“Governor,” Dan McLean of the Washington Post asked, “have you learned at all who is behind this?”
“Dan, I have not,” the governor answered. “It is my hope that now that the investigators involved in this case have discovered what this conspiracy is all about, they will now be able to turn their complete attention to determining who is behind all of this, both the manipulation of the voting machines, but more importantly, the murders.”
“Governor, a follow-up question,” McLean pressed. “We’re hearing reports that Heath Connolly is a person of interest in this investigation, do you have any comment?”
“God help him if he is.” Governor Thomson waved to the reporters and fell in with his Secret Service detail and Judge Dixon as they marched towards the motorcade.
“Just right,” Dixon said quietly as they made their way to their limousine.
* * *
At 1:53 p.m., Heath Connolly arrived at the Hoover Building in the backseat of a Suburban. The political operative held up a manila folder to shield his face from the photographers and to avoid the cameras of the news media as they pulled in under the Hoover Building.
Ever since Kentucky he’d been walking on egg shells, worried that this time would come. This was particularly so when he learned that the Bishop’s men failed to retrieve the last of the evidence at McCormick’s house. When that all fell into the hands of the authorities, he knew this moment was coming.
The vice president was incensed.
The arrangement between Vice President Donald Wellesley and Heath Connolly was never one of mutual admiration or desire. Vice President Wellesley was the next in line for the Republican nomination and there were no real serious challengers for the job. Heath Connolly was the best political operator in the Republican Party, had never lost an election, was good friends with Donald Wellesley Jr. and there were no real serious challengers for the job.
Yet, while the pairing seemed like a natural combination on paper, the two men were very different.
Vice President Wellesley was a gentle man, a quiet leader and someone who didn’t believe every Democrat was evil. His career was one of building bridges, working across the aisle and being bipartisan. He believed how you won mattered as much as winning. The vice president truly believed in the nobility of politics and was willing to work with anyone who held the same view, regardless of their political convictions. There was always a way to find common ground for the good of the country.
Connolly was the antithesis of the vice president. Heath Connolly was a brawler, a political pit bull who believed the ends always justified the means. Winning was everything, no matter the cost. The political operative could have cared less about being bipartisan, he was a partisan. In his world there was no common ground. There was only the ground he’d won by pounding his opponent mercilessly into submission.
In one way it was yin to yang. In another, one man’s values clearly were not a match for the other.
Connolly lied and professed his innocence to the vice president.
The vice president called bullshit.
“Heath, you screwed us with that fiasco in the Florida Keys and all those Super PAC people. Now you doubled down on that mistake and got yourself involved in election fraud and murder.”
It was not difficult, in what was undoubtedly the last conversation the two men would ever have, for Vice President Wellesley to tell Connolly, “Get on that FBI plane to DC and don’t come back. You’re fired and if it’s the last thing I ever do I’ll see that you never work in Republican politics again. That is if you can find a way to keep your ass out of prison, a place to which, if even half of this is true, I’ll only be too happy to see you go.”
Now, he was in self-preservation mode as the car pulled underneath the Hoover Building and came to a stop by a set of double doors. His lawyer, a DC heavyweight named Vincent Chase, greeted him as he exited the Suburban. There were two conversations between them earlier in the day and they had a plan.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“Think about the fact that you’re next.”
Mac took a seat next to an FBI technician who would run the recording of the interview with Connolly. They were sitting next door to the interrogation room. The interrogation room itself was visible through the one-way mirror. On the wall opposite the door there was a panel of monitors and other technical and recording equipment. The technician gave Mac a quick rundown of the equipment, cameras and capabilities of the system. In St. Paul, they had a single camera in the interview room and the monitor would be next door in what they called the box, where they could also watch the interview through the one-way mirror. This was just slightly more hi-tech. Mac thought he could get used to this sort of technology.
Mac, the technician and two other agents made small talk when Director Mitchell and Attorney General Gates entered the room. “At ease,” Mitchell said dryly, sensing everyone had suddenly tensed. “Connolly’s here so we thought we’d take in the show.”
From what he thus far observed of Director Mitchell, Mac decided he liked the guy. He was all business and all about the case. He wasn’t full of himself and acted like the agent he once was. Undoubtedly the man had to play politics and play them well to rise to the level of director and this case was political dynamite. Nevertheless, he was playing this one straight, on a fast track but by the book. Attorney General Gates was doing the same, which had been a little bit of a surprise. Nevertheless, he was close to the vice president and Mac needed to see more before he felt he could trust him.
Everyone in the room focused their attention on the monitors as Connolly and his lawyer entered the interview room, followed by Special Agent Berman from Milwaukee and Special Agent Colin Speck from the FBI Civil Rights Division.
“What do you know about Chase?” Mitchell asked Attorney General Gates.
“Great lawyer, boat loads of courtroom experience, knows the town and the political score,” Gates answered, a Washington power lawyer in his own right before accepting the attorney general position. Gates understood the type. “He once was a highly regarded prosecutor. Then about ten years ago he went into private practice to cash in, which he has. He’ll take just about anyone who can pay his rather sizable retainer. Hell, he’d represent Pol Pot for a big enough fee. He likes publicity, no matter the defendant,” Gates added derisively. “But he’s good, very good. At trial, look out, he’s a winner.”
Mac was a spectator at this point, looking to see if the FBI could help bring further closure to his three murders in St. Paul and perhaps some assistance with the two murders in Milwaukee as well. He would have liked to have Wire with him given her bureau background. For now, that was a no go. She worked for the Thomson campaign and she could not be present. Mitchell, playing this one by the book, would not have it, at least yet. She would have to settle for Mac’s summary later.
The participants in the interrogation settled in as Berman walked through some preliminaries. Mac zeroed in on Connolly. He focused on his eyes and face. Connolly appeared relaxed and perfectly at ease. He did not seem the least bit worried and it wasn’t false bravado either. The political operative seemed utterly at peace with himself, almost serene. He wasn’t sweating this.
“Let’s see if we can get this guy to talk,” Gates muttered.
“Berman and Speck are both pretty good in the room,” Mitchell suggested.
Mac rocked back in his chair with his arms crossed and thought to himself, “He ain’t talkin’.”
* * *
“Finally,” Ed Duffy exclaimed into the telephone as he looked at his computer screen at the face of McCormick and Montgomery’s killer, the face of Francois Foche. “That’s our man.”
The picture was ten years old but when matched with the one taken by Wire and the ones Mac took before he died, it was a match. In looking at the photos, Duffy could tell that Foche had undergone some plastic surgery around his nose and chin, but the eyes and mouth were perfect matches. He was the killer, no doubt.
It had taken two plus days and the work of several analysts and technicians with the bureau, Homeland Security and the CIA, but he finally had an ID on McCormick’s killer for McRyan.
He reached for his cell phone.
* * *
Mac excused himself from the room and stepped into the hallway. “Ed, what’s up?”
“I have your killer, Mac,” Duffy answered happily. “His name is Francois Foche.” Duffy gave Mac a brief rundown on Foche’s background. “I’m sending you an e-mail folder and I’ll include the director and attorney general as well.”
“Can you send it to Riley and Rockford as well?”
“Will do.”
“And Ed, one other thing?”
“Name it?”
“Now that we know who he is, let’s find out who his friends, associates, employers are or have been. We need this guy’s total history since he left French Intelligence.”
“Are you looking for someone in particular, Mac?”
“I am.”
“Who?”
“I’ll know who when you find him, Ed,” Mac answered thinking back to Friday night’s shootout outside the pub and the man in the panel van.
“I’m on it, Mac.”
Mac stepped back into the communications room. “Who was that?” Mitchell asked.
“Special Agent Duffy back in the Twin Cities. We finally have an ID on my killer.”
“What’s his name?”
“Francois Foche, formerly with French Intelligence,” Mac reached in his backpack for his iPad. “Duffy is sending me this guy’s background. I should have it in a few minutes and he’ll be sending it to the both of you as well. Where are we at with Connolly?”
Gates snorted, “Chase is setting the ground rules. Filibusters have been shorter.”
Mac nodded. “Then I’m going to make a couple of calls.” He stepped back out into the hall and dialed the Judge.
* * *
Judge Dixon looked at his watch, 2:47 p.m. They were flying over Indiana, on their way back to Ohio, with a stop in Columbus and then on to Cleveland. Tomorrow they were going airport hopping.
While not wanting to distract the governor as he prepared for his next speech, this was information he should have before a call was made to McCormick’s mother. The Judge pulled the governor to the front of the cabin of the 747 away from the bulk of the staff. “McRyan has identified Sebastian’s killer, a man named Francois Foche,” the Judge opened a folder and showed Foche’s picture and background to the governor who took out his reading glasses to scan the material.
“Former French Directorate of Intelligence?” the governor asked, looking up from the material, taking off his glasses.
“He was, until about ten years ago. Looks like things went bad on an operation in Afghanistan and he was sent back to Paris in shame to become a desk jockey. Shortly thereafter, Foche, the name, disappears. Foche the man has been up to something for that time and the FBI and other agencies are trying to piece it together now that they know who he is. He wasn’t operating by himself so we’re hoping to find a few others in his past that might help us.”
The governor nodded. “I should call Sebastian’s mother.”
“Let me handle that,” the Judge answered. “After I talk to her then maybe you could give her a call, but let me do the heavy lifting on this.”
Thomson nodded as he continued to look at the picture of Foche. “Too bad he’s dead,” the governor stated. “He could have answered a lot of questions.”
* * *
The text from Wire asked: How’s it going?
Mac provided a succinct reply: Shitty!
The interview with Connolly had gone on for two hours now and it was not going anywhere. Berman and Speck went at Connolly and to a certain degree, Chase his lawyer, every way they knew how and every way Mac, the director or the attorney general could think to go and Connolly wasn’t giving them anything.
It wasn’t a surprise to Mac. He didn’t think Connolly would talk. They didn’t have any leverage. He was at a clandestine meeting in Kentucky but the only known person from the meeting still alive was Connolly. Connolly asked what proof they had he was at the meeting and Berman showed the photos, to which Connolly replied, “So what? I was at a meeting during an election.”
“With two Russians and the president of a company that manufactures and distributes voting machines for half the country,” Agent Speck replied.
“Is that illegal?”
“It is if you’re conspiring to fix the Presidential Election.”
“Here it comes,” Mac muttered.
Connolly: “What proof do you have of that?”
None.
They had no proof. They had supposition and suspicions but no hard evidence. There was one picture of Domitrovich at the meeting holding something in his hand. Despite his best efforts, Jupiter had been unable to blow up the photo to make a definitive determination. Mac was certain it was a memory card but that was more based on an educated guess than any certainty based on the picture. It was really impossible to tell. It was too easy to argue that Domitrovich could be holding any number of things, including a memory card, or so the argument would go. Berman went that route and Connolly laughed it off, “Is that all you got?” Connolly wasn’t in St. Paul. He wasn’t in Milwaukee. All he’d done is take a meeting in Kentucky.
“Bullshit,” Gates and Mitchell muttered in unison from the technical room.
“Complete bullshit,” Mac agreed. “But the only ones who could call him on it are dead.” McRyan looked at his cell phone, which was buzzing. He had a text from Riley. He started reading through it and then his eyes went wide.
Mitchell noticed the change in his demeanor. “What is it, Mac?”
“I have a question I want to ask Connolly.”
* * *
“Why were the Russians there?” Special Agent Berman asked. She was getting frustrated but continued to doggedly pick at Connolly.
“Are we going here again?” Chase growled. “I’m very close to ending this, Special Agent Berman.”
“I’m still waiting for an answer,” Berman replied, holding her ground.
Chase looked to his right at Connolly and nodded.
“Like I said before, it was never really totally clear to me,” Connolly responded lightly. “It seemed as if they had someone who wanted to work with Peter’s company and some approvals through the government might be required. Since I would likely be working so closely with the vice president were he elected, they thought I might prove helpful.”
“Right,” Speck answered with derision. “You really expect us to believe that?”
“Say what you want,” Connolly replied. “But I arrange or take meetings from people, foreign and domestic, all the time, people who want to get access to the people I work for and with. This was a meeting like the others.”
“Except for the fact that everyone at that meeting, with the exception of you, is now dead,” McRyan chirped as he barged into the interview room.
“Who are you?” Chase asked.
“This is Detective Mac McRyan from St. Paul,” Berman said, introducing Mac. “He is handling the murders of Sebastian McCormick, Jason Stroudt and Adam Montgomery.”
“Ahh, so this is the Detective McRyan we’ve heard about in the media,” Connolly said breezily, totally at ease. He was comfortable, his face relaxed, hands folded over his waist, left leg crossed over the right. He didn’t think the government had anything on him.
It was time to change that impression.
Mac leaned down on the table and Connolly looked up to meet his face. McRyan’s eyes bored in on Connolly’s. “Who’s the Bishop?” Mac asked in almost a whisper.
Connolly’s eyes went wide and his body went momentarily rigid. He tried to quickly recover but Mac saw it, Chase saw it, Berman and Speck saw it. Everyone saw it—fear.
Mac had Connolly’s undivided attention.
“I’ll ask you again, Mr. Connolly,”
Mac pressed. “Who is the Bishop?”
“I … I have no idea who you’re talking about,” the political operator answered, trying to regain his composure.
“You do,” Mac answered, still leaning down on the table. “You do. And he scares you, he scares you a lot. And you know what? He should.”
McRyan slammed a picture of the Kentucky meeting in front of Connolly and Chase.
He pointed at the young Ukrainian in the picture, “Domitrovich is dead, shot between the eyes two days ago in his apartment in Kiev.”
Mac moved his finger. “Khrutov was found dead in his dacha outside of Moscow earlier today, executed.”
Then Mac moved his finger to Checketts. “Peter Checketts was murdered yesterday in Milwaukee. Now your friend the Bishop had his men stage it to look like a suicide, but he was murdered, no question.”
Mac reached into a folder and took out four more pictures. He went through them one by one, his voice biting, angry.
“Jason Stroudt—dead.”
He took out another picture, “Adam Montgomery—dead.”
Then a third, “Sebastian McCormick—dead.”
Then a fourth, “Gabriel Martin—dead!”
“They were all murdered. Murdered in cold blood and you know what, Mr. Connolly?”
“What?”
Mac smiled, a cold-hearted almost evil smile, as he leaned down to the table. He took one last picture out, it was of Connolly. Mac put his finger on the picture: “You’re next,” he said in almost a whisper.
“Is that a threat, Detective?” Chase demanded.
“Not a threat, at least not from me. I’m just pointing out the hard reality for your client, Counselor,” Mac answered, his eyes never leaving Connolly’s. “The threat is being sent by the man Connolly has been working with or maybe even for. That man has clearly determined that there will be no loose ends. And there’s only one loose end left,” Mac pointed at Connolly, “and that’s you, Heath.”
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