Shadows and Lies

by Ronald Watkins

  Julie Marei had been a remarkably neat woman and that made the search that much easier, despite the chaos of the earlier searchers. But it was the same search that made his even simpler than it should have been. Everything Powers hoped for – papers, notes, journals – was already missing. Even the tape from the answering machine was gone. Only the videos in the living room remained and he suspected they were going to be just what their jackets claimed: mainstream films.

  Despite the thoroughness of the earlier search and the fact that someone had taken the time to wipe the apartment for prints, there was an amateur feel about much of this. Powers had seen many scenes of violence, most by angry perpetrators, a few by pros. This had the primary feel of the amateur.

  He paid particular attention to the line where the ceiling and walls met, and he checked any fixture positioned where a hidden camera lens would have a decent view.

  An hour after they entered the apartment Powers decided it was pressing their luck to remain any longer. If a neighbor grew suspicious and called the Metropolitan Police, there'd be hell to pay.

  He still had the bedroom to check. He noticed earlier that the furniture was expensive. Now he realized it was Louis XIV, intricately constructed and self-evidently originals. He had never seen anything like it outside of a museum. The bed was a small double, just big enough for two very friendly adults. He moved the tumbled mattress aside and searched the debris on the floor without success.

  Powers recalled that royalty often had places of concealment built into the genuine article, somewhere to hide jewelry, but found none. The nightstand was last and was as barren of papers as the others. His fingers worked it through the kerchief from all angles. Nothing.

  "Dan?" Alta was standing in the doorway, holding her brimming pillow case. "Did you find anything?"

  "No. We need to leave. Take a look in the kitchen. Maybe you'll see something I missed."

  Powers stood back and stared at the nightstand. Something wasn't right. Then he spotted it. He knelt down and removed the lower drawer. There was a covered space between it and the bottom of the nightstand. He pulled at the wooden facade. Up. Down. Left. Right. It slid out.

  On his stomach he peered in with his pin light. No papers but instead a gun, a Walther PPK .380, the standard issue police handgun for many European police departments. He removed the weapon. Nothing else inside. He slid the front back in place and inserted the drawer. The clip in the gun was loaded and there was a cartridge in the chamber.

  "I didn't see anything unusual in the kitchen. How about you?" Alta asked standing the other side of the bed where she couldn't see his hands.

  "No," he said. "Let's get out of here." When she turned he placed the gun into his outer jacket pocket.

  The White House, 11:38 p.m.

  “Why didn't you tell me?" Karp demanded, his voice a hoarse whisper. He felt as if he'd aged twenty years in the last five minutes.

  "That's what I'm doing."

  "Before. You should have discussed this with me before, not now! Have you any idea what you've done?"

  Tufts drew himself up indignantly. "Heads of state have always held private communications, this is nothing new. You aren't thinking I should have used the State Department, are you?"

  "Of course not. If you're going to tell me about this than do it. Don't just hint at it."

  "Fuck you, Marty! Don't take that attitude with me. I'm the President of the goddamn United States!"

  Karp rose. "All right then. If that's how it is. I'll leave this mess for you to clean up. Have a good evening."

  Tufts stood in shock for only a second. "Now wait a minute! Just wait a goddamn minute here!!" He crossed to Karp. "Now stop it!" He seized the man and jerked him around bodily. "I'm sorry. Okay? Is that what you wanna hear? Then I'm sorry as hell. The fact is that I need you, you know that, and I shouldn't'av been like that. You're right. You need to know all about this. Sit down. Go ahead. God, you are a pain in the ass some times, Marty."

  "Tell me."

  The President poured another drink then removed a Havana cigar from the small humidor he kept in his lower desk drawer. The former President of Mexico had presented him with five hundred Cohiba Esplenditos. He cut the end then lit before answering. "That's why I was so upset earlier. I mean, Julie's a great kid and everything, but we all take our share of risks in life. Bad things happen to nice people every day. I feel really terrible that something's happened to her. Easily the greatest piece of ass on Earth. I'm gonna miss her, I can tell you." He took a puff then drew more deeply and spoke through the smoke. "It started just after the invasion. I was telling her what a son of a bitch Saddam was and how the A-rabs and French were a bunch of yellow bellies."

  "You said you never discussed policy with her."

  "Hell, that's not policy. That's fact. Anyway we got to talking. You know how it is after good sex. She was telling me she knew lots of nice A-rabs, that she lived in Beirut when she was little and her daddy did plenty of business in that part of the world. He'd even done construction in Iraq that the U.S. government paid for. That was when Iraq was fighting Iran. Anyway, she said she met Saddam once in Baghdad. She was still a teenager and her family was in Nicosia to visit family. Her daddy took her to Iraq so she could see it since he had a business meeting there. That was when I got the idea."

  "What idea is that?"

  "Well, we've got those airmen paraded in front of the television cameras every week. And that Wolf dame is killing me with her demand I give in just to get her husband back. Right after the invasion Saddam was bragging he had these nuclear bombs, remember? At the time we weren't so certain, and it really didn't matter just then, because it was going to take all summer to build a coalition and move enough forces to Saudi to get the job done. Then the fuckin' CIA tells me they think he's really got at least two bombs he bought from General Rudenko in Russia. Hell, that changed everything. The balance of terror isn't just for the big boys anymore. Besides, we're the only superpower left. Any country with the bomb and the balls to act, then threaten its use, is a player. How could I drive this guy out of Saudi and Kuwait? What Bush did was a piece of cake compared to what I'm facing. So I cut a deal. What else could I do?"

  “Tell me."

  "Julie said she believed she could see Saddam personally. Every month or so she flew to Athens. From there it was a short flight to Baghdad."

  "Her father set it up. That means he knows," Karp said with a sinking heart.

  "That’s right. She took a personal message from me. He answered. We've hammered out a deal here. There isn't gonna be any war." The President flashed what he often called on others “a shit-eating grin.” "Pretty neat I thought. No American boys are gonna be dying for rich A-rabs. Saddam's someone I can work with."

  "How many letters did she take for you?"

  "Four. I think it was four. Yeah, four."

  "What's the deal?"

  Tufts blew smoke at the ceiling. "Simple. I think you'll be able to see this my way. Just a matter of accepting reality and giving Saddam what he was after all along. He rattles his saber while we build up forces and I make a big show of standing up to aggression. You know what the dailies have been saying about my statesmanship marks ever since this mess started up. Then, after my re-election, we say we have proof he's got the atom bomb. So we negotiate, reluctantly, but then the peace and safety of the world is at stake so of course we have to talk. That's the only reasonable thing to do, right? Once we're finished with that, he pulls back from Saudi but, and here's the kicker, he gets to keep Kuwait. Hell, it used to be part of Iraq anyway so what's the big deal? You don't think those asshole Kuwaitis are any better to deal with than Saddam, do you? Shit, we need a strong Iraq to serve as buffer to Iran. It's the real threat in the Middle East. Least ways, that's what the fuckin' military is always telling me."

  “What if she kept copies and had them in her apartment?"

  "Yeah. What if?"

  “What if she showed them to someone? They’d
know what you were up to.”

  “She wouldn’t do that.”

  “We can’t know for certain. The Brits and Saudis will be furious when they learn. The Kuwaitis will denounce you as a traitor. It’s not their style to organize death squads. They’d rather destroy you politically. The French will go ballistic. They’ve been hinting for months that you aren’t dealing honestly with them.”

  “Fuck the Frogs. They’re so goddamn paranoid and stuck on themselves they always say someone’s betraying them. They’re usually right because they deserve it. But I get your point. She didn’t do it, Marty. She didn’t show ‘em to anyone. I just know.”

  Tufts finished his drink and took a slow pull on the cigar. He leaned back in his chair and sent two rings of smoke towards the ceiling. "Powers has got to get those papers back, you understand? I want the tapes too, but I've got to have the papers in case she did copy ‘em, for personal reasons, you know? If this gets out..."

  "You'll have to withdraw from the race after the show you've put up against Saddam. It will be a demonstrable a sham. If you are foolhardy enough to try and stick it out, the Kuwaitis will certainly launch a slick Madison Avenue campaign to vilify you. They’ve got deeper pockets than any other player in this. This is no time for partial measures. We need to get others on this.”

  “Not yet, Marty. Let's give Powers a day here. He just got started. The cat's out of the bag and we need to see if he can shove it back. If not, Chesty and Lily can go to work. We aren't using any others. You understand? I'll take my risks with Chesty and I know I can trust Lily, but no one else."

  "I guess that will have to do." Karp rose slowly. This new information was cycling through his brain almost visually. "Goodnight then."

  "'Night, Marty. I don't think I'm gonna get any sleep. Too bad about Julie. I sure could use what she had right about now. She turned given’ French into a whole new dimension."

  Karp closed the door. That is the dumbest son of a bitch I've ever known, he thought.

  EIGHT

  Georgetown, 12:44 a.m.

  Before leaving the Burnside Apartments, Powers asked Alta to check outside. He took the moment to knock on Yvette Dorat's door. There was no answer.

  As they walked to the BMW, Alta pulled the collar of her coat tight to her throat and braced herself against the swirling wind. Just as they reached the car, Powers left the curb to reach the passenger door. Just then he heard her scream. As he turned a man seized him from behind, placing his forearm across Powers' throat. They struggled awkwardly, dancing in short heavy steps as each sought to gain an advantage. Powers hooked his right foot behind the man's ankle and the two of them went down, hard, but it was Powers who landed on top. He heard the wind rush out of the man.

  "Help me!!" Alta shouted. "Somebody help me!!!"

  "Khalil," Power's man uttered in a strained voice, then slightly louder, "Khalil!"

  Powers fumbled with his jacket for the gun. He managed to roll away from his attacker just in time to see Alta suddenly running around the car, her raincoat streaming behind, skirt hiked up her thighs, legs stretched out like a sprinter as she bolted across the street. She was pursued by a second man in a black raincoat who stopped in response to his name then turned his interest to Powers.

  His hand found the barrel of the Walther in his pocket, but before Powers could turn the gun one handed and secure a useful grip, the man lying near him grabbed his arm and dragged him into an embrace. Alta's former assailant pulled a knife from his pocket and gave orders in a language that sounded very much like Arabic to Powers. The anticipation on his face said he was about to enjoy himself very much.

  Powers punched his left elbow into the bridge of the nose of the man holding him. He grunted, lifted a hand to his face and pulled back. Powers rolled twice until the curb stopped him. He was facing the standing man as he groped for the gun again.

  The approaching figure was tall and quite slender with a thick mustache. His black suit was rumpled and dusted with cigarette ash. But Powers was watching the knife which the man held like a pro as he moved quickly towards him. There was a shot and the man with the knife abruptly straightened, a look of utter astonishment spread across his face. A second shot sounded. He staggered to his knees, dropped the blade to the pavement, then pitched forward onto his face. His friend with the smashed nose squirreled off into the darkness.

  Lily approached, his gun still in hand, hanging at his side. A small lazy tornado whirled down the narrow street, bits of debris and leaves twisting in its cone as it crossed his path. Lily kicked the knife away then rolled the man laying with the heel of his shoe. Satisfied, he slid the boxy automatic, a .45 Glock from the sound and look of it, inside his jacket. "You should leave before the police arrive," he said to Powers quietly, in a high pitched, sterile monotone. It was the first time he'd heard Lily's voice.

  Powers was on his feet now. "I suppose thanks are in order."

  Lily's chiseled face was as unmoved as if set in stone. "Get out of here before the other one finds his nerve or the police come." Lily turned and made the slightest gesture with his hand. Powers heard a car engine rev in the darkness.

  "Are you all right?" Alta asked in an unnatural voice, as she approached from across the street, staring at the body in the narrow street then up at Lily standing patiently beside it. Her hair was disheveled, her blouse was nearly out of her skirt, the tan raincoat was badly smudged and the skin of her legs gaped at him through holes and rips in her nylons.

  "Yes. You?"

  "I'll live."

  A gleaming blue Ford utility van with darkened glass pulled up, then stopped quickly beside Lily who yanked the side door open. In a single motion he lifted the body from the street, heaved it inside and followed himself, pulling the door shut as the van sped off.

  Alta cocked her head towards the sound of a siren. "We have to leave." She glanced after the van, then opened the door to her car. He slid onto the passenger seat. As she drove off she asked in a distant voice, "Who were they do you think?"

  "Arabs. I can't say whose."

  She peered ahead at the street and concentrated on her driving for a moment. "You know what I think?" Her voice sounded tinny as if it were coming from a distance.

  "What's that?"

  "They were really after you. My guy never tried to hurt me and he went for you as soon as his friend was down."

  Cleveland Park, 1:23 a.m.

  Alta opened the door, turned on the lights, then checked to be certain the windows were curtained. "If you'd like a drink, the bar is over there," she said to Powers gesturing vaguely towards the far wall. "I know I'm having one."

  In the light, Powers saw that her glasses were bent and perched awkwardly on her face. There was a tear the length of her skirt and the elbow of her coat and jacket beneath were scraped away, exposing the smudged white of the blouse. Her hair looked as if she’d just awakened from bed.

  "You're sure you're not injured?" Powers asked.

  "Just bumps and bruises. I think I brought most of it on myself by fighting with him so much. His breath smelled like garlic. It was sickening. I'm cleaning up."

  The apartment was a fairly standard, though expensively furnished brownstone. It was professionally decorated and it certainly didn't appear the place had just been moved into or that there were any plans to ever relocate. The paintings hung on the walls were less impressive than Marei's Monet, but there were more of them. There were also more chairs than normal and the long dining room table seated twelve, both suggesting to him that meetings were held here.

  Alta emerged from a bathroom without her jacket or coat, her white blouse hanging completely loose. The ruined nylons were gone. The slit in the skirt was waist high and unintentionally provocative. She had scrubbed her face, straightened her hair and stood in the hallway concentrating on bending the plastic frame of her glasses. She put them on and faced him. "Why don’t you take off your coat and stay awhile? Better?"

  "Much." She disappeared into a
bedroom as he tossed his coat across a chair. "What did you say you use this place for?" he called out.

  "Sometimes we need to hold meetings, brainstorming sessions away from the public eye and we have those somewhere like this. Occasionally a major contributor comes to town, someone we can't be seen with, and we put them up here for private discussions. We have to move to another two or three times a year. It's ideal for you. There's a taxi stand on the corner.” She came out. “I checked and the linen's fresh. Your bag was delivered earlier and there's a closet for your things. Let me see your suit." She picked over him slowly. "Not bad," she pronounced at last. "No tears I can see. Hang it up and I'll sponge it off later and do what I can for your raincoat."

  Powers hung his clothes in the bedroom, placing the gun into the nightstand beside the double bed. He had taken it , and kept his possession of it to himself, because the situation had rapidly become one that had not been presented to him. Since the assault, he had been considering whether he should make a call and request his own backup team. Wouldn’t that come as a surprise to the slick Mr. Karp? Trusted friend and ally of the First Lady, on secret assignment accompanied by wise guys. He smiled at the thought. He was a big boy. There was time enough later if he honestly thought he needed help.

  He washed up then examined his face. There was a slight bruise high on his left cheek but he wouldn't know how bad it would appear until morning. The ribs on his right side ached where he had fallen on the man but nothing was broken.

  The adrenaline rush was only now passing but he was certain he had nothing seriously wrong with him. He'd once continued the foot chase of a cop killer for five blocks on what later turned out to be a broken ankle. He'd felt the bones fracture, one by one like twigs snapped in a row, but it had been a distant sensation, without pain at the moment. Only after the killer was dead had the pain come. He shrugged himself into a white terry cloth robe bearing the presidential seal he found hanging in the closet.