At all costs

by John Gilstrap

  So the clock ticked on. If only to pass the time, Jake replayed his conversation with Carolyn in his head, trying to remember if he’d given anything useful to the cops. He assumed that the conversation was taped; but even if it wasn’t, it may as well have been. The cops stood close enough to share his shoes. Carolyn fully understood what was at risk here, and he was confident she knew precisely what to do. Each time he replayed the words, he relaxed a little more, confident they’d given nothing away.

  The sound of an opening door drew his attention toward the chief’s office, where he’d seen them all disappear so long ago. From the grim expression on Rivers’s face, Jake couldn’t tell whether his ordeal was over or just beginning. When Lucas emerged, though, and fired off a wink and a smile, Jake knew he was a free man.

  He felt himself flush in a burst of excitement and anxiety that left him a bit dizzy. Not wanting to look too happy, he suppressed the triumphant grin that fought to assert itself and donned a concerned frown instead.

  “Don’t look so glum, Jake,” Lucas said. “You’re free to go.”

  Jake released just a bit of the smile, then looked toward Irene, who ignored him altogether as she produced a tiny key and removed the handcuffs, first from the chair and then from Jake’s wrist. As she folded the cuffs at their chain and dropped them into the pocket of her blazer, she extended a reproachful forefinger at her ex-prisoner. “Don’t you ever point a gun at me again, do you understand?”

  Jake brought his eyebrows together and pretended to be scared. “Yes, ma’am.” Street clothes shrink you by half, lady. “And thanks for understanding.”

  She measured Jake for a moment longer, then ended the encounter with a brief nod, before turning on her heel and heading for the coffee room.

  He turned to the lawyer and shook his hand warmly. “Lucas, I can’t tell you how grateful I am.” As he spoke, he felt a twinge of remorse for what his newfound friend was about to go through. “You really saved my life, buddy.”

  Lucas smiled broadly and clapped Jake on the shoulder. “No, Jake,” he corrected, “Agent Rivers over there is the one who didn’t shoot you. All I saved was your reputation.” They shared a chuckle. “I wish I could offer you a ride home, but I’ve got some paperwork over at the courthouse.”

  Jake waived the offer. “God, no,” he said. “I’ll just walk uptown and get a cab.”

  Chief Sherwood entered the conversation and placed a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Sorry for all the confusion, Mr. Brighton,” he said, extending his hand. “Peter Sherwood, chief of police. This guy fought like hell for you. I’m tempted to wreck my car just to do business at your shop.”

  They all laughed. “We try to do our best,” Jake said, sloughing off the compliment. The clock buzzed again, and here he was, small-talking with the goddamn police chief! “Listen,” he said, as if unexpectedly struck with an idea, “I’ve really got to run. As much fun as I’ve had here today, I’ve got to get going.”

  “Why don’t I get an officer to drive you home,” Sherwood offered. “Or back to your shop.”

  Jake smiled but shook his head. “No, that’s okay. I’ll catch a cab.”

  “The hell you will,” Sherwood huffed. “The least I can do is give you a ride, for Christ’s sake.” He called to one of the uniformed officers. “Jason! I need you to give Mr. Brighton here a ride.”

  Jake’s stomach knotted tight. “No, really,” he insisted, hoping his voice wouldn’t crack. “You have bad guys to catch. I don’t want to be a bother.”

  Sherwood made a show of walking away, not listening anymore. Jake was stuck. The nearest place to catch a cab would be out in front of the Sears store uptown, and that was nearly a mile away. No one would willingly walk that distance if they didn’t have to. Unless, of course, they had something to hide. He needed to be very careful here.

  Young Jason-Officer Slavka, by his name tag-approached cheerfully, twirling his key ring on his finger. “Would you like to follow me, sir?”

  Not on a bet, Jake didn’t say. As he trailed the young officer out the squad room door and down the front steps, he waved one last time to Lucas Banks.

  With speed zones and traffic lights, the shop was a half hour away. No way could Jake risk that kind of exposure-in a police cruiser, no less! By contrast, the staging area lay just on the other side of the business district, maybe a ten-minute drive from the police station on a bad traffic day.

  Excuse me, Officer, but would you mind dropping me off at a place where I can stage a more convenient getaway?

  The absurdity of it all made him smile, even as his eyes stayed focused on the cruiser’s two-way radio. When the balloon went up, he figured that’s how the announcement would be made. How the hell was he going to bluff his way out of this one?

  For years, he and Carolyn had planned for this moment as a distant, improbable “if.” If something happened, and they had to run, this is what they’d do. They’d developed endless checklists of ifs, each of which carried its own solution. By careful planning, they’d taken some of the edge off their fear.

  Now, he realized, by obliterating that edge, they’d inadvertently opened the door to complacency. It had been months since he’d serviced the escape van; nearly a year since he’d been to the safe house. For all he knew, both had burned up or been stolen. In the context of a plan governed by ifs, he’d been able to justify these lapses, rationalizing that he could always catch up.

  Now, though, the ifs had blossomed into whens, and the weaknesses of their plan were startlingly clear. By rights, the feds should have nailed him already. But for a random act of inattention by some midlevel clerk on the other end of a modem, they’d have identified Jake for who he was an hour ago. How pitifully ironic. All the planning, all the contingencies, all the clandestine trips and purchases, came down to stupid luck, in a game where the odds were hopelessly stacked against him.

  And here he was joyriding in a damn cop car!

  Think, Jake. Think.

  As Jason navigated the traffic circle at Maple Avenue and Tobacco Trail, Jake saw the five-story hospital in the distance, and a plan materialized out of nowhere.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  For roughly ten months out of the year, from noon till two, Monday through Friday, the center of power in Washington, D.C., shifted from the halls of the Capitol and the Executive Office Building to a handful of elite dining establishments. When meeting with charity organizers, industry leaders, or sports heroes, the natural choices for lunch were the Washington landmarks: The Palm, Old Ebbitt Grill, and the Hay-Adams Hotel. In these places, where the press mingled freely with their prey, the rules of engagement were clear. Anything said to anyone-from one’s entree to a request for directions to the men’s room-was always on the record.

  Those public watering holes provided extended research opportunities for gossip columnists-a place to be seen-but matters of substance were rarely discussed there. The real business of politics required privacy: a place where security was more important than the quality of the food, and the maitre d’ knew who could be allowed to sit in sight of whom. Eddie Bartholomew ran such a place, the Smithville Restaurant, on Connecticut Avenue near Woodley Park. Everyone who was anyone had passed through Eddie’s place over the years, on their way toward greatness or obscurity. Yet, when pressed for a name, Eddie could never remember a single one. Maple paneling covered the walls of the Smithville, with gorgeous Constable landscapes occupying the spaces reserved in the high-profile restaurants for autographed glossies of the owner shaking hands with his celebrity guests.

  In the whole world, only 278 people could make a reservation at the Smithville, each of whom ponied up $15,000 a year for the right, with the understanding that even they might occasionally be denied. It wouldn’t do, for example, for the Democratic White House chief of staff to be seen dining with his mistress at the same time the Republican Speaker of the House was entertaining his special male friends.

  Eddie paid big bucks to have his place swept dai
ly for listening devices, and everyone- everyone — submitted to screening by a metal detector. Guests with bodyguards had to make a choice at the front door: either their security detail checked their weapons at the desk, or their master would dine alone. Eddie had learned long ago that firearms brought trouble.

  Reporters and cops were persona non grata; they simply never got reservations. A couple of years ago, in fact, a reporter from the Post had tried to force his way past the desk to get a glimpse of the diners. The maitre d’ stopped him, of course, but the reporter somehow broke both ankles and his wrist on his way down the front stairs.

  Currently, Eddie found himself in a tough spot. Clayton Albricht, chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee, had been a very good customer for a very long time, and he knew the rules. In spite of this, the senator had invited Peter Frankel, deputy director of the FBI, to be his guest. When the news reached the kitchen that one of the top cops in the country was planning to dine in, several of Eddie’s staff took the day off. The owner tried to explain to the paranoid cooks and dishwashers what Albricht had explained on the telephone-that Frankel’s business was unofficial-but they refused to listen. Worse, following his own protocol when dealing with controversial guests of members, Eddie had informed everyone else who’d made a reservation that the heat would be there, and nearly a dozen had either canceled or postponed till after two.

  Left with little choice, Eddie rationalized that Albricht’s years of faithful patronage probably earned him a break, just this once. Whatever the senator’s business was, though, Eddie hoped that it warranted all the inconvenience. Certainly, it would be the last time he’d permit such an intrusion.

  If Clayton Albricht ever got around to dying-instead of just looking perpetually like he was on the brink-the parade of mourners would doubtless be led by a squadron of political cartoonists. The senator was a living caricature. With his drawn, pallid skin, his prominent hooked nose, and a widow’s peak that rivaled Dracula’s, he’d been depicted as every kind of bird imaginable, from eagle to vulture to canary. He was a staunch proponent of individual rights and responsibilities, and his five terms had been defined by his consistent and reliable vote against every handout program ever devised.

  Painted by his opposition and the press as an anti-Semitic, gay-bashing misogynist, intent on watching children starve in the arms of their homeless grandparents, Albricht had long ago developed skin made of Kevlar and asbestos. He ignored the taunts of his enemies and focused on the needs of the only people who counted-the residents of Illinois. To them, he stood for the basic midwestern values of Christianity, patriotism, and fairness. That he could transfer billions of federal dollars into the pockets of his constituents was merely icing on the cake.

  All politicians had enemies, but Albricht’s conservative leanings had earned him more than most. Having watched the senator consistently confound their plans, the special interests he opposed had tried every trick imaginable to knock him from his perch. All part of the game, he supposed.

  Of all the persecutions he’d endured, none were more bothersome or disruptive than the three special prosecutor investigations. Like farmyard dogs pursuing a wounded kitten, those bastards had torn his life apart, looking for any petty crime or indiscretion which the gentlemen on the other side of the aisle could leverage to eject him from power. In the end, they were oh-for-three.

  Never especially vindictive, Senator Albricht had never mustered the depth of character required to forgive those sons of bitches. Bending the Constitution to their own needs, his opposition had tried to hurt him and his family, for no better reason than to punish him for his beliefs. Of all the investigators, however, one stood out as the most aggressive, vitriolic, and unfair. On loan to the special prosecutor’s office from the FBI, this investigator had an agenda of his own and was every bit as committed to his own career as any of the spineless bastards he worked for.

  His name was Peter Frankel, and he’d pounced on his assignment like a hungry wolf on raw meat. When the contents of the Albrichts’ house, their cars, and their underwear drawers proved benign, he’d changed tack and started leaking stories to the press: that Albricht’s daughter had been arrested for drugs; that his son was gay and HIV-positive. The tactic was as clear as it was cruel: to flush out the strong by hurting the weak.

  Survivors by nature, the Albrichts got through it all with nary a punch thrown; but in the end, Frankel emerged as the big winner. He’d proved himself to be a committed team player and was ultimately rewarded with the title of deputy director-the highest nonpolitical job on the pyramid.

  And now the president-himself a know-nothing poll-watcher from the Deep South-had seen fit to nominate Frankel for the director’s job effective January 1, when the incumbent would retire to breed horses somewhere. At last, Frankel was close enough to touch the brass ring.

  And only one man stood in his way.

  As chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee, Clayton Albricht intended to kill Frankel’s nomination in as public and as humiliating a way as he could. With the hearings still five weeks away, it was too early to know specifically how his vendetta would be played out, but men like Frankel collected enemies like a boy collects baseball cards. By the time Albricht was done, every single one of them would get an opportunity to testify in open session. Revenge was a dish to be savored. And what better place to begin the smorgasbord than at the Smithville?

  “How was your meal?” the senator asked as Eddie removed their plates.

  Frankel patted his obscenely trim stomach. “The meal was wonderful,” he said. “Truthfully, though, I found the company a bit unsettling, Senator. Now that we’re between courses, I presume you’re getting to the point of this little ex parte feast?” Frankel had a face made for television; ruggedly smooth until he smiled. That’s when the dimples came out, perfectly aligned on either side of his grin. He was a walking recruitment manual for the FBI. Somehow the television cameras filtered out the lifelessness of his eyes-the raw ambition-that so intimidated people in person. Frankel knew damn well that his luncheon partner held the reins to his future, yet he still hadn’t flinched.

  “I assume you know, Peter, that you don’t have a chance next month. When I’m done with you, the public will be screaming for your indictment.” Albricht had already suffered through all the pleasantries he could stand for one day. The time had come for direct attack.

  The dimples didn’t move as Frankel lifted a curious eyebrow. “My, my, Senator. Sounds like you may have lost your objectivity. Perhaps I should have my attorney recommend recusal.”

  Albricht ignored the bait. Senate hearings were not trials, and he was not a judge; merely an advocate for the People, who ultimately would determine Frankel’s worthiness to run the world’s most powerful law enforcement agency.

  “I brought you here for one reason,” Albricht explained. “I wanted to give you a chance to step away from your nomination; to save your career and to save the president the embarrassment we both know your hearing will bring.”

  Frankel laughed at that one, long and hard. “And here I thought you just had an ax to grind!” he whooped. “So tell me, Clay. When did you start worrying about the political fortunes of the president? Last I heard, you were saying some pretty awful things about him.”

  Albricht’s eyes narrowed. He’d never expected Frankel to cave in-in fact, he’d have been disappointed if he had. But he expected something. A momentary look of fear, maybe? Hatred? Some emotional twitch to mimic the antipathy Albricht carried in his own heart? Instead, he just got more of the laughter; the unspoken “Screw you.”

  As the smile faded, Frankel replaced it with a patronizing sneer. He opened his mouth to say something, but the chirping of his cell phone interrupted him. Keeping eye contact with the senator the whole time, Frankel removed the phone from the pocket of his suit coat and punched a button. “Frankel.”

  He has something, Albricht mused as he eavesdropped on Frankel’s side of the conversation. The t
hought made the Alfredo sauce curdle in his stomach.

  “Who caught them?… Where?… No shit. Well, have that number ready for me when I get back. I want to call Agent Rivers personally.” He beamed like a lottery winner as he pushed the disconnect button and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

  Rising abruptly from the table, Frankel clapped Albricht on the shoulder. “Well, Clay, it looks like we’ll both be on the news tonight,” he said.

  Albricht remained stoic, a perfect poker face. Somewhere along the line, he’d lost control of this meeting. And he hadn’t a clue what Frankel was talking about.

  The deputy director of the FBI left without so much as a handshake, pausing halfway across the room. “You know,” he said glibly, “after all your years in the Senate, I’d have expected you to be less naive.” He chuckled at a joke that only he had heard, then left the dining room, on his way to collect his firearm.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Bullshit!”

  Chief Sherwood couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “They’ve made a mistake.”

  Agent Rivers’s face glowed crimson and her hands trembled with rage. “It’s no mistake, Sherwood! A perfect match on his prints. Your friend’s client is Jake Donovan. The Jake Donovan. God damn it!” Irene moved her arms randomly, as if searching for something to throw. “Number one on the Ten Most Wanted list, and I let him go.”

  Sherwood felt numb; and, frankly, a little shocked by the profanity that spewed from this petite yet apoplectic young lady. As royal screwups went, this one was certainly the blue-ribbon winner. Surely, it was a mistake. There it was, though, right there at the bottom of the sheet: “Wanted for murder.”

  As Irene ranted and danced around Sherwood’s office, trying to comprehend the instant implosion of her career, the chief stopped listening, concentrating instead on the dog-eared Wanted poster. Sure enough, the resemblance was there if you looked hard enough. Especially around the eyes.