Gospel

by Sydney Bauer

  48

  Antonio Ramirez stretched back in his dark blue, sub-standard, synthetically upholstered office chair, still listening to the beeps of the disconnected telephone call, and allowed himself a smile. John was happy. Ramirez had just completed an early morning briefing with his leader on a secure line from the White House to the Boston FBI office, and was satisfied he had alleviated any concerns she may have had regarding the efficiency and trustworthiness of his highly trained operatives.

  ‘You are sure they are discreet,’ she had asked, at least twice, perhaps three times.

  ‘Yes,’ he had replied. ‘The men I use are a combination of active and inactive agents. They are all loyal to me 100 per cent.’

  ‘They did not question your instructions?’ she had continued.

  ‘No. They do not ask questions. They simply perform their duties as ordered. They get in and they get out. This agent did particularly well. His aim was perfect. There are very few marksmen who can come that close to a man’s brain without killing him. It’s a skill. You aim for the temporal lobe and then pull back, a fraction of an inch. The target can literally feel the bullet kiss their ear. The snipers call it the whisper of death. It’s very effective, and guaranteed to prime the subject for the necessary negotiations.’

  ‘So you think it’s enough to get Cavanaugh to change his plea?’

  ‘No. The man is stubborn. I think something a little more personal will be required. But it’s a good start. He’s angry, which also means he is scared. I saw it in his eyes.’

  John’s silence had been enough to show Ramirez that she approved of his methods and was pleased with the day’s outcomes. And while riding a high he had decided to remind her of their second coup of the day – convincing the Judge to allow the letter into evidence.

  ‘Don’t forget. We have the letter,’ he had said.

  ‘Yes,’ she had replied, and he had shut his eyes to picture the small smile of satisfaction that he knew would be sliding across her perfect face. ‘You and Adams did well to get it admitted.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘A gift is one thing – but manipulating it to maximum advantage is another. You’ve done well, Matthew,’ she had said in a second expression of approval, to which he had not replied, because there had been no need, because she had been right.

  And so here he sat, taking simple pleasure in the strangely soothing rhythm of the disconnection beeps and contemplating the true irony that their strongest evidential discovery to date had turned out to be legitimate. Montgomery’s secretary, the forty-something, slightly overweight, heavily made-up Ms Coral Kapetas, had been holding onto a copy of the original letter since April, and only made the heartbreakingly difficult decision to hand it over to the FBI after doing a little math.

  It seemed her romantic experiences (the word ‘affair’, she had explained to Ramirez, being ‘far too common to consider’) with the great Professor, which took place over a period of about six weeks (five weeks, four days and six hours to be exact), ran simultaneously with the alleged affair with that young slut Jessica Douglas, a crossover Ms Kapetas was unaware of until the press divulged details of the FBI’s case against her now not so beloved boss almost two weeks ago.

  Coral was a woman of compassion, who felt for her dear detained superior, but, as she so aptly put it, she ‘downright refused to be seen as the hospital whore’, and ever since the news of the Jessica Douglas affair had hit the press, the staff at Washington Memorial were treating her as such. Yes, they had been aware of her clandestine interludes with the Professor – gossip Coral herself basically confirmed by her lack of denial and accompanying wink of her permanently mascaraed right eye whenever the subject arose – and the latest talk had her relegated to nothing better than a ‘fall-back secretarial slut’.

  If the Professor could have asked, Ramirez would have told him that the old saying was most definitely true – there really was no wrath like that of a woman scorned – even if she was a slightly overweight PA playing second fiddle to the twenty-something social X-ray from Capitol Hill. Cheating was cheating, there were no two ways about it. Long story short, Ms Kapetas called Ramirez, handed him a copy of a letter she had no business replicating in the first place, and stressed she wished her old boss no ill. And that, in a nutshell, was that.

  Ramirez allowed himself another smile as he replaced the handset and listened to the rings of the first early morning calls in outer offices, signalling an official start to the ‘average’ man’s working day.

  Life was good. Luke and Mark were cleverly and constructively disposed of, John’s future, and that of his own, were safe and secure in his very capable hands and Cavanaugh’s personal and professional life, and Montgomery’s defence along with it, were on the verge of being skilfully and permanently destroyed.

  Still, nothing, not even this feeling of impending victory, could have prepared him for his next stroke of luck, which came in the form of an intercepted phone call originally intended for Special Agent Leo ‘Fuck Up’ King.

  Now that truly was a gift – or, more specifically, a storm so masterfully averted and cleverly re-routed in the direction from whence it came.

  49

  How much to tell them? How much to tell?

  This, Professor Stuart Montgomery thought to himself, was a question of great magnitude. He realised now he had been taking false comfort in a naïve and rather arrogant attitude that he was invincible. For weeks now he had been telling himself that, despite indications to the contrary, there was no way he would be found guilty of this crime he did not commit – and the reasons he gave himself were really quite logical, or at least, they seemed to be at the time.

  Firstly his stellar reputation as a God-like healer, a cardiac guru who had worked his magic and saved the lives of hundreds of influential patients, was sure to work in his favour. He honestly believed the gift of life he so kindly endowed on his subjects might come with some accompanying prerequisite for repayment in gratitude. But so far no one – not even those whose lives he had pulled back from the brink – had put up their hands to act as a respected character witness on his behalf, which perhaps was not so strange after all, considering the shallow definition of the words ‘appreciation’ and ‘loyalty’ in Washington DC.

  Secondly, he was foolish enough to convince himself that his innocence – pure and simple – would be enough to assure exoneration. Rubbish of course, a dangerous miscalculation. In reality, it would come down to what team kicked the most goals on the day, or perhaps more accurately, which side managed to upstage the other with a dazzling array of pre-trial media manipulation, concluding in a crescendo of climactic courtroom pizzazz.

  He had certainly underestimated the power of Trial Attorney Adams, and more pointedly that smug, so-called defender of truth, Assistant Director in Charge Antonio ‘Repugnant’ Ramirez who, he sensed, was a key driver of the prosecution’s case. Stupid of him really, under the circumstances, considering he knew how the game was played and until recently, considered himself a master at the sport. Obviously he was not as clever as he first thought, and this revelation alone was enough to deliver another soul-destroying blow of self-admonishment.

  Thirdly came the crux of it. The identity of the true murderer or murderers, as may be the case. He had always prided himself on having a sixth sense when it came to ‘reading’ people – a talent which was no doubt one of his greatest political assets, enabling him to boost himself above the less intuitive in his strategic quest for advancement. But with that talent also came a rather unnerving sense of the agendas of similar ambitious beings – in this case those with an insatiable thirst for power and a total disregard to the scruples others honoured to acquire it.

  Which was probably why he had more than a fair idea of who might be responsible – and the thought of it scared the hell out of him.

  He saw it now – so clear in its simplicity. His execution had always been part of their multi-faceted plan. In effect, two people had be
en murdered in the Presidential Suite of the Fairmont Copley Plaza Hotel on Saturday 30 April: Tom Bradshaw and himself. It was just that he was taking a little longer to die. If he had any doubts of their dedication to secure his fate, today’s tidily targeted bullet had spoken reams. It really didn’t matter if the shot was meant for Cavanaugh, it was also meant as a warning to him, of what they are capable of, of the extremes they would go to to assure he kept his appointment with the ‘man in the white coat’.

  And so, he also knew if he told the truth now – if he shouted to the world what he had found and how he had reacted on that night of death – that he would not only be laughed all the way to the executioner’s chair, but given an extra hiding for daring to concoct such a ridiculous and scandalous defence. No, the time for confessions had past – now there was only the hope that his attorney could play the game just a little bit better than them.

  The Professor looked at his watch. Nine twelve. Cavanaugh and his girl would be here any minute and, despite his internal reluctance to face it, he knew there was one more very important issue to consider, for only then could his question be answered: How much to tell them?

  The key issue was ‘The Fear’.

  There, he had said it – and said it aloud to boot.

  The real reason he had been sitting here in this rueful tangerine garb, playing the game, editing his script and telling his lies accordingly, was because he believed his current situation/location was ‘safer’ than the alternative. If he were freed, he would no doubt be a major liability to the real culprits’ futures – they needed him to stand trial and die on their terms – and any change in said plans could prove catastrophic.

  Strangely enough, after all that had happened, he also realised his fear was not just for himself but for her – the woman who had stood by him, despite the years of infidelity. She could have left him, true. Over the years he had certainly given her more than enough opportunities to file for a profitable divorce. But if she ever had a more valid reason to do so, if there were ever a time to walk out and be forgiven, applauded even, then this would be it. But she had not. She had not! And sitting here now, alone, he could almost abide with what they would do to him. But the prospect of them touching her was completely unacceptable.

  And so he came back to it. How much to tell?

  Cavanaugh was not stupid and did not suffer fools, nor liars, so he would have to be as honest as possible without placing himself and his wife in jeopardy. He would have to hope that if he led Cavanaugh and his rather savvy co-counsel to the vault of truth, they would be clever enough to discern the combination themselves and find a way in without him actually giving them the key. In doing this, they would be the ones who figured it out – absolving him from what he knew would be the disastrous consequences of simply coming clean.

  Bottom line, he needed to beat this, and without Cavanaugh’s help he was doomed. Deep in his soul he had a dire need to survive this preposterous calamity; a desperate, heart-felt compulsion to save himself and Karin along with him, even if she chose another path when all of this was over and done with.

  And so he answered his question . . .

  If Cavanaugh asked the right questions, he would give him the right answers. He might even direct him towards the correct questions to ask? Yes that was the trick! That just might do it.

  Ironically, he knew, it wasn’t such a tough case to crack. He was certainly no detective and yet he had worked out how they had done it; and their plan was really quite brilliant in its simplicity – a two-pronged attack – immobilise and kill. He had to admit, Ramirez had done a stellar job at constructing the details of his culpability – which was understandable considering his experience and more pointedly, he suspected, his personal investment in finding an appropriate scapegoat to send to the grave in his stead.

  And so, as the guard buzzed the two rather dishevelled looking visitors into interview room three, Montgomery straightened himself in the old metal chair and managed, under the circumstances, a reasonably confident greeting.

  Ask and I will tell, he said to himself again. Ask and I will tell.

  ‘Did you write it?’ asked David at last, needing to hear it from him. ‘Did you write that letter to Tom Bradshaw, Montgomery? Does that handwriting belong to you?’

  ‘Forgive me, Mr Cavanaugh,’ said the Professor, now using a monogrammed handkerchief to wipe down the rim of the County-issue coffee mug containing a weak Darjeeling. ‘But isn’t this the point where you stop asking questions? The letter exists whether I wrote it or not. The prosecution has been granted permission to enter it into evidence and so, perhaps, from your point of view it would be better if you didn’t . . .’

  ‘Did you write that letter?’ David asked again, and from the corner of his eye caught Sara jump at the escalating level of his voice.

  ‘I . . . ,’ Montgomery began, replacing his tea on the table and looking his attorney squarely in the eye. ‘Yes. Yes I did write that letter, Mr Cavanaugh. I wrote it in a moment of frustration. But as I have explained before, this was all part of the game Tom and I played together; the tap dance, the to-ing and fro-ing, the nature of our evolving relationship. He read it and discarded it, knowing it was just me being me. In the end, we would have made up.’

  ‘Stop,’ said Sara, her own voice now rising above David’s, the tone tinged with anger and exhaustion. ‘Just stop right there, Professor, because everything you are saying will be torn to shreds by the prosecution before you even have a chance to stir the honey in your God-damned tea.’

  David looked at her then, surprised by her outburst, figuring she was still hurt from his heartless lambasting last night. And then he felt that familiar sensation of guilt steal into his consciousness – for she had every right to feel dejected, resentful, enraged – emotions he had no doubt would reach new levels of intensity once he told her about the woman now showering in his apartment . . .

  ‘Can’t you see how this looks?’ Sara went on. ‘Handwriting experts will confirm you wrote that letter. The letter contains not one, or two, but several references to the antagonistic nature of your relationship with the Vice President and worse still, it practically spells out how you intended to kill him.’

  ‘What?’ said an outwardly horrified Montgomery. ‘It does no such thing. I had no intention of . . .’

  ‘Yes it does, Professor. Here, look at it,’ she said, shoving a copy of the letter in front of his face. ‘You say “Perhaps it is time I reassess my loyalties”. “Do not underestimate my influence”. You call him a fool, a hypocrite, and then you go on to outline the fact that he has been close to death before suggesting you can bring him to that point again.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking of physical death, my dear girl,’ said the Professor, obviously mortified. ‘More metaphorical. I was suggesting his career would be . . .’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what you meant, Professor,’ she said, now on her feet and pacing the small cinderblock interview room. ‘It only matters what the prosecution can convince a jury you meant. Some of the twelve may not even be able to spell metaphorical, let alone know what it means. Just look at how you conclude the letter; with the mention of his past drug habit, by confirming the letter as a threat not to be underestimated, and worse still, with a reference of your intention to put his career “to bed”. Don’t you see? That is exactly how the man was murdered – by the administration of narcotics in his very own bed.’

  They all said nothing. She was right. From this perspective the letter was a pre-planned itinerary of the deadly events to come.

  ‘Dear God,’ said Montgomery. ‘How could I have been so naïve? You must believe me, I had no intention of . . .’

  But David was not listening, something else was bothering him – something the Professor had said, or something he was about to say before Sara’s outburst.

  ‘Professor, let’s back up a little,’ he said, trying to ignore the constant throbbing in his head. ‘Correct me if I am wrong but a moment ago yo
u said this letter was part of your “dance” with Bradshaw, more of the customary to-ing and fro-ing that was part and parcel of the political game.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And you also said it was just a matter of time before you would have patched up your differences, that you would have “made up”. ’

  ‘Exactly,’ interrupted Montgomery. ‘You’re a good listener, Mr Cavanaugh. Do go on.’

  ‘You said “would have” made up, Professor,’ said David. ‘Are you telling me that this letter was the last communication between yourself and the Vice President, that you would have, if you could have, but you didn’t actually get the chance to “make-up” with Tom Bradshaw prior to his death?’

  ‘Well. Yes. That is exactly what I was saying.’

  ‘No, Professor. Wrong again,’ interrupted Sara. ‘You’re forgetting that your last communication with Tom Bradshaw was on the night of his death, when you were called to his suite to examine him, when you came and checked his blood pressure and heart. It was just before he was due to come down to the Grand Ballroom – just before he was killed.’

  ‘Hmmmm,’ said Montgomery, a look of mock confusion on his face. ‘Yes, of course, I did say that, didn’t I? It is certainly what everyone would expect me to say and there are no witnesses to the contrary.’

  ‘What?’ said Sara. ‘Are you telling us you lied, Professor? That on the night of Bradshaw’s death, you and he were still at odds? That your final visit was met with antagonism? That you and Bradshaw fought?’

  ‘On the contrary, my dear, I would say our last meeting was very quiet; exceptionally peaceful, in fact, disconcertingly so.’

  Just then Montgomery looked at David as if daring him to see past his anger and make the connection. The Professor had to know he had betrayed his trust – broken his firm’s sacred rule of telling the ‘truth and nothing but the truth’, but David sensed he was somehow asking him to understand the reasons why he had lied and, in seeing the depth of his fear, would know that at the time, lying had been his only option.