by Tim Downs
The man never changed his expression. “We seem to have a small difference of opinion.”
“Maybe I should just go,” Donovan said. “Then you can go to your boss and tell him that the FBI agent he specifically requested was here, but he left—because you wouldn’t let him in. Try that—see how it goes over.”
The security guard hesitated, then slowly stepped aside.
“Thanks,” Donovan said. “I knew we could work out our differences if we just put our heads together.”
He knocked softly on the door and without waiting for a response opened it and stepped inside. The office interior was larger than he’d expected, almost like a second foyer, and it sounded like the DC Metro compared to the tranquil waiting area outside. He counted at least eight staff members chattering into Bluetooth headsets, scribbling notations on wall-mounted whiteboards, or clipping columns from the newspapers that seemed to cover every flat surface in the room.
“Senator Braden?”
The senator glanced up from his desk. “Yes?”
“Special Agent Nathan Donovan. You sent for me, sir.”
Braden stood up behind his desk. “Oh, yes, Mr. Donovan—come in. Please, take a seat. Brad, I’d like you to stay for this.”
Donovan looked the senator over. It was the first time he had actually met the man face-to-face, or had even spoken to him, for that matter— his assignment came through the ADIC at the Bureau’s Washington field office. Braden was a tall man, about sixty years of age, with silver-white hair that showed no hint of thinning. His face seemed permanently tanned, and his classic features looked as if they had been lifted from an ancient Roman bust, from his noble brow to his aquiline nose to his deeply cleft chin. His eyes were a hollow blue, capable of communicating the full range of emotions a president requires, from compassionate concern to righteous indignation. He looked trim, even athletic, but that may have been due to the padded shoulders in his black pin-striped Valentino suit. He is the picture-perfect politician, Donovan thought, the cardboard cutout you got your photo taken next to on the boardwalk in Atlantic City. There was no doubt about it, John Henry Braden would make a perfect U.S. president—or at least he would look like one.
Donovan took a seat in a leather wingback chair across from Braden’s desk. Everyone in the room grabbed handfuls of paper and quickly exited, except for one man who remained behind and took the chair beside Donovan’s.
“Agent Donovan, Brad Lassiter—Brad is my chief of staff.”
The two men shook hands.
“You come highly recommended, Mr. Donovan. Brad here tells me you’re the best and brightest the Bureau has to offer.”
“I’d hate to contradict your chief of staff.” It was a good answer— one that merited a smile and a nod from the senator. Washington is no place for modesty, Donovan had quickly learned; people with power are busy, and they don’t have time to stand around while you twist your skirt into knots.
“I don’t need to tell you that this couldn’t have come at a worse time. The convention is coming up in a little more than two months, and then we’ve got the presidential debates; after that it’s a horse race all the way to November. We don’t need this distraction right now.”
“No, sir.”
“The voters don’t need this distraction either—they need to stay focused on the issues.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Brad here tells me you’re going to take care of this little distraction for us.”
“That’s my intention, yes.”
“Good. This is just the kind of thing the opposition would love to take advantage of—to exaggerate its importance, to draw the eye of the voter away from more significant matters. Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Donovan, the war on terror is one of the major themes of my campaign— whether it’s terrorists acting from outside our borders or criminals operating from within. I intend to take a strong stand against crime in this country, and I intend to push for significant budget increases for organizations like your own. The people of America need to know that I will pursue terrorists to the ends of the earth, and the citizens of my beloved Virginia must know that I will not allow criminals to operate in my own backyard. Do I make myself clear?”
“I think so, sir, yes.”
“Good. I’m glad we had this little chat, Mr. Donovan, and I appreciate you dropping by to see me today. I’ll be keeping track of your progress through Brad here, and I look forward to hearing of a speedy resolution to this matter. Good day, sir.”
The senator stood up and extended his hand. Brad rose too, smiled at Donovan, and gestured toward the door.
Donovan was stunned; the meeting had just begun and it was apparently over. What was that? he wondered. He came prepared to offer a full report, to give a description of the resources that the Bureau had intended to allocate to the case and to discuss his investigative strategy. Instead he got a two-minute sound bite, half policy statement and half pep talk, that he really didn’t need to hear. Braden seemed uninformed, almost unaware of Donovan’s purpose here. But didn’t Braden send for him? Wasn’t he the one who requested him to be assigned to this case?
No skin off my back, Donovan thought. If that’s all the involvement Braden wanted, so much the better—it just meant one fewer pair of eyes looking over his shoulder. Maybe that’s all Braden had time for— to care about the broad strokes and leave the details to somebody else. So much for micromanagement, he thought.
Donovan stepped out into the foyer and closed the door behind him.
“Have a nice day,” the security guard said behind him. “I hope to see you again.”
Donovan headed for the hallway without looking back.
“Mr. Donovan?”
He stopped; it was the young aide who had shown him to the senator’s office.
“Mrs. Braden would like a word with you, please.”
“Mrs. Braden?”
“If you have a moment.”
Donovan followed her into another office. There was no one inside.
“Please make yourself comfortable. Mrs. Braden will be with you in just a moment.”
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Donovan looked around the office; it was much smaller than the senator’s but just as elegantly appointed. It was clearly a business office, just like the senator’s, but the number of potted plants and the personal memorabilia on the desk and walls revealed a definite woman’s touch. Donovan had never met Mrs. Braden before either, but he had certainly seen her photograph—and so had just about everyone else in America. Victoria Braden was one of the most photographed women in Washington, and now that she was the definite favorite for the role of First Lady, she was fast becoming the most photographed woman in the world. The camera loved her; she had hair like the mane of a thoroughbred, a deep chestnut brown with striking red highlights. Her flawless skin looked like rose petals, and her almond-shaped eyes and Cupid’s bow lips made her look like a model. So did her sense of fashion; everything she wore seemed to complement her perfectly, and every designer on the East Coast was competing to see whose gown she would favor at the next White House reception or ball. Victoria Braden was about fifteen years younger than her husband, just enough of an age difference to titillate the American public but still fall within the bounds of propriety. Every eye in America seemed to be turning to her, which made her the perfect wife for a presidential candidate like John Henry Braden; it was a match made in a politician’s heaven.
Donovan took a seat in an upholstered chair with his back to the door. The leather felt soft and supple, and he squeezed the arms and settled in a little. He glanced at a diploma prominently displayed on the end table to his left and read the top two lines: University of Virginia, Darden Graduate School of Business Administration. Not bad, Donovan thought. She may be a trophy wife, but she’s got a few trophies of her own.
“Coffee?”
Donovan twisted around and looked at the door. Victoria Braden was balancing a delicate bone c
hina cup with a gold rim on top of a book in her left hand. She had today’s Washington Post tucked under her right arm and an assortment of folders and files in hand; she quietly pushed the door shut with her hip and crossed to her desk. She was dressed in a simple black blazer and skirt, with an open white blouse that showed off the long curve of her graceful neck. It was a simple, even utilitarian outfit, but the tailoring was immaculate and the lines flowed like honey. This is a woman who’s going places, Donovan thought. So what does she want with me?
“Thanks. I’m fine,” Donovan replied.
“I don’t know how you do it. Personally, I run on caffeine.”
“I gave it up when I joined the FBI.”
“So you don’t have to take a leak in the middle of a surveillance.”
Donovan blinked.
“You’re not the first FBI agent I’ve met,” she said.
“I guess not.”
She gingerly set her coffee cup in the center of the desk. “This is my favorite cup,” she said. “It’s a fabulous design—I’m thinking of using it for my White House pattern. I lifted it from the governor’s mansion after a dinner party.”
“You stole government property?”
“It’s still government property—I just had it transferred to a different department. The governor’s wife had a breakfront full of them; I didn’t think she’d miss just one.” She gave Donovan a wink. “Always count the silverware when the politicians leave.”
“Thanks, I’ll remember that.”
She opened a manila file folder and scanned it quickly. “Special Agent Nathan Donovan,” she read. “I was impressed with your record. Your wife is quite impressive in her own right: an expert in international terrorism and professor of international relations at Georgetown. The two of you make quite a pair.”
“Behind every great man there’s a great woman,” Donovan said.
“Behind or in front—it depends on your perspective. Do you know why I requested you for this assignment, Mr. Donovan?”
Donovan paused. “I understood that the senator requested me.”
“As I said, it’s a matter of perspective. I was born in the town of Endor—did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I left when I was very young—my parents were bright enough to realize that there were better opportunities for me elsewhere—but still, Endor is my hometown, and I feel a certain responsibility to the people there.”
“You sound like your husband.”
“Do I? I’ll have to do something about that. My point is, the people of Endor deserve to know that their elected officials haven’t forgotten them. They need to see that something is being done to protect them.”
“And so do the voters of America.”
“Why, Mr. Donovan, that sounded almost cynical. Where’s your lofty idealism?”
“Sorry,” Donovan said. “That’s something else I gave up when I joined the FBI.”
“Then you are a cynic.”
“I prefer to think of myself as a realist.”
“So do I. So tell me—realist to realist—what’s the situation at the Patriot Center?”
“What would you like to know?”
“I’m asking for your report, Agent Donovan.”
“Well, I’ve been to the crime scene and I—”
“The excavation site.”
“Excuse me?”
“Has it been proven that the two additional bodies were, in fact, victims of foul play?”
“There isn’t much doubt.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Donovan paused. “No, it hasn’t been proven—but I think it will be. I believe in calling a spade a spade.”
“So do I—but not until somebody proves it is one. In politics perception is everything. If you call my husband’s property a ‘crime scene’ then it is one, and I don’t want it to be one until I say so. So far all we’ve got is an unmarked graveyard—a historical curiosity, just a part of Virginia’s rich historical heritage.”
“And the two extra bodies?”
“Nobody knows yet—and until they do I want you to say so. Is that understood?”
Donovan nodded.
“What else can you tell me?”
“I have a forensic team in place—an entomologist from North Carolina and an anthropologist out of UVA.”
“My alma mater—I approve. Who’s the other one you mentioned— the entomologist?”
“His name is Dr. Nick Polchak.”
“Is he good?”
“He’s the best there is. Between the two of them, I’m hoping to come up with an estimated time of death for each body. Then we’ll search the missing persons reports for those time periods and try to come up with a match.”
“Is that likely?”
“It depends a lot on how old the bodies are.”
“And that hasn’t been determined yet.”
“No.”
“Then it’s possible these two bodies are just historical remains—just like the bodies that were buried beneath them.”
“I don’t think so.”
“But it’s possible.”
“Theoretically, yes.”
“I’d like you to emphasize that possibility until we know otherwise.”
“Fair enough.”
“Your forensic team—this anthropologist and entomologist—they are not to speak directly to the press. Everything is to go through you— is that understood?”
“They’ve already been informed.”
“Good. I don’t want some tech head offering second opinions.”
“Anything else?”
“Just an answer to my question.”
“What question is that?”
“Why do you think I requested you for this assignment?”
Donovan paused. “You want an honest answer?”
“I prefer honesty. It saves time.”
“Okay,” he said. “I think you requested me because I’m in the spotlight right now—just like you are. From a practical standpoint it doesn’t matter who you ask for, because no matter who the Bureau assigns to the case, the full resources of the FBI come with him. You want the spotlight on the Patriot Center—right now, right away, before things get any worse than they are. You’re hoping the camera will follow me there so you can say, ‘See, America? We told you all about it.’ And then when the public gets tired of hearing about it you’re hoping the camera will go away again—in fact, you’re hoping the whole problem will go away. You don’t really care how I handle this from an investigative perspective; you only care about the way it looks to the public. That’s why you called me in here today—to make sure I say ‘excavation site’ instead of ‘crime scene.’ Your husband is running for president, and you’d just love to get yourself a whole set of those coffee cups, but you’ve got enemies—enemies who could blow this whole thing out of proportion if it isn’t handled correctly. I think that’s why you asked for me, Mrs. Braden. You think I might be a little savvier than your average law enforcement grunt. You think I might be able to handle this the way you want it done—and . . .”
“And?”
“And you think you might be able to handle me.”
She studied his face and slowly smiled. She walked around to the front of the desk and leaned back against it. She placed both palms on the edge and lifted herself up onto the desk, then wriggled back a little and crossed her legs so that her knees were pointing at Donovan’s chest.
Donovan never looked away from her eyes.
“My, my,” she said. “You’re either a very disciplined man or you’re a man who loves his wife. Which is it, Mr. Donovan?”
“Is there some reason you need to know?”
“I like to know people. It comes in handy.”
“Me too,” he said, rising from his chair. “I’m glad I stopped by.” At the door he turned and looked back. “There’s something I need to make clear.”
“What’s that?”
“I stopped by here today purely as a professional courtesy. I don’t know what strings you or your husband pulled to get me assigned to this case, but the assignment came through the assistant director in charge. That means he’s the boss, and I report directly to him—and only to him. If you have any further questions about the way this case will be handled, please direct your questions to him. Is that clear?”
“Very.”
He nodded and opened the door.
“Mr. Donovan.”
“Yes?”
“Tell your wife I’d like to meet her sometime.”
“Come over for dinner,” Donovan said. “We’ll use the everyday china.”
She smiled. “You have a sense of humor. I like that in a man.”
Donovan didn’t return the smile.
When he closed the door she picked up the phone. “Hi, Brad. Stop in and see me when you get a moment, will you? I just spoke with Mr. Donovan. We’re going to have to keep an eye on him; I’m not sure he’s the one we’re looking for after all.”
8
It was early evening when Nick pulled his car into the parking lot of the Skyline Motel. The lot was narrow, allowing just a single row of cars between the building and the street. The building itself was a single-story structure with white beveled siding and a black shingled roof, built in the days when land was cheap and the motor hotels that lined the highways looked more like long cottages than the corporate high-rises of today. The Skyline had been strategically located on the main intersection of Endor in hopes that the tourists on their way up into the Blue Ridge Mountains would stop off for a quick night’s rest. But the tourists turned out to be few and far between; there were better roads up into the mountains, and there were far more entertaining stop-offs than the little town of Endor.
The Skyline’s single virtue was that it was the only lodging place in town—which made it the FBI’s official residence for anyone associated with the Patriot Center case. Not for Kegan—she was from Charlottesville and had an easy commute; not for the Bureau’s forensic tech crew—they all lived near Quantico, and they didn’t mind getting up a little earlier in the morning for the privilege of seeing their wives and kids each night. That left just Nick and Marge—and Bosco, of course, who shared his trainer’s room. Nick imagined the King stretched out on satin pillows while his trainer camped out on the floor beside him. Then he imagined the motel catching fire and both of them perishing in the flames because the dog didn’t smell the smoke—but that was just wishful thinking.
