by Jack Bowie
He was too old to look like a student, so had picked clothes appropriate for a post-doctoral researcher. Even at his advanced age, he figured he could pass a cursory examination. If anyone started asking questions, he would just have to get out as fast as he could.
Avoiding the other student, Braxton went into the first lab on the right, selected a station that afforded a clear view of the entrance to the Resource Center, and went to work.
* * *
Goddard settled in at Lauinger Library at the corner of 37th and Prospect Streets NW. Lauinger had the best collections of commercial and federal government references on the Georgetown campus. A quick session at the catalog PC yielded Dun and Bradstreet summaries and a corporate backgrounder on Century. She found short entries for Chamberlain and Nicholson in Who’s Who and followed the bibliographic references deeper into the stacks.
Chamberlain had published frequently early in his career but there was little in the last few years. The citations provided at least some leads. Nicholson was a bigger problem. The notes she had received from Lexington were better than anything she had been able to find so far.
By eleven o’clock she had exhausted her sources and herself. She gathered the printouts and copies and headed back to the car. On the way, she remembered that the Library of Congress had a major section on law and politics. Maybe they would have something on Nicholson. Without thinking any further, she drove back M Street toward the Capitol.
What she had forgotten was that it was Sunday and the Library of Congress was closed, facts that she only remembered after climbing the daunting steps to the Great Hall at First and Independence Avenue. Embarrassed at her stupidity, she trudged halfway down and sat, tired and dejected, at one of the benches on the LoC terrace.
The sun was high in the sky and rapidly warming the cool morning air. There was no reason to go back now. Braxton had said he wouldn’t return until mid-afternoon and she was not going to stay in that hovel of a room alone.
She had decided to do her shopping in Maryland; putting as many miles as possible between the stores and their location in Vienna. The malls didn’t open until at least noon, however, so she decided a short walk might clear her mind.
She headed down to First Street and turned right. The site of the Capitol in the distance brought back many memories. When she had been a child she had felt something special, a certain pride, when she walked through the city. Perhaps it was the reverence with which her father had held the seat of government. Unfortunately, the limestone columns and carved facades looked grayer than in those early days, perhaps a result of the new breed of politicians inhabiting the halls.
Pedestrian traffic had picked up. Tourists had begun to arrive for an afternoon of sightseeing and gawking. First was lined with tour buses, their sleek silver sides reflecting the bright midday sun. Their licenses were a sampling of the republic: New Jersey, Maine, Ohio, and Florida. The city still held a fascination for at least some of the country’s citizens.
The encounter with Nicholson gnawed at her mind. She had had no idea that anyone had been following her. How would she know if she was being followed? She glanced behind and looked at the faces on the street. There was a couple about ten feet away and a young man a few paces behind them. They looked normal. A man and a woman were across the street watching as three children ran up and down the sidewalk. She didn’t recognize any of them, but how would she?
She crossed First Street and began walking faster. Her heart was racing. She tried to shake off the growing anxiety, but it wouldn’t go away. Stopping to try to calm herself, she glanced at the silvered window of one of the buses and saw the reflection of a face behind her. He was a young white man, with curly blonde hair and wearing a dark jacket.
Had she seen him before? Was he the man she had noticed earlier? She didn’t remember! Why hadn’t I looked more carefully?
Goddard was frozen at the window. The face smiled then continued down the street. She spun around and pressed herself against the cold metal side of the bus, her book bag clutched at her chest. She had to escape. Where could she be safe?
She started running down First. Panic had taken over.
A man in a Redskin’s sweatshirt smiled at her. She turned to see if he would follow and tripped over an unexpected curb. The pavement tore her jeans and reopened the cuts on her hands. She quickly got up and kept going, ignorant of the concerned looks on the faces around her.
Goddard didn’t know what to do. She stopped at a crosswalk and saw a crowd of people gathered in front of a large imposing building.
She could hide in the crowd! She rushed up to the group and inched her way inside their perimeter as they walked up a set of stairs.
“Isn’t it just marvelous, Nancy?” she heard in a faint Western twang. “You don’t see buildings like this in Ada.”
Goddard kept her head down as they approached a uniformed guard at the building’s entrance. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him smile politely and nod as they passed.
The group filed through a metal detector, then gathered in an enormous open space; an area suddenly very familiar to Goddard. Her heart ached as she stared at the circle of eighteen Corinthian columns rising majestically to a dome with a glazed oculus in the ceiling: the Russell Building rotunda. She remembered when her father had first brought her here. She had been so proud.
A black panel on a side wall drew her gaze. Against a sea of white letters, one line leapt out at her:
Virginia David Potterfield SR 421
* * *
“Where the hell have you been?” Greystone cursed as he slid into the back of the limousine. “I’ve been waiting two goddamn hours.”
“I’m sorry, Señor Greystone,” Santana pleaded. “But it is Sunday. My day off. And this is my daughter Maria’s birthday. We were all at the zoo.”
“I don’t care if you were at the damn White House! When I call, I expect you now. Not when you friggin’ feel like it. You do this again and you’ll be visiting your little daughter in Havana, if they ever let you out of Leavenworth.”
“Please, Señor Greystone, I . . .”
“Shut up and drive, Santana. Get me to the Senate Office Building without getting us both killed and I may forget about your unfortunate error in judgement.”
Chapter 60
The Russell Building, Washington, D.C.
Sunday, 11:30 a.m.
GODDARD WALKED THROUGH the office door and up to the stern-faced matron sitting behind the desk. The secretary was too busy filling out a stack of forms to notice her approach. “I’d like to see Senator Potterfield, please.”
Camille Johnson looked up with a start. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “The offices are closed.”
“I have important business with the Senator.”
“I told you the office is closed. The Senator’s Chief of Staff was killed last night. We have a lot of work to do. If you will excuse me . . .” She turned away and went back to her paperwork.
“I have some information about Mr. Nicholson for the Senator. I think he would want to hear it.”
Johnson considered the request for a moment, then reached for the telephone. “And what is your name?”
“Susan Lynch.”
A flash of recognition and surprise crossed the secretary’s face. She spoke quietly into the handset.
Goddard heard a soft “Of course, sir” and the secretary replaced the phone.
“You may go right in, Ms. Lynch,” she said, her eyes still showing disbelief.
Goddard took a deep breath and walked toward the door. What was she doing here? For all her planning and scheming, she was completely unprepared to meet her father’s killer in person. What would she feel when she finally confronted him? What should she say?
It was too late to go back now. She shook off the fear and pulled open the heavy oak door.
Potterfield sat calmly behind his imposing desk and watched as she entered the room. His hands were clasped together, resting
comfortably on the polished glass desktop. He looked even older than she had expected, withered and weary from a life of lies and deceit. Still, the setting gave him an aura of power that she could not ignore. As she moved closer, she felt his eyes bore into her looking for some weakness, some secret he could use to soften her resolve.
“Ms. Lynch,” he began quietly. “I’ve been wondering when you might come to visit. You have grown to be a very lovely woman. Your father would be proud.”
She had wanted to stay calm and cool, to face him rationally, but the reality of seeing him at last was too overwhelming. His condescending tone finally broke her control.
“You bastard!” she yelled. “Don’t you dare talk about my father. You killed him. You and that damn assistant of yours. I won’t let you get away with that!” She had kept moving forward, narrowing the gap between them, and was now directly in front of Potterfield’s desk, her face only inches from the aging Senator’s.
“I don’t have any idea what you are talking about, young lady,” he replied, completely ignoring her outburst. “Your father committed suicide. There wasn’t anything any of us could do to alleviate his suffering.”
“You were the cause of his suffering and now I can prove it.”
“Oh yes, that alleged information you mentioned in your email messages. It was you wasn’t it? I’m afraid you will need a lot more proof than that, my dear girl. By the way, who is supporting you in this fruitless quest?”
“Proof, you want proof? How about this file your friend Nicholson kept. Rather sloppy of him don’t you think?” She pulled a handful of papers out of her bag and threw them on the desk.
Potterfield hesitated, not wanting to break eye contact with his accuser but desperate to see the evidence. He finally glanced down at the top sheet, quickly scanned the remaining papers, and raised his eyes back to his visitor.
“An interesting story, Ms. Lynch. But surely you don’t think anyone will believe it. It will be written off as a fiction by a distraught family member.”
“Oh it’s true, Senator. And everyone will believe it. Along with all the other records of ruined careers, bribes, and back-room dealings. We’ve got you and I wanted to be the first one to tell you.”
Potterfield’s calm demeanor finally cracked. “Others? Where did you get this? From Nick? You killed him!” He reached for the phone.
Goddard didn’t care what happened any more. She had to see him punished. If she was caught, she would confess. She had acted alone.
“You can do that if you want to Senator, but then you would have to explain that report. It’s only a copy of course. The original is safe.”
Potterfield slowly replaced the receiver and pushed himself up from the desk. While his voice was as steady as before, Goddard saw his face betray an unusual sadness.
“What do you want?”
“I want you to resign, today.”
A smile appeared on Potterfield’s craggy face. “No, Ms. Lynch. I will not satisfy your childish need for retribution. You will find that the world is a much more complex place than you can imagine. It is run on power and favors. And you will soon see what power a Senator can wield in this city. If I were you, I would try to get away while I could. You might yet be able to live a normal life.”
“I’m not like you, Senator. I won’t look the other way. I’ll be in the front row when they convict you. You and all of your friends, Nicholson, Chamberlain. All of them.”
Potterfield’s brow wrinkled even more than usual. “Chamberlain? I don’t know anyone named Chamberlain, Ms. Lynch. I suggest you check your evidence more carefully. Perhaps you have me confused with someone else.”
She couldn’t put up with Potterfield’s posturing any longer. She wanted to grab his pompous face and slam it into his pompous desk again and again; until he felt all the pain that her father had. But she knew where that would lead. And she wouldn’t be able to help Braxton from a D.C. jail cell.
But his days of lying and blustering were over. She would see to it.
“There’s no confusion, damn you. I have the proof and I’ll use it. For my father. It’s all on Chamberlain’s drive. You can go to hell!”
She spun on her heels and rushed out of the office, nearly knocking down a well-dressed gentleman in the outer office, promising herself that she would not break down in front of her father’s murderer.
There was a women’s restroom just down the hall. She nearly made it.
* * *
When Greystone had arrived at the Russell Building, he had been amazed at the level of activity in Potterfield’s suite. Young aides scurried in and out of the offices balancing stacks of books and piles of legislative folders. The Senator must have called in his whole staff when he had heard the news.
As he approached Johnson’s desk, a very attractive blond suddenly rushed out of the Senator’s inner office, sweeping past him and leaving in her place a warm fragrance of expensive perfume. He stared openly at her as she pushed out the door and began to run down the hall.
Must be tough working for a Senator.
“I wonder what the Senator said to her?” Greystone said.
“I wouldn’t know,” Johnson replied coolly. “The office is closed sir. You will have to come back at a later time.”
“Mr. Robert Greystone to see Senator Potterfield.”
“The Senator is not seeing anyone today,” Johnson repeated.
“He will see me. Call him, and tell him it’s about the messages.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Greystone. Perhaps I could set up another appointment next week?”
Johnson’s aloof, efficient drone only added to Greystone’s rising level of frustration. He spoke again, this time without any suggestion of temperance. “I need to see the Senator now. It is quite important. Just tell him I’m here.”
She picked up the phone and punched a button. Greystone couldn’t hear what she was saying, but he doubted it was anything complimentary. After a few moments she turned back to him.
“Senator Potterfield is unable to meet with you right now. He has some personal arrangements to make for Mr. Nicholson.”
Greystone was not about to be put off by this government service secretary. His career was in the balance and all Potterfield wanted to do was stew about his aide. He strode past a protesting Johnson and threw open the door to Potterfield’s office. The Senator sat behind his desk staring out the window.
“Senator, we need to talk,” Greystone began loudly.
Potterfield turned and glared at the executive. “What do you think you’re doing, son?”
“Senator, I’m sorry.” Johnson raced into the room behind Greystone. “I told him you were indisposed. Should I call security?”
“This is about your message from the Ukraine, Potterfield,” Greystone quickly added.
Potterfield’s face went white. “Ah, no. That’s all right, Camille. I’ll hear what Mr. Greystone has to say. That will be all.”
“If you’re sure, Senator.” Potterfield nodded and Johnson withdrew to the front office. She closed the door quietly behind her.
Greystone walked forward and pulled a chair directly in front of the Senator’s desk. He sat down and stared straight into the statesman’s face.
Potterfield looked exhausted. The crow’s feet around his eyes and mouth had become dark caverns. His skin had an ashen pall calling even greater attention to the alcohol-induced flush of his nose and cheeks.
Greystone had been right about coming. There was little time before the man would finally crack under the strain.
“Are you all right, Senator? You look a little pale,” Greystone began.
“My aide’s death was quite a shock, Mr. Greystone. We had been friends a very long time. I thought of him as the son I never had.”
“Yes, I know you did, Senator. Such a senseless tragedy.”
“Yes, a tragedy. But what brings you here on a Sunday? Something about some messages?”
Greystone had had all the smal
l talk he could stand. He rose from the chair, placed both hands on Potterfield’s desk, and leaned over the legislator. “I don’t have time to spar with you, you old bastard. Nick and I worked together. I know all about your remailer. I know all about Lynch. I know all about every dirty deed you have pulled for the last thirty-five years.”
Potterfield’s bloodshot eyes were bulging out of their sockets. “How could you know all that?”
“Where do you think Nick got his information? Do you really think he did it all himself? Where do you think all the technical details for your Bill came from?”
“You worked together on the Bill?”
“Worked on it?” Greystone laughed in Potterfield’s face. “I conceived it, you anachronistic relic. Nick and I wrote it. We stole the technical data from NIST and added our own spin. You were just the pawn we needed to get it passed.”
“You’re lying. Nick would never do that.”
“No, I’m not. And you know it. The charade is over. The only question is what do we do now? We have business we need to attend to.”
“What do you want?” Potterfield said. He held his head in his heavy, callused hands and sunk lower into his chair.
“I want you to do your damn job. Get our Bill passed. The deal still goes. If you get that Bill through, you can retire successful and rich. If you don’t, I’ll see that your grimy history appears on the front page of the Post for a month. You’ll spend the rest of life in prison, without any Congressional pension.”
Potterfield looked up at the executive. Greystone thought he saw a flicker of resolve behind the defeated visage but put the impossibility aside. He was a beaten man.
“Susan Lynch was just here.”
Now it was Greystone’s face that flashed into shock. He remembered the attractive blonde in the outer office. She had been so close!
“Here? When? What did she want?”
“Just before you came. You didn’t recognize her, I see.”
Potterfield’s voice became stronger and his eyes met Greystone’s with surprising vitality. “Too bad. We might have been able to stop her together. She said she had papers from Nick. All of his private files. I don’t know how she got them.”
