Capital Offense

by Kathleen Antrim

  Warner took his place at the head of a walnut conference table in a meeting room at the Ritz Carlton in Washington. D.C. Assembled at the table with him were Carolyn, Matt Carson, Ernie Weiland, Nick Creed and Richard Young.

  “The first area of business is getting together a short-list for the Cabinet,” Warner announced. Weeks ago, he’d reviewed his selections with Edmund. With the markers they’d called in during the campaign, he had a list of favors to repay.

  “I want to start promoting names in the press to build popularity and get these appointments accepted. Nick, start writing. Let’s make a short-list of each of the candidates for every position. We’ll start with Sectary of State. My first recommendation would be Jack McPherson.” Warner said. “Any other recommendations?‘’

  “He’s from Missouri, right?” Richard Young asked.

  “Yes. He’s an exec with Bounce Plastics, but he’s had a lot of international experience.”

  “Still, I think Sectary of State should be a Washington insider.”

  “Thanks for your input.” Warner said, deliberately cutting off Young. Now that he was president, Richard needed to learn his place. He continued on to the other Cabinet posts, then on to the White House staff.

  “What about Mark Dailey?” Young asked. “I thought you were considering him for a Cabinet position.”

  Warner turned to him. “I said no such thing. Mark will be named as a White House advisor.” He didn’t care if Mark was part of the Council. He wasn’t going to be bullied by Richard.

  “I think there’s a problem with that.” Richard said.

  “Listen to Richard, Warner,” Carolyn said. “He’s got the inside track.”

  “If I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it,” Warner said to her.

  Carolyn glanced around the room. “Forgive me, but I thought this was a meeting, you know, a gathering where ideas are to be shared. So far, you’ve done nothing but shut Richard down.”

  Warner ignored her commentary. He felt presidential for the very first time. And he liked the feeling.

  Carolyn stood to leave. “Obviously, I’m not needed here.”

  Richard Young glanced at her apologetically. “Warner, I’m concerned that none of these people know the inner workings of Washington,” he said.

  Warner crossed his arms over his chest. “Outsiders, with lower public profiles, will be less controversial. Strategically, we need to show a strong command, and having our selections questioned or opposed would indicate weakness. This is our safest and most powerful avenue. Besides, we’ve got Washington handled with you and Nick. You’ve both been on the Hill long enough. Not that I need to explain myself to you.”

  “Shouldn’t we discuss these choices?” Richard asked with barely controlled anger.

  “No,” Warner replied. “I know what I want.”

  “I thought we’d work together on this.”

  “You thought wrong.” Warner pushed back from the table, stood and walked out, leaving the vice president-elect sitting at the table alone.

  ***

  Frozen in anger, Richard stared at the wood grain in the walnut conference table. He knew that Edmund had directed every name on the short list for Cabinet appointments; most were his close allies. The interviews were going to be a formality. None of the selections were Richard’s; he would have no power in the White House. He’d been well and truly fucked, and he hadn’t even seen it coming.

  He headed up to his suite, alone. He’d called in a multitude of favors to give Warner the presidency. And this was how he was repaid. Rage shook his body. Obviously, Warner intended to keep him on the outside.

  He’d underestimated Warner, and this realization cut him to his core. He reflected on past conversations. Warner believed that citizens should be made more dependent on government. “This country is full of people who are not able to care for themselves,” he had said. “They need a strong government to do it for them. The more dependent the people are, the more powerful the government.”

  At the time, Young had found the statement harmless. Now everything Warner said and did possessed a new perspective. Richard had always known that Edmund was power hungry, but Warner’s ruthlessness stunned him. Clearly, his demeanor had veiled his true countenance from the public, and even his old friend.

  Richard sat up abruptly. Son-of-a-bitch, I should be the president. This should have been my year. His stomach heaved, and he felt bile rise in his throat.

  He realized, however, that they were on his turf now – this was Washington. But his options were limited. As much as he hated the realization that he’d been used, he couldn’t blatantly oppose Warner. It could destroy their political party – possibly forever. By placing his cronies in the Cabinet, Warner had effectively frozen Richard out. No doubt he was counting on that tactic for protection. Shit. Warner was smart. Or was this Edmund’s strategy? Richard wondered. Regardless, they were underestimating him. He wouldn’t tolerate their double-cross. They would pay. And they would pay dearly.

  ***

  Vice President-elect Richard Young called Mark Dailey, determined to show Warner that he’d declared war on the wrong man. “I’ve got some bad news, Mark. Warner bumped you out of a Cabinet post.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Mark’s voice was filled with disappointment.

  “I know, I know,” Richard said, his tone low and soothing. “I tried to get him to rethink it, but he was against the idea from the start. You’ll be named as a White House advisor. I had to push hard just to get you that position. Carolyn was in on it, too.”

  “Carolyn? Carolyn cut my throat?”

  “I know you thought you had her under your thumb, but she really stabbed you in the back, buddy. It was ugly.” Richard knew Mark would never discover his lie. Divide and conquer, he thought.

  “Son of a bitch,” Mark hissed.

  “They’ve already forgotten who their friends are,” Richard said.

  “Maybe they need a reminder.” Mark hung up.

  PART IV. THE FOURTH ESTATE 2001

  FIFTY-THREE

  March 22, 2001

  Pacific Rim Trade Conference,

  San Francisco, California

  Mark Dailey sprawled in an upholstered chair, his long legs stretched in front of him, a crystal glass full of Glenlivet in his right hand. One of many glasses of scotch that night, he took a big sip, holding the burning fluid in his mouth before swallowing.

  Through the windows of his suite at the Mark Hopkins Hotel, he took in the glory of the San Francisco skyline. Fog threatened to blanket the city from the west, but remained a thick bank hovering over the Golden Gate Bridge.

  All he could think of was Carolyn. He thought he could count on her, that she’d champion him for a Cabinet post in the White House. Shit, he’d been kissing her ass for years. He realized how foolish he’d been, how wrong. Her devotion was to Warner, and only Warner. She didn’t even know her precious Warner, and what he was really capable of doing. Or rather, had done. Now, she’d sealed his fate with the new president by relegating him to a background position on the White House staff. The bitch.

  He’d sold his soul for his career, and came up empty handed. Now the country would suffer.

  What kind of man had he become? What kind of men were running the country? How could he have helped the Council to create such a loathsome situation?

  Men were dead. Good men.

  “Fuck it,” Mark said aloud. “Fuck Carolyn. Fuck Warner and Edmund Lane, fuck all of them.” And he knew just the man to do it. Mark looked at the telephone. Did he dare? The thought of calling Jack Rudly sobered him.

  Mark stared at the phone, and the phone number he had written on a scrap of paper beside it. Rudly, like most of the press, was in town for the trade conference. It was now or never, Mark realized. He dialed.

  “What’s deadlier to a country than war?” Mark slurred.

  “Who is this?” Rudly asked.

  “What’s deadlier to a country than war?”
r />   “I don’t do riddles.” Jack snarled.

  Mark blinked as the sound of the phone being slammed down jarred his alcohol-dulled senses.

  “Fucker.” He dialed again. He was sick of being ignored, pushed aside. Damn it, someone was going to listen to him for once.

  Jack answered more quickly this time. “What do you want?”

  “Does 202-555-1416 sound familiar?”

  “Are you calling from the White House?”

  “Very good. Mr. Rudly. You know the private White House lines. Don’t bother checking it out. It’s not mine.”

  “Who is this?”

  “What do murder and the White House have in common?”

  “Murder? That’s a bit far-fetched, isn’t it?”

  “Only if I were making it up,” Mark hiccupped.

  “Look, you got my attention by using a White House phone number,” Jack said, “and that bought you about a minute of my time. Tell me who you are, or I’m hanging up.”

  “Your father would understand the mess I’m in.”

  “What does this have to do with my father?”

  “An honorable man, your father. The last of the honorable politicians. A great senator. He understood the link between murder and the White House. Too bad he had to pay the highest price.” Mark looked toward the window. A light rain hit the glass. “He’s not the only one.”

  “What’re you talking about? My father died of a coronary. He wasn’t into games, and neither am I. So cut the crap.”

  ‘They’re going to kill me now. It’ll be headline news.“ A lump formed in Mark’s throat. Good men were dead. Maybe he deserved to die, too. ”Is he the reason you became a journalist?“

  “Who’s going to kill you?”

  “Scotch is a man’s drink, you know. Your father and I shared a love of scotch, especially Glenlivet.” Mark took a sip.

  “A lot of people drink Glenlivet. That doesn’t prove you knew my father.”

  “Not with three twists, they don’t. Boy, did your dad know how to ruin perfectly good scotch with too much lemon.” Mark laughed. “You’re talking to a dead man. We’ve deceived an entire nation, you know. Your father would never have done that. He’s still a legend on the Hill.”

  “Leave my father out of this. Why’d you call me?”

  “You’ve got to stop the murders,” Mark said.

  “What murders? You’re not making any sense.”

  “Goddamn it. You’re not listening. Men are dead. I’m next.”

  “I can’t help you, if I don’t know who you are. I need facts from a credible source, not lame ramblings from a drunk and disgruntled government employee.”

  “This was a mistake,” Mark whispered, his voice low and raspy. “You make a lousy last option. I thought you’d understand. For God’s sake, you’re his son! I know he taught you better than this. He cared, he truly cared. How can you dishonor his memory?”

  “Fu-” Jack paused. “If this is so damned important, then meet with me.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ll be dead soon.”

  “Then meet me now.”

  “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? It’s not safe. You’d be at risk. Serious risk. Hell, you’re already in the cross hairs. Meeting with me would pull the trigger.”

  “Then call the next guy on your list. Good night.”

  “Wait!” Mark said. “You know the lookout on the north end of the Golden Gate Bridge?”

  “I can find it.”

  “Thirty minutes.” Mark paused “Be careful, they’re watching you. Try to stay alive, Jack Rudly. You’ve got a job to do. And revealing your father’s murderer is only part of it.”

  Mark heard Jack’s sharp intake of breath, and continued. “You want to know how I know? I’m one of them. I helped. I’m a killer. But I’m not helping any more.”

  Mark hung up.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  The moon had long since disappeared in the fog. From where Jack stood, the Golden Gate Bridge should have been a glorious sight but dense tendrils of mist obscured the looming structure, leaving only a milky whiteness in its place.

  Jack leaned against his rental car. Three-thirty in the morning and thirty minutes since the phone call that had compelled him to the bridge.

  His father, murdered? My God, it made sense. It fit with his investigation, but just the thought caused him a sharp ache in his chest.

  He peered up at the sky, noting that the stars were lost to the marine layer that shrouded everything above a couple hundred feet. He listened to the waves pounding the shore, and to the periodic moans of a distant foghorn.

  Jack dug into the pocket of his worn leather jacket and retrieved his pack of cigarettes. Strange city. Desolate place. Probably not one of his brighter moves.

  He sucked on his cigarette. The tip glowed orange-red in the murky darkness. The moist air grew still, eerie and oppressive. He shivered in the dampness and turned to get back inside his car.

  Headlights suddenly blinded him as a car rolled to a stop directly in front of his vehicle.

  The car door opened, but the interior light did not go on. A tall figure exited on the driver’s side, then paused near the open door. He remained a vague silhouette behind the headlights. “State your name,” he ordered.

  Jack couldn’t make out the man’s features or what he was wearing. “Jack Rudly.”

  “Good of you to come. You’ll understand if I ask you to remain where you are.”

  Jack recognized the voice from the telephone call. “It’s damn cold out here. Let’s go get a drink somewhere and talk?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then at least tell me who you are.”

  “Someday that will be evident, but for now, you’ll just have to trust me.”

  “It’s almost four in the morning, and you obviously want to talk to me, but I can’t trust you as a source if I don’t know your identity.” Jack backhanded the moisture weeping out of the dense fog from his forehead.

  The man grunted. “There aren’t any easy answers to this one, so you can take it or leave it. But I promise you, if you walk away now, you’ll regret it. And so will a lot of other unsuspecting people.”

  Jack tossed the butt of his cigarette on the ground. “Tell me about my father. Or did you just mention his name to get my attention?”

  “Use your head. Think. Mr. Rudly… murder and the presidency.”

  “I told you. I don’t like riddles.”

  “Sure you do. You’re a journalist.”

  “I’m out of here.” Jack reached for his car door handle.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll give you a break,” the man said quickly. “I know you went digging in Missouri during the campaign.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “You’re not the only one with contacts. Something was bothering you, Mr. Rudly, or you wouldn’t have gone snooping around. You asked me why I picked you? Your background had something to do with it, but mainly I picked you because you weren’t wrong. Listen to your gut. That something you were searching for is still there. And it started before the death of your father.”

  Jack’s heart pounded. “What does my dad have to do with anything? And what’s all this shit about murder? All I got in Missouri was a lot of conjecture and a handful of air. Nothing I could verify.”

  “You haven’t looked in the right places. Neither did your father.”

  “You keep bringing up my dad. Tell me how this involved him?”

  “If I had all the answers, I wouldn’t need you.” An anguished note crept into the man’s voice. “God, maybe this was a mistake. I’ve probably misjudged you. I shouldn’t be doing this. I’m in too deep… it’s too late. Fuck it. Never mind.” He got back into the driver’s seat of the car.

  “Wait.” Jack stepped fonvard.

  “Stop.” A hand rose above the door.

  Jack saw the Athene of a gun. He extended his arms, palms turned o
utward. “Relax, man. You obviously thought I could help, but you’re not giving me much to go on. What did you mean when you said the press was allowing this to happen?”

  “Move back.”

  Jack quickly obliged.

  The gun dangled loosely from the man’s fingertips. “If the press doesn’t report the truth, the people don’t get the truth. Remember, we’re only as far from becoming a dictatorship as the people we elect to represent us. Everything can be changed, and things are changing. The Council is seeing to that.”

  Jack’s breath caught. “Tell me about the Council.”

  The man laughed. “All, so now I’ve got your attention.”

  Jack inched forward. “Who’s involved?”

  “We both know who I’m talking about. I’ve allowed this to happen. Good men are dead, I should have stopped it. But I was afraid, so I pretended not to know. God have mercy on me.”

  He paused. “You’ll know me, Jack Rudly. One day my identity will be made perfectly clear. Just watch the front pages. The article will be like the one about your father.”

  Jack stiffened. “Why was he killed?”

  “Your father liked to talk. He said a lot of things that weren’t appreciated.” He exhaled unsteadily.

  “How about Fields and Miles? Were they murdered too?”

  “You’re on the right track. But I’ve stayed too long.” The man held up an envelope, then placed it on the ground. “I’m leaving some information. After I drive out of here you can get it. But think about it before you accept this, because this will pull you in. And once you’re in, you’ll either bring them down or you’ll die trying. Your father died trying.”

  Jack folded forward as if he’d been punched in the stomach. Putting his hands on his knees he steadied himself. Dear God. he’d been right. He should have followed his instincts, ignored his dad’s objections, and intruded into his investigation. If he had, his father might still be alive.

  Jack lifted his gaze and watched the car recede into the darkness. After he caught his breath. Jack stepped forward, picked up the envelope and opened it. Inside was a cassette tape and one sheet of paper. Written on it was: CIeopatra1600.com:password: Caesar.