The Washington Decree

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  You blew it, John, Doggie said to herself. Now they really know it’s you.

  “And what is that supposed to mean?” asked Jumper. “A security agent doesn’t always get his man on the first shot, does he?”

  “I wonder. But I do know that a remarkable number of people were injured. I think the agents saw several firearms at the moment the assassination took place, and they fired directly at anyone they thought was posing a threat—it wasn’t by mistake. They’re trained in surveillance and to shoot before they think. And if this theory holds up, then only one of the agents knew who to shoot at, which brings us to the next very disturbing point. Namely, that at the trial, there wasn’t one of the guests who could testify to having seen the killer’s movements at the moment of the crime, nor were there any of them who saw who shot him afterwards.”

  “Yes, but it was O’Neill who killed Mimi Jansen, wasn’t it? He still had the weapon in his hand; we know that for a fact.”

  “Sure, it was O’Neill who shot Mimi Jansen,” replied Bugatti. “No doubt about it. There was just no one who saw him do it. Except for one person—the person who shot O’Neill. And why haven’t we ever found out who this person was?”

  “Okay, I didn’t know that. But there was a ballistics investigation, wasn’t there? I mean, the guy who shot the bastard is a damn national hero, so why doesn’t he come forward?”

  “There was a ballistics study of the bullet that killed Toby O’Neill, yes. But the person who shot O’Neill was never identified, nor do we know what weapon fired the fatal shot. Personally, I believe the man who stopped O’Neill didn’t identify himself because he didn’t want to be drawn out of the crowd immediately after the incident. If you ask me, it was because he had something on his person that he wanted to keep concealed.”

  Doggie was overwhelmed. All these words were being said much too late. There she sat in a stinking milk tank, on the FBI’s most-wanted list, and unable to do anything but listen.

  “Whoa, hold on there,” Jumper broke in. “What you’re saying is very strange. Why didn’t the defense make a bigger deal out of who killed O’Neill?”

  “Because that wasn’t what the case was about. They overlooked its importance or maybe gave it low priority—I don’t know. The subject was never touched upon during the trial.”

  “I won’t want lawyers like that when the time comes, that’s for sure. So you’re saying the person who shot the perpetrator might have had something to hide? What, for example?”

  “Yeah, what do I know . . . ?” Bugatti chose his words carefully. “A spot of gun oil in his pocket from the weapon that killed Mimi Jansen, perhaps. Someone must have given O’Neill the weapon at the last moment. How else could he have gotten it? One would presume he’d been thoroughly searched before they let him in to the reception. Or maybe the person who shot O’Neill had also slipped a water glass into his own pocket—that’s also a possibility. But we can only speculate.”

  Doggie’s stomach was in knots, her bladder was full, and her bowels were in turmoil. It was like everything inside her was trying to get out. She gasped for breath. Bugatti had really said a mouthful. For Christ’s sake, there must be someone out there who’d heard him, who would take him seriously—a judge, a lawyer, a policeman. She shook her head. Why had Bugatti not said all this sooner?

  “This is sure some tasty food for thought you’re serving up, Mr. John Doe, I must say. But why did you wait until now to tell us?” Jumper must have read Doggie’s mind. “Seems to me you could have made these deductions weeks ago.”

  Doggie nodded. Yes, John. Why did you wait? Why did she wait—and so many others, for that matter? She stamped her foot in frustration, then froze when she heard the steel cylinder’s booming echo. But everything outside sounded okay; the truck’s motor was in high gear.

  She could hear John Bugatti heave a distorted sigh through her little speaker. “Yes, I suppose I could have. But my brain didn’t start working in that direction until I realized how many apparently random incidents there had been that might actually fit a pattern—including the Killer on the Roof.”

  “Then we have to conclude that coordinated criminal acts were committed, possibly orchestrated way up the political ladder.”

  “Yes, at least some of them.”

  “Now, dear listeners, during this next musical interlude please meditate on these uppercuts we’ve just dealt our great American democracy. We’re going to play something rather different from Johnny Cash this time, and in the meantime we’ll be changing frequencies again, so . . .” Suddenly, there was a loud ringing sound in the studio. “Just a second . . .” he said, then there was noise of tumult and shouting.

  “What’s happening?” cried Bugatti’s distorted voice.

  “We’ve got to get out of here; turn off that switch over there,” came Jumper’s high-pitched voice in reply.

  There was a single click, then just low static like on all the other stations.

  She sat and stared into the darkness, her insides in revolt. What happened? Had they just caught up with Tom Jumper—and John Bugatti, too? Was this the latest example of gross injustice from her employer’s hand?

  “Oh, God, I need to find out more; I’ve got to speak with Bugatti,” she whispered, fumbling her way to her plastic bag. She found it and pulled out the little Buddha, then sat still in the pitch blackness, listening to her surroundings.

  Just as they were passing what sounded like a big truck, she smashed the figurine on the steel floor with all her might. There was a sharp, lingering echo, but she was sure the noise couldn’t be heard from outside.

  Then she fished the cell phone out of her pocket and once more turned on the display to use as a flashlight. There were bits of china everywhere, and she preferred not to think about how well the tank would be cleaned before it was filled with milk again. No, she couldn’t imagine there being any danger of some child choking on a chunk of her Chinese Buddha. She crawled back and forth, feeling around in the rubble. Years ago in Beijing she’d seen John Bugatti pretend to stuff a piece of paper with a phone number into the statue’s mouth; maybe Rosalie was right and he hadn’t been pretending? But there was no slip of paper, and that was that.

  She lay down on her back, on top of the broken pieces of the Buddha, and prayed they’d reach their destination soon. Too many dark thoughts were circling around in her head, her insides were crying out to be emptied of waste and refilled with new food, and her body was stiff from the tank’s incessant vibration and movement. It was torture, of a kind she had never imagined.

  What now? she thought, and remembered the time one of her most beloved professors at Harvard had caught her crying after one of his lectures. “Why are you crying?” he’d asked. And when she’d explained between sobs that her head was so filled up that she couldn’t think straight, he’d looked at her with the kind of indulgence only shared by equals, and said: “Good Lord, Doggie, this happens to everyone. Your head’s swarming, and there isn’t space for more. You have to tidy up your mental archive.”

  At first she hadn’t understood what he meant, although she nodded when he asked whether she had other things on her mind besides his class. Then she saw what he was getting at. And now, here she was again, tormented by a headful of unstructured thoughts and a suffering body, and realized the necessity of establishing some order in her bewildered brain. So she staggered to the far end of the cylinder, pulled down her pants, and squatted. There she stayed until she’d excreted all her body had to offer, well aware that the driver would have some extra work when he got back to the depot. I’ll give him another $500, she decided, and began getting her mind under control, step-by-step. She would spend the night at Rosalie’s sister’s and deal with tomorrow when the time came. There’d be no more dreaming about the future. Her father would be executed the day after tomorrow, there was no getting around it, but it wasn’t her fault. It was horrible, bu
t he wouldn’t suffer, that was the important thing. Maybe they would catch her, but there was no way she’d give up without a fight. If they put her in prison, sooner or later she’d be vindicated. There was no room in her mental archive for anxiety. Actually, there was no room for feelings at all—for herself or for anybody else. She pulled up her pants and made her way back to the transistor radio. She switched it on and turned the dial, but could find only static.

  “Okay,” she said aloud, “that was the archive. Now comes the real work.”

  She had to picture the scene in her father’s Virginia Beach hotel as clearly as possible, so she shut her eyes—even in the darkness—in order to concentrate.

  On that fatal evening she had walked towards the passageway to the hotel’s conference room, along with all the other VIPs, arm in arm with Bugatti and feeling jubilant. Everything had fallen into place as planned. Bruce Jansen had been elected president, and her father’s election night celebration was going spectacularly well, in spite of some kitsch decorations. A double row of senators and their spouses were walking in front of her, and in a matter of weeks she’d actually be fulfilling her dream of working in the White House. Life was good.

  “Nice evening, don’t you think?” she’d said to Bugatti as they turned a corner from the corridor into the passageway. The sight that greeted her left her—and everyone else—in awe; the entire passage was draped in Stars and Stripes. Then her father had taken over. He’d looked so fantastic in his tuxedo and everything was so perfect that she didn’t really hear what he said. Next her father nodded to Toby O’Neill, and she remembered how overwhelmed she had been by a feeling of anticlimax. She could tell John Bugatti had felt it, too. How could her father let that miserable little man perform the unveiling ceremony? He was so wrong and pathetic standing there. Then O’Neill obediently stretched out his arms in his oversized red jacket to let himself be searched by a Secret Service man. For a second she’d wondered at how quickly O’Neill obliged the Secret Service agent, then the events that followed made her forget about it.

  She sat on the cold stainless steel, concentrating, and tried to rewind her mental videotape a little. Okay, she had been walking behind the senators and their spouses, all arranged in order of importance. She squeezed her eyes shut even tighter, as though it would help her remember more.

  Stephen Lovell had been walking behind her, along with other members of the campaign team, but not Thomas Sunderland. He had placed himself way at the front of the entourage with Ben Kane and two of his security team, directly behind President-Elect Jansen, his wife, and Doggie’s father. She’d noticed Sunderland and Kane when the Secret Service agent stepped forward to frisk O’Neill. And suddenly, Ben Kane was standing there, too, not a few yards behind with Sunderland, as he’d been a moment earlier. It wasn’t easy placing them correctly at the proper point in time.

  In any case, practically everybody had been looking at the huge, repulsive portrait at the moment Toby revealed it, but Doggie had been watching O’Neill. He’d pulled the cord and taken a step back, in the direction of Ben Kane, so they were standing very close. Thomas Sunderland was on tiptoes behind Kane, looking over his shoulder to get a glimpse of the painting.

  At least that’s what she had thought at the time.

  Then the guests had pushed their way closer, and she could no longer see Toby, who was forced against the wall along with the people standing behind him. She’d looked up briefly at the painting, then down at her father. If only he were standing next to O’Neill, she remembered thinking, then he could keep the fool under control, if necessary. But instead she found her father a couple of yards away, listening to something Mimi Jansen was whispering to him, after which he left by a door that Doggie knew led to a small kitchen behind the conference room.

  Her stomach began rumbling again. Frowning with concentration, she pressed on her diaphragm until it stopped. She could allow absolutely nothing to interrupt her train of thought right now.

  Anyway, according to her father’s testimony, he had gone out to the kitchen to fetch Mimi Jansen a glass of water. A glass, according to John Bugatti’s theory, that later could have disappeared into Ben Kane’s or someone else’s pocket. Finding traces of water afterwards was pointless, since half the people in the passageway had thrown themselves to the floor when the first shot rang out, and if Bud Curtis had returned at exactly that moment and dropped the glass in shock over what he saw, then naturally the water would have been absorbed by the clothing of those lying on the floor, and no one would have noticed where the glass ended up in the ensuing panic.

  The second after the shot, she’d looked around in confusion and felt Bugatti’s pain even before she saw all the blood. The blood seeping through his shirt, the blood spreading beneath Mimi Jansen’s body, the blood spattered over the wall behind O’Neill’s skinny, twisted corpse. She’d bent over to see where Bugatti had been hit, then looked around desperately and seen Ben Kane’s and Sunderland’s savage expressions as they reached the dying Mimi Jansen. The area was now a mass of undefined humanity, running and crawling for cover. She’d looked around for her father and found him kneeling next to one of the wounded. His pant legs were wet—with blood, she’d assumed at the time. Now she knew it had been water; she should have realized this much sooner. In her mind’s eye she could see Sunderland snarling at the agents who were shielding the president. See him yanking them out of his way, his thin hair flying in all directions, the lining of one jacket pocket inside out and his face going through a series of small explosions.

  She heard the whine of the milk tanker’s brakes and found herself sliding across the floor of the container. For a moment she thought they’d reached their destination, but the motor resumed its deep rumbling. As she brushed bits of debris from the Buddha off her body, her hand touched something that made her gasp. She grabbed the cell phone and lit the display, already knowing what she would find: a little scrap of paper with a long telephone number in John Bugatti’s neat handwriting. A seventeen-year-old number that had probably been changed long ago and, if not, might now have been discovered precisely a half hour too late, judging from the commotion followed by abrupt silence she’d heard on Tom Jumper’s radio show.

  “Uncle Danny” was written on the paper along with the phone number, precisely as Bugatti had promised. It was a Washington number, of course.

  You’ve got to try it, Doggie, she told herself. It may still work. Maybe you can leave a message for John; maybe he’s okay.

  She punched in the number, heart pounding, and raised the phone slowly to her ear, trying to put off the inevitable tone that meant the number was no longer in service. She held her breath and stared out into darkness as the phone began to ring. Now it was a question of whose number it was and if anyone would answer, considering the time was way past midnight.

  Finally, after more than thirty seconds, a tired voice came on the line. “Hello, this is Danny,” it said.

  Doggie’s mouth opened slowly. Oh, God—it was him! It was so unreal, she almost dared not say anything. Why hadn’t she believed in Bugatti? Why had she deluded herself all these years, thinking it had merely been a case of an adult momentarily soothing the pain of a child and then forgetting about her? Why hadn’t she believed it possible for a person to be faithful all this time?

  Shame follows mistrust, she thought, then said hello. “Is this Uncle Danny I’m speaking to?”

  His voice sounded weak and far away, yet it was not a voice one would expect from an older man, like an uncle. “‘Uncle Danny’ . . . ?” he repeated. “No one has called me that for at least ten years. With whom am I speaking?”

  She explained who she was and about Bugatti’s ancient promise.

  “I know” was all he said. “I’ve heard a lot about you. I wish I could help, but John has gone underground. I’m hoping he’ll call home, but unfortunately I can’t say when.”

  “You didn’t
hear him on the radio?” she asked. The vehicle made a sudden turn, and she had to fight to keep her balance.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear what you said. There was so much noise on the line . . .”

  “Oh, it was nothing,” she quickly replied. Why worry an old man? “But will you give him a message, if he calls?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Tell him I would like to meet him tomorrow afternoon at the Teaism salon on Market Square. I’ll be there between one and two. Say it has to do with Thomas Sunderland.”

  Uncle Danny sounded worried but said he’d do what he could. What he said next jerked her back to brutal reality: “Oh, God, just so long as nothing’s happened to him. Maybe he’ll never be coming home again.”

  She understood his concern but hoped fervently she had misunderstood the rest. Home, he’d said.

  “Excuse me, but what do you mean by ‘home again’? Do you live together?”

  He hesitated a moment. “Are you sure you and John know each other? I mean, you are Doggie Rogers, aren’t you?”