The Washington Decree

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  “He-he! Who wouldn’t drive to the ends of the earth for such a gorgeous sight?” he said, as he tried to remember her name. “Plus your coffee, of course, my sweet. It even beats my own mother’s.”

  She nudged him and giggled. “Aww, go on, T,” she replied as she smoothed her uniform over her lovely bosom.

  “And some kind of sandwich—I’m starving.” He patted his stomach. It was true: He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. “By the way, do you happen to know a Wolfgang Sunderland who lives somewhere around here?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you also know if he’s still living in the same house? He’s quite an elderly gent, you know.”

  She nodded again. “He lives a couple of hundred yards towards town, hon. What do you want with that pigheaded old fart?”

  “I need to have a little talk with him about his son.”

  She shook her head emphatically. “May the devil take him!”

  “Then you know who he is?”

  “Thomas Sunderland, our venerable vice president? Hah! Find me one woman in this end of town between the age of forty and sixty-five who he hasn’t been in bed with, and I’ll bet she didn’t move here till after Thomas moved out.”

  “That must be quite a few years ago by now,” he interjected.

  “That’s right, little T. He had more hair on his head in those days, but it’s not that long ago. Don’t remind me, I hate that bastard. He and Jansen are destroying this country. Take a look around. This place used to be packed with guests this time of day, didn’t it?”

  T nodded towards the two other people sitting in the diner. “Yeah, you’ve got a point. No risk of my getting claustrophobia here today.”

  She stretched her back with her hands on her hips. “Yeah, you’ve always tried being funny, T, but it’s no goddamn laughing matter, trying to run a restaurant when there isn’t a soul left with money to spend.” She kicked open the kitchen door. “But you we’re gonna keep till one o’clock, hon, because the old tyrant’s not finished with his noontime nap before then.”

  * * *

  —

  Aside from the rest home, Wolfgang Sunderland’s was the most impressive house in the southern end of Lexington’s Main Street. T parked his car out front and studied the veranda that was flanked by four enormous columns supporting the balcony two stories above.

  One could easily imagine Lieutenant General Sunderland being born and raised and having spent his life in this mansion, apart from when he was off participating in diverse little wars or inspecting US military installations around Europe. One could also easily imagine young Thomas growing up behind these massive walls, infused with the blind faith that no man was his better. It was here he’d had his arrogance and his ruthless commando style instilled, and now everyone was paying for it.

  T had been close to both Sunderland and Jansen in China. He’d gotten a relatively clear impression of who Jansen was, behind the facade, but he hadn’t had much luck in sussing out Sunderland. It would surely have been easier at the time—or at the trial—if he’d recognized him as Leo Mulligan’s son. Sunderland’s role had undergone a transformation during Bud Curtis’s trial. From being the gray eminence on Jansen’s staff he’d turned into a high-profile decision maker. There were so many aspects and incidents in this case in which Sunderland had had a hand. He was the one who’d recruited the Secret Service agents and had approved Curtis’s hotel in Virginia Beach, so he had to have played some role in what happened. Whether it was intentional or not was still unclear, so T had to give him the benefit of the doubt for the moment. But he could still clearly remember how Sunderland had sat in the witness box, checking everyone out with sharply attentive, judgmental eyes.

  Now the question was whether Sunderland senior would be able to give any useful information about his son.

  The old officer still knew how to hold himself erect, but one could see it caused him pain. Needless to say, Wolfgang Sunderland lacked the military poise of his heyday, but he was still an imposing figure. After checking T’s identification, he led him into a puritanically austere room whose only decorative elements were the mahogany panels, carved from floor to ceiling. Cozy as a funeral home, thought T.

  “To what do we owe a visit from a man of the law? Did one of those day-laborer Mexicans down at the Lexington Lodge make a mess of things?” He sat down on the sofa with difficulty and began pouring Wild Turkey into two glasses.

  “I’ve come to ask you a couple of questions about Thomas, General.”

  “I see . . .” He stopped pouring the bourbon, set the bottle on the table, and struggled to his feet again. Then he extended his hand. “Well, then, I don’t believe we have more to talk about today, Sheriff Perkins.”

  T looked at his rugged paw and remained seated. “I know it’s difficult for you, General, but let’s have a chat anyway. Better with a bit of frankness between two honorable men than thousands of questions from hoards of federal police, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Which means . . . ?”

  “Answer my questions and your life goes on as before. Refuse, and you place yourself directly in the line of fire, General. There will be other folks, much less agreeable than myself, who will ask the same questions—again and again. You can bank on it.”

  Wolfgang Sunderland was born in 1920 and was almost ninety, but if someone had given him a firearm right now, he wouldn’t have hesitated emptying the entire magazine into T. Perkins like a nervous, green corporal on patrol behind enemy lines. He was shaking with resentment and had to grab the floor lamp next to the sofa to keep from toppling over. After a moment he regained his composure, made his way back to the sofa, and plopped down again. He emptied one of the whisky glasses and refilled it.

  “Your son received honors in Grenada. Was he a brave soldier?”

  Wolfgang Sunderland stopped him with an index finger raised in warning. “Call him Thomas or whatever you want, but my son, he’s not—you understand?”

  “Okay. Was he a courageous soldier?”

  The general poured himself yet another bourbon, big enough to fell a horse, sniffed at it, and began laughing as he raised it to his lips. “He was a coward. A disgrace to his family—that’s what he was.”

  “But they gave him a medal, anyway.”

  He drained his glass and refilled it once more. “I don’t feel like answering your question, okay?”

  “Then instead maybe you’ll tell me what kind of person he is, in your own words.”

  The old man pursed his lips and looked at him with an expression that was used to being obeyed. “I don’t know what authority you have, or why you’re here, nor do I care. I assume you know Thomas was adopted.”

  T nodded.

  “He should never have been brought into my home. If it weren’t for my barren wife—God be with her—it would never have happened.” He took another gulp and held the glass limply between two fingers. “Oh, yes, they gave him the medal, but he didn’t deserve it. I ask you: Does an officer deserve a medal for hiding behind his own men while they’re being shot to pieces? Not where I come from. But that’s my boy! We could already see it when he first joined my men—the way he chased my subordinates’ daughters around the family quarters at Ramstein and how fast he ran the other way when faced with the consequences. Do you have any idea of the scandal, when your own son makes your officers’ underage daughters pregnant, one after the other?” He shook his head and considered pouring another shot.

  “That boy’s head was simply screwed together wrong. He duped us all, the little shit. Manipulation was his trademark, believe me. You’ve never met a young man who was so good at playing people off against each other.” He set the glass down heavily and held his head in his wrinkled hands. “He even got his own mother to turn against me. Yes, dammit, I call her his mother because she loved him, God be with her. He turned her against me by
telling her lies that no man can stand for. Untruths, understand?” He shook his head again.

  T chose to get straight to the point. “Did he accuse you of incest?”

  He jerked back in the sofa as though someone had just thrust a bayonet straight at him. “What did you say?!” His face was livid with shock and rage. “What do you think you’re doing, coming here in my house and using words like that?”

  “I beg your pardon. I’m sorry.”

  Wolfgang Sunderland tried to focus on the whisky bottle and reached out for it. “The disgusting little prick claimed his father liked to take it up the ass. Do you understand? Can you understand that?!”

  “He claimed you were homosexual?”

  “Outrageous!” His voice was quaking. “I could have killed him if he hadn’t disappeared with his mother.”

  “She left you then?”

  He nodded and half of his next pour missed the glass. “I’ve been following the little shit’s career ever since. Of course he finds himself a Democratic senator to ingratiate himself with. Who the hell else but a fucking Democrat would be dumb enough to invite a poisonous snake into his house?” He gave a bitter laugh. “There are at least ten people left on this street who knew Thomas in the old days. Ask them what they think of him. About all his nasty tricks and pranks.” He swept the spilled bourbon off the edge of the coffee table. “You couldn’t believe anything if it had to do with him. He was a little brat who never listened to reason and now he’s sitting there, laughing at all of us, believe me. ‘Vice president.’ Hah!” He said it with so much bitterness in his voice that he began shaking again.

  “He lived off blackmailing women when he was fifteen, did you know that?” Lieutenant General Sunderland stared at the floor. “The kid only got out of the mess because my wife interceded on his behalf. She was a naive fool for believing him. But the boy had learned his lesson. From then on he curried favor with people so he could misuse them afterwards, you see?”

  T nodded. “Yes, I know about that.”

  “Then maybe you also know he never stopped doing it from then on.”

  * * *

  —

  Bill Pagelow Falso, warden of Sussex State Prison in Waverly, Virginia, was a man of principle. T. Perkins hadn’t had much to do with him in the beginning, but during the past ten years their paths had crossed so often—and these encounters had been so congenial and professionally fruitful—that they could now look each other in the eye as equals and of the same species. It wasn’t that T cared much for Falso’s God-fearing philosophy, but he liked his honesty and consistency. There’d been times when T had needed special attention be given to certain inmates who he knew personally, and had paid back the favor by occasionally putting Falso up when he was overcome by the urge to go hunting. Falso loved shooting animals, and T knew everyone who had hunting rights in Highland County. This wasn’t a bad system of reciprocity, considering the purpose of T’s present mission.

  He looked at the road. Skirmishes with militias and forest fires had forced many panic-stricken animals out onto Route 60. The evidence was plentiful in the slippery remains of skunks, possums, and raccoons. He himself had somehow been lucky in never running over any furry creatures in the course of his long odyssey through the Virginia landscape. He tapped the underside of his steering wheel for good luck and looked at his watch. If he kept making good time through the roadblocks down by Macon, Centralia, and Disputanta, he’d be in Waverly well ahead of the day’s execution at 6:00 P.M., giving him time for a meeting with Falso.

  Off on the horizon lay a smoke screen above Cumberland State Forest. That meant still more trouble with the militias. He made a mental note of how many military vehicles passed him and turned off the road towards Ashby. This was the prelude to yet another bloody showdown.

  He popped the glove compartment open and fumbled after his address book, which lay on top of a couple of old darts, behind Dody Hall’s secret stash of marshmallows. He took out the little book and one of the darts that he’d equipped with steering feathers and filed down for optimal weight and balance. He could hit a bull’s-eye four out of five times with this one, he really could. It was the best dart he’d ever made.

  He smiled, looked up Doggie’s number, and turned on his walkie-talkie. It was at the limit of its range, but it worked. “Hi, Dody, how’s it going with Willie Riverdale?”

  There was some static, but Dody’s voice put him at ease. “He’s okay, T. He had a punctured lung, but Willie’s a tough young man.”

  “And Arredondo?”

  “He’ll be all right. They’ll both be back in uniform within the month. You have my personal guarantee, boss.”

  T wasn’t in doubt. Even if she had to change their bandages herself.

  “I won’t be back before Monday,” he said. “You’ll have to take care of yourselves. I hereby appoint you my deputy until I return. Okay, Dody?”

  If she complained about the temporary promotion, she did so in a very low voice. The question was what the rest of Highland County’s sparse population would say to a couple of days under her command.

  “Would you put me through to this number?” He gave her Doggie’s cell phone number. He’d tell Doggie that he’d done what he could, that he hadn’t forgotten her.

  “Sorry, boss. There’s no connection to the cell phone at the moment. Shall I try again?”

  “Call the White House and ask for Dorothy Rogers.”

  “The White House?”

  “Just do it, Dody.”

  “You’re talking about Dorothy Rogers, the one they call Doggie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Boss, there’s a warrant out for her. She tried to kill Vice President Sunderland, and she’s wanted nationwide. You ought to turn up your police radio a bit.”

  He frowned, feeling the pressure growing inside his head. “A warrant?”

  “Yes. There’s a video clip on the net. You can see her kicking him in the balls while he’s lying on the floor.”

  T shook his head. Events were unfolding fast.

  “Shall I try her cell phone again, T?”

  He looked out over the countryside as the sun slowly moved westward in his rearview mirror.

  “No, Dody. No, thanks. I’ll get back to you. Have a good watch.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Of all the homespun life philosophies Wesley Barefoot had heard in his relatively short life, one of his mother’s assertions—that if one drank two cups of tea for every cup of coffee, then one could basically drink as much coffee as one liked—was the most untrustworthy. Just now, in any case, he was looking with amazement from one almost empty thermos to the other, and then at his hands, which were quivering like the head of a bass drum. If he drank just one more cup of either, he’d short-circuit for sure. So why did he still have this damned unappeasable urge?

  It had been a loathsome day, just like the previous ones. Ever since Doggie had left his office in anger, the circumstances surrounding and following her alleged attack on Sunderland had spun out of control. It was being said that she had tried to kill the vice president, and for that reason had vanished. Wesley hoped fervently that the latter part was true. He absentmindedly stirred the remains in the bottom of his coffee cup with his finger while he looked despairingly around his gilded cell. Why the hell hadn’t he agreed to intercede for Doggie and her father by getting her an audience with Jansen? What harm could have come from that? The president would merely have turned him down, but at least he would have shown he was willing to do whatever he could for her—because he would, wouldn’t he? Or would he? He’d been crazy about her for years, and the possibility of them becoming a couple one day had always titillated the back of his mind. They’d both felt that way—he was sure of it—but he had to admit that her father’s trial had gotten in the way. And now he didn’t dare try to help her, so why deceive himself? He’d been behaving like
a Boy Scout for weeks—no, it was worse than that: He’d been a fellow traveler and a coward, and what had it got him? Now Doggie was gone, and Donald was dead. Lance Burton prowled around like a spider while the rest of the staff had sealed themselves hermetically in their offices, fearful of no longer being able to deliver the goods that were expected of them.

  Wesley wished he could do the same—just lock his door and throw away the key. And why not?

  He’d been hired to convey tidings of the president’s deeds, hopes, and dreams to the rest of the world. Now dream had turned to nightmare: The media was in a stranglehold, his own voice had been stifled, the president had entrenched himself in the Oval Office, and everybody was afraid and alone. If Wesley went out in the hall, his every step would be followed by suspicious eyes and each movement registered and analyzed. If he said something unsolicited, it would be met with mistrust and skepticism; if he laid a friendly hand on someone’s shoulder, the person would immediately shy away. No one was in the mood to be accommodating. Wesley felt lost.

  He pressed the intercom button. “Eleanor,” he said, “would you mind coming in here with a couple of Cokes?”

  “You haven’t the time; you’re supposed to be in Vice President Sunderland’s office in two minutes!”

  * * *

  —

  “Now, why is it we’re sitting in here?” Wesley asked, looking up at Sunderland’s bulletin board with its neatly arranged rows of international newspaper clippings and at least a hundred press photos. There were photographs of Jansen, eyes blazing, and of thousands of deportees sitting in refugee camps along the Mexican border. Shots of ex-convicts wearing diagonal yellow stripes, collecting trash along the highways, and press photos of militia leaders with loaded weapons and hateful expressions. Everything was represented; the world was informed.

  At the end of rows of newspaper clippings, there was a half-page feature from Le Figaro with a large picture of President Jansen. Wesley couldn’t understand the text, but he could read the date. So apparently news of the attempt on Jansen’s life had found its way abroad.