by Mike Lawson
‘I was just trying to decide what to do with the information I’d obtained when I was informed, this very morning, that the FBI had arrested Oliver Lincoln as the mastermind behind the terrorist attacks. I also found out that Lincoln has a history of carrying out complex operations, sometimes to help criminal cartels, and other times, unfortunately, to aid the American government, in particular the CIA. And that’s why Senator Broderick had wanted to look at past meeting minutes, so that he could research Lincoln’s past.’
The reporters started to buzz like angry bees around a ruptured hive. A dozen voices called out, which Fine ignored.
‘I believe—’ he said. Then he paused and repeated himself to increase the drama. ‘I believe – and I’ve told this to the FBI, and I say this with great regret – that William Broderick, in order to pass his bill, a bill as you all know I never personally approved of, paid this man Lincoln to orchestrate these terrorist attacks so American Muslims would get the blame.’
Whoa! the reporters cried. Why the hell would Broderick do that?
Fine said it was fairly obvious: Broderick was determined to make a name for himself in politics. He figured the best way to do it was to get his bill passed, and the best way to do that was by creating an atmosphere of fear and xenophobia caused by a series of terrorist attacks supposedly perpetrated by Muslim Americans.
But then why was Broderick killed? a reporter asked.
Fine shook his head. ‘My answer to that question, sir, is that I do not know.’ It was possible, Fine said, that a disgruntled Muslim had indeed killed Broderick just like the note found in his car had said. That would be ironic but also fitting. But it was also possible, Fine said, that there had been some sort of falling out among thieves, that Oliver Lincoln had killed Broderick for some reason. ‘I just don’t know why Senator Broderick was assassinated,’ Fine concluded. ‘That’s a mystery the good men and women at the FBI will have to unravel.’
‘One last question, Senator. Why on earth would Broderick have left records showing money going from him to this account in the Caymans?’
Fine hesitated. ‘Well,’ he said, and paused again as though struggling for words. ‘I hate to say this, but Bill Broderick was not the smartest guy I ever met.’
72
Nick Fine had cut the legs right out from under Oliver Lincoln.
Lincoln was sitting in his cell, on the lower bunk, dressed in a plain white T-shirt and a pair of too-short jeans. On his feet were flip-flops. Above Lincoln, another man lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling, doing nothing. The man was a child molester named Martin Cole. The first day they placed Lincoln in the cell with Cole, Cole had been sitting on the lower bunk. Without saying a word to Cole, Lincoln had pulled him off the bunk, dragged him over to the foul-smelling, shit-splattered toilet in the cell, and bashed out two of Cole’s teeth against the toilet bowl. He then instructed Cole to move himself – and the mattress he’d been lying on – to the upper bunk, and he further instructed him that whenever Lincoln was in the cell, Cole was to lie on the upper bunk, doing and saying nothing.
Oliver Lincoln was a very angry man, and Martin Cole had been taught a lesson that many others had learned before him: Lincoln may have appreciated the soft and finer things in life, but there was nothing soft about him.
As it had done with Bianca Castro, the FBI had laid out its case against Lincoln. It had Bianca willing to testify that he had paid her to kill Jubal Pugh. Based on that testimony, they would then build the box around Lincoln, which would be constructed like this: Jubal Pugh had given statements prior to his death that a man named Mr Jones had paid him and directed him to coerce Muslim Americans to commit terrorist acts, the results of which had been the deaths of a number of people, two of them children. One of Pugh’s men took a photograph that the FBI had used to identify Lincoln. Previously, the photo had been of questionable value as evidence, but since Bianca had testified that Lincoln had ordered her to kill Pugh, the FBI now had the link between Pugh and Lincoln that it needed. So, as a minimum, the FBI could send Lincoln to jail for life for Pugh’s murder – and the murder of the poor man who ran the junkyard where Pugh had worked. But now, thanks to Senator Fine, the FBI could put the bow on the package: it could convict Lincoln for being the mastermind behind the terrorist attacks. All the Bureau had to do was to get him to admit that he’d worked for Broderick.
But he wouldn’t.
‘Nick Fine hired me,’ Lincoln said.
‘You’re lying,’ the Bureau responded. ‘You know that in order to save your rotten ass you gotta point the finger at somebody, and you knew if you pointed the finger at a dead senator you’d be screwed. So instead, you lying bastard, you’ve decided to accuse Nick Fine.’
‘I’m telling you it was Fine,’ Lincoln said.
‘Can you prove it?’ the Bureau said.
And that was the rub. He couldn’t prove it.
As a minimum he was going to spend the rest of his life in jail. His days of Rubinacci suits and champagne were over. He might be able to avoid the death penalty – the case that he’d organized the terrorist attacks wasn’t airtight, but it was tight enough that he’d never see the outside of a jail cell again.
73
On a glorious day in mid-June, Mahoney met with Emma and DeMarco at Emma’s house. It being Mahoney, DeMarco knew there was some selfish reason for this. Mahoney may have been in the neighborhood for some other purpose – a lot of wealthy Democrats lived in McLean – or he may have been on his way to Dulles to take off on some taxpayer-funded boondoggle. All that DeMarco knew for sure was that Mahoney had selected the location because it was best for Mahoney and not because it was convenient for anyone else.
Emma, DeMarco, and Christine – and Christine’s dog – were sitting on the patio, drinking lemonade and enjoying Emma’s garden, which was in full bloom. When Mahoney arrived, the first thing he did was charm the pants off Christine as well as any philandering, chauvinistic, lecherous male can charm the pants off a lesbian. He took Christine’s little dog from her hands, held it up like a campaign-stop baby, bussed it on the head, and proclaimed the animal to be the cutest little bundle of fur he’d ever seen.
‘What’s his name?’ Mahoney asked, correctly identifying the dog’s gender. He must have spotted the minuscule organ hidden amid all the hair.
DeMarco immediately swiveled his head to hear what Christine would say.
Christine looked at DeMarco, smiled slightly, then said, ‘It’s Jo-Jo. I had a dog named Jo-Jo when I was a little girl.’
‘Well, he’s just as cute as a bug’s ear,’ Mahoney said.
Christine excused herself by saying that she had to practice. As she walked away, Mahoney, oblivious to the daggers that Emma was looking at him, admired Christine’s legs and backside. He flopped down on the chaise lounge that Christine had vacated and said to Emma, ‘You got anything to drink around this place?’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ Emma muttered. But she got up and said, ‘What do you want, bourbon?’
‘With a wee bit of ice, that would be lovely,’ Mahoney said.
When Emma returned with Mahoney’s drink – and a bottle of bourbon that she placed on the patio table next to him – he said, ‘So you guys think Fine set this whole thing up?’
‘Yeah,’ DeMarco said. ‘I never considered him for one simple reason. He didn’t have the money. Somebody had to pay Pugh and Lincoln big bucks to do what they did, so I figured it had to be Dobbler or Edith Baxter or even Broderick. But not Fine.’
‘But it turns out he did have the money,’ Mahoney said.
‘Yep. He had access to all Broderick’s contributions. In other words, Fine did exactly what he accused Broderick of doing, but he set it up so if something went wrong, it would appear that Broderick had organized the whole thing.’
‘So what was Fine’s motive?’ Mahoney said.
‘I think at first it was money,’ DeMarco said. ‘This is all conjecture, but I think Fine’s the guy tha
t sucked Dobbler in. If Broderick’s bill had passed, Dobbler would have gotten a contract worth a few billion, and I think Dobbler would have given Fine his cut. I think, in the beginning, Nicky Fine said, “Screw it. These white bastards won’t let me be a senator, and I’m sick and tired of working for chicken feed.”
‘So I think what happened is this,’ DeMarco went on. ‘The two guys in Baltimore tried to blow up the tunnel, and Fine, not Broderick, came up with the Muslim registry idea. He talked Broderick into launching his bill, and then he tells Dobbler how they can both get rich if the bill is passed and convinces Dobbler to give him a bucket of cash to grease the wheels.
‘He knows, however, that two guys trying to blow up a tunnel won’t be enough. So Fine, who knew about Lincoln – he lied to the media when he said he didn’t – hatches the idea to coerce Muslims to do things like fly planes into the White House and paid Lincoln to execute his plan.’
‘But why did he have Broderick killed?’
It was odd, DeMarco thought, but Mahoney appeared completely relaxed as he asked his questions. Maybe it was the bourbon, but he didn’t think so.
‘To get the bill passed,’ DeMarco said, in response to Mahoney’s question. ‘Broderick’s bill almost had the support it needed. It had already passed in the Senate, it looked like it might pass in the House, but there you were, gumming up the works. Fine figured he just needed one more little thing to get it over the hump: kill Broderick and turn him into a martyr. Remember, all Fine wanted at this point was the money he’d make off Dobbler. But then Fine thinks, Why not go for the whole enchilada? Why not replace Broderick in the Senate? The Republicans almost gave him the job when Wingate retired, so Fine cozies up to the governor of Virginia and in return for appointing him to fill the Senate seat, he gets the governor a teaching job at UVA. Or, for all we know, maybe Fine gave the governor an even bigger payoff.’
‘But then the bill doesn’t pass because you nailed Jubal,’ Mahoney said.
‘Right,’ DeMarco said, ‘but Nick Fine still got the consolation prize. He got to be a U.S. senator.’
‘So why can’t they get to Fine through Dobbler?’ Mahoney said.
‘Because Dobbler would have to admit he was in collusion with Fine to rig a government contract. Dobbler’s gotta be madder than hell right now, about all the money he invested to get Broderick’s bill passed, but he’s not gonna incriminate himself by pointing the finger at Fine.’
‘Well, dang,’ Mahoney said, and rattled the ice around in his glass. ‘So you got any ideas for how to get Fine?’
Well dang? What was with Mahoney?
‘No,’ DeMarco said.
‘How ’bout you, hotshot?’ Mahoney said to Emma. ‘You’re the one who always comes up with cute ideas, like letting that Cuban gal kill that yokel so the Bureau could get to Lincoln.’
Emma stared at Mahoney like she wanted to throttle him, either for the hotshot tag or for implying that she had deliberately allowed Pugh to get killed. Mahoney, however, was oblivious to Emma’s stare. Partly he was oblivious because he was Mahoney, and partly he was oblivious because after he made the remark he reached over and picked up the bourbon bottle to refill his glass.
‘No, I don’t,’ Emma said. ‘I was hoping – for once – that you might use your influence to get the FBI to take a harder look at Fine. I’m sure a statement to the media would be too much to ask for …’
‘You got that right,’ Mahoney said.
‘… but you could at least sit down with the Bureau in private and tell them what you think.’
‘I already did,’ Mahoney said, surprising both DeMarco and Emma. ‘But I don’t have a lot of confidence in their nailing him, particularly now that the bastard’s so popular. The polls are showing he’ll get Broderick’s seat when they hold the special election in Virginia.’ Mahoney laughed. ‘I heard the other day that Oprah’s gonna have him and the guy from Illinois on her show at the same time. Anyway, bottom line, the Bureau’s gonna walk on eggs around Fine. There’s no way they’re gonna take him into a room and whack him with a rubber hose until he talks.’
‘So that’s it?’ Emma said. ‘Fine gets a seat in the United States Senate after everything he’s done?’
‘Yeah, I guess so,’ Mahoney said, his tone incredibly laid back.
For some reason, and DeMarco couldn’t understand why, Mahoney was not at all upset that Nick Fine wasn’t going to go to prison for his crimes.
Emma must have been having a similar problem with Mahoney’s nonchalant attitude. She sat there studying him for a minute, biting her lower lip as she thought. Then she said to Mahoney, ‘Are you thinking that—’
‘Yep,’ Mahoney said.
Thinking what? What the hell were they talking about?
DeMarco wondered.
Mahoney tossed the bourbon remaining in his glass down his throat. Then, with some effort, he rose from the chaise longue. ‘I gotta get goin’,’ he said. But before he left, he winked at DeMarco and said, ‘Don’t worry. I think things are gonna work out just peachy.’
74
He and the boy bowed their heads in prayer and gave thanks to God. The strike had finally ended.
It would take a week to get back to Cleveland, and then they would have to spend at least one more week making sure that nothing at the refinery had changed and verify that the facility was back in full production.
He would have the boy write the letters on the way back to Cleveland, because there would be little time for writing when they returned, and though the boy was a good thinker, he was a poor writer. It would take him some time to write the letters, which had to be in his hand and using his own words.
The first letter the boy wrote would be to his mother. He would tell her that he loved her and not to be sad for his death. He would tell her that he did what he did to avenge his father and because he believed in God and God’s path and God’s promise to the faithful who died for Him.
The second letter he would address to the president of the United States. He would say in that letter that he did what he did to avenge his father and all Muslims throughout the world who had suffered at America’s hand. He would say that as long as America supported the Jews in Palestine and refused to accept the true faith, more Americans would die – and more Americans like him would help them.
Because he was afraid the letter to the president would be held up by underlings, he would send a copy of that letter to the FBI office in Cleveland and one to this man Mahoney, the speaker of their parliament.
He would mail the letters for the boy on his way out of Cleveland.
75
Bianca Castro was in the prison library, looking at yesterday’s papers, checking on how the markets were doing. Not great but not bad. She shoved the papers into the bin and walked back into the stacks to find a book she wanted, a book on real estate investing.
She had never dabbled in real estate. She didn’t know that much about it. She had always stuck with blue chip stocks and index funds, and right now she had a ton of dough in ten-year CDs, since she wouldn’t be needing access to her money any time soon. And since she had the time, she figured she might as well educate herself on real estate investing. Another thing that interested her was the futures market, but she didn’t know much about that either, just that futures were extremely risky but the payoffs could be huge. Maybe the library had some books on that subject too, but she doubted it. Most of the books in the damn place were lawbooks. All these women, most of whom could barely read, were always trying to find something on which to base an appeal.
She was running her fingers along the spines of the books when she heard a shoe scrape the floor to her right. Two bitches, both of them Hispanic, were coming toward her. She didn’t like the expression on their faces but she wasn’t too worried. The fourth day she’d been at the prison she’d demonstrated, in a particularly brutal fashion, that she wasn’t a person you wanted to mess with.
The two women stopped a few paces from
her. There was barely room in the narrow aisle between the bookshelves for the women to stand abreast, and there was no room at all for one of them to maneuver around behind her. But then she heard a noise, and she glanced over her shoulder and saw a third woman, also Hispanic, coming down the aisle from the other direction.
‘You remember Jorge Rivera?’ one of the women said.
‘Who?’ Bianca said. ‘Who the fuck is Jorge Rivera?’
Then she remembered: the driver she’d used in D.C.
‘He was my cousin,’ the woman said, and she pulled a shiv out of the waistband of her jeans, a toothbrush handle filed to a lethal point.
The Ukrainian had used a glass cutter to cut a neat circle out of the hotel room window. Now all he had to do was wait for the water taxi to come across the river.
On one side of the Elizabeth River, in Portsmouth, Virginia, was a waterfront complex called Portside that had concession stands and hotels and an open area for outdoor concerts. Directly across the river, in Norfolk, Virginia, was a larger waterfront shopping area called Waterside, and it was filled with retail stores and places to dine and drink. A small water taxi for foot passengers and bicyclists traveled between Portside and Waterside every half hour. The Ukrainian was on the Portsmouth side of the river.
Both Portside and Waterside were currently awash in red, white, and blue. There were balloons, bunting, and banners everywhere in honor of the American holiday called Fourth of July. The Ukrainian had heard there would be a fireworks show that night, and he wished he could have stayed to see it. He liked fireworks and he liked celebrations. He would have bought a glass of beer and flirted with long-legged American girls. ‘Hi, my name’s Jack,’ he would have said to them, and they would have gotten drunk together and watched the fireworks exploding over the river.
