At all costs

by John Gilstrap

  Eddie nodded. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Donovan.”

  “Call me Jake.”

  “And you can call me Eddie.” He led his guest as far as the reception lectern, then stopped. “I’ve spoken to Mr. Sinclair,” he said, “and he has vouched for you, but still, you must understand that we have rules here at the Smithville.” He removed an ornate wooden drawer from somewhere off to the side of his stand and placed it on top of the lectern. “Place your weapons here, please.”

  Jake found himself suddenly on edge. Thorne had explained in the car that the Smithville was neutral ground-the local equivalent of Switzerland-but this guy Eddie Bartholomew was a bundle of conflicting images. Dangerous yet polite; gracious yet brutish. Nonetheless, Jake understood the rules, and he placed his Glock inside the box.

  “Any ammunition, too, please,” Eddie said. “Saves us an anxious moment when we use the metal detector.”

  “What, you don’t trust me?” Jake quipped. He meant it as a joke, but Eddie took it seriously.

  “No, I don’t,” he said. “Nothing personal, you understand. I don’t trust anyone. Can’t afford to.” He smiled.

  Jake didn’t bother. There was no humor in it, anyway. He dutifully produced the two extra magazines from his jacket pockets and added them to the pile in the drawer.

  “Is that all? No knives? No backup pieces strapped to an ankle somewhere?”

  Jake shook his head. “That’s it.”

  Eddie made a face that showed surprise, but he didn’t argue. “Mr. Sinclair assured me there would be no violence this afternoon.”

  Jake had to quash a brief rush of amusement as he realized that under the top layers of gracious suspicion, there lay within Eddie a bedrock of fear. “Don’t worry,” Jake reassured. “My mission today is merely to talk.” He glanced over his shoulders. “Where’s the rest of your staff?”

  The maitre d’ shrugged and tossed his head to the side. “They’ve taken a few hours off. Given the guest list for your meeting, it seemed prudent for all concerned. Mr. Sinclair also assured me that you’d be finished before the dinner rush begins.”

  “I don’t think that will be a problem at all,” Jake said.

  The answer seemed to please Eddie, who closed the gun drawer and led the way around to the staircase. “Follow me, please,” he said. “I understand that you need a place where you can remain out of sight.”

  Jake grumbled under his breath, “That’s the story of my life.”

  This time Paul drove. In fact, by the time they’d taxied all the way to the midfield terminal at Dulles, and they’d ridden the bus to the place where they could catch a second bus to the car rental counter, Paul felt like he might as well have driven all the way from Arkansas.

  With the zero notice they’d received to get here, they were lucky to have caught a flight as it was. Add that confusion to the disturbing lack of detail on the purpose of the trip, and what Paul had was a barrelful of question marks.

  “I’m glad this makes sense to you, Irene,” he said as he navigated the treacherous, narrow lanes of Route 66 through Arlington. “Because it sure beats the hell out of me.”

  She watched out the window, squirming with a desire to move faster through traffic. He drove like an old woman, sticking to posted speeds and prompting angry blasts from other motorists. “What’s to make sense? When the chairman of the Judiciary Committee tells you to come to a meeting, you come to a meeting.”

  “Without telling anyone? That’s not right. It’s not the way things are done. Christ, we didn’t even tell the field office here.”

  She shrugged, still avoiding eye contact. “He’s a senator. If he wants secrecy, we’ll give him secrecy.”

  “That’s improper as hell, Irene. Who is this senator to be giving us orders to begin with? I’ll bet you a week’s pay this has something to do with his alternative-lifestyle crap, and when it surfaces in the press, we’re gonna get screwed.”

  Finally, her head came around. “No, Paul. I’m gonna get screwed. You’re just sitting in the car, remember? Besides, he said it was about the Donovans. As case agent, I’m the one he should have called. Nothing improper in that at all.”

  “Then why doesn’t he want me in the meeting?”

  She rolled her features into a bored, condescending scowl. “That’ll be the very first question I ask,” she said, groaning. “Truthfully, my guess is that he’s turned up something on Frankel, and he’s as scared of his conclusions as we are.”

  As they crossed the Potomac, Route 66 became Constitution Avenue, and from there, it was only a matter of navigating the one-way streets up to Connecticut Avenue, where Senator Clayton Albricht would be waiting. Given Paul’s cynicism, she didn’t bother to mention that she’d agreed on the telephone to surrender her firearm at the door. Frankly, she didn’t need any more of his shit right now.

  By the time Clayton Albricht arrived at the Smithville at three-thirty, the luncheon crowd had come and gone, leaving the ornate cavern empty. Other than Eddie Bartholomew, he didn’t even see any service people.

  According to his telephone conversation with Harry Sinclair, if Clayton could convince Irene Rivers to travel to Washington in secret, and Peter Frankel to come to the Smithville for another afternoon rendezvous, then all this pedophile bullshit would go away. It wasn’t Sinclair’s way to be specific in such things, any more than Clayton would have welcomed specifics over the telephone.

  He moved to sit near the archway, as close as possible to the entrance. From there, he could see for himself who came and who left the restaurant, but Eddie Bartholomew wouldn’t hear of it. “Please,” he said as he led the senator toward a spacious table for four in the rear corner of the room. “You’ll be very comfortable over here.”

  Albricht considered arguing but didn’t bother. Eddie seemed wrapped pretty tight this afternoon. A man who was none too stable on a good day, it was best not to push him.

  Barely five minutes passed before he heard the heavy front door open and shut, and among the muddled conversation out in the hallway, he heard the unmistakable arrogance of Peter Frankel.

  Jake listened to it all from the top of the stairs, where he sat crouched out of sight. If he wanted to, he could crane his neck far enough to catch a glance at people’s legs as they arrived, but what was the point? He’d see them all, soon enough, from head to toe.

  He felt like a kid with a secret-ready to bust if he didn’t share it soon.

  When Frankel entered the foyer, Jake’s blood pressure topped the scale. Just breathing the same air as that son of a bitch was nearly more than he could tolerate.

  And Eddie Bartholomew was just as cordial as could be. They exchanged pleasantries at the lectern, and as Frankel handed over his firearm, Jake could hear the famous television smile in his voice.

  Just a few more minutes, Jake told himself, and I’ll shove that smile out your ass.

  “You sure this is it?” Paul asked incredulously as he backed into the narrow alleyway. “There’s no sign or anything.”

  Irene checked her notes one more time. “It’s the right address.”

  He shook his head. “I gotta tell you, boss. This one doesn’t feel good to me.”

  She shrugged, even though she shared the sentiment. “Well, we’re here. If it’s the wrong place, then I won’t be gone long at all.” She opened the car door.

  “I’ll be here if you need me,” he said.

  She sensed danger as she climbed the front steps to the town house, and she found herself noticing every detail of her surroundings. The steel staples in the marble steps; the boot scraper on the stoop. Someone had spent serious bucks on this place. She waited patiently after pushing the doorbell, even though she never heard anything ring on the other side. To make it easy on whoever was watching the security monitor, she stared directly into the camera lens. She fought the urge to rest her hand on her pistol grip, figuring that this kind of security bespoke a certain paranoia on the other side. The last thin
g she wanted to do was make people more nervous than they might otherwise be.

  Finally, the door buzzed, and she pushed it open. Eddie was waiting for her, smile already in place. “Ms. Rivers?”

  She nodded. “Agent Rivers, yes. I’m here to meet someone.”

  Eddie beckoned her inside. “Senator Albricht, of course. We’ve been expecting you, ma’am. You’ve heard of our unique security precautions?”

  Another nod. She hesitantly produced her S amp;W from the waistband of her skirt and placed it on the lectern.

  Eddie swept her body quickly with the metal detector, then ushered her forward with a sweeping motion of his hand. “Please go on in. The others are waiting for you.”

  Others? she thought. As in, more than one?

  The senator sat facing the door, and as soon as she entered the room, his face beamed. “Welcome, welcome,” he said, rising from his chair.

  They’d never met, but she recognized him from the news. It was the other man-the one with his back turned-who looked remarkably familiar. As Frankel turned in his seat to greet the new arrival, his face mirrored the shock Irene felt in her belly.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” they both said in unison.

  Jake sat on the stairs now, waiting for the right moment to come down. The sudden explosion of voices startled him at first, then brought a smile as he imagined what must be going through everyone’s mind.

  If they thought they were surprised now, they need only wait half a minute.

  He took a huge breath and concentrated on his nerves. He had to remain calm through this. Finally, he had the audience he’d dreamed of, and at last, he knew what had to be said. Now all it would take was a little salesmanship. After fourteen years on the run-after all the days and nights of worry and of lies-it all came down to this.

  A single roll of the dice.

  His mind shot back to his last big gamble, where his hunch had turned on him and cost him so much. This one was it; his very last shot.

  Jake stood tall, and paused long enough to straighten out his filthy clothes before descending the stairs. Eddie was waiting for him at the bottom. “Are you ready?”

  “No,” Jake snorted, but Eddie started walking, anyway, escorting his next guest into the dining room. Once moving, they never stopped. Jake strolled on into the lions’ den, just as if he were any other diner.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Conversation stopped dead as Jake entered the room. Irene recognized him first. “Oh, my God,” she breathed.

  Her reaction drew Frankel’s head around, and he reacted explosively. “Donovan!” He leapt from his seat and instinctively reached for the weapon he’d been forced to surrender at the door, but Eddie moved in quickly to dispel any notions his guest might have had about picking a fight.

  The senator just stared, his face forming a giant O.

  “What’s he doing here?” Frankel demanded. He turned to Albricht. “What the hell kind of game do you think you’re playing?”

  The senator shrugged, clearly befuddled yet mildly amused. “I have no idea. Agent Rivers?”

  Irene eyed Jake cautiously, then suppressed a knowing smirk of her own. So Jake was going right to the top. “Not a clue,” she lied.

  Eddie placed a beefy hand on Frankel’s shoulder. “Please take your seat, sir,” he said.

  Frankel tried to shake the arm off, but it was like shedding steel. He sat. With a nod from Jake, Eddie backed out of the room, leaving the group alone to discuss whatever was on their minds. Jake pulled a chair around to the end of the table so he could face everyone at once.

  “Thank you all for coming,” he said.

  “Look, Donovan,” Frankel seethed. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’m not-”

  “Relax, Peter,” Jake said easily. “I’m just here to turn myself in to Agent Rivers. I’m just not up to the chase anymore.”

  Frankel fell silent, his mouth open, frozen in midsentence.

  Jake smiled serenely at Irene. “But first, I thought I’d make my official statement.”

  “I think not,” Frankel blustered. “This is neither the time nor the place-”

  “Shut up, Peter,” Albricht commanded. “The man’s come a long way.”

  “The hell I will!” Frankel boomed.

  “It’s tough to have a big secret, isn’t it, Peter?” Jake taunted. “Especially when everyone’s about to hear it spilled.”

  Frankel rose again from his chair. “Agent Rivers, keep an eye on this man while I-”

  Jake rose, too, and shoved Frankel hard. He fell backward, his legs entangled in the chair, and ended up halfway under the table. “Sit down, Peter!”

  Irene made a move to intervene but stopped herself. It just looked too good.

  Frankel sputtered profanities as he pulled himself back into his chair. “Go ahead, Donovan. Just keep racking up the charges. We’ll have to clone your ass just to live long enough for early release. Rivers, you’re a witness.”

  Irene sucked on a cheek. “At this point, sir, I’m not sure what I’ve seen.”

  For the first time, Jake heard real equivocation in Irene’s voice, and he moved quickly to capitalize on it. “Does the name Wiggins mean anything to you, Peter?”

  Frankel ignored him, but Jake didn’t miss the barely audible gasp from Albricht.

  “C’mon, Peter,” Jake taunted. “Surely you must know him. I hear he goes by the name Clyde Dalton, too, if that rings a bell. He certainly knows you. I had a long chat with him just this morning, in fact. He said you guys go all the way back to Nam together.”

  Frankel just stared at the table, his jaw locked.

  “You guys worked SEAL team insertions back then, right? You drove the boat and he did the wet work.” Jake glanced over at Irene. “You might want to take notes, ma’am,” he urged. “This should all be verifiable stuff.”

  Irene seemed momentarily stunned by the request, then embarrassed that she hadn’t thought of it herself. Frankel glared as she pulled her notebook out of the pocket of her suit jacket, then patted herself down in search of a pen. Albricht lent her one of his.

  Jake went on. “Wiggins said that after the war, you guys sort of went your separate ways. You joined the good guys, while your buddy chose more interesting pursuits. Seems he became quite proficient at killing people.”

  “Where’s this individual now?” Irene interrupted.

  “He left the country,” Jake lied, staring the whole time at Frankel, who in turn stared at Irene with enough intensity to cut her in half. “Just pay attention. It’ll all come together for you in a minute.”

  He nudged Frankel’s shoulder playfully. “How am I doing so far, Peter?” When Frankel didn’t respond, Jake laughed. “Yeah, I know. Scary, isn’t it? So anyway, let’s fast-forward to the eighties. Here you are, this Young Turk, moving through the ranks, making your mark on the Bureau, when along comes this case in Arkansas where an aging general named Albemarle is lured by the Iraqis into selling chemical weapons as a way to finance his only daughter’s medical bills.” Jake looked again to Irene. “You found some evidence on that, I assume?”

  She nodded. She knew exactly where this was going.

  “So here comes Peter Frankel, supercop,” Jake continued, “and you find yourself the perfect crime. Nobody but this Albemarle clown even knows about this stash of weapons in East Jesus, Arkansas. He’s making himself a fortune. So you offer him a deal. If he cuts you into the action, you’ll cut off your investigation.” Jake leaned forward, forearms on the table. “What was the split, Peter? Sixty-forty? Seventy-thirty? Knowing you, you had to be wringing him pretty hard.

  “Well, logistically, you can’t sell all your weapons at once, right? People might notice the comings and goings. So you dribble them out, a piece at a time, for a shitload of money. If I did my math right, and if your pal Wiggins was telling the whole truth, I figure that this went on for a good six months. Maybe more. Then you get blindsided.” Jake feigned a gasp and clut
ched his chest. “Somebody finds your stash and reports it to the EPA! Well, what’s a body to do now? Overnight-literally-you’re out of business.”

  Jake leaned away from the table again and made a show of tapping his temple. “Now, here I’ve got to do a little guessing, but my money says the good general got a serious case of the guilts and wanted to punch out. Pretty close?”

  Frankel didn’t move.

  “But you can’t let that happen. So you call up your old buddy Wiggins to stage a suicide. I mean, why not? The guy’s already dishonored, he’s lost a kid. He’s got plenty of cause to off himself. You leave a note, you pop him, and you move on. How simple can it get?”

  As the story droned on, Jake watched with satisfaction as Frankel sank further into his chair. He could only hope that the son of a bitch was suffering.

  “But you can’t just kill one, can you, Peter? I bet it’s hard as hell to know when to stop the killing. Just to be safe, you pop the old man’s wife, too, in case she knows something.”

  From there on, Jake concluded, it was just a comedy of errors. “You had this grand plan to cover your tracks: Slip something into Tony Bernard’s food to give him the pukes, then frame him for your explosion. I can’t tell you how sorry I am that Carolyn and I screwed it up so badly for you.”

  Hearing it all played out, with even greater detail, the whole thing still seemed wildly speculative to Irene. Grand conspiracies with mysterious disappearing witnesses made it all too convenient.

  “The guy you had call me with your blackmail threats was named Wiggins, too, Peter,” Clayton said, leaning forward. “What kind of coincidence is that?”

  “This is all bullshit,” Frankel blustered, and at that moment, from his expression alone, everyone saw just how close Jake’s theory had landed to the truth.

  “Oh, my God!” Irene breathed. “What have you done?”

  Frankel tried to look outraged; like he’d never heard anything so outrageous in his life. But the fear showed through, anyway. “I refuse to listen to any more of this.” He stood one more time.