The Legacy

by Stephen W. Frey

  “An hour at most.”

  “You don’t have very long,” Bennett offered. He didn’t need to be told what Operation Snowfall was, or why Seward was interested in Cole Egan.

  “Until what?” Seward asked calmly.

  “Until Cole gets the second tape.”

  Seward processed the words for a moment. “Second tape?” It was what he had feared all along.

  “Yeah, it’s exactly like the one that cowardly little fucker over there took from Cole in Manhattan last week.” Bennett nodded at Magee.

  Instantly Magee started for Bennett from across the room.

  “Commander!” Seward shouted, stepping in front of Magee. He couldn’t have physically kept him away from Bennett, but the intrusion was enough.

  “What tape are you referring to?” Seward asked.

  “Don’t give me that crap,” Bennett said. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  “How do you know there is a second tape?” Seward dropped his pretense immediately in the interest of saving time.

  “Jim Egan and I spent thirty-six years together. I know.” Bennett pulled at the shackles holding his wrists. “Eight years ago he made two tape copies of the film he took from Andrea Sage in Dealey Plaza, then had the film conveyed to people in Washington to throw them off track. He wanted to make them think that he really hadn’t taken the film from Andrea Sage after the assassination. He wanted them to think that it had been hidden away in someone else’s attic all these years so they would leave him alone.” Bennett smiled as he thought how he had convinced Cole that he had no idea what was in the Chase safe-deposit box before Cole got to it. And how he had observed that the original film must still be out there somewhere. And Cole had bought the entire act. “But hell, you probably know all of that, Mr. Seward. You’re probably the one who ended up with the original film eight years ago.”

  “Where is the second tape, Agent Smith?” Seward asked quickly, ignoring Bennett’s accurate speculation.

  “What makes you think I know where it is?”

  “Come on, Smith!”

  “If I did know, why the hell would I tell you?”

  “Because you’re a federal agent and I’m a superior officer and I’m giving you a direct order.”

  “So throw me in jail,” Bennett said defiantly. “I’m retiring in a few months anyway. Jail can’t be any worse than retirement for a man like me.”

  “Then tell me so you can save yourself some pain.” Seward nodded at Magee. “As you can see, my friend over there would love an opportunity to get at you. And you aren’t in much of a position to defend yourself.”

  Bennett gazed at Magee for a few moments. “I honestly don’t know where the second tape is,” he said quietly.

  Seward glanced up. He thought he had detected a tone of sincerity in Bennett’s voice.

  “I didn’t know where the first one was until Jim gave me an envelope to give Cole. Jim gave it to me just before we went on our last mission,” Bennett continued. “He gave it to me in case he didn’t come back. He had a premonition he wouldn’t.”

  A premonition. What a bunch of crap, Seward thought to himself. “You are speaking of the mission to Colombia, correct?”

  Bennett ignored what he knew was a remark intended to show him that Seward knew everything. “Like I said, Jim hid the tapes eight years ago, but he didn’t tell me where. He told me he went to great lengths to hide them. He made certain he wasn’t being followed before he even retrieved the tapes from their temporary hiding places. Before he put them where Cole could find them but no one else could.”

  And he had done an excellent job of being careful, Seward thought dejectedly. They had lost Jim Egan in Boston eight years ago after a wild trip around the country. “Why did he go to so much trouble to hide the tapes? Why didn’t he sell them eight years ago if he wanted the world to see them?” Seward asked.

  “He didn’t want to be alive when they surfaced. He realized that would mean a death sentence, and he wanted to die on his own terms, or in the line of fire. But he also wanted to make certain that they did surface, that people knew the truth,” Bennett explained. “And he wanted to give Cole something valuable as a way to make up for not being around for the kid’s entire life. He felt very bad about that.”

  Seward sensed that Bennett wasn’t yielding all of this information because of the oath to protect and defend he had taken so many years ago. “How do you know Cole Egan is going for a second tape right now?” Seward was trying to figure out Bennett Smith’s angle in all of this.

  Bennett smirked. “What the hell else would he be doing?”

  What else indeed, Seward thought. “And you were following him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Jim asked me to. He and I were very close.”

  Seward didn’t believe Smith’s motivations were so pure. “You directed Cole to that first tape at the Chase branch.” Seward pointed his cane at Bennett. “Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Am I to believe that Cole had no idea where it was until you contacted him?”

  Bennett nodded. “As far as I know, he had no idea it existed until I called him.”

  “Then how did he find out about the location of the second tape?” Seward asked. “You must have told him.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Seward leaned forward until his face was directly in front of Smith’s. “I can make this afternoon very uncomfortable for you, Agent Smith,” he hissed.

  “I didn’t tell him anything about a second tape,” Bennett snapped. “Someone else must have. It must have been that woman he’s traveling with. Truth is, I figured she was one of your people anyway.”

  “You figured wrong.” Seward pivoted and limped slowly away from where Bennett sat. When he reached the far wall he turned back around. For a long time he was quiet. Finally he spoke again. “Where is Jim Egan?” he asked casually.

  Bennett tried not to let the surprise register on his face. “What?”

  Seward smiled. If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was interrogate. “Where is Jim Egan?” he asked once more.

  “He was killed on our last mission.”

  “In Colombia?”

  “Yes,” Bennett confirmed.

  “You’re lying,” Seward responded calmly.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are!” Seward yelled. “We found the grave beside the river. There was a body in it, but it wasn’t Jim Egan’s.”

  Smith shook his head. “Jim Egan is dead, I swear to you.”

  “Where is Cole going?” Seward switched subjects again. He was like a boxer now, into his rhythm, keeping the other man off balance.

  Tiny beads of perspiration broke out on Bennett’s forehead, but he didn’t answer.

  “Where is Cole going?” Seward asked again.

  Bennett stared at Seward for several moments. “What’s in it for me?”

  Seward managed to hold back his smile. People were so predictable. “What do you have in mind?”

  “A retirement fund,” Bennett answered. “Being a DIA agent doesn’t pay very well, at least not as well as it should. I’ve been risking my life for this country for a long time, and I don’t have much to show for it.”

  “What figure do you have in mind?”

  “Ten million dollars.”

  “What you estimated you could sell the tape for if you got it, right?” Seward asked. The man was so transparent. “You were after the tape that night in Manhattan just like we were, weren’t you, Agent Smith? That’s why you killed our man in Bryant Park. You thought he had recovered the tape at the library.”

  Bennett stared at Seward but said nothing.

  “Okay,” Seward said softly. “I can arrange for ten million dollars. That’s a sm
all price to pay to suppress the tape. Now tell me where Cole Egan is going.”

  “I’ll give you part of the information,” Bennett said, glad he had instructed his secretary in Washington to destroy the answering machine tape. “Then you can give me part of the money. After I’ve received the partial payment, I’ll give you further information. And so on.”

  “Very wise, Agent Smith, but I assure you there’s nothing to worry about.”

  There was a great deal to worry about, Bennett knew. “Get someone to Atlanta right away.”

  “You would know better than to send me on a wild goose chase,” Seward warned.

  “Yes, I would.”

  “All right.” Seward nodded at Smith, then limped from the room.

  Bennett looked over at Magee when Seward was gone. “Hey, you piece of dogshit.”

  Magee sauntered toward Bennett until he was standing directly in front of him. “You aren’t in much of a position to be calling anyone dogshit,” Magee sneered.

  “You wouldn’t touch me,” Bennett retorted. “Seward would have your ass. He needs me in a cooperative mood so I’ll help you find Cole Egan.”

  Magee checked the doorway through which Seward had disappeared. “Personally, I think Seward is too willing to negotiate. The stick is a much more effective means of drawing information out of a prisoner than the carrot.”

  “Then take your best shot.” Bennett stuck out his jaw. “Come on, asshole. I can’t even move.”

  Magee chuckled. “You think I won’t?” He’d go for the left eye, puncture it with one quick strike and blind Bennett permanently in that eye. It would be a very painful injury but one that wouldn’t inhibit Bennett’s ability to talk. When the bleeding had stopped, he’d probably be even more talkative. “You really think I won’t?” Magee felt the adrenaline pumping through his system. God, he loved to deliver pain.

  “I know you won’t. You’re too worried about what Seward might—”

  With no warning Magee jabbed for Bennett’s left eye.

  And Bennett caught Magee’s wrist with his powerful right hand as Magee’s fingers were about to plunge into the socket. Bennett pulled Magee’s wrist hard. Magee pitched forward and their foreheads smashed together. It was over instantly. Bennett had used the move before in real hand-to-hand combat, when his life was on the line. Magee had only practiced it half-speed in a gymnasium wearing protective headgear. Bennett knew where to aim. Magee had no idea what hit him, and went limp, collapsing onto Bennett.

  Bennett laughed as he rifled through the other man’s pockets, searching for the key that would unlock the shackles still holding his left wrist and ankles. He had been blessed with powerful, albeit small, hands in relation to his wrist size. If he was able to flex his wrist as the shackles were being applied, he could usually wriggle free if given enough time. It really wasn’t as difficult as people thought.

  He found the key in Magee’s pants pocket. The agents in the ambulance should never have given him that stimulant before cuffing him to the chair. They shouldn’t have given him the opportunity to pretend that he was still unconscious. He rolled Magee onto the floor, unlocked the ankle cuffs and stood up.

  Thirty seconds later Bennett was jogging down a seedy street outside the warehouse. He spotted a young man standing beside a wreck of a black Cadillac. “Hey, I need a ride and I’m willing to pay,” he yelled at the man. For some reason they hadn’t taken his wallet or identification during the interrogation.

  The man glanced at the blood trickling down Bennett’s face but didn’t hesitate. “Where to?” If the man had cash, that was all that mattered.

  “Newark Airport. I’ll give you a hundred bucks.”

  “Show me the cash.”

  Bennett pulled five twenties from his wallet and waved them at the man. “You get these when we get to Newark.”

  “Get in.”

  From a second-floor window, William Seward watched the Cadillac move away. Bennett had to think he had escaped on his own. They couldn’t just let him go. Then he would have been suspicious and might not have gone after Cole. But now Bennett would lead them right to Cole—and to the second tape.

  18

  Eric Walsh cherished his job at the White House almost as much as the president cherished his. Not because of any patriotic sense of duty to the country, nothing naive like that. Walsh’s motivation was centered squarely on personal gain. After four years as the president’s chief of staff, Walsh would have his pick of high-paying finance jobs on Wall Street.

  The investment banks had already started calling. They coveted Walsh’s global network of movers and shakers who could retain the investment banks to execute transactions and pay huge fees. In the investment banking world, access was everything, and Walsh had it. As chief of staff Walsh had developed strong ties to top government officials and corporate CEOs around the world. Walsh’s job would simply be to introduce senior executives of the investment bank for whom he chose to work to his network of powerful people. Then he would step aside and let the dealmakers go to work, and earn millions for himself just for the handshakes.

  Nine years ago Walsh had taken a sabbatical from his Charlotte law practice to run Richard Jamison’s successful campaign for the governorship of North Carolina. Jamison was a real estate mogul and one of Walsh’s clients. After the victory Walsh had left the law practice permanently and become Jamison’s chief of staff in the governor’s office. Five years later Walsh had directed another victorious Jamison campaign. This time the prize was the presidency. Again, Walsh had stayed on to be chief of staff. Now they were after one last victory so Jamison could spend four more years in the Oval Office.

  But Walsh wouldn’t stay on as chief of staff during the second term. After the election he would put his services up for bids. He had already informed Jamison of that decision. It was better to move into the private sector riding a wave of success. Walsh would be able to name his price at that point. The investment banks would offer him five, maybe even ten million dollars annually just to make the high-level introductions. He’d be able to retire a wealthy man after only a few years of work.

  Jamison was understanding. He had made only one request: that Walsh remain with him through this last campaign. And Walsh understood why. Jamison needed him to remain the point person with the Bianco family until after the election. He couldn’t risk letting anyone else in on the administration’s dark secrets.

  Walsh glanced around the empty office furtively, wondering if he was being watched. The Bianco family controlled the largest unions and thirty percent of the illegal drug trade in the United States. Over the last decade the Biancos had gained immense power in the underworld, and at the same time had maintained an extremely low profile. The FBI had nicknamed the Bianco family Crime Inc., and calculated that if the businesses they controlled were consolidated on paper by a Big Six accounting firm, the entity would rank well up in the Fortune 100.

  Walsh checked his watch. It was after two in the morning and they were late, but that wasn’t unusual. Unlike some Mafia families, the Biancos were fanatic about making certain that their Chairman, as they called him, was not being followed by the press, which was constantly trying to snap his picture. The Chairman had no interest in having his picture splashed all over the newspapers or being tagged with dapper nicknames, as John Gotti had. So Walsh would cool his heels patiently and accept the imposition. He would wait as long as it took, because the Chairman could destroy Jamison’s administration with one phone call.

  Ten minutes later the office door swung slowly open. The office was buried deep inside a building located on Interstate 95 halfway between Washington and Baltimore and owned by one of Jamison’s real estate companies. Two large men dressed in conservative gray suits entered the room and nodded to Walsh. He stood up immediately, holding his arms straight out. One of the men frisked Walsh carefully while the other searched the office. Sat
isfied that Walsh and the office were clean, the man who had frisked Walsh returned to the office door and said something quietly to those waiting in the hall. Two more large men then entered the room, followed by a short man dressed in his traditional three-button charcoal suit.

  Anthony Bianco a.k.a. the Chairman, was arguably one of the most powerful men in America, but few people in the country would recognize him as such. Few would recognize him at all, which was exactly the way he wanted it.

  Walsh shook Bianco’s hand respectfully. He had known the man for nine years. They had first met shortly before Jamison’s opponent for the governorship of North Carolina had met with an untimely death in a tragic plane crash only a few weeks before the election. Since that time, Walsh had been Jamison’s messenger, transacting their business face to face with Bianco, because of course the president couldn’t.

  “Good evening, Mr. Bianco.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Walsh,” Bianco replied in his gruff voice.

  In nine years, Walsh couldn’t ever remember them addressing each other by anything but their last names. “Please sit down.” Walsh motioned toward the couch.

  Bianco gestured toward his men, then followed Walsh to the couch. Three of the men exited the room while one took a chair just inside the door.

  “How are the attorney general hearings going?” Bianco asked.

  “Very well,” Walsh replied. The woman President Jamison had nominated to head the Justice Department was Bianco’s personal selection. The woman had allowed Bianco to run Atlantic City with little interference during her tenure as New Jersey attorney general, and now Bianco was elevating her to a much more important position through Jamison. “After some initial problems, we believe her approval is a lock at this point. We have polled the senators on the committee and we have the votes. They will recommend to Congress that she be confirmed,” Walsh said confidently.

  “Good.” Bianco unbuttoned his suit coat. “What about the tape?” he asked abruptly. “When I was at William Seward’s cabin in Virginia with General Zahn, Seward said something about the possibility of a second one.”