by Sydney Bauer
‘It’s Kate, Special Agent. Call me Kate.’
‘Kate, listen to me. This is very, very important. I want you and your mother to go to your rooms and pack what you can for the next few days. Then I want you both to check into the Conrad Brussels Hotel, and wait there until I call you. What was the name of the first street you ever lived in?’
‘What . . . I . . . it was Brown Street.’
‘Okay then. There will be a reservation for a suite under the name of Katherine Brown. You got that?’
‘Yes.’
‘And do not tell anyone where you are, including your husband.’
‘My husband is on a UNICEF mission outside of Sudan and I am afraid he is not contactable for at least . . .’
‘Good.’
‘Wait, I don’t understand. We will miss the rendezvous. Why would one FBI agent be telling us to . . . ?’
‘Kate, listen to me. You said it yourself. The Assistant Director’s instructions were unusual. If he was following normal procedure he would have had the repeat picked up at your house. Think about it, Kate,’ said King, desperate to win her confidence. ‘Why would he want you to meet in a busy public area unless he planned to . . . ?’
‘I don’t know,’ said a now anxious Kate Caspian. ‘He certainly was determined. When I suggested the house he . . .’
‘Did everything to persuade you otherwise,’ interrupted King. ‘Please Kate, there is no time. You have to trust me. Your lives are in danger. When you get to the hotel you can call Lieutenant Joe Mannix of the Boston PD. He’s Chief of Homicide. He can vouch for me and what I am saying. But right now, I need you to get out and take your passports with you. My plan is to have you out of Europe and safe under my protection on US soil within the next forty-eight hours.’
‘Dear God, I . . .’
‘Please . . . Kate.’
‘All right . . . I . . .’
‘Thank you. I promise I’ll call you at the hotel shortly and explain everything. Right now you just have to get out. Right now, you just have to move.’
King rang off and looked up to see Carlos Perez standing there in wonder, a mixture of adrenalin producing confusion and excitement showing on his young and eager face. Part of him didn’t want to draw the bright young agent into this quagmire of crap, but he knew he would need him to keep an eye on Ramirez, and if necessary run interference for him over the next few days.
‘Carlos,’ said King. ‘I need you to do a few things for me. First, I know you understand what just happened here remains between us.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Carlos, bursting with enthusiasm.
‘Second, I need you to make a reservation at the Conrad Brussels for . . .’
‘Twin suite under the name of Brown. I got it,’ said Carlos.
‘Finally I want you to keep an eye on Ramirez for me – let me know who he is calling, who is calling him. You seem to have a knack for it, after all,’ smiled King.
‘Thanks. Sure, okay,’ Carlos returned the smile. ‘That it?’
‘I think so. Actually, no, there is one other thing.’ King placed both palms on the edge of his desk and pushed his chair backwards – the weight of the movement causing an audible squeak from the four plastic castors which swivelled across the blue office carpet. Once clear of the desk he bent down to retrieve his worn leather briefcase from underneath the side set of drawers. He opened the case and reached in to pull out a plastic evidence bag which looked to contain a pile of coins.
‘I need you to run this down to Evidence Response,’ said King, handing the bag to Carlos. ‘And give it to Hackenbacker, personally. Tell him I need them sent to the Lab in Quantico – on the QT, to someone he can trust, someone discreet. I want them tested within an inch of their life – prints, fibres, any other bodily fluids. Tell him I suspect they’re clean but anything is worth a shot at this point. Tell him this is payback – his chance at the real deal, he will understand.’
‘Done,’ said Perez, a look of confused determination on this face, taking the bag and seeing the silver coins inside. ‘This looks like a stack of quarters.’
‘Thirty to be exact.’
‘Someone raid a piggy bank, boss?’
‘Not exactly. This was more like a deposit – a calling card, so to speak.’
‘You want to find Ramirez’s prints on these, don’t you, Chief?’
‘More than anything, Carlos. More than anything.’
51
‘This your idea of getting lost in a crowd?’ asked David as he finally found Joe Mannix seated in the far corner of one of the many outdoor cafés that litter the grounds of Faneuil Hall Marketplace in Downtown Boston.
Mannix gave his customary shrug to which David replied, ‘Well, I guess if you’re gonna choose a place to be anonymous, this has to be it.’
And he was right. Faneuil Hall Marketplace, built on the foundations of the original meeting hall of Samuel Adams and his fellow revolutionaries, was one of the world’s Top 20 tourist spots – a central hive of restaurants, cafés, bars and shops bordered by Boston’s busy financial district, picturesque waterfront, historical North End and famous Government Center.
At any one time as you strolled through the main hall and back out into the frenetic open air surrounds, you got the feeling you were one of thousands determined to see, eat, buy, do as much as possible in as short a time as possible, if for no other reason than that this was what everyone else around you seemed to be trying to do, all at the very same time.
Joe looked up from his coffee, his dark shades hiding his similarly dark brown eyes to gesture at what appeared to be a large crowd circling one of the many regular outdoor performers.
‘What are they watching?’ asked David.
‘A contortionist, you know, one of those guys who can bend themselves into a pretzel.’
‘They freak me out,’ said David signalling the waiter for a black coffee of his own. ‘I wonder what Samuel Adams and his patriot friends would have thought if they could have looked into the future to see a rubber guy tying himself in knots outside the window of their hallowed meeting place.’
‘They probably would have thrown him a penny or two,’ said Joe.
‘Unless he was British,’ said David. ‘Then they would’ve told him to go screw himself – which, when you think about it, he already was.’
Mannix laughed then, removing his glasses and turning to his friend.
‘You look like shit.’
‘I feel like shit.’
‘Crowds make me nervous. You wanna walk?’
‘Sure,’ said David. ‘Let’s grab a sandwich from Myrtle’s and head down to the Harbour. I could use a little salt air.’
‘You and your salt air.’
‘What can I say? It clears my head.’
Two hours later they had finally stopped at Christopher Columbus Park, taking a seat on the unseasonably green grass and looking out over the northern shores of Boston Harbour. Mannix had told David all about his two-day briefing with CIA Director Ryan while David finished by telling Mannix of Montgomery’s hotel tape/sedative theory. Mannix had even forced David to go over what he remembered of the shooting – which David repeated was zero – apart from the sharp pain and the blacking out. They were both exhausted – from talking, listening, deducing, analysing and wondering how they could put an end to this whole bloody mess and secure some form of justice, or more accurately, retribution, in the process.
‘Doyle and Toovey are dead,’ said Joe as he took a seat on the freshly mown grass. ‘Which means Matthew – or Ramirez – and John are the two drivers of this sickening scheme, probably have been from the very beginning. Our guess is John is the ‘orchestrator’ but Ramirez is the ‘doer’. Nothing happens without him so he holds the physical advantage. John relies on him because he delivers, and when John assumes power there is no doubt Ramirez will be right in the thick of it, claiming his position as the new Director of the FBI.’
David looked out at the now flat b
lue waters, wondering how such a beautiful, peace-loving country, built on the sacrifices made by those dedicated to the establishment of democracy, could produce men such as Ramirez and his boss John, driven by greed and obsessed by power with no regard for any of the principles their forefathers had died to defend.
‘You know who he is, don’t you?’ he said at last.
‘Yeah,’ said Mannix looking up at his friend, his dark eyes squinting in the afternoon sun. ‘In fact Ryan has known for some time, just couldn’t put it all together.
‘It was Simba who confirmed it when he told us about John’s determination to control the events surrounding Bradshaw’s death from the get go. He and Ramirez have been running this show from day one . . . or should I say she and Ramirez . . .’
David turned to look at Joe, the reality of it finally sinking in, the simplicity of it all, the cold, horrible truth.
‘John is a woman,’ said David.
‘Yes, and not any ordinary woman. She is in fact the most powerful female in the US of A – White House Chief of Staff, Maxine Bryant.’
‘Bryant,’ said David, understanding as it all fell into place. ‘The woman killed her own son-in-law, the father of her grandchildren, so that she would get her own unrivalled shot at the Presidency.’
‘Not just a shot,’ said Mannix, ‘but a sure thing with a guaranteed majority in Congress. We’re talking manipulation of government at the highest level; a dictator dressed up as lady liberty, the ultimate traitor, a democratic despot. And the worst part is, we still can’t prove it’s her. She and Ramirez are smart – hell, they are running the fucking country behind the President’s back. The woman told Ryan she was going to be named Vice Presidential nominee within the week – and we all know, after that, it is just a matter of time.’
‘This is insane,’ said David. ‘I mean, the woman is an elected representative of the people – her face is on the cover of Time. How can she justify this?’
‘These people don’t think that way. They are arrogant enough to believe they can control the government and the scary thing is, they are well on their way to doing it. Our problem is getting all our ducks lined up in time to blow her nomination out of the water. Bottom line, we need solid proof, and we need it fast.’
‘Is there any way we can link Ramirez to Toovey’s death?’ asked David.
‘No. We went to his apartment after the cops had left, late on Sunday night. The place was clean – no prints, no sign of a struggle, nothing.’
‘What about Toovey’s stuff – his computer, his diary, anything to bind them as a group of conspirators?’
‘Nothing. According to his colleagues he kept an electronic diary but his laptop was missing. His place was spotless, antiseptic almost. The only scuff marks on the carpet were at the back of the bedroom door where he supposedly hung himself by accident while he was trying to . . .’
‘I get the picture,’ said David.
‘Yeah, so did I. And I can tell you it wasn’t pretty. The only thing out of place in the whole joint was the quarters in a stack on the dresser.’
‘Let me guess – there were thirty of them.’
‘Yeah,’ said Mannix. ‘I guess Ramirez couldn’t resist. Thirty pieces of silver, a traitor’s wage. Just like his good friend “Luke”. Simba is having them tested for prints as we speak, but I am pretty sure they’ll be clean. Ramirez must have thought it was some fitting send off – a final message to their two dead disciples that shooting their mouths off, betraying their leader with their weakness, their fear, just wasn’t part of the plan.’
‘Not to mention getting rid of their henchmen when they are no longer of any use,’ said David.
‘Like we say in Homicide, death is the ultimate silencer, my friend,’ said Mannix. ‘No one can speak from the grave, not even saints like the late Tom Bradshaw. Which reminds me, the cops looking for the bullet intended to silence you came up empty.’
It was the first time Joe had expressed his view that the shooter was aiming at David and not at the Professor – a truth David had been avoiding.
‘There was no sign of a bullet or casing which means the shooter was either very efficient, or that piece of celebrity shrapnel will turn up on eBay.’
‘I’m not a celebrity, Joe,’ was all David could think of to say.
‘Modesty will get you nowhere,’ said his friend.
They sat there in silence for a minute, listening to the sounds of the Harbour, Mannix kicking out at a pack of greedy seagulls circling in anticipation of being thrown a few luncheon leftovers.
‘The Hotel tape tells us nothing,’ said David, finally breaking the silence. ‘Ramirez was only in the room once – and that was to check out the security before Bradshaw arrived. Bradshaw’s wife moved in and out – and there was the housemaid, and Ryan, and Montgomery. But as for your alleged John – Maxine Bryant, she wasn’t even in the building until after the President was dead or close to it. I’m afraid if our sedative theory is gonna hold up, we need to be able to both prove there was an undetected depressant in his system and then point the finger at the person who gave it to him, but right now, we’re coming up empty.’
David had explained to Mannix how he had left Montgomery early this morning and spent the better part of three hours poring over the Medical Examiner’s report before telephoning said ME, Gus Svenson, and questioning him on the initial blood results. Svenson, a Swedish ex-pat and straight shooter who David had worked with and admired for many years, said he had tested Bradshaw’s blood for every chemical substance known to man, and in his opinion, the only non-post mortem narcotic in his system was the OxyContin that killed him.
‘This request for new test makes things difficult,’ Svenson had told David in his stilted Scandinavian English. ‘Blood tests are specific. You think something missed it must be a substance that needs special test for detection. Better start with possibilities – you suspect something, you tell me look for this.’ In other words David and Sara needed to narrow the field and work with Montgomery on possible undetectable sedatives before going back to Gus with test recommendations. And they had to do it fast.
Despite the frustration of the delay, David knew this was probably the safer option for the time being. For the defence were bound, under the same discovery obligations David called to the Judge’s attention following their release of the ‘letter’, to inform the prosecution of any new tests they ordered. This meant they had to be as close to sure as possible that their sedative theory was correct, otherwise they would achieve nothing – and tip off Ramirez to their suspicions in the process.
‘I’ve just got this horrible feeling,’ said David, turning to Joe. ‘That we’re close but not close enough. It was the same with the Martin trial last year, that sensation that no matter how hard we try, we’re gonna get knocked down before we take our mark. We just need a break, Joe.’
With that Mannix reached into his coat pocket to retrieve two envelopes; one thick and square, the other regular sized and flat.
‘What are these?’ asked David.
‘This one is a client list,’ said Joe, handing him the flat envelope. ‘It’s the list Ryan got when he hacked into GIV’s computers. I believe there might be someone on it who can help us. And this,’ he said handing David the thicker envelope, ‘this is a present from Pieter Capon.’
‘Capon?’ asked David, anxiously unfolding the larger envelope first.
‘It’s a video tape,’ said Joe. ‘In fact it’s the original security tape from the corridor outside the Hotel’s Presidential Suite on the night of Saturday 30 April.’
‘What? But I already have a copy of the tape. It was given to me as part of the prosecution’s discovery. They must have got the tape from Capon – so why would he . . . ?’
‘You met him. The guy is smart, organised, fastidious. I had a hunch he might have kept an original copy at the Hotel – and luckily for us, I was right. I haven’t watched it yet, but according to the timer, it’s four minutes
longer than the one given to me by the FBI, the same one you have no doubt watched a zillion times over. Which means . . .’
‘They edited the tape,’ said David.
‘You better believe it. So we have to pull those four minutes apart – see what they have to hide. But before we do . . .’ Joe pointed at the other thinner envelope in David’s hand, and David, who was still in shock from the revelations of the first package, quickly tore the seal from the A4 standard and pulled out the two sheets of white paper, each with a column of neatly typed names, in alphabetical order, justified against the margin on the far left hand side of each page.
It took him all of three seconds to see it, for the man’s name was close to the top – the sixth on the list sandwiched between ‘Congresswoman Gretchen Bird’ and ‘Senator Christine Byrne’.
‘Shit!’ said David. ‘James Bishop. Tony’s older brother, he’s a client, a drug user.’
‘He’s an opportunity, David. No offence to your pal Tony but if this James can help us, we need to pull him in.’
‘Tony will be . . . I mean . . . James was always the straight one, ultra conservative, super smart. He has two teenage kids, for God’s sake, he was . . . he is . . . a nice guy, from what I remember.’
‘So does that mean you think he’ll help us?’ asked Joe.
‘I don’t know. But let’s face it, Joe, we don’t have squat to go on so we’re in no position to play nice. I’ll talk to Tony but whether he wants to cooperate or not, James Bishop will have to help us – and if he doesn’t, we’ll make him – because in the end, we don’t have any other choice.’
Antonio Ramirez rarely found himself in a position of indecision. No, he never experienced what all those lesser, feeble individuals did – pathetic periods of hesitancy and procrastination and repetition. And that was probably why this wasted moment unnerved him so. Here he was, FBI Washington Field Office Assistant Director in Charge Antonio Ramirez having reservations, misgivings and qualms . . . and in that moment other verbs entered his mind too such as dithering, dawdling and dilly-dallying. That was when he shut off the panic and reached for the phone.
