by Sydney Bauer
He knew he could not answer the question without lying so he chose simply to ignore it. Time was up, he knew. He had been a fool to think he could play this thing and not involve the woman he loved most in the world.
‘Come on in,’ he said. And then he waited for it all to come crashing down around him.
‘Hi,’ said Joe. ‘How are you, Sara?’
‘Fine thanks, Joe,’ she said, her voice slightly hesitant. ‘Let me pull you up a seat.’
‘Better make that two,’ said Mannix, stepping aside to allow a second man into the room.
David recognised him immediately but saw the confusion on Sara’s face as she turned to look at him.
‘Simba,’ said David, who had worked with the local FBI chief across a number of cases over the past decade.
‘How’s it hangin’, Cavanaugh?’
King looked at Sara – the only person he did not know in the room – and then David saw him glance quickly at Joe as if to say, ‘Is she okay?’
Joe gave a slight nod and said, ‘Sara, this is Boston FBI Special Agent in Charge Leo King.’
‘Hi,’ said Sara, not knowing what else to say. And then she turned towards David, a look of confusion and perhaps a trace of resentment on her face. ‘Maybe we should all sit down,’ she said, her gaze not shifting from her boyfriend’s face. ‘And then you can tell me what the hell is going on.’
And so they began.
Joe, having vouched for Sara’s trustworthiness and eased King’s initial concerns in involving another civilian in this mess – ‘She is straight up, Leo,’ he had said. ‘And she is Cavanaugh’s partner, personally and professionally, so she is involved no matter what.’ – He started at the beginning for Sara’s benefit, somehow sensing, at least at this early state, that he should downplay David’s role to date.
He let the story unfold layer upon layer, starting with Nancy Doyle’s initial mention of the Gospel Four and finally getting to Susan Leigh’s theory regarding the saints’ identities, and the possible parallels between their original and current day personas. He told them about the Bible riddle and Capon’s confirmed belief that the marking next to John’s name was not the letter ‘I’ as they had first thought, but the number one . . . and he finished with his belief that CIA Director Richard Ryan was the key to it all, perhaps the only one besides the late Tom Bradshaw who could put this whole thing together.
‘You actually think someone, or rather some small group, is planning to infiltrate the US government by placing one of their own as the new Vice President of the United States?’ asked Sara.
‘I know it sounds crazy,’ said Joe. ‘But we already know these people have the resources to murder the second most powerful man in the country under the noses of one of the biggest gatherings of top security forces in US history. These guys are not some small band of terrorists forcing their way in, wearing balaclavas with machine guns blazing, they are already on the inside.’
Up until this point Leo King had sat silently listening to Joe’s story for the second time in twenty-four hours. He still could not believe what he was hearing, and was still beating himself up for not suspecting something sooner. Perhaps more terrifying was what he was about to say himself – that he suspected the man in the running to be the next Director of the FBI of being a cold blooded assassin.
‘We know the identity of two of the four,’ said King who, after two sleepless nights, had called Joe Mannix, the only person he knew would believe what he suspected. ‘After making several discreet investigations, I believe one of the four – most likely the one known as Matthew – to be my boss, FBI Washington Bureau Assistant Director in Charge Antonio Ramirez.’
‘What?’ said Sara. ‘How? What makes you think that . . . ?’
‘I know, Ms Davis. Like Joe says, it’s as crazy as all hell, but in the very least I can prove Ramirez is building a case against Stuart Montgomery based on lies and misinformation. The more I discover, the more I am convinced the Professor didn’t do it, Ms Davis. And fortunately or unfortunately, I think we are getting closer to finding out who did.’
King went on to tell them his side of the story – explaining how Ramirez had been controlling the case from day one.
‘Basically, if Ramirez has manufactured evidence, particularly that relating to Montgomery’s access to the drugs, our case is shot to hell. Montgomery and Bradshaw may not have been on the best of terms, but no jury is going to convict without the physical evidence. Ramirez knows that as well as I do, that’s why he had to come up with the proof, real or not.’
‘But wasn’t there something else?’ asked Sara, her normally smooth brow now tensed in concentration. ‘Something about a print on the syringe or . . .’
‘On the syringe packaging, yes, a partial print which looks to belong to Montgomery. But if the Professor was being framed from the very beginning, any defence attorney with half a brain could argue any number of people could have stolen syringes from his surgery and then made sure the wrapper left behind in the hotel suite was one that contained his prints.’
King noticed that his reference to Montgomery’s defence counsel, or lack thereof, made David shift in his chair. Joe had told him of Karin Montgomery’s request – mainly so that Simba would choose his words carefully in front of Sara. But as Simba pointed out to Joe, this was way beyond girlfriend and boyfriend Tic-Tac-Toe. They were talking about a national conspiracy to ‘overthrow’ the current administration which meant there was no time for pleasantries.
‘So Ryan is the key,’ said David and King wondered if he was instinctively changing the subject.
‘Yes,’ said Joe. ‘But the man is impossible to reach. I have left at least ten messages for him over the past couple of days. He is either very busy or outright avoiding me.’
‘Ryan is a hard one to nail down,’ said Simba. ‘Ramirez hates his guts, but he and Bradshaw were tight. Rumour has it Ryan was the one who convinced his Harvard buddy to shake the drugs way back when. The guy never talks about it, but I’ve heard stories about Ryan having nursed Bradshaw through withdrawals. Besides his wife and family, I’d say Dick Ryan was Bradshaw’s closest ally.’
‘All the more reason we make contact with him,’ said Joe.
Just then King saw David look across at Sara. He saw the confusion on her face and the indecision on that of her partner.
It was as if, King thought, David was making the decision whether or not to take the next step, and perhaps was searching for some sign of approval from the girl he obviously adored. But in the end, her face still set in an expression of bewilderment, with perhaps a trace of fear, he made the decision himself, by picking up the phone.
He dialled a local number but it obviously went straight to voicemail, so then he tried a cell which also went to a recording so he left a short message: ‘It’s DC. I’m at work. Call me.’
‘And that was?’ asked Simba, suspicious of any further outside contact from this point.
‘Tony Bishop. An old law school buddy. He’s a blue chip lawyer who moves in Washington circles and he’s discreet. His brother is . . .’
‘Congressman James Bishop,’ guessed Simba.
‘In one. He or James might know where Ryan spends his time out of office hours.’
‘It’s Thursday night,’ said Mannix. ‘Maybe we can track Ryan down over the weekend.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Sara. ‘We’re forgetting something here. If the aim of the real killers was to prevent exposition and remove Bradshaw from office, why not stick to the original story that it was accidental death or suicide. Why did they need Montgomery at all?’
‘Because,’ said King, ‘Montgomery gave the American people someone to hate and the government a cause to ride into the next election. The public loved Tom Bradshaw – and the main reason they loved him was because he fought his battle with drugs and won. A self-administered overdose would have sullied his reputation and his administration’s credibility. Murder is a much rosier political scenario
than suicide. Suicide was giving up, murder was martyrdom.’
‘But wasn’t this Ramirez all for self-infliction in the first place,’ argued Sara. ‘Didn’t he release a statement confirming the death was . . .’
‘Sure,’ said King. ‘Accusing Montgomery straight off the bat would have been too obvious and the delay bought him some much needed time. Think about it. They announce the overdose – accidental or otherwise – allow the American people time to grieve, and as soon as the masses are registering that their beloved leader was not so perfect after all, and that their favoured government is now without a decent Vice President . . . Wham . . . the FBI produces Montgomery and the people now have someone to blame in the form of the arrogant, ambitious English Professor, and their faith in the late Saint Tom is renewed.
‘That’s why, from the very beginning, Ramirez refused to entertain the theory of foul play. In fact, he wasn’t the only one who . . .’ King paused here, as if registering something else, something more troubling, something unimaginable. ‘That first night, immediately after Bradshaw’s death,’ King went on, ‘Ramirez was not the only one who . . .’
Ring . . .
David snatched up the phone, immediately registering the background noise of a crowded bar beyond Tony’s greeting. The others listened as David began with the usual law school buddy banter, and then asked Bishop if he knew Dick Ryan, or more specifically how the CIA Chief liked to spend his spare time.
‘I don’t want to know why you’re asking me this, right DC?’ said Tony.
‘Right,’ said David.
‘Okay, well, from what my brother tells me, Ryan is a workaholic, but when he does get a free morning he likes to hit the Congressional Country Club in Bethesda. He plays a mean 18, handicap is 9. Used to play a regular Saturday morning game with the late Vice President, apparently the two of them made an unbeatable team.’
‘Congressional Country Club. Thanks, Tony, and thank James for me too.’
‘No problem, DC. But keep in mind this place is super exclusive – members and their guests only. And from what I hear the standard is pretty high, in other words, there is no way on earth they’re gonna let a sloppy hack like you onto their hallowed greens.’
‘Thanks a lot, Bishop,’ said David.
‘Don’t mention it,’ laughed Tony, who was just about to sign off before mentioning one more thing. ‘By the way DC, I just saw your ex, Karin, and it looked like she was on her way to . . . you know, the land of alcoholic bliss.’
‘What?’ asked David. ‘Where?’
‘Here at the Regency Park bar. I’m taking in a few Thursday night drinks with clients and I turn around to see her sitting on her own across the room, downing what looks to be double vodkas on the rocks. Guys were hitting on her left, right and centre, but she just blew them off. I was just about to go over and say “hi” when that reporter comes in – you know, the peppermint steamroller lady, Caroline Croft, and Karin leaves with her. They hit the elevators, I guess going up to her room.’
‘Why would she . . . ?’
‘Who knows? But word has it Croft has a thick cheque book, maybe Karin’s selling her story to the networks. Montgomery’s defence is gonna cost a packet after all. They can probably use the extra dough. Anyways . . .’
‘Anyways,’ said David, unsure of what to make of this latest piece of information. ‘Thanks, Tony. Thanks a lot.’
‘No sweat. Catch you later.’
David collected his thoughts and told them about James Bishop’s tip on the Congressional Country Club and they all agreed that approaching Ryan on the course may be the only way to get to see him in an environment where he wasn’t surrounded by fellow government officials. How they’d get in to the exclusive Bethesda Club, they weren’t too sure. They sat quietly, each lost in their own thoughts until Sara broke the silence, finally asking the question David knew she would.
‘Forgive me, Special Agent King.’
‘It’s Leo.’
‘Leo, but there is one other thing I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Why us?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘We all agree these people are dangerous. They are killers with influence who obviously have no problem annihilating people who get in their way. Joe has explained why he needed David to represent Nancy Doyle and I understand that.’ She looked at David as if trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. ‘I even understand why he didn’t tell me about it, because he didn’t want to get me involved. But what I don’t understand is why you are here now. Besides acting as sounding boards,’ she went on, ‘I don’t see how else David and I can help you, and forgive me for being frank but, it seems to me, just knowing what we know now puts us both on a new level of risk, a risk I am not too sure we should be willing to take.’
King looked at her and then at Joe.
‘I’m sorry, Sara,’ said Joe. ‘But we are here because we . . .’
‘We want David to agree to his ex-wife’s proposal,’ said Simba, knowing how hard this was for Mannix. ‘We believe Karin Montgomery knows her husband is being framed, and we are afraid she may go public. If she does that, she puts her life at risk and maybe the lives of others as well.
‘We have thought about it and thought about it, and you’re right, this is a hell of an ask but we also believe there is no other way.’ Simba turned to David. ‘We need you to represent him, David. Like it or not, you know what you know and we cannot risk involving anyone else. There is no other lawyer on the face of the planet who can play this the way it needs to be played – for proving Montgomery’s innocence goes hand in hand with finding the real culprits and that is, well, I don’t need to tell you how dangerous that may be.’
King glanced at Sara then, as if apologising for all he had set upon them.
‘I am sorry, David,’ he said at last. ‘But we need you to defend Professor Stuart Montgomery – and we need you to win.’
Sara was speechless, but she barely had a chance to register any of what King had said before David was up, out of his chair and grabbing his coat from the back of his door.
‘David,’ she said. ‘You didn’t tell me . . . When did she . . . ? Why didn’t you . . . ? Where are you going?’
‘To the Regency Park,’ he said without stopping. ‘To prevent another God-damned disaster.’
37
For Christ’s sake, Caroline Croft thought to herself as she poured Karin Montgomery another cup of strong black coffee.
This was the last thing she needed. She had less than twenty-four hours to turn around the interview of the year and her subject was as tanked as a sailor on leave . . . or at least she was, a little over half an hour ago, before Croft had helped her to the limestone tiled bathroom so that she might throw up the liquid contents of her stomach and then enlisted her assistant Macy to drown her in cup after cup of pure caffeine.
‘Feeling better?’ asked Croft, her frustration totally disguised behind her well made-up face, including smiling parted lips coated in the camera-friendly shade of frosted bronze.
‘Yes, much. Thanks,’ said Karin, obviously embarrassed by her behaviour. ‘I didn’t have any dinner and I think I just . . . Believe me I don’t usually . . .’
‘Of course you don’t,’ said Croft who in all honesty couldn’t give a crap whether Karin Montgomery was a teetotaller or a seasoned drunk. ‘You have been under so much pressure,’ she said, taking a seat next to Karin on the soft, chintz-covered down sofa. ‘It is completely understandable that you might seek some form of release.’
‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ said Karin.
Croft patted Karin’s hand with practised understanding and then studied the woman before her. Yes, she thought, another fifteen minutes and she should be ready. The colour was finally returning to her cheeks and, truth be told, she looked damned beautiful. The redness around her eyes was still there, but that would just add to the drama – the ‘poor distraught humanitarian wife of leading Professor facing execution for assassination
of America’s most popular politician’ look . . . so to speak.
‘What say we fetch you a glass of iced water, apply a fresh application of light make up and get started. I have a feeling this interview may be just the release you need, my dear. You have a story to tell and should not be ashamed to tell it.’
‘All right,’ said Karin who, Caroline noticed, took a deep breath, releasing a slight shudder on the exhale. ‘Let’s do it,’ she said quietly, almost to herself, and then, turning to Croft in a louder, more confident tone, ‘Let’s do it before I change my mind.’
Damn it! No cabs. Downtown Boston on a humid summer night was a hive of frenetic activity. There were the late commuters pounding the pavement on their way to T-stations anxious to get home after a long day at work. There were others, with a more relaxed gait strolling to Harbourfront restaurants and still more, a lot of them summer vacationers, flocking to nearby Faneuil Hall Marketplace, Boston’s most visited tourist destination.
No cabs.
He should have known this would be the case and asked Mannix for a lift down to Copley Square. But for some reason he needed to do this on his own – even though he was still not completely sure of what he was going to do. There was only one solution. It would only take him minutes to run home and retrieve his Landcruiser from the underground parking garage, then he could drive directly west along Beacon Street which bordered Boston Common and the Public Gardens, praying there were no post peak hour traffic jams along the way.
He entered the front lobby of his high rise Washington Street apartment building, ignoring the elevator and heading straight for the fire stairs, running down them two at a time. He pulled his keys from his pocket, heard the familiar beep signalling the release of the central locking and yanked the door open, putting the key in the ignition while fastening his seatbelt.
He was on the road in seconds, heading south down Tremont and backtracking north-west on Park before taking a sharp turn into Beacon past the golden-domed Massachusetts State House on his right and Boston Common on his left. He looked at his watch. 9.17pm. It had been a good twenty minutes since he spoke to Tony. God only knows what Karin was currently telling Croft in the privacy of her hotel suite.
