by Stuart Woods
“Not that vice president, the new vice president,” Felix said.
Gaynes squinted at Felix. “Play it again,” he said.
Felix played it again.
“Well, he’s got the deep voice and no accent,” Gaynes said. “He sounds like Dick Nixon. Why do you think it’s what’s-his-name?”
“Martin Stanton, sir. I’ve had an expert compare this recording with Stanton’s press conference on TV, after he was picked to be the veep. It’s the same voice.” This was a bald-faced lie, but Gaynes didn’t know that.
“Well, Stanton is getting a divorce,” Gaynes said. “Who’s the woman?”
“I haven’t been able to nail that down yet, sir.”
“What city is she in?”
“I’m not sure about that, either.”
“Who recorded this?”
“I did, Mr. Gaynes. My car is equipped to intercept cell-phone conversations.”
“And you were at the White House?”
“I was driving around the neighborhood of the White House, sir.”
“Play it again,” Gaynes said.
Felix played it again.
“It does sound like Stanton,” Gaynes admitted. “Who’s your expert?”
“I’m afraid I have to keep that confidential, sir. He thinks this is too hot to touch.”
“Well, it’s hot only if it’s Stanton and only if he’s fucking this woman and only if we can find out who the hell she is.”
“I think it’s a pretty good start, sir.”
Gaynes pressed the eject button on the machine and removed the disc. “You leave this with me, and I’ll have it checked out by an expert I trust. If he says it’s Stanton, then we’ll talk.”
“We need to talk now, Mr. Gaynes,” Felix said. “We need to agree on a deal, if what I’ve told you is confirmed.”
“All right, I’ll give you a grand, cash, right now, and another ten grand, if it checks out.”
“I’m going to need twenty-five thousand, if it checks out,” Felix said.
“I’ll pay you that when Stanton’s voice is confirmed and the woman is identified,” Gaynes said. He swiveled his chair around, opened a safe, and counted out some money with his back turned. “Here’s your grand,” Gaynes said. “Give me your phone number and get out of here.”
Felix gave him a card, picked up the money, and got out of there.
36
Holly used her cell phone to get the address of the law firm of Barton amp; Falls, which turned out to be in a seedy part of Washington in a commercial strip mall, next door to a bail bondsman. The plate-glass windows had been darkened with film stuck to them, and the door was locked, but there was a doorbell and intercom. Holly rang it.
“Yes?” a voice said.
“I want to see a lawyer,” Holly said.
“What’s your problem?”
“My husband has just been arrested for possessing a firearm and drugs.”
A buzzer rang, and Holly pulled open the door. A woman of about forty, not unattractive, sat at a desk in the small reception room, filing her nails. The remains of a sandwich rested on a paper bag, next to a cardboard coffee cup, which was next to a large handbag.
“Everybody’s at lunch,” the woman said, shoving a sheet of paper and a pen across the desk before returning to her nails. “Fill out this form.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Holly said. “Are you Darlene Cole?”
“Who wants to know?” the woman asked.
Holly held up her FBI ID. “FBI. Let me see some ID.”
“What’s this about?” the woman asked.
“Don’t make me ask you again,” Holly said.
“I don’t have to show you any ID,” the woman said.
Holly returned her ID to her handbag, set it on the floor, raked the sandwich and coffee cup off the desk, grabbed the woman’s handbag, and turned the considerable contents out onto the desk.
“Hey!” the woman yelled.
“Shut up, unless you’d rather be handcuffed and interviewed at the federal detention center.” Holly found a wallet amid the detritus of the handbag contents and inside that, a Maryland driver’s license in the name of Darlene M. Cole.
Holly went to the front door, locked it, and returned to the desk. “Let’s make this short and sweet,” she said to Darlene, holding up the photo of Teddy Fay. “You met this man some years ago, and he told you his name was Fay, is that correct?”
“What if it is?”
“His name is not Fay-Fay has been dead for some time. This man is an American intelligence officer currently assigned to a foreign country. You made the mistake of believing him when he told you he was Teddy Fay and the further mistake of trying to expose him to Ned Partain of the National Inquisitor. As a result, Mr. Partain is dead, and the agent’s life is in jeopardy, and you have committed a serious violation of the National Defense Act that could get you detained for up to a hundred and twenty days without being charged or seeing a lawyer. If you are convicted you’ll do up to twenty-five years in prison.”
“You’re crazy, lady. I don’t know anything about this,” Darlene said, pushing her chair back against the wall.
“I want all the prints of the photograph, and the negative,” Holly said, “and I don’t have time to argue with you.”
Darlene’s eyes swiveled toward her wallet on the desk, then snapped back to Holly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Holly produced a pair of handcuffs. “You are under arrest for a Title I violation of the National Security Act,” she said. “You do not have the right to remain silent, and you do not have the right to an attorney for the first one hundred and twenty days of your detention. Stand up and put your hands behind your back.”
Darlene sat wide-eyed and unmoving. Holly walked around the desk, jerked her out of the chair, threw her against the wall, and handcuffed her. “Sit down,” she said, shoving her back into the chair.
Holly picked up the wallet and emptied it of its contents: credit cards and photographs. She flicked through the pile until she found a small envelope, which yielded a strip of thirty-five-millimeter negatives. Holding it up to the light, she compared the frames to the photo of Teddy Fay. “Right,” she said. “Where are the prints?”
Darlene said nothing.
“All right, let’s get out of here,” Holly said. “We’ll continue this discussion in a cell downtown.”
“I don’t have any prints,” Darlene yelled, bursting into tears. “I gave them all to Ned Partain.”
“If you’re lying to me, I’ll find out,” Holly said. “Under the act, you’re eligible for extreme interrogation techniques, and you’ll tell me everything.”
“I swear I don’t have any prints,” Darlene sobbed. “You’ve got the negatives, so take them and leave me alone.”
Holly jerked her to her feet and unlocked the cuffs. “As I told you, Ned Partain is dead, murdered, and you could be next. You’d better not breathe a word to a soul about my visit, and you’d better forget you ever talked to Partain, or you could be joining him down at the morgue in Panama City, do you understand me?”
“Yes, yes, I understand,” Darlene sobbed.
“If I were you, I’d move to another city far away and change my name. The people who killed Partain have long memories.” Holly unlocked the door and walked to her car, laughing under her breath.
Back at Langley, Holly walked into Lance Cabot’s office and deposited the prints and negatives on his desk. “I believe that’s all there is,” she said.
“I don’t want to know how you got this stuff,” Lance said.
“What stuff?” Holly asked, then she turned and went back to her office.
***
Lance put the prints and negatives in an envelope, sealed it, and wrote “birth documents” on the envelope and locked it in his safe. No need to mention this to Katharine Lee, he thought. He felt comfortable in his skin for the first time since he had received the call from Owen Masters
in Panama City.
Was Owen going to be a problem? Did he have an ax of some sort to grind? Or would he be the loyal time server he had always been and keep his mouth shut?
Lance resolved to think more on this when he was calmer and more relaxed.
37
Martin Stanton was standing before a bathroom mirror in his pajama bottoms when the phone began ringing. He shaved faster, hoping it would stop. It didn’t. Finally, he grabbed the receiver next to the toilet in the giagantic bathroom. “Yes?”
“This is the hotel operator, Mr. Vice President. I have a gentleman on the line who says he is your attorney.”
“Yes, I’ll take the call.” There was a click. “Jake?”
“Yes, Mr. Vice President. How are you this morning?”
“Nearly shaven. Can you hang on for a minute?”
“Of course.”
Stanton went back to the mirror, moistened his beard, and completed the project. Rinsed and toweled dry, he returned to the phone, put down the toilet seat, and sat. “All right, Jake, what’s up?”
“I’ve just been on the phone with Betty’s attorney, and he says she says she wants another fifty thousand, to help her resettle. And the Cadillac.”
Stanton tried not to scream. “Our settlement gives her fifty thousand for resettlement expenses already.”
“She says it’s not enough.”
“She wants to reupholster, recurtain, recarpet, and repaint every square inch of the house,” Stanton said. “I won’t do it, not anymore.”
“I don’t blame you, Marty. We’ve already given her about sixty percent of your estate. It may be we’ve reached the point where we have to draw the line, tell them to accept what’s on the table or we’ll see them in court.”
“I think you’re right. Give her the Cadillac, tell her she can have it today, if she signs the settlement as is, but nothing else. This is the end of the line.”
“All right, with your stated permission, I’ll tell her attorney just that. He’s smart enough to know that a judge, or even a jury, is not going to give her more than sixty percent of community property. She might even get less.”
“Then do it, Jake, right now. Let me know what to expect. Oh, just to let them know I’m serious, tell them that if she doesn’t sign, or if she signs and then complains about it, I’ll release the settlement agreement to the press.”
“All right, Marty. I’ll get back to you.” He hung up.
Stanton hung up, too. His blood pressure was up; he could feel it throbbing against his temples. How did what started out as an amicable attempt to settle turn into this? It was insane!
He put on his wristwatch and checked it. An hour until his first appearance. He chose a suit and tie and got dressed. As he finished, the doorbell rang, and the Secret Service agent in the living room answered it. Stanton walked into the living room to find an attractive woman standing in the foyer. “Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning, Mr. Vice President,” she said, extending a hand. “I’m Elizabeth Wharton, your campaign manager, if that meets with your approval.”
“Please come in, Ms. Wharton. I didn’t even know I had a campaign manager yet.”
“The president, knowing that you had not had time to assemble a staff, directed his campaign manager, Senator Sam Meriwether, to appoint someone to help. If you would prefer someone else, that will be fine.”
“Tell me about yourself… may I call you Elizabeth?”
“Liz will be fine, sir. I’m from the small town of Delano, Georgia, President Lee’s hometown. I graduated from the University of Georgia with a master’s degree in history. I taught history at Agnes Scott College in Atlanta for seven years, working on Democratic campaigns on the side, then I worked on Senator Meriwether’s staff when he was in the House, and I managed his campaign for the Senate.”
“Sounds like a good background, Liz. Let’s see how it works out.”
She opened a leather envelope and produced a sheet of paper. “Here’s your revised schedule for today. You’re speaking at a brunch this morning attended by members of the San Francisco alumnae association of Brandeis University. They’re just about all Jewish, and we’ve included a statement of your support for Israel in your speech, which I wrote, myself, last night.” She handed him half a dozen pages. “Please read it on the way to the event, and if you don’t like any of it, please feel free to wing it, but remember to include your support of Israel.”
“I’m sure it will be fine,” Stanton said, tucking the pages into an inside pocket. She was very attractive indeed, he thought, and obviously very smart. The doorbell rang again, and a middle-aged Filipino man was admitted.
“This is your valet for the campaign,” Liz said, “Alfredo Garcia. Alfredo will pack and unpack for you and manage your luggage in transit. The Secret Service wants someone who has been cleared by them.”
“Good morning, Alfredo,” Stanton said.
“Good morning, Mr. Vice President. May I pack your things?”
“Yes, please.”
Alfredo disappeared into the bedroom.
“And I have some good news,” Liz said. “Your campaign airplane has arrived, fresh from its annual inspection. It’s a BBJ, Boeing Business Jet, which is based on the 737 series of airliners. It will carry you in comfort, along with half a dozen staff and a dozen or so press.”
“Do I have half a dozen staff?” Stanton asked.
“You do, sir. When we arrive at Oakland to board the aircraft, you’ll find two secretaries, Alfredo, representatives of the Mallet Polling Company and of Tom Black’s political consultancies, and of course, me.”
“Well, let’s get started,” Stanton said, rising. “After you.” He took note of her breasts as she turned toward the door, then got a view of her stern on the way out. She was a tall, slender redhead, and very well put together, he thought.
***
In the armored SUV that served as his limousine, Stanton quickly read the speech Liz had written. “Excellent,” he said. “I’ll use it as an outline to refer to, as I prefer to improvise a little as I go along.”
“That’s fine, as long as you remember to mention Israel favorably.”
“That won’t be a problem,” Stanton said.
“Mr. Vice President,” Liz said, “if you’ll forgive my asking, do you have any personal difficulties that might bear on the campaign? I understand you’re going through a divorce, for instance.”
“Yes, I am, but I don’t anticipate that being a problem. Just this morning my attorney is making my final offer in the settlement. I hope it will be signed before the day is out.”
“I see. That’s good news. May I ask, is there currently a woman in your life?”
“No,” Stanton replied, “there is not.” Not currently, anyway. “What about yourself? Are you married?”
“No, and there is no woman in my life, either. Nor a man of any importance.”
“Good to know these things,” Stanton said.
“Yes,” she agreed.
Stanton picked up a newspaper and laid part of it in his lap, to hide what would be all too obvious.
38
Teddy Fay had decided not to leave panama city-not just yet, anyway.He had put away the gray-wig-and-mustache disguise and was now employing a red wig with a lower hairline and gray flecks, with eyebrows to match. He had kept his apartment, since no one had ever seen him leave or arrive there, and on the whole, he felt pretty comfortable.
There had been an item in the local English-language paper about Ned Partain’s body being found on the tanker, but as he had expected, the police had not been able to ascertain where old Ned had boarded the ship. Eventually, they would get around to visiting El Parador, the restaurant where he and Ned had dined, and they might figure it out after that, so he would not return to El Parador. He had been back to the bar at El Conquistador, wearing the new disguise, and had detected no recognition in the eyes of the bartender, so he might go there occasionally in search of w
omen.
He had considered paying a visit to Darlene Cole, in Maryland, but to remove her from the earth would just confirm her sighting of him. He had been reading the National Inquisitor, which, surprisingly, seemed to have a substantial circulation in Panama City, and there had been an article about the death of Ned Partain, quoting the local police as saying it was accidental in nature. No mention had been made of Ned’s assignment, nor had the photo of Teddy run in the paper.
Teddy had felt the need of better cover, though, so on a moonless night he had let himself into the local personnel office of the Panama Canal Company, gone through the files of retirees and found an excellent match for himself, a retired gentleman with thirty years’ service in payroll. He copied the man’s file, substituted a photo of himself in his current disguise and returned the file to its dusty cabinet. Then, using the same photo, he made himself Canal Zone documents.
All this had kept Teddy entertained for a few days. Now, however, he had one more base to cover: the Panama station of the Central Intelligence Agency. If, somehow, the station chief had gotten wind of Partain’s fate, he would have reported the incident to Langley, and one or more agents would have been assigned to see that the Inquisitor did not publish any stories about Teddy. That would not have been in the Agency’s interests.
The website of the American Embassy had yielded the names of the principal officers of the embassy, and there, nestled in the list as deputy agricultural attachй, was his old acquaintance Owen Masters, so it was not hard to figure out who the station chief was.
Owen, apparently, had been shipped off to Panama to serve out his time before retirement, which, if memory served, would be in the not-too-distant future. Panama was hardly a plum assignment, and that meant that the other members of the station would be few in number, probably no more than half a dozen, mostly rookies. Owen’s only real work in Panama would be training them to seem busy.
Teddy ran his agile intellect over the possibilities. Suppose, perhaps through an agency asset in the Panamanian government or police, Owen had been apprised of Ned Partain’s demise. Teddy’s one mistake had been not to remove his photograph from Ned’s pocket before assisting him onto the ship. And that would have been found when the police went through his clothes and hotel room. Suppose, then, that Owen had seen the photograph and recognized Teddy from the old days. He would have alerted Langley, in the person of Lance Cabot, his boss, and by now Lance would have seen it.
