Snyder reluctantly folded the newspaper and laid it in front of him on his desk. He perused Liarakos’ document.
“The prosecutor seen this?” the judge asked curtly.
“Yes, sir.”
“What’d he say?”
“Well, he didn’t want a say. Said he would abide by your decision.”
“I know he’ll abide by my decision. I want to know if he wants to argue before I make it.”
“No. He doesn’t.”
“Well?” the judge said, holding the sheets between thumb and forefinger and waving them gently back and forth.
“It’s a personal problem. I just don’t think I can adequately represent Aldana and I want to be excused. There are dozens of competent, experienced criminal lawyers in this town and Aldana can afford any of them. Hell, he could hire ’em all.”
“Why?”
“It’s personal.”
“Had some young puppy in here last week with a motion like this. It all came down to the fact he thought his client was guilty. This isn’t any damned silly nonsense like that, is it?”
“No. It’s personal.”
“You sick?”
“No.”
“In trouble with the law?”
“No, sir.”
“Motion denied.” Snyder tossed the paper back across the desk. It landed in front of Liarakos, who stared at it.
“It’s my wife. She’s a cocaine addict.”
“Sorry to hear that. But what’s that got to do with this motion?”
Liarakos raised his hands, then lowered them. He opened his mouth, then closed it and stared at his hands. “I want out. I can’t in good conscience defend Aldana. He’s entitled to a good defense and I can’t give it to him.”
“Horseshit,” Judge Snyder said. “How many lawyers are there these days who haven’t had a friend become addicted to something? All these damn fools used pot in college. They go to parties and somebody has a sugar bowl full of powder for the guests who are ‘with it.’ I may be an old fart but I know what the hell goes on. Half the bar has your problem or some version of it.”
Seeing the look on Liarakos’ face, Judge Snyder’s tone softened, “Now look. If I approve that motion, Aldana’s new lawyer will think up fifty reasons why he needs a ton of extra time to study the government’s case and file motions and I’ll almost have to give it to him. Yet the government wants Aldana tried as soon as possible, for a lot of reasons that have to do with foreign policy and our relations with Colombia. Those reasons are good ones, in my opinion. I suggest you talk to your client. Tell him what you’ve told me. If he wants to get another lawyer, that’s his business. It’s his ass. But the new lawyer will get not one more day than you’ve got. Tell Aldana that too.”
“I’ve already talked to him,” Liarakos said. “He wants me.”
“Did you tell him your wife was a cocaine addict?”
“Yes. I did.”
The judge very much wanted to ask what Aldana’s reaction to that revelation was, but he refrained. Attorney-client privilege. He contented himself with readjusting his fanny in his chair and easing the pressure on his scrotum. He also raised an eyebrow.
“He just grinned,” Liarakos muttered. He stood up and walked around the room.
He was examining a law book when he said, “I probably shouldn’t say this, but I will. My impression is that it really doesn’t matter to Chano Aldana who his lawyer is. Apparently the man thinks he’ll never go to trial.”
“Had a dog like that once,” Judge Snyder said, and lazily stretched his arms out as far as they would go. “Kept shitting on the carpet. His education was painful, but he finally got the message.”
At two o’clock that afternoon Vice-President Quayle held a news conference. Television rating services later reported that more people watched this news conference than any previous one in the history of television.
When Quayle first walked into the glare of the television lights and looked at the sea of faces of the waiting media, he handled it well, his aides offstage thought as they watched him on a monitor. He looked calm, properly somber, in charge. He began by reading a short statement that expressed the nation’s outrage at the person or persons who had attempted to take the President’s life and the government’s resolve to bring the perpetrators to justice. The aides nodded with every phrase. The Vice-President had rehearsed this little speech for a quarter hour, and it came off just right, they thought.
The first question was unexpected, however, and horrified the aides and William C. Dorfman, who stood among them staring at the monitor with his tummy hanging over his belt and a sheen of perspiration on his forehead. “Mr. Vice-President, a group calling themselves the Extraditables, who are known Colombian narcotics traffickers, has just claimed credit for shooting down President Bush. Does the government have any evidence to support or refute that claim?”
It was here that the worldwide audience got another look at that blank, frozen, wide-eyed stare that an inspired reporter had once dubbed “the deer in the headlights look.”
“I … I hadn’t heard that,” Quayle said after a few seconds. “Did it just come in?”
“Yessir. From Medellín, Colombia.”
“Well, I don’t know,” Quayle said lamely. “We are investigating—looking at evidence and all—I don’t know. Ahh … of course, nut groups and criminals can say anything. We’ll see.”
The same reporter had a follow-up question. “What will be the United States government’s response if the Extraditables’ claim proves to be true?”
“Well, I don’t know that it is true. As I said, criminals can say anything. If it’s true, I don’t know. We’ll … ahh … I guess I don’t want to … ahh … speculate about what we might do.”
Offstage Dorfman nodded vigorously. He had impressed on the Vice-President the necessity of not committing himself or the government to any particular course of action on any matter. So far so good.
“Why,” another reporter asked, “haven’t the people who did this been apprehended?”
Quayle was ready for this one. “The various law-enforcement agencies are doing everything within their power to find the people who shot down the President. I am satisfied with the manpower and methods they are using. We will announce results when we have some that can be publicized without jeopardizing the ongoing investigation.”
“Do you feel,” a woman reporter asked, “that you are capable of properly fulfilling the heavy responsibilities that you have just assumed?”
“Well … I … I think I can do what needs to be done. I’m hoping right along with everybody else that George Bush recovers quickly and can reassume the responsibilities of his office.” Here the Vice-President spoke sincerely, and quite effectively, Dorfman thought. This response had been carefully rehearsed. “No one wants George Bush to get well more than I do. I’m praying for him and I hope everyone else in America is too.”
When it was over Dorfman led the entourage back toward the office spaces as he snarled at his executive assistant, “Get me a copy of that damned Extraditables press release. And get the CIA and State Department people over here on the double. I want to know what the fuck is going on and why the hell the press got it before we did. I want to know now!”
At the conference in the cabinet room that followed, Quayle sat at the center of the table where Bush normally sat and said little. Arranged around the table were the directors of the FBI, CIA, and DEA, the assistant secretary of state—the secretary had died in the helicopter crash that had injured the President—the attorney general, and the head of the Secret Service. Dorfman sat beside Quayle and did the talking. As usual, he was blunt.
“Are the Extraditables behind this?”
No one knew.
“By God, we’d better find out and damn fast.”
“We’re squeezing our sources now. We’ll hear something soon.”
“Squeeze harder. We’ve got to find out who is behind this attempted murder and get
these people arrested. Right now the public is holding its breath. We can’t get on with the business of government when ninety percent of the stuff in the newspapers and on the air is about assassins and victims. So the people who did this have got to be found. Find them.”
Afterward Dorfman had a private conference with Dan Quayle, a man whom he would have despised if he had ever taken the time to think about him, which he hadn’t. Dorfman occupied the center of the universe and everyone else merely orbited his star. Still, while he had never had any patience with people who lacked his intellectual gifts, lazy rich people who floated effortlessly along enjoying life’s bounties had always brought forth the darkest side of his aggressive personality. Just now he had to steel himself to treat Quayle with what he thought was deference.
“This Extraditables claim,” he muttered, “is political dynamite. No doubt this very minute someone is advocating an invasion of Colombia. The least misstep and we could have Colombians publicly assaulted in our streets. Remember the hostage mess in Iran ten or eleven years ago?”
Quayle remembered.
“And yet, if we don’t take measured, positive steps to handle this mess, people will say that you’re incompetent. Anything you do will be too much for some people, too little for others.”
“I’ve been in politics for a while,” Quayle said, a little annoyed at Dorfman. He disliked being patronized and that was all he ever got from Dorfman. He had spent the last two years assiduously avoiding the man.
Dorfman continued, trying to sound reasonable. “My role for the President has been to play the bad cop, the hard ass, the guy who says no. I suggest that until the President recovers enough to resume his duties, you continue to use me the same way. Let me play the heavy. When something positive comes along, you take the credit.”
“That might have worked for George Bush, but it won’t work for me,” Dan Quayle said. “Not over the long haul. People think I’m incompetent, a featherweight.” Dorfman tried to interrupt but Quayle kept going. “I’m not going to let you be de facto President while I sit on my thumb. That won’t work.”
“I know that, sir. I’m merely making a suggestion. You’re the man in charge.”
Quayle’s innocent blue eyes zeroed in and didn’t blink. “Governor, I’m going to lay it right on the line with you. Everyone knows that you wanted to be the vice-presidential candidate in ’88 but Bush picked me instead. Everyone knows that you want the spot in ’92. And everyone, including me, suspects that you’ve been lobbying the President to dump me from the ticket.”
“I haven’t,” Dorfman said, his face reddening.
Dan Quayle continued as if he hadn’t heard. “Right now I don’t think it would be a good idea to replace Bush’s team, at least until we get some idea of when the President might be capable of resuming his duties. But,” Quayle added matter-of-factly, “this team had better get some results.”
At four p.m. that afternoon Thanos Liarakos had a short visit with his client, Chano Aldana, in a cell. The guard was outside and the two were alone. Liarakos had long suspected these visitation cells were bugged but this afternoon he never gave possible listeners a thought.
“Your colleagues in Colombia are taking credit for the attempted assassination of George Bush.”
Aldana merely grunted. Something like amusement played across his fleshy features.
“Well, did they do it? Or did you hire it done?”
“What’s it to you, Mr. American lawyer?”
“I’m your defense counsel. I want to know if you’re responsible for the attempt on the President’s life.”
Aldana snorted. Then his lips curled in a sneer. “You’ve got two daughters, right? What are their names—let me think—oh yes! Susanna and Lisa. Now listen very, very carefully, Mr. Thanos Liarakos, rich American lawyer with the clean white hands. You tell these people that if they don’t send me back to Colombia, many more Americans will die. You silly people have been living in a dream world. I’m going to show you the hard, naked truth. And if you double-cross me, if you don’t do exactly what I tell you, you won’t have two pretty little daughters anymore.” Aldana snapped his fingers. “Do you understand me, Mr. Thanos Liarakos?”
“Guard! Guard! I’m ready to leave.” Liarakos pounded on the door. He wiped his palms on his trousers.
“You had better pay attention, Mr. Liarakos,” Aldana hissed. “If you think I can’t reach you or your daughters, that will be your last mistake. I got to George Bush. I can get to anyone on this planet. Do you understand?”
The door opened then and Liarakos went through, but not without looking back over his shoulder at the round, sneering face of Chano Aldana.
As he walked down the corridor he wiped his hands on his trousers again, then swabbed his face with his sleeve. He saw the sign on the door that said MEN and ducked in. Suddenly he had an overpowering urge to urinate.
The prosecutor, William Bader, and Thanos Liarakos twisted uncomfortably in their chairs across the desk from Attorney General Gideon Cohen. Liarakos had gone directly from the cell to the prosecutor’s office, and the two of them had come here, to the Department of Justice. Liarakos had just finished his tale.
“What does he expect the American government to do?” Cohen asked, his eyebrows high in disbelief.
“Send him back to Colombia,” Liarakos said curtly. “I told you that.”
“No.”
The attorney general leaned back in his chair and stared at Liarakos. Liarakos stared back.
“I want protection for my daughters,” Liarakos said at last.
“Send them to their grandparents.”
“Don’t give me that crap! These people can reach anywhere! I believe the son of a bitch. I want protection!”
“Two FBI agents.”
“Around the clock. In school and in the head. Every minute of every day.”
“For a while, okay.” Cohen nodded. “But we’re going to hold Aldana incommunicado. You are the only human who talks to him.”
Liarakos snorted. “You wish. The jailers will see him. We have to feed him. They’ll tell him what’s happening. He’ll threaten and bribe them. How are you going to stop that?”
“Quantico,” Bader suggested. “Let’s let the Marines hold him in their brig down there. Move all the other prisoners out.”
“Any objection, counselor?” Cohen asked.
“Do it.” Liarakos stood.
“Not so fast,” Cohen said, straightening in his chair. “I want you to talk to the FBI. He claims he’s responsible for four murders and the attempted assassination of the President. He’s threatened other people. You’re going to repeat this word for word in a sworn deposition.”
“No, I’m not. Attorney-client privilege.”
“Waived,” Cohen shot back.
“Like hell! I do a deposition like that and you’ll have to find another lawyer to defend the cocksucker and Judge Snyder will have a pound of my ass. I’ve told you what my client wanted me to say. That’s it. You tell the FBI and the White House and anybody else you care to. This hot potato is all yours. I’m done. And I’m leaving.” Liarakos walked out.
Cohen was on the phone to the FBI before the door closed behind the defense lawyer.
At midnight Henry Charon locked the door to the Hampshire Avenue apartment and went down the stairs to the street. He walked the block to his car, unlocked it, maneuvered it carefully from his parking place, and drove away.
The evening was chilly and humid. Much colder and it might snow. He was dressed for the weather. Long underwear, hiking boots, a sweater and warm coat. Under his thin leather gloves he wore a set of latex surgical gloves, just in case.
Scrupulously obeying the traffic laws, Henry Charon drove to National Airport and parked in the long-term lot. He put the entry ticket in his shirt pocket and sat behind the wheel scanning the lot. It took him about three minutes to decide on the vehicle he wanted. Just as he was about to get out of his car, another car drove in. He w
aited until the driver had exited the lot, then got out and carefully locked his door and put the keys in his trouser pocket.
The car he had selected was a Toyota. Getting in took about half a minute. Charon slid a thin, flat metal shim down between the driver’s window glass and the felt seal and fished carefully until he got the notch in the shim in the right place. Then he pulled. The door lock button rose with a click.
Inside the car he felt under the mat. No luck. Not that he really needed a key, of course. He could hot wire the car with about five minutes of work, but a key would be nice. He looked in the ashtray and the glove box and the little compartment for cassette tapes. A spare key was wedged in there under a Grateful Dead tape.
The car started on the first crank. Half a tank of gas.
Charon gave the attendant the ticket from his shirt pocket and a dollar on the way out. The attendant had a portable radio going, a news-talk station. As the attendant glanced at the ticket and rang it up, Charon heard a voice on the radio mention Dan Quayle. As the wooden arm in front of the car rose, Charon fed gas. The attendant hadn’t even looked at him.
It took an hour to find the house he was looking for in Silver Spring, set back among tall, stately maples and some really large pines. No cars on the street. He drove down to the corner and out to the main avenue, memorizing the turns, then turned around and came back.
As he eased the car down the driveway he examined the house for lights. One was on behind drapes in a downstairs room—he could just make out the glow.
Charon left the engine running and slipped the transmission into park. He pulled off the leather gloves and laid them on the seat beside him.
The automatic was in one coat pocket and the silencer in another. It took about six twists to screw the silencer into place. He didn’t check the magazine or chamber—he knew they were ready.
He opened the car door and stepped out, then pushed the door closed until the interior light went out.
A brick stoop, a little button for the doorbell. He could hear the tinkle somewhere in the house.
The breeze was chilly and the wind in the pines made a gentle moan. It was a sound he had always liked. Now he shut that sound out and listened for others, car doors or engines or voices.
05.Under Siege v5 Page 34
