by Stuart Woods
“Let me see the photograph,” Shelly said.
“I gave all the prints we had to your supposed colleague,” Gaynes said.
“All of them?”
“All of them. She said the photo wasn’t of Teddy Fay but of an American intelligence agent on assignment in Panama, and she threatened me with all sorts of crap if I didn’t forget she’d ever been here.”
“Describe the man in the photo.”
“Mid to late fifties, balding, gray hair, medium everything.”
“This is preposterous,” Shelly said, half to herself.
“Tell me about it.”
SHELLY VISITED the law office where Darlene Cole worked and found her at her desk. Cole seemed happy to tell her everything.
“You didn’t give her all the negatives, did you?” Shelly asked.
“She went through my wallet and found them. There were six, I think. I sold Gaynes a print of the best one.”
“Do you have any other photographs of the man who said he was Teddy Fay?”
“No. I took those one afternoon eight or nine years ago, when Teddy—if that’s his name—and I were sailing on Chesapeake Bay. Was he really Teddy Fay?”
“No,” Shelly said. “Fay is dead.”
“Was the guy I knew really an American spy?”
“Maybe.” Shelly gave her a card. “If you should suddenly discover more negatives or prints, call me, please.”
“Do I have to worry about Teddy Fay coming to see me?”
“I told you, he’s dead.”
“What about whoever the guy was?”
“I shouldn’t think he’ll be a problem,” Shelly said. She stood up. “Thank you for your help.”
SHELLY DROVE BACK to the Hoover Building, went to see Kerry Smith, and told him what she had learned.
Kerry picked up his phone, dialed a number, and asked for Katharine Rule.
41
WILL LEE GOT OUT OF MARINE ONE ON THE LAWN, WAVED AT THE GATHERED PRESS and staff, and made it into the White House just as rain began to pelt down. He reckoned the chopper had pretty good radar, if it had managed to avoid that. Lightning now joined the rain, illuminating the White House in flashes.
He walked into the upstairs family quarters and was surprised to find his wife already home from Langley, curled up on the living room couch, her feet tucked under her, watching CNN. He decided to play this as if nothing had happened the last time he saw her.
“Hi,” Kate said.
Will was encouraged. He walked over and kissed her on the neck. “Hi.”
“How was the campaign trail?” she asked.
“Spooky,” he said. “I’m slipping in the polls for no apparent reason.” He tossed his jacket onto a chair, loosened his tie, walked over to the bar, and made them each a drink. “Moss says there’s nothing to worry about, but I don’t believe him. I think Spanner is turning out to be a better candidate than we had given him credit for.”
“I think Moss is right,” she said, accepting her martini, muting CNN, and patting a spot next to her on the couch all in one motion.
“You don’t think the electorate doesn’t love me anymore?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “How could anybody not love you? I do.”
He kissed her and tasted martini. “You certainly know how to welcome a weary candidate home,” he said.
“And I’m not finished,” she said, “but first I have to drink this martini and have some dinner, which I ordered as soon as I heard the chopper.”
“All that beauty and efficient, too.”
“I had a weird phone call today,” Kate said.
“That can’t be a new thing, in your job.”
“No, this was way out there.”
“Weird odd or weird funny?”
“Weird odd. You know that awful fucking scandal sheet, the Inquisitor, Charlene Joiner’s best friend?”
Will rolled his eyes.
“Well, a woman visited their offices yesterday, claiming to be an assistant director of the FBI, showing ID, too. Turns out the Bureau never heard of this person. I got a call from Kerry Smith, telling me about it.”
“Why would Kerry call you about this?”
“Because he thinks the woman was Agency, that’s why, though he was too polite to say so.”
“Are your people poking around in freedom of the press and all that?”
“Not on my orders, and Lance denied all knowledge, too, though I have to say he didn’t seem terribly surprised when I asked him about it.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time a fellow hid something from his boss.”
“Well, yeah, that crossed my mind.”
“Why are you so concerned about this?”
“Well, suppose Lance is lying about having sent somebody over there. What the hell for? It would have to be connected to some sort of possible scandal, because that’s what the rag does, right?”
“What sort of scandal?”
“I was hoping you didn’t have any ideas,” she said, looking carefully at him.
“You mean, do they have photographs of me being whipped by Charlene?”
She laughed. “Something like that.”
He shook his head. “She hasn’t whipped me in, I don’t know, days,” he replied. “And we were very careful to pull the blinds.”
She elbowed him in the ribs. “Stop it! You know the mention of her name sets off a cherry bomb in my brain.”
“You brought her up.”
“Well, she’s the only scandal I can think of.”
“She’s not a scandal,” Will said.
“A scandal waiting to happen, then. How’s the Charlene Watch doing?”
“I haven’t heard anything, so she hasn’t set off any alarms.”
“I’ve got a funny feeling about this fake FBI lady,” Kate said.
“All right. Tomorrow morning, call Lance in and read him the riot act. Demand to know what’s going on.”
“I’m not sure I want to know,” Kate said. “He’s a very smart guy, and if he’s keeping something from me, he has good reasons. I think he might be trying to protect me and feels it might be better if I don’t know.”
“Well, that’s a nice character trait. I’ve always had a hard time reading Lance, he’s so smooth.”
“I know what you mean,” she said, “but I’m learning to figure him out, and mostly I like what I find.”
“Do you think he might be protecting me as well as you?”
“We’re the same person,” she said, “to Lance, anyway. Anything that hurts you, hurts me, and anything that hurts me, hurts Lance.”
“A daisy chain of hurt?”
“Well, yes.”
“I don’t . . .” Something on the TV screen caught Will’s eye. He picked up the remote and unmuted it. A banner reached across the screen: BREAKING NEWS!!!
“What?” Kate asked.
“Shhh.”
“Let’s go to Jim Barnes in Atlanta,” the anchor was saying.
The reporter stood in front of an Atlanta church that Will recognized instantly. “Less than five minutes ago, the Reverend Henry King Johnson made this announcement,” he said.
The tall, handsome image of the Reverend Johnson appeared on screen, surrounded by a passel of admirers. “Today,” he said, “I have resigned from the Democratic Party and am declaring my candidacy as an independent for president of the United States.”
“Oh, shit,” Will said, taking a gulp of his bourbon. The phone on the coffee table started to ring. He picked it up and said, “Hang on,” then went back to watching CNN.
“For too long the current president has ignored the needs of black Americans,” Johnson was saying. “For too long he has let us languish while other minorities crowd his thoughts.”
“What the hell is he talking about?” Kate asked.
“Hispanics,” Will replied. He put his ear to the phone. “Yes?”
“It’s Kitty. You’re watching?”
“I’m
afraid so.”
“This is not good.”
“I can only agree,” Will said.
42
LANCE CABOT HAD JUST FINISHED A MEETING WITH HIS NEWLY APPOINTED LONDON head of station, who was in town for a few days, when his phone rang.
His secretary picked up the line, then buzzed him. “The director would like to see you now,” she said.
Lance got up from his desk, slipped into his suit jacket, adjusted his tie, and began the walk to the director’s office, along the way composing himself into the attitude of glacial calm that he had learned over many years of practice. The secretary on guard told him to go in.
Lance knocked.
“Come in.”
He took a deep breath, let it out, and opened the door. Katharine Rule Lee was at her computer, typing. “Have a seat, Lance,” she said, without looking up from her computer.
Lance sat down and crossed his legs, waiting for her to finish typing.
The director finished, saved the document, and turned to face her visitor. “Lance, I had a very peculiar phone call yesterday from Kerry Smith at the Bureau.”
Lance gazed at her and blinked very slowly but said nothing.
“The day before yesterday the editor of an execrable publication called the National Inquisitor was visited by a woman who showed him Bureau ID, a court order and a search warrant, all apparently bogus, all items we are capable of generating in-house. Do you know anything about that?”
“The national what?” Lance asked, to give himself time to think.
“Lance, you look well fed,” the director said. “I’m sure that sometime in the past twenty years you must have visited a supermarket.”
“Oh, that thing.”
“Yes, that thing. Now what do you know about this incident?”
Lance gazed at her lazily but said nothing.
“Well?”
“Director, I recall that once you said to me something on the order of ‘There will be times—rarely—when things will occur that I should not know about.’ ”
The director flushed slightly. “The description of the fake FBI agent closely resembles that of your assistant, Holly Barker,” she said.
“Do you remember saying those words to me, Director?” Lance asked. “And if so, do they still apply?”
The director looked at him for a slow count of about five. “That will be all, Mr. Cabot.”
“Good day, Director,” Lance said, rising and walking to the door. He had the knob in his hand when she stopped him.
“Lance, is Teddy Fay still alive?”
Lance turned and looked at her. “Certainly not, Director,” he said, then he opened the door, walked out, and closed it behind him. He was back in his office before he allowed himself to take a deep breath and expel it.
He hung up his jacket and sat down at his desk, then turned to his computer. He entered the code word for restricted personnel files, entered his personal code, then two other codes before he reached the security level he sought. Then he typed in the name Owen Masters. The computer responded by bringing up the restricted record of that agent, and it began with six rows of photographs of the man, one taken each year since he had been recruited from Brown University thirty years ago.
Lance studied the progression of the photographs. It was a pictorial biography, showing the years, cares, and shocks levied on the subject over an adult lifetime, and it revealed a sad decline.
Owen’s file was 526 pages long. Lance placed the cursor in the search window and typed in the word termination. Almost instantly this produced the message “Not found.” Clearly not specific enough, Lance thought. He typed in the word assassination.
This produced a dozen or so references, mostly political murders, of figures whose paths Owen had crossed during his career, but none of the deaths had been at Owen’s hand. This was not good.
Lance gave it some thought, then typed in the words assisted departure. Two references popped up. Once, in 1979, Owen had “assisted the departure” of an African politician. Again, in 1984, he found the words “an assisted departure,” this time in Egypt. Lance closed the file and exited the restricted records level.
He consulted his computer phone book, found a direct line to Masters in the Panama station and told the computer to dial it.
“Yes?” Owen’s voice said.
“Scramble,” Lance said.
“Scrambled,” Owen said a moment later.
“Do you know who this is?” Lance asked.
“Yes,” Owen replied.
“This is for your ears only,” Lance said. “Forever.”
“I understand,” Owen replied.
“I hope you did not follow the instruction I gave you concerning the destruction of a photograph.”
“I would have to check.”
“He is alive and within your purview,” Lance said, ignoring Owen’s evasion, “and neither of those things is acceptable. Do I make myself clear?”
Owen was silent for a moment, then said, “What are your instructions?” He was going to make Lance say it.
“Give him every assistance in his departure,” Lance said. “And ensure that he is not encountered by anyone again.” He hoped that was clear enough. “And when that is accomplished, take some snapshots and prints and fluids.”
“How much time do I have?”
“It must be accomplished at the earliest possible moment that it can be, while taking every care.”
“I understand,” Owen said.
Lance hung up.
OWEN SAT AT HIS DESK and stared out the window. It had been one hell of a time since he had received an order like that. Oh, what the hell, he thought. May as well go out with a bang, so to speak.
He opened his safe, extracted an envelope, and shook out of it the photograph that he had been ordered to destroy. He sat back in his chair, polished the glasses that hung on a string around his neck with a necktie, and put them on.
“Ah, yes, Teddy,” Owen said aloud.
43
MARTIN STANTON FOLLOWED ELIZABETH WHARTON, A HOTEL MANAGER, A BELLMAN with his cart, and two Secret Service agents down the hall of the Mansion on Turtle Creek in Dallas. He was paying a lot more attention to the ass of Ms. Wharton than to anything else, and he was interrupted when the procession halted.
“Here we are, Mr. Vice President,” the bellman said, inserting a key into the lock of a double door.
Liz turned to him while the attention of the others was absorbed with getting him into his suite. “I’m right next door, if you should need me,” she said.
Beads of sweat popped out on Stanton’s forehead. “Thank you, Liz,” he said. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He walked into the suite and had a look around.
“I hope everything is to your satisfaction,” the manager said.
“Yes, thank you.” Stanton shook the man’s hand, then turned to an agent. “Thanks, that will be all for the night. I’m going to order something from room service. I’ll call you if I should want to go out again.”
“Yes, sir,” the agent replied, and after a moment Stanton was alone. He took off his jacket and necktie and hung them in the bedroom closet with the other clothes that his valet had pressed and put away in advance of his arrival, then he went into the large living room to the array of liquors that had been set out on the bar. He reached for a bottle of Scotch, then stopped.
Instead, he walked to a door on one side of the living room, put his ear to it, and listened, then unlocked the door and rapped on it with his signet ring. Nothing happened. He sighed and went back to the bar. Then he heard a sharp rap on the same door.
He went back and rapped again and got an immediate response, so he tried the knob. The door swung open to reveal Elizabeth Wharton, standing there, her hair wet, apparently wearing only a hotel robe.
“You rang?” she asked.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb your shower.”
“I just got out. You didn’t disturb me.”
&nb
sp; “Can I buy you a drink?” he asked, nodding toward the bar.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I could use a drink.” She stepped into the room in her bare feet. “Bourbon, please.”
“Would you like anything in that?”
“Ice.”
Stanton poured her drink and a Laphroaig, a single-malt Scotch, for himself. When he turned around, she was sitting on the sofa, her legs crossed, a satisfying amount of thigh showing. He took the drink over, sat down beside her, and handed her the drink.
“Tough day?” she asked.
“No tougher than yours.” They clinked glasses and drank. In two weeks of campaigning, it was the first private, informal moment they had spent together, and neither of them seemed able to think of anything to say.
Liz reached out, took hold of his wrist, and pressed two fingers against it for his pulse.
“A little rapid, isn’t it?” he asked. “How’s yours?”
She took his hand and placed it on her left breast, under the robe. “You tell me.”
“Very much like mine,” he said, leaving his hand on her breast and rubbing a finger over the nipple, which sprang immediately to attention.
“I didn’t think I could ever get you to do that,” she said.
“I didn’t think I could ever do it,” he responded.
“I’m glad you did,” she said, pulling the tie on the robe and allowing it to fall open.
He set both their drinks on the coffee table, then leaned over and kissed her, using his chilled drink hand to caress the other breast. He pulled her legs open and bent to kiss her delta and was surprised to find it completely bare. He explored with his tongue.
Liz raised herself and sat on the padded arm of the sofa, facing him and parting her legs. He buried his face in her flesh and parted the labia with his tongue. She took hold of his hair and held him in place, and in less than a minute, she came enthusiastically. He laid his cheek against her flat belly and panted.
