“You’ve never encountered misplaced confidence before?” Libby said. “I know I have.”
“Yeah, good point. But it occurs to me that we don’t need to speculate on the identity of Mister ‘fuck your country in the ass.’ We should be able to find out who he was, and who he was working for.”
“By doing what?”
“Okay, bear with me. After you and Peters left that apartment with the girl, I assume the NYPD showed up.”
“No need to assume. They showed up, all right—it was all over the news.”
“All right, then. The Homicide dicks from whatever precinct have a problem. They’ve got four bodies, all dead from gunshot wounds, and no ID on any of them—is that right?”
“Yep. Peters and I checked all four of them. None was carrying ID of any kind.”
“That itself is probably significant, although I’m damned if I know why at the moment.”
“That’s maybe not the best turn of phrase, under the circumstances,” Libby said gently.
“Just an expression, is all. So, okay, lacking paper identification for any of the victims, the Homicide cops will have their forensics people take the prints of all four. These will go over the wire to the FBI, which keeps a huge database of fingerprints. If any of those four guys has ever had his prints taken, the FBI computer will come up with the name. Or names. The NYPD detectives get the word, probably within forty-eight hours. And if they can get it, so can we.”
“I don’t have any contacts in the NYPD,” Libby said. “Do you?”
“No—but we both know people at the FBI.”
“Fenton and O’Donnell.”
“Uh-huh. They’re back at work by now, right?
The two agents, who had been involved in Morris and Libby’s last case, had rolled their car at high speed while in pursuit of terrorists who were planning to turn a powerful djinn loose in New York City. Both had been injured.
“Yes they’re back,” Libby said. “I got an email from Colleen about three weeks ago, saying that she and Fenton were fully recovered and eager to get back in harness. I was able to speed up her recovery some with a healing spell, and I’m pretty sure she did the same for Fenton.”
FBI Special Agent Colleen O’Donnell was also a practitioner of white witchcraft, and a good friend of Libby’s.
“I’d think it would be easy for them to get a look at the message traffic between NYPD and the people running the database,” Morris said, “and to let us know if any of those sets of prints rang the cherries.”
“It’ll probably make their task easier if we can tell them what precinct the request came from.”
“I can find that out with a phone call—two at the most.”
“Good,” she said. “I’ll pass that information on to Colleen, along with the request.”
“And if any of those four guys is identified, it might be useful to know if he has an FBI file, and what’s in it.”
“I’ll tell her that, too. Maybe you can talk to her and Fenton face-to-face when you’re in Washington.”
“Washington.”
“When you’re down there telling President Leffingwell all about the CIA’s ‘take a demon to lunch’ program. Have you figured out how you’re going to get in to see him?”
“I’ve been giving the access problem a lot of thought. Can’t just knock on the front door of the White House and if the President’s got a few minutes to talk.”
“Not unless you want to get arrested,” Libby said. “Again.”
“Right. And even getting a message to him requesting a meeting is going to be hard. There’s an awful lot of layers between the Oval Office and the world you and I live in.”
“So I understand.”
“And to the people who make up those layers, assuming they’ve heard of me at all, I’m just a pardoned felon who claims to spend his time messing around with vampires, ghouls, and demons. In short—a nutcase”
“Yes, I see the problem.”
“That’s why I’m not going to talk to him,” Morris said. “You are.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Oval Office
The White House
1822 hours
“THANK YOU, MISTER President.” Vaughn Murdock, White House Chief of Staff stood and walked slowly to the door that connected the President’s office with his own, his steps soundless on the thick carpet. Murdock looked as if he hadn’t slept in three days, but then he always looked like that. He could appear on the verge of exhaustion and still be the smartest guy in the room at any of the countless meetings that he attended.
Robert Leffingwell watched as Murdock slouched through the door to his office and closed it behind him. Even though it was nearly 6:30 in the evening, Leffingwell knew his Chief of Staff would be at his desk for several more hours, absorbing the information he would need to cope with tomorrow’s round of meetings. His total dedication to the job had already cost him his marriage, and Leffingwell would have felt guilty about that if he did not depend on Murdock so heavily.
Unlike his Chief of Staff, Leffingwell still had a family, and they were expecting him for dinner at 7:00. He pressed a button on his desk intercom and said, “Joyce, that’s it for today, right?”
The Appointment Secretary’s voice came back at once. “Almost, sir. Senator Stark is waiting—you asked me to add him to the schedule yesterday.”
“Damn, that’s right.” Stark’s phone message had made its way to Leffingwell yesterday, and the President had been intrigued. Need a few minutes to continue the discussion we began last time.
Stark’s last, and only visit to the Oval Office had been the day after Leffingwell’s inauguration. It was an appointment that Leffingwell was unlikely ever to forget, since it had revealed to him the demonic plot that had been behind certain melodramatic events taking place at the Republican National Convention.
It was also the occasion for Leffingwell’s introduction to a pair of quite remarkable individuals. One was a woman named Elizabeth Chastain who’d said she was a witch. The other, known only as Ashley, was the most sexually compelling creature that Leffingwell had ever seen, even though she’d claimed to be a demon from Hell who had taken on a human aspect. By the time the meeting was over, Leffingwell believed both of them.
Although he would admit it to no one, Leffingwell still had recurring dreams about Ashley in which the two of them engaged in erotic acts that Mrs. Leffingwell had not only never tried but had almost certainly never even heard of.
Leffingwell said into the intercom, “Bring him in, will you, Joyce?”
Half a minute later, there was a discrete tap on the door that led to the outer office. Leffingwell called “Come in!” and Joyce Mitchell, who’d worked for Leffingwell since he’d been a lowly state rep, ushered in Howard Stark. Two years earlier, Stark had been Leffingwell’s principal competition for the Republican Party’s Presidential nomination until he was shot three times in the chest and nearly died. The assailant, Stark’s administrative assistant, had perished moments later in a hail of Secret Service gunfire.
Joyce Mitchell slipped out as the two men shook hands. “You’re looking well, Howard,” Leffingwell said. “Fully recovered, I’d say.”
“You don’t ‘fully recover’ from three bullet wounds at my age, Mister President—or so the doctors tell me. But I’m doing pretty well, considering.”
“Glad to hear it.” In addition to the massive presidential desk, the room contained a small group of armchairs arranged in a rough circle. They were used for meetings, or for when Leffingwell wanted to put a visitor at ease. “Come on,” he said, “why don’t we sit over here?”
Once they were seated, Leffingwell gave the room a quick scan, as if looking for someone other than his guest. He said to Stark, “Before I ask what’s on your mind, Howard, I was wondering if you’d... brought anyone with you this time.”
“As a matter of fact, I did, Mister President.” In a slightly louder voice he said, “Libby, I think that’s yo
ur cue.”
Even though he was expecting something like this to happen, Leffingwell still started a little as Libby Chastain suddenly appeared in the chair to Stark’s left.
“Good evening, Mister President,” she said. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Hello, Libby. Likewise, I’m sure.” Turning to Stark, he said, “Is Ms. Chastain our only guest, or did you bring anyone else with you?”
“Just Libby, Mister President. Ashley’s not here this time.”
“I see.” Leffingwell was surprised at just how sharp his disappointment was, but he was a politician and used to concealing his emotions.
Just as well, probably. These two probably aren’t paying a social call, and it would be hard to concentrate if I kept looking at Ashley and envisioning those full lips of hers wrapped around my cock.
“Well, then,” Leffingwell said, “what can I do for you folks?”
“As was the case last time, Mister President,” Stark said, “I’m here essentially as an escort, to give Libby a way to get in here. She’s the one who has business with you.”
Leffingwell looked at Libby curiously. “Since you can apparently become invisible at will, why the need for an escort?”
“I wouldn’t wander around the West Wing, invisible or not, without an invitation, Mister President. It would be bad manners—and under some definitions of the term, might even be considered espionage.”
“I appreciate your consideration,” Leffingwell said, “although I’m not sure there’s a Federal statute that covers espionage by invisibility.”
“I also know that you’re an extremely busy man,” Libby said. “What I wanted to discuss with you will take a little time. I would hardly expect to just appear in the Oval Office and ask you drop what you’re doing, cancel your appointments, and talk to me.”
“Well, you’re here now, and I have some time, so—go ahead.”
“Mister President,” Stark said, “perhaps I should excuse myself. Although as a Senator I have a Top Secret security clearance, I don’t have any ‘need to know’ in this matter. If you’d prefer this conversation to be just between Libby and you—well, I believe you have a small office adjacent to this one. If you’ll point out the correct door to me, I’ll be happy to wait there while you and Libby talk.”
“What’s your preference, Libby?” Leffingwell asked. “Would you rather have the Senator leave us to speak privately?”
“I’d rather have him stay, if it’s all the same to you, sir. Through no design of his own, Senator Stark already knows a great deal about the general area that I’m going to talk about, and I’d value his opinion. But it’s your office and your call, Mister President.”
Leffingwell looked at Stark. “I’ve long trusted the Senator’s discretion, Libby. If you’d like him to sit in, it’s all right with me.”
Stark inclined his head for a moment. “Thank you, Mister President.”
Leffingwell glanced at his watch. “Then perhaps we might, as the saying goes, cut to the chase. I was hoping to have dinner with my family in the residence tonight.”
“All right, sir,” Libby said. “To the chase it is. I’ll give you the short version, then elaborate as you think best.”
“Fine.” Leffingwell sat back in his chair. “Proceed.”
Libby hesitated for a moment, as if unsure of the right place to start. Then she said, “I have it on good authority that someone in the CIA is planning to bring forth from Hell a number of demons, with the goal of using them against America’s enemies, such as ISIS.”
Leffingwell sat looking at her, gently drumming the fingers of his right hand. At last he said, “If it weren’t for what Howard told me about the situation he found himself in a couple of years ago, and gave credence to it by the sudden appearance of you and Ashley, I’d be inclined to think you insane, Libby. As it is, all I think to say is... tell me more.”
“There isn’t a lot more to tell, Mister President,” she said. The only corroborating evidence that I can personally offer is what appears to have been a ‘pilot program’ that I encountered in New York recently.”
She described what she and Mal Peters had seen, and done, in the Greenwich Village apartment—without giving Peters’ name or explaining his status as a resurrected former CIA assassin.
Leffingwell was frowning long before she had finished. “So your unnamed... colleague murdered four men on that occasion?”
“He shot three of them, Mister President, and I think a good case can be made for those killings as being self-defense. The last man, as I said, killed himself rather than be taken prisoner.”
“Why on earth would he do that?”
“Our theory is that he was afraid what he might reveal under magical interrogation. He was so committed to whatever cause he served that he took his own life rather than run the risk of talking.”
“The act of a true fanatic,” Leffingwell said. “We don’t see that sort of thing very often these days—outside some parts of the Middle East, that is.”
“I don’t believe he was some kind of Islamic fundamentalist terrorist,” Libby said. “Based on what he said before he died—”
“That business about fucking your country up the ass.”
“Yes, sir. That, along with the information we have about the CIA operation designed to raise demons, my best guess is that the man was an intelligence agent. He might even have been part of some kind of experiment or something, to see whether summoning demons is in fact possible.”
“And is it? Possible, I mean.”
“Yes, Mister President, it is,” Libby said. “I’ve seen it done.”
“And so have I, Mister President,” Stark said. “Much to my regret.”
It was quiet in the room for a few seconds, the kind of silence you rarely find in urban buildings these days—especially those as busy and bustling as the White House. From outside there is almost always traffic noise, and indoors it is rare to escape the sounds made by people in nearby rooms. But the Oval Office is so well insulated that none of those things penetrated. Libby was wondering if that might be a metaphor for the Presidency itself when Leffingwell broke the silence.
“Demons,” he said, shaking his head as if to negate the unpleasant reality he faced. “I used to think they were largely invented by the Catholic Church in the Middle Ages, as a way to keep the common people in line. ‘Disobey the Bishop, and the Devil will get you’—that sort of thing.”
“There was a time when I shared your disbelief, Mister President,” Stark said. “Sometimes, I lie in bed at night and wish I could go back to the point in my life when I was unaware of such things. Whoever said ‘Ignorance is bliss’ didn’t know the half of it.”
“‘After such knowledge, what forgiveness?’” Leffingwell said.
Libby looked at Stark, then back at the President. “Excuse me, sir?”
“Something T. S. Eliot wrote, a long time ago,” Leffingwell said. “I used to read his poetry in college. Odd, isn’t it—the things that stick with you despite the passage of years.”
“I’m not sure if knowing about such things precludes forgiveness,” Stark said. “I hope not. But it can sure cost you an easy night’s rest.”
“Let’s go back to this alleged CIA plot to use demons as instruments of warfare,” Leffingwell said. “You implied earlier, Libby, that you had other information about this matter beyond what you’ve personally seen. I certainly hope that’s true, because basing your claim solely on that nasty business in New York involves a leap of faith, not to mention logic, that I’m not prepared to make just yet.”
“Then I’m glad we’re not in a court of law, sir,” Libby said. “Because I’m pretty sure the other evidence I have to offer would be considered hearsay and thrown out.”
“I’m not prepared to throw anything out just yet, Libby,” Leffingwell said. “Go on.”
“It comes from Quincey Morris. I know that you and Quincey haven’t met, but I’m quite sure you know who he is.
I don’t imagine that any President hands out full pardons willy-nilly, as if they were business cards.”
“Indeed not. I am, of course, well aware of Mister Morris’s reputation, as well as the service that you and he rendered to this nation in freeing Howard here from the grip of that demon who had possessed him.”
“Good,” Libby said. “Quincey regrets that he can’t be here personally to brief you. He figured that, pardoned or not, it would be better for him not to be seen entering or leaving the White House—and becoming invisible is, unfortunately, not one of his many talents.”
“Still, I’d like to meet him some day,” Leffingwell said. “All right, then, what would Mister Morris have to tell me if he were here?”
“This is where it gets kind of complicated,” Libby said. “Quincey was told about this rogue CIA operation by, um, a vampire.”
Leffingwell looked at her for a few seconds, then allowed a wry expression to cross his lean face. “Well, I suppose it makes a certain amount of sense,” he said. “If I can accept the existence of demons and witches—and I must, since I trust the evidence of my own eyes—I suppose it isn’t all that much of a stretch to include vampires in my belief system. They really exist, do they?”
“Yes, sir, they really do.”
“Is everything you see in horror movies real? Ghosts, and werewolves, and ogres and trolls and the rest of it?”
“Some of the creatures you’ve just named are real, Mister President,” Libby said, “and others aren’t. But perhaps that’s a conversation we should have at another time.”
“And a damned interesting conversation it would be, too. But you’re quite right, Libby—let’s stick to the relevant facts. But before we continue, I need to make a phone call.”
Leffingwell stood up. His guests followed suit—Stark because he was schooled in White House protocol, and Libby because she had watched The West Wing on Netflix and recalled the scene in which President Bartlett had admonished a rude visitor: “In this House, when the President is standing up, nobody sits.”
Strange Magic Page 10
