“Never mind,” Sally growled, equal parts angry and relieved. Mac was always going to run no holds barred into the fire, it was just his nature. Like the scorpion and the frog. “You’re okay? I mean, you’re not lying to me, you’re okay?”
“I’m fine really. Not a scratch on me, although my feet are wet from running through water leaking from fire hoses,” he quipped.
“This isn’t funny,” she cried.
Mac kicked himself for joking. “Sorry.”
“And Wire?”
“She’s fine too. We had each other’s backs.”
“That better be all you have.”
“Hey,” Mac snapped back.
“Sorry, sorry,” Sally replied immediately, wishing she could grab the words and put them back in her mouth. “I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve that.” She exhaled. “It’s just you’re tempting fate.”
Mac closed his eyes and nodded. “I know, Sally, but it’s kind of the job, you know.”
“I know.” He could hear her trying to get herself together on the other end of the line. He realized that as little sleep as he’d gotten in recent days, she was operating on less. She was exhilarated by the campaign, but the lack of rest was taking its toll and catching up to her. “I’m sorry I said that about Wire. I just … you know.”
“I know,” Mac answered. “I know you do. This is all almost over, the election, this investigation, everything. It’s almost over.” He reached the front of the Watergate and it was time to get back to work. “Listen, I gotta go.”
“Call me later again okay and please, please be careful.”
“I’ll do my best.” Mac hung up and exhaled a large breath.
“That went well,” Wire remarked with a little smile, having heard Mac’s end of the conversation on the walk back from Kristoff’s body. They’d been offered a ride but Mac needed the walk to let the adrenaline flow out of his body.
“Oh trust me, I’m not done paying for this yet,” Mac replied shaking his head. There would be another conversation, probably very heated, about this, about taking risks, about almost getting killed. Sally understood the job and knew the risks but it didn’t stop her from venting on occasion when things got hairy. But then Mac smiled and raised his eyebrows, “Of course, it’ll probably lead to some serious make-up sex so things aren’t all bad.”
“So you got that going for you,” Wire led.
“Which is nice,” Mac finished in his best Carl Spackler/Bill Murray voice.
Wire giggled.
They were now cleared to walk back into the Watergate building. Director Mitchell, Attorney General Gates and Agents Speck and Berman were waiting in the now empty lobby for the Watergate East complex. After the perfunctory “glad you’re both okays” were issued, Mac and Wire asked the director and attorney general to join them in an office in back of the Security Desk. Mac closed the door.
“What?” the attorney general asked.
“We know who the Bishop is,” Wire stated.
“Who?” the director and AG asked in unison.
“Christian Pope,” Mac replied.
“Wait a minute. Christian Pope?” Gates asked, completely gob smacked. “As in Christian Pope of P. O. & G., one of the wealthiest men on the planet, that Christian Pope? The Christian Pope?”
“Yes, sir,” McRyan replied and then to Wire. “Dara, play the video.”
Wire started the video replay on the phone. The attorney general and director huddled around as the video started.
McRyan: “Who’s the Bishop! Tell me!”
Kristoff: “Pope.” He coughed and blood spewed from his mouth “Christian … Pope.”
McRyan: “Christian Pope? Christian Pope is the Bishop? Christian Pope of Pope Oil & Gas, P. O. & G. is the Bishop?”
Kristoff: “Yes.”
The attorney general whistled and Director Mitchell ran his right hand through his thick hair. They were as shocked as Mac when he first heard the name.
After a minute, the attorney general spoke. “That’s a name and it will help, but it would be really good to independently confirm that with someone.”
“With who?” Mitchell replied. “Connolly’s dead. Domitrovich and Khrutov are dead. Checketts is dead. Now this Kristoff is dead. Foche is dead. I mean, who is left?”
“Sir,” Mac started. “There is one thing Dara and I have kept from you and Attorney General Gates.”
“What’s that?” Mitchell asked warily.
“Ummm … About Foche.”
“What about him?” Mitchell asked.
“He’s not dead.”
Two minutes ago, the director and attorney general were shocked. Now they were blindsided. “Excuse me, Detective? I’m not sure I heard you correctly. Foche isn’t dead, he’s alive?” Mitchell asked dumbfounded.
“Yes, sir,” Mac replied. “Sorry, but we’ve been keeping that little nugget quiet.”
The anger was evident on both the director’s and attorney general’s faces.
“Let us explain,” Mac said, holding up his hands. McRyan and Wire tag teamed the explanation that when Checketts was murdered they made a quick determination that whoever was behind this would leave nobody behind. The two of them figured that if they reported Foche was dead, they might get something from the man. So far he had not been willing to talk. As with Connolly, getting him to talk would take leverage, something that until now, they’d not had. But now Mac had some ideas on how they could persuade Foche to open up.
The attorney general and FBI director were equal parts shocked, surprised, happy and bitterly angry. They started with bitterly angry.
“I don’t like being kept in the dark, Detective,” Director Mitchell barked, hands on hips. “You do not keep the director of the FBI in the dark.”
“Sorry, sir,” Mac answered, holding his ground. “But Dara and I thought the secret important enough to keep close to the vest. We didn’t want it leaking he was alive and no offense, but everything in this town leaks and to be completely honest, I didn’t know if I could trust you.”
“Trust us?” Gates growled. “Who are you to determine that, Detective?”
“I don’t work for you, sir,” Mac answered plainly. “I work for Charlie Flanagan in St. Paul. I don’t work for either of you nor do I know you. Until we felt confident we could trust you, we kept this quiet.”
“Trust, Dara? You’re really going with that?” Mitchell asked derisively, glaring at Wire.
“I’ve been out four years sir and I’m out because I trusted certain people, namely a former attorney general, with certain information.”
Gates and Mitchell looked ready to have them both arrested.
“You can be angry with us, or you can be happy we still have a witness left that Christian Pope doesn’t know about,” Wire stated.
Mitchell looked at Gates. They were both angry, but they shared a look and nodded.
Mitchell exhaled. “Where is he?”
“He’s safe for now at a half-full hospital out in a suburb northwest of Minneapolis. There is a team of St. Paul cops watching him around the clock,” Mac replied. “However, I think now might be a good time to discuss options for moving him to a safer location and bringing him under bureau protection.”
“He’s awake and alert?” Gates asked.
“He is,” Wire answered. “He should make a full recovery.”
“He’s talking?”
“Kinda sorta,” Mac answered. “He was a little disoriented when he first awoke and uttered something about ‘the Bishop,’ so that’s where I got the name to start with. Once he realized where he was, he shut down and has refused to talk. However, now I think I have a way to make him talk, if you’ll oblige.”
The two men shared a look. They wanted to be angry yet these two managed to pull the investigation off of life support, yet again.
“So what do you need, Mac?” Mitchell asked.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“Fifteen Years.”
Tuesday
, November 5th, Election Day
Mac and Wire yawned as they deplaned at Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport a little after 7:00 a.m. and immediately were hustled into an awaiting black Suburban by the FBI. As the driver pulled off of the tarmac and away from the plane, the other agent in front turned around and handed them each a tall Grand Brew Coffee and a bag full of assorted donuts.
“I love you, man,” Mac said with a tired smile. He took a long sip of coffee, sat back and exhaled.
Wire took out a bear claw and devoured it in four bites. “God, that tasted good.”
“The world is back on its axis,” Mac noted, toasting the agents in front. He could see their grins in the rearview mirror.
“What’s our first stop?” the driver asked.
“My polling place,” Mac answered. “I’ve gotta vote. We’re going to a retirement home, just south of Ford Parkway on Cleveland.”
With an FBI escort, Mac got in and out of the polling place in five minutes and they were on their way. Governor Thomson had received his vote.
Overnight, Foche was moved to a safe house northwest of Minneapolis in the town of Corcoran, an expansive rural community of farms with some small housing developments on large acreage plots.
Foche was being held in a large two-story home foreclosed on over a year ago that the FBI had quickly arranged to rent for an undetermined period of time. The large home sat two miles west of a county road on top of a hill with land cleared five hundred yards away in every direction. There were few if any trees to provide cover for an approach. In reality, there was no way to approach the house without being seen. Even with that, there were twelve men on the scene at all times. It was a safe location even if there was someone out there who didn’t buy the Foche was dead story.
The Suburban came to a rest in the circular driveway and Mac and Wire filed out of the truck and were met by a familiar face.
“Dicky Boy, how’s the wing?” Mac asked walking up to his partner and shaking his hand. “It’s really good to see you, bud.”
“You too,” Lich replied. “I’m healing up and when Riley told me you were coming back, I wanted in.” Dick turned from Mac and leered, as only he could, at Wire as she walked up in her skin tight blue jeans. “Agent Wire, it is sooooo nice to see you again.”
“Nice to see you upright, Detective.”
“Oh I’m definitely upright at the moment,” Lich replied dirtily.
“Oh God,” Mac groaned and shook his head in his hands.
Wire put her hands on her hips although she wasn’t really upset, understanding Lich for what he was—a pig.
“You have to learn not to set him up like that,” Mac counseled. “He hits the hanging curve balls out of the park every time.”
Wire took a look at Lich’s groin area, “Well he must be using a really small bat because I don’t see much of a pup tent.”
Mac roared and Lich replied with a: “touché.”
Dick led them up the steps, across the porch and into the house. Inside to the left was a small sitting room where Mac found three other friends, Riley, Rockford and a nattily attired gentleman in a thousand dollar black pinstripe suit: “Lyman Hisle as I live and breathe.”
Lyman Hisle was St. Paul’s most prominent lawyer, perhaps the best defense lawyer in the Twin Cities, a good friend of the St. Paul Police and McRyan family friend. When Mac had Riley sequester Foche away, and Foche asked for a lawyer, Mac suggested getting Lyman involved. There were two witnesses to the murders of McCormick and Montgomery. They had Foche cold. He was going away for life so Mac wasn’t worried about Lyman pulling a rabbit out of his hat and getting Foche off. Rather, Mac figured at some point they’d need Foche to talk and there was nobody better in town than Lyman to get a defendant to see the light of day.
“Lyman, I’d like to introduce Dara Wire. Ms. Wire has been working with us. She used to be a special agent with the FBI but has now graduated to a more honest living.”
“Ms. Wire,” Lyman said, shaking her hand gently with both of his. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Mr. Hisle,” Wire answered and then looked to Mac. “His daughter was the other one …”
“That’s right, Ms. Wire,” Lyman said with a grateful smile. “These men saved my daughter a couple of years ago so I am quite indebted to them and exceedingly pleased they asked me to help out.”
“Where’s Foche?” Mac asked, getting right to business.
“Upstairs,” Riles answered. “Let’s go.”
The group climbed the wood staircase to the second floor, turned left and walked to the large master suite at the end of the hall. Foche was propped up in a hospital bed. A nurse was present monitoring his condition and dispensing his medication. He was alert and awake and his eyes widened at the sight of Wire and McRyan.
Mac looked to his right at Wire who stared hard at Foche, every muscle in her body tensed, her hands rolled into fists. Mac had a long discussion with her on the flight back. She didn’t like the idea of giving Foche a deal. However, Mac sensed he finally convinced her that Foche was simply an instrument being played by Pope and that Pope was their true target. Kristoff’s utterance of Pope helped but in and of itself wouldn’t be enough. They needed confirmation. “Dara, Foche carried out an order. Pope is responsible for Sebastian’s death. He gave the order, Foche was simply the instrument.” She understood in her mind that was the case, but in her heart? If given the opportunity, she’d have killed Foche right then and there with her bare hands.
Mac walked to the right side of the bed. “Mr. Foche, my name is Detective McRyan with the St. Paul Police Department. At the end of the bed is the woman who shot you, her name is Dara Wire. She is working with us on this investigation and is a former special agent with the FBI.”
Mac took a picture out of a manila folder. “This is Nicholas Kristoff, your friend and I think your boss.” Mac took out another photo. “This is now what Kristoff looks like as of last night.” Out of the manila folder came three pictures of Kristoff dead on the ground.
Foche’s face twitched and his eyes closed and Mac could see them moistening. In reviewing Foche’s and Kristoff’s files they received from the French government, it was clear the two men were close, like brothers, with Kristoff being the older brother, the man Foche looked up to.
“How was he killed?” the Frenchman asked as he looked at the close-up picture of his dead friend’s face.
“After he killed Heath Connolly at the Watergate in Washington last night, Ms. Wire and I chased him through a neighborhood near George Washington University Medical School. As Kristoff reached his car, this man, who’d been laying in wait, killed him.” Wire, now standing on the other side of the bed, placed a photo of Paolo on Foche’s lap. “Your friend was killed by a professional assassin, a man named Paolo. Have you ever heard of Paolo?”
Foche nodded.
“He works for hire, right?” Wire asked.
Foche nodded.
“Paolo is expensive and very good, right?”
The Frenchman nodded.
“He’s also dead, by the way,” Mac added matter of factly. “We,” Mac pointed at himself and Wire, “shot him.” Mac moved to his sales pitch. “Right now, the world thinks you’re dead, Mr. Foche. The media thinks you’re dead. My government, other than the people in this room, the attorney general and the FBI director, thinks you’re dead. As long as that’s the case, the Bishop thinks you’re dead. However, if you don’t tell me who the Bishop is, we will bring you back to life and sooner or later the Bishop will have someone kill you just like he killed Kristoff, just like he killed Peter Checketts, Anatoly Khrutov, Viktor Domitrovich and Gabriel Martin. Just like he had you kill Jason Stroudt, Adam Montgomery and Sebastian McCormick. I believe your attorney Mr. Hisle has explained this to you, correct?”
Foche nodded.
“And Mr. Hisle has explained to you that if you don’t make a deal with us, you will go to prison for the rest of your life, correct?”
<
br /> Foche nodded.
“So do you have any questions?”
“What do I get in return for the name of the Bishop?” Foche asked looking Mac in the eye.
Mac pulled out a sheet of paper, a deal. “A new name and identity, fifteen years in a relatively comfortable federal prison and then you go into the loving arms of our Witness Protection Program if you so choose.”
“Fifteen years?”
“Non-negotiable,” Mac answered coldly. “You killed two men. That’s a life sentence for each. I’d eventually prove you killed at least one more person if not more. And by the way, in return for this deal, you will tell me everything, every minute detail of those murders, the planning, who else you killed and when. You will tell me everything, you will tell me about every-single-body you ever dropped for the Bishop, every one. So fifteen years it will be. After that, you will remain in the United States and under our protection if you so wish or you will be free to go. Do you understand?”
Foche nodded.
“Okay, Mr. Foche, I’ll ask you just one time. Who is the Bishop?”
Foche sat back against his pillow and closed his eyes, giving the deal one last consideration in his mind. His eyes opened, he looked at Mac and said: “The Bishop is Christian Pope.”
Mac looked at Wire who nodded.
Mac turned to Lyman: “Counselor, here is the deal in writing, signed by the attorney general of the United States.”
Lyman slipped on his glasses and read through the document and looked to his client, “I’d recommend you sign. It’s the best deal you’ll get.”
Foche signed the deal.
“Okay then,” Mac said. “Let’s get the video equipment set up and we’re going to start walking through everything.” He pulled a folder out of his backpack. “I have a feeling this is going to take a while.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
“I have a good feeling that there will be more developments today.”
Christian Pope stepped out onto the long deck of his Clearwater Beach, Florida, mansion that overlooked the deep blue water of the Gulf of Mexico. It was going to be a beautiful day, the sun now well up in the eastern horizon, heating the area around his pool below and the beach another hundred yards out in front of him.
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