car payments and the Tuesday night bowling leagues—how could Meehan ever know for sure where he'd be on a given Tuesday night?—whereas the guys like Meehan got whatever was going by.
He said, “Maybe…”
They both looked alert. Everybody in the room, including Meehan, waited to hear what he was going to say next.
“Maybe I could give you advice,” he said.
Jeffords, looking insulted again, said, “Advice? About what?”
“About the heist. You keep me here, tell me the setup, I'll give you the best advice I got, very professional, you go collect your Surprise, and then we shake hands and I walk away.”
Jeffords and Benjamin exchanged a look. “Not exactly what we had in mind,” Benjamin said.
“But the only possibility, apparently,” Jeffords said. “And if we put this one back, look for another one, that's more time gone, and maybe second-best. And we do have people willing to go in and do it.”
“Willing, yes,” Benjamin said, and shrugged. “All right, we'll try it.” Turning to Meehan, he said, “The gentleman who now has the package is a supporter of the president's challenger, the candidate on the Other Side. In fact, a very large contributor to his campaign.”
“A contributor's plane,” Meehan said, dawn breaking. “Now I get it.”
“Yes, of course,” Benjamin agreed. “This contributor, however, is one of theirs, from a fine old Revolutionary-era family—”
“Many of them on the wrong side even then,” Jeffords added snidely, “though they don't talk about that much any more.”
“Nevertheless,” Benjamin said, “he is noted for his collection of antique firearms, exclusively from the periods of our Revolution, the War of 1812, and the Civil War. A well-known collection, occasionally on tour to American Legion posts, private schools, that sort of thing.”
“And when it's at home,” Meehan said, “I bet they keep it locked up, being guns and all. And your package is in there with it.”
“Exactly.”
“So is it in the guy's house, or a separate building, or what does he—Wait a minute.”
They looked at him. Benjamin said, “Yes?”
“Just a minute,” Meehan said. “I think maybe I can do it for you.”
Jeffords said, “Do it?”
“Get you your package.” Meehan grinned at them. “Yeah, I think maybe so, maybe after all I can help you guys out.”
12
“I'M GONNA NEED two things,” Meehan told them. “A pay phone, and my lawyer.”
Jeffords said, “A pay phone? What do you mean, a pay phone?”
“A phone you put money in,” Meehan explained.
“I know that,” Jeffords said. “But if you want a phone—”
“Security,” Benjamin gently told Jeffords. “He wants to make a secure call.”
“Well, there is no such thing,” Jeffords said.
“Some are more secure than others,” Meehan told him.
Benjamin said, “If you don't mind the question, who is it you wish to call?”
“The guy who takes stuff off my hands.”
Benjamin nodded. “A fence, you mean.”
“I know he can take computer chips,” Meehan said, “and I know he can take furs, and I know he can take oriental rugs. Muskets and blunderbusses, I dunno. I gotta ask him.”
“My God,” Benjamin said, getting it, “you mean to steal the man's guns!”
“Well, sure,” Meehan agreed. “That's what makes me stick around. I go in, even without you people watching me, I go in and I get your package, and while I'm there I pick up some stuff for myself.”
Benjamin said, “You're telling us you mean to commit a burglary! And you're telling us!”
“Mr. Benjamin,” Meehan said, “it was always gonna be a burglary. Didn't you know that? Somebody breaks in and takes away something doesn't belong to them, that's a burglary.”
“But not for profit,” Benjamin insisted. “What we're talking about is politics.”
“Dirty tricks,” Jeffords added.
“Exactly,” Benjamin said.
“Well, I only work for profit,” Meehan told him. “So I'll give you your choice. I'll stay here if you want, give you advice, you go in and do your best, maybe it'll work out, or maybe the papers get full of the president's campaign committee arrested for housebreaking.”
“Oh, God,” Benjamin said.
“Or,” Meehan went on, “you give me the layout, I go in, I get you your package, I pick up my profit at the same time.”
Benjamin said, “Pat? What do you think?”
“I think,” Jeffords said, “the man is asking us to be accessories to a felony.”
Meehan said, “It always was a felony. Breaking and entering.”
“Well, it didn't feel like a felony,” Jeffords said.
“In my experience,” Meehan told him, “cops don't go by feelings.”
“Well, Pat,” Benjamin said, “we wanted a professional, and I'd say we got one.”
Jeffords looked bleak. “You want to go along with him.”
“We told each other, Pat,” Benjamin said, “that what went wrong with the Watergate burglary years ago was that it was performed by amateurs. Ideologues, spies, political henchmen. Not a professional thief in the crowd. We told each other we should learn from that experience. Thus Francis Meehan. And thus, our burglary turns, I'm afraid, into an actual burglary.”
Jeffords sighed. “Agreed,” he said, though without joy.
Benjamin turned to Meehan. “What was the other? A lawyer? Francis, what do you want with a lawyer?”
“I wouldn't negotiate with you people without one,” Meehan said. “If we're gonna get serious here.”
“Very well,” Benjamin said. “Who is this lawyer?” And he made himself ready to take a note.
“Goldfarb,” Meehan told him. “Wait a minute, Eileen? No. Elaine! Elaine Goldfarb.”
Sounding outraged, as though someone were pulling his leg, Jeffords said, “Elaine Goldfarb? She's your court-appointed attorney at the MCC!”
Meehan shrugged. “What other lawyer am I gonna have?”
Benjamin said, “You don't want some public defender hack, Francis. If you feel you need an attorney, and you may be right about that, I wouldn't argue the issue, we can surely find you one in the greater DC area who would—”
“Yeah,” Meehan said, “and I know where you'd find him, too. Not very far down in your pocket. The great thing about Elaine Goldfarb is, I know she isn't one of yours.”
“Certainly not,” Jeffords said.
“Very well,” Benjamin said. “We'll see what we can do about a secure telephone and obtaining the services of Ms. Goldfarb. She won't be licensed in the state of Virginia, you realize.”
“If I have to take you birds to court,” Meehan told him, “I'll get somebody local.”
His smile thin, Benjamin said, “Yes, that would be a new role in court for you, wouldn't it? In the meantime, if you've done breakfast…”
“Long ago,” Meehan said.
“Fine.” The smile turning sad, Benjamin said, “I am sorry, but I know you understand, you'll have to return to your room awhile. There are magazines on that table over there, you're welcome to take some with you.”
They all stood. “It's a boring room,” Meehan said. “I just wanna mention that.”
“We'll make your stay in it as short as possible,” Benjamin promised. “In fact, I'll hope to see you in the cafeteria at lunch.”
“I think I can probably make it,” Meehan said.
13
AT LUNCH, IN another room in the same building, this one a plain bright cafeteria on the second floor with much the same view as everywhere else in this place, surrounded by people in olive drab uniforms or scruffy civvies, everybody carrying around brown trays with blah food on them, Benjamin said, “It's
all worked out.”
Meehan looked up from studying his cheeseburger. “What is?”
“Ms. Goldfarb will arrive at Norfolk International at two thirty-five this afternoon,” Benjamin said. “You will meet her.”
“With an escort,” Jeffords added.
“I know,” Meehan said, around the cheeseburger, which tasted better than it looked.
“While at the airport,” Benjamin went on, “you will be able to make a phone call from any one of the pay phones there, with your escort nearby but not listening.”
“Sounds good,” Meehan said. “I'll need change,” he said, and bit into more cheeseburger.
Benjamin blinked. “Change?”
Jeffords explained, “They don't have cash money in the MCC.”
“Oh, of course.” Benjamin turned politely to Meehan. “How much?”
His mouth full of cheeseburger, Meehan raised his left hand and splayed the fingers out twice.
Benjamin's look turned sardonic. “Ten dollars? I think not. Jeffords will give you three.”
Neither Meehan nor Jeffords was happy about that.
Meehan kept an eye on the route, in case he ever had to take it on his own some time; another of the ten thousand rules. Grandy, Currituck, Moyock; the town names in North Carolina were weird, but somehow not easy to remember. Then they crossed into Virginia and got Hickory and Great Bridge, and there they were on Battlefield Boulevard; can't these people get over it? Battlefield Boulevard led them to an interstate, which snaked them through Norfolk to the airport, right in the middle of town.
It was the same car as last night, with the same team; Jeffords next to Meehan in back, the two Busters up front. They'd changed their shirts, but not their topcoats and squared-off hats.
From the parking lot, they moved like a highly trained close-drill team into the terminal building where, amid the announcements and the lost children and the teenagers traveling with their skateboards, Jeffords grudgingly counted out three dollars in quarters and dimes and nickels into Meehan's palm. “Thanks, Dad,” Meehan said, and Jeffords gave him a sour look.
Put a Lid on It Page 4
