The Lincoln Letter

by William Martin

  Diana laughed. “You got that right.”

  “Well, he’s not here yet.”

  “And he’s not answering his cell.”

  “He does that when he’s avoiding a conversation.”

  Evangeline heard the door open, and Peter entered. She waved him to a chair. Then she said into the phone, “Yeah. That’s how he rolls. That’s one way of putting it.”

  Peter gestured. Who is it?

  She mouthed the word, Diana.

  He shook his head. He didn’t want to talk with her just yet.

  So Evangeline said, “Listen, I’m sure he’s sorry for leaving you. But cut him some slack. Will we see you tonight? Good. Yes. A big night.”

  Evangeline hung up and turned to Peter. “She’s pissed. What did you do?”

  “I went off on my own.”

  “And from the look in your eye, you got into some trouble.”

  “You know me too well.”

  “I can always tell when you’ve had a jolt of adrenaline or testosterone.”

  “Just adrenaline. With testosterone, you fight. Adrenaline is all flight.”

  “So you’ve been … flighting … er … fleeing? Running?”

  “Running like hell.” He dropped onto the sofa and kicked off his shoes.

  “I suppose this means you didn’t get the suit I asked you to buy.”

  Peter shrugged. “I brought two clean shirts and a tie in my overnight.”

  She looked at his trousers. “And those? You can’t wear those tonight. Dockers look like a brown paper bag on your butt once you’ve been sitting in them. And if you’ve been running in them—”

  “Actually, I was riding a bicycle.”

  “The only thing worse would be hand-to-hand combat.”

  “I gave that up a long time ago.”

  “Let’s hope so.” She handed him a small shopping bag. “A present.”

  In the bag: a white shirt with French cuffs, 15/34, and a silver gray tie.

  He said “Very nice, but this doesn’t solve the blue blazer and Dockers problem.”

  She reached around the bedroom door and pulled out a garment bag. “I promised myself when we got together again that I’d never try to change you or dress you. Here’s the exception that proves the rule, grabbed off the rack at Joseph A. Bank after we finished filming. Forty-two regular jacket, thirty-six/thirty pants.”

  He got up and gave her a kiss. “Where is it we’re going again?”

  “A preview reception for the new Smithsonian exhibit. It’s called ‘Lincoln and Liberty Too.’ It’s a collection of documents and artifacts—”

  “—relating to all things emancipating.”

  “How did you guess?”

  “Because they tried to borrow a few things we’re using in our Boston show.”

  “We were invited by a congressman I met on the train this morning.”

  “How is it you met a congressman and a lobbyist on the train, and you didn’t tell me? I had to hear it from some guy who knew a guy who took a picture of you.”

  “Picture? Where did you see the picture?”

  Just then, there was a knock at the door.

  Peter’s antenna went up. After the chase through Georgetown, he couldn’t be too careful. As Evangeline started toward the door, he reached out and stopped her.

  “Oh, Peter, I told you. I don’t have time for this stuff. I’m—”

  “I know, I know. You’re heading in a new direction. But—”

  She looked toward the door and called, “Who is it?

  “Room service.”

  Peter looked through the peephole: a guy in a hotel jacket, a cart. Looked like room service, could be a ruse. Peter asked, “What do you have?”

  “A bottle of wine, sir.”

  “What kind?”

  “White, sir.”

  “Read the label—”

  Evangeline said, “Oh, Peter, stop it.”

  “If it’s expensive wine, we’ll know it’s not a trick.”

  She rolled her eyes, cracked the door, and said over the safety bar, “Let me see the card, please.”

  The server passed it through the opening.

  Evangeline glanced at it: Kathi Morganti, Hamill and Associates. Then she said to Peter, “It’s safe, Mr. Suspicious.”

  Peter let the server in, had him open the bottle, tipped him a ten.

  “Generous,” said Evangeline.

  “Suspicious but generous.” Peter handed her a glass and took a sip. “Puligny-Montrachet. Very nice.”

  Evangeline picked up the card. “This is from the woman I met on the train this morning, the lobbyist. And a guy took our picture. How did you know?”

  “The guy was no guy. He was part of some kind of gang that’s gotten into this Lincoln letter business.”

  She said, “You never know who you’ll meet on the Northeast power corridor, but I didn’t think that meeting the congressman and the lobbyist was a coincidence.”

  “Neither did the guy who took your picture. What’s in the note?”

  She read: “‘It seems that a client of ours dispatched two overaggressive members of his security staff to bring your boyfriend over for a chat.’”

  “That would be me,” said Peter.

  “The client would like to apologize in person. He will have a limo waiting at six, to take you to his condo for cocktails. Kathi Morganti.”

  “She’s the lobbyist?”

  “Works for a big K Street firm. And she knew who you were. The truth is, she was more interested in you than in me.”

  “Does she say who the client is?”

  Evangeline turned the paper over. “No.”

  “So, are we going to see him?”

  “We?”

  “You’re the contact, and if he can order a good bottle of wine, he probably has good hors d’oeuvres.”

  She shook her head … not for no. More like, Oh, no, not again.

  “Evangeline, this is heating up quickly, and it could be huge.”

  “No.”

  “But I need you.” He sipped his wine. “You’re my foil when I sit down with some guy who thinks that he can play me because he has more money, or more muscle, or better taste in wine—”

  “No chance of that.”

  “—or a gun.”

  “Gun? Peter, not more guns.”

  “C’mon.” He tapped his glass against hers. “Married or not, you’re my better half. If I’m aggressive, you’re calm. If I’m sarcastic, you’re complimentary. If I’m respectful, you’re insulting. You’re the salt to my pepper, the wine to my cheese, the—”

  “Go and shower.”

  “—reality check to my flights of fancy.”

  “Shave, too.”

  The suite had two bathrooms. Plenty of room for two people to get ready.

  When Peter emerged in his new gray suit and silvery gray tie, she was wearing a red dress with a maillot top and a black paisley pattern, finished with a little black silk jacket and a string of pearls.

  “Beautiful,” he said. “Makes me wonder why I decided not to marry you.”

  She planted a kiss on his lips. “I decided not to marry you. But in that outfit—” She brushed his hair back. “—all you need is a little more gray on the sides, and you’d be my dream date. Cary Grant as Roger Thornhill, man of the world, man on the run.”

  “But Cary parted his hair on the right. The only man I ever saw who looked good parting his hair on the right.” Peter opened the door. “After you.”

  She hesitated. “Whenever you open a door and say that to me, I always think, ‘I am but mad north by northwest.’”

  “Mad?”

  “Mad to be walking out the door with you … right into trouble.”

  “You love it.”

  * * *

  The limo was waiting. The driver held a discreet sign: FALLON/CARRINGTON.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Bruce are looking forward to meeting you.” The driver, a slender black man with gray hair, gave the
m a courtly bow and invited them into the limo.

  They drove down Fifteenth Street, with the expanse of the President’s Park and the famous Ellipse on the right. Then they turned onto tree-lined Constitution Avenue, and Peter said to Evangeline, “I defy anyone not to be impressed looking out these windows.”

  On the right, the White House glimmered in the distance. On the left, the Washington Monument loomed over them.

  As they came up to the light on Seventeenth, four mounted horsemen, Capitol Police, clip-clopped past and rode out onto the Ellipse.

  “I love the sound of them horseshoes,” said the driver.

  “Once, it was all you’d hear in a city,” said Peter.

  Evangeline asked, “What’s that over there?”

  “The Organization of American States.” Peter was looking out the right side.

  “No. That. What’s that little thing?” Evangeline pointed out the left.

  At the southwest corner, on the edge of the Mall, was a tiny one-story brick building.

  The driver said, “That’s the lock keeper’s house, ma’am, the last remains of the Washington Canal and one of the oldest buildings in the District. Once, the canal cut up from the Anacostia and come right along here.”

  “The canal followed Constitution Avenue?” said Evangeline.

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s one of the most famous streets in America today, with fancy museums and all, but back then, just a trench full of dirty water.”

  “With stone sides,” said Peter. He’d seen pictures.

  “Sure is a nicer place today,” said the driver. “But there’s just as many scalawags.”

  “More,” said Peter.

  “Sir?”

  “More scalawags. And a lot more government,” said Peter.

  The driver chuckled. “You keep talkin’ like that, Mr. Bruce’ll like you a lot.”

  “And what does Mr. Bruce do for a living?”

  “Oh … I’m just a driver, sir. Sometimes I drive the limo, sometimes a black SUV, but I keep my job by bein’ discreet.”

  “Discreet,” said Peter. “I like that.”

  Then he put a hand on Evangeline’s knee. When she was wearing stockings, he loved to touch the nylon. When she gave him a look, he whispered, “Discreet.”

  She removed his hand. “Dream on.”

  The limo sped past the Bureau of Indian Affairs and the Federal Reserve. Then it crossed the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge and soon was cruising down the hill into Rosslyn, a cluster of high-rises that defined prime D.C.-area real estate: skyscrapers with unobstructed views across the river to the low-rise capital city.

  The limo pulled under the portico of a twenty-five-story building. To the north and south were similar buildings. To the east, there was nothing but the George Washington Parkway and the Potomac.

  A big black man opened the door on Peter’s side. He was wearing a dark suit and no ball cap, but it was Mr. Redskins, recovered from his afternoon impact.

  “Long time, no see,” said Peter.

  The driver popped out, opened the door for Evangeline, and said across the roof of the limo, “You be polite to Mr. Fallon, Andre. Don’t be yankin’ him out of my car like you done with that cab.”

  “Sorry about your balls,” whispered Peter.

  Andre ignored them both and said into his headset, “Coming up.”

  The condo building had a large lobby, a concierge desk, circles of chairs, reading tables, glass doors leading to tennis courts, swimming pool, and patio.

  Andre put them onto the elevator and pushed a button. On the twentieth floor, a man was waiting: Mr. Fit. He looked liked a Secret Service agent in a black suit, white shirt, black tie. He stood with his hands folded in front of him, an earpiece connected to a wire, and sunglasses, even though he was in a condominium hallway.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” said Peter.

  Fit said nothing.

  Peter introduced Evangeline, who offered her hand. “And you are?”

  “People call me Jonathan Jones, when I invite them to.”

  Evangeline smiled. “Am I invited?”

  “You’re invited to see Mr. Bruce.” The guy gave Peter a jerk of the head, and they followed him to the door of a corner apartment. With a courtesy knock, he opened the door, and gestured for them to step in.

  Peter whispered to Jones, “I just wanted to slow you down, not dump you in a canal. I hope you’ve had your shots, tetanus, hepatitis, and so on.”

  Jones closed the door in Peter’s face and stayed outside.

  * * *

  A large foyer, a long hallway to the left, a dining room directly ahead, a living room to the right, and roseate evening light pouring in from every direction because all the windows were floor-to-ceiling.

  A woman in her early fifties came out of the galley kitchen and, it would seem, straight out of the 1950s. She reminded Peter of June Cleaver, with neat-clipped blond hair, a flowered dress, an apron over it and—yes—a petticoat under it.

  She offered a hand. “I’m Jan Bruce. Welcome to our Washington abode. My husband will be right out. I told him that he just had to get ready if we were having guests, but he’s such a USC football fan, and they played Syracuse this afternoon, so he was glued, no, he was crazy-glued to the TV until the final play. Came in off the tennis court—he just loves his tennis—that’s why we bought this place—I’m sure you saw the courts above the Parkway—and after he played three sets he came up and hit the sofa and never left it till the final gun.”

  “Did SC win?” asked Peter.

  “A last-second field goal. They beat Syracuse … in Syracuse.” Jan Bruce made a delicate little fist pump. “Fight on for old SC.”

  “Good news,” said Peter. “Wouldn’t want Mr. Bruce in a bad mood. His security people are grouchy enough to begin with.”

  “Oh, don’t mind them.” Jan Bruce flounced ahead of them into the living room. “They’re a bit zealous, but we need good security these days.”

  “Do we ever,” said Evangeline.

  Jan gave that remark a nervous little laugh. Then she took drink orders and gestured to the windows. “Feast your eyes. I’ll be right back.”

  The living room offered one of the most magnificent panoramas Peter and Evangeline had ever seen. In a single sweep of the eye, they took in Georgetown, the Key Bridge, the Kennedy Center, the Watergate complex, the Capitol dome, the Washington Monument, the Lincoln and Jefferson memorials, the meandering Potomac, and the Pentagon, too.

  “A city of bridges and monuments,” said Evangeline.

  “A city of power grabs and power brokers,” said Peter.

  “A city of grand dreams and greed.” Their host came into the room in a golf shirt and slacks. “That’s why Jan and I love the view. She likes the dreams. I’m a greed man myself.” He laughed and offered his hand. “David Bruce.”

  He wasn’t too tall or too heavy or too old or too young. He wasn’t too much of anything. He was just … round … round face, round cheeks that crinkled when he grinned, round belly but nothing to get in his way on the tennis court. And there was an energy about him, like a bouncing ball, something … round. He shot a hand out to Peter, two quick shakes, then to Evangeline, two more … and he invited them to sit.

  Straight off, he apologized to Peter for the scene on the bridge.

  “I hired Andre and Jonathan out of an overseas security company of ours. Sometimes they still think they’re in Iraq. Nothing more dangerous in Iraq than sitting in traffic, on a bridge, waiting for a car bomb to go off, when you’re trying to pick someone up and bring him in for questioning.”

  “Is that what this is?” asked Evangeline. “An interrogation?”

  “Not in the least.” Mrs. Bruce brought in a tray with cocktail shrimp and some kind of hot puff pastry, two glasses of white wine, and two Scotch-on-the-rocks. “This is a just a friendly get-to-know-you.”

  David Bruce handed Peter and Evangeline glasses of wine. “I hope you like California chardonnay. I
t’s Buehler. A better value than the French stuff.”

  “California’s fine,” said Peter.

  Bruce leaned back. “Let me ask you, Mr. Fallon, are you political? Conservative? Liberal? What?”

  “I belong to the common sense party.”

  “I’m not familiar with them.”

  “He made it up,” said Evangeline.

  “My liberal friends think I’m too conservative,” said Peter. “And my conservative friends think I’m too liberal.”

  “Ha,” said Evangeline.

  “You sound just fine by me,” said David Bruce. “I like a man who won’t be pigeonholed. It means he listens to his own inner voice.”

  “I apply the rules of common sense,” said Peter. “When some Democratic nanny-stater tries to tell me what kind of lightbulb to use or how much salt to put on my steak, I’m a conservative.”

  Bruce elbowed his wife. “He eats steak, honey. I like him already.”

  “But when some Republican tells me the only way to advance our national cause is to turn every man into his own entrepreneur, succeeding or failing on the basis of pure Social Darwinism, which means survival of the fittest, the smartest, or the kids of the most connected, then I’m a liberal.”

  “Not liberal enough,” said Evangeline.

  “More liberal than I am,” said David Bruce. “I have many interests and a few strong beliefs. I believe we are crushed by taxes, paralyzed by regulations, oppressed by a federal government that seeks to control us at every turn. And it all began with Lincoln. He birthed the monster.”

  “Monster?” asked Evangeline.

  “He was the first president to spend huge amounts on internal improvement like the transcontinental railroads. He printed paper money and deficit-financed a massive war. Before that, he put such heavy tariffs on the South that they decided to secede.”

  “He didn’t do that,” said Peter. “Northern politicians did, before he was president.”

  But Bruce kept to his talking points. “And Lincoln authorized our first income tax to pay for his war. I bet you won’t put that in your travel shows, Miss Evangeline.”

  Peter had heard the tariff stuff before. The South had more ports than the North, so they paid a disproportionate amount in import and export duties, up to 80 percent of the national tariffs with only 20 percent of the population. Peter didn’t doubt the statistic, but he questioned whether Americans would really have slaughtered 620,000 fellow Americans … over tariffs.