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11

“Whatever women do they must do twice as well as men to be thought half as good. Luckily, this is not difficult.”
Charlotte Whitton (1896-1975)

Hawthorne’s visit to the sixth floor of the Justice Department proved to be a short one. Judge Simmons, one of the pool judges from the seven federal district courts that receive petitions for electronic surveillance, was on call that evening and was well known for granting requests sparingly. However, even on the most circumstantial evidence he had grudgingly acceded to Hawthorne’s request. He would be vilified by the law enforcement community if Miller turned out to be the man behind the assassination and he had refused the application.

Hawthorne immediately called Richard Timms, Excalibur’s liaison with technical services and told him the good news. Within half an hour an eager Timms had hooked into all of Miller’s telephones, both at his house in Spring Valley and at the hotel suite at the Hay-Adams. It turned out that Miller did not possess a cell phone, having thrown it away on the day he had read that they emitted harmful microwave radiation.

Before going to the Hay-Adams to plant a few bugs in the Presidential Suite, Timms personally delivered some laser-bugging equipment to Kinney and Payne before they set off to the professor’s residence, promising them more goodies when they could actually break into Miller’s home the next day.

Whilst Timms was busying himself, Hawthorne recovered his Grand Cherokee jeep from the underground car park of the Hoover Building. As soon as he had driven up the steep concrete incline that led out onto Ninth he called his elated wife to say that he would be home in time to tuck the children into bed. Because of the training course, they had not seen him for ten days, even though he rang every evening.

Hawthorne was a content man. Unlike most agents, he was no workaholic. He had seen so many colleagues put their personal lives on such a back burner that they no longer felt its heat. For him, work was merely a way of affording the rest of his life. He derived pleasure from his profession and from doing it well, but he did not let it take over his life.

He saw life as a puzzle piece, the four sides comprising work, family, friends and self. A tranquil person was one who had found a snug fit in the jigsaw of humanity. Why do so many people try to squeeze themselves into the wrong space? He never understood. The number of couples whose curved edges did not line up and yet stubbornly tried to force the two ill-fitting sides together amazed him. That’s the trouble with people – we’re human.

As soon as he finished the call, his pager beeped calling him to the White House. Reluctantly, he retrieved the cell phone from his pocket and pressed redial. After having just told their children that their father was coming home early, his wife was less than impressed.

*

Benditoz, McConnell and Baker checked in at the Grand Hyatt, immediately impressed by the twelve-story atrium and the deep blue lagoon in the lobby. It is the hotel mainly used by U.S. Marshals when visiting Washington. The hotel has class written all over it apart from a white piano on a circular illuminated float in the middle of the water like a cheesy nightclub in Vegas.

Within half an hour the three agents had unpacked, showered and changed. They decided to eschew nearby Chinatown, opting instead for the Via Pacifica restaurant on the lower floor of the hotel.

The small intimate restaurant is a contradiction in itself. Despite its name, it serves a mixture of Asian and Italian food, and with a terracotta-tiled floor and pastel designs on its walls it can easily be mistaken for a mock Greek tavern. It is the classic example of trying to please as many international visitors as possible, and ending up pleasing no one. However, a simple glance at the plates on the small square tables reveal that the food is excellent.

Against the discrete noise from the constant waterfall, they were treated to orchestral versions of classic pop anthems. They quickly tuned out.

‘So Heather,’ said McConnell glancing up from his menu, ‘you never said why you joined the FBI.’

When Baker had arrived at the table to an already waiting Benditoz and McConnell, it was the first time that McConnell had truly looked at her as this curious species called woman instead of simply a colleague.

Baker looked stunning. She could turn a simple dress into a work of art, and with a few deft touches of make-up, she looked as if she had spent hours in front of the mirror. McConnell knew he would not stand a chance, especially against the handsome, single gentleman that had immediately caught Baker’s eye as he took a table two down from them.

McConnell envied the relationship that Payne had with his wife. In fact it had taken the conversation earlier with Payne for McConnell to finally realize the true nature of love. Poets and philosophers had wrestled with the problem since the dawn of time, and yet this FBI agent knew the answer. It was ridiculously simple. Love was when the other person’s happiness was more important than your own. Period. It did not matter whether it was a love for a parent, a partner, an offspring, a sister, a pet or even a country. The definition stood its ground.

Whilst McConnell had been under the cool shower in his hotel room it had occurred to him that his life had been quite empty compared to Payne’s. In fact he realized that he had never truly been in love. It was a depressing thought. On many occasions he thought he had been, but hindsight had shown him that the feelings had only been one of yearning, to reach out.

The relationship he had had with his live-in partner had quickly collapsed under the pressure of the incessant, anonymous threatening calls in the middle of the night after turning in Burns. Deborah had come from a family where social standing was everything. For her boyfriend to be considered a pariah had been too much for her. It had been another reason for McConnell to leave Sacramento. Since then he had gone from one short fling to another, looking for Miss Right, only to meet misfortune. Oh well, life’s a bitch and then you marry one.

‘I’m sorry?’ said Baker.

‘What made you decide to join the FBI?’ repeated McConnell. Baker put her menu down on the table.

‘Tough neighborhood. We lived on the outskirts of Chicago, and you won’t see many tourists there. Where I come from, BMW means “Break My Windows”.’ She took out a Marlboro and was about to light it when she saw a waiter shaking his head politely in her direction. She put the cigarette back in its packet, frowning.

‘When I was a schoolgirl,’ she explained, ‘I had to give over my lunch money for protection just so I could walk home in peace. I’d been warned off telling anybody about it, especially my parents or the principal, so I had to steal from my mother in order to get lunch. I hated it and hated the people who forced me to do it. But more importantly I hated myself. I don’t think my mother knows to this day. I guess I’ve been trying to make up for it ever since.’

‘Well, you’ve done pretty well,’ remarked Benditoz, already having made his choice from the menu. ‘I mean, ASAC in Chicago, one of the youngest in the history of the FBI. Hell of an achievement.’

‘Yeah, makes you wonder though, doesn’t it, if it’s just PR,’ said Baker gloomily. ‘There’s only one percent of the FBI that is black and female, and yet I’m one of the youngest ASACs in the country. Sometimes I swear that if I were a disabled, black lesbian, one-parent family, I’d have Douglas’s job by now,’ she smiled resignedly. McConnell and Benditoz almost choked with laughter as they both attempted to drink from the Pinot Noir they had ordered.

‘No, I’m serious,’ said Baker sternly. ‘You men never see it, but I do. I go to the yearly ASACs conference, and I always get the feeling that I’m just being tolerated there, a sort of poster-girl for the FBI. Perhaps I’m being oversensitive on the subject, but I get treated every day the same way Thorney treats me. It’s disgusting.’ Baker started to eye the good-looking diner nearby.

‘Ah, come on Heather,’ said Benditoz defensively, ‘I’ve known Sam on and off for five years now and I’ve never met a more professional agent in my life. He takes care of those under him. Sure he’s eccentric at times, but he certainly isn’t a racist or a misogynist. Anyway, he explained why you were only doing reading today. You wouldn’t be on the team if anyone thought you weren’t up to it.’

‘You say’ she replied. ‘Then how come I’m the only black agent on the team, then?’

‘I’m no expert,’ McConnell chipped in, ‘but from what I’ve seen so far is that you’ve got more balls than both of us put together. You call it as you see it, and that’s admirable. Sometimes I feel like you, only being on the team to appease the local PD rather than for my experience, but I haven't got the guts to say anything.’

‘Get serious,’ added Benditoz. You’ve both held your own in that team, and if you can do that, then you deserve to be on it. I can’t believe that the Director or Sam even bothered to check our race or sex when choosing the best agents for the job. I think the stakes are too high for that bullshit. Come on you guys, let’s eat.’

‘You see what I mean?’ said Baker with flared nostrils. She stood up abruptly, scraping her chair on the floor behind her. Heads turned towards her. ‘Guys, you instinctively said guys! All women in the FBI are known as “breast-feds”. I’m sick of it. It’s so ingrained you don’t even realize when you are doing it yourselves!’

‘It’s only a fig-’ defended Benditoz.

‘I’m need some fresh air,’ she said in a controlled voice and left the restaurant leaving two very non-plussed men in her wake.

*

Hawthorne was allowed through White House security without being subjected to a body search this time. It was early evening and the sun was still impossibly high as a sun-glassed Secret Service agent showed him around the side of the building to the South Entrance, the door to the White House usually reserved for ambassadors and visiting dignitaries. It was obvious that someone was putting on a show for him. With trained eyes he spotted the usual four Secret Service agents dressed head to toe in black patrolling the surrounding bushes, ready for combat.

A bush moved slightly to the left of Hawthorne’s escort, and the agent froze momentarily. A gray squirrel suddenly appeared and, once it had realized that he was not going to get any food from them, scurried away.

‘Tough job,’ observed Hawthorne as they continued onwards.

‘It’s the damned tourists’ fault,’ replied the agent. ‘Most mornings, parts of the White House are open to the public and the queue can be up to half way ’round the perimeter. Hold on.’ He raised his left wrist to his mouth. ‘Six, clear.’ He turned his attention back to Hawthorne as he dropped his arm. ‘If they’d stop feeding the squirrels, they wouldn’t be so damn tame.’

The agent paused and looked over the South Lawn. ‘I reckon there’s about three hundred of ’em on the grounds.’ Hawthorne did not want to tell the agent that his daughter had been one of those responsible for his plight.

He ushered Hawthorne deferentially into the Diplomatic Reception Room, an elegant oval-shaped room furnished chiefly in light, burnished yellow. The entire wall is covered in French nineteenth century wallpaper that depicted five scenes of American life that Europeans most admired at the time. Hawthorne immediately recognized Boston Harbor on his right. The agent gestured for Hawthorne to sit down.

Several minutes later, the President’s Chief of Staff, walked into the room with a winning smile and Hawthorne recognized him immediately. He stood up and they shook hands.

‘It’s good to meet you, Agent Hawthorne,’ greeted Jacobs.

‘You too,’ replied Hawthorne, feeling the power emanating from Jacobs’s handshake. He refused to be fazed in the slightest. Did Jacobs not know that emphasis of power and control was on the course at Quantico and not just reserved for politicians? ‘So this is where the heads of state come in,’ he said conversationally, looking around the room.

‘And honored guests of course. What no one realizes of course is that the door straight ahead leads to a bowling alley. Listen, I heard about the shake-down the Secret Service gave you this morning. My apologies for the rudeness, but they were all on edge.’

‘No offence taken,’ replied Hawthorne diplomatically.

‘Shall we?’ gestured Jacobs, extending his thin arm in invitation to a door at the far end of the oval room on the left.

As Hawthorne and Jacobs made their way to another ornate room, Hawthorne had made the mistake of thinking that Jacobs had made the standard power play of always keeping the guest waiting. In truth, Jacobs had been reading a more concrete set of results from Brinkov’s poll and was in a good mood. The President was trailing Harlow by only four points, plus or minus two.

They reclined on deep red armchairs and Hawthorne took another chance to look around. This room had not been on the standard tour that he had taken either.

‘The Map Room,’ explained Jacobs noticing Hawthorne eyeing the surroundings, ‘even though there are only two maps in here. Just behind you is an engraving of Maryland and Virginia that dates back to before the War of Independence and above the fireplace is a tactical war map of the German position in May ’45. Needless to say we’ve never shown this room to the German Chancellor.’

Hawthorne took in both. ‘I’ve heard the name before, but I always thought the Map Room was some high-tech strategy room with a map of the world on it with flashing blue and red lights.’

‘No,’ laughed Jacobs. ‘That’s for the brass hats over the Potomac. This is just a meeting room now, though I think it was used as a war room in the forties.’

‘So, what can I do for you?’ asked Hawthorne, anxious to get home to Annie and their children.

‘I was wondering how far you have got in your investigation.’

Hawthorne had fully presupposed the purpose of the meeting and had already put on his mental boxing gloves. ‘Where is your authorization?’ he asked blandly.

‘I speak for the President in this matter,’ replied Jacobs, blinking in surprise by the rebuff.

‘That doesn’t count. The White House, and by that I mean either the Office of Personnel Security or the White House Counsel’s Office, has a standard form to fill in when requesting information from FBI files. That has to go to the FBI Office of the General Counsel for review who may or may not grant the request.’ Hawthorne had done his homework.

Jacobs looked affronted but tried not to show it. He crossed his legs, resting his hands on his upper knee and leant forward. ‘Look, it was one of the President’s best friends who was murdered last night. Just informally, between us, how close are you to catching him?’ he said with soft emphasis.

Hawthorne copied the stance. ‘You know, even if you do fill in the request form, I’m not going to tell you. The only answer I am prepared to give you has two words, and one of them is “fuck”.’ Needle him.

‘I could have you replaced like that!’ said Jacobs, losing his cool and snapping his fingers. ‘I’ll make sure the only thing you’re allowed to run is a bath!’

‘You won’t,’ replied Hawthorne calmly. ‘I would simply go to the press and state that you were impeding the investigation. You see, there’s something I realized late this afternoon. We were looking at possible motives, and then I thought to myself, who has actually gained most from Aitken’s assassination?’

‘Who?’ Sweet innocence.

‘You and the President, of course. You’ve got a fighting chance of winning this election now, haven’t you?’ Hawthorne’s voice was controlled, but then his face broke into a grin.

Jacobs was silent for a moment. ‘You think the President is capable of ordering the execution of one of his confidantes, one of his friends, just to remain in office for another four years?’ asked Jacobs. The calmness that had returned to his voice was mixed with amusement.


‘No,’ replied Hawthorne slowly, ‘but I’m sure the thought would cross the mind of his Chief of Staff. To be blunt, you’re so high up the list of suspects I’m surprised your nose isn’t bleeding.’ Study the man.

Jacobs did not look surprised. ‘If you’re so knowledgeable about politics, that you would also know that the President can only win if you manage to catch this butcher, otherwise he will start to slip in the polls before the election. True?’

‘True,’ Hawthorne easily conceded.

‘Well what do you think would happen if you were to find out it was me? What do you think would happen to the President’s chances then?’

‘As slim as a gnat’s d-ck. But what if by some miracle you managed to win the election without our catching you?’ hypothesized Hawthorne.

‘And live in fear that you would manage to pin it on me later? I wouldn’t want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. Anyway, if you caught me at any point in the next four years the President would be forced to resign in any case. I’m sorry Sam, but there is a major fallacy in your reasoning.’

‘Maybe,’ Hawthorne said grudgingly after a while. ‘But still, until an indictment is made you’ll get jack from me. This is going to go by the book in every aspect. Even if it turns future history upside-down by solving this case, it won’t change my judgement nor the performance of the team. And don’t worry, I vote in the booth, not at my desk.’ Hawthorne sat back in the luxurious padding of the armchair.

‘Lives are always affected by a murder,’ he continued calmly, ‘often more than the person who was killed. This just happens to effect around six billion of them, that’s all.’

Jacobs knew Hawthorne was not going to be more forthcoming and it needled him. He had to know, but was stuck with Hawthorne as head of the investigation. Did Hawthorne realize he was effectively the most powerful man in the world at the moment? A king-maker. That’s my job, dammit. He decided to let it rest. He did not have a choice.

‘You do realize that Harlow will try to screw with you, don’t you?’ warned Jacobs.

‘I’m sure he will.’

*

McConnell and Benditoz were so engrossed in discussing Baker’s attitude problem that they completely failed to notice the handsome diner stand up, throwing two tens next to his plate, even though he had not touched his food, and discretely follow Baker out of the Via Pacifica restaurant.

*

As Hawthorne stepped out into the evening sun he could not have been better pleased with his performance. Of course Jacobs would realize he would be a suspect himself, and it was important for Hawthorne to be up front about it. If Jacobs were behind the assassination, it was even more important that he felt safe, having persuaded Hawthorne of the paradox in his reasoning. There’s one thing we didn’t mention. You could set up a patsy.

12

“I kissed my first girl and smoked my first cigarette on the same day. I haven’t had time for tobacco since.”
Arturo Toscanini (1867-1957)

There are two tenets in life about trust: never trust the food from a thin chef, and never trust smokers who say they are going out for some fresh air. Baker broke the latter by actually leaving the hotel, meandering west until she happened upon the Old Ebbitt Grill near the Treasury Building.

She took a sip from her vodka orange and sucked longingly on a Marlboro, tilting her head back and exhaling blue-gray smoke in one long breath. She looked around the well-lit bar from her stool. It had been a long time that she had been to a singles bar, and was fascinated by the mating rituals going on around her.

Just like birds, the males were flapping around trying to impress the females, telling a few well-chosen stories from their past that were designed to entertain, fascinate or impress. Maybe some would take them for dinner later or buy their potential mate a rose from one of the desperate vendors that regularly toured such places, just as some male birds would give gifts to hens, either in the form of grubs or an exquisitely prepared nest.

The difference is less than people want to think, she thought. Then she smiled when she remembered that hens were always the dowdy ones whilst the male birds had magnificent plumage to attract their mates. OK, there’s a big difference. She much preferred it the way humans had it.

The bar is mock Tudor and the brightness inside does not seem to bother its patrons. The only other singles bar of note in the center of Washington is the Hard Rock Café, but a megaphone is required to have a conversation there. For a great singles bar Georgetown is the place but then there is competition from virile students. Baker felt too tired and too old to even contemplate it. Besides, her intention was simply to be apart from the team.

After downing the rest of her drink in one she ordered a refill. A carefully-manicured set of strong, broad hands appeared next to hers. She looked up to see the owner of them, and was only mildly surprised to see that it was the man she had noticed earlier in the Via Pacifica.

‘I’ll get that, and mine’s a whisky and coke,’ he said with a deep, melodic tone.

‘Which whisky?’ asked the bartender.

‘Any. I’m ruining it with the coke anyway. One nearest your thumb,’ he suggested.

‘Hey,’ said Baker pleasantly, ‘the man from the restaurant.’

‘I thought we connected back there. Hi, I’m Simon.’.

‘Heather.’ They shook hands politely. His were self-assured and warm, as were hers. Flawless skin, she noticed

‘So, tell me everything, Heather.’

‘Hey Tiger,’ she smiled, ‘you know the rules. No details on the first date.’ Hmm, confident bastard, aren’t you.

Simon looked around the bar. ‘All these people. Parading and grandstanding, that’s all it is. They leave this place with not one iota of what really makes the other one tick. Me, I like to actually know the person I’m with.’

‘I’m sure you do.’ Ah, it’s the “make love to the mind” tactic. Very flattering. ‘Cheers.’ They both took a sip from their drinks that had arrived.

‘I’ve an idea,’ she said. She rested her drink on the counter and put her hand in her purse.

‘They’re on the table.’

‘Oh, yes,’ she apologized. An embarrassed smile appeared. She lit a Marlboro. Simon took one from the offered packet and joined her. ‘Let’s play Twenty Questions.’

‘What do you mean?’ he asked, intrigued.

‘I ask any question I like about you. You have to answer it, but then I have to answer it for myself. Kinda keeps the game in check. Then it’s your turn.’

‘I like it,’ he nodded. ‘But what happens after the twentieth question?’

‘I don’t know, I’ve never managed to get that far,’ she teased. He licked his lips in exquisite anticipation.

*

‘Daddy!’ shouted a pyjamaed Kevin and Cindy in unison, running to Hawthorne as he opened the front door. Instead of the family hug that would greet most fathers, both children immediately sat on Hawthorne’s feet, each wrapping their tiny body around a leg. It was a tradition in their household. He rubbed the top of their heads lovingly and waded in long halting, strides towards Annie, embracing her strongly.

‘Hello, lover,’ he whispered in her ear. She repeated the greeting warmly. ‘I think they’re a couple of people who have come between us,’ he murmured and kissed her.

‘They wanted to stay up. They’ve missed you,’ she explained.

‘You’re all lucky. You only get to miss one person, whilst I have to cope with being apart from all three of you.’ Cindy, the younger of the two, squeezed his thigh.

‘Oh, before I forget,’ gushed Annie, ‘Charles Vandersmissen called. Said it was urgent.’

‘Tomorrow,’ replied Hawthorne. He could guess the reason for the call. That’s a blast from the past, he reflected. He and Vandersmissen had been at Quantico together and had both been posted to Washington. Vandersmissen had left the FBI two years ago after a distinguished career, the culmination of which was the successful arrest and conviction of the murderer of a famous gay actor.

The extensive courtroom coverage had made him a household name. The high-priced defense team had thrown everything they had at him over a six-day haul, trying to sow as much doubt in the minds of both the jury and viewing public (in other words the future appeals jury pool), as possible. However, Vandersmissen’s testimony had been authoritative and unwavering throughout and his appearance magnetic. He had become so famous as a result that he could no longer function effectively as an FBI agent.

Hollywood had come to his rescue, eager to cash in on his new-found fame. Realizing that his law enforcement career had come to a premature end he had jumped at the chance to front a new show entitled Court On Camera, which provided an in-depth analysis of celebrated convictions and giving its own verdict as to whether the jury had been correct. It sucked.

Since Vandersmissen had moved to California at the outset of the show he and Hawthorne had managed to hook up only once or twice a year. Vandersmissen was obviously angling for an exclusive on the Aitken assassination to save his career. I owe him, but no way, thought Hawthorne.


‘Come on you,’ he said, addressing both his legs, ‘it’s way past your bedtime.’

Fifteen minutes later, Hawthorne finished the story and gently closed the children’s book. It had helped to calm them down. Cindy and Kevin were not yet old enough to warrant separate bedrooms and were firmly tucked up in their neighboring beds each with a single cotton sheet over them. Their father sat on an uncomfortably small wooden chair between them.

‘Daddy?’ asked Kevin.

‘Yes?’ he replied sotto voce.

‘Were you spying when you were away?’

‘No,’ he laughed gently, ‘I told you, I was being a teacher to some new policemen.’

‘Daddy?’ repeated Kevin.

‘Yes?’

‘If you were being a spy, you would have to say that, wouldn’t you?’
Shows promise, thought the proud father. ‘No. Not to you. I wouldn’t lie to you, never ever.’

‘Is there a Father Christmas, daddy?’ asked Cindy. Her voice was full of accusation.

Hawthorne looked at his wife, who was leaning against the doorframe to the bedroom. Her eyes widened slightly.

‘Kevin, Cindy,’ rescued Annie, ‘Isn’t there something you wanted to tell your father?’

‘Hammy’s escaped and we can’t find him,’ said Kevin gloomily, referring to their small brown hamster that they had bought only last month.

‘It’s OK,’ said Cindy. ‘Mummy’s buying us a big white rabbit tomorrow.’ Hawthorne glanced at Annie who nodded at him, confirming.

‘Have you thought of any names for this big white rabbit?’ he asked.

‘Snowy,’ suggested Kevin.

‘I want Abby,’ said Cindy.

‘Hmm. Big, white rabbit, eh? How about Clinton?’ offered Hawthorne.

‘Daddy!’

*

Baker and Simon had moved away from the busy bar to a quiet, more intimate alcove. A miniscule lamp had over time been surrounded by a myriad of empty glasses.

‘Favorite book, and why?’ asked Simon, refusing to be the first one to tread down the inevitable path.

‘Hmm,’ she pondered, ‘The War Of The Worlds. H.G. Wells. I read it when I was twelve and spent many a night afterwards looking for meteor showers. It terrified me. You?’

‘Dune, Frank Herbert,’ he answered without hesitation. ‘Forget the film version. The book may be categorized as science fiction, but there’s many a fundamental truth in it. I learned a lot about life from that book. Your turn.’

‘OK,’ said Baker slowly. Clever to also choose a science fiction book as well show depth. Time to get the feet wet.

‘What’s the first thing you notice when you see a good-looking woman for the first time?’ She gazed at his eyes to see whether they would instinctively focus on his answer.

‘The hair,’ said Simon, honestly. He returned her gaze.

‘That’s a first,’ she said dubiously.

‘No, I mean it,’ he laughed. ‘They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, but that’s just romantic BS. Never trust a man who tells you that. But you can tell a great deal about someone by looking at their hair.’

‘And what can you tell about me?’ she challenged demurely. He looked up again at her long hair, tied neatly in a bun.

‘Sophisticated but not elaborate. Professional, pragmatic, intelligent and single,’ he declared confidently.

‘You read palms, too?’ she laughed with ease.

‘No, just hair,’ he grinned. ‘So, what do you first look at when you see a good-looking woman for the first time?’ Simon was genuinely interested in the answer.

‘The breasts,’ she replied without hesitation. ‘Just as you men have a sneaky sideways glance in the gym shower, we women check the breasts. Well, I do, anyway.’

Simon nodded sagely, a grin on his face. ‘OK. My turn. Are you happy in your job?’ Baker’s mouth immediately turned downwards.

‘I’m sorry,’ he apologized. He leant forward slightly and gently squeezed her hand. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation earlier. You want me to ask another question?’

‘No, it’s OK. The answer is “no”, as you probably already know. I’ve got a boss who either hates blacks or disapproves of women having tough jobs. I’m getting used and abused, always getting to assistant, and never higher.’ She took a long drag on her cigarette.

‘Always the bridesmaid, never the bride,’ he soothed.

‘Damn straight.’ She ground the remains of her cigarette into pulp in the ashtray between them.

Simon swallowed his drink, buying time. This was not in the blueprint. It was never his intention to have compassion for Baker, but her easy manner and yet sadness at the same time dictated the early stirrings he was feeling towards her. If he continued as per instructions he might lose any chance he had of developing a real relationship with her.

On the other hand, how could he pretend to Mulligan that Baker had refused their offer if the two of them were to become an item later in life? With sad comprehension, he realized he did not have much of a choice.

‘Maybe I can help you,’ he said in a low voice.

She gazed at Simon, studying him warily. ‘How could you possibly do that? Are you in the Administration?’

‘Not yet,’ he said less cryptically than he had intended. ‘Let’s just say that there are certain people who would rather you didn’t succeed in this particular assignment.’

‘And what assignment might that be?’ she tested.

‘Finding Robert Aitken’s killer.’

Neither spoke over the next ten seconds. Simon carefully watched Baker’s expression as it changed from one of enthusiasm to one of despondency.

‘So you’ve been playing me all the while,’ she said with a rueful grin. There was tiredness in her eyes. ‘It wasn’t a coincidence that you were at the restaurant, was it?’ Simon shook his head, his eyes avoiding hers. ‘It isn’t a fluke that you happen to be impossibly handsome, either. I should have known,’ she said with a resigned air. ‘I’m never that lucky in real life.’ She lit a cigarette.

‘Greg. My name’s Greg. Greg Leeves,’ he said apologetically. He held out his hand. She regarded it for a moment and then ignored it.

‘You people really think I’m that ambitious, Greg? That I would deliberately fuck up an investigation just for a promotion?’ There was a sharp disdain in her voice.

Leeves leant towards her and quickly checked no one else was within earshot. ‘Some people would like to help you, Heather. They’ve read your file and even though you’re very young for an ASAC, they reckon you’ve all the qualities for being in charge of Chicago.’

Another pause.

Baker breathed slowly. ‘Let’s go to my hotel room. Nobody can overhear us there.’

*

McConnell sat at the desk in his hotel room. He and Benditoz had waited for almost twenty minutes for Baker to return and swapped small talk before giving up and ordering. That is one insecure soul. The honey and soy lacquered duck breast had proved to be an inspired choice and rested nicely on his stomach.

When back in the Excalibur Suite he had asked about the mysterious phone number and Aitken’s anonymous visitors, Hawthorne had hesitated for a fraction of a second too long in answering for his liking. He retrieved a small leather bound notebook from his suit pocket, placing it on the desk and turned to the page where he had written down the phone number. He then opened the desk drawer and took out Aitken’s Psion, having palmed it from Donovan’s desk as he was leaving the Hoover Building earlier that evening.

He was inept with computers, but Aitken’s gadget was straightforward and soon he was scanning through the addresses and telephone numbers. He was lucky – the number was there, under the name Drinker. He was only going to get one shot at this he realized, and hoped he would be right.

He picked up the hotel telephone, pressing nine for an outside line and then proceeded to dial the number. He was only half way through when he suddenly replaced the receiver loudly, cursing himself. The last thing he wanted or needed was for the number to appear on his hotel bill. He fished his cell phone out of a small travel bag that he had still to unpack fully and dialed again. It rang twice.

‘Can I help you?’ said the noncommittal voice on the other end.

‘Yes, this is a colleague of Drinker, God rest his soul.’

‘Yes. Can I help you?’

‘Well, I was hoping you could help me,’ replied McConnell with as bland a vocabulary as possible.

‘In what exactly?’

‘This is an open line, for goodness sake! You know and I know I can’t say.’

That seemed to satisfy the disembodied voice. ‘Do you have a preference?’

‘Not really.’

‘What’s your location?’ McConnell told him whilst writing down male, late forties, East Coast, well educated, probably white.
‘Someone will be there within fifteen minutes. Your codename is Slurper,’ and with that the line went dead. And he thinks he’s funny.

*

Sweat poured of Hawthorne’s face as it slumped back onto the soft pillow, his mouth open and his breathing heavy. ‘Christ, Sam,’ panted Annie, ‘I can tell you haven’t cheated in the last ten days.’ Hawthorne, still recovering, didn’t answer but squeezed her hand weakly in reply.

As with most reunited couples their first lovemaking had been physical and rough, followed by a second round of tender, almost tantric, sex. Many make it to the third round, which is more often than not performed in their usual style.

Annie was delighted that she and her husband had made it thus far, and was even toying with ringing his bell to announce round four when she saw the exhausted but satisfied look in his eyes. His eyelids were already closing fast. Oh shit, I forgot he’s been up all last night. Guess tonight was three strikes and you’re out. She cuddled up to him instead.

His wet chest rose and fell slowly. ‘You know Annie,’ he mumbled through half closed lips, ‘I could never cheat on you. You are my wife, my lover, my best friend and my confidante all wrapped up in one gorgeous bundle. To cheat on four people would be too much of a guilt trip for any-’. And with that he fell fast asleep.

*

It had taken only a few hours for Leeves and Baker to swap life histories, each lying fully clothed on the two green and blue decorated Queen-size beds that took up most of the space in her hotel room. She had wanted to know the real Greg Leeves, and was not disappointed with the results. She was surprised that they had a lot in common. He was sure he had even told her Harlow’s name at some point.

‘So,’ she said finally, gazing languidly at the ceiling with her hands behind her head, ‘Back to Twenty Questions. My turn I think. You smoke after sex?’

‘Honey, I smoke during sex,’ he joked as he raised an eyebrow. She smiled and looked towards the athletic figure lying in the adjoining bed. She had made up her mind back at the Old Ebbitt Grill but did not want to let him know that. She sat up on the side of the bed, fiddling inside her purse that lay next to it and retrieved a condom.

Leeves saw it and groaned. ‘Hey,’ admonished Baker, ‘if it’s not on, it’s not on.’

‘I know, I know,’ he sighed. He stubbed out his cigarette and looked straight at her. ‘I don’t want this to be just a one-night stand, by the way. I really have feelings for you.’

She crawled towards him, purring. ‘Tiger, the last thing I’ve got in mind is standing. Now come on, show me your stripes.’

*

McConnell had placed his handgun within easy reach as he cautiously opened the door. What he did not expect was the vision of femininity in a delicate black evening dress that glided past him and in one smooth movement sat down on the side of the nearest bed, gracefully crossed her legs.

‘Sam Hawthorne said you might make it this far, Sgt. McConnell,’ said The Vision in a demure tone, catching McConnell even more off-guard.

‘I’m sorry. Let me introduce myself. I’m Cheryl. You don’t need to know my last name. Or even my real name. I’m FBI. Well, sort of.’

‘W-what do you mean, “sort of”?’ he stammered. He needed to sit down and did so quickly.

‘You’re on a wild goose chase,’ she began. ‘This is classified G-2 and above, and only a few people outside that know about it. If you ever made it this far, Sam has authorized me to tell you about us, so you can concentrate on finding the assassin. This mustn’t leave this room.’

‘You’re a hooker outfit, attached to the FBI, right?’ said McConnell, with a sudden sharpness.

‘Sam said you were good. He was right. We prefer the term “unofficial personal assistants”.’ She was actually with the NSA, but a little dissembling was required.

It was all becoming clear to McConnell. Aitken had been a wealthy bachelor for a very long time and had not even had a steady girlfriend.

‘Many powerful people in Washington,’ she explained, ‘regularly apart from their families for a whole week, will end up being unfaithful at some point or another, probably with a pro. There’s always a danger that the woman, pro or not, will either be a honey trap from another government, or go running to the papers saying how she was seduced.’

McConnell was amazed he could think straight. ‘In the interests of national security, the FBI set you up. You provide the reliable discrete service for these men,’ he surmised. He stopped, waiting for affirmation.


‘And women, Jim,’ she expanded, surprising McConnell with the fact.

‘And women,’ he corrected. ‘It’s like a major town having a tolerated red light district.’

‘Exactly,’ said The Vision. ‘Most Americans are very naïve about the idea. If you think about it, of course it exists. How could it not? You’re very perceptive.’

McConnell’s reasoning had taken him as far as it could. ‘But what happens with the pillow talk? You write it down afterwards and stuff it in some secret file like Hoover used to have, to get the person to dance to your tune?’

‘Not at all. If ever we passed on the information and it were used, the powers that be would stop using us and go to a more potentially dangerous alternative. It would defeat the entire object, don’t you think, Jim.’ He nodded.

‘So how many governors and senators and other high-ranking officials are involved?’ he probed.

‘I can’t tell you that, but they all know about it and allow it. It’s the lesser of two evils.’

‘I presume Aitken was a frequent customer.’

‘Yes, he was. Bobby was a dear, lonely and generous man.’ She noticed McConnell’s raised eyebrow. ‘Oh, don’t look surprised, they have to pay for it, of course. We actually run at a small profit, which is why the General Accounting Office and the Funding Committee never see us on paper.’

McConnell studied The Vision closely. She looked too elegant to be a high-class escort. ‘Did he choose his codename?’

‘Yes. Most people do, it’s easier for them to remember. Bobby had a particular penchant for two girls called Brandi and Sheri, and so changed his to “Drinker”. He called them his little cocktail.’ She smiled, remembering.

‘Sam says that you’ll catch this guy. Please tell me he’s right,’ she said, looking him squarely in the eyes.

‘He’s right.’

‘Good. I miss him.’ With that, she stood up and started to slide the straps of her dress down over her shoulders.

‘I don’t really go for escorts,’ he apologized.

‘Honey,’ she soothed as the dress slid around her ankles, ‘the meter isn’t running on this one.’

He shrugged in mock surrender. ‘One thing I’ve gotta know,’ he said, examining The Vision’s body. ‘Are those real?’

‘Real expensive.’

*

Kinney and Payne were sitting in their non-descript car with the laser trained upon Miller’s bedroom window thirty yards away, hoping to pick up vibrations that the equipment would translate into noise. Payne pulled the padded black earphones from his head and gave Kinney a gentle nudge, waking him up.

‘Anything?’ yawned Kinney, checking the car clock to make sure it was indeed two in the morning. He arched his back and rubbed either side of his spine.

‘Yep. He’s still snoring lightly,’ came the bored reply. Payne’s face suddenly brightened. ‘Hey I got one for you. What’s the difference between a counterfeit dollar and Kate Moss?’

‘Go on,’ allowed Kinney with an air of resignation. He had lost count of the number of similar jokes Payne had regaled him with during the evening.

‘One’s a phony buck, and the other’s a bony-’

‘I get it, I get it,’ interrupted Kinney. Payne realized the gig was up and silence ensued for several seconds, finally broken by Kinney.

‘I bet the others are having a better time than we are.’ Kinney yawned again and stretched his arms out in front of him. It was abruptly cut short by a rustle of leaves in a small hedge near the car. Both agents immediately turned towards the noise.

Illuminated by an old-fashioned but well-maintained streetlight was a terrier that had decided to sit next to the hedge and clean its underside with its tongue.

‘You know,’ said Kinney, ‘I wish I could do that.’ Payne leaned over to reach one of the cold chicken wings from a discarded bucket on the back seat and threw it towards the dog. The terrier darted away from the sudden movement but quickly returned to investigate the inviting smell.

‘What are you doing?’ asked an anxious Kinney, not wanting the animal to draw attention to their car.

‘I figured if I threw him some food, he just might let you,’ smiled Payne. He dumped the earphones into his speechless colleague’s lap and curled up in his seat.

13

“Never let yesterday use up too much of today. ”
Will Rogers (1879-1935)

McConnell leaned over to Hawthorne’s ear. ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Sam?’

The next morning had broken much earlier that many of the team would have liked, and Kinney, whose turn it was to stake out Miller, and Baker were the only absentees from the early start in the Excalibur Suite. Payne had left his partner on duty for a couple of hours for a quick shower and to report back to the team.

Hawthorne turned his head towards a grinning McConnell. ‘Even I’m not supposed to know about it, Jim,’ he said out of the side of his mouth. He extended his hand, the one not holding a coffee cup, towards McConnell palm up. McConnell took the Psion out of his jacket pocket and handed it over.

Donovan noticed the action. ‘What’s Jim doing with the Psion?’ she asked Hawthorne.

‘Overtime,’ they said in unison.

‘Sam,’ said Benditoz, ‘Before we get down to business, we really need to talk about Heather. She has some real personal problems and she’s bad for the team.’ There were general murmurs of agreement around the table.

‘I think we should wait until Heather’s here, don’t you?’ suggested Hawthorne.

‘I’m not sure she’ll be coming in,’ said McConnell dubiously, checking his watch. ‘She’s already late, and we didn’t see her at breakfast.’

Almost on cue, the door to the suite opened and Baker breezed in.

Hawthorne looked up at her. ‘Well?’ Almost all the members shuffled in their seats, expecting a major confrontation on her lateness. In response to Hawthorne’s question, Baker’s face was impassive. She simply opened her purse, pulled out a small transparent evidence bag containing a set of Dictaphone tapes and threw it towards Hawthorne. He caught it deftly with his right hand.

Kemp had instinctively started to duck his head under the table. He looked up when he realized that there was no explosion. ‘Sorry,’ he said sheepishly, straightening himself in his chair and adjusting his tie.

‘Well?’ repeated Hawthorne. Baker’s face broke into a broad grin.

‘Right on the money, Sam. They fell for it completely. It’s all on the tapes there, except for the last three hours.’

‘Three hours?’ exclaimed Hawthorne.

Baker shrugged her shoulders whilst maintaining her grin. ‘Yep. I swear he had a couple of Energizers up his butt.’ She took her place at the table.

‘Will someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?’ asked Payne, totally bewildered.

‘Our little Mata Hari here was paid a visit by the enemy camp last night,’ explained Hawthorne.

‘He fell in love and I fell asleep,’ chuckled Baker.

‘Heather,’ announced Hawthorne, ‘you’re a real pro.’

‘I hope by “pro” you mean “professional”!’ she answered feigning indignation and playfully slapping his shoulder as she took her seat next to his. Hawthorne simply grinned broadly.

Kemp, who had majored in psychology, suddenly grasped what had happened. Even he had been fooled by the deception. ‘You sons and daughters of bitches!’ he exclaimed, slapping the table. ‘That’s priceless, absolutely fucking priceless!’ he laughed.

‘I don’t get it,’ confessed Benditoz.

‘Don’t you see?’ explained Kemp eagerly. ‘We’ve been set up. Everyone’s been set up! Jesus you’ve got some guile, the two of you.’

‘Sam?’ pleaded Payne.

Hawthorne decided to put them out of their misery. ‘My apologies for the deception. It was necessary, I’m afraid.

‘There was always a threat to this investigation from Senator Harlow or from someone in his campaign. Before the murders he was way ahead of the President in the polls. In fact everyone thought he was untouchable. Now along comes this assassin and boom, the President has a real fighting chance, especially if we nail this bastard, to use his own words.’

‘So the last thing Harlow wants is for us to succeed,’ interposed Baker. ‘The only way he can do that discretely is to protect the assassin, assuming we find him, that is. But how can he do that if he doesn’t know who he is? Apart from the assassin himself and his employer, no one does.’

‘Through us,’ said Payne.

‘Exactly,’ acknowledged Hawthorne taking up the explanation. ‘If we don’t catch this man, Harlow wins the election. If we do find out his identity, Harlow needs to warn him as soon as possible and still make President - and the only way he could have done that is to have someone on the inside. Enter Agent Baker here.

‘Heather was chosen for the team for two reasons. Firstly, she’s the best ASAC I’ve ever come across, despite her age, and secondly, she’s black and female.’

Baker turned her head to Benditoz and McConnell. ‘Vince, Jim. Those things I told you in the restaurant about only being a wet dream for the Bureau? I half-believed them up till yesterday. Then Sam here showed me my personal file. Apparently I had made it to ASAC purely on ability, and it was only my very public attitude stopping me from going higher. I was the obvious mark for Harlow.’

‘You had to sleep with the enemy?’ asked Donovan. The disgusted tone in her voice was clear.

‘Oh no,’ answered Baker openly, ‘I’d already got the ammo we needed on tape by then. That was just a perk of the job. Hey, I’m a Millennium girl, just passing hips in the night,’ she shrugged. There was no apology in her voice.

‘But why deceive us?’ inquired Walsh, speaking for the rest of the team and feeling somewhat affronted.

‘Because I needed as realistic a scene as possible to be played out in public. If Heather had been observed as being too comfortable in the team or the sting looked stage-managed, he might have had second thoughts about his choice of target.’

‘I still don’t get it, Sam,’ said Payne, shaking his head. ‘Why bother to put Heather straight in the first place? Why not just let her carry on as normal?’

‘Because if I hadn’t put Heather straight, she might well have sided with Harlow. I needed a controlled situation.’

‘You’ll never know,’ purred Baker.

‘Sam,’ announced Payne, ‘you are the most conniving, dishonest, deceitful, duplicitous, Machiavellian fuck I’ve ever met. If I had a hat, I’d take it off to you.’

Hawthorne smiled expansively. ‘It gets worse. There’s no way that Miller or any eco-terrorist connected with him assassinated Aitken.’ This statement drew a surprised look from everyone, including Baker.

‘It was something Stewart said when ruling out a drug connection: “they would have used an overdose of speed or crack, not this Coumadin stuff”. It’s the same with Miller’s outfit – they would have poisoned him to death with some pesticide, not drained his blood.’

‘Probably Metam-sodium,’ interrupted a nodding McConnell. ‘Twenty thousand pounds of the stuff spilled into the Sacramento River from a train derailment in ’91. I remember. Goddawful business.’

‘What about Miller’s connection with the bridge club, then?’ asked Donovan. It was her discovery yesterday and she was not going to have it dismissed that easily.

‘Too obvious. You don’t assassinate someone like the Attorney General and then leave a clue like that lying around. Of course we were going to find the bridge club connection between Wilson and Macintosh and investigate the other members. It would be like shitting on your own doorstep. Miller’s either a coincidence or a set up.

‘Think like the assassin,’ expanded Hawthorne. ‘First you plan your method – killing Aitken at home by accessing the apartment above. So you follow the owner of that apartment, Macintosh. One night he goes to the Capitol Bridge Club where he partners Wilson. He’s your key to Macintosh’s apartment.

‘If it’s like any bridge club my father visits, you don’t need to be a member to play there, and if you turn up alone, they’ll find you a partner. On top of that, according to the information Mary obtained, they play duplicate bridge.’

‘What’s so important about that?’ asked a baffled Donovan.

‘You stick with the same partner all evening, but after two or three hands, the opposition changes. Bridge is a very social game, and the assassin would have had a chance to chitchat with half the room in just one visit. There was a wealth of opportunity for him to select his set-up.

‘Pick a hole in it,’ challenged Hawthorne. Nobody could.

‘So you think this three monkey thing is a deliberate hoax to incriminate Miller,’ questioned Kemp, feeling utterly useless.

‘Quite frankly, either that or there’s another message in the killing we’ve overlooked,’ responded Hawthorne.

Donovan threw her report she had compiled into the trash bin. ‘Then why all the time and effort towards Miller?’

‘Because we had little chance of succeeding until we had Harlow under control. What if it hadn’t been Heather that he had approached? What if we were taking the right route and Harlow got to know about it? Now I’ve got this tape, he’ll not chance his hand again.’

‘So where the hell does that leave us?’ inquired Walsh. ‘We’re back to square one after wasting a day.’

‘Not at all. Yesterday we were impotent for two reasons. The first one, Harlow, has been taken care of. The second reason was the White House sniffing. That has also been dealt with.’ Hawthorne outlined his visit last night. ‘The gloves are now officially off.

‘The obvious motive, which no one dared to mention yesterday is of course getting the President reelected, and now we can pound on that. That’s the reason for all this secrecy.’

‘I think you’re right,’ said Walsh, ‘You have been watching too many movies.’

‘It only takes one man to organize an assassination, Eammon,’ reminded Hawthorne. ‘I’m not talking grand conspiracy theories here. If we tell anyone, your wives, your girlfriends, even the dog where we are in the investigation, the White House will eventually find out, and if our man works there, he’ll know how close we are to catching him.

No dissention.

‘Getting a President elected for four more years is a helluva motive for an assassination, but there’s a second, equally powerful motive we need to look into,’ continued Hawthorne.

‘What’s that?’ asked Benditoz.

‘Religion.’

END OF PART 1

Book 2

Sweat

14

“A fanatic is a man who does what he thinks the Lord would do if He knew the facts of the case.”
Finley Peter Dunne (1867-1936)

The room was filled with a pregnant silence. The team had been so taken by the desecration of Robert Aitken’s body and its underlying message that nobody had considered religion as a possible motive. It was an emotive stone that most people did not want to kick over.

‘That’s pretty left field, Sam,’ said Walsh finally.

‘Not really,’ replied Hawthorne. He stood up and moved to the window. With one tug of the cord he closed the Venetian blinds stopping the intense sunlight from streaming into the room. It was on days like this that he missed skyscrapers. By statute, no building in the capital is allowed to be taller than the Washington Monument which rises like Cleopatra’s Needle five hundred and fifty-five feet into the air. There were few buildings that could block the early morning sun.

‘Listen, there were two messages. The first one is the Three Monkeys “Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil”. Pretty damned religious in its own right. But what we failed to consider was the draining of the blood. That’s a second but equally important message. For some reason the killer needed the blood drained. The Coumadin was there specifically for that purpose.’

‘I think you’re reading too much into it,’ replied Walsh.

‘No,’ said Kemp slowly, ‘Sam’s right. The draining of the blood and the toe business are two separate violent acts, each having separate meaning.’

Kemp’s mind started to race along the new path. ‘Jeez, where do I begin? Rivers of blood? Washing away the sins – it was done in the bath, remember? If I recall, there’s a verse in Isaiah, “though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow”.’

Kemp paused for a moment trying to organize the thoughts that streamed through his mind. ‘The word “assassin” comes from the Arabic hashshashin,’ he continued, ‘members of the Nizari Ismailites, a Middle Eastern Islamic sect around the twelfth century that used to get its enemies high on hash and then murder them as a religious duty. Aitken would have got a high from the loss of blood. Either this man is incredibly well educated or thinks he has a sense of irony. Either way, it’s pretty much back to basics.’

‘Exactly,’ replied Hawthorne. ‘but I don’t think its Islamic fundamentalists here. You said that there were a large number of religious books in Aitken’s apartment and yet in his will he was going to set up a specifically non-religious web-site for grieving parents.’

‘So you think someone from a happy-clappy God squad found out about the web-site, didn’t like the idea and offed Aitken?’ asked Benditoz rhetorically, ‘That’s crazy. That wouldn’t stop the web-site. It would accelerate its creation.’

‘But it would send a highly public message to the world what happens to non-believers,’ argued Payne. ‘Mary, how much does it cost to set up a web-site such as Aitken envisaged?’

Donovan made a quick mental calculation in her head. ‘If you’re going to do it right, nothing too fancy, less than one hundred thousand.’

‘Maintenance?’ continued Payne.

‘Minimal. Less than ten thou’ a year. These things can pretty much run themselves.’

Payne formalized his theory. ‘You’ve got one mill for a fund for this site. The first hundred grand goes into setting it up. After annual maintenance, I reckon you’ve got around of forty grand a year spare interest if it’s carefully invested to advertise it on the Net. How effective would that be?’

‘If you choose your sites carefully, very,’ she replied.

This satisfied Payne. ‘So you would need something spectacular not only to counteract that advertising but to warn people off too. In years to come, when you mention the name Robert Aitken, they won’t think of a highly atheist web-site set up by an ex-Attorney General of the United States, they’ll think of how he was murdered.’

‘OK,’ said Walsh. ‘I’ll bite. God knows how many relatives of mine were killed or hurt in The Troubles all in the so-called name of religion.’

‘I’m sure he does,’ replied Hawthorne, gratified with the way the team were embracing his hypothesis. ‘As you yourself put it yesterday, you can justify almost anything from scripture if you’re selective.’

‘Sam,’ said Baker, shaking her head. ‘It’s not religion.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ asked Hawthorne.

‘Because the assassin wanted eco-terrorism implicated in the murder. If Payne’s theory were correct, the assassin would have left no doubt whatsoever that it was a religious warning.’

Hawthorne had failed to take that fact into account. Most great theorems or flashes of insight through the ages had occurred not when focusing on a problem, but when the mind was allowed roam, from Aristotle soaking in a bath to Newton lazing under an apple tree. Many people had sudden moments of clarity whilst sitting on the toilet or taking a shower. For Hawthorne, it was sleep, his subconscious slowly mulling over a problem.

Hawthorne’s instinct, honed by almost eighteen years of police work, screamed at him that the motive for Aitken’s death was either religious, giving the President a fighting chance at the next election or a combination of the two.

If Baker’s point was valid, why implicate TAN if it was religious? Then again, if the motive were political with TAN the fall guy, why would the assassin spend precious time draining Aitken’s body instead of a quick lethal injection of McConnell’s Metam-sodium? Every professional killer minimized his risk and therefore every extra second spent at a crime scene. It was a conundrum he could not solve.

He leant forward and banged his head on the table as if to shake his brain loose.

‘Thanks for breaking up the band, Yoko. You’re right.’

He outlined the problem to the team, none of whom could find a solution. Not knowing which direction to take, Hawthorne decided to cover all the bases.

‘OK. Enough navel-gazing. Here’s today’s task list.

‘Heather, you and Jim go check out the bridge club. I’ve not let Pretty Boy release the artist’s impression to the press yet. It’s too generic and we’d be flooded with thousands of useless calls, but show it around. Maybe someone remembers him. If that doesn’t get any results, interview all the members and get as many descriptions of non-members as possible over the last, say, two months. It’s unlikely that he went with an accomplice, so someone there has probably spent two to three hours in his company.

‘Mary, check out Aitken’s file space on JCOS again. He was working particularly late recently. I want to know on what. And talk to your friends at the NSA. I want to know the name and whereabouts of every professional assassin that is either American or who has operated in this country and can pass as an American.’

He added almost as an afterthought, ‘That includes any of our guys used for wet jobs that we’re not supposed to know about. If you hit a brick wall, demolish it, go under it, over it, ’round it, I don’t care. We need that list. Stewart and David can do the follow-ups.

‘Vince,’ said Hawthorne with an mischievous look on his face, ‘go back to Miller, flash the tin this time and ask him if he remembers anyone in particular from the bridge club.’

‘Thanks,’ replied Benditoz without relish.

‘Eammon, I think you’re out of it for now.’ Walsh nodded. ‘If you find anything else, let me know. I’ll need you for the debriefing.’

‘What about me, Sam?’ asked Payne.

‘I’ve got a meeting with Douglas I’m already late for, and then you and I are going to talk to Aitken’s ex-wife. Debriefing at nine-thirty this evening.’

*

Douglas was reviewing the Blue Booklet, the weekly summary of major cases prepared for the FBI Director. The appendix to the booklet is a mass of numbers showing the breakdown of how agents are being used in its seven sections – foreign counterintelligence/national security, organized crime, white collar crime, counterterrorism, illegal drugs, violent crime and “other”. Also included was a one-page summary of the statistics that Douglas felt were key issues.

The key issues vary from director to director. For William Sessions it had been the number of minorities, including women, that the Bureau employed. For Douglas, it was staff turnover and the percentage of agents used on “high quality” cases.

Douglas had just digested the one-pager when his secretary announced that Hawthorne was waiting outside. He welcomed the break before delving into the number jungle and ordered the obligatory coffee in advance for his guest.

‘What is it with you and coffee, Sam?’ asked Douglas as Hawthorne eased himself into one of the luxurious leather chairs.

‘Don’t smoke or drink excessively, don’t do drugs and only go to McDonald’s on the kids’ birthdays. I’ve got to have one vice to make life adventurous,’ he grinned.

‘What would you do if caffeine were a banned substance?’

‘Emigrate.’

Douglas’s relationship with Hawthorne was not that of a father and a son, although their respective ages would fit and many outsiders viewed it as such. It was not even anything as quixotic as Sir Miles Messervey and James Bond. As far as Douglas was concerned, Hawthorne was the best and most reliable field agent that he had ever known. He was also the worst at paperwork and the most idiosyncratic. Every workman has a favored tool, a trusty device that could be relied upon, and Hawthorne was Douglas’s.

Douglas knew, and presumed the Hawthorne knew as well, that Hawthorne would never make ASAC or even SAC of a field office. It would be an absurd waste of his talents.

It seemed to Douglas that Hawthorne was grossly underpaid for those capabilities. The amount Hawthorne took home was dictated in the main by a highly-structured pay table in which there was little leeway. Douglas smiled inwardly. The probable cost to the Bureau for Hawthorne’s coffee addiction effectively made him the highest paid agent around. Hmm, I’ll have to check with the bean counters.

Douglas held up the Blue Booklet with his right hand. ‘You see this? It’s thinner than I expected.’

‘I know,’ responded Hawthorne. ‘I’d prefer to do a face to face. Nothing on paper.’

Douglas’s face grew serious. ‘I got an interesting phone call from Owen Jacobs last night. Claimed you swore at him, insulted him personally and refused to give him a progress report. I find it most disturbing and upsetting, Sam. I wish you hadn’t done it.’

‘He should know better than to poke his nose in,’ replied Hawthorne with a snort.

‘I know that,’ replied Douglas, ‘it’s just that I was looking forward to doing it. Can’t stand the pompous shit. Every time he sits down his voice is muffled. Christ knows what he does with a toothbrush. Tell me. What gives?’

Hawthorne outlined the events of yesterday and the plan of attack. Douglas nodded thoughtfully throughout.

‘Sounds right about Miller, but don’t discount him outright,’ surmised Douglas. Sometimes the best place to hide is right out in the open.’

‘Colombo one-o’-one,’ replied Hawthorne. ‘But then why the dismemberment, which would only serve to point the finger, as it were, at TAN rather than simply injecting Aitken with lethal toxins and make a statement about pollution as a whole?’

‘Point,’ conceded Douglas. ‘What’s the point of visiting Robert’s ex-wife all the way over in Denver? That’s a whole day trip and the clock is ticking.’

‘I need to know what Robert was working on so late recently. It changed his whole character and my gut tells me it’s related to his murder. If he confided in anyone, it would have been her.’

Douglas nodded. ‘Enjoy the flight.’

Hawthorne was in the process of opening the door when he heard Douglas’s voice behind him. ‘Oh Sam?’

Hawthorne turned. ‘Yes?’

‘I don’t suppose you have those tapes Heather made?’

Hawthorne extracted them from a pocket and tossed them to Douglas. ‘Thought you’d like to do the honors. Even?’

‘You bet,’ Douglas said with relish.

*

Hawthorne broke seven traffic laws in making it to Dulles for the nine-thirty flight to Denver. Payne wondered if Hawthorne had a pilot’s license the way he was driving. Although there was a forty-minute stopover in Newark, it was the quickest route. Hawthorne had hoped to use the DoJ’s Sabreliner, but Dennison had already booked his new toy for a trip to New York.

They arrived at the United Airlines check-in only marginally out of breath with fifteen minutes left, only to find that the flight had been cancelled. A quick review of the departure board showed that there was a ten o’clock via O’Hare that would arrive in Denver only ten minutes later. Good – I get a chance to grab a Starbucks, thought Hawthorne. Then he saw the long queue of would-be passengers also trying to change flights and realized that not only would they be denied an opportunity of the best coffee on the planet, but they might not even make it onto the plane. If they missed the Chicago flight, they were looking at a wait of three hours.

Reluctantly Hawthorne and Payne politely pushed to the front of the queue, sincerely apologizing to the other customers, and a quick show of badges with a quiet word to the clerk secured their seats immediately.

As they left the queue they heard a scuffle behind them as a well-fed, well-dressed gentleman who had been near the back of the queue also pushed his way rather less courteously to the front, demanding in a loud voice that he be given priority treatment too.

The clerk, despite having attended a course on methods of dealing with irate customers, could not even begin to handle the overbearing, red-faced man. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said in a weak timid voice, ‘I’ll have to ask you to get back in line.’

The man cast a jealous look in the agents’ direction and then brought his full gaze on the quivering clerk. ‘Do you have any idea who I am?’ he bullied.

This was too much for Hawthorne. He turned around, grabbed the clerk’s mike and switched it on. ‘This is the FBI,’ he announced, his voice echoing around the airport. He stared at the man. ‘Does anybody know the fat man at the front of the queue at the United Airlines counter? He seems to have forgotten his name.’ Hawthorne switched off the mike. ‘Now get back in line, sir, or I’ll call airport security.’

The man said nothing and sheepishly turned around, rejoining the queue. As Hawthorne and Payne went off to Starbucks, they heard clapping behind them.

*

Having squeezed the computer for every last byte of information relating to known hit men and passing it on to Kemp, Donovan took an early lunch. She had been around long enough to realize that any computer or operating system was only as good as the input, no matter how skilled the operator. Not everything in the intelligence community was filed on computer, or accessible by others.

As she made her way east along Penn towards Capitol Hill a small lone fluff of cotton wool drifted in front of the sun giving a most welcome respite. It took her only a few minutes before she reached her destination.

The Capital Grille, opened in late ’94, has proved an immediate success with all levels of the government machinery, from senators down to the typing pool. The fact that it is the only eating place within ten minutes of Capitol Hill has helped, but its relaxed ambience and excellent service would make its owners wealthy irrespective of location.

Throughout its short history, most passers-by have stopped momentarily outside the restaurant, at first drawn to the two glass-encased flame lanterns on either side of the dark green doors, and then to the dry-aged joints of steak that completely fill the left-hand window. Vegetarian or not, it was always a discussion point.

The inside is darkly lit and the furnishings predominantly deep brown. The walls are also burnished wood, and covered with paintings of Native American Indians. Donovan had not bothered to book ahead. It was a quarter to twelve, and it had only been opened for fifteen minutes.

As Donovan waited politely at the small desk just inside the entrance for the maitre d’, she quickly scanned the bar section to her left and the eating section ahead. There was no sign of her guest yet. Within seconds, the maitre d’ had glided effortlessly next to her and shown her to an intimate table for two.

She had just ordered an orange juice and was browsing the menu when she heard a familiar voice behind her. ‘Wouldn’t your husband get upset with these secret liaisons, spook?’ A delicate kiss touched the nape of her neck. She raised her hand above and behind her head, stroking the luxurious brown hair of her guest.

‘Only if one of us tells him, spook.’

‘Hey, secrets are what I do,’ he replied, taking the chair opposite.

The sight of him never ceased to send a joyful shiver down her spine. She glowed in the fact that the feeling was mutual.

‘How come the early meet? He getting suspicious?’ he explored.

‘Oh no. Don’t worry about him. He’s easy to handle,’ she replied with a derisive snort. ‘No, this is a business meet, I’m afraid. I need a favor. The biggest.’

‘I see.’ The disappointment in his voice was clearly telegraphed. ‘So that’s why you’ve kept up this relationship with one of your NSA colleagues. Boy was I sucker-punched.’ He grinned.

‘This is serious, John.’

‘OK, shoot.’

‘I need the name, photo, and present whereabouts of every wet-boy we’ve ever used, particularly in the last three years. Every single one.’

‘You want my teeth, too. Jeezus, Mary!’ he exclaimed.

‘And Joseph. There’s a five-year lease on a Redskins club seat in it,’ she offered.

‘In return for losing my job? Who wants to watch the Reds these days anyway?’

‘How ’bout four silk scarves, then? Not to wear of course.’ She waved her wrists at him. The waiter interrupted them before her guest could react. Both Donovan and her guest chose the Caesar salad with chicken. Her guest ordered a Black Bush as well. A quiet peace ensued between them until the drink was delivered.

The inference from Donovan’s request was not lost on her guest. ‘Aitken was an inside job, then?’

‘It’s possible. In fact I would go as far as to say probable,’ she conceded.

‘Holy shit,’ he whispered in awe. ‘You realize that I’m going to be up against the Administration on this one. That makes it a little bit trickier,’ he understated.

‘It is trickier than you think, John,’ Donovan said without apology. ‘I also need you to access the info not only from the current database and any paper files you can lay your hands on, but also from the backup six months ago. If a name is missing from the current records, five gets you one that’s our man.’

‘When you ask a favor, you really ask a favor. Do you have any idea of what you’re asking me to do? How many laws I would have to break?’

‘I know. I also know that you can do it.’ Donovan caught sight of the waiter approaching their table with their lunch. ‘Look, can we fast-forward the part where you’ll say you will do it?’

‘OK,’ he said, resigning himself to the inevitable. ‘No nuts, no glory. If I can access the information, I’ll e-mail you. Crypto L42?’ he asked, checking that Donovan had a copy of the algorithm for that particular code.

She leant forward and squeezed his hand. ‘Thanks. I knew there was a reason for marrying you.’

‘You know the secret of a good marriage?’ he asked. Donovan’s husband always resorted to jokes when under stress. Donovan shook her head. ‘Incompatibility. So long as the husband has the income, and the wife –’

‘Don’t you dare finish that sentence,’ laughed Donovan. ‘You know the part about “till death do us part”? It might come sooner than you think. Now, let’s eat, spook.’

*

Professor Miller’s face blenched. ‘A patsy?’ he repeated.

When Benditoz had shown his true colors, Miller’s initial reaction had been to ring his attorney, but Benditoz had insisted that he first listen to what he had to say.

‘It looks that way, I’m sorry,’ sympathized Benditoz.

‘But why us, why me?’

‘Eco-terrorism’s becoming more widespread and more extreme. People, including ourselves, were likely to find the scenario plausible,’ explained Benditoz.

‘But we’re a peaceful organization.’

‘Yes, but you do have links to more radical groups. The fact that you have this room was always going to make us think you had a hidden political agenda. It fitted.’

‘All too well,’ rued Miller, leaning forward and tossing his morning copy of the Wall Street Journal angrily into the bin.

‘I need your help,’ said Benditoz.

‘I don’t see why I should after that stunt yesterday,’ Miller replied with a snort.

Benditoz knew he could play this hard or soft. The hard approach would be to warn Miller that he would be obstructing justice if he refused to cooperate, but with Miller in such a defensive mood, the soft approach seemed better.

‘Look, I understand you’re upset that you’re not going to be in the Journal, but think of the publicity you are going to get from this. It’s incalculable. The innocent victim, the set-up, magnanimously helping the FBI solve the case. When all this is over, everyone will know the Toxic Action Network and Professor Keith Jonathan Miller. It’ll give you one hell of a platform. You know how many influential people watch Larry King?’ he enticed.

Miller hungrily snatched the dangling carrot, but had no idea how he could contribute to the investigation. ‘How can I help?’ he asked.

‘Just one thing first,’ appended Benditoz, ‘Don’t mention the reporter trick under any circumstances. If the newspapers get wind of that subterfuge, they’ll be serving me as dish of the month.’

‘Agreed,’ said Miller, not realizing that it was standard operational procedure within the FBI.

Benditoz opened a thin folder he was carrying and pulled out a sketch of the assassin placing it on the small mahogany table next to Miller, along with variants without the glasses and the goatee beard. He also pulled out a photograph from Montebello which, although not showing the assassin’s face gave Miller an idea of height and weight.

‘This man must have visited the bridge club to get the connection between you and the two other victims. Do you recognize him at all?’

Miller eyes darted over the sketches. He slowly shook his head. ‘No,’ he said with disappointment at not being particularly helpful. ‘I’ve never seen him before, and certainly not at the bridge club.’

Benditoz asked the obvious question. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Agent Benditoz, one of the things I am blessed with is a photographic memory. I can tell you categorically that I have never seen that man before in my life.’

15

“The only athletic sport I ever
mastered was backgammon.”
Douglas Jerrold (1803-1857)

Hawthorne and Payne arrived at Denver, and instead of announcing themselves to the local field office took an anonymous rental for the fifteen-mile trip north to Broomfield. Payne hastily elected to drive. Once they had cleared the center of Denver, they were buzzed by a persistent tailgater. ‘Relative of yours?’ asked Payne.

Hawthorne leaned over and checked their speed. It was just over fifty. ‘Wash your windows,’ he suggested. Not sure what Hawthorne was up to, Payne complied. Suddenly the tailgater pulled back, his wipers sweeping away the water that had sprayed over the top of their car to his. The gap was closed again and Payne repeated the procedure. The other driver got the message and retired to safe minimum distance. ‘Works every time,’ said Hawthorne, ‘They hate that.’ Hawthorne was like any driver – the only motorist he trusted at speed was himself. Afterwards, the ride to Broomfield was an easy one and it did not take them long to find Sarah Aitken’s house.

The vanilla house was situated towards one end of a leafy suburban road and Hawthorne was only mildly surprised to see three television vans camped outside it. There was a small group of people leaning against one of the vans chatting amicably amongst themselves. One of them looked up at the sound of Payne’s car but Payne drove past them casually and parked around the corner.

Hawthorne retrieved his cell phone and dialed Sarah Aitken’s number. There was no answer. Damn. He had contacted her first thing that morning to confirm the meeting and the last thing he wanted was for them to be on camera visiting her. Maybe there was a back way in.

He was just about to put his phone back in his pocket when he saw that the voicemail icon was lit. He had switched off the cell phone during the flight. He pressed the button to retrieve the message. It was from her. She had evaded the camera crews and was fishing at Stearns Lake. A quick check of the map showed it was only a few miles further northwest. Payne slipped the car into drive and drove on.

*

The Capitol Bridge Club did not open until two-thirty, so Baker and McConnell spent the morning filling in for Kinney who was taking a well-earned shower and nap after his night’s stint at Miller’s residence. They helped Kemp assimilate the information on professional hit men that Donovan had managed to glean on her own.

Until Hawthorne had showed Baker her personal file, Baker had felt like an outlander in the upper echelons of the FBI. Despite that, on the flight from Chicago the previous morning she had not rued the fact that by rank she was the most senior of all the team members, including Hawthorne, but she was only second in command. She was realistic enough to know that although she was not an outstanding agent, she was well above average and that her main ability lay in administration and organization. It was those qualities above all that had given her the meteoric rise to ASAC of Chicago.

After just one day in Hawthorne’s presence, she knew she would never have the experience or the abilities that he seemed to wear so comfortably, just as she knew that Hawthorne could never do her duties nor rise to the level that she had already attained. For the first time in many years she felt at peace with herself and her vocation.

It was this recently acquired insight that had helped her recognize just how uncomfortable McConnell was feeling, surrounded by professional top-ranked agents. Most agents had a superiority complex when dealing with other law enforcement officers but she had warmed to McConnell. She could not decide if she was feeling maternal with her newly found inner peace, recognized someone on the road of self-doubt that until recently she had been on, or was drawn to him because he was downright attractive. It needed exploring.

Before going on to the bridge club, she had suggested they grab a burger from the Burger King tucked away at the back of the Hoover Building. He heartily agreed. They took one of the small tables upstairs.

‘You know Heather,’ said McConnell holding up his unwrapped burger, ‘for once this bears more than a passing resemblance to its photograph.’

‘Probably because McDonald’s is next door. Competition at its highest,’ she reasoned.

‘You know what gets me about shops? You know those signs on the doors that say “No dogs allowed. Except for guide dogs”?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Who’s that last part written for?’

‘Well, for bli-, oh, yes I see what you mean,’ she laughed.

‘Did you actually get anything to eat last night?’ he asked, looking at her triple burger with everything on it.

‘Only the slices of orange in my drinks. I was wandering around Chinatown last night when I remembered something that my father taught me. Only go into a Chinese restaurant where you see Chinese people eating. There were only a couple of those, but I needed a more intimate location for the trap.’

‘I have to say you fooled me, and I’m nobody’s fool.’

‘Thanks Jim, but there wasn’t that much acting to do. You know that.’

‘I guess. Was all that stuff about stealing from your parents for real?’

A flicker of pain flashed across Baker’s eyes. She lowered her head a fraction. ‘Yes.’

Whereas Leeves had been drawn to Baker because of her vulnerability, McConnell was drawn to her because of her strength. She had not been reticent in using her handicap as a weapon, and that had taken drive and determination. He had never seen such verve in either a man or a woman before.

Although Baker was immensely likeable, McConnell had no illusions about anything that may happen between them. A lowly infantryman dallying with the cavalry? Sure. Besides, McConnell, like Aitken, thought intimate relationships between partners a faux pas. Don’t screw the crew, he reminded himself.

Baker broke him out of his reverie. ‘I heard from Gary what happened with your partner in Sacramento.’

‘Which one, the one I lived with or the one I worked with?’

‘Both. It must have been tough.’

‘One day you’re the dog, the next you’re the hydrant,’ he shrugged.

*

Payne parked the car in the crowded parking lot of Stearns Lake, just inside the boundary of Boulder County. It was only upon exiting the car did they fully appreciate the intensity of the heat nudging the hundreds, the warm air assaulting them like a steaming towel. They decided to leave their jackets behind and donned the obligatory FBI sunglasses. After walking down to the side of the still waters did they realize how popular fishing was in Colorado. It was a sport in which they were both completely ignorant.

Stearns Lake is a twenty-three acre reservoir within Rock Creek Farm, purchased in the early Eighties by the County as part of their Open Space program. Near the parking lot is a small picnic shelter and about three hundred yards further on were a group of fishermen evenly spread out around a curved bank. Fifty yards further along the bank was a small solitary figure. Both Hawthorne and Payne instinctively knew it to be Sarah Aitken.

They made their way round the small, well-trodden path that followed the outline of the lake feeling the sweat trickling irritatingly down their backs. A quick brush of the hand behind only gave temporary relief from the sensation.

*

The Capitol Bridge Club turned out to be a two-up, two-down affair near the center of Georgetown. Its doors were open, and Baker and McConnell made their way through the narrow hall, following the quiet noise. It led them to a large room at the end of the hallway on their right.

The room had a high ornate ceiling with two chandeliers, and the floor was covered in an aging red carpet. Baker estimated there to be around thirty small green-baized tables spread in a semblance of order around the room. Most of them were occupied. Both agents were surprised that there was a mixture of both the blue-rinsed brigade and young Georgetown students, some happily chatting discreetly with each other, and others still concentrating on a hand.

An elderly gentleman came up to them. ‘I’m sorry, the duplicate started ten minutes ago,’ he apologized. ‘There’s another at eight if you’re interested.’

‘I’m afraid this is work, not play,’ said Baker pulling out her badge and introducing herself and McConnell to him.

‘Oh, I see. You’ve come about Peter and James I expect. Terrible business,’ he said, shaking his head.

‘Yes, it is,’ sympathized Baker. ‘Are you the owner?’

‘Yes I am. Irving Rosewood. Please, sit down.’ He gestured to one of the empty tables furthest from the play.

‘I hadn’t realized bridge was so popular,’ said McConnell quietly as he looked around.

‘We get that a lot,’ said Rosewood. ‘Most people think it’s either for widows or for old people whose legs won’t take them around a golf course. You know, “here’s your gold watch and a book on how to play bridge”. There are actually one hundred million players around the world.’

McConnell whistled through his teeth, bringing an irate gaze from several of the players. He stopped immediately.

‘Surprising, eh? The sponsorship money hasn’t wised up yet. They think it’s just a gray game, but it has more regular players than chess’ said Rosewood pleased with himself. ‘The largest tournament in America is the Spring Foursomes – there’s regularly over ten thousand tables at that event.’ He stopped, realizing that neither agent was interested in a sales pitch.

‘What can you tell us about James Wilson and Peter Macintosh?’ asked Baker, the pleasantries over.

‘Sociable, steady club players, nothing out of the ordinary. James had been coming here for about two years and Peter around five, but I’d put James as the better player.’

‘How long had they been playing together?’ asked Baker.

In the background Rosewood heard a gradual increase in the noise level, indicating that most people had finished the hands. He checked his watch. ‘Hold on a minute,’ he apologized. He stood up and addressed the room. ‘Move please! East-West pairs up one table, boards down one table,’ he ordered. There was a general scuffle of chairs as half the room rose.

‘What’s going on?’ asked McConnell, totally mystified.

‘You play bridge?’ asked Rosewood, knowing he would have to tailor his answer to theirs.

‘Whist,’ offered Baker.

‘A little at college, but nothing like this,’ offered McConnell.

‘Well every game, apart from pure strategy games like chess, has an element of luck. The higher the element, the longer time is needed for the skill to win out. This version cuts down Lady Luck’s influence somewhat.

‘In this version, called duplicate, you just play a couple of hands against a partnership, but you keep your cards separate from the others, record the score and then put the hands back in the four pockets of the wallet that they came from. After that, you play against a different partnership with different boards whilst another foursome play the hand you just did and so on throughout the game.

‘You see, it doesn’t matter if you get huge hands all the time, so will all the other pairs in your direction and you’re score is based on how well you did compared to all the other people. Your real opposition isn’t the pairs you face, it’s all the other pairs you don’t.’

Rosewood looked at the slightly glazed faces of his two visitors. ‘You want me to get back to the question, right?’

‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ said Baker, relieved.

‘Whilst I’ve been talking, I’ve been searching my memory. I don’t think they’ve ever played together.’

McConnell had a flash of inspiration. ‘To work out the scores from the duplicate, I presume you use a computer.’ It was more of a statement than a question.

‘Of course, otherwise I’d be here for hours. Most people want to know how they did before they leave.’

‘So you’ve got a record of who played with who then.’

‘Sure, come with me.’ They stood up and Rosewood led them back the way they came to a well-stocked kitchenette on the other side of the hall. On a small cork notice-board were posters for coming special events and a stack of white A4 printouts bound by a metal clip. ‘These are the results from the last seven weeks,’ explained Rosewood as he unclipped them from the board and lay them down on a nearby table. ‘As you can see, they’ve got the partnership names and their results.’

He divided the pile into three smaller ones and they began to scrutinize the lists. Baker found it. ‘Here. June seventeenth, evening session. Anyone else?’ They continued to scan each printout until every name had been checked. It was the only successful hit.

‘June seventeenth,’ said Rosewood ponderously. ‘Ah, son came to visit. Hold on a mo’. You need Rich.’ He left, returning just moments later with a fresh-faced student. ‘This is Richard Plackette. Aspiring international who helps out from time to time. Richard, these policemen need to ask you a few questions.’

‘I didn’t inhale,’ blurted Plackette.

‘I didn’t hear that,’ warned Baker.

‘Uh, that was a bad joke then,’ he replied with no conviction in his voice.

‘You were running the session on the afternoon of June seventeenth this year?’ asked McConnell.

‘Yes. It was only my second time. What did I do?’

‘Nothing,’ calmed Baker. ‘But do you remember anyone strange visiting the club at all that evening? Anyone you hadn’t seen before?’

Plackette was silent for some time. ‘Yeah,’ he said slowly, ‘There was one guy. Came in a few minutes after the game had started and asked me a few questions about joining up, but I knew he wasn’t really interested.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Baker.

‘Well his eyes were looking over my shoulder at the players the whole time. Not a casual look. He seemed to be, well, scanning them. We were pretty close and I also caught a faint whiff of professional theatrical glue. I do drama,’ explained Plackette. ‘I think it was from his beard. I pegged him as a private detective checking up on someone’s wife.’

‘Anything like this?’ asked McConnell, opening up a file similar to the one Benditoz had showed Miller.

‘I think so. Yes. Sorry, the beard caught me. The one he was wearing was a full beard, not this goatee effort.’

‘I don’t suppose he gave a name,’ asked Baker.

‘Not that I recall,’ said Plackette.

‘Accent?’

‘East Coast. Local.’

‘And he’s never come back since?’ inquired Baker. Both Rosewood and Plackette shook their heads.

‘Did he ask about any of the other members?’ asked McConnell. Another shake of the heads. ‘Any break-ins, any of these printouts gone missing?’

‘Nope.’

Baker had not got a clue at what McConnell was driving at.

*

As they neared the lone angler, Hawthorne and Payne realized that they were correct in their assumption. Sarah Aitken was wearing sneakers, a long floral skirt and an old oversized, pale blue cotton shirt. Her cropped, fair hair mixed with wisps of gray were hidden by a royal blue floppy hat. She was holding a fishing rod that appeared to have come from another century.

Despite the intensity of both the sun and its reflection from the lake, Hawthorne removed his sunglasses, tucking them into the breast pocket of his shirt. He did his best not to squint. Sympathy, empathy, eye contact, he had learnt at Quantico when interviewing a non-hostile. Payne followed suite.

‘Sarah Aitken?’

‘You got my message, then?’ she asked redundantly.

‘Special Agent Hawthorne and this is Special Agent Payne.’ Payne nodded his head towards her at the mention of his name.

She spread out the rug she was sitting on and suggested they should sit down. They were casting shadows on the water near her line.

‘Damned journalists,’ she began. ‘The phone’s been ringing non-stop the last twenty-four hours. You were lucky I answered your call this morning. Those TV crews’ve been there all night. You know Robert’s reasoning for why television’s called a medium? Because it’s neither rare nor well done.’

‘How’s the fishing?’ smiled Payne. ‘I didn’t know there were female fishermen, fisherwomen,’ he corrected.

‘Anglers,’ helped Aitken. ‘Of course there are. Fishing’s good.’

‘What’s to catch ’round these parts?’ asked Hawthorne, trying to sound authoritative.

‘Tiger muskies in the main. Ugly critters. Bit like pike. Some bluegill, catfish and bass too.’ That explained to Hawthorne and Payne why there were no children cooling off and showing off in the lake.

‘You fish often?’ asked Hawthorne.

‘When the weather’s good or I need some solace. Some people fish for sport, I fish for peace and quiet. There’s something about fishing that I find relaxing more than anything else. It’s as if my mind floats on the water. There’s tranquility here.’

Hawthorne could not see it himself. ‘What can you tell me about Robert?’ he asked softly. Aitken looked at Hawthorne and Payne and then gazed straight ahead at the lake. ‘“Driven” is the best way to sum him up, I think. His father owned a chain of up-market restaurants in Boston, catering to stockbrokers mainly. Robert used to help out as a waiter sometimes, even during his years at Harvard, and they used to treat him like navel-lint. He got quite an inferiority complex over that. That’s why he volunteered for ’Nam, to try and get respect from them.

‘When that didn’t seem to work, he decided the only way to get back at these guys was to hit them where it hurt, at their work. So he went straight into the state legislature in Massachusetts after graduation and focused on white-collar crime instead of joining one of the big firms.’

Hawthorne perked up. To hire an assassin of the quality used for Aitken would require big bucks. Maybe he had made one too many enemies on Wall Street.

‘Was he after anyone in particular?’ he interrupted.

‘Not since a long time ago,’ said Aitken, turning her head towards them. ‘As Robert rose in government, he could only devote so much time to it. If that were the reason for the assassination, it would have happened way back.’ Hawthorne nodded thoughtfully.

‘Here,’ said Aitken holding out a box of tissues.

‘Thanks.’ Hawthorne and Payne each took a handful and rubbed the sweat off their faces and the back of their necks.

‘You met in Boston?’ led Payne.

‘At a charity ball on a blind date. We were inseparable after that,’ she replied.

‘But something did separate you, didn’t it?’ asked Hawthorne. ‘Can you talk about your daughter’s death?’ Aitken’s eyes returned to the water. Her fishing rod arched and the line started to move crazily underneath it. Aitken seemed not to notice.

She breathed deeply and exhaled. ‘Eve was our joy, our spark of life. It’s funny, but when you create a life, you finally realize you haven’t really been alive yourself until that moment. She was everything to us.

‘Five years old. Five innocent years old,’ she sighed. ‘It was December ’79 and Robert was late one evening trying to finish something before the Christmas break. He was due to drive us home from the center of town, I was doing some Christmas shopping, but he couldn’t make it so we had to hail a taxi instead.’

Both Hawthorne and Payne noted that Aitken’s voice was like an automaton, as if she was distancing herself from the memory.

‘The pavements and the roads were icy, so I had Eve hold on to a street light as I went out between the parked cars to try and flag a cab.’ She paused and breathed deeply. ‘Then I heard a terrifying crash of metal followed by a sickening thud behind me. I turned around to see if my baby was hurt. A car coming in the opposite direction at high speed had totally lost it and skidded onto our side of the road. It had somehow missed the oncoming traffic and careened into one of the parked cars by us, jerking it onto the pavement and smashing into the street light. Eve was crushed between them beyond recognition.’

It was Aitken’s turn to grab one of the tissues. ‘They had to scrape her off the pole.’

‘It’s never just one life destroyed when a child dies. I’m sorry,’ said Hawthorne, gently squeezing her shoulder.

‘It’s OK,’ she sniffed. ‘You needed to know it to understand why Robert was murdered,’ said Aitken courageously.

Hawthorne and Payne looked at each other.

*

‘What’s with all the break-in questions and missing pieces of paper, Jim?’ asked Baker as they walked out of the bridge club.

‘Look at that printout when Wilson and Macintosh played together. Who’s not on that list?’ Baker did not need to look.

‘Miller.’

‘Exactly. The assassin had no idea that he played here. Do you realize what that means?’ asked McConnell.

‘Miller was never meant to be a patsy. That “See no damage, hear no damage, speak no damage” business was just a cruel coincidence. If Hawthorne’s right, then that rules out the idea of the execution having TAN take the blame,’ concluded Baker.

‘Right. So it is religious.’

*

‘Eve had been a calming influence on Robert. He hadn’t lost his drive, it was just more controlled with her around,’ explained Aitken.

‘People deal with death in many different ways. For myself, I became withdrawn. Guess I still am to a degree. But Robert, when it came to the part in Eve’s service where the priest said that it was all part of God’s plan and mentioned Infinite Wisdom, he just got up and left. Just like that. His face looked like he was sleepwalking. The next time I saw him was several years later after the divorce.

‘Robert was rational enough to know that it wasn’t really his fault for the accident, but he had to hit out at someone or something. The driver had also died in the crash, so he couldn’t use him as a target. Robert was a man with a Purpose, and he had just found his mark.

‘He devoted every ounce of energy after that into becoming the Attorney General. He was making several trips this way to become pals with Wilburforce when he was then Governor around these parts. I think he was doing the same with all potential Presidential candidates. That’s how we met up again. He even learnt golf especially to increase his chances of becoming pally-pally with him. Never took a holiday. He worked late every evening, and every spare moment was spent networking.’

‘And it worked,’ said Hawthorne. ‘He became a man with the maximum amount of influence, so when he died and had the anti-religious web-site as a legacy, people would sit up and take notice.’

‘That’s not quite the reason for his murder. I guess you haven’t read the speech he was going to make next week.’

‘What speech?’ asked Payne.

‘The one in which he commits deicide,’ she expanded.

Payne looked puzzled. Hawthorne turned to him. ‘The one in which he kills God.’

16

“A sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener with constant use.”
Washington Irving (1783-1859)

The debriefing was late that day because Payne and Hawthorne were having to travel back from Denver. Payne was not relishing another bout of Hawthorne’s kamikaze driving which was going to be needed to make it back to the Hoover Building on time. They both took the opportunity for some shut-eye on the plane. The heat had drained them. Hawthorne had refused coffee, which had raised an eyebrow with Payne. Hawthorne had explained that airline coffee was the only one in the world that tasted as if it had been poorly recycled.

As Hawthorne slipped into a dream state, his mind mulled over what Sarah Aitken had told them.

It had turned out that Aitken’s ex-wife did not have a copy nor any drafts of the speech and was in fact quite ignorant of almost all its content and the exact how and when of its delivery. Aitken had only outlined his plans to warn her of the publicity in advance. Naturally she had tried to talk him out of it but he was unswayable, a man possessed.

She had argued with him that it would not be deicide but his own suicide note, but he did not seem to care. In fact quite the opposite. It was the anticipation of exquisite relief, the culmination of his twenty-year plan coming to fruition. It had explained Aitken’s behavior in the weeks prior to his death, both the light-heartedness and the late hours working alone.

She had sensed that he was looking forward to death, the end of his pain. She was worldly-wise enough to see that it was the only possible outcome. It was akin to a bee stinging its enemy and dying in the process.

Aitken had always invoked the name of God on many occasions in his career and had very publicly gone to church every Sunday. It was a vote winner, and he could never have risen to Attorney General without doing so. He had confided in his ex-wife that he considered it “pressing the flesh with God”. It was also part of the plan, to give his speech even more impact.

“So you’re going to leave me again, to face alone the death of someone I love,” she had cried.

“I always have done, darling,” he had replied dispassionately, kissing her on the cheek and leaving. He had not called her that since their daughter’s death. It was the last memory she had of him.

*

‘I don’t even know this Leeves character!’ shot back Senator Harlow truthfully, sitting up in his chair.

‘Well, he certainly seems to know you,’ countered Douglas, comfortable in his chair. ‘He was ordered by you or someone close to you to undermine our investigation so as to guarantee you the presidency. That is not going to happen.’

‘Do you have any proof?’ Harlow demanded. The FBI Director pulled out a large brown envelope from his jacket and emptied six cassettes onto the table between them.

‘Pick one.’ It was a standard FBI trick. They were actually all copies of the one tape where Leeves had opened up to Baker about his mission. It had the desired effect. Harlow did not move, but just stared at the tapes. What the hell has Carl’s man confessed to? What else has he been using him for? Douglas chose for him and slotted a tape into the Dictaphone.

“I don’t understand why Harlow would do this?”

“Harlow’s team seems to think that if you being the assassin to justice, Harlow’s going to lose an unloseable election. They’re panicked. That’s when I was contacted, to see if you would be interested in some kind of a deal.”

Douglas switched the machine off. Judging by Harlow’s face, it was enough.

‘That’ll never hold up in court,’ Harlow announced. ‘It’s entrapment at its worst - she mentioned my name first. This guy was saying what she wanted to hear so he could get into her pants. He doesn’t even say that it was me personally who organized this.’

Part of Douglas felt sorry for the would-be President. It was a cruel twist of fate that had possibly robbed him of the ultimate prize, but that was life. Unforgiving, uncompromising, uncertain. The only things carved in stone were epitaphs.

Douglas knew that the evidence could not be used in court, but that was not the point. ‘Who’s talking about a legal process here? I’m talking about the press – the biggest courtroom in the land. Judge, prosecution, defense and jury all rolled into one. You probably don’t know the name of your messenger boy, I’ll give you that. I know the way “plausible deniability” is played probably far better than you, but there’s no way someone would have done this without your inherent knowledge.’

Harlow shifted uncomfortably in his chair. If he could not control this one man, how could he be expected to run a country.

‘There are six tapes here,’ continued Douglas. ‘My math has never been much good and only one needs to be misplaced for mud to stick. There’s a difference between politicians and policemen,’ observed Douglas. ‘We both understand the human spirit, but I use it to catch the bad guy whilst you manipulate it for your own ends. What a waste of a gift.

‘Leave the investigation alone,’ he continued. ‘Attack it in the normal course of politics, fine. But if I get one whiff of you or any member of your staff -’. He was cut off.

‘Are you threatening me?’ demanded Harlow as he jumped out of chair, his voice promising vengeance if he were to become President.

Douglas looked up calmly at the crimson face and smiled gently. ‘I’ll put it on tape if you want.’

*

It was almost ten in the evening, and Hawthorne had relayed their findings to the team after Baker, McConnell and Benditoz had accounted for their day.

‘So,’ summarized Hawthorne, ‘Miller was a chance event. The dismemberment was the three monkeys, but in its original form, “See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil”. Aitken was murdered because of this speech, before he got to deliver it. But by whom? It hasn’t narrowed our suspects at all.’

‘We can’t discount the White House?’ asked Kinney, perplexed.

Hawthorne knew that Kinney was the FBI’s acknowledged expert on drugs, which on paper made him a valuable member of the team, but he did not seem to have the vision nor the verve necessary for this case. Hawthorne had been irritated by the fact that Kinney had taken such a long sleep that morning. The more he thought about Kinney, the more he realized that although Kinney was happy in the waters off Miami, he was out of his depth here.

Kinney was just cruising through life. It was obvious. Hawthorne would have to demote Kinney from a fully paid-up member to an associate, only to be used when Excalibur had a case involving narcotics.

He had seen the signs yesterday – the negative attitude displayed to Douglas, the happiness at just sitting back and reading documents all day. He had thought he had been mistaken when Kinney had been the first to volunteer for the surveillance on Miller. Hawthorne now realized it for what it was - maximum visibility with the minimum of effort. He only had to sit in a car.

No, this was Kinney’s last day with the team.

‘No, Stewart,’ sighed Hawthorne. ‘Just think of the damage that would be done to the Administration with this speech. If the White House got wind of what Aitken was planning, they might well have decided to assassinate him themselves, election or not.’

‘But then why dress it up as having a religious motive? Why not just a bullet in the head and be done with it?’
That’s the trouble with Kinney. Left foot forward, but never the right. ‘If we found out about the speech, a religious zealot would be a plausible decoy. Even if we were ignorant of the speech,’ he explained patiently, ‘one of those nuts is always great suspect material.

‘We’re down to four alternatives. A religious zealot, the Administration because of Wilburforce’s showing in the polls, the Administration because of the speech, or any combination of the above.’

‘What do you mean, combination?’ asked Benditoz.

Donovan jumped in, anxious to impress again in the real world. ‘If you were the Administration and you knew about the forthcoming speech, wouldn’t the best course of action be to let an extremist know about it and let nature take its course? That way you can deny everything.’

‘Correct,’ nodded Hawthorne. ‘But I think we’re all agreed that this is a pro whom we’re dealing with, whether he’s a religious nut or not.’

‘A professional who’s a religious nut?’ asked a skeptical Kinney.

‘Oh yes,’ interceded Kemp. ‘It happens to a significant number of professional assassins. Very few have anti-freeze in their veins. After a while many start to feel guilty about what they have done and turn to God for forgiveness.

‘There are a few documented cases where an assassin has started to kill for God, or at least that’s what they think. A sort of atonement for his sins, using the talents God has given him to do God’s work. They have no compunction. Mercy? That’s the boss’s jurisdiction.’

Hawthorne checked his watch. ‘We need to figure out how either the White House or the fanatic found out about the speech. Aitken was playing his cards extremely close to his chest. It looks like he only confided in his ex-wife, and she swears she told no one. Even his loyal secretary didn’t know. Any ideas?’

‘What was his agenda for next week?’ asked Baker. ‘He had to deliver the speech to an audience.’

‘Already checked,’ said Payne. ‘A couple of committee hearings, and the rest was pretty much internal stuff. Wednesday afternoon was free, though. Nothing was pencilled in.’

‘A sudden press announcement?’ suggested Baker.

‘That’s how I read it,’ agreed Hawthorne. ‘It’s the only way the speaker is totally in control. No booing from an audience. They’d be more interested in capturing the moment on tape.’

‘Suppose someone helped him write the speech?’ offered Benditoz. ‘I mean, he’s only going to get one crack at this, and it has to be on the money. I think he knew he wouldn’t get a second shot.’

‘It’s possible,’ conceded Hawthorne, ‘but he’s had over twenty years to write it. There were a lot of religious books in his apartment. Tell you what, you and Gary go through the copy of his phone records – home, office and his cell phone, and see what you can find.’ He turned to Donovan. ‘There’s nothing in his file space?’

‘No speech like that.’

‘Just how secure is JCOS?’

‘Very.’ Donovan knew what Hawthorne was driving at. ‘Internally, the password system is exceptional, and the firewall with the Internet site is secure. We get over a hundred attempts a day from hackers to break it, but trust me, you can’t. At least not to the level you’re talking about.’

McConnell tried to hide his ignorance of computers with a poker face. He had heard many of the terms before, but had not a clue what a firewall was. As far as he was concerned computers ran on smoke. As soon as the smoke started to escape from a computer, it ceased to work.

‘What about the system administrator?’ Hawthorne probed. McConnell was inwardly happy. That term he could understand.

‘Hinks? He’s a complete anorak. Lives in cyberspace,’ said Donovan in a derisory tone. ‘Wouldn’t know God if he had a bolt of lightning thrown up his ass. Probably figure it to be a build up of static on his VDU.’

‘So where’s the speech, then?’ asked Hawthorne. Nobody had a clue. Walsh and his forensics team had already checked every square inch of his apartment and it was nowhere to be found. Aitken’s lawyer had nothing. Aitken did not own a safety deposit box, either.

‘Either we haven’t found it yet or more likely the assassin took it with him,’ suggested Payne.

‘No,’ disagreed Hawthorne. You don’t have just one copy of twenty years work. There’s another copy somewhere. We just haven’t found it yet.’

‘What religion was used at his daughter’s funeral?’ asked Baker.

‘Baptist, but that doesn’t matter,’ answered Hawthorne. ‘As I understand from his ex he was out to denounce all religions, Christianity, Islam, and even those guys who think that the Earth is on the back of four giant turtles.

‘It’s late and we need to look at the hit men. David?’

*

The modern auditorium had already been whipped into a frenzy by a number of popular rock artists and a few celebrities before Senator Harlow appeared on stage. His appearance after the warm-ups had been carefully timed. At the first glimpse of Harlow, the noise was tumultuous. He slowly walked to the center of the stage, pointing randomly into the audience, grinning, as if he had spotted old friends. The clamor showed no signs of abating.

As he neared the two bulbous microphones he punched his hands into the air, causing an even greater riptide of noise cascading around the hall. Harlow made sure that every member of audience felt that he had looked at them.

Without warning, the lights in the auditorium blinked out, replaced by a single bright spotlight aimed directly at the man of the moment. An enormous video screen that had also been used for the warm ups flickered into life again behind, showing a gigantic close up of the lone figure’s head. It brought another cacophonous wave of adulation.

Harlow rode the wave for two minutes, soaking it up, before patting the air. It seemed to take forever before the crowd complied.

Harlow spoke into the foam balls in front of him. ‘What good judges of character you all are!’ Another wave. He patted the air again and straightened his Presidential blue tie.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen, if you carry on like this it will take me to Election Day before I’ve finished my speech here!’ The audience rose to the bait, deliberately prolonging another cheer. Finally they settled down.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen, I came here tonight to make the usual platitudes about this great country of ours and how we can make it stronger than ever together. I’m sure Mr. Wilburforce is doing that right now somewhere else in the country as we speak.’ Harlow knew he was.

‘However, in good conscience I cannot do that tonight. I have a grave concern which I must share with you.’ The background noise diminished to nothing.

‘Robert Aitken’s death was a cruel blow against this country. A savage attack of the deepest intensity against our Constitution, our one true National Treasure.

‘In the eighteenth century we fought a war for eight years to establish the Constitution. The blood of thousands of valiant colonists was spilt forging it, and the blood of millions of brave Americans has been shed defending it.

‘And yet what has Arnold Wilburforce done?’ Never refer to him as President Wilburforce. ‘Set up a special investigative team at the behest of Thomas Douglas, the head of the FBI. Crème de la crème agents apparently, called Excalibur. Very good. Very laudable.’
Tough, Douglas. This is within your rules. Nobody threatens me.

‘What he failed to mention was how big the team was. Eight, yes eight agents from the FBI, and one local policeman to investigate the assassination. The FBI had to bring in outside help.’

The spotlight obliterated Harlow’s view of the crowd, but from the expression on the few faces at the front that he could still make out he knew they were hanging on every word.

‘If I were the President, no stone would be unturned. No effort would be too much. Heaven and Earth would be moved to find the perpetrator. Yet the number of agents Arnold Wilburforce and Thomas Douglas are using wouldn’t even fill an RV. Hell, even more agents are used to find an RV.

‘Is this the value you place on our Constitution?’

‘No! ’ screamed the audience.

‘Do you want an FBI so weak that they can only find eight agents up to the task?’

‘No!’

‘Do you want an FBI so weak that they need outside help?’

‘No!’

‘Do you want Wilburforce for four more years?’
‘Noooooo!’

‘Oh how the murderer must be laughing at us now. What signal have we given to such people? What signal have we given to the world? Wilburforce? Wilburweakness I say!’

Them’s fight’n words thought the CNN cameraman covering the event. He panned to the crowd full of adulation, waving flags and blaring horns at the sound bite.

Harlow waited patiently for the noise to die down and for the camera to return.

‘Why so few agents?’ Harlow asked the crowd. ‘There is only one answer. Something is rotten in the State Department.’ The crowd responded to the Hamlet parody, but quickly fell silent. What did Harlow know?

‘Perhaps Wilburforce does not want the assassin caught. Maybe he’s worried of where the road might lead. Could it be Douglas has his own hidden agenda? He easily persuaded Wilburforce to set up this Excalibur so if it fails we can only point the finger of blame at a small group of people including himself and Arnold Wilburforce, not the whole FBI apparatus itself.

‘Excalibur was a mighty sword, a sword of justice, a sword that guaranteed victory, but I say it is being used as a shield. Either to shield the White House or to shield the FBI. Which are you Mr. Wilburforce - easily scared or easily manipulated?’

The throng roared with approval. Harlow smiled inwardly. The speech of his life had worked. In one blow he had managed to crush both Wilburforce and Douglas. The pen is mightier.

He prayed he was correct. If that wretched Douglas manages to find the assassin, I’m going to need an even better speech.

17

“A sense of duty is useful in work, but offensive in personal relations. People wish to be liked, not to be endured with patient resignation.”
Bertrand Russell (1872-1970)

Donovan’s husband had provided the team with six candidates, much smaller in number than most people had assumed. There had been no inconsistencies in the NSA’s back up tapes. It had been a long shot, which nobody had seriously expected to pay off. Life was never that easy.

Kemp was old school, the blackboard being his preferred presentation tool. He expertly tapped out a piece of white chalk from its box as he might a cigarette from a packet and started to write.

Including those from the NSA, there were thirty-eight high-quality, known or suspected assassins operating in America. Male had taken the number down to thirty-five, Caucasian to twenty-nine, and liberal assumptions of age, height and weight to twenty-two. There had been some argument as to whether to include Mafia hit men, given their ties to the Church, but Kemp had successfully argued that it would be too dangerous for anyone to use the Mafia. A debt to them was always a lifetime of repayments thereafter.

That had reduced the number to ten. They had decided not to use the East Coast dialect, or even American nationality as a filter as any professional hit man would be comfortable with a wide range of passable accents. The MO of attributable killings could not be used either, since the method used in Aitken’s case was tailored for him alone.

The team was well aware that the assassin might not be known to the law enforcement agencies, but most were. A freelancer always had to advertise, either by word of mouth or by coded advertisements in newspapers. One way or another the covert operatives usually found out.

Hawthorne rued the fact that these people were never incarcerated. The problem of course was collecting solid evidence against them. De facto, an assassin with a successful track record was one that had avoided prosecution, and vice versa. It was Darwinism. The fittest was defined as those who survived so what sort of statement was that?

He was broken out of his reverie by the rustling of paper as Kemp threw some prepared folders on the large table. Hawthorne quickly thumbed through them. The dossiers on the ten men added up to over two hundred pages. He was about to suggest that it would make excellent bedtime reading when the phone next to him sprang to life. Douglas needed to see Hawthorne urgently at the White House. Bedtime reading it was.

*

McConnell and Baker had decided to pool resources. Both were propped up on the two separate beds in McConnell’s hotel room sharing a Thai Chicken Pizza that they had ordered from the Grand Hyatt’s room service.

They were reading their copies of the extensive dossiers that Kemp had prepared for them whilst eating and discussed each assassin in turn.

McConnell finished the next file and waited for Baker. He glanced at the silver tray on the long wooden bureau on the opposite wall, and his pizza math told him he could have one more slice. Above the bureau a large rectangular mirror was placed on the wall such that he could see Baker’s reflection in it perfectly. The bond between them was growing, but the tingle that anticipated a relationship was dampened by the knowledge that it could never be.

Most people who were as attractive as Baker tended to have the personality of a spoilt brat. They were a prize catch, treating lesser mortals with disdain and judging rich suitors by how much they fawned over them. Baker’s character flaw had negated that. It had made her more approachable, more vulnerable and therefore more human. A beautiful human. Normally it’s one or the other. McConnell hoped that now Baker knew the truth about her personnel file she would not change.

His eyes moved away from the mirror as he pondered on how unfair life could be. He had found the perfect woman only for her to be a working colleague. It was only when he brought his gaze back to the mirror that he realized that Baker was looking at his reflection too. Reflex action took over and they both automatically looked away. McConnell stood up and walked the few steps to the tray to get his third slice. Baker wanted to pace herself slower. She could still feel the triple burger.

‘You know,’ she started, ‘I’ve only ever seen you eat fast food.’

‘Yeah, well if you’d stayed around last night, you’d have seen different. But I’m a typical bachelor at home – if it takes longer to cook than it does to eat, I don’t bother.’

‘Same here. My mother put the recipe for toast on my fridge in case I forgot it. She reckons, correctly, that the only thing I can make for dinner is reservations!’

McConnell grinned. ‘You know what gets me about the movies, Heather?’ He transferred the slice to his plate.

‘Go on,’ said Baker. She realized that McConnell was quite the philosopher when he was eating. She enjoyed it.

‘Giant meteors heading towards Earth, downtown dinosaurs, the hero having seven shades of shit kicked out of him or a bullet in the shoulder and still comes back aswingin’ - I can suspend disbelief in those. But when I see a couple have a four-course meal and then go and make like bunnies, I’m sorry, that just doesn’t happen in real life.’

It was another thing Baker had never thought about. ‘Is that why we’re sharing just a pizza?’ she said softly.

McConnell knew one of them had to say it. ‘Look Heather, we’re both experts at reading people, and know what’s happening here. You know and I know nothing can happen whilst we’re on the same team.’

Baker looked down at her file, feeling not rejected but dejected. McConnell was uncomfortably correct. Change of subject. ‘So what do you make of Robbins?’

‘No go. He’s a sniper man. Either wants the distance so it’s easier to escape, or he’s squeamish. He needs detachment.’

‘A squeamish assassin? That’s a new one,’ she smiled.

‘Distance then.’

‘That’s my read.’ They settled back into the work rhythm. McConnell wolfed down the third slice, and toyed with the idea of ordering the largest dessert on the menu.

*

‘Eight agents!’ bellowed Wilburforce at the two G-men. He slammed his fists on the top of the Presidential desk in the Oval Office. Even Jacobs, sitting on the President’s right, winced. The timber was once part of a British ship but had probably never been subjected to such punishment before. He stood up, his hands spread on the desk taking his weight as he leaned forward towards them.

‘Seven,’ corrected Hawthorne. ‘I’ve just sent someone home.’ This was news even to Douglas. Hawthorne had not had a chance to brief him yet on Kinney’s departure. Wilburforce looked like a punch-drunk fighter and collapsed back in his chair.

‘I can’t believe it. Do you realize what a fool you’ve made me look to the American people?’

On his way back from a rally, a stunned Jacobs had shown Wilburforce an edited version of Harlow’s speech he had received by satellite. Both knew the President was in serious trouble. They had replayed the highlights to their two guests.

‘It’s the right course of action, Mr. President,’ countered Douglas.

‘Bullshit,’ replied Wilburforce, ‘We’ve never done it that way before.’

‘Many investigations are fraught with miscommunication or a lack of communication,’ countered Douglas. ‘This is the best way to pool resources and share knowledge. They can still call on anyone in the Bureau if they need extra manpower.’

‘That’s not what counts and you know it,’ snapped Jacobs bitterly. ‘Justice needs not only to be done, but also seen to be done. It’s the same here. It doesn’t matter if you are investigating the assassination properly, it has to be viewed that way. It needs visibility. Eight or seven agents simply doesn’t cut it.’

‘I demand that you put a hundred more agents on this at once,’ ordered the President.

‘No,’ said Douglas with soft emphasis. It was an answer Wilburforce was not used to.

‘I’m sorry?’ he stammered in surprise.

‘No,’ Douglas repeated. ‘This investigation is being handled in the best way possible.’

‘Harlow was right,’ suggested Jacobs to the President, ‘he is protecting the FBI.’ Douglas took a deep breath. Monte Carlo or bust.

‘I’ll be blunt, Mr. President. There is a possibility that Robert’s murder could have been ordered by someone inside the White House for a number of reasons. That’s why the number of agents being used is small. Security.’

‘How dare you even suggest such a thing!’ bellowed Wilburforce, his face contorted with rage. ‘Robert was a dear friend!’ And in a calmer, more sorrowful voice, ‘A dear friend.’

‘I’m not suggesting you personally, Mr. President, but possibly some overzealous staff member.’ He deliberately avoided looking at Jacobs. ‘You both know voting dynamics as well as I.’ Wilburforce and Jacobs remained silent.

‘Would you rather the Senate order a special investigation instead?’ suggested Douglas. ‘That would be the correct course of action if it trail appears to lead here. You’re in the minority on Capitol Hill, so what do you think the chances are that if your staff were clean the Senate committee would report the fact before the election? None.

‘The FBI can do a much better and a much quicker job of investigating anyway, which by coincidence is what you want and what you need, and I refuse to let any politician tell me how to run it. I’m sorry, Mr. President, but my duty is to the people and the institutions of this country – and that includes the presidency, not just the present incumbent.’

Wilburforce took some time to digest the comments Douglas had made. He was not used to being lectured to like this. It reinforced the sore point that Douglas and Hawthorne had his destiny in their hands. Jacobs realized that his boss needed a cooling off period.

‘Agent Hawthorne,’ he said, ‘what do you think of all this?’

‘I’m no politician,’ he began. ‘I’m an investigator, like Tom, doing my job in the best way I think possible. You’re the politicians, you sell it. That’s your job. It seems to me though that if you suddenly put one hundred agents on the case, it gives legitimacy to Senator Harlow’s comments, whether they’re true or not. You’d be on the back foot, letting him dictate events and set the agenda.

‘If Senator Harlow is using sword analogies, why not say something like “the rapier instead of the bludgeon”, or “surgical strike”?’ he shrugged.

The President thought it over. If the trail led to the White House, it did not matter whether it was discovered before or after the election – in either case he would not be sitting at his current desk. The only way he could win the election and remain in office was if the FBI caught the assassin before the booths opened, and that he turned out to have no connection with the White House, or at least not a provable one. Wilburforce prayed that that was the case.

On that assumption then, the more agents on the case the better. But Wilburforce also knew that Hawthorne was right. He could not lend credence to Harlow’s claims under any circumstances. But seven agents? Somehow it just did not seem right.

‘Tom, how close are you to catching the assassin?’ he inquired. Douglas had yet to be briefed by Hawthorne. He turned to Hawthorne.

‘We’re down to double digits, Mr. President,’ Hawthorne replied, not wanting to give too much information to Jacobs.

Wilburforce exhaled deeply and looked at the two of them. ‘You’ve got twenty-four hours, otherwise I want fifty agents discretely put on this, full-time. I need this off my desk. Deal, Tom?’

‘I’ve a better deal for you. If the assassin is not caught within twenty-four hours, you’ll have my resignation on your desk.’

Hawthorne swallowed hard.

*

Mary Donovan was a little girl in pigtails sitting behind an old-fashioned wooden school desk. The teacher had her back to the class and was busily writing on the blackboard. Donovan was furiously trying to keep up, copying down everything as fast as possible into her new school workbook but was lagging far behind. The teacher put down the chalk with a deliberate click and turned to the class. All the other pupils finished at the same time as her.

‘Any questions on the basics of The Real World?’ Donovan continued to scribble furiously, hoping that one of the other children would ask a question and give her some breathing space. It was not to be.

‘OK. And now I’m going to write down the secret to living successfully in The Real World,’ announced the teacher. ‘Of all the things you will ever learn in school, this is the most important.’ The class grew restless in their chairs in anticipation. To Donovan’s relief the teacher erased the blackboard just as she had managed to memorize the last few lines. She would write them down later. She was ready for the secret.

The teacher picked up a different box and pulled out a long, fresh stick of chalk. To Donovan’s horror, it was black. The teacher looked at it and then looked up at little Mary Donovan, grinning cruelly. She turned to the blackboard and started to write.

*

Douglas and Hawthorne took advantage of the warm night air and started to walk the short distance from the White House to the FBI headquarters. The eight lanes of Pennsylvania Avenue were quiet as ever. Hawthorne took the opportunity to update Douglas on the day’s events.

‘It’s funny, Sam,’ said Douglas once Hawthorne had finished. He gazed at the lit dome in the distance ahead of them as they continued their walk. ‘Behind us is the White House, straight ahead’s Capitol Hill, and there’s the Hoover Building, slam bang exactly half way between them. It’s a siege.’

Hawthorne saw the analogy. ‘But why offer your resignation, Tom?’

‘Whoever’s the next President, I’ve pissed him off sufficiently today that I’m going to be replaced after the election anyhow. Might as well jump.’

‘Harlow was right. Excalibur is a shield, isn’t it?’ It was a statement more than a question. Douglas stopped and looked at Hawthorne.

‘It never started off that way, Sam,’ regretted Douglas. Even in the moonlight Hawthorne could see the pain in his eyes. ‘I had such plans for the team. Such plans.

‘We probably won’t catch the guy, I know a professional hit when I see it. Hell, it doesn’t matter if we use seven agents or seven hundred. Catching him is not my first priority. I don’t even care who wins the election. To be honest, I could never trust anyone who’s willing to devote that amount of time, effort and money to become President.

‘As head of the FBI I have but one concern, and that is to provide an efficient, fair law enforcement machine in which the American public has confidence and can respect. They need to feel safe. If we use hundreds of agents and we fail, the whole of the FBI will take years to recover. If I can confine the blame to just myself and a handful of agents, then that will be my legacy to the FBI and the American people.

‘If I resign twenty-four hours from now and the next guy pours hundreds of agents into the hunt, then a case can be made that it was my initial failure to do exactly that that let the assassin escape. As you know, eighty-seven percent all murders are solved within a three day period. Again, the FBI as a whole escapes the blame.

‘I’m just amazed Wilburforce has allowed me to get away with it up till now.’

Hawthorne froze. His whole world had just been turned upside down. All he had worked for, all he had learned, all he had achieved was about to be thrown away for his fellow man. He would not have minded so much if it was his choice, but someone else was making the decision for him. ‘No matter who’s sacrificed in the process?’ he breathed.

‘I’m too concerned about two hundred and seventy million people to have time to be worried about a President, myself and a few agents. Even a friend. I’m sorry, Sam. Truly sorry.’ He earnestly meant it.

‘Go fuck yourself, Tom,’ spat Hawthorne.

‘Hey, if I could do that I wouldn’t have bothered getting married,’ responded Douglas defensively. Anything to ease the pain of losing two friends in as many days.

Hawthorne stared at him for a second, and then strode off towards the Hoover Building leaving Douglas alone on the sidewalk. He did not think of himself as a sacrificial lamb or a tethered goat. The only image that came into his mind was one of the maggots on the end of Sarah Aitken’s fishing rod. The clock was ticking and he had seven careers to save, including his own.

‘Truly sorry,’ repeated Douglas quietly. Nobody heard him.

*

The constant ringing of the telephone beside her bed slowly brought Donovan back to consciousness. She stretched out a drugged hand and cradled the receiver.

‘Donovan,’ she whispered.

‘It’s Sam. Sorry to wake you but we’ve got an all-nighter on our hands. We’ve less than twenty-four hours to catch him or we’re strung up. I’ll explain when you get here.’ The line went dead and Donovan clumsily replaced the receiver. She knew from her husband’s breathing that the call had woken him up.

She took a sip of water from the glass next to her, noticing that a black silk scarf was still tied to the bedpost nearest her head. As the dream slowly ebbed away from her mind she knew she had located Aitken’s speech, but could not remember where.

18

“I have measured out my
life with coffee spoons.”
T. S. Eliot (1888-1965)

By one o’clock in the morning, a very sober team absorbed the news Hawthorne had for them. Their tired eyes suddenly sparkled with life. He had debated with himself whether to inform them or not that they were being sacrificed. It could be either motivational or the exact opposite, but it was fair. He knew each and every one of them. Many agents would be tempted to find a fall guy to save their own careers and reputations. Not these.

He had inadvertently protected Kinney’s career by reassigning him back to Florida earlier that evening, and that gave him an idea.

‘Vince, Gary, I don’t think you’ll be needed on the team.’

‘No way, José,’ replied Benditoz in heavy Spanish accent, ‘but you need every head you can get right now. I’m not going to have my career saved at the expense of everyone else’s here. I’m stayin’.’

‘Me too,’ answered Payne. ‘Miss the fun? Nice try. I’m bigger than you, so don’t even try throwing me off this ride.’

Hawthorne sighed. He did not whether to be pleased or not at their replies.

The phone rang. It was Donovan’s husband. Kemp passed the receiver to her.

‘John? I’m kinda busy right now. What’s wrong?’

‘Just wanted you to know that I’m at my desk at the NSA. Anything you guys need, I’m here.’ Donovan felt as if a warm hand had gently squeezed her heart.

‘Guess you liked the scarves, then?’ she cooed. Most of the team threw her an inquisitorial glance.

‘You betcha, spook’

‘Thanks, John.’

‘Well, I know you want to have an income, not just patability,’ he teased lovingly, and ended the call before she had a chance to reply. She kissed her free palm and touched the mouthpiece with it before replacing the receiver.

‘John’s online and ready to help,’ she told the team. ‘They mess with me, they mess with my family,’ she said in a De Niro impersonation. The team laughed. It was a much-needed boost for everyone.

‘Anyone any thoughts on our ten suspects?’

‘Yeah,’ said McConnell. ‘Heather and I would rule out Robbins and Attwood. The only assassinations they’ve ever done, at least according to the files, is sniper work. That’s their specialty. You’d get someone else for the job.’

‘Only if you knew someone else,’ countered Hawthorne.

‘They’d refuse it, Sam,’ argued Baker. ‘You’d have to be pretty confident in yourself to accept this contract. This method of killing just isn’t their field of experience.’

Hawthorne nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’ll buy it. Down to eight. Any other suggestions?’

‘Why can’t we just arrest them all and give them the third degree?’ asked Benditoz.

‘None would crack, even under the first degree, Vince. With hard guys you need hard evidence. Let’s get to work on the other eight.’

*

By five in the morning, the small litter-bin was filled to overflowing with discarded empty plastic cups. The team had made little headway and had only managed to eliminate three other assassins by reason of their credit card payments. It placed them too far away from Washington at the time of Aitken’s murder or the assassin’s visit to the bridge club.

Baker had woken up the storeowners who had faxed over pictures from the security cameras around the time of the transactions to double check it was really them. It probably was not necessary, reasoned Baker to herself, since all professional assassins worked solo. They would not have an accomplice to provide an alibi. Besides, why choose a store that had a security camera?

They had now a strong feeling that someone else apart from Sarah Aitken knew of the speech, and that had been the reason for the assassination, not just pure voting dynamics from the White House. Payne and Benditoz had cross-referenced and analyzed Aitken’s phone records. From around two months before the murder, there was a number that Aitken had called on a regular basis. It was a cell phone that had been purchased in Washington the day before the first call. The only problem was that it had been paid for in cash and it was one that operated on a phone card basis. There was no credit card to track, no name to look up and no address to visit.

They then accessed its phone records. Technically, they needed a warrant, even though they had no idea of the person to whom the phone belonged. Benditoz called an old university buddy who was working for the phone company in question and within thirty minutes they had the information, meager as it was. The only calls it ever made were to Aitken, and the only calls it received were from him. It made sense that Aitken was consulting with that person over the speech, and that they had organized the hit.

Donovan still had a faint echo of her dream in her mind and it was driving her to distraction, an idea on the tip of her brain. Where had she realized Aitken kept his speech?

‘Sam,’ asked McConnell, stretching his arms behind his head, ‘what about the Library Awareness Program you guys have? Maybe he took a medical book out to research the Coumadin?’

‘No go. We stopped that in the eighties. Against the First Amendment.’

‘Umm, that’s not quite true,’ said Donovan, unsure whether she should reveal the truth. ‘It was transferred to the NSA, so the FBI Director at the time could state truthfully that the Bureau had disbanded it.’

Donovan was correct to a degree. It had been so that the Director could be truthful to the Senate Committee, but another reason had been that the FBI simply did not have the resources to implement it fully.

Normally, the NSA limits its collection of intelligence to foreign communications and confines its activities to links having at least one foreign terminal. However, this is based upon an internal regulation and is not supported by law or an executive branch directive. It is a convenient omission.

Under the Bureau, the LAP had been restricted to New York libraries, and even then only to scientific and technical books. The limited results had not been worth the effort. With the resources of the NSA, along with the computational power it possessed, it can search any library for any computerized records of any book.

‘But we can’t use it as evidence,’ said Kemp, ‘even if we get a hit, can we?’

‘No,’ agreed Hawthorne, ‘but we’d know where to concentrate our resources.’ He checked his watch. ‘We’ve nineteen hours left before the shit comes down.’

Hawthorne was beginning to wonder if the trail did indeed lead to the White House. For Wilburforce to win the election an assassin, not necessarily the right one, would need to be arrested with the FBI smelling of roses. The last thing the Administration would want was Douglas’s resignation, even if they caught the murderer. The solids would really hit the windmill. If the White House were involved, they would be throwing Excalibur some bones so as to catch the assassin before the twenty-four hours were up.

He also thought it unlikely Aitken would have divulged the contents let alone the existence of the speech to anyone even remotely connected to the White House.

If no bones are being thrown to us, maybe there are no skeletons in the cupboard. Had he treated Jacobs too harshly then, he pondered. No, it was the right course of action at the right time.

He decided that if the Library Awareness Program could not help he would bring in other agents early whether Douglas liked it or not and whether or not it was the best course for the investigation. The team did not deserve to have their lives ruined, no matter how much the FBI as a whole was hurt in the process. It was another long shot, but there was only one bullet left in the chamber. He grunted inwardly. Excalibur has the Sword of Damocles above its head.

‘Mary, call your husband.’

*

Two hours had gone by and the team had become agitated. There was nothing to do but wait. Donovan had even tried to go into a light sleep to see if her dream would return, but it was a forlorn hope. She was tired, but fully awake.

The main telephone rang and everyone jumped. Donovan was the first to it.

‘It’s for you, Sam. A Charles Vander-something.’

Hawthorne took the phone with only mild surprise. He had not had a chance to return Vandersmissen’s call over a day ago.

‘Charlie!’ he beamed. He knew what Vandersmissen wanted, but it was always a pleasure talking with him.

‘Sam!’ replied Vandersmissen, copying the intonation. ‘Sorry it’s so early, but it seems the only way to catch you these days. Don’t worry, I haven’t woken Annie up. Thought you’d be at Hoover.’

‘Guess you’ve figured out the case I’m working right now, eh? Jeez, what time is it over in LA?’

‘You don’t wanna know. Even I don’t wanna know.’

‘So how’s LA treating you?’ Hawthorne was glad of the diversion.

‘Fine,’ lied Vandersmissen. ‘I’ve a great tan. The studio even pays for the sessions wouldya believe! It’s a funny place, LA. Everyone goes ’round with bottled water, has a small salad for lunch, hates smokers, and then when they get home they sniff the white line.’

‘You’re not enjoying yourself, are you,’ Hawthorne stated.

‘No. They’re canceling Court On Camera after just two seasons. What am I going to do, Sam.’ It was almost a plea.

‘You can always come back to the FBI,’ suggested Hawthorne. ‘It’s been over two years since that case and, though I hate to say it, it’s more fable than recent memory. Just don’t try for undercover work, eh? You won’t need it, but I can put in a good word for you if you like.’

‘That’s good of you Sam, thanks, but the money here is incredible. I just need something to turn the show around. The researchers the network uses know squat about tradecraft. I was sort of hoping you could help me out. I mean, you’re running the biggest show on Earth right now.’

‘You want an exclusive, right?’

‘Friends give friends business. That’s how the networks and corporate America works, Sam,’ explained Vandersmissen. ‘Look, I’m just asking as a pal. I don’t want anything confidential, I’m still too much FBI for that. Just some inside stuff that no one else would have. It would really help me.’

To Hawthorne’s delight, Vandersmissen had not mentioned that he had taken a bullet in his left shoulder for Hawthorne three years ago. No one ran into harm’s way purely to gain credits for later.

‘Look, Charlie,’ delayed Hawthorne, ‘As you can imagine I’m kinda wrapped up in the whole thing right now. I’ll ring you next week.’ In mid-conversation Hawthorne had a change of heart. He remembered how much animosity he held against Douglas putting the FBI above justice, the agents and finding the assassin. Any organization at the end of the day was just a bunch of people. Point. Start to neglect the people and the organization itself will inevitably fail. He wanted to hit back in some way. He needed insurance.

‘Tell you what,’ he decided, ‘I will give you an exclusive that will help you and not hurt anyone else, I promise. I’m just not sure of the timing, that’s all.’

The relief in Los Angeles was audible. ‘Thanks, Sam,’ breathed Vandersmissen. ‘I owe you one.’

‘Yeah, well in truth I’d do anything to not share a desk with you again, Charlie. You’re a damned bullet magnet,’ smiled Hawthorne.

After the call, Hawthorne felt obligated to explain to everyone the history they had together. No one begrudged Hawthorne giving an exclusive. If the investigation went base over apex, they might just need it to save themselves.

*

One of the rules of government is that the White House and its resources cannot be used by the incumbent for election purposes or fund-raising. However, Senator Harlow had questioned the validity of an ongoing investigation, and Jacobs decided that a rebuttal from the Press Briefing Room would come under the heading of government business. It would also carry more weight and save on the campaign expenses. He had decided to handle the riposte himself. It would make the President appear more aloof.

He gazed ahead from the podium, the dark blue curtain behind him, at the forty or so reporters that were seated in the matching colored chairs. Behind them at the back of the narrow room was a myriad of cameras and recording equipment. That was the real audience. The room had until 1970 had been an indoor swimming pool put in by Roosevelt. Nixon really had an affinity for taping, I guess. Oh well, sink or swim time.

A small red light flickered on above the main camera at exactly seven-thirty in the morning. He leaned forward slightly to the two microphones on top of the lectern.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen, there have been some allegations of late from certain uninformed quarters as to the ongoing investigation in the murder of Robert Aitken. I notice they seem concerned with only his murder and not of the other two victims, James Wilson and Peter Macintosh. Let me start by saying that we have the utmost confidence in the investigative team. And the team does not comprise of eight agents, by the way.’ No, it’s seven now. ‘However, I will not be drawn into the details of the operation.’

‘This team has the full weight and resources of the FBI behind it. It merely coordinates the efforts of others.’ A few associates so far from what I gather. ‘It is best practice. May I remind you that General Electric has an operating committee of just thirteen people – and that’s a company with three hundred thousand employees and a turnover of over one hundred billion dollars.’

‘We won’t need a hammer to crack this nut.’ Thanks for the tip Hawthorne, but I’ll write my own quotes, you foul-mouthed fuck. ‘Any questions?’ A host of people raised their hands up and called out his name. He decided to field just one question. Being in a particularly combative mean, he chose Peter Woodthorpe, the now beleaguered columnist who was brazenly an advocate of Harlow.

Woodthorpe stood up unnecessarily to ensure all the cameras had an unhindered view of him. ‘On any other high profile case, Mr. Jacobs, the FBI would have had hundreds of agents devoted to it. What are they afraid of finding out? Senator Harlow has a point, doesn’t he.’

Woodthorpe had put his foot in it again, to the hidden delight of Jacobs. Man, this guy is worth his weight in gold to us.

‘I’m not sure what you mean by “high profile”. The Administration could have poured hundreds of agents full-time into this investigation and made itself look good, in case you hadn’t noticed there’s an election in a couple of months, but it would have been the wrong thing to do. Maybe that is how other people would run the FBI. We run it by success rate, not column inches.

‘Who would volunteer to be the one to say to a grieving widow, “Sorry, but arresting the murderer of the President’s friend is more important than catching your husband’s killer”? Who would be the one to explain to a couple of tearful young orphans, cruelly robbed of their father, that not all men are created equal? Would you, Mr. Woodthorpe?

‘It’s a shame that everyone here has to spend precious time on this scare story created by ill-informed people. Personally, I’d rather be with President Wilburforce helping him run the country. Thank you.’

He pointedly took no more questions.

*

Hawthorne slaved the telephone in the Excalibur Suite to his cell phone and treated them to an early breakfast in the FBI canteen. The diet of pure coffee during the night was beginning to effect even him.

The seating area was thinly scattered with agents as they took their plastic seats. Everyone had avoided grease that morning, most preferring a cereal with milk or a fruit salad to settle their stomachs.

‘Sam,’ asked Benditoz conversationally, ‘Why the addiction to coffee? I mean, you’ve gotta know how bad it is for you.’

‘You probably don’t know this, but my dad was also a G-man here. Twenty years. Quite successful too, I might add,’ he said with a hint of pride. ‘I always looked up to him. So did the neighbors. As respected professions go, it’s a pretty good one. Then one day he was caught drinking coffee during his lunch break. Coffee was banned in Hoover’s day, in or out of the building – it wasn’t the image he wanted for the Bureau.

‘Dad got fired. I was only four, but I’ll never forget the day he came home early. Went straight into the kitchen where mom was and closed the door behind him. The sound of a father crying is something you never forget.’ He paused in reflection. ‘You know, I think it’s my earliest memory.

‘He managed to get a job with a security outfit, even got more money for it, but everyone treated us differently. Guess my life was mapped out from that day.’

As Hawthorne finished, Kemp recognized a figure behind the counter that held the main courses. He called out. ‘Hey, Sal, what’s the special today?’

‘Can’t you read, David?’ replied the figure dressed head to toe in white, pointing her hand to the pitifully small blackboard above her. ‘And you with an education!’ she admonished cheekily.

Donovan’s eyes blurred. Suddenly she was in pigtails again behind her old school desk. She was immediately brought back to reality when she felt the cold splash of grapefruit juice against her leg from the cup she had unconsciously dropped. ‘Have I had a blonde moment or what! Sam, let’s go,’ she said urgently.

‘Hold on,’ mumbled Benditoz, his mouth full of bran, ‘I’ve just started.’

‘I know where the speech is. We’ve had it the whole time.’

‘I’ve already checked the back of the photograph,’ said Hawthorne wearily.

‘It’s the disk. It’s that damned disk.’

*

‘Remember the old trick of using lemon juice as invisible ink?’ asked Donovan excitedly as she and the team entered the Excalibur Suite. ‘Heat the paper and you see the words?’

‘Of course,’ said Hawthorne, totally puzzled.

‘Well the other way to camouflage something is for it to blend in with its surroundings.’

‘You mean the same color or pattern,’ checked McConnell as they walked over to the evidence table.

‘Exactly, like writing in correction fluid. Hide it in the open.’

‘He used white font!’

‘Old trick, new twist. I’d put my house on it.’

She picked up the red floppy that had come from Aitken’s office and inserted it into her computer. She could feel the throb of her pulse inside her head. After a few adroit clicks the blank document was on screen. From the menu she nervously checked the default font of the document. It was white. A couple of further clicks changed it to black and suddenly there in front of them was the reason Robert Aitken was dead.

The team huddled around the screen. What could have produced such a violent response?

19

“Question with boldness even the existence of a God; because, if there be one, he must more approve of the homage of reason, than that of blind-folded fear.”
Thomas Jefferson (1743-1826)

My fellow Americans,

I have here a police report I picked up last week. It troubles me. Let me read it to you:

“I have lived decently and worked hard all my life. I have a comfortable, modest home and help out the neighbors whenever they need it. Last week, someone came knocking on my door. Apparently a character he would only refer to as Mr. Big owned the town in which I was living, and had let me move there and build my house.

“He said that if I thanked this Mr. Big and carried on thanking him for the rest of my life and followed his rules (even in my own home) he would look after me in retirement. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse, he said menacingly.

“Well, it wasn’t financial extortion, which was a relief. I asked if I thanked Mr. Big, would it guarantee me a carefree existence, working to a ripe old age? Apparently not. The man claimed that Mr. Big was also the silent majority shareholder in the company I worked for and would still dismiss me or repossess my house whenever he felt like it. He seems to be well connected. What’s really different is the retirement home I would go to. If I’m nice to Mr. Big, I’ll go to a nice deluxe dwelling, otherwise it’s immediately to a pauper’s grave overgrown with weeds and thorns.

“I demanded to see this Mr. Big, but was told he doesn’t show his face around town anymore. Used to, though. Even the guy delivering the message had never actually seen him, but had spoken to him, or at least someone claiming to be him, on the phone a few times.

“I asked to see the retirement home or at least talk to someone who was living there, but he claimed that it was inaccessible from town and the phone line was unreliable. He hadn’t seen it himself, but had a brochure on the place. It looked quite nice, I admit. I asked if the brochure was authentic. My visitor said it was – it said so in the brochure.

“After my visitor left, I asked my neighbors if they had received a similar visit. They had, but to make things even more confusing, they’d been told that it wasn’t Mr. Big, it was Mr. Large who owned the town, and he had a different retirement plan and retirement home.

“I asked if anyone had any definitive proof of any of these shadowy people or homes. Apart from all the brochures there were a few anecdotes about all of them. Please help me.”

My fellow Americans, who would want to live in a town like that? And yet that is how we as a society live. It’s the biggest scam inherited from our ancestors.

It is the nature of humans to catalogue and have models for the world around them. It is how our minds work. It brings order to what would otherwise be chaos. And the question humans have always asked themselves is, “Where are we in the scheme of things?” We also ask two questions that no other species ask about everything in our perception: how, and why.

Of course, I can neither prove nor disprove that there is a god, just as all that philosophers can cosmologists can do in the long run is chase their own tails. One can never work out the ground rules or why those particular rules of a system are the ones in place purely from within that system. One can only have models, not proof. It is impossible to know the ultimate How or Why. There is only one real philosophy, and it can be summed up in one phrase: that’s life.

I will merely appeal to reason.

Of all the mammals on the planet, Homo sapiens take the longest to stand on its own two feet, both physically and mentally. It is in the nature of our species to require a parental figure, either to comfort us if we are upset (witness the Tooth Fairy), or to blame if something goes wrong.

We have attained full self-awareness, full consciousness of our existence. The one thing we cannot comprehend is our own non-existence when we die. Personally I have never seen the problem. We’ve all been dead for ten billion years already.

Taking all these things into account, is it any wonder then that every civilization that has ever existed has had at least one god figure during life or the concept of a perfect place in death? If there were no gods and heavens, the early humans would have had to invent them. A god invented man? No, it is the other way around.

When these early humans started to form large social groups or civilizations, organized religion was necessary for those civilizations to survive. It was both the social glue that bound them together and the social divide that defined their boundaries. It brought out the best in us when dealing within that group, and it brought out the worst in us when dealing with other groups. It is still the case today.

Throughout history kings and queens invoked a god to back up their right to the throne. God-like figures are used even today as the social and emotional policeman. How many times have we said to our children, “Only good children get a present from Santa”?

Hawthorne winced. Guilty as charged.

Emotions are critical to human survival. They stimulate moral behavior, the very cornerstone of civilization. Emotions influence sympathy, bonding and benevolence. They affect basic perception and influence the way humans conceive and interpret the world around them.

Think about this. You have thousands of different religions around the world, each fervently believing in their own god, who can feel their god within them, guiding them, protecting them. Each with their own retirement plan and retirement home that will admit only their fellow believers.

Yet all of these religions claim that all the others are false, that their believers are misled by their feelings. What are the chances that if one thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine beliefs are wrong, but can still inspire such emotion, such art, such nobility and such savagery, that the last one is wrong?

I leave it to you to do the math.

The Bible, the Koran, the Vesta, the Avesta, the Talmud, the Edda, the Book Of The Dead to name but a few are writings of legend from thousands of years ago. Of course it has been embellished and distorted over that time – Chinese whispers spanning generations.

Let me give you a much more recent example: Robin Hood, the dispossessed aristocrat from Nottingham robbing the rich to give to the poor, the people’s hero who thwarted Prince John’s attempts to wrestle the throne from the good Richard the Lionheart.

In reality, Robert Hood was a middle-class outlaw from Yorkshire, who lived 150 years later in Edward II’s time. With three companions, he robbed only rich travelers on the road from Doncaster to Ferrybridge. They committed real crimes: deer poaching, jail breaking, theft, extortion, armed robbery, and murder. In just six hundred years the story has been transformed and corrupted into the stuff of popular legend.

And what of the so-called miracle of life? Amino acids form in test tubes when you mix naturally occurring compounds like ammonia and carbon dioxide together and pass bolts of lightening through them. Atoms beget molecules, molecules beget compounds and compounds beget life. It is inherent in the nature of atoms.

From the very nature of metal, rubber, hydrocarbons, silicon, hydrogen and oxygen is the possibility of a machine that can fly in the air faster than the speed of sound. Yet who would think it from studying a proton?

A well-worn debate with religious people always has the following:

“What created the universe?” “A god.” “What created the god?” “No one - the god is.” It seems easier for the human mind to have an abstract thing as “is”, instead of the universe.

The vast majority of religious beliefs are those taught to us during our formative years by the previous generation and so on throughout the ages. Back in 1900, 96% of American citizens were Christian. Today’s figure is 86%. Is it any coincidence both are so high? Of course not. Let us go back even further to the Founding Fathers - 93% of religious Europeans are Christians even to this day.

Blaise Pascal, a French philosopher, once said that you might as well believe in a god. You have everything to gain and nothing to lose. Many people believe in a god for exactly that reason. But if that reasoning were to be valid, should we not be choosing the religion with the worst hell? Humans simply tend to stick to the religion given to them at birth. What a way to deal with the world around us!

Why am I saying all this? As the Attorney General, it is my duty to advise the President on matters of law and justice. But no President would ever listen to let alone act on what I am about to say. It would be electoral suicide. Even Abraham Lincoln did not believe in a god, but that was suppressed for political reasons. That is why I am speaking to you directly.

Crimes against the body, be it murder, rape, or assault have risen together in almost an exact straight line over the last forty years, by 0.03% of the population each year. All other crimes have risen over the years too. Why is that, when living standards have improved as a whole? Let me tell you.

Leaders refuse to see or publicly acknowledge that scientific advances inevitably give rise to an increase in crime. The idea of a god to explain the world and how it worked was a good working model for its time, but it has fast become a joke.

Ultimate Judgement is no longer the cohesion of society. How many people who claim to be religious actually worship each week? How many people take the witness stand, swear on a holy book and then lie through their teeth? How many people marry in a holy place, making a promise before their god, and then divorce?

Whilst leaders, including our esteemed President continue to make their weekly highly visible trips to a place of worship and invoke a deity’s name every time they make an election speech or pronounce over a tragedy, they are not addressing the problem. They don’t have the guts.

Let us teach our children morals based on the consensus of society as to what those morals should be, not scare them with tales of an all-seeing Bogeyman if they misbehave or dangle carrots if they do behave. The generations are rapidly growing out of it.

Religion is like a doctor singing a lullaby to a thirty-year-old insomniac.

In God We Trust? Not any more, America.

The rest of the page on the screen was blank.

*

The room was silent for what seemed an eternity, and the air seemed thicker.

‘Holy shit!’ said McConnell slowly.

Payne’s eyes were riveted to the screen. ‘I couldn’t have phrased it better,’ he replied. ‘Fatwa time from every religion in the world.’ Benditoz made the sign of the cross.

‘Just when we thought we had narrowed the field,’ Payne continued, ‘Now we’ve got every damned fundamentalist and zealot in the world to think about!’

‘You’re wrong,’ replied Hawthorne. ‘Although Aitken was preaching, and I use the term correctly, about every religion, his main concern is towards America and therefore Christianity. You’re not going to have many people in Iran suddenly lose the faith because of a speech from the Attorney General of the United States, even if it applies to them too. In fact they should be quite pleased. Christianity will be most effected by this.’

Hawthorne could not help but notice that Benditoz was clutching the center of his shirt. He was obviously wearing a cross on a chain underneath his shirt.

‘Maybe we should add the TV evangelists to our list,’ suggested Kemp. ‘There’s a lot of money to be lost out there from this. That’s a hell of a motive’.

‘No, we always get’em for tax evasion in the end. Capone style,’ replied Hawthorne scratching his head. ‘Anyway, I just can’t see Aitken confiding in someone who’s in the pocket of one of those guys.’

‘Somehow I don’t see us crossing the White House off our list of suspects,’ voiced Baker unnecessarily. There was a general chorus of approval. ‘I’d been on the point of discounting the Administration being behind this, but if Aitken had aired the speech, there was no way in hell,’ she paused at the unintended pun, ‘that Wilburforce would have been re-elected.’

‘Maybe the person who had organized the assassination wasn’t knowledgeable about voting dynamics,’ suggested Donovan. ‘It leads back to the same questions. How did someone in the White House find out about the speech, and who did Aitken confide in?’

‘Sam,’ asked a concerned Benditoz, ‘what are we going to do with the speech?’

‘What do you mean, Vince?’

‘Should we release it to the press?’ It was a good question.

‘Yes,’ said McConnell out loud without hesitation.

‘It’s not our choice now, is it?’ said Hawthorne annoyed at the distraction.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Benditoz.

‘The floppy is red, which means it isn’t government property,’ argued McConnell. ‘We always buy black ones. The last save of the document was when, Mary?’

‘Just after ten in the evening, a couple of days ago,’ she answered immediately.

‘Which means it was outside government working hours,’ McConnell continued, ‘and there’s no proof that most of the work on it was done on the taxpayers time or even in the building. It’s not the state’s property. It’s evidence that will eventually be released to the executors.’

‘But you just don’t go around releasing evidence like this to the public,’ replied Benditoz.

Hawthorne allowed the argument to continue. He continued to stare at the speech that killed.

‘But it’s in the public interest, Vince. They have a right to know,’ defended McConnell.

‘No. It’s not in the public interest, it’s of public interest. They don’t need so much detail,’ protested Benditoz.

‘Vince, once you have finished with the evidence of the deceased, you hand over any personal effects to the next of kin. And don’t give me any national security bullshit either,’ preempted McConnell.

‘But there isn’t a next of kin,’ disputed Benditoz, his voice a little higher, ‘Even his daughter’s dead.’

‘Then it’s part of his estate, Vince,’ replied Hawthorne wearily. ‘Look, I’m sorry if this document offends any sensibilities you may have, but according to both his will and statute, it’s the duty of his executor to realize it for maximum cash and put it into the trust for his web-site. End of discussion.’

‘I think the value of Aitken’s estate just doubled,’ remarked McConnell.

‘Tripled,’ replied Benditoz. He closed his eyes and mumbled something.

‘There’s no way that Aitken would have been killed for this speech alone,’ added Donovan unconvinced. ‘Each day there are more and more people in the spotlight voicing their opinion that there is no god. Aitken’s just one of them, OK, maybe more important than most, but still just part of the rising tide.’

Hawthorne sat down next to Donovan and scrutinized the screen as he explained to his colleague. ‘There’s nothing new in this speech, but the speaker is the important part. He’s one of the key heavyweights in the Administration and here he is telling the public that the President either believes in elves or hasn’t a spine.’

Benditoz gave him a withering look.

Donovan focused on the screen. What was wrong? Had they missed something? ‘Shit!’ she said uncharacteristically. The bottom of the screen read page six of seven.

‘There’s another page.’

*

G Group, which covers “Other” under the Operations Directorate at the NSA, is housed in Building 9A at Fort Meade just outside Baltimore. It is primarily responsible for collecting communications, electronic and telemetry intelligence, collectively called signal intelligence or SIGINT, from countries other than the former Soviet Bloc and Asia.

It also includes the Library Awareness Program to which John Donovan did not have access.

His immediate thought after his wife’s phone call wife had been to wake up an old friend, but that might have raised an alarm bell somewhere. Unlike other SIGINT that run twenty-four hours a day collecting information from around the globe, the LAP is primarily a nine to five job and centered on America. Donovan only knew all this because when both he and his wife had been working at the NSA they had lived on the base with over a thousand other families. Our very own intelligence community, they used to tell each other. He had become good friends with the man in charge of the LAP.

Donovan nervously tapped his pencil on the desk in front of him and checked the two clocks on the wall. It was only a quarter to nine in Washington. The other clock was set for Ukrainian time. It was worth a try. He picked up the phone from the large white communications panel in front of him and punched a number. He was in luck.

‘Murcheson.’

‘Hi Murky, John Doe.’

‘John! Long time. How’s South Laurel treating you guys?’

‘It’s nice. It’s quiet. Still miss being on the base even if it does have the lousiest Burger King in the country. I was wandering if I could pop over.’

‘Sure. To what do I owe the honor?’

‘Can you keep a secret?

‘Goes with the territory here, dumbass. Of course!’

‘Me too. I’ll see you in five.’

He replaced the receiver carefully and had his secretary, who had just arrived, cover for him. He walked the short distance from his building to G Group’s.

Given that the NSA has some of the most powerful computers in the world, including a couple of Crays, it was always a surprise to Donovan how many reference books seemed to litter each office. Murcheson’s was no exception.

‘So much for library awareness,’ Donovan announced, looking at the untidy piles of books surrounding the computer terminal behind his ex-neighbor. Because of the high-grade computer equipment, each office had sophisticated air conditioning. Donovan noticed that Murcheson’s office had the same smell as his own - dry and somehow empty.

Murcheson swiveled his executive chair round to the direction of the voice. ‘John Doe, as I live and breathe,’ he smiled, pulling his large frame out of the chair and hugging Donovan. ‘Jeez, sure could have used you on the camp baseball team last year. We only won two.’

‘Well, I couldn’t stand seeing your ugly mug for hours at a time, Murky.’ Because of a scratchy bout of chickenpox at an early age, Murcheson’s face looked like it had lost a quarrel with a woodpecker.

‘The last girl I tried to date said I had the perfect face for radio. At least she talked to me.’

‘It’s a start, then.’

‘Yep, my lucky year. So, I haven’t seen you around for, what is it, a year now? What’s the latest in the Ukraine?’ Donovan was in A Group, the former Soviet bloc.

‘They’ve just discovered yet another Russian plan to destabilize the Uke’s economy by inciting strikes in its huge coal sector. Our read is that it’s so Russia can get a bigger slice of cake from the US aid packages and World Bank loans. Makes Russia look a more attractive prospect.’

‘So no change there then,’ replied Murcheson. ‘How’s Mary?’

‘Great. We can now hear the pitter patter of tiny feet.’

‘You’re kidding!’

‘No. We’ve got mice.’

‘Yeah, well, that wasn’t funny when I heard it at school either.’ Murcheson mentally kicked himself for falling for it. ‘Come on, now, I know you. Early phone calls and telling jokes. Something’s up. Enough by-play, gimme the scoop.’

Donovan carefully closed the door to Murcheson’s diminutive office and pulled out a piece of white paper. He unfolded the torn-off page and handed it over. ‘I need you to run these names against any medical reference books borrowed from libraries. Last three months, say. If that’ll be too slow, use “Coumadin” as a key word.’

Murcheson made a point of checking both sides of the page. ‘I guess it ain’t kosher, then. I mean, that don’t look like an official authorization slip from the Vice Admiral.’

‘No, it isn’t.’

‘Am I gonna get into trouble for this?’ queried Murcheson.

‘Possibly,’ Donovan admitted openly.

‘Good. It’s about time I got me a life. This is a damn boring job.’ He sat down again in his undersized chair and eagerly pirouetted to the terminal.

*

Donovan pressed the “page down” button on the keyboard.

How do I fit into this speech that Michael Fane, the son of the Vice-President, was actually fathered by the president?

‘Somehow I don’t see us crossing the White House off our list of suspects,’ voiced Baker again.

20

“Computers are useless. They can only give you answers.”
Pablo Picasso (1881-1973)

Pandemonium broke out in the Excalibur Suite. The motive had been clearly established and it could point to only one source. It occurred to everyone in the room that Aitken had been murdered because of the information, and now everyone in the room knew.

‘Calm down, everyone, calm down,’ shouted Hawthorne above the clamor. The noise quickly subsided and nervous faces turned towards him.

‘Relax,’ he said. ‘No one knows we know so let’s keep it that way. We don’t use the JCOS system or the Internet – too easy to tap. We’re going back to basics on this one.’

‘Just how the hell do we prove that Michael is Wilburforce’s son?’ asked Payne.

‘I don’t think it matters whether what Aitken says is true or not,’ added Kemp. ‘The slur alone would cost him the election.’

‘Oh, it’s true,’ concluded Hawthorne. ‘Aitken had been working on his speech for years. There’s no way he would have devalued it by putting in a false allegation.’

‘Why put it in at all?’ asked Baker, ‘It kinda detracts from the message somewhat. Everyone will be talking about Michael’s parentage and not the religious angle.’

‘Global coverage,’ replied Benditoz. ‘The Lewinsky affair was hot news for a year around the world. Aitken recognized that the speech would only get serious air-time in America otherwise, and even then it would be gone in a week. He was an ambitious man, I’ll say that for him.’

‘So what are we gonna do,’ asked McConnell, ‘get DNA samples from the President, the Vice-President and the kid?’

Hawthorne’s mind raced. ‘You know, that’s exactly what we’re going to do.’

*

The query indicator on Murcheson’s VDU was still stuck annoyingly at ninety-nine percent and was refusing to budge. Donovan stared avidly at the screen.

‘So what’s all this for?’ asked Murcheson. Donovan realized he hadn’t breathed for a full thirty seconds. He filled his lungs.

‘Murky, if you weren’t a friend, I’d tell you,’ he replied, his eyes still focused on the indicator. ‘Does anyone audit the runs you make on this baby?’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll say it was a systems check. I’ll run a few more variations later this morning and write up a performance report for the VA. He likes initiative.’

Donovan started to drum the desk rhythmically with his fingers. Like an impatient driver at a red light, he willed the query to finish and started a countdown in his head, his fingers the metronome. Come on, come on. Ten, nine, eight…

*

Hawthorne rechecked his watch, all too aware of the deadline creeping towards them. Excalibur may have established a motive, but they had no proof as yet that it was the motive or indeed that the motive was true. The all-important goal of a name and an arrest was not yet within their grasp. Proving the allegation would have to come later.

They were living on suppositions and intangibles. Instead of going into detail on the plans that had formed in his mind, Hawthorne wanted everyone focused on pinpointing the assassin.

‘That’s it, time’s up for John. We’ve less than eight hours now. Sorry Mary, it was worth the try.

‘Heather, give Pretty Boy the green light to release the sketch to the press with the appropriate blurb underneath it.’ Baker immediately dialed Thompson’s number.

The room had a funereal quality to it. The team were gazing into space, avoiding each others eyes as one does in grief or defeat, deep in their own thoughts. There was a heavy silent air, punctuated only by Baker’s low voice. Damned shame, thought Hawthorne as he started to write down the names of reliable agents he knew. They may be tainted with failure, too, but it would weigh more easily on fifty shoulders than just a handful.

Baker replaced the receiver and silence ensued.

Although there were only a few years between them, he felt paternal to the rest of the team. It had so much potential, so much to offer, and now so much to lose. Yet with all their combined talents, they were impotent. He was so absorbed in planning damage limitation to Excalibur that he failed to see the symmetry. Wilburforce was relying on Excalibur to win the election for him, whilst Excalibur was relying on Donovan’s husband to pull a rabbit out of a hat for their own survival. Minutes went by.

The chiming of Donovan’s telephone jolted Hawthorne and several other members close to it out of their reverie. She snatched the receiver before the second ring even had a chance.

‘Yes?’ All eyes were anxiously upon her.

She suddenly glanced down at her table, her eyes darting across its surface.

‘Pen! Pen!’ she shouted in frustration, frantically pushing files out of the way in a futile search for one. She lurched forward before anyone could respond, grabbing the pen out of Hawthorne’s hand and started to scribble furiously.

‘Thanks, kiss, bye,’ she said quickly and hung up.

‘We’ve got him,’ she grinned punching aloft the piece of paper. ‘We’ve got him! ’

‘Leving borrowed the Physicians' Desk Reference from a library in Osceola, Iowa three weeks ago. It’s the drug bible for doctors,’ Donovan announced to the team. ‘And Coumadin’s in it,’ she added.

Hawthorne quickly opened Leving’s dossier and double-checked his last known address. ‘Mary, what’s the nearest airport to Woodburn, Iowa?’ She consulted her trusty computer.

‘Osceola Municipal. Nine miles away.’

‘Get us a charter immediately at National. Heather, get in contact with the nearest SWAT and have them meet us there with spare combat kits for us,’ he fired, ‘but give them no more information. I don’t care how much they complain. David, have Eammon and a full forensics crew join us outside in ten minutes. Team, we’ve got a plane to catch.’

He snatched the phone and rang Technical Support. ‘Richard Timms please,’ he said in a rush. ‘Richard, Sam. Remember those balloons you were talking about a couple of weeks ago? Well now’s your chance. Outside in ten? Excellent. No idea, check the weather map. Woodburn, Iowa.’ He crashed the receiver back in place. He would ring Judge Simmons for search and arrest warrants on the way to the airport.

‘Sam!’ exclaimed Baker, cupping a hand over the mouthpiece she was using. ‘The press release! We’ve got to stop it!’

Hawthorne’s hand flew back to his phone, but the movement stopped just as quickly as it had started. ‘No,’ he smiled. ‘The funny thing is, it works for us. That photofit is so generic, Leving will think we’re desperate for clues. He’ll be feeling very secure when he next turns on his TV. The last thing he will expect is a visit by the Feds.’

‘What about Douglas?’ asked Benditoz. ‘Shouldn’t we tell him we’ve found the guy?’

‘Hands up those who think we should let him sweat?’ asked Hawthorne.

It was unanimous.

*

The team was in luck, but not at Washington National. Including Timms and the forensics team, Hawthorne needed a plane that could hold at least twelve people plus equipment, as well as being able to land comfortably on a hot runway less than four thousand feet long. Donovan learned that heat was a factor in stopping distance for airplanes; the higher the temperature, the greater distance was required. After three quick calls, Donovan had managed to secure a spare Jetstream 32EP that fitted the criteria, a nineteen-seater turboprop from Atlantic Coast Airlines at Dulles.

*

‘So, Heather, what did you make of the speech?’ asked McConnell, finally looking away from the aircraft’s window once the plane had leveled off. He noticed the quizzical look on her face. ‘The religious bit.’

‘On paper, it makes a whole bunch of sense, but it just doesn’t feel right. You know what I mean?’

‘Gospel choir girl with a college education?’

‘You got it. It’s a damn shame that someone of such power was so closed off in his mind about the idea of God. I mean, how do you explain color to a blind man?’ she asked.

‘True,’ conceded McConnell. “Atheism’s a belief just as Christianity or Islam. Even Aitken said so himself’.

‘I’m not sure which is scarier, that there is a God or that there isn’t.’

‘Well, if there is a God, he’s definitely a substance abuser.’

‘How’s that?’

‘You ever seen a duck bill platypus?’ asked McConnell. His grin quickly faded when he saw the exasperated look on his colleague’s face. ‘Hey, I’ve got a great idea,’ he said.

‘Go on,’ Baker said wearily.

‘Let’s change the subject.’ The conversation quickly downshifted into childhood stories where they were both more comfortable.

*

Over half way through the two-hour flight, Hawthorne woke up. Most of the team had been too hyped up to even think of sleeping. Cursing himself, he re-opened Leving’s dossier that lay on his lap. Looks like any other soldier, he thought. Strong chin, short hair, just a hint of steely menace in the eyes. Not overtly muscular. More like a greyhound than a bulldog.
His heart sank. There were complications with Leving. He had been one of the wet-boys that officially did not exist. Having spent all night pouring over Kemp’s dossiers, Hawthorne could recall almost all the information on the man without having to look down.

Hawthorne needed to stretch his legs. He unfastened his seatbelt and stood up, taking in the scene behind him. Timms and Walsh had not trusted their sensitive equipment to the cargo hold nor the overheads, preferring instead to strap them securely to the spare padded blue seats. They were busy bringing themselves up to speed with Leving’s dossier.

Baker and McConnell seem to have really struck up a friendship, Hawthorne noticed. The two were heavily involved in a conversation. From the smiles and grins it was obviously not about work.

He had seen it before. Lonely agents tended to bond closely in highly stressful situations. The FBI was littered with short-fuse romances. He hoped they were experienced enough to know in advance what the likely outcome would be.

He checked that everyone else was awake. The Jetstream’s two McCauley propellers were tolerably quiet. ‘OK. Let’s recap. Sean Edward Leving, born December fifth, 1958 in Ames, Iowa. Five ten, one fifty-five pounds, black hair and brown eyes. That’s pretty close to your estimate, Eammon. Small tattoo of two crossed arrows on the upper left shoulder and a one inch scar on the left thigh. Single. Both parents William and Claire, deceased, one sister, Elizabeth. Last known location is The Grange, a large cabin in Woodburn, Iowa that backs onto Stephens State Forest.’

‘Convenient for getaways,’ murmured Baker to McConnell. He replied with a nod.

‘Iowa State University,’ recited Hawthorne. ‘Majored in phys-ed, minored in mechanical engineering. Did basic training in ’81 at Fort Bragg rising to corporal in the Eighteenth Airborne. Transferred in ’85 to Special Ops, Green Berets, also at Fort Bragg and then in ’93 as sergeant to the Third US Infantry at the then-new Fort Myer, just across the river from the Hoover Building. Honorable discharge two years ago and hasn’t worked since.

‘According to the NSA file on him, he was used twice for black bag jobs on US soil whilst at Fort Myer. Prior to that it was all foreign ops with the Green Berets, no details. Although he was with the Third, he also liaised unofficially with the 319th Military Intelligence Battalion back at Fort Bragg. They co-ordinate a lot of Army Intelligence with other agencies including the FBI. That’s why the NSA had a file on him.’

The team had already been through Leving’s details with a fine toothcomb during the night, but Hawthorne felt it necessary to refresh everyone’s memory as well as summarize for the extra agents, all of whom where forensic specialists working under Walsh. It had made sense to them to have a wet-boy hidden within the Third. It was outside the Pentagon albeit by just over two miles by road, and the Third was known as the Old Guard, acting as Escort to the President of the United States as well as having many ceremonial duties. Who would look there?

It had annoyed the team that there were no details forthcoming on the two black ops apart from the fact that one was an execution and the other interrogation by torture, both involving foreign nationals.

‘According to the info that David and Mary’s husband have managed to eke out, he’d become disillusioned and frustrated having so few opportunities to put his talents to work, plus the fact that he had only risen to sergeant. The trouble was, he was never officer material, but a highly talented grunt. Have I missed anything so far?’

‘His last psyche-evaluation showed green lights across the board,’ Kemp added. ‘The parting was amicable. The army assumed, wrongly, that he would go into the private security business.’

‘Yes,’ Hawthorne confirmed, ‘only he’s been on no payroll we know of. Implicated in five assassinations since he left - two minor officials in the Teamsters on separate occasions, an adulterous wife of a rich businessman, that was in Washington by the way, an old woman worth millions, and a gang boss from Detroit.

‘We’ve never been able to pin anything on him, though. Observations, anyone?’

Payne was the first. ‘His victims in the main had either some power or influence, but none political. It doesn’t look as if he was still working for Uncle Sam on the quiet. Just a gun for hire.’

‘I agree,’ said Baker out loud, ‘but it still doesn’t rule out Uncle Sam making use of him if he’s so readily for hire. They know his capabilities, from what’s here in the file he’s quite an all-rounder, and they’d have detachable distance. He’s perfect.’

‘What about the MO’s on these attributed kills?’ asked Benditoz.

‘Three were faked as burglaries that went wrong, but the method of killing was way too professional, if that’s what you’re getting at,’ replied Hawthorne.

‘The only common thread I can see is that none of the hits would have come cheap and there was much to gain by the beneficiaries,’ observed McConnell. ‘Apart from that there’s no real link. How were the hits attributable to him anyway?’

‘Nothing on forensics otherwise we would have had him,’ said Walsh. ‘Car parking ticket, location of credit card receipts, and plane tickets. The usual circumstantial shit. All put him within a couple of miles of these hits within an hour or two. Either he’s got a penchant for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, or he’s our man.’

‘Remember, these are only the ones we know about. Christ knows how many others there have been,’ Hawthorne reminded the team.

‘What about the religious angle?’ asked Benditoz.

‘May have been part of the equation, but I doubt it. More likely it would be the kick of killing someone so high-up – his previous jobs had been fairly low-level affairs with relatively low security. This was a real test of his skills.’

The ‘Fasten seat belt’ sign lit up with a warm chime.

Payne looked out of the small window to his left and the ground below. Giant tiles of corn yellow and every hue of green and brown filled the landscape. He turned to Benditoz next to him.

‘Ah, Iowa,’ he pronounced. ‘The place where men are men and sheep are nervous.’

*

The Jetstream taxied with ease to the end of the short runway to where a large blue SWAT van and open fields were waiting for them. Most of the SWAT team had elected to seek shelter from the midday sun and stay inside their vehicle, but as the Jetstream neared one by one they jumped out of the back. Without their combats on, their lightweight cotton T-shirts and lean builds made them look like a gym instructor convention. Baker leaned back to Donovan who was sitting behind her. ‘Had a dream like this once.’ Donovan nodded with a smile.

Hawthorne stepped off first and introduced himself to the obvious leader.

‘Well, Hawthorne,’ greeted a deeply moustached swatter, ‘I’m Sergeant Ben Crystal, Des Moines. This had better be good.’ Hawthorne explained. It was.

‘Well, it sure beats a hold up,’ understated Crystal. ‘That’s all we normally get ’round these parts. Well, that ’n crop circles. You got a plan of the building?’

Donovan, who along with the rest of the team had deplaned by then, passed over a satellite photo she had downloaded from the Corona archives, part of the now-declassified material from the National Reconnaissance Office, on her portable during the flight.

‘Not of the inside. It’s just a cabin, so no second floor,’ she apologized.

‘Well that makes things a lot less complicated now, doesn’t it. I’ll let you off, miss.’ Crystal cast his expert eyes over the picture whilst stroking the growth under his nose.

The cabin appeared to be about the size of a small bungalow. The thick woodland of bur oaks and white elms of Stephens State Forest were exceptionally close to the cabin’s rear. Although providing excellent cover, it could not be used. The inevitable snapping of dry twigs that would be littering the floor ruled out an approach by stealth.

There was a sizeable clearing in front of the cabin covered by bluestem grass and peppered with a few young oaks. Dissecting the clearing was an almost straight dirt track that ran towards the cabin before bending sharply to the left towards a smaller building, presumably a garage, which stood at a slight angle to the cabin.

‘Visitors?’ Crystal asked finally.

‘No idea. To be honest, we don’t even know if he’s home.’

Crystal sighed. ‘Neighbors?’

‘Nearest is about a mile and a half away,’ said Donovan.

‘Dogs?’

‘Pass.’

Crystal had led his team into situations with more unknowns before. The single story building was a gift, though. ‘How good are your people, Hawthorne?’ he asked, looking at his visitors with an appraising eye.

‘Pretty good. Why?’

‘Well, I’ve only got eighteen men including myself. With all that woodland immediately at the back, I’d’ve preferred to station men at ten yard intervals forty yards out.’ He drew a semi-circle with his finger at the back of the cabin. ‘If he takes that route he’ll have about a dozen swatters to get past and he won’t be moving quietly.

‘Three snipers covering the sides and front and six as the entry team, using the trees at the front and the garage as cover. If you include the tactical medic who’s with one of the snipers, that’s twenty-two agents. Overkill maybe, but it’s foolproof.

‘Trouble is, you never told me what the hell we were here for.’ He took his baseball cap off and wiped the sweat from his forehead before replacing it. ‘I’ll just have to squeeze the men at the back in closer by ten yards. But that’ll take more time if they’re gonna do it quietly. That’ll save three, and Dobson there can double up as sniper and medic.’

‘Don’t worry,’ stated Hawthorne, ‘Most of us are qualified.’

‘No can do,’ replied Crystal, ‘This is a SWAT takedown.’ He could already see the headlines. A thin smile crossed Hawthorne’s lips. He just hoped that the glory hound would be up to the task. Crystal seemed to read his mind. ‘And I ain’t gonna be responsible for you getting your collective asses shot off.’

There was the slightest of breezes and Hawthorne could almost feel Timms straining at the leash behind him. He did not bother to turn around. ‘There’s a bonus on this trip. Let me introduce you to possibly the smartest electronics guy I know.’

*

Baker could almost smell the testosterone in the large blue SWAT van as it sped towards Woodburn. In total, it carried thirty occupants and all bar her and Donovan were male. Including all the forensic equipment and Timms mysterious box of tricks it was a tight squeeze. She was thankful that the overhead fan was on, even if it was not air-conditioning.

Curiously enough, hardly anyone was paying her any attention. They were more interested in giving their weapons a final check. It had taken only minutes for the swatters to get themselves fully geared up. It never ceased to amaze Baker just how many different weapons SWAT used. One had a Benelli Super 90, an entry shotgun, three had large Remingtons for sniper work and the rest were oiling their MP-5 sub machine guns. She felt quite inadequate with her nine millimeter Glock tucked into her belt over her protective vest. Well, who said size matters, she thought.

‘That’s a beaut,’ said Benditoz admiring the Benelli of the swatter next to him. He held out his hand. ‘May I?’

‘No,’ came the reply. ‘Bad joss.’

Baker looked over at Donovan and they exchanged glances. Donovan seemed content, and why not? She and her husband had pinpointed Leving as the assassin, and Donovan was finally in the field, not that Crystal was allowing them close to any action. In a way she felt sorry for her. Had Donovan realized yet that no one would be allowed to know about the Library Awareness Program? That she and her husband would get no public recognition? They were going to have to rely on any evidence they could find in his cabin for a prosecution.

There was a sudden heavy bump and everyone jerked in unison. The majority of the swatters did not seem to notice, and carried on inspecting their weapons.

‘Hey Larry,’ shouted Crystal towards the front of the van. ‘Just ’coz we’re wearing body armor doesn’t mean you can drive over potholes at leisure.’

‘Sorry!’ came a distant reply. ‘We’re on a dirt track now. Just a couple of miles to go.’

Hawthorne was beginning to have his doubts.

*

At six hundred yards from the cabin the van eased quietly to a halt. Timms jumped out of the back and his large metallic case was passed to him carefully. He placed it gently on the floor and unclasped the lid, revealing an item similar to a remote control device for a toy airplane together with a thin portable computer embedded in a tray of gray foam. Underneath lay a small light-blue weather balloon attached to the bottom of which was a matching plastic cube no more than two inches in size. On four of the faces of the block were fans and its underneath housed a minicam. A thick plastic rod, metallic at the end, protruded from the top of the cube into the heart of the balloon.

Timms inflated the balloon and switched on the portable. The screen came slowly to life, showing an out of focus black and white image. He pressed a small button on the remote control and the balloon grew slightly in size and slowly lifted from Timms’ hand. As the balloon climbed into the air, the image on the screen became sharper.

‘The end of the rod is a heater which controls the altitude,’ he explained to his audience. The fans controlling position are inaudible at sixty feet. Picture’s only black and white, but the image is good to five hundred. I’m hoping to incorporate infrared and night vision on the beta version.’

To demonstrate, he maneuvered the balloon, now just a dot in the sky so it was directly above him and enlarged the image so that the top of his head filled the screen.

‘It can track a walking suspect with up to a fifteen mile an hour crosswind or someone running at pretty much full stretch with no wind at all. Any more and the image becomes too shaky and the fans get too loud.’

Timms was elated to hear the murmuring of awe eminating from the van. ‘Forget your JSTARS, your Keyholes and your Bitsies. Including the portable, well over ten thousand of these’ll get you one JSTAR. The image is clearer and you don’t have to worry about it crossing the horizon. On a perfect day like this, he’ll never know it’s there unless he enjoys looking directly into the sun.’

‘What if he dives into the forest?’ queried Crystal. ‘You’ll lose him pretty quick, then.’

‘Can we please get the show on the road, gentlemen,’ asked an impatient Hawthorne. Timms would regale the swatters for hours given half a chance.

‘I presume you’ve issued your men with ears,’ rushed a vexed Timms in answer to Crystal’s criticism as he climbed into the back of the truck. ‘Now, anyone know the direction of Leving’s cabin from here?’

*

After Timms had positioned the balloon four hundred feet directly above the cabin, he set the magnification on minimum allowing Crystal to use it to demonstrate his strategy and assign his team to their roles and positions. The image showed no activity around either of the buildings. There was no clue as to whether Leving was at home or not. If he were in the cabin, his vehicle was in the garage.

‘Remember, the subject has had more training than you could dream of,’ warned Hawthorne.

‘Yeah, but he ain’t SWAT,’ shot back one of Crystal’s men. Was that a morale booster or basic ignorance, wondered Hawthorne. He was already seeing the whole operation go awry. Nine men dressed in black silently jumped out of the van and disappeared into the shadows of the forest to slowly circle around the back of the cabin and move into their positions.

Crystal was concerned about the effect of the intense heat outside on his men and wanted the snipers and entry team as comfortable as possible. ‘Who the hell thought of such a dark color for the SWAT gear,’ he cursed out loud as he mopped his brow. It made them heat magnets. The body armor did not help either. He had the vehicle creep forward at a snail’s pace, allowing his remaining men and Hawthorne’s team to remain shaded inside. The van remained hidden from the cabin by the leading edge of the forest to their left. Timms monitored their progress onscreen, judging how far they could move forward undetected.

‘Thirty yards,’ he announced after what had seemed like an eternity.

‘You want to call it a day here?’ suggested Hawthorne.

‘No. Let’s take it to the edge,’ replied Crystal with confidence. ‘This baby’s got mufflers. He’ll not hear it. We’re still over a hundred and sixty yards from the cabin.’ Hawthorne tried unsuccessfully to shake the bad feeling that was rapidly spreading through his body. The van continued its cautious advance, the noise of the insects as loud as the engine.

Five yards ahead there was a large crack in the dirt track, caused by the prolonged heat that summer. The last two miles had been little more than scorched earth and tinderbox wood. There were some fresh tracks that bent around the obstruction. The crack was navigable, but the driver did not want to be admonished again, especially since everyone’s nerves were on edge, and decided to follow the small detour.

*

Timms was not the only one to use cheap, crude technology. When a television tube implodes, the inside vacuum propels sharp, jagged pieces of glass from the back of the tube forward at terrifying speed. The front wheels of the SWAT van ran over two of them buried just under the new track’s surface and the combined thunder of the implosions and the explosion of tires could be heard a mile away.

*

Leving leapt out of his chair like a cat.

21

“I fear we have only awakened a sleeping giant, and his reaction will be terrible.”
Isoroku Yamamoto (1884–1943)

‘Go! Go! Go! ’ shouted Crystal to his swatters. He stuck his hand out as Hawthorne’s team rose with everyone else. ‘Stay!’ he ordered and disappeared out of the back of the van.

‘Alive, Crystal! Alive! ’ shouted Hawthorne after him.

‘Jesus, I feel so useless,’ complained Donovan, saying out loud what everyone was feeling. They crowded around Timms’ screen to watch the drama unfold.

‘He’ll have an escape plan, you know,’ remarked McConnell, watching the swatters on screen deploying by twos to their assigned positions. The sound of erratic gunfire could already be heard.

*

Leving had decided not to put on his chemical hood just yet, but kept it within reach as always. It would reduce his vision and hearing and make his face sweat. The humidity was already bad enough. Whoever was outside probably knew who they were dealing with and would attempt to flush him out with tear-gas. The hood would buy him only a few minutes. Besides, it was there for another reason.

When tear-gas failed, they would enter with flash-bangs. There was little protection from those, and he estimated he had less than two minutes to effect an escape. He had practiced it over a hundred times and the record was just less than sixty seconds. He threw a blanket from his bed into a large rusting pail of water he kept permanently topped up near the freshly painted rear window.

He knew he was up against seasoned professionals. He could tell from their zigzag movements from one tree to the next. Probably SWAT judging by the kit, he figured.

The teams approaching cautiously from the front were firing at random at the cabin. Leving’s suspicion was confirmed when he heard shouts of FBI. To the untrained, the firing of automatics would have appeared to be either an act of desperation, hoping to get off that one magical shot or a laying down of suppression fire so they could advance. Leving knew better. They were masking the sounds of others approaching through the forest behind him.

It frightened him that he was maintaining such an air of calm. Am I welcoming death or has it been drilled into me? There was a curious mixture of disappointment and relief.

Leving had been a troubled man. The last three days had been lost to him. The memory of them seemed somehow foggy, like a man recalling a drunken spell through snapshots rather than the video playback of lucidity. What the hell have I been doing lately? He had heard of it before with other assassins and black-baggers, the brain divorcing itself from reality, entering a trance-like mode when a distasteful job came along.

He had experienced it to a degree before when killing the adulterous wife, but it had been nothing like this. Why is killing a woman so much more difficult? He had never figured that one out. Funny, all I can remember this time is staring at this ceiling. Who the hell have I pissed off?

The thoughts disappeared as soon as they had surfaced. All sense of touch, smell and taste were lost to him. Sight and sound, as his trainers had drilled into him from his inception in the Green Berets, became his entire world. There was no emotion. Defending oneself was always easier to deal with than murder.

As Leving had no idea how close the swatters approaching from the back were he lost no time. Pulling up two unsecured floorboards in the middle of the cabin, he extracted a M203 40mm grenade launcher, slightly longer than his lean forearm. Normally this would hang under an automatic but Leving had no need for a second weapon. Anyway, wheeling a three-pound firearm was much easier than an eleven-pounder. He slid a fragmentation grenade from a box that had been lying next to it in the earth into position, aimed the launcher at random out of the broken front window and pulled the trigger. When it exploded a second later five feet from the ground, two thousand objects of death sliced the air in all directions.

Crystal and three of his men died instantly. Although they had excellent cover from the cabin, the grenade had exploded within twenty yards behind them. Their vests could stop most bullets but they were not designed to withstand the onslaught of miniature razors travelling close to the speed of sound. For three of them, their internal organs had been ripped to shreds. A fourth had died when most of his neck had separated from his shoulders.

‘Down, frags!’ shouted Crystal’s second in command. Since the explosion of the tires on the SWAT van, only twenty seconds had elapsed.

*

‘Richard, zoom in!’ ordered Hawthorne, the report from the grenade still echoing in the van and between his ears. The scene was carnage. Timms’ camera zeroed in to the area where they had seen the flash. Just a few inches above, Donovan counted four bodies. From the way they were lying on the ground she knew they were dead. Her hand flew to her mouth. Seeing the LA riots on television had been one thing, but seeing death less than one hundred yards from her was something else. Her mind forced her hand back to her lap. Control, Mary, control. This is what you wanted. How do I unknot my stomach?

‘Bastard’s only got one rule to play by,’ said Hawthorne bitterly, ‘Survival.’

*

Leving wheeled around and slammed his body against the thick oak wall at the back of the cabin. He smashed the window next to him with the box of grenades. It was immediately met with rapid gunfire. One of the bullets had actually pierced the fire-retardant box. Jesus, they’re closer than I thought. Maybe I should have dealt with them first, he rued. Fragmentation grenades were useless with the thick cover the forest afforded. Anyway, there was another type of grenade that was vital for his escape.

He picked out five M406 grenades and slotted the first into the launcher. As he dare not look out of the window, he extended his right arm, angled the launcher in the rough direction of the gunfire and fired. He had no need for accuracy. He continued reloading and spraying the grenades evenly into the forest.

*

The M406 is a spectacular piece of high-explosive ordnance, having an immediate killing zone of over ten yards. The parched forest welcomed them with open branches.

*

The first detonation had killed only one of the SWAT team flanking the cabin from the forest, and the others wasted no time. Sounds of ‘Retreat! Retreat! ’ were shouted out in all directions. What the hell did he have? Hidden oil-drums somewhere? Land mines? The swatters turned their back on the cabin and ran for their lives, their eyes scanning the twigs and dried leaves beneath them desperate for clues. As more explosions of white and brilliant yellow rocked the air behind them the flames leapt into the arid atmosphere and started to eat the forest at an alarming rate. Woodburn was living up to its name.

*

‘Shit! ’ cursed Hawthorne leaping to his feet and looking around desperately about him for a fire extinguisher. There were two next to the driver’s seat and he lurched towards them. ‘The smart sonofabitch!’ I should have seen it. ‘He’s creating a forest fire to escape through! We need to get to that cabin and save everything we can before it’s all destroyed. Move!’ He jumped out of the back of the van with everyone close behind apart from Timms. He had elected to stay. What the hell can I do? I’m a desk-jock. The updraft from the intense heat was making the balloon’s position unstable and he did not like it one bit.

They raced into the open and past two of the snipers that had taken up position eighty yards from the cabin. Fuckin’ amateurs, thought one of the swatters. ‘Come on!’ shouted Baker over her shoulder, ‘He’s going out the back and we need evidence!’ Realizing what was happening, they snatched up their rifles and sped after them.

‘Vince, Jim, take the garage,’ ordered Hawthorne. The two agents forked to the left.

*

Leving darted his head out of the back window. Ignoring the blast of heat against his face he surveyed the fire closing in around him. Satisfied that all was according to plan, he leaned over to his computer near his left side and unlocked the hard drive, tucking it under his belt. He turned off the cell phone that was attached to it and left it.

He took one last glance at what had been his home for the last three years – the cherished Bang and Olufsen that looked so out of place, the small picture of his sister atop an oak chest next to his bed. He donned his chemical hood and pulled the sopping blanket from the bucket, wrapping it around his shoulders. With one hand holding the two edges of the blanket and the grenade launcher close to his chest, he grabbed the box of grenades with the other and vaulted out of the window splintering the remaining glass and ran towards the flames.

The inferno would be spreading at just over ten miles an hour, but his legs could easily outpace it. He would only be in the fire for thirty seconds he calculated and there was a motor bike stashed two miles into the forest.

*

Hawthorne crashed his shoulder into the cabin door splintering the wood around the hinges. It careened across the floor with Hawthorne rolling on top of it. All the furniture was against the walls, leaving no obstacles to negotiate in the middle. Everyone poured inside as their automatics swept the room. Nothing.

Two swatters ran to the broken pane at the far end of the wood cabin knowing it would be safe - Leving would be concentrating fully on the inferno and not watching his six. Against the bright yellow that almost blinded them, one caught a glimpse of black moving in and out of view forty yards away. He swept his rifle up to his shoulder. His instinct had been to fire immediately, for Keith, Bobby, John and Ben, but this stranger had been adamant that Leving be taken alive.

‘Sir, yes or no?’ he called urgently to Hawthorne.

Hawthorne was at an impasse. It was vital that Leving be caught alive, otherwise the trail would end there. Not that we would be able to break Leving, he thought. He very much doubted that the room would tell him who the paymaster had been, particularly as the small computer next to the window had a gaping hole in it. Leving was taking any evidence trail with him. No trail, no trial.

‘Yes or no?’ repeated the swatter.

Yet there was no way that they could follow him into the flames. Once gone, he would be gone for good. Even if they were to get close a second time, what were the odds that civilians might get in harm’s way? Hawthorne had no problem with the death penalty, so long as it was reserved for murderers. I’ll give up on the death penalty when they do. He had seen Leving murder four SWAT members, but to act as judge and jury left a bitter taste in his mouth. He could not wound Leving either – he would die in the fire. It was all or nothing. Justice or safety.
‘Sir? ’ insisted the sniper. He had only seconds left before Leving was totally hidden by the blaze.
You probably know Miss Miranda better than me, so let’s cut the crap, OK?

‘Take him.’

‘Thank you.’

*

The inside of Leving’s chemical hood exploded into a mist of red and gray as the bullet struck its target perfectly.

*

The flames were less than sixty yards from the cabin and closing uncomfortably fast. ‘Mary, Heather, buy some time,’ barked Hawthorne, lobbing the two fire extinguishers towards them. The more muscular agents, together with the forensics team that had lagged safely behind and had finally caught up, started carrying furniture and equipment out of the cabin to the clearing at the front whilst Donovan and Baker leapt out of the window towards the heat behind them. Donovan had fleetingly noticed a cell phone connected to Leving’s empty computer but paid it no more attention. Forget computers, Mary. This is Life. She had not even noticed the deep gash in the hand from the splintered glass.

‘What about calling the fire services,’ reminded one of the agents anxiously. The fire was spreading unhindered through the forest in his beloved state.

‘No time. This takes priority, trust me,’ advised Hawthorne.

*

McConnell and Benditoz shot the chain holding the faded red garage doors together and prized them open. A dark blue Ford Ranger dominated what obviously doubled as a tool-shed. The pickup had been kept in immaculate condition. They shimmied around the vehicle and started to throw toolboxes and anything else they thought was possible evidence into the back of it. There was a slow creaking noise as the large doors closed slowly behind them.

‘Hey, Vince,’ said McConnell to his colleague who was nearer the front of the vehicle. ‘You know how to break into one of these things?’

‘Hey, man,’ replied Benditoz. ‘I’m from New York,’ and smashed the driver’s window with a crowbar he happened to have in his hands.

*

The box of grenades still held by Leving’s smoking hand started to crack around the bullet hole from the intense heat. It lay less than eighty yards from the cabin.

*

The smoke and heat were becoming intolerable to Donovan and Baker. Leaves of fire swirled around their heads and enormous black claws of smoke reached for them. The small fire extinguishers were having little effect. ‘Come on! ’ shouted Baker above the roar. She could already smell her hair singeing. ‘Any more time here and you’ll start to look like me!’
‘No! ’ cried Donovan with uncharacteristic vehemence. ‘Ten more seconds! ’

Hawthorne smashed the music center out the swatter’s hands. ‘Valuable forensic evidence!’ Over half of the furniture had already been removed to the clearing. The more experienced forensics team under Walsh's direction had started with the clothes cupboard and the shower area. Walsh had shaken his head in disgust. How many extraneous fingerprints and fibers were he and his team now having to deal with?

Hawthorne turned to the window. ‘How are we doing?’ he shouted.

‘Almost time!’ yelled Baker. The flames were starting to lick the two nearby corners of the cabin and her extinguisher felt uncomfortably light.

*

The far wall of the garage had begun to smolder and crack. With no other option available, Benditoz crawled through the Ranger’s window and started to cross the wires expertly underneath the steering wheel. Within seconds, the engine leapt to life. Taking his cue, McConnell jumped into the back of the pickup as Benditoz slammed his foot on the accelerator. The garage doors crashed open and splintered from the bottom hinges as the Ford Ranger sped out of the garage.

*

Smoke started to issue from inside the box of grenades.

*

Baker clambered back through the window into the smoking cabin. It was impossible to go around the building anymore. Donovan, her face a mask of sweat and ash, was close behind.

The tarmac roof had been subjected to a deluge of fiery rain, and the air inside was fast becoming thick and toxic. Liquefied tar had started to drip from miniscule gaps in the rafters and had begun to burn exposed hair and skin. ‘Grab his shoes and then get the hell outta here!’ coughed Hawthorne, sweating profusely from heat and exertion with one end of Leving’s bed. The shoes had lain unseen in a neat row underneath the bedstead. The two women quickly gathered them up in their arms and ran for the door.

Donovan suddenly halted. Had she really seen it earlier? Was she mistaken? Had it been taken out by the rest of the team, or in the panic had they left it thinking that a PC and its equipment was useless to them without a hard drive? If she was right it could only mean one thing. With dawning horror she turned and forced her way through the thick, acrid haze back towards the broken window. She had to know.

*

At that exact moment the box of grenades cracked in half exposing its contents to the full force of the raging fire and the potent cocktail of high explosives and fragmentation grenades exploded simultaneously.

*

The blast was so violent that the surrounding trees yet untouched by the flames had their parched leaves blown off and the entire cabin was momentarily blanketed in flame. Its back wall collapsed, pulling down half of the roof with it.

All heads turned instinctively towards the deafening boom. ‘Mary! ’ bellowed Hawthorne. He, Benditoz and Baker sped towards the cabin.

Donovan staggered out of what remained of Leving’s door clutching her stomach and collapsed into their approaching outstretched arms. They carried her to the relatively safe area of the clearing and lay her down gently. Her face was a mass of cuts and black ash. Blood oozed through her vest and clenched fingers and the odor of burnt hair and charred flesh engulfed her. It could only have one outcome.

‘Sam?’ she said softly but urgently. Her voice gurgled.

‘I’m here, Mary,’ he cried, caressing her forehead.

‘Phone,’ she said with an effort. Red bubbles were beginning to appear in her mouth as she spoke. Hawthorne pulled his cell phone from the back pocket of his trousers. His fingers hovered over the buttons.

‘What’s John’s number, sweetheart?’

‘No,’ she whispered hoarsely and with the free arm weakly pushed Hawthorne’s hand holding the phone to the floor.

The medic started to unfasten her tight body vest. She slowly turned her head towards him. It flopped to the side. ‘Stop’, she said weakly but with conviction. ‘I want it on.’ He complied immediately. She moved her head clumsily back to Hawthorne at her other side. ‘Sam…you don’t understand…cell phone…computer…’ she rasped.

They were her dying words. As her bloody hand slipped from her stomach the gaping hole was exposed and her warm intestines starting to unravel over the sides before their eyes.

Hawthorne did not seem to notice. He cradled her in his arms and rocked her head gently. ‘You did great, field agent,’ he wept. ‘You did great.’

22

“We look forward to a world founded upon four essential human freedoms…freedom of speech and expression…freedom of every person to worship God in his own way…freedom from want…freedom from fear…”
Franklin D. Roosevelt (1882–1945)

‘That’s bullshit! They can’t do that!’ contested Hawthorne, jumping to his feet in the FBI Director’s office on the seventh floor.

‘Well they have, Sam,’ replied Douglas. ‘The President and the Attorney General. Case closed as far as they’re concerned.’

It had been three days since Woodburn. They had not been able to salvage everything that they had carried out from Leving’s cabin; the fire had started to encroach on the clearing outside and Hawthorne had Walsh decide which items were to be saved. He had selected in the main clothing and anything from the garage. He had not bothered with the driveless computer, but had taken the cell phone that had been attached. Donovan had not known it had been one of the first items rescued.

These, along with the bodies of Donovan, Crystal and the other swatters had been reverently loaded into the back of Leving’s Ranger and the SWAT van and driven slowly away. The van had suffered a broken axle from the strain of driving on two wheel rims on such a beaten track, but not before it had reached a safe distance.

Baker had been kept for overnight observation at the nearby Clarke County General in Osceola due to smoke inhalation and some small third degree burns. Although no one had realized at the time, it was on South Fillmore Street, the same as Leving’s library. To no one’s surprise, McConnell had volunteered to stay with her. ‘Told you smoking was bad for your health,’ he had admonished, stroking her hand in the small hours.

Walsh and his team had set to work immediately on the items once it had been delivered to his lab in Washington. Remembering Donovan’s warning, he had first examined Leving’s cell phone. What had she been trying to say?

It certainly was not the model that Aitken had been calling, which confirmed the fact that there was a third party who had hired Leving. The case was still only half-solved. In fact the cell phone was much bulkier than the modern models and that had intrigued Walsh. Leving seemed to have had a penchant for new sophisticated electronics. Why such an old model? It had already been dusted for fingerprints and the only ones on it had been Leving’s.

Walsh had switched it on, only to have the display ask for a PIN. He had frowned – the phone would have to go to another lab for a day, and time was reputation. If he remembered correctly, this model allowed three attempts before it would lock out. He had decided to use up two of them.

What code would Leving have used? Walsh had pulled Leving’s dossier and studied it carefully. His first unsuccessful attempt had been the first four digits of his army serial number. Remembering the picture of the woman in Leving’s cabin, presumably his sister given the likeness between the two, Walsh had then punched in 0828, her birthday.

He had paid dearly for his impatience. Leving had placed a small explosive in the phone, hence the need for a cumbersome model. At the second attempt it had blown off two of Walsh’s fingers from his left hand and seriously injured his groin area and left thigh.

He had been back at work the next day, much to the chagrin of both his doctor and his wife. Although unable to perform forensic work himself, he had sat his wheelchair and supervised. His staff also wished he had stayed at home – he had been in a foul mood despite the painkillers.

Confirmation that Leving had been the Aitken’s assassin had come, perversely enough, from one of the toolboxes that had lain in the garage. One of the chisels had been found to have minute traces of organic matter, and after an anxious wait the DNA tests had verified that it had once belonged to Aitken. It had surprised many that Leving would have kept such an incriminating piece of evidence, but Kemp had explained it as being a secret trophy of the assassin.

President Wilburforce had announced it to the press one hour later. Aitken’s speech was never mentioned; it had almost given him a heart attack when Douglas showed it to him. Hawthorne had carefully edited Aitken’s postscript regarding the parenthood of Michael Fane – even Douglas had been kept unaware of the true motive. According to Wilburforce the FBI was still trying to work out the motive, but the assassin had been caught and that was the main thing.

The President’s announcement also failed to mention that Leving was a known quantity to him, having personally sanctioned one of the ‘official’ assassinations that Leving had performed whilst at Fort Myer.

A poll the next day by the New York Times had the President ahead of Senator Harlow by five percentage points, even though he had lost the support of Iowa. The inferno had destroyed most of Stephens State Forest before firefighters had got it under control. It had taken two days.

*

‘But we still don’t know who hired Leving,’ complained Hawthorne sourly. He had little time for Douglas these days.

‘Yes, I know,’ replied Douglas, ‘Excalibur’s next investigation will be an analysis of the coming fall out when La Cosa Nostra meets the expanding Russian Mafia. I’ll want a detailed progress report each week. I’m sure our new beloved AG will be interested. Take as long as you like.’

Hawthorne was furious and made no attempt to hide it. ‘So we tie ourselves up in some nebulous crap? Is that it? You’ve succumbed to the dark side? What’s stopping me from going to the press?’

‘Sam. Sit down and stop playing the fool. You’ve two ears and only one mouth. Funny how people are so good at talking and so bad at listening. You haven’t quite grasped it have you?’ said a patient Douglas. A confused Hawthorne took his chair.

Douglas started playing absent-mindedly with his gold pen as he explained. ‘As I told you, my main concern is with the reputation of the FBI. Not mine, not yours, and not even the goddamn President’s. As far as the American public is concerned, the case is pretty much closed. Sure, there’ll be some conspiracy theory bandied about – always happens when the assassin is killed, but we can deal with it. As to who hired Leving, I’ll tell them we were getting too close to him for his other handiwork, and Aitken was his way of saying “back off”. There was no paymaster.’

‘And?’ asked Hawthorne with irritation.

‘And now that my main concern has been addressed, we move on to the second, nailing this bastard.’

*

Senator Harlow had tried to raise doubts about Leving and any man behind the trigger - the convenience of Leving’s death, but the public had proved quite resistant to the idea. They wanted the whole episode behind them and to carry on with their normal lives.

He had then turned upon the devastation of the forest, going to Woodburn and commiserating with the people there, decrying the loss of income from tourists and the hunting season whilst simultaneously bemoaning the death of so many white tailed deer. It was one of his favorite animals since childhood, according to Woodthorpe’s column the next day. Such loss would never have happened if he had been in charge.

The hardcore conservation vote nudged itself in his direction, despite the President declaring the forest a disaster zone and sending fifty million dollars of aid, and Harlow took up the cause. His blood was suddenly greener than a vegan. Vulcan, Mulligan had corrected. The senator had already halved the deficit with Wilburforce within three days.

*

Donovan’s husband had been quite reluctant for the company of Washington, blaming himself for his wife’s death. If he had not helped the investigation, she would still be alive. He took some leave and moved back to his hometown of Klamath Falls, Oregon, never to return to Washington and the NSA. The only time he ever saw the Washington skyline again was on the news and the inevitable TV movie of the incident, crassly named Shack Attack.

*

The Excalibur Suite had been quiet and reflective. No one considered Woodburn a success, and most of the time had been spent attending funerals and writing up their part in the investigation, studiously replacing the Library Awareness Program with an anonymous tip. It was into this room that a strangely upbeat Hawthorne entered. He gathered the inquisitive team around him.

‘We carry on,’ he announced.

‘But the President thinks it’s over,’ a surprised McConnell pointed out.

‘And so will everyone else outside this room with the exception of the Director, and even he still doesn’t know the real motive,’ replied Hawthorne. ‘The public are going to think we were about to pin the other assassinations on Leving and he was trying to frighten us off. Those in the White House who don’t know about Aitken revealing Michael’s parentage will believe the religious angle, and those who do know will think we’ve gone in totally the wrong direction.’

‘I almost followed that,’ chuckled Payne. ‘The affairs of state are really becoming a state of affairs.’ Someone groaned behind him.

‘Everyone thinks it’s a closed case,’ continued Hawthorne. Even Dennison will be kept in the dark.’ Hawthorne outlined the Mafia cover story Douglas had proposed. Douglas had been more than happy for Hawthorne to continue in secret. Whether they found the end of the trail or not, the FBI’s reputation would remain untarnished.

‘Unfortunately that will require a lot of input if the illusion is to be maintained,’ expanded Hawthorne. ‘Vince, Gary, David, that’s for you. You’ve already got a lot of experience with both sides of that equation. Bring Stewart back if you have to. Even cut and paste from similar reports if needs be. I need high-grade volume on this.

‘In the meantime, Helen, Jim and I will press on unnoticed, if they can stop playing footsie under the table, that is.’ Both McConnell and Baker blushed. Until this moment they had thought McConnell’s tenure at the FBI over, the case closed, and they had wasted no time in consummating their rapidly developing relationship.

‘So I’m still on the case?’ asked McConnell. ‘Williams expects me back at the precinct Monday.’

In reply, Hawthorne threw a highly polished object towards him. ‘Not after the call he’s getting from Douglas right now. Director’s privilege. Welcome to the FBI, Special Agent McConnell. Your first orientation course is next month.’

McConnell traded looks with Baker, not knowing whether to be happy or sad.

‘What if Dennison finds out?’ asked Baker.

‘Then we get the sack. Attorney General’s privilege. It’s volunteer basis. Well?’

‘Guess I’d rather be right than be the first black female Director,’ replied the newly levelheaded Baker. She surprised even herself. Hawthorne smiled warmly at her.

‘Jim?’

‘Of course. Like Heather said, otherwise I’d feel like I got into the FBI under false pretences. Anyway, what would our kids think of their father.’ Baker, maintaining a polite smile towards Hawthorne, elbowed McConnell hard in the ribs.

It was Friday afternoon, so Hawthorne suggested that everyone finish up their reports and start afresh the next week. Payne went to the West Coast and hardly left the marital bed, Kemp tried to decide which of his two girlfriends he should visit, Baker and McConnell went to visit her folks in Chicago and Hawthorne had fun with his wife and his two leg attachments.

*

With both Hannah Bernstein and Sarah Aitken refusing all interviews point blank and with Douglas jealously guarding the identities of the Excalibur team the media were starved of input. Professor Miller was more than happy to shoulder the burden. Larry King is a very amiable chap. I don’t understand why he has so many ex-wives. Aitken’s speech was never mentioned.

*

Benditoz was back in New York and immediately felt his batteries recharged. Even with his eyes closed the sounds and smells could have told him the location. He soaked up the familiar setting, looking forward to the time that Excalibur would resettle there. Once you’ve lived in New York, every other town seems incomplete, adolescent, he thought.

As he walked through Times Square, Benditoz was still worried about the religious aspect of Aitken’s speech being made available to the public. He placed a call from the first phone booth he saw. This’ll be one for the Hispanics over the Irish at last. Tequila’s far more potent than Guinness.

*

By Monday morning the surprised but gleeful law firm of Marsden & Ringsted, Aitken’s executors, had set up an escrow account into which Rosary Investments Inc. transferred seven million dollars.

End Of Book 2

Book 3

Tears

23

“Three may keep a secret if two of them are dead.”
Benjamin Franklin (1706–1790)

Monday mornings. A time of rebirth, a time of resurgence, a time of reality.

An invigorated Hawthorne was already at his desk in the Excalibur Suite. Why is it called the rush hour when everyone is travelling at their slowest? He ran his hands through his raven hair and stretched his elbows behind him as far as they would go, kept them there and counted slowly to six. He glanced over at the tall coffee vending machine that hummed unobtrusively in the corner. It was the first time that he had really noticed the noise eminating from it.

He smiled. It was the only one in the building that was free. It was almost a buck a cup in the canteen, slightly cheaper than outside and the price reflected the quality. The free vending machine was much worse, but to Hawthorne it was the best tasting coffee he had ever had.

As a college student, he had been famous for his propensity for coffee, be it instant, filter, decaffeinated or regular. In the first few weeks as a freshman he had made the rounds, going from potential friend to potential friend, imbibing cup after cup. His laid back approach, despite being doped to the eyeballs with caffeine, had made him very popular since most other freshmen were forever busy in trying to impress their peers. They had been like potassium in water, fizzing with no sense of direction.

It was not until his mid-twenties that Hawthorne had made the connection between his coffee-fixation and his father being sacked from the FBI. He had forgotten the whole episode until an uncle had mentioned it at a cousin’s wedding.

He was broken out of his reverie by a hesitant knock. He stood up and made his past the cork notice board to the heavy door. It was Eammon Walsh, smartly dressed and in his wheelchair. A stubble destroyed the professional image he had always tried to maintain.

‘Help me up over this damn step, will ya, Sam,’ he growled. Hawthorne circled the wheelchair and eased it up onto the raised red-tiled carpet.

‘Thanks. I’ll take it from here,’ muttered Walsh, turning and propelling himself forward with his still bandaged hands until he was aligned with Hawthorne’s usual chair.

‘Anything to drink,’ offered Hawthorne.

‘No thanks. Thought you might fancy a chat,’ he replied. His Irish lilt sounded distinctly flat. Hawthorne correctly translated this to mean Walsh needed a chat.

‘Looking good, my friend,’ lied Hawthorne, sitting at the corner of his desk next to his visitor. ‘How are the legs?’

‘Bullshit. I look terrible,’ answered Walsh. ‘The legs’ll be fine. Crutches in two weeks and then fighting fit in six or thereabouts. The legs aren’t the problem.’ Hawthorne read between the lines.

‘No kids?’

‘No kids.’

‘Aw, Jesus, Eammon. I’m sorry.’ He put a hand on Walsh’s shoulder.

‘If only I’d have been more patient with that fuckin’ phone and followed the protocol. But oh, no. The world expert Walsh had to try and play hero,’ he spat. ‘You know what they call an Irishman who can’t have kids? Dead, that’s what. I might as well be. There’s a saying in Cork that you just have to sniff at an Irish gal and she’s pregnant. I wish.’

‘You didn’t go home last night, did you?’ asked Hawthorne, inspecting his friend’s growth.

‘And why should I? Why would Kerry be wasting her time with me, eh?’ he said angrily.

‘Does she love you?’

‘Yes, of course she does, but I also love her enough not to condemn her to a life of barrenness. She’s of strong Irish stock and her biological clock is ticking louder every day. Staying with her would be the most selfish thing I could ever do in my life. Oh why didn’t we do it earlier?’ he moaned, ‘We had everything planned for next year.’

‘IVF?’

‘There’s nothing there, Sam.’

‘You could adopt, you know,’ suggested Hawthorne.

‘And spend the rest of our lives worrying about how much the kid loved us? No thanks.’

‘I’m adopted,’ confessed Hawthorne with difficulty. Only his family and his wife were privy to it.

‘Your point is?’ Walsh replied testily.

‘My point is that when you’re a baby, you form attachment with the people who show you love, who nurture you, not the ones who gave birth to you. There’s no mystical tie with the birth mother. You can only truly love people that you truly know. Otherwise it’s just an idea, an empty image that you trick yourself into loving. Trust me.’

‘It’s unnatural. To look in the kid’s face and see someone else’s genes written all over it. I’d rather not, but I appreciate the confidence, Sam,’ he said in a more placated tone.

‘Look, my dad’s got a birthday party at the weekend. Why don’t you come along? You’d be better off talking to him than me anyway,’ offered Hawthorne.

‘I’ll think about it, Sam,’ he said in a tone that suggested anything but that. He spun his wheelchair around and headed towards the door. ‘I just don’t feel human anymore,’ he called over his shoulder as he approached the door. ‘It’s all right, I’ll do it,’ he preempted. ‘Downhill I can manage.’

Hawthorne watched the departing figure, wondering if he had given the right advice but feeling strangely relieved that he had confided in Walsh.

Monday mornings.

*

‘I don’t agree,’ said Baker for the third time as McConnell drove his Chevy east along the busy I66 from Dulles and headed towards the Capitol.

‘Heather, I’ve had a great weekend, I really have. Your folks are salt of the earth and you are adorable. I’m just too damned uncomfortable about us working on the same case. I’m going to hand in my resignation or ask for a transfer.’

‘Jim, you can’t do that. This is too important,’ she retaliated.

‘The case or you and me?’

‘The case.’

McConnell grunted. ‘I guess I figured you all wrong, Heather,’ he sighed. ‘You are a career girl at heart. Nothing, but nothing must get in your way. Nothing must mar your wonderful record.’ McConnell regretted he had waited until deplaning before breaking the news. The busy traffic meant that he had to focus on his driving and could only steal glances at his lover.

‘That’s not true!’ she disputed. ‘This one case, Jim, that’s all I ask. Just put us on hold until we solve it. Sam and I can’t do it alone, and all the others are tied up with the cover story. This is too important, not to me, but to the country, to everyone you know.’

She could see she was not getting through to him. ‘I know I sound like some dumb patriot, but what about you, Jim? You’re like one of those dumb movie-cops – the lone, embittered policeman who by the end of the film learns to trust a partner again. Jeez, how many times have I watched that one? Your job is to protect human life, yet how can you ever truly value it if you don’t let yourself have a partner?’

‘That’s not it, Heather,’ replied McConnell. He shook his head whilst maintaining a watchful eye on the cars around him. ‘We’re going to be in each other’s hair twenty-four seven. What if we have a quarrel like now? How can either you or I work effectively, then? Sam might as well be on his own.’

‘All I’m asking is that we put it on hold for now. It’s as difficult for me as it is for you, but love waits, Jim.’

Heather’s right. Besides, how could I look myself in the mirror if I didn’t help solve this of all cases? He turned quickly to her.

‘Yeah, love waits,’ he sighed heavily and immediately returned his gaze to the busy road ahead. Very little was said for the rest of the journey.

Monday mornings.

*

Hawthorne’s computer chimed quietly, announcing that an e-mail had arrived. This early? He leaned over and clicked it open. It was from a Hotmail account calling itself The Road Pet. The message simply read Leving is innocent. Hawthorne frowned. Anyone could have set up the account anonymously and Hawthorne’s e-mail address was easy to figure out, the standard name@company format. But who knew he was on the case? Certainly not Joe Public since Douglas had made it plain to all FBI agents not to talk to the Press under any circumstances regarding the make up of the team. His name had never been mentioned.

No, this was probably someone from within the Administration or the FBI, but why? Harlow? Yes, that was possible too, trying to stir things up and discredit the investigation. Hawthorne just hoped that any further messages would be more constructive either way the game was being played. And who or what the hell is The Road Pet?

*

It has long been recognized that international organized crime groups, unencumbered by the bureaucracy, red tape and national frontiers that hold back the law enforcement communities would adapt far more readily to the globalization that technological changes and easier international travel offer. The latest effort of the FBI to respond to this threat has three elements. Firstly, over thirty embassies around the world has Legal Attaches, experienced agents that help foreign law enforcement officers, particularly in extradition cases. Secondly, there is training by the FBI of foreign personnel, over four thousand of them a year, at both Quantico and abroad. Thirdly, specific training is given for the emerging Balkan states at the International Law Enforcement Academy in Budapest which opened in 1995.

One of the payoffs from the training elements has been the team building between agencies. It was only due to Russian Federation Ministry of Interior (MVD) officers aiding the New York office’s investigation into the Russian Mafia figure Yvacheslov Kirillovich Ivankov that a successful arrest and conviction had been made. Although not widely publicized, it had been they who had recognized and deciphered the codes used by his group.

Hawthorne had been involved in some of the training in recent years. Over the weekend he had called up an old friend in the Organized Crime Control Department that formed part of the MVD. He had been more than happy to supply reports on the Russian Mafia to the FBI. These reports, together with books and press cuttings littered the large conference table in the middle of the Excalibur Suite.

By eight-thirty everyone had arrived and taken up their roles. Kemp, Benditoz and Payne were around one end of the large conference table and were running through the cover story. At the other sat Hawthorne, Baker and McConnell, but they were paying no attention to the documentation littered about them.

‘So, what are we down to?’ asked Hawthorne.

‘Aitken was murdered by Leving on orders from someone in the White House’ she responded, putting down her half-drunk coffee. ‘Either they didn’t want Aitken’s speech aired or they knew nothing about it and wanted to boost the President in the polls. Either way, it’s the Big Way-Hay.’

‘Oh, someone knew about the speech. What else?’ he encouraged.

McConnell’s turn. ‘This guy knew Leving, or at least about him, and he knew about the speech, either from Aitken himself or from someone Aitken confined in.’

Hawthorne could not help noticing the body language of the two agents to his left. McConnell and Baker were leaning slightly away from each other, and McConnell had his arms folded tightly across his chest. Shit. He decided to ignore it.

‘No, our White House man heard it from Aitken himself,’ Hawthorne surmised. ‘Remember the untraceable cell phone that had only calls to and from Aitken on it? That wouldn’t happen unless you’re the bad guy. Aitken was a dead man as soon as he started talking to him. The assassination was to stop the speech being aired. The President getting a hike in the polls was just a side effect.’

‘True,’ admitted McConnell.

‘It was someone who knew Leving and who Aitken felt was a sympathizer maybe?’ concluded Hawthorne. ‘That’s as far as my thinking takes me.’

‘What about that space in his diary on Wednesday? Didn’t we figure that was when he was going to announce it?’ shrugged McConnell. ‘The speech looked almost finished to me.’

‘You’re right!’ replied Hawthorne. He hastily picked up his phone and called Alistair Thompson, Excalibur’s media relations officer.

*

Across the road in the DoJ building Victor Dennison was happily sat at his desk reading the Washington Post, his standard warm-up for the day. The New York Times was folded neatly next to it. Normally he would simply scan the pages, searching for the issues of the day. The last thing he needed in his new position was to be caught wrong-footed. He needed more than ever a prepared, authoritative answer for any curve balls thrown at him by the media and the Senate committees.

However, ever since Leving had been found he had been reading the press reports very carefully. So far only a few reporters had queried whether the case had been truly solved but it was obvious they were shooting in the dark. It was the first star case with him at the helm and it was important that the public felt he had navigated correctly. If Harlow won the election, a high approval rating might just allow him to keep his job.

The phone rang, disturbing his concentration. He sighed and picked it up.

‘Tina? I thought I said no calls before nine.’

‘I know, sir. It’s an Andrew Marsden, a New York lawyer. I think you’d better take it.’

*

Within minutes Thompson entered the Excalibur Suite.

‘Al,’ began Hawthorne. ‘You’re cozy with all the news media, right?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t put it like that exactly. More of a love-hate relationship. We both love to hate each other.’

‘I need a favor. Ask around discretely, and I mean discretely, to see if anyone was getting ready to do an exclusive with Aitken this week. Don’t ask at the top, ask at the bottom. Sound engineers, lighting, people like that.’

‘Sure. Any particular reason?’ asked Thompson. Wasn’t this case closed?

‘Just tying up some loose ends. You know how Douglas is. He looks at every high profile investigation as if it were a term paper,’ replied Hawthorne nonchalantly. He decided to play safe. ‘Oh, and whilst you’re at it, we’ve got some news clippings about the Russian Mafia. Maybe you can gather some that have appeared in the foreign press for us that someone’s translated.’

Thompson was satisfied. ‘Sure, no problem.’

*

At a few minutes after nine there was an angry thumping at the door to the Excalibur Suite. Everybody looked up. Payne, who was sitting closest, opened it. Attorney General Victor Dennison thundered through with Deputy Attorney General Matthew Harlington, a mere slip of a man with bland, short hair and eyes older than his years, in tow.

Dennison turned and slammed the door shut. He had not expected that his thumbprint would not work on the security device outside, and it had added to his temper. The action seemed so out of place for the AG the media had already nicknamed the Armani Gentleman. Dennison did not bother to walk further into the room, but cast a menacing eye around like a light-house beacon.

‘Who’s been leaking about Aitken’s speech?’ he bellowed.

‘I can assure you,’ began Hawthorne, wide-eyed. He was not given a chance to continue.

‘I’ve just received a call from the senior partner at Marsden & Ringsted, Aitken’s executors, to deliver into their possession by the end of the week the disk containing that religious crap.’ Everyone in the room was secretly relieved. Aitken’s postscript was still safe. Dennison’s tone changed from irate to sarcastic. ‘Apparently they’ve found a buyer for it.’ Benditoz felt as if his insides had just disappeared, but did not show it.

Baker inclined her head over to McConnell and whispered out of the side of her mouth, ‘So much for free speech.’ McConnell merely moved his head away in irritation as he would respond to a persistent fly. Baker’s neck muscles suddenly felt very weak. She breathed deeply but quietly.

‘It was bound to happen at some point,’ placated Hawthorne.

‘Bullshit! ’ spat Dennison. ‘If I read your report correctly Hawthorne, the last save of the disk was around ten in the evening on the night he was murdered. It was done on a computer owned by the Government. As he’s never owned a computer, it’s safe to assume that the speech was written using our PCs. All of it. That makes it State’s property in my book. It will never see the light of day. Do I make myself clear? ’

‘Perfectly,’ calmed Hawthorne. His eyes quickly shifted to the insignificant Harlington standing behind Dennison’s left shoulder. Help! Harlington, unseen by Dennison, responded by tilting his head towards his superior and quickly rolling his eyes and raising his eyebrows. He was embarrassed by Dennison’s outburst.

Dennison’s eyes suddenly furrowed. ‘Why are you sitting in two separate groups?’ he asked suspiciously. It was Kemp to the rescue.

‘War games, sir,’ he explained. ‘Sam’s team is La Cosa Nostra, we’re the Ruskies.’

Dennison looked dubious. ‘The Aitken case is closed, right Hawthorne?’

‘Absolutely, sir,’ Hawthorne replied. Dennison merely responded with a grunt. Hawthorne suddenly had an inspiration.

‘I’ve an idea. You remember Charles Vandersmissen, of course?’

‘Of course, good man. He’s not with us now, is he?’

‘No. He’s hosting a crime show in LA. I thought it might be a good idea to bring him in for an exclusive on Excalibur. You know, follow us around for a few weeks, talk about Leving, that sort of thing. We’ll omit the religious angle. It’ll be good PR for the FBI and good for the President. You’ll never get a more sympathetic audience.’ He did not need to mention that it would be good for Dennison too.

Dennison liked the idea. There was no way that the agents in Excalibur were going to remain anonymous forever, but he was wary. ‘What about future undercover work?’ he asked.

‘Vince and Gary are the best at that. They can remain off-camera, or be interviewed with silhouettes and voice distortion.’ Hawthorne noticed that Dennison’s face was changing from red to a healthier pink. Dennison turned to Harlington who nodded sagely.

‘Agreed,’ announced Dennison. ‘But just him. Make sure he knows how to operate a camera.’ Once the now pink-faced visitor had left with his quiet subordinate ever close behind him, everybody sighed with relief.

Hawthorne had no idea whether Vandersmissen could use a camera or not, but it did not matter. He had no intention of using him for the exclusive Dennison thought. He needed reinforcements.

‘People, the investigation team now has a new member,’ he declared proudly. His voice suddenly became cold and menacingly polite. ‘Agent Benditoz, I don’t suppose you could spare me a few fucking minutes could you?’

Monday mornings.

24

“Youth is a malady of which one becomes cured a little every day.”
Benito Mussolini (1883–1945)

A revitalized Charles Vandersmissen sat in the modern office that belonged to Roy Watson, the senior vice-president in charge of television and waited impatiently for a decision. The man’s a fool. This is the scoop of the century! What the hell can he possibly be thinking about?

‘Lemme call in Graham,’ Watson said finally.

He pressed the speakerphone and the two of them waited for Graham Davin to arrive. Vandersmissen tried to look relaxed, his eyes nonchalantly roaming the familiar room. It was almost entirely metal, glass and clear plastic, except for the Art Deco paintings that hung sparsely on the white walls. Even the chairs were of durable Perspex. He knows he only got this job because his old man’s the CEO. This pale imitation is so scared of ruining daddy’s carefully crafted image.

The CEO and President, Matt Watson, had been in the business for forty years and had been one of the most charismatic anchormen in television history. Watching his face every night and listening to his grave voice had become a national habit. Even though he had been in his early fifties, he had decided to retire at the height of his popularity and cash in. He had set up Matt Watson’s Balanced Productions, developing and producing shows and specials in-house for TV networks, first run domestic syndicators and cable TV. As a sideline, it had recently branched into the corporate production business. Court on Camera was one of the first shows it had produced and easily the least successful.

As Vandersmissen was still relatively new in Tinseltown he was only dimly aware of the Hollywood credo: when a new project was put on the table, executives tended to judge the submitter rather than the submission itself. Although he was only the front man for Court on Camera and had no control over production and content, mud stuck.

Davin, a sprightly blond forty year old and new boy to television himself, finally sauntered into the office. He had worked for blue chip companies all his life after leaving Yale and had been every version of accountant and financial analyst that his profession offered. After cashing in various stock options along the way, he had sufficiently feathered his nest to indulge himself and could not resist the opportunity to work for Matt Watson as his director of production, the value-for-money man. His wife was envious to say the least.

‘Charles,’ he opened, ‘tell me about your proposal.’

Vandersmissen opened his mouth but was preempted by Watson. ‘He wants to drop out of Court on Camera, even when we’ve still got three more episodes to record this week and try-’

Davin stopped him. ‘When I say “Charles”, I’m addressing Mr. Vandersmissen here. When I say “Roy”, I am addressing you. So, Charles, tell me about your proposal.’ Davin’s opinion of Watson Junior was lower than Vandersmissen’s. He despised nepotism.

Vandersmissen took up the baton. ‘I’ve got inroads with the man heading up the FBI’s Excalibur Team. He’s suggested that I go and film a documentary about them. Exclusive stuff.’

Hawthorne had made it a condition that Vandersmissen would not disclose the real reason for his joining Excalibur. If they managed to find the paymaster then the footage would be hotter than anything ever shown on television. If not, then the production company would get exactly what he was telling them anyway.

‘Personnel, time?’ Davin’s first concern as ever was expenditure.

‘Just me. That’s it. Dunno for how long, though. I know how to work a camera from my surveillance days.’

Davin rolled his tongue inside his mouth whilst he thought, a habit from childhood.

‘This is highly irregular,’ complained Watson. ‘Where’s the paperwork for all this? The next production committee meeting isn’t for another three weeks.’ Safety in numbers.

Davin snarled at Watson. ‘Do you know the number of times your dad had to think on the hoof?’ Davin pointed out. ‘Sometimes a major news story broke during the news and your dad was the master at covering it totally unprepared. Imagine him telling the audience “Sorry, China has just nuked Washington but I’ll talk about it when someone has written a script for me”? I tell you, it wouldn’t have been just the Washington audience he lost.

‘This Excalibur Team is hot news at the moment and the networks will be falling over themselves to buy this. Think like your dad and greenlight this.’

‘But what about the last few episodes of Court on Camera? It’s all set up in Studio Three,’ countered Watson.

‘Are you going to watch them?’ asked Vandersmissen.

‘Well, no,’ answered a sheepish Watson.

‘Me neither,’ said Davin. ‘Look Ray, let’s save some dollars and send the crew home, eh?’

Watson looked at both men and knew he had lost. His eyes settled on Vandersmissen. ‘Go east, young man, go east.’

*

Whilst Vandersmissen was making the long haul towards the Capitol, Hawthorne’s day was rapidly going from bad to worse. It had started with Thompson. No one, and the media relations officer had uncharacteristically stressed the word, knew anything about an exclusive with Aitken. Then Douglas had hauled Hawthorne over the coals for going over his head with Dennison and having Vandersmissen follow the team around with a camera.

Shortly afterwards he had received another e-mail from The Road Pet. It had simply repeated the earlier message, proclaiming Leving innocent. He had asked Jerry Hinks, the FBI’s systems administrator to see if the Hotmail user could be found. After only thirty minutes, Hinks had come back saying that the account had been set up only yesterday from one of the new Internet cafés that were springing up around the country.

This particular one, in Washington itself, was called Java ’n Java. From the timing of the first e-mail Hinks had advised that the café had not been open at that time, even though the e-mail had originated from there as well.

‘I thought Hotmail was anonymous,’ said Hawthorne into the phone.

‘Almost, it’s all to do with the original Primary DNS, you see. When you-’

Hawthorne was already lost and told Hinks so. He sent Hinks and Baker over to the café to see what they could dig up. The coffee was probably terrible there, he reasoned. He could tell from the body language that it might be a good idea to separate McConnell and Baker for a while. He and McConnell concentrated on finding out who knew Leving and his skills.

*

At the other end of the table, Kemp was explaining to the others why there was no such thing as the Russian Mafia.

‘Firstly, forget “Russian”. Most are Chechens, Georgians, Armenians and Russian-ethnic Koreans, not to mention those from Eastern Europe. And secondly, forget “Mafia”. The Mafia are large, highly structured organizations that have formed over generations and have incredible fidelity through blood ties in the main to one recognized leader. The criminal groups coming over from the former Soviet Union have only sprung up over the last generation and are highly independent and small. The only trouble is, there’s hundreds of them, all equally vicious. If La Cosa Nostra are bacteria, the so-called “Russian Mafia” are viruses.’

‘Then why do we call them the Russian Mafia?’ asked Payne.

‘We didn’t,’ continued Kemp. ‘It was the newspapers that started it. Sounded sexy to the public, they’re fascinated by mob stories. Besides, it can fit onto a banner headline.’

‘So is what we’re doing a complete waste of time?’ queried Payne. Having served in San Francisco and Dallas, he was relatively ignorant about the new threat. Hawthorne had forgotten the fact.

‘Oh no,’ started Benditoz, still smarting from the lecture he had received from Hawthorne. ‘At the moment, they’re very wary of the Sicilians. They even have a few joint ventures on the go to show they’re not in direct competition, like that New York gas tax scam in the eighties. The “Russian Mafia” were selling illicit gasoline on the families turf and paying the Sicilians protection.’ Even Payne had read about that one.

Benditoz continued. ‘At the moment the “Russian Mafia”, for want of a better phrase, are concentrating on Latin America. The money laundering, false passports and visas are much easier there,’ he regretted. ‘The Sicilians are quite parochial in their outlook compared to the new kids on the block. Before they know it though, they’ll be dealing with some very mature, very rich adults.’

‘And that’s when the trouble will really start,’ added Kemp.

‘I tell you what,’ suggested Payne. It was the only thing he could think of. ‘Why don’t you two dictate and I’ll type?’

*

‘And?’ asked an impatient Senator Harlow as he paced up and down his office inside the Russell Senate Office Building.

‘And it looks like there’s no way we can win now, his support has solidified six points ahead of us,’ replied a flustered Mulligan.

Harlow had been close to firing Mulligan after the Baker/Leeves debacle but knew that he could not. If he were to fire his campaign manager so close to the election it would inspire zero confidence in his ability to choose the right staff. He was stuck with Mulligan, and Mulligan had suffered the increasing torrents of abuse from him with good grace.

‘That environmental stance has run its course then?’ he asked as he paused to look out of his window. It was one of the few rooms from which Capitol Hill could be clearly seen.

‘Well, ever since you were photographed in the restaurant a couple of days ago eating venison, your comments about loving the cuddly deer have appeared a trifle shallow,’ Mulligan replied less diplomatically than he had intended.

Harlow took it on the chin. It was a fair criticism. ‘Jeez, life is fundamentally unfair. You’ve got that Prince Philip over in England, head of the World Wildlife Fund, and he goes hunting regularly for chrissakes,’ rued Harlow.

‘How about this - you know and I know there has to be someone behind the assassination,’ started Mulligan. ‘Leving was just an aimed gun. If we can demonstrate that there had to have been someone doing the aiming to the public, then confidence in Wilburforce would vanish overnight.’

‘And how the hell do we do that?’ queried the senator.

‘I haven’t a clue. Yet.’

*

‘What’s the deal with you and Heather, Jim?’ asked a concerned Hawthorne.

‘My intentions are strictly honorable, dad,’ rebuffed McConnell, surprised by the question.

‘Point taken. Just don’t let it affect your performance, eh son?’ replied Hawthorne in an elderly voice. McConnell found it difficult to tell Hawthorne that it was his putting distance between himself and Baker that was supposed to help both of them focus on the investigation. He desperately needed to change the subject. ‘So who knew about Leving, Sam?’ he asked McConnell, wearily scratching his head.

Hawthorne gave an understanding smile. ‘Well obviously the people who hired him after he left the army, but they’re hardly likely to talk to anyone about it, which leaves the Administration and the NSC. Point,’ answered Hawthorne.

‘Agreed. But who? Leving’s dossier states that he left two years ago, and his last wet job for Washington was a year before that when Wilburforce had just become President. He would have had to sign off on it.’

‘Doesn’t mean that he knew Leving by name though, but if he did, presumably Jacobs knew, and I guess anyone in the National Security Council.’

‘Whilst we’re at it, who the hell’s in the NSC?’

Hawthorne gazed up at the ceiling as he recalled a diagram he had once seen. ‘It’s basically a group of senior officials headed by the top dog at the CIA. They advise the President on intelligence and foreign policy and deal with the entire US intelligence network, including coordinating the efforts of the NSA, the FBI and the CIA. Overall there are thirteen intelligence agencies including, amongst others, Justice, Treasury, State, even Energy wouldya believe and finally the Defense Intelligence Agency within the DOD. Presumably that’s where Leving came into the picture.’

‘So Aitken may well have known Leving?’

‘By name and reputation only. But it raises an interesting question. Douglas would also have known the name, so as to be forewarned not to dig too deep when investigating the quote-officially-sanctioned-unquote assassinations. And he hasn’t told me that.’

‘It still begs the question,’ continued McConnell. ‘Who could have found out about the speech? We know it wasn’t by accident because of the mysterious cell phone. Who would he have confided in?’

‘I don’t know. It’s the million dollar question and we can’t ask the audience, go fifty-fifty or phone a friend. That reminds me, I’m still worried about what Mary was trying to tell us about Leving’s cell phone. I just can’t get it out of my head. I’ve got a bad feeling about the whole thing.’ Shadows. Always shadows.

*
The Java ’n Java Internet café on G Street was due to close down in a few weeks and John Barnard, the long-haired twenty-year-old owner, had already started Chapter Eleven proceedings. The last thing he wanted was a visit from the Feds.

‘When Mom died a couple of years ago,’ explained a beleaguered Barnard, ‘I ploughed all the inheritance into this. Thought it was gilt-edged, so did my uncle, but I’m only getting half the customers I need just to break even. I tried Georgetown of course, but the prices were sky high. Guess it’s just a case of the wrong location.’

Baker looked around the café whilst Hinks, who had totally bored her on the way there, set to work on the computers. Barnard had been useless in being able to match the computer to the phone line, in fact he knew next to nothing about computers.

The counter itself looked like any normal coffee shop. Large, transparent containers of coffee beans each declaring exotic brands rested on a thick dark wooden shelf, complete with a brown cash register from the Twenties. Somber wooden paneling was on every wall, but the center of the room, filled with computer terminals and waterproof keyboards, was the problem. In trying to achieve Old World meets New World it was an unsettling place, but Barnard seemed oblivious to the fact.

Baker had wanted to rule him out as the one sending the e-mails, but the problem was that the first one had been sent before the café had opened that morning, and Barnard was the only one with the keys. She put the fact to him.

‘Follow me,’ he said, and walked to the far end of the counter underneath which lay an unobtrusive black box. He knelt down and pointed at the object. ‘This is the security device.’ Baker bent down to take a look. Barnard pressed a small orange button on the side and a small spool of paper whirred out. Barnard ripped it off and passed it over to Baker.

‘See, the doors weren’t opened until half seven, way after this e-mail was sent. I think the geek over there’s got the wrong address,’ he whispered nodding in the direction of Hinks.

‘Hinks?’ called out Baker.

He looked up from the screen. ‘The geek’s found it.’

‘Both messages?’ she asked.

‘And then some. I haven’t a clue what he’s talking about here. I think you’d better take a look at this.’

She hurried around to the terminal and quickly scanned the messages on the screen. She froze. ‘Oh my God.’

*

‘Yes of course I’d heard of Leving’s name before, Sam’ replied Douglas. I presume you’re talking about his black bag activity. We all had to know his name so as to steer any investigations clear of him. We’d look pretty stupid if we arrested him and then he tells the world we were the ones who put him up to it in the first place.’ He leant back in his chair again.

‘So why didn’t you tell me that you as part of the NSC knew Leving?’

‘None of us knew Leving, just the name, that’s all,’ corrected Douglas. ‘According to the report, I figured you knew that anyway.’

‘You still could have been up front about it,’ countered Hawthorne.

‘Remember in your report when Leving was killed, Sam?’

‘What about it?’ queried Hawthorne.

‘He had his back to you, and you didn’t know at the time if he was still armed or not. Were you comfortable in giving the order to the sniper?’

Hawthorne shuffled slightly in his chair opposite Douglas. He knew where Douglas was taking him, and he had had restless nights ever since. ‘I’d seen him kill four of the SWAT team with my own eyes.’

‘Were you comfortable in giving the order to the sniper?’ pressed Douglas.

‘Not altogether.’

‘Well neither am I about black bag jobs, and I’m not about to shout it around the neighborhood.’

*

Baker burst through the door and almost ran to Hawthorne who had just returned to the suite. She did not even bother to look McConnell’s way. She took a deep breath.

‘Hinks discovered a whole bunch of e-mails inside the computer that were programmed to be sent here today and tomorrow. The guy who owns the café hasn’t a clue about anything or about any customers at the terminal yesterday.’

‘Show me,’ asked Hawthorne. Baker handed over a single piece of paper that contained three more messages. Two were merely repeats but the last one caught Hawthorne’s eye. Check the library. The room suddenly felt very cold. Who outside this room knows about the library book? Mary’s husband and Douglas, that’s it.

‘And?’ asked Hawthorne nervously.

‘I had the local office get the Physicians' Desk Reference Leving borrowed from the Osceola library. There are hundreds of prints on it, and none of them belong to him.’

‘Why borrow a book in your name and then wear gloves?’ asked McConnell, ‘unless…’ he hesitated.

‘Unless you didn’t borrow the book in the first place,’ completed Hawthorne. His mind was racing along a path it did not want to follow. ‘That’s what Mary was trying to tell us. Leving’s cell phone was connected to his computer, which meant he was on the Internet. You can find anything you want on it.’

‘Start with a search on anti-coagulants and it’ll lead you to Coumadin,’ surmised Kemp. ‘Leving would never have used a library to source the information in the first place!’

‘Correct,’ carried on a defeated Hawthorne. ‘We’ve been played. We’ve been fucking played!’ He kicked the chair nearest his foot, knocking it over. ‘Someone is covering their tracks very well. Leving had nothing to do with the assassination of Robert Aitken.’

25

“This is the sort of English up with which I will not put.”
Winston Churchill (1874–1965)

When a beaming Vandersmissen finally entered the Excalibur Suite early the next morning with camera case and suitcase in tow, he and Hawthorne backslapped each other.

‘How’s the wife, Charlie?’

‘Fine – how’s mine?’ Even though Vandersmissen had never married it was the traditional greeting between them.

Hawthorne introduced him to the rest of the team. After he had set up the two cameras and was satisfied with the angles and lighting he sat down next to Hawthorne. Vandersmissen clapped his hands and rubbed them together with eagerness. ‘OK, bring me up to speed, Sam.’

Hawthorne spared nothing and spent a full two hours going through the investigation to date. McConnell and Baker covered anything Hawthorne had missed. On occasion Vandersmissen asked to go over a few points again. At the end, he simply whistled through his teeth. ‘So you’re telling me it’s someone who is either very high in the White House or possibly the NSC, but in either case someone Aitken confided in?’

‘Exactly,’ replied McConnell.

‘Prime time stuff,’ he smiled. He rubbed the thin stubble on his chin. ‘From what you’ve told me, I’d put my money on Jacobs,’ Vandersmissen mused.

‘I’d thought of that,’ countered Hawthorne, ‘but why would Aitken divulge the existence of the speech to Jacobs of all people? Jacobs has the means, motive and opportunity, agreed, but I just can’t see Aitken telling him about it,’ argued Hawthorne.

‘How about whoever Aitken told felt duty bound to tell the President’s Chief of Staff who then roped him into the act?’ suggested Vandersmissen. ‘Wouldn’t that work, or as you would phrase it Sam, “Let’s fuck it and see”?’

Hawthorne and McConnell looked at each other. Have we been so close to the whole affair that we can’t see the wood for the trees anymore?

‘It fits,’ sighed Hawthorne, ‘It fits, but how do we prove the connection?’

‘Don’t look at me, I’m just doing a Blair Witch here,’ protested Vandersmissen.

‘Fuck that,’ replied Hawthorne. ‘You’ve just come off the inactive list and you know it.’

‘I sort of figured that.’

Sherlock and Mycroft in the same room, thought McConnell. Which one’s which?

Vandersmissen paused for thought. ‘Hey, the fact that Leving wasn’t connected to the assassination’s not as bad as you think, Sam.’

‘And how do you reckon that, Charlie?’ asked a desolated Hawthorne.

‘Well, it doesn’t change much, for starters. Whoever committed the crime or organized it still must have known about Leving and known of the existence of the speech. They must also have known about the Library Awareness Program, which actually narrows your list of suspects.

‘The only thing that’s different is that you might never find the actual assassin himself. If I were you, I’d concentrate on the top man before working your way down this time.’

Hawthorne mulled over what Vandersmissen had said. He could find no fault in the logic, and it gave him some degree of comfort. However, he felt even sicker about ordering the sniper to fire even though he had seen death come from Leving’s own hand.

To make matters worse, it meant that Mary and the swatters had died unnecessarily and the e-mailer was taunting him with the fact. Why? It had been his own impatience that had them speeding to Iowa before double-checking the Osceola library. It could have just been done within the time-limit imposed on them.

What could they do? Surely the man who organized the assassin would have a cast-iron alibi for the night in question; a party, a restaurant maybe, or if very high up, his own security detail. It was hopeless, Hawthorne decided.

Vandersmissen studied Hawthorne’s impassive face. The expression was the same as those on the other people in the room. He decided silence was better than comforting words. He was the only one in the room who could afford to be relaxed. Whether the investigation succeeded or not, he would come out with a great story.

His eyes casually roamed around the room and rested on the piece of paper containing the printout of the e-mails Baker had brought into the room with her. He pulled it towards him and reread the words. The Road Pet. The Road Pet.

‘Sam,’ he smiled, ‘you do cryptic crosswords? I started to do them from my stakeout days.’

‘No, why?’ he replied puzzled.

‘Well, I don’t think this e-mailer is out to piss you off. He’s trying to help, in his own peculiar way.’

‘And how do you figure that?’ asked Hawthorne.

‘Well, remember Watergate?’ explained Vandersmissen. ‘Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein of the Washington Post had an anonymous source they nicknamed Deep Throat that gave them dribs and drabs of inside information, letting the two reporters do all the legwork. Either the source felt bad about betraying the guilty party or didn’t want to be identified from the information he was feeding them.’

‘Yeah, like the X-Files,’ said Baker disparagingly. ‘You reckon The Road Pet is some sort of Deep Throat, then?’

‘Well,’ grinned Vandersmissen, ‘they are anagrams of each other.’

Hawthorne grabbed the piece of paper and checked it for himself. He glanced up at Vandersmissen. ‘Holy shit.’

Ok, thought McConnell, that settles which one of the two is Mycroft.

*

Early the next morning the Attorney General was granted admittance to the Oval Office for the weekly meeting with President Wilburforce. It was the first time Dennison had filled the role as Attorney General himself, and he had bought a new monogrammed cotton shirt especially for the occasion. He had attended the meetings a few times before, either filling in for Aitken just as Jacobs had done for Wilburforce, or providing detail on an item on the agenda where he knew more than Aitken. He could not have been a happier man.

President Wilburforce and Chief of Staff Jacobs could not have been happier men either. Wilburforce was close to becoming the most powerful man on the planet for another four years, something neither of them had dared not allow themselves to dream of a year ago. Aitken’s destructive speech had been suppressed and the electorate had been seduced by the rough and ready judgement that had befallen the assassin.

It was therefore a surprise to all three that the meeting ended in acrimony.

‘You allowed what? ’ Jacobs asked Dennison, slamming his hand on Wilburforce’s desk.

‘Owen!’ admonished Wilburforce. Jacobs immediately retracted his hand.

‘An in-depth exclusive on the workings of the Excalibur Team,’ rephrased Dennison, surprised by the reaction. ‘I mean, it’s not like they’re going to remain anonymous forever. What happens when they have to keep giving evidence in court, for example?’

‘And the exclusive has been given to an ex-agent, Hawthorne’s ex-partner, you said?’ continued Jacobs. Neither of the other men knew why Jacobs was so angry.

‘Of course! Who else would give a more favorable report?’ reasoned Dennison.

‘You damned fool! If you were any dumber you’d have to be watered twice a week! Don’t you see what Hawthorne’s doing?’ raged Jacobs, seeing his hopes for himself and the President ebbing away yet again. ‘He’s carrying on the investigation right under your nose!’ The President looked at Jacobs and then the Attorney General. ‘He’s even brought in reinforcements from the media for protection,’ continued Jacobs.

‘I’ll get rid of Vandersmissen, then,’ replied a flustered Dennison. How could I have let my vanity get the better of me?

‘It’s too late for that,’ Wilburforce argued. ‘I don’t think we can stop him now that a TV presenter knows the facts. Dammit all, Hawthorne’s got balls and leverage. Find out what he’s doing then. I want Excalibur monitored, closely.’

‘I’m not sure I can,’ complained Dennison. The first weekly briefing wasn’t supposed to go like this. ‘I’d have to go through Douglas and he and Hawthorne are pretty tight.’

Wilburforce thought about it. The chances were that Douglas also knew what Hawthorne and the others were up to. They probably had his blessing, too. Righteous bastard. He turned to Jacobs, who was sitting to his left.

‘Get the Secret Service to follow them then, and use the best. Tap all the communication routes you can.’

‘You got it, Mr. President.’

*

The assassin was inwardly pleased with himself. To date no one had come knocking on the door, and using Leving as bait had been an inspired choice on his part. He had traveled to Leving’s lodgings on foot in the early hours of the night before murdering Aitken and shot him with a tranquilizer dart. Having safely secured his victim, he administered an anaesthetic that would keep him unconscious for at least twenty-four hours. Leving might have been captured alive and, although a recluse, there was always the possibility that he may have a foolproof alibi, witnesses who had seen him in Iowa when he was supposed to be scaling one of Montebello’s towers a thousand miles away.

Even a week later the sense of power ran through his veins like adrenaline. He had single-handedly changed the history of the planet, and the repercussions would continue beyond his death. He felt invigorated, born anew.

The act of killing in cold blood had not been as difficult as he had thought - Aitken had been dead ever since the death of his daughter. He had merely let Aitken’s body confirm what its soul already knew. The assassin found it strange that the most difficult thing had not been the mutilation itself, but having to keep the deed hidden. As far as he could tell, no one knew apart from himself and maybe God, assuming Aitken was wrong.

He felt no worries on the latter score. If there were no heavenly being he would not be spending eternity getting barbecued, but if there were surely he would be forgiven for stopping the speech.

This secret was the one that set the assassin apart from the whole world, and it ached to conceal it. What was the point of winning a lottery if one of the conditions were that you were not allowed to spend the money? Knowledge was the currency of the new millennium just as it had been of the old. This was one of the greatest greenbacks of all time. Who to tell? Who to tell?

*

Douglas buried his head in his hands as Hawthorne broke the news to him about Leving’s innocence. The only goal that Douglas had nurtured for the last three years had been protecting the public and protecting the FBI and in his last few months in office it was about to come crashing down around him.

‘We don’t have much of an option, do we, Sam. You have to carry on as per normal and try to find whoever was responsible for this – then and only then do we present the public with a fait accompli. The only real question is whether we tell the President and Dennison about it.’

‘I’m tempted to say fuck ’em,’ suggested Hawthorne. ‘If they try and stop us we’ll blow the whistle, but I guess you don’t want the FBI seen in a bad light. Perhaps if they’re involved, it’s best they don’t know we know.’ Hawthorne still did not want to reveal to Douglas the real reason for the assassination.

‘True, but I can only take so much heat from them.’ Douglas leaned back and exhaled heavily. ‘I got a phone call from Jacobs an hour ago and he was definitely fishing. I think he knows you’re still sniffing a trail, thanks to you bringing Charlie back into the fold.

‘You’re lucky I’m still letting you carry on in charge, Sam. You’ve gone from one balls-up to another, first getting the wrong guy, then losing Mary and now bringing Charlie in on it. We can never bury this now. The only way out for everyone, and that includes you, is if you catch whoever did this. Now go home, cuddle the children, screw the missus, and come back as Twinkletoes tomorrow. I’ve got faith in you Sam, just make sure you still do.’

*

Despite the suggestion from Douglas, Hawthorne had little sleep that night. It had not helped that on leaving the Hoover Building a sudden breeze had thrown the many Stars And Stripes draped along its Pennsylvania Avenue façade into a flurry of activity. As they fluttered in the wind the metal ropes had beat loudly against their poles, as if an important message was being sent in Morse code from Aitken himself. Damn The Road Pet. Why the games?

However, after one of his rare early morning jogs around the Capitol Reflecting Pool the next day followed by a quick, penetrating, cold shower he entered the Excalibur Suite feeling fresher than ever. He was determined to treat the investigation as if it had just been handed to him. From now on, it was someone else’s mess he was having to clear up.

One thing had become clear to him though, he would have to split up Baker and McConnell. He had managed to have a private conversation with Baker later yesterday afternoon and now understood what was, or to be more precise was not, going on between them. McConnell was blind. In trying to stymie their blossoming romance for the sake of concentrating on the case, neither were functioning in top gear.

Also, since Baker was Chicago born and bred, she probably knew more about the Mafia than any of the other Excalibur members. A quick call to Kemp late that evening had easily confirmed that Payne knew next to nothing about the subject, but he was one hell of a typist. He even knew that the longest word that could be spelled from using only the top row of letters on a keyboard was “typewriter”.

So let’s look at this case anew, thought Hawthorne. It’s obvious that we won’t be able to connect the speech to anyone directly. How else can we link our man with Aitken? What trail has our mysterious person left behind? Just that damn untraceable phone. Is there anything else? He was at a loss.

By his second cup the room had filled with agents along with Vandersmissen. Hawthorne decided to apologize to him again. ‘Sorry Annie and I couldn’t have dinner last night. We already had plans. Tonight?’

‘Sure,’ replied Vandersmissen. ‘Anyway, I had a profitable evening of sorts. Spent two hours from my hotel room ringing every TV low life I know in Hollywood and as far as I can tell no one on the West Coast knows anything about a special with Aitken. Thought it might be worth a shot, though.’

‘Thanks.’

‘No problem. The TV company’s picking up the bill anyway,’ he smiled. ‘Then I grabbed a kitfo over at Zed’s in Georgetown.’

‘The Ethiopian restaurant we used to go to?’ interrupted Hawthorne. Vandersmissen always had eccentric tastebuds.

‘That’s the one, then downed a few homegrown beers at Nathans, the singles bar to be at these days.’

‘Any luck?’

‘Nah,’ rued Vandersmissen. ‘Either I’m getting older or the students are getting younger. By the time I got there I was too late anyway. I just elbowed my way slowly to the bar, soaked up the atmosphere and watched the sports channel for an hour. Couldn’t hear it, though.’

Vandersmissen’s voice became grave. ‘Something bothers me, Sam. We seem to be at the mercy of this Road Pet guy. If we’ve been played once, we could easily be played again.’

‘That’s why everything he gives us we’re going to check and double check. You’re right though, I prefer dancing to my choice of music.’

‘What’s his motive?’ queried Vandersmissen. ‘Why doesn’t he just tell us who the man is behind the whole thing and then let us find the evidence? And why us? Why not Senator Harlow or the Press?’

‘I’ve no idea, maybe he’s got a vested interest in our finding the man on the quiet first. But,’ he breathed, ‘it’s the only party in –‘

Suddenly Hawthorne’s computer received another two e-mails from The Road Pet. Be careful. You are being followed everywhere you go and your telephones monitored, including this message.

Hawthorne opened the second message. Pull up if I pull up. A Toyota. 10th and E, 5pm.

‘He wants to meet at our own back door!’ exclaimed Baker.

‘Or give us something,’ suggested Hawthorne.

Vandersmissen suddenly burst out laughing. ‘That is damned clever message,’ he grinned. He explained it to the rest of the team.

*

For lunch, Baker and McConnell left the building and took in a hotdog and an ice cream, slowly walking along The Mall to the Washington Monument. The sun was almost directly above them and burned into their scalps. Baker was amazed at the amount of green open space Washington afforded.

‘Sam’s right, you know,’ said Baker after finishing her meal in double time. ‘It’s so early in our relationship we’re unlikely to have any quarrels. We’re still in that “I’m out to impress the other person phase” at the moment. I really can’t see that a full-time relationship would compromise anything.’

McConnell took another lick of his ice cream that was melting fast and beginning to run over his fingers. ‘Yeah, maybe you’re right,’ he shrugged. ‘I’ll admit, I lied in the car yesterday. It isn’t really about that, well, maybe in some small way. It’s just that over the Burns incident I lost both a work partner and a life partner. I was convinced both relationships were solid. If you and I hook up and then it falls apart for whatever reason, I’ll lose both again at the same time. I don’t think I could stand it second time around.’

‘Maybe it’s just me being too pushy,’ apologized Baker. ‘You need your own pace and space.’

‘Oh no,’ countered McConnell. ‘It’s one of the things I…love about you. You want something, you go for it without reservation or apology. There aren’t many people that can do that in a nice way.’

Baker tilted her head up to view the top of the stone needle just twenty yards ahead of them, her hand shading her eyes. ‘Out to impress me, still?’

‘I guess, but I can’t compete with that, ’ he said gesturing towards the Washington Monument. He could not help but notice the gentle flesh of her neck. I wish we hadn’t slept in separate rooms last night.

‘No need. I’m sold.’ She turned and kissed him gently on the cheek, and then took a lick from the vanilla ice cream that dribbled over his fingers.

‘Freud would have a field day with you, Heather!’ he laughed. ‘Tell you what,’ he continued, ‘ten dollars says we can’t do the Smithsonian in half an hour?’

Baker turned to her left at the building fifty yards behind them on the other side of The Mall and then checked her watch. ‘You’re on, but you’re buying.’

*

Fifty minutes later they arrived back at the Excalibur Suite. Everyone else had dined in-house. ‘The Road Pet is right,’ said McConnell. ‘We counted three tailing us.’

‘I think Charlie’s right about that second message,’ added Baker, ‘and I’ve thought of a way to get Michael Fane’s DNA.’

26

“Nothing is too wonderful to be true, if it be consistent with the laws of nature, and in such things as these, experiment is the best test of such consistency.”
Michael Faraday (1791–1867)

Baker had been officially switched to the “Russian Mafia” investigation and Benditoz and Kemp were already missing Payne’s typing skills.

After a quick visit to the counterintelligence and forensics divisions, a disguised Payne and McConnell left the Hoover Building on their separate errands. Hawthorne started to make background checks on the NSC members, at least using the files he could lay his hands on. As most of the information was highly classified and Hawthorne did not want any alarm bells going off, it had produced anemic results. He investigated their movements over the last six weeks instead. It was to be a time-consuming effort as he could not use the telephones nor any queries on their computers if The Road Pet were to be believed. Everyone knew it was a long shot, but there was not much else to do.

Hawthorne was a frustrated man. The limitations on what he could do were intolerable. In trying to keep his investigation secret from the White House he had effectively lost half his team, and the remaining half could only do so much.

He decided to give it until the end of the week. There was a chance that the Administration knew what he was up to anyway. Why else would we be followed? Unless of course it was on direct orders from the man behind the assassination. Either way, Monday morning he would go to the President and tell him straight what he was up to. Enough games. I can’t do this with one hand tied behind my back. The only way to fight a politician is to use a political weapon. And Wilburforce would hate the public to find out that Leving was innocent, at least of this particular crime, never mind the fact he’s got a three year old kid nobody knows about.

*

The pristine ice-cream van pulled up near the crèche’s entrance ten minutes before home time, the sun bright against its polished shine, and the occupant prepared himself for the inevitable onslaught. Some of the waiting parents who had also arrived early took advantage.

Leading the mass exodus were a professional-looking couple in their mid-thirties flanking a small fair-haired boy in shorts and a green T-shirt. Although the couples’ eyes were constantly scanning the street the boy’s attention was focused on one thing. He tugged furiously on the arm of the woman and pointed towards the van. Words were exchanged and the woman walked alone the ten yards towards the ice-cream van. The owner looked up expectantly.

‘One small chocolate, please,’ she announced business-like. ‘And two large vanillas as well,’ she added as an afterthought. As the vendor busied himself with the order, she fished for dollars.

‘Hell of a day,’ he announced as he handed over the three cones.

‘Hell of a profit,’ she frowned as she noticed the prices. She pulled out another crumpled dollar, adding it to the others she had already placed on the counter before taking the ice-creams. The rattle of coins came from within and the vendor offered her a couple of dimes change.

‘Keep it,’ she said in reply, realizing she did not have a hand free.

‘Have an ice day,’ came the chirpy reply.

Within a minute she was back and pushed to the front of the rapidly-forming cue, interrupting a grandmother in mid-order. ‘This is off,’ she announced, handing the offending chocolate ice-cream through the van’s side-window.

‘Well, you’re the first today. Sorry ’bout that ma’am,’ apologized the ice-cream man, noticing the reaction of his customers. He took the offending ice-cream. ‘Hold on a ’sec, I know the vanilla’s OK.’ Seconds later a small vanilla appeared smothered in nuts and raspberry sauce. ‘No charge.’ She walked off without reply.

‘Make those vanilla,’ said the grandmother.

Hidden under the counter the melting chocolate ice-cream lay on a small, sterile, plastic sheet. The vendor scooped the licked part into a small airtight bag. Payne had the first DNA sample required to determine whether Aitken was correct. Two to go.

*

Vandersmissen took time out to make background interviews on the Excalibur team members. He started with Hawthorne, who was in need of a break. At first, Hawthorne was slightly uneasy in front of the single camera with its light attachment pointed directly at his face. He subconsciously felt he was being interrogated. It was only because that Vandersmissen was so well-known to him that he could relax and open up.

He started with his reasons for joining the Bureau, only mentioning that his father had been an agent and something must have rubbed off on him. He had decided to omit his father’s coffee incident – it was not something that needed broadcasting. He then went through the highlights of the investigation to date, trusting Vandersmissen to edit out what later might prove embarrassing or plain wrong.

Time ticked away all too slowly for Hawthorne’s liking towards five in the evening.

*

Vice-President Larry Fane, already having visited one of the up-and-coming high-technology companies in Philadelphia that morning, turned his campaign trail later in the day a few miles south to one of the declining cornerstones of Pennsylvania’s wealth, coal.

A carefully choreographed inspection of the McElroy mine’s longwall system and preparation plant, one of the largest investments in a dying industry in recent years, was followed by a rally-rousing speech given in the employee’s car park which was devoid of cars for the day. The black tarmac only added to the heat.

The Vice-President then started to work the crowd, stepping down from the makeshift podium and enthusiastically shaking hand after anonymous hand. His grip was always just firmer than the recipient – it conveyed power but not overwhelming dominance. He was so practiced in the art it had become a reflex.

On touching one hand though, another reflex took over – revulsion. He snatched his hand back and saw three gentle scratches closely grouped on his palm. Jeez, was that a scab or a major callus? How hard do they work these guys here? Through the sea of people and outstretched arms he could not identify the owner. The offending hand had already disappeared.

McConnell had the second DNA sample. One to go.

*

At a quarter to five Jacobs received the printouts from the telephone and e-mail intercepts of the Excalibur Suite and started to study them in earnest. He had routed the request through an old acquaintance at the NSA who knew which way the political wind was blowing. It had proved necessary in order to override any security the FBI had on their phone system. After all, it was the NSA who drew up its specifications (another of the NSA’s tasks is information systems security, or INFOSEC, protecting classified and unclassified national security systems).

There were several calls made steadily during the day to the FBI Research Department, close to the Director’s office on the seventh floor of the Hoover Building. Jacobs reasoned correctly that they were connected with the study on the “Russian Mafia”. But the other phone calls had dropped off dramatically since mid-morning. Strange, according to surveillance, nobody’s left the building apart from those two star-crossed lovers. Mystified, he turned his attention to the e-mails.

His mouth dropped open. The Road Pet! The Road Pet? He read with horror the messages the strange informant was supplying Hawthorne and his team. This e-mailer obviously had something that was going to lead back to the Administration. What? It was something Jacobs could not allow to happen at any cost. He quickly picked up his phone.

‘Burbank,’ he ordered his trusted Secret Service agent who was in charge of the Excalibur surveillance, ‘Are you reading these e-mails? There’ll be a Toyota driving around 10th and E in,’ he quickly glanced at his watch, ‘ten minutes. One of the Excalibur team’s going to follow it. Get some cars to the area and track them. Once they stop, shoot the driver of the Toyota. Yes, dead. Consider it an Executive Order. I’ll give you the paperwork tomorrow. If the agent retrieves anything from the car, shoot him too. No, you don’t need to know why. Be careful. They know you’ll be there.’

Jacobs felt sick. The conspiracy theorists were going to have a field day with this one, but better rumor than any facts. It was a time of desperate measures.

*

Hawthorne sat behind the wheel of his Grand Cherokee jeep at the designated pick-up point behind the Hoover Building and tapped his fingers impatiently on the leather-bound steering wheel, trying to keep in rhythm with the radio. He looked around constantly at the cars passing him. The wheel vibrated softly against his hands. The car was only three months old and the smell of freshness still lingered inside, heightened by the air-conditioning unit. The clock inside the jeep read two minutes to five. Hawthorne loosened his tie and turned up the ventilation another notch.

*

For Burbank the logistics of the operation were a nightmare, especially with minimal warning. The surrounding area was a no-parking zone, so all his units had to remain constantly mobile.

Whoever had set the meet had been clever to choose an intersection. There were four possible directions the Toyota could take, and that meant at least four cars. Sure, if Excalibur’s car were parked in the wrong direction, it could do an immediate U-turn but his vehicles could not without drawing attention to themselves. They might as well have flashing lights on top of them. So as to avoid the same car being seen too many times as it circled the neighboring blocks, it had actually meant double that number.

He made some frantic calls to the Treasury Building. Luckily they had more than enough to spare. With one minute to go he had managed to put all his units in position. He personally had an eyeball on Hawthorne’s jeep as backup.

*

Hawthorne exhaled deeply. It was at times like this he wished he had never given up cigarettes, but Annie had insisted on it when she became pregnant with their first child. A police siren wailed in the distance, startling him momentarily. He glanced in the rear view mirror, noticing that the entrance ramp to the FBI’s underground car park was, as usual, quiet in the early evening. Somehow it did not seem right to have only two guards on the gate. He snapped out of his reverie as the local radio station announced the beginning of the five o’clock news.

A bead of sweat trickled down his features and he wondered if it was from fear or the heat.

*

Thirty seconds elapsed. ‘Units standby,’ ordered Burbank into his hidden microphone. ‘Red Toyota Camry approaching target from 9th, headed west.’ He gave out the license number.

*

Hawthorne spotted the Camry in his mirror and watched closely as it approached. It showed no sign of being aware of Hawthorne in his parked car. The driver appeared to male, middle-aged, and slightly bald. It drove casually passed him, the driver not bothering to look in his direction. Hawthorne continued to wait.

*

‘Units standby,’ repeated Burbank. Why isn’t he following? He rechecked his watch and frowned.

*

Hawthorne decided to wait another ten minutes before going home. He hoped Vandersmissen had read the message correctly. They were probably only going to get one shot at this.

*

An hour later, Burbank stood in the Chief of Staff’s office and related the events to Jacobs. ‘What do you mean he didn’t follow any of them?’ asked Jacobs with irritation.

‘Just what I said, sir,’ replied Burbank, secretly pleased that he had not needed to shoot anyone. ‘In the fifteen minutes that the car stayed there, there were three Toyotas that passed the subject’s car. The subject looked closely at all three but didn’t follow any of them.’

‘And why’s that? You think he spotted you?’

‘If he did wouldn’t he have driven off immediately in another direction?’ reasoned Burbank. He smarted at the implied criticism of his ability.

‘Or he could have been protecting his source by deliberately not following him. He’d already been warned that you’d be there,’ argued Jacobs. Burbank, not wanting to get into an argument, did not point out that The Road Pet knew that anyway.

Jacobs realized that Burbank was not replying. ‘Run those three plates through the computer and put a surveillance team on each of the owners, just in case. I want a full dossier on each person first thing tomorrow.’

This is bullshit, thought Burbank. ‘Yes, sir.’

Once Burbank had left the room, Jacobs studied The Road Pet’s message again.

*

Although Kemp had paid a visit to the counterintelligence division he left the Hoover Building undisguised in one of the undistinguished pool cars, or ‘Bu-steeds’ as the FBI refer to them, and drove the ten miles to Bethesda Naval Hospital. During rush hour it was a tortuous trip that took just over an hour. In the slow traffic he could not spot his tail, but was confident that he had one.

After passing through the surprisingly light security of Building Nine and shooting the breeze for an hour with an old friend he had rung in advance, he bade farewell and purposefully made his way to one of the toilets. Locking himself in a cubicle, he pulled back his tie and shirt buttons, revealing a zip that started at the collar and ran all the way to his pants. He took off his shoes and stepped out of the all-in-one garment. Turning it inside out and putting it on again, he was suddenly a bona fide doctor, complete with an ID that would pass cursory inspection.

Kemp made his way to the third floor and walked gingerly along the light yellow corridor, a subtle change to the white that dominated the rest of the building. The lingering odor of Oil of Wintergreen still permeated the air. He halted outside the room that stored blood samples.

No guards were evident, but there was an electronic lock to negotiate. He pulled out what appeared to be a thin calculator and, aiming it at the lock, pressed three-five-five-divide-one-one-three and then kept his thumb down on the equals button. One hundred thousand randomly generated signals per second bombarded the lock. After thirty long seconds a soft metallic shunt of the mechanism announced that he had scored a hit. Kemp quickly entered the storage room and closed the door behind him, leaning against it.

He took a deep breath of the cold air and tried to calm himself. Thin wisps of white smoke emanated from his lips as he exhaled. I could do with a cigarette. Last time I did ops was initial training at Quantico, same as Mary. He took in his surroundings – most of the surprisingly large room was taken up by row upon row of what appeared to be glass fridges. Inside each fridge were hundreds of labeled test-tubes filled with blood. The heavier red cells had separated and settled at the bottom of every one of them. To Kemp’s right was a long wooden shelf with an array of chemicals beneath which was a stainless steel sink.

He snapped on a pair of surgical gloves and opened the storage unit nearest the door. Close inspection showed that the blood samples were stored in date order. Trial and error led him to the date he needed and within five minutes he had located the blood sample from President Wilburforce’s annual check up. Damn Fane, why did he have to use that damned military hospital we have in Germany for a change?

He pulled out a similar test-tube half-filled with thick red oil from his pocket and added water until it was indistinguishable from the others. After the hospital label had been transferred to the fake sample and the substitution complete he closed the glass door. It offered no resistance to his push and it closed loudly, rattling the myriad of test-tubes. Kemp cringed at the noise. It also attracted the attention of a passing security guard.

A few seconds later as Kemp made his way to the door, he heard the chunk of the lock. He darted to the hidden side of the door and looked desperately for a weapon. There was none and he was useless at combat. The door started to open cautiously and Kemp’s swallowed hard.

As more and more of the room came into view, the guard noticed that the glass door to one of the storage units was heavily fogged. Someone was inside and as no one was in plain sight it was someone who had no business being inside. He placed his hand on the holster on his hip and entered the room. He took one step forward only to feel something hard pressing into the small of his back. He heard the door close behind him.

‘Up,’ ordered Kemp in a low voice. He pushed the end of the test-tube containing the President’s blood harder into the guard’s spine. The guard’s arms complied immediately. As Kemp leant over reaching for the gun the guard suddenly dropped his arms and grabbed the offending hand. With a mighty grunt he spun Kemp towards the sink.

Kemp’s left elbow impacted hard against the stainless steel sink but he didn’t feel it. He was more concerned with the blood sample. He checked it and was relieved to find it still intact. The guard, who had half-drawn his gun by then, also noticed the intruder had no weapon. He grinned savagely and replaced his weapon. He was a good sixty pounds heavier and was smarting from being tricked by a test-tube. He wanted hands-on experience. The bear of a man rapidly started to dominate Kemp’s vision as he approached at a half run.

All Kemp could think of was to reach up and grab one of the glass bottles above him and throw it at the guard. The guard raised his forearm and the bottle smashed into it, shattering at once. He cried out in pain, not from the glass but from its contents that sprayed his features. He stopped in the middle of the room and put his hands to his contorted face. As Kemp took a deep breath he could smell pure alcohol in the air. No serious damage. He ran at the guard and crashed into the mass of flesh with all the momentum he could muster.

As the guard toppled over his body collided with one of the glass storage units knocking it over and knocking him out. The painful sound of splintering glass could be heard and the floor became awash with blood. The guard looked as if he had been massacred, turned inside out. The fridge in turn had bumped into its neighbor and the rest started to fall like dominos, spraying the room with a curious combination of deadly shards and life's blood. Kemp instinctively backed up to the exit as far away from the action as possible. The blood had started to run down the walls and Kemp felt he was inside a horror movie. The room had been transformed within seconds into a hideous scene of pure carnage.

Red liquid started to flow quickly along the floor towards him and he checked himself over for any telltale splashes and listened at the door. No one was there. At the last moment before the crimson tide reached his shoes he quickly opened the door and exited the room.

They now had all the DNA samples necessary to prove Michael Fane’s paternity.

27

“The true use of speech is not so much to express our wants as to conceal them.”
Oliver Goldsmith (1728–1774)

Although Kevin Hawthorne at seven was a year older than his sister, he held his knife and fork as awkwardly as did she. How on earth are you supposed to keep the peas on the fork? The world was silly, he decided as he fed himself another piece of roast potato. Potatoes were always easier to handle. If daddy’s friend weren’t here, they’d let me use a spoon.

He had been up late last night because there had been a moth in his bedroom and the monstrous, moving shadows it had cast on the walls and ceilings as it persistently kamikazied his dim bedside lamp had inspired many a bad dream. Apart from grown-ups, moths were probably the silliest animals on the planet. I’ve never seen them during the day, they only come out at night, and what do they do? Fly around light bulbs! Dumb insects.

Grown-ups were very definitely first, though. They always made things difficult for themselves. He had seen fighting and shooting on the news. Why do they do it? Don’t they know that the good guys always win? Maybe they don’t watch enough TV.

The two soaps that this mother tended to watch were silly too. Everyone has a secret, every secret is eventually found out and everyone cries. He would never keep secrets, he resolved.

It was also a complete mystery to him that his mother had three different voices, depending on whether he and Cindy were being good or bad or if she was on the phone. He had decided he would only have one voice when he grew up.

He had given up trying to figure out girls a long time ago.

‘Kevin?’

‘Yes, mummy?’

‘I asked if you remembered Uncle Charlie.’

Kevin looked up at the tall guest that was also seated at the dinner table. There was something oddly familiar about him, a distant memory of a roundabout came into his mind. ‘Not really.’

‘I don’t blame you, Kevin,’ said Vandersmissen in-between mouthfuls, ‘You were what, four, the last time you saw me? I used to come around a lot. I’d pretend to go to sleep in the armchair over there and you and Cindy would tickle me to wake me up.’

‘I remember,’ interrupted Cindy proudly, ‘and I’m younger.’

‘So do I!’ defended Kevin, his voice full of irritation at his sister.

‘Can we do it again?’ asked Cindy hopefully.

‘I’m afraid Uncle Charlie’s got to leave soon,’ apologized Hawthorne on behalf of his guest. ‘He’s going to meet someone.’

‘You meeting a snitch or a girl?’ asked Kevin. He hoped it was not a girl.

‘A snitch. How did you know?’ smiled Vandersmissen in surprise, particularly in the choice of wording.

‘Daddy does it all the time,’ he explained.

Vandersmissen turned to Hawthorne. ‘Ah! So that’s why you’re so successful!’ he grinned.

Kevin looked down at his plate. Should he give away other people’s secrets? Not knowing the answer and afraid that his father would be angry with him, he decided to concentrate on his peas. That would please him.

‘Uncle Charlie,’ began Cindy.

‘Yes?’

‘Is there a Father Christmas?’

*

At just before nine-thirty, Vandersmissen exited an old Chevy taxi and walked briskly into the Grand Hyatt, where he was staying along with the other agents from out of town. As far as he could tell he had not been tailed from Hawthorne’s house.

Annie as ever had proved to be an excellent cook, albeit her tastes were a little too bland for his liking. He had missed Washington and the people in it. Is it really Washington, or do I just associate it with a successful career?

He was determined to get back on a winning path, and he preferred it to be in Hollywood where the real money was rather than behind a Bureau desk. Helping the investigation was the best thing that could have happened to him. He was as motivated as the other members to put the case to bed.

He hurriedly walked down the moving metallic staircase that was inside the Grand Hyatt’s enormous atrium and was immediately surrounded by a variety of specialist bars, including a Sports Bar he would normally have visited. He ignored them all and strode to the kitchens at the far end of the lower floor past the breakfast area. His temporary FBI pass granted him entrance. Hell, if the FBI can trust him, I guess I can, thought the surprised Chinese kitchen manager.

Vandersmissen stayed behind the kitchen doors and peeked through the crack back through the way he had come. Hawthorne had reasoned correctly. No one was bothering to tail the media man. Just to be sure, he ducked out of the back entrance to the hotel and walked the long way around the block to the nearby Chinatown Metro Station, constantly checking his back.

He needed to go just one stop east on the Red Line to Judiciary Square, but prudence dictated he took the Green Line north six stops to Fort Totten and then change to the Red Line back to Judiciary Square.

As was normal that time of the evening, there were few people on the train, all studiously ignoring each other. As the train gently rocked from side to side, he was thankful he did not have a job that involved a lot of commuting. Just as cryptic crosswords kept his brain active, so did numerical puzzles. As a mental exercise he tried to calculate how long somebody would spend commuting if each trip took an hour and they did it all their working lives.

Say ten hours a week, forty-six weeks a year, for say forty-seven years. After a minute he came up with the answer. Assuming they sleep for eight hours a day, and spent all their waking life commuting, that’s three and a half years non-stop. Vandersmissen shook his head. What a waste! All that time surrounded by people and they never talk to each other. He rechecked the compartment’s occupants. Nobody looked particularly suspicious or familiar.

No one was following, but the real test was yet to come. If anyone else has solved The Road Pet’s instructions, they wouldn’t need to follow me.

*

On the campaign bus that was returning to Washington after a whistle-stop tour of Jersey City, Newark and Atlantic City Mulligan was deep in self-contemplation. Crashed-out, lifeless bodies, the energy drained from a combination of the heat and the exertions of campaigning, surrounded him but he was one of the few that were wide-awake. He roused a slumbering Harlow with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

‘Sorry to wake you,’ he said softly, knowing that Harlow had slept little the last few nights, ‘but one of my sources, a guard in the reception area of the Hoover Building, tells me that there’s a reporter who’s coming in every day doing a special on the Excalibur team. Used to be an agent would you believe.’

Harlow pinched the corners of his eyes. ‘Any idea which way he votes?’

‘I don’t know, but it would be worth trying to meet up with him,’ suggested Mulligan. Maybe he can help us, you know, shout out that there was someone behind Aitken’s murder. The public would listen to someone on the inside track.’

‘Is that the best you can come up with?’ snarled Harlow. ‘Us trying to get information from a reporter?’ He shuffled in his seat uncomfortably. ‘In my day it was usually the other way ’round. Get a grip Carl, for chrissakes.’ He closed his eyes, trying to focus on the monotonous drone of the coach’s engine but failed to get back to sleep.

*

After exiting the Metro station at Judiciary Square, Vandersmissen walked around the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial, a carefully landscaped three-acre site opposite the US and DC Court Houses. It is replete with plush grass, tens of thousands of plants and over a hundred trees. Even with the fading light Vandersmissen could make out a few small brownish patches where the unforgiving sun had taken its toll on the greenery.

Bordering the park are two long blue-gray marble walls about three feet high that have inscribed on them the name of every federal, state and local law enforcer who have been killed in the line of duty since records began over two hundred years ago. There are over fourteen thousand of them. Vandersmissen thought it a horrific figure. He knew four of the names personally, but it was close to ten o’clock and he did not have time to pay his respects. He hoped his name would not be added to the list momentarily.

He desperately wished he had his trusted sidearm with him. Then he remembered that he was not officially a law-enforcement officer anymore. Even if tragedy were to strike at him in the next few minutes, he very much doubted his name would be carved in stone there. There was no tinge of sadness. He was aiming for the sunken handprints in the boulevard outside Grauman’s, a much more valuable tribute, particularly as it meant he would still be alive at the time.

On the opposite corner of the memorial stood a lone figure. A tramp, or at least someone dressed to look like one, the agent inside Vandersmissen figured. Even in the humid evening air the man wore what appeared to be six layers of clothing, mainly brown and black. It must be intolerable during the heat wave. Probably every rag he owns. With eyes constantly sweeping from left to right he cautiously approached the man. His hand reached into the right pocket of his lightweight jacket and switched on the recording device. There was also a miniature camera that was disguised as a button on his jacket. Hawthorne had insisted. It would also be good for the show.

He reviewed The Road Pet’s message in his mind again. It was a fair assumption that if The Road Pet thought the messages were being tapped, he would not have been so open about the where and when of any meeting that he wanted. “Pull up if I pull up” and “A Toyota” were both palindromes, suggesting that the third part of the message should also be read backwards. Instead of 10th and E at 5pm, it was really 5th and E at 10pm. The location of Judiciary Square seemed appropriate.

The tramp was wearing the thickest pair of glasses Vandersmissen had ever seen. They were obviously very old, judging by the two pieces of dirty surgical tape that held them together. Looking at the tramp’s eyes was akin to looking through fisheye lenses.

His long black hair was matted and his face looked like a walnut. The man appeared to be close to seventy, but Vandersmissen knew he was probably only in his early fifties. The tramp looked at him expectantly. His watch told him it was ten o’clock and there was no one else around. ‘Do you have anything for me?’ Vandersmissen asked, keeping upwind.

‘That depends on who you are,’ came the gravel-voiced reply. Meths.

‘My name’s Charles Vandersmissen. I’m working with the FBI on a case, and I was told to come here, in a roundabout sort of way.’

‘I need a password.’ Good for you, thought Vandersmissen. At least the tramp wasn’t giving up to the first person to approach him.

‘The Road Pet? Excalibur?’ The tramp’s magnified eyes lit up and he pulled out a small white envelope that had been lovingly folded in half. Vandersmissen’s hand reached out for it but the tramp snatched his hand back, holding the envelope close to his chest.

‘Fella told me you’d give me a hundred bucks if I gave this to you. I know it ain’t drugs. Don’t do drugs,’ he said with an air of pride.

‘Oh, he did, did he?’ As Vandersmissen’s hand went to the inside of his jacket for his wallet he asked if the tramp could describe the man who had given him the envelope.

‘The bastard sneaked up behind me yesterday evening and took off my glasses before I had a chance to turn ’round. He left them twenty yards away as he run off. Took me damn near five minutes to find ’em. He’s about your height and that’s all I can tell you.’

‘Hair and skin color?’ pushed Vandersmissen, handing over a hundred dollars. The tramp grabbed it eagerly and stuffed the notes quickly into the layers of clothing.

‘He wore a hat, but he was white, local lad. I can tell you that much. That’s another ten dollars,’ said the tramp, clutching the once pristine envelope even tighter.

‘Did he give you anything else, anything at all?’

‘A hundred dollars for being here,’ replied the tramp, uncertain that he should have divulged the fact to the stranger. He unconsciously took a small step back from Vandersmissen.

‘Tell you what, I’ll give you two hundred dollars if you can give me the hundred he gave you.’

‘Now why would you do that?’ puzzled the tramp, coughing violently. Wasn’t he meant to be the dumb one?

‘Fingerprints.’

‘Oh. Naw, I spent it already,’ sighed the tramp, cursing his impetuousness.

‘Wine, women and song?’ asked Vandersmissen.

‘That’s about the size of it, but not so much on the song,’ replied the gruff voice.

Vandersmissen pulled another hundred from his leather wallet. ‘Here, go knock yourself out,’ he said as he handed it over. The tramp let him slide the envelope from his grasp, immediately putting the new bill away. Vandersmissen held only the corner so as not to get fingerprints all over it.

‘I don’t suppose I can have a receipt for that?’ Vandersmissen asked. Davin always insisted on fully documented expense claims.

‘Sure. Where do I put my X?’ sneered the tramp and wandered off without further ado. He had money to spend that night.

*

Kemp met up with a slightly disheveled Walsh in the forensic laboratory in the bowels of the Hoover Building. Walsh wheeled himself to a separate room containing the samples Payne and McConnell had recently dropped off. Kemp closed the door firmly behind them and placed the vial containing the President’s blood next to the sample of ice-cream and a thin, coarse piece of sandpaper, both wrapped in sterile bags. He looked wide-eyed as Walsh took a sip from a glass cup that had stood next to them filled with a thick red liquid.

Walsh noticed the reaction. ‘Tomato soup, you idiot,’ he growled. Kemp mentally slapped himself. The image of Bethesda was going to take a while to fade.

‘So how long is this going to take?’

Walsh was relieved. Kemp was the first person that day not to ask how he was doing. ‘Well I’ve got enough DNA of the President, but just a few cells of the boy and the VP. I need to PCR them, that’s like Xeroxing, for around three hours. That’ll get me a few million copies. Then comes the tricky part. Normally in paternity cases you’d get a sample from the mother as well. This’ll take more testing, more care and more time.’

‘How long?’

Walsh shifted uncomfortably in his wheelchair and rubbed his left thigh. ‘Well that depends on how much confidence you want in the result. I can always rule out someone a hundred percent of being the father, but I can only give you so many point niners for a match. How many do you want?

‘Four?’ offered Kemp with a shrug. One in million chance of being wrong did not seem too bad.

‘Friday lunchtime,’ replied Walsh after a quick mental calculation. ‘I’ll get my best onto it right away.’ He placed the samples in his lap and wheeled backwards towards the door and opened it. ‘Ralph! ’ A limber man with squirrel eyes in white overalls hastened to the room. Walsh had been acting like a drill-sergeant all day.

‘Sir?’

Walsh handed over the samples one by one. ‘I need a sixer. John, Jack and little Jimmy Doe. Who de daddy?’

*

Back in his hotel room, Vandersmissen carefully opened the envelope. Inside was a folded piece of plain white paper, A4 size, with three lines of typed text. It stated simply:
This is our last communication.
This is the man who killed Aitken:
It’s a day in bad Harlem.

Another cryptic message. It did not surprise him in the least.

*

The next morning the team had gathered expectantly around Vandersmissen’s table to examine the short, unhelpful note. The background whining from the air conditioner confirmed that it was near to full capacity as it attempted to cope with the merciless sun that continued to beat the North East corner of America into submission.

Fingerprint analysis had already confirmed that the only fingerprints were on the outside of the envelope, and apart from those on the corner that Vandersmissen had touched, they belonged to John Hayes. A quick phone call had confirmed that he was a well-known local itinerant who tended to spend one night a week in a lock-up after severe drinking bouts.

The Road Pet had also been careful to use a computer to print the message rather than a typewriter. Both Vandersmissen and Hawthorne had concluded that either The Road Pet had easier access to a computer rather than a typewriter, which had tied in with his preference for e-mails, or that he knew that typewriters were as unique as fingerprints.

The slight indentations that the rollers inside the printer had made on the paper together with a chemical analysis of the ink used had pinpointed the make and model of the printer but that was as far as it could take them. It was one of the most popular brands. The same was true of the paper itself. The Road Pet was being as cautious as the assassin had been.

‘So what do you make of the puzzle,’ asked Benditoz. Harlem’s near my neighborhood. He tried to forget that Vandersmissen’s camera was rolling in the far corner, aimed at the crowd.

Vandersmissen looked up at him, stifling a yawn. ‘Well, a more normal sentence would read “It’s a bad day in Harlem”, rather than “It’s a day in bad Harlem”. In cryptic crosswords the word “bad” normally indicates that the next word is an anagram. I spent most of last night going through all the combinations of the letters in “Harlem”, and this is what I got.’

He pulled another piece of paper out from his pocket and unfolded it.

‘As you can see, there’s Mahler the composer, and names like H Ramel, Mr. Hale, Mr. H Lea, Mr. Heal could refer to a doctor,’ he suggested, ‘Erlham, Halmer, Arlhem, and the more esoteric stuff like “Ah, Merl” and “Earl H M”. As you can see, there’s others on the list but they don’t look as promising.’

‘Gary, Jim,’ said Hawthorne. I wish Mary were still here. ‘Run these names through the computer and see what you can find. Also, get the files on anybody in the Administration who currently lives or was born in Harlem. The clue might be less complicated than we think.’

‘What about the first part of the clue?’ asked McConnell, ‘“It’s a day in”?’

‘Well,’ apologized Vandersmissen scratching his head, ‘that’s the bit that has me stumped.’

Hawthorne had a brainwave. ‘You three,’ he said nodding in the direction of the “Russian Mafia” team, ‘Get the complete works of Mahler in English and go through them with a fine toothcomb. Look in particular for anything concerning “day”’.

‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ conceded Vandersmissen. ‘In crosswords they don’t normally expect you to have detailed knowledge of the works of an Austrian composer.’

‘Any luck on the backgrounds and movements of the NSC members?’ Baker asked Hawthorne.

‘As you might guess everyone’s got solid alibis for the night in question. These are their movements as far as we can tell over the last six weeks.’ He placed his hand on top of a small file of papers.

‘For what it’s worth,’ grunted McConnell.

‘Well, I’m off to interview Dennison,’ announced Vandersmissen. ‘Funnily, he didn’t seem too keen on it. He’s been hogging the limelight ever since Wilburforce appointed him Attorney General. What about you, Sam?’

‘Who emptied the bin last night?’ interrupted Payne urgently as he pushed an empty cup through the flap of the bin next to the coffee machine. Kemp acknowledged. ‘Well how come it’s already half-full?’

Hawthorne and his team gathered around the suspicious container and peered inside. Seeing nothing untoward, Hawthorne gingerly opened its top as Vandersmissen ran for his camera. Hawthorne sat on his haunches and put his hands together, resting his chin on his thumbs and tapping his forefingers together. He exhaled deeply.

He delicately started to take cups and napkins individually out of the bin until he found what he hoped was not there - a thick pile of unused napkins, underneath which lay a small bomb. The small electronic timer read just less than three minutes.

‘Evac! ’ ordered Hawthorne immediately. Everyone apart from Vandersmissen grabbed what they could and made for the door, McConnell smashing the fire alarm button on the way out. Vandersmissen stayed firm with the camera trained on Hawthorne and the bin.

Hawthorne looked up at him angrily. ‘Charlie, you’re not working for CNN! Get out!’ he barked impatiently above the harsh ringing.

‘This from the great bomb-disposal expert,’ replied Vandersmissen holding his ground. Hawthorne had little experience of bombs.

‘I’ll have security haul you out!’

Vandersmissen peered at the bomb. ‘In two-fifteen? Damn they must be good,’ he replied.

Hawthorne shook his head. ‘You really need this, don’t you?’

‘Sam, the bomb’s ticking, OK?’

Hawthorne refocused. The bomb was made of few parts. A small strip of what was obviously C4 connected by a myriad of thin wires through a large hole drilled into the side of an old fashioned LED watch.

‘Simple fucker,’ said Hawthorne, ‘no mercury switches, nothing fancy.’

‘Cute,’ observed Vandersmissen. ‘We can’t trace it to anyone.’

‘Yeah,’ replied Hawthorne. ‘but which wire do I cut, and what’s inside the watch?’ With ninety seconds left there was no time to find out. He sighed. ‘Charlie, make yourself useful and get me a forty-three.’

‘Screwdriver?’

‘No, from the vending machine.’

Vandersmissen stared at him. ‘We’ve just over a minute and you’re getting thirsty?’

‘Just do it.’

Keeping the camera focused on the scene, Vandersmissen circled Hawthorne and pressed the appropriate buttons. Twenty seconds later he handed over a hot cappuccino to Hawthorne. There were fifteen seconds left on the LCD of the watch.

Hawthorne took a loving suck of the froth and then tipped the cup over the watch. Some of the liquid dribbled inside the hole, making small bubbles that seemed to emerge in time with the countdown. The watch continued to count backwards until it finally stopped with four seconds to go.

‘Coffee’s bad for you, my ass!’ shouted an exuberant Hawthorne. ‘It was the napkins,’ he explained. ‘Obviously the bomb was vulnerable to – Charlie?’

Vandersmissen had collapsed on the floor, still clutching his camera.

28

“Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind...”
William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

‘That fucker was like a cruise missile,’ seethed Hawthorne once the team had reassembled. ‘designed to fireball this room and leave the rest of the building intact. There’s no more pretending. We know that they know that we know and all that shit. I’m going to need a one-on-one with the President without the Secret Service or anyone in the Administration knowing about it.’

‘You’re not gonna tell him he’s got a son, are you?’ asked Baker.

‘Not until I’m absolutely sure, no.’

‘And how the hell are you going to get a discrete one-on-one?’ inquired Baker.

‘I’m going to hold his balls.’

*

Dennison quickly ran a comb through his hair and cleared his throat before admitting Vandersmissen to his office. They shook hand politely but warily. In the back of his mind Dennison wondered why he had acceded to Vandersmissen’s request. The whole interview’s a sham, a cover story so Vandersmissen can help his old friend Hawthorne identify who was behind the assassination. He did not think it would ever be broadcast, but it did not hurt just in case.

Vandersmissen quickly set up the video equipment, pointing it at the elegant cream and gold patterned sofa in which Dennison had indicated a seating preference. Vandersmissen noted that the framed shot Dennison had preferred did not have a wall-mounted photograph of the current President in the background as was normal when interviewing senior Administration officials in their own offices.

Understanding dawned across his tanned features. Dennison was subtlety distancing himself from Wilburforce in case Harlow won the election. In having a strong presence in the media of late he was hoping to become a popular man in his own right, that whoever was the next President would retain him for exactly that reason. If this ever gets aired before the election, that is.

Satisfied that everything was set, Vandersmissen sat down at the other end of the sofa and glanced at his clipboard, reminding himself of the questions he had prepared in advance. Dennison quickly adjusted his cuffs.

‘I would first like to thank you for granting this interview, Attorney General Dennison,’ started Vandersmissen.

‘It’s a pleasure, Charles, and call me Victor. “Attorney General Dennison” is such a mouthful.’ Dennison smiled warmly for the camera. I’m a man of the people. He blinked. Is it necessary to have that damned light pointed directly at my face? Soft, indirect lighting is better.

‘Thank you, Victor. It has passed into American legend that everyone remembers where they were and what they were doing when they were told of President Kennedy’s assassination. Can you tell us what you were doing when you found out that Robert Aitken had befallen the same fate?’

‘Of course,’ replied Dennison. ‘I was due to be guest speaker at a dinner hosted by the National Association Of Town And Townships, a very worthy cause I might add, at the Hyatt Regency on Capitol Hill. Unfortunately after the second course I became decidedly unwell, stomach cramps, and had to go home before I could give my speech. Luckily my dear wife Sally was on hand to cover for me.

Dennison’s voice became soft and halting as he related the events. ‘As my stomach would not allow me to go to sleep - I take as little medication as possible by the way, I believe in inner strength - I was in bed watching one of the news channels when I received a phone call from FBI Director Douglas who broke the terrible news to me.’

He’s treating even this question as an advertisement for himself, thought Vandersmissen with incredulity. ‘What went through your mind when you were told the tragic news?’ he probed.

‘Anger, resolve, and sorrow for all who knew Robert. He was a great man. I immediately got out of bed and went to the Department Of Justice Building to offer my help in any way I could.’

‘Did you ever think that one day you would become Attorney General?’ Let’s see you get out of that one.

Dennison paused before answering the barbed question. He had almost crossed his legs subconsciously before willing them to stay put. He had been taught that in body language it was as defensive a posture as crossing the arms or averting the gaze of the questioner.

‘One always has goals and aspirations, of course,’ he began. He turned directly to the camera. ‘That is what makes our country great. We nurture them, we encourage them, we promote them. Every position I have been given has been an honor to serve, and I have served with the utmost vigor. One never achieves high office unless others think you’re up to the challenge.’

Vandersmissen noted that Dennison had not actually answered the question but decided not to pursue it. He had bigger fish to fry. He needed to relax the Attorney General again.

‘What do you remember most from your childhood days on your parent’s ranch in Montana?’

Dennison’s face changed from a polite smile to a soft one. ‘The smell of freshly cut hay as I helped my father load up the barn, the sounds and rhythms of horses’ hooves on stony paths, and my first ride solo on a tractor, I was fourteen I think. Scariest thing I remember. It seemed to drive much faster when I was in the seat.’

‘Do you miss those days?’

Dennison had thought about them many times. ‘I miss the purity of them. I’m not referring to the innocence that leaves us all as we approach adulthood, I mean the intimacy with nature, as if you’re intrinsically part of the Grand Scheme Of Life.’

It led neatly to the one question Vandersmissen had been aching to ask. ‘Are you a religious man?’ Although the camera would catch the moment, Vandersmissen watched Dennison’s reaction keenly. He was surprised that Dennison was prepared for exactly that question.

‘Of course. How could anyone properly serve their fellow man without having God to guide them and give them wisdom and counsel. Do you think we would have had anything as beautiful as the Declaration Of Independence if it had not been for divine inspiration from God?’

‘You believe in divine inspiration?’ pushed Vandersmissen, annoyed he could not rattle Dennison.

‘Yes. Even Einstein was a religious man.’ Let me give you another example. Back in the sixteenth century, everyone rode their horses on the left-hand side of the road. As almost everyone was right-handed in those days, it was easier to defend yourself.’ With his right hand Dennison plucked an imaginary sword from his left hip and thrust it forward. ‘See? You’d want the passers-by to be on the side of your sword arm.’ Vandersmissen nodded politely, not quite knowing what the point of the story was.

‘The trouble was, there were a great many accidental deaths that way. You know, two people approaching each other on horseback, one makes a sudden movement, a sneeze or something, and the other panics. Then the pope, I can’t quite recall which one, had a divine inspiration from God. Everyone was to ride on the right-hand side of the road. It dramatically reduced the number of deaths. That’s why we drive on the right today. It was such a simple and brilliant idea I cannot think of another source that could have produced it.’

Vandersmissen tried to convey a look of boredom to Dennison, but Dennison continued unabashed. ‘As an aside, England and many of its former colonies continued to ride on the left because the pope at the time was refusing to annul one of the marriages of Henry the Eighth, so the king was ignoring all papal decrees.’

Thank goodness for editing equipment, thought Vandersmissen. It’s a great anecdote to go with a post-dinner brandy, but hardly the stuff of political interviews. Dennison is the reason that the video forward-fast button was invented.

He suddenly realized just how shrewd Dennison was being. Instead of being seen on camera refusing to answer a difficult question, he had given a response so long-winded that it would have the viewers switching channels. Both the question and the answer and would therefore be edited out. Vandersmissen was surprised he had never heard of the tactic before.

Vandersmissen returned to questions that he knew Dennison would be most comfortable with. It was important to relax him, to try and catch him unawares again.

*

There are only a few criteria required for being eligible to run for the presidency: he or she must be a naturally born citizen of the United States who is over thirty-five years and who have had their principal residence in the United States for the last fourteen. There is one criterion that was omitted from the American Constitution but has equal standing: they must have a golf handicap of less than eighteen.

Being a creature of habit, Wilburforce took to the green once a fortnight with Richard Bradshaw, chairman of the Federal Reserve Board and Robert Aitken. Now it was only the two of them. It was always at the Robert Trent Jones Golf Club, designed by the legendary architect himself and one of the most picturesque and expensive private golf clubs in America. It is the regular venue for the Presidents Cup. Its setting, on the side of Lake Manassas in Virginia and only forty miles from the White House, was perfect for the two players.

With the election looming ever larger, it was important for the President to appear relaxed and confident to the masses, a man with a healthy mix of work and play. The photo opportunity was quickly dispensed with before teeing off. The press corp was not allowed on the course.

Wilburforce had been annoyed to find that his regular caddy, William, who knew every blade of grass on the grounds, had suddenly been taken ill. His replacement for the day, a man William had personally vouched for, was a bespectacled, swarthy character with a thin moustache and a paunch by the name of Marty. The President had never seen him before at the club.

The Secret Service had been sent into a hive of activity. Any last-minute changes in personnel are known as Brown Pants Day by the security details. A car was hurriedly dispatched to William’s nearby cottage to ensure that he was indeed lain up in bed and Marty’s ID was put through the wringer. Apart from a few moving violations from a dilapidated but beloved Dodge that looked out of place in the parking area, it was totally lacking in suspicion.

Marty was also subjected to a number of searches. Although he was clean, the head of the security detail sent two extra snipers onto the course to discretely shadow the new man. A golf club was one hell of a weapon in the wrong hands.

In the appalling heat, Wilburforce had decided to dress for comfort, and wore loose fitting cream slacks, a dark pink Fred Perry T-shirt and a pristine white cotton cap with matching gloves. Wilburforce would only put on his shades when he was near reflective water, an almost full-time occupation as the lake comes into play on over half of the holes. Bradshaw and the two caddies were similarly dressed, varying only in color schemes.

Since the President hated jogging he eschewed the use of a power cart, preferring instead to walk the extensive five-mile course. It was something caddies hated during that time of year – they would be the ones carrying the large number of water bottles as well as the loaded golf bag.

President Wilburforce strode up to Marty and cast an appraising eye over his new caddy. Marty was almost standing to attention. ‘So, Marty,’ tested Wilburforce, ‘tell me about the twelfth.’

‘Of course, Mr. President,’ said Marty proudly, his quiet voice trying to disguise a low social standing. ‘Five hundred and seven yarder, tight fairway with a landing area of just twenty-five yards. The lake runs the entire length of the left side so hooked tee shots are severely punished. Hit it straight and aim for about two-fifty on your tee shot. If you miss your second shot, you’ll be in either sand or water, too.’

‘You’ll do,’ grunted Wilburforce. ‘Ready, Dick?’ he asked Bradshaw.

‘Against you? Always,’ came the confident reply. The group strode to the first tee and the fortnightly battle commenced.

*

Vandersmissen with little else to do that afternoon was back in his hotel room editing the interviews he had made that day. Dennison had ultimately been a waste of tape, but it was necessary for completeness. Over half of the Excalibur team had now been subjected to his camera as well as both Dennison and Douglas. Douglas had proved to be the least forthcoming of all his subjects, still rankling that Hawthorne had sneaked the presenter in through the back door.

He picked up the phone at its third insistent ring. Would he be available to see Senator Harlow in his office at nine o’clock that evening? Yes, he would.

*

The orange sun had started to dip slowly in the sky, the Virginia cedars casting their long shadows across the groomed fairways and patchwork greens as the group approached the fourteenth, a difficult hole with a small pond in front of the green. The banter had been of Aitken, the tricky par-fives and dropping the Federal Fund Rate another twenty-five points. Bradshaw had proved resistant to the idea so soon after the last decrease and Wilburforce had quickly dropped the subject.

Despite the best efforts of the ground staff, the bent grass had proven to be exceedingly dry and fast. Bradshaw, now four strokes behind the President, had muttered on more than one occasion that it was akin to putting on Teflon.

Bradshaw hit his tee shot with a satisfying thwack, carefully following the ball with his eyes as it veered gently left as did the fairway. ‘Great shot,’ complimented the President as Bradshaw handed his favored driver back to his caddy. ‘You go on ahead, Dick. I just need to rest my legs for a few minutes.’

As his opponent set off down the fairway with his caddy in tow, Wilburforce sat down and leant slightly backwards with his arms outstretched behind him supporting his frame. He closed his eyes, angling his perspiring face directly towards the sun like a British holiday-maker and inhaled deeply the sweet smell. He patted the ground next to him. “Guess you could do with a rest too, Marty.’ Marty welcomed the break and took his place next to the President.

‘How much do you know your Civil War history?’ asked the President.

‘Before my time, Mr. President,’ shrugged Marty.

‘Just a few miles from here, on a day not unlike today, was the first major land battle between North and South. Bull Run. Most of the men were ninety-day volunteers, total greeners that had never seen a rifle before. Everyone expected the Confederates to run at the first sound of gunfire. Hell, many congressmen and folks living nearby followed the Union army into the field with picnic baskets.’

Wilburforce leant over to the golf bag and extracted a now lukewarm bottle of water. ‘The reality was different, of course. By the end of the day and after ten hours of heavy fighting nine hundred lifeless bodies littered the surrounding fields. Small in comparison to later battles, but it proved that the road ahead would be far longer and far more arduous than anyone in Washington could have imagined.’

Wilburforce unscrewed the small plastic cap and took three deep gulps. He stared out with squinted eyes at the hazy hills on the far side of Lake Manassas. ‘I believe you’re discovering the investigation isn’t a picnic either, Agent Hawthorne. You’ve gone to a lot of trouble to be alone with me without anyone knowing, so I’ll give you three minutes, no more.’

Hawthorne blinked in surprise. He sat up and crossed his legs. ‘What gave me away?’

‘Oh, you know the course alright,’ explained Wilburforce, ‘distances and layout, but you’ve no passion for the game. You’re no caddy. I bet it’s the first time you’ve touched a three-iron.’

‘Second. The first was a disaster,’ corrected Hawthorne.

‘So how do you know William, my regular man?’

‘He and my father used to play together a few times,’ replied Hawthorne. ‘Took me out once for my first and last attempt.’

‘Two minutes forty,’ reminded the President.

‘I want you to call off your dogs and let us get on with this investigation unhindered. We’re having to watch our backs the whole damned time. They even put a bomb in the Hoover Building for chrissakes.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ defended Wilburforce. The surprise on his face was genuine.

‘Let’s cut to the chase, Mr. President,’ Hawthorne responded ungraciously. ‘We know, and you’ve almost certainly guessed, that someone very close to you ordered Aitken’s assassination because of that anti-religious speech - probably someone on the NSC or high up in the Administration. Personally I don’t think you were involved. It’s not in your character.’

‘I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment or a criticism,’ commented Wilburforce. He took another swig from the bottle and watched a bird in the distance beat the still surface of the lake with the tip of its wings distributing silver pearls in a long leisurely swoop. It was too far away for it to be identified.

‘You need the case closed,’ continued Hawthorne. ‘You’re ahead in the polls and you don’t want anyone, especially me, rocking the boat. After all, by catching and killing the assassin I’m the one who put you ahead in the first place.’ The President remained silent and smiled enigmatically.

‘We will catch whoever was behind it, make no mistake about that, and we’ll catch him before the booths open. Just keep Jacobs on a leash,’ ordered Hawthorne.

‘I think I would rather take my chances,’ stated Wilburforce flatly.

‘You realize by now of course that someone from the media knows this isn’t over.’

‘Your old buddy Vandersmissen?’ snorted the President. ‘Who would listen to him? He’s not even a bona fide reporter. All you’ve got is the usual puff and smoke after any murder of a high-ranking official.’

His eyes fixed on Hawthorne’s. ‘Yes, I regret Robert’s death and have grieved for him as much as anyone. If after the election it turns out that a senior aide was involved I will hang him out to dry. Personally. But look at it from my point of view. The big picture. I’m not obstructing justice, Agent Hawthorne, I’m merely delaying it for a few months.’ His voice had become soft and reasoning. He handed the half-empty bottle to Hawthorne.

‘And is it justice that you become re-elected by a foul?’ countered Hawthorne. ‘Also, by monitoring everything we do you’re letting the murderer know our every step. That is obstructing justice.’ Wilburforce gazed down at the grass between his outstretched legs.

‘I’ll cut you a deal,’ offered Hawthorne. ‘Firstly, you don’t tell anyone about this little chat. Secondly, call off your surveillance and give me free rein, no matter where it takes me, and I’ll tell the press that you did exactly that. It’ll make you look great. ’

‘I’m sorry,’ confessed Wilburforce, looking up again with a proud, defiant look in his eyes. ‘There’s one thing I’ve discovered about power since the election. You don’t own power, it owns you. It’s the most addictive of drugs and therefore the most difficult to kick.’

Hawthorne threw his head back and let the water wash down his throat. He decided to play one of his trump cards. ‘In that case Mr. President, I’ll go to the press tonight and tell them something you obviously don’t know. Leving was never involved in the assassination! He was just a decoy. That’ll change a few voters minds, I think.’ He checked his watch. ‘That’s my three minutes up.’

Wilburforce coughed violently and his body started to quiver slightly. His hands clenched the grass so tightly his knuckles became white. Hawthorne was not sure whether to put it down to nervousness or anger. Wilburforce took a deep breath and whistled softly through his teeth. ‘What’s to stop me having the Secret Service shoot you, an imposter, here on the spot?’ the President asked in a strained voice.

‘Simple,’ replied Hawthorne, his voice filled with neutrality, ‘I’m not the only one who knows, and I’ve given all the information to someone nobody knows. If another of those bombs blows us up, it’s goes public. And as I said before, it’s not in your character.’

The President did not move or say anything. He merely closed his eyes and dreamt of what the next four years could have been. Just as he had often wondered if any of his footsteps on the hallowed turf matched exactly that of the great golfers, he could only speculate if his future footsteps in history would parallel those Presidents who had made it to a second term.

Hawthorne was right, dammit - he was not the type of person to murder for personal gain. In a President, is that a strength or a character flaw? No matter how seductive the presidency was, to be re-elected with bloodstained hands would diminish the whole experience. How do drug-taking athletes feel when they win the gold? Anyway, this agent just isn’t going to let this happen.

Hawthorne had given him a glimmer of hope – the public would know he fully cooperated with him. He would be seen to be both brave and honorable. In politics, being honorable is the most courageous act. Hell, maybe Hawthorne was bluffing. It still might take months before they make an arrest in which case it would do no harm in calling off the surveillance. Once again, Hawthorne had left him with only one possible course of action available whether he liked it or not. He hoped fate and the biographers would be kind to him.

He stood up and brushed the loose grass from the seat of his pants. ‘Why, oh why did Robert ever write that damned speech?’ he said to himself. ‘Come on, Marty. Hand me the driver, please.’

29

“Nothing spoils a good party like a genius.”
Elsa Maxwell (1883–1963)

A still travel-weary Senator Harlow put his hand up in protest. ‘Oh, no Mr. Vandersmissen,’ he coughed, his throat already beginning to feel the strain of the campaign, ‘this isn’t for the cameras. Please.’ He smiled and gestured to the leather two-seater, ‘sit down.’ Vandersmissen tried to hide his disappointment as he took his place, delicately placing the padded camera bag on the floor beside his feet. An exclusive with a potential President would have been gold dust.

‘So why the request?’ Vandersmissen asked as he stretched his arm along the top of the black sofa that dominated one side of the senator’s office. He had already guessed the reason. As Vandersmissen seemed to be taking up the entire sofa, Harlow eased his frame into one of the matching chairs opposite. ‘I have a business proposition for you.’

‘I’m listening,’ encouraged Vandersmissen.

‘The American people love convenience. It’s become a way of life for them over the last decade. Microwaveable fries, drive-through weddings, HBO, laser-guided bombs, basically anything that can be described as “automatic” or “all inclusive”. Hell, some cars now even have the volume control for the car radio on the steering wheel!’ His tone had become derisory.

Vandersmissen said nothing and looked at the senator with a blank face. Harlow edged forward in his seat. ‘Take Aitken’s murder. They want the whole business behind them, all the loose ends tied up like a gift-wrapped piece of history. But we know it’s not over, don’t we?’

Vandersmissen remained quiet in the best traditions of interviewers and interrogators and kept his face in neutral. It compelled the subject to expound. Harlow edged ever forwards, his voice becoming a conspiratal whisper. ‘They expect me to go around saying “No, no, it’s not over”. I mean, I’m losing the damn presidency because of the whole business. The political cartoonists have me as a spoilt brat stamping his feet because he isn’t getting his way.’

Vandersmissen finally spoke. ‘But you think they’ll listen to me.’ Harlow’s face broke into a smile. He had spent the entire time trying to read Vandersmissen and until now had failed utterly.

‘Absolutely!’ replied Harlow eagerly. ‘Firstly, you used to be a famous cop, secondly you’re hand in hand with Hawthorne’s team, and thirdly you’ve got that show that exposes errors in justice. Who better to listen to?’ Harlow paused. ‘And I’m willing to pay top dollar. Five million in cash, here and now.’ Mulligan had been busy on the phone that morning. Harlow sat back in his chair, his say over and watched Vandersmissen like a hawk.

Vandersmissen had expected some sort of offer from Harlow, but not one of this magnitude. Five million dollars was a hell of an amount of money, especially when not taxed. He looked at the penetrating gaze from Harlow and realized that an answer was required there and then. He gave the one with which he had walked into the senator’s office.

‘You don’t seem to understand, Senator,’ he explained, ‘I’m making an in-depth documentary on the Excalibur Team, hopefully one of the hottest exclusives ever to hit the small screen. I’m there on the strict understanding that I don’t go shouting my head off until whatever investigation they are currently pursuing is completed. As soon as I open my mouth I’ll be kicked out of the building. I’d be compromising them.’

A look of panic spread across Harlow’s features. ‘But they are still investigating who ordered Leving to assassinate Aitken, right?’

Ah, so that’s it! Vandersmissen suppressed a smile. He crossed his legs. ‘It seems to me, Senator, that you would be best not to go around rocking any boats that may be out there. Let’s say for the sake of argument that they were still on the Aitken case and the Administration found out. If they were behind the murder, they would cut the team off and the guilty party escapes.

‘If it were someone else,’ Vandersmissen continued, ‘the Administration would still cut Excalibur off because, as you said, they’d prefer the whole thing to be closed. The guilty escapes punishment either way.’

‘But I could reopen the investigation once I’m elected. Truth and justice will prevail, I assure you,’ argued Harlow. It was a point neither Vandersmissen nor Hawthorne had considered. He had to think carefully before giving his answer.

‘Do you know how many documents are shredded and files deleted whenever there’s a change in the presidency? Why do you think there’s a two-month gap between the election result and the inaugural speech? No other country has it. It’s so that they can leave behind a whiter than White House. If it were the Administration that ordered Aitken’s murder, Hawthorne would have no trail to follow after you’re elected.

‘On top of that, I’ll lose my exclusive.’ Vandersmissen shook his head politely. ‘I’m afraid I must decline your offer. I’m looking for at least fifteen years of fame, not just fifteen minutes.’

Harlow leant back a defeated man. ‘Please,’ he said in a weak voice, ‘just for my peace of mind. Tell me they’re still trying to find out who ordered Leving to murder Aitken.’

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you,’ began Vandersmissen as he stood up and placed the strap of the camera bag over his shoulder. He chose his words with care. ‘They don’t think Leving was ordered by anyone. Goodbye.’

After Vandersmissen had closed the heavy door behind him leaving Harlow alone in his room, the senator withdrew a Dictaphone from his pocket. ‘Shit!’ he hissed into it and switched the machine off. Plan B had failed too. He tossed it towards the waste bin only for it to bounce off the lip and onto the carpet.

‘Shit!’

On the other side of the door, Vandersmissen pulled out his Dictaphone and kissed it lovingly.

*

Searches on the Harlem anagrams had proved fruitless. The closest it had produced was Henry Realm, an anti-war demonstrator during Vietnam who was now a political aide to one of the governors on the West Coast.

Mahler was weird, Payne had pronounced. The music was beautiful, albeit not in the same league as Garth Brooks, but he himself could have written better lyrics in the first grade. The only meaningful allusion to “day” had been in Song of a Journeyman in which a bride had been described as having blue eyes. That had applied to fifteen people who were either senior aides or on the NSC. Another dead end.

The birthday party of Hawthorne’s father was that evening and the agents, all of whom had been invited, were looking forward to the diversion. All except Walsh.

Hawthorne had been gladdened to hear that Walsh was now already getting around on crutches rather than a wheelchair. The staff at George Washington had advised against it so soon, but Walsh had insisted. The team members had paid him many visits during the week, and he even appeared quite spirited during Vandersmissen’s interview.

On Friday, Hawthorne had discovered that it was all a brave façade. He had received a call earlier that morning from an obviously tearful Kerry Walsh complaining that her husband had not bothered to come home the last two nights and was refusing to take her calls.

Hawthorne had gone immediately to Walsh’s laboratory and told him in no uncertain terms that both he and his wife were going to his father’s seventieth birthday party the next evening, even if it meant handcuffing him to a wheelchair again.

*

Wilburforce was still in his golfing clothes when Jacobs, who had been summoned during the President’s trip back to the Capitol, entered the Oval Office. Wilburforce glanced at the grandfather clock near the door that led to his secretary’s office. It had just turned nine-thirty. Bet the man sleeps in that suit, he thought. He hasn’t even loosened his tie and we’ve known each other for more years than I can remember. Please God, don’t let it be him.

‘Sit down, Owen,’ he commanded. Jacobs recognized the tone of voice and complied immediately. Wilburforce slowly paced the room pensively as he spoke. ‘I’ve had a rethink on the Hawthorne issue. I want you to pull the surveillance on them and stop whatever you’re doing.’

Jacobs stared at Wilburforce as if he was looking at a madman. ‘With due respect, Mr. President, that’s nuts! We can’t allow them to pursue the investigation! What if the media find out? What if it leads here?’

‘Will it lead here, Owen?’ asked Wilburforce softly.

Jacobs’ face reddened. ‘Of course not. I know everything that goes on here. Everything. From which of the cleaning staff is screwing which tour guide to how much salt the kitchens put in the soup. I resent the implication.’

Wilburforce did not apologize. ‘If that’s the case, then we should be helping Hawthorne so he can find the culprit before the election,’ argued Wilburforce.

‘And what if they don’t? We’ll be yesterday’s news if the public finds out the case is still open.’

‘And we’ll be tomorrow’s news if we don’t let them continue. Think about it, Owen. We’re deliberately trying to screw with an investigation. Does honor mean nothing to you?’ asked Wilburforce in an almost whimsical voice.

‘Does four more years to you? Being Chief of Staff has only one real job function – keeping you re-electable,’ Jacobs countered without remorse.

Wilburforce froze momentarily. Was it you, Owen, who took my friend away from me?

‘I would prefer history to judge me, us, by what we did, not our length of time here. Put them back in their kennels. That’s an order.’ In trying to keep his options open, the President had decided not to tell Jacobs that Leving had been a decoy. Maybe he already knew that.

‘But Mr. President,’ began Jacobs.
Owen’s become blind. He’s been more seduced by the power than I. Doesn’t he see that Hawthorne can hurt us badly if we don’t comply?

‘An Executive order, Owen,’ interrupted the President.

Jacobs bowed his head and said no more.

*

The Half-Moon Beach just outside Strasburg, Virginia comprises five acres of pure white sand shaped in a crescent at the end of an elongated lake. By eleven in the following evening the party, which had been booked there seven years in advance by Ben Hawthorne, was in full swing and the alcohol in full flow. Over two hundred people had turned up for his birthday. Having suffered two minor heart attacks in his early sixties, he considered reaching seventy a major achievement and had wanted to celebrate in style.

The heatwave had allowed most of the partying to confidently take place on the beach itself rather than inside the club. Powerful floodlights lit up the gray canyon walls dotted with brown and green shrubs that girdled the beach and large flames licked up into the darkened sky from torches that embroidered the shore. Music bellowed from two large speakers on either side of the seven-piece band a touch too loudly for Ben Hawthorne’s liking but he was in a minority of one. Middle-of-the-road music was the order of the day.

Hawthorne had invited the entire Excalibur team along with their partners, most of whom had made the trip to Washington for a long weekend, and was gratified to see that everyone had turned up. Nothing had given him more pleasure than to see the Walshes arrive, although it appeared that they were not on the best of speaking terms.

‘I don’t get it,’ shouted Ben into his son’s ear as he stood by the makeshift bar that straddled the upper end of the beach, ‘Are discos normally this loud?’

‘Yes, dad!’ replied Hawthorne loudly, having to lean over to his father’s good ear to be heard. He took a sip from his cold beer, fearful that the warm night air might ruin it.

‘No wonder so many marriages fail these days,’ Ben commented, tucking his slightly loose graph-paper shirt into his jeans. He spotted two people that he had not seen for fifteen years. Although he had made most of the preparations for the party himself, his wife and son had gone over the invitation list and added thirty names as a surprise. ‘Sam, you trying to give me another heart attack? Jeezus, it’s turning into an episode of This Is Your Life! Marge! Tim!’ he called out above the noise. He jogged over to them with outstretched arms.

Annie came up behind Hawthorne and put her arms around him, gently squeezing his waist. ‘Hey, my lucky night!’ he said. He turned around. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he teased.

‘Will I do?’ she asked sweetly.

‘Guess I don’t have a choice,’ he answered. He put his free hand around her and swayed in time to the emphatic music. ‘Where’re the kids?’ he asked.

‘Cindy’s dancing with Charlie, she’s really got a crush on him,’ Annie replied, ‘and Kevin’s going around all his uncles trying to persuade one of them to get him a beer from the bar.’

‘Boy, are they growing up fast. Personally, I blame the parents.’ They continued to dance.

*

McConnell and Baker lay in the cool, white sand at one end of the beach. Proud trees stood to their left and crystal water gently lapped inches from their bare feet. They were far enough away from the band to faintly hear the music echo off the rock walls.

They were both silent, deep in thought as they gazed up at the stars seeking familiar patterns. Their two glasses were wedged in the sand between them. McConnell had expressed doubts yet again about the wisdom of their relationship.

‘I wish you’d give me a chance,’ said Baker in a plain voice.

‘I wish I would too,’ he regretted. I’m not going to enjoy this conversation.

‘You know, it’s funny,’ she said, continuing to look up at the velvet, cloudless sky. ‘All those people who take so much store in horoscopes, not realizing that the midwife exerts more gravitational pull on you than any of the planets or stars.’

‘They’re just people looking for something. Guidance, maybe fate.’

‘Is there such a thing as fate, Jim? I mean, were we destined to meet, to be together?’

‘I don’t know, Heather, I really don’t. Guess it depends whether you believe in free will or not.’

She quickly stood up, not bothering to brush the loose dry sand from her short skirt. It had given her an idea. ‘I’ll show you there’s no such thing as free will.’ She grabbed his hand and pulled him to his feet. ‘Come with me,’ she ordered and lead him in the direction of the party.

*

As Baker and thoroughly perplexed McConnell were making their way back to the crowd, a group of four separated themselves for a private conversation. ‘Sure I’ve heard about you, Eammon,’ said Ben Hawthorne to his two guests, ‘and you must be Kerry.’ Walsh let go of one of his crutches and clenched it with his armpit as he shook hands with Hawthorne’s father and mother. Even in the torchlight he could see that Hawthorne Senior, despite the heart attacks, looked closer to sixty than seventy. His handshake too was full of vitality. Kerry smiled politely and proffered her hand but Ben would have none of it.

‘Never mind that,’ he said, ignoring her outstretched limb. ‘It’s my birthday and I’m damned well gonna kiss as many beautiful women as possible!’ He leant forward and kissed her gently on the cheek. The polite smile on Kerry Walsh’s face was replaced by a grin. Ben’s wife, Maggie, laughed out loud. Ben was always trying to be a ladies-man after a few drinks, but she knew he was only a window-shopper.

‘Do you wanna sit down?’ suggested Ben, gesturing towards the plastic brown chairs embedded in the sand near them.

‘No, it’s fine, I’d prefer to stand,’ said Walsh, a proud look in his eye.

This is going to be as difficult as Sam suggested, thought Ben. He ran a hand through his short snowy hair. ‘OK, you two young’uns, let’s not beat about the bush. Eammon can’t pop his cracker any more and hasn’t yet adjusted to the fact. Thinks you’re gonna leave him and get pregnant by somebody up to the task.’ Although Hawthorne was on his sixth beer, his words were not slurred at all.

‘Ben! ’ admonished Maggie. Kerry studied her husband’s face with concern. Walsh merely looked at Hawthorne’s father, but the fury underneath could be seen in the flickering shadows across his face

‘Maggie, it’s time for some good ol’ plain talking before they’re bankrupt by some psychiatrist. And it’s my birthday,’ he explained. He turned back to the distraught couple. ‘Now look, you love her and you love him,’ he said to each of them in turn. ‘So let’s get that out of the way.

‘You don’t feel totally human anymore, eh?’ Ben started to poke Walsh in the chest. ‘You don’t feel completely human, you feel like a eunuch, a mule.’ He paused. ‘You don’t measure a man by putting a ruler between his legs or by the number of children he sires, you damned idiot! You do it by seeing how much they love and protect those around ’em.’

Walsh started to speak but Hawthorne did not give him a chance. ‘And as for adoption, lemme tell you something.’ He pointed, glass in hand, to his son dancing in the crowd. ‘We’ve had more love, more joy and more satisfaction from Sam than most other parents get from their kids.

‘You take a baby, someone else’s sure, and you mould it yourselves. Give me the boy and I’ll show you the man. It’s like cooking. How many head chefs have their own ranches, their own fields? Is a sculpture any the less if the artist didn’t cut the slabs of stone from the rock face himself?

‘Your turn, I believe Eammon,’ he finished in a challenging manner.

Walsh reeled from the torrent and had to steady himself with his crutches. ‘I’m only thinking of Kerry. Her needs,’ he defended.

‘What I need, ’ rejoined Kerry, ‘is my husband.’ She put an arm around his shoulder and shook him lovingly. ‘The man I love and the man I will continue to love. You think when I first met you that I thought “Oh look, there’s a good breeding machine”?’ She tried to laugh but it came out hollow. ‘No. It was your warmth, your humor and your tenderness and you’ve still got all of that if you give it half a chance.’

‘Listen to your wife,’ began Maggie warmly. ‘It was only after Ben and I were married that we discovered I couldn’t have any children. I thought Ben here would drop me like a hot potato, but no, if anything it made us grow closer.’ She put a hand on her husband’s chest. ‘Two people against the elements. That’s why we’re still together. We see a problem, we fix it. Together.’

‘Well, I can see where Sam gets his no-nonsense approach from,’ said Walsh numbly. He gazed towards the noise in the distance. ‘Isn’t there anywhere a man can get a drink around here?’ He hobbled towards the crowd without looking back.

He could just hear the muffled sound of Kerry bursting into tears, her head buried in Ben’s shirt behind him. ‘There, there child, he’ll come around,’ Ben consoled as he patted her shoulder.

She’s better off without me. The quicker she learns, the easier it’ll be on her, thought Walsh as he made his way awkwardly through the powdery sand towards the nearest bar.

*

Baker pulled a reluctant McConnell to the middle of what had become the dance floor. ‘Stay here,’ she ordered above the noise. She ran up to the side of the matted, makeshift stage and beckoned the keyboard player towards her. McConnell strained to read her lips, a tradecraft he had picked up over the years, but there were too many people moving in and out of his line of sight.

The previous song came to an end and during the enthusiastic applause the keyboard player, a trendy forty-year old, conferred with his colleagues. McConnell could see the rest of the band nodding to each other as Baker made her way towards him. Her eyes burned into the back of his skull. She had the look of a hungry predator. ‘Listen to the words,’ she said. ‘And don’t bother to try and dance. White people don’t know how to.’ He had no choice but to comply.

A slow hypnotic reggae beat started to throb, quietly at first, but building power with every beat. The bass played the same deep tone for the first three beats of every bar. Slow bongos, dictating the tempo were quickly joined by a soulful electric piano, each of its notes hanging in the air. Baker started to sway her hips and shoulders seductively from side to side in slow entrapment, her knees bending slightly to the rhythm. Her arms were held out at ninety degrees to each other, almost touching either side of him but not quite. Her eyes looked defiant and proud and continued to lock onto his. McConnell wondered where she was hiding seven veils inside her short black cocktail dress.

The bass started to pick up the main tune and McConnell could only describe Baker’s movements as a subtle change from seductive to sensual. It was only then that he recognized the tune, Don’t Break My Heart by UB40. Still she locked eyes and still she almost touched him.

As the lead singer started to sing the first verse, Baker mouthed the words.

You shoot me down in flames
You put me down a lot
I’m giving you my heart
Go on take it

He started to smile. It was one of those songs that he could sing along to if it was on the radio, but could not quote them in the middle of a conversation.

Please be careful not to break it.
Just remember it’s the only one I’ve got
It’s the only one I’ve got

As the chorus began to repeat Don’t break my heart three times, McConnell already felt the remaining barriers ebbing away. He had never had a woman chase him so forcefully and although it boosted his ego it was not the main reason for his rapidly crumbling resistance. He had a mental image of Baker, the woman he both loved but was too scared to love, performing this dance for someone else. It was an ordeal he could not suffer. She was right. He had no free choice in the matter.

You make me laugh a lot
And buy me silly things
I’d rather be with you than anyone else

His yearning, lonely hand went out to her, but she leant her body back slightly, wagging her fingers in time to the music.

But if you make me mad
But if you make me mad
You’ll wish that you had not
You’ll wish that you had not

As the chorus repeated, McConnell realized that a space had started to open around her. It was quite unnecessary - she had not moved her feet once during the song. It was the understated movements of her body that gave her dance a heightened degree of sexual power.

Baker was quite unaware of her becoming the centerpiece of the dance floor. Her entire consciousness focused on McConnell, this confused, attractive man in front of her. Her world consisted of the rhythm, him and her desires. The deep bass washed over her, guiding her movements. As he joined her in mouthing the next verse she shot into ecstasy.

Where are the roses and whispered sighs
Where are the compliments and dreaming eyes
It doesn’t matter you see
I know you love me
And real basic love never dies

She allowed him to move towards her and hold her tightly. ‘I love you,’ he said into her ear. “I don’t have a choice.’ They each buried their head in the other’s neck and rocked back and forth to the rest of the song.

*

Walsh stubbornly leant on his crutches as he downed his fifth bourbon in half an hour. Dammit, I’ve been such a complete ass. His wife had already left the party in disgust.

Payne, Benditoz and Kemp, along with their partners had kept to themselves for most of the evening. They had met up earlier for a tour of the nearby Crystal Caverns and had dined together before moving on to the party. They were getting on like a house on fire. Vandersmissen, who by now had been thoroughly exhausted by Hawthorne’s daughter, had joined them.

They recognized the solitary figure propping up the end of the bar and decided to join him. Introductions to the significant others were made quickly. Walsh’s voice was distinctly slurred. ‘Hey, Eammon, you look like shit,’ pronounced Payne. ‘You OK?’

Walsh leant heavily with his right elbow on the bar as he took both crutches into his left hand and held them at arms’ length, the rubber pads at the bottom just touching the sand. He let go in dramatic fashion and they toppled over. ‘Look a’ that,’ he mumbled, ‘bloody useless withou’ me.’ They laughed out loud. Walsh lost control and joined his crutches. The laughter died on their lips. They quickly helped him to his feet and had to force him to sit on one of the straw bar stools.

Kemp’s date for the evening, a lady whose IQ was half her age and her breasts double it, looked confused. ‘I thought you were Irish. You don’t sound very Irish.’ Kemp raised his eyebrows to the heavens, wishing that he had rung a different number from his black book earlier in the week.

‘My maracas ar’in Caracas, how can I be Irish?’ Walsh responded as he finished brushing sand off his face and clothes. ‘Barman!’ A bow-tied gentleman appeared as if by magic opposite his best customer. Walsh held out his glass. ‘I need another one of these, and a pen.’ He turned to the attractive lady. ‘Here, I’ll teach you how to speak Irish,’ he carefully pronounced with a heavy Cork accent.

He took the pen from the barman’s hand and awkwardly grabbed a nearby serviette. He wrote down four words and handed it to the woman. ‘Now say that out loud in your normal voice,’ he instructed. She did so.

‘Whale, oil, beef, hooked.’ Everyone around burst into hysterics. She looked confused. ‘I don’t get it.’ They laughed even louder. ‘Davey, I don’t get it.’

‘Now if you’ll excus’me, I’m goin’ to go to the toilet an’ take the piss out of meself before you do,’ announced Walsh. He tried to stand up but could not. ‘Shit.’

‘How come you’re drinking so much,’ asked Vandersmissen in a concerned voice. ‘Are you in pain?’

‘Only in th’head,’ slurred Walsh. ‘I’ve been a total idiot and I need some Dutch courage before I apoloshize t’ Kerry.’

‘Why do they call it Dutch courage?’ asked Benditoz conversationally. ‘The only brave thing they’ve ever done is when a boy stuck his finger in a dyke.’

‘That is brave,’ remarked Payne, ‘She might have hit him.’

‘Now, now,’ replied Vandersmissen. ‘I’ll have nothing bad said against my forefathers.’

‘You’ve got four fathers?’ asked Kemp’s date.

‘Come on, Fiona,’ said Kemp squeezing her shoulders and turning her in the direction of the music, ‘Let’s dance.’ He led her away from his colleagues as quickly as possible.

Walsh came to Vandersmissen’s defense. ‘Here, I’ll giv’ya some stats on Holland. You know the Dutch’re famous for marihuana bein’ legal, the Red Light District ’n full blown sex on the TV?’ Everyone nodded. ‘Well get this, the av’rge age a woman gets pregnant over there for the firs’ time is twen’y-nine. Twen’y-nine!’ he sang. ‘’S oldest in the world. Like to see th’ Moral Majority argue agains’ that one.’ His voice was becoming more slurred by the minute.

‘Here’s another,’ Vandersmissen said to the surprised crowd. ‘You might think I’m average in height, but I’m a midget in the Netherlands. The average height for a man over there’s about six feet.’ He jerked his right hand up and down in an obscene gesture. ‘I guess that’s another myth exploded.’ More laughter.

‘Th’s all very good, but could someone please help me to th’ can?’ mumbled Walsh.

Payne and Benditoz, the nearest two, quickly took an arm each and led him towards the nearby small building. Vandersmissen noticed that Walsh had dropped the barman’s pen as he had stood up. He bent over and plucked it out of the sand. It was a standard company pen, green in color with small silver lettering. He held it up to the flickering torchlight. Half-Moon Beach, Strasburg, Virginia, (540) 465-5757. He stared at it.

‘Fuck!’ he yelled suddenly, startling the two wives. He ran, flurries of sand spraying into the air behind him as he did so. Hawthorne was in the middle of the dance floor slow dancing with his wife. ‘Sam!’ he shouted above the music, waving the pen in the air as if he had captured an enemy’s flag. ‘I know who killed Aitken!’

30

“When I’m working on a problem, I never think about beauty. I only think how to solve the problem. But when I have finished, if the solution is not beautiful, I know it is wrong.”
Richard Buckminster Fuller (1895-1983)

The music pulsated unabated as Hawthorne pulled Vandersmissen away from the dance floor to a quieter spot and quickly examined the pen. It was beyond him. ‘Well?’

Vandersmissen spoke hastily with the excitement of a giddy schoolchild. ‘All the time I was thinking that “bad Harlem” meant an anagram of Harlem. It doesn’t. “Bad” is sometimes used in crosswords to denote another word that sounds the same but is spelt differently.

‘New York was founded by the Dutch. They called it New Amsterdam, and Harlem derived its name from Haarlem, a town just outside of Amsterdam. It’s pronounced the same but it’s got two “a”’s instead of one.’ Vandersmissen pointed at the pen. ‘Just as Strasburg here got its name from Strasbourg in France and dropped an “o” somewhere along the line.’

‘So what does “A day in the Dutch Haarlem” mean?’ asked a mystified Hawthorne.

‘They wouldn’t say “day”. They’d use the Dutch word for it, dag. ’ Vandersmissen made a guttural sound pronouncing the “g”. ‘D-A-G.’

It finally dawned on Hawthorne. ‘The Deputy Attorney General! Harlington. Harlington?’ He could not believe it. The man was far too quiet to be scaling buildings and draining blood from live bodies.

‘Nearly,’ explained Vandersmissen, licking his lips in anticipation. ‘Who was the DAG at the time of the murder?’

‘Victor Dennison, of course. My God! ’ Hawthorne took a step back. Too many beers, dammit.

‘We overlooked one of the simpler motives of all. Ambition,’ explained Vandersmissen.

‘Are you suggesting it had nothing to do with the speech?’ queried Hawthorne. After all that they had been through and everything they had discovered, Hawthorne found it inconceivable that the speech was unconnected.

Vandersmissen shook his head. ‘No, it’s got everything to do with the speech. Somehow Dennison found out and knew that Aitken would lose his job over it and he’d be the Attorney General at the time of the election. The trouble is, some of the shitstorm that would come Aitken’s way would also dirty Dennison’s smart clothing and anyone else connected with him.

‘Whoever won the election would be looking for a whole new team at Justice. Dennison would have made it to the top spot all right, but he would have lasted only a couple of months. It was the only thing he could have done to save his career,’ he reasoned.

‘That fits with the airtime he’s been giving himself, trying to be Mr. Popular to everyone,’ nodded Hawthorne.

‘The trouble is,’ cautioned Vandersmissen, ‘is that all we’ve got on him is an anonymous tip. Mind you, his stomach cramps on the night in question was one hell of a coincidence.’

Hawthorne put his hands up in protest. ‘You’ve sold me Charlie, you’ve sold me. I tell you what,’ said Hawthorne with a cunning look, ‘if you’re right about Dennison, I think I know who The Road Pet is.’

‘Tag team,’ smiled Vandersmissen. ‘Love it.’

‘This puzzle with the Dutch connection was obviously meant specifically for you,’ explained Hawthorne, trying to keep the green demon out of his voice. ‘It’s an open secret you’re making the documentary on Excalibur, but of all the people who might have guessed you’re actually working the Aitken case, the only one that comes to mind as a possible Road Pet is Harlington.’

‘How do you figure that?’ This time it was Vandersmissen’s turn to look bemused.

‘David’s read on The Road Pet is that it’s someone with no backbone, someone totally dominated by and scared of the murderer. I’ve seen the two of them together. The profile fits, trust me, he’s as spineless as bait. On top of that, I’m sure he would have been aware of the Secret Service keeping tabs on us.’

Vandersmissen nodded slowly. ‘It’s a beautiful symmetry. The Attorney General is murdered by the Deputy Attorney General who in turn is grassed on by the Associate Attorney General. All wanting each other’s jobs. But how would Harlington have known about what Dennison was up to?’

Hawthorne shrugged. ‘Overheard something? Maybe he found out the same way Dennison did. Frankly it doesn’t matter. All we’ve got to do is find some hard evidence on Dennison. We need to find that damned trail.’

*

By the next morning both Hawthorne and Vandersmissen still had not figured it where the hard evidence would come from. Hawthorne had bad dreams throughout the short night. Could it possibly be Harlington behind the whole thing, killing his superior’s boss and then implicating him? Was someone else setting Dennison up for the fall? There were still so many what-if combinations.

He brushed the dreams’ cobwebs from his mind as he explained to the team that all efforts should now be concentrated on Victor Dennison. Saying the problem out loud helped to focus his mind and somehow simplified the problem.

‘David,’ he asked Excalibur’s profiler, ‘do you think it could it be Dennison?’

By now everyone had become used to Vandersmissen’s camera rolling in the far corner. ‘Well the motive and opportunity are there,’ began Kemp, ‘but what I find attractive is that the murderer deliberately chose to go to the apartment immediately above Aitken in order to gain access to his. In the DoJ’s building, the Deputy Attorney General’s office is directly below the Attorney General’s instead of being next door. Dennison feels that the real power is exerted from above, literally.

‘Also, if Aitken were to show the speech to anyone, I guess it would have been Dennison. Dammit!’ His eyes widened with sudden clarity. ‘He wasn’t confiding in Dennison, he was warning him he was going to give it! And that’s how Harlington found out.’

Kemp’s observations had assuaged any nagging doubts that the rest of the team had, apart from Payne who was drumming his fingers quietly on a pad.

‘Gary?’ queried Hawthorne, ‘you seem to have a problem.’

‘I don’t get it,’ Payne said, hoping not to appear foolish to the rest of the team and to the camera. ‘If Dennison’s our man, why would he buy this mysterious cell phone if he’s just on the floor below?’

‘To lead us astray?’ suggested Baker. ‘I’m guessing Dennison told Aitken and only Aitken he had a new phone. Anyway, it’s not often they’re both in the building at the same time. They both do one hell of a lot of traveling.’

Hawthorne and Vandersmissen looked up at each other smiling. ‘Switching offices,’ they said simultaneously. Hawthorne slammed his hand on the table in triumph.

‘I’m sorry,’ said McConnell, ‘I may only be a Dr. Watson to you two, but they didn’t switch offices.’

Hawthorne explained quickly. ‘Each cell site has its own transmission tower to cover a specific geographic area, generally several miles in diameter. The cell is linked to a locally owned and operated mobile telephone switching office.’

‘It connects your call to the public switched telephone network,’ added Vandersmissen excitedly. ‘As you move from one place to another, your call is handed off to the next cell site to maintain a strong signal.’

‘You mean he’s left electronic footprints for the six weeks leading up to the murder,’ continued McConnell, saying his thoughts as they came into his head. ‘In each of the calls they made to each other, we’ll know to within a couple of miles where the assassin was.’

‘Exactly!’ grinned Hawthorne. ‘Since we know the movements of every suspect. It’s just a case of matching them up. Vince, I assume you’re still in favor with your friend at the phone company?’

Benditoz nodded. ‘Way ahead of you Sam,’ he replied, the phone already in his hand.

‘Don’t you need a warrant for that?’ asked Vandersmissen, concerned that the team were being filmed breaking the law.

‘You’re kidding!’ responded Hawthorne. ‘Who do you think the judge is going to call as soon as we’ve left his chambers? You’ve got editing equipment, right? Edit it.’

One hour and several nail-biting sessions later, Benditoz’s friend produced the goods. Of all the suspects, Dennison was the only one that had been within all the right locations on every occasion.

‘Let’s go get him!’ announced Payne. Several of the members jumped up with him.

‘No, not yet,’ ordered Hawthorne. ‘It’s not enough. Any good defense lawyer would argue that it’s coincidence. We still can’t tie Dennison to the speech.’ Audible groans came from around the room. Hawthorne went to the coffee machine as the room fell into silence, everyone contemplating how the hell they could pull it off, and came back with a cappuccino. He opened his desk drawer for the sweetener.

‘We have to prove he knew about the speech, that’s the key,’ he said as he clicked two saccharins into his cup and placed the sweetener back in the drawer. Lying next to its normal resting place was the dull metallic key to Dennison’s old room, now occupied by Harlington. He picked it up and inspected it curiously. ‘That’s the key,’ he mumbled again. It gave him an idea.

He picked up the phone and dialed Harlington’s number. He smiled when Harlington’s secretary announced he was not in that morning. He placed the key in his pocket and turned to Benditoz and Kemp. ‘How far did you get on that “Russian Mafia report”?’

‘There’s still a lot of holes and some serious editing to do,’ replied Kemp.

‘Doesn’t matter. Print it out in triplicate and box it up. I need to take it across the road.’

*

Even though Hawthorne was one of the highest-ranking FBI agents, he was still required to announce himself at the Department of Justice Building, albeit he was one of the favored few that did not require an escort. He held the box of papers tightly under his arm as the officious young security guard phoned Harlington’s secretary. ‘She says you can just leave it here, she’ll come down for it later,’ he announced.

‘Sorry,’ said Hawthorne, ‘orders from FBI Director Douglas. He wants Mr. Harlington to look at this classified material before I present it to Mr. Dennison and the President, and it’s got to be hand delivered. Either she comes down right now or I go up to her.’ A quick conversation ensued on the telephone before the guard replaced the receiver.

He wrote out a visitor’s badge and reluctantly handed it to Hawthorne. Secretaries are so damned lazy, especially for the top dogs. As Hawthorne stuck it to his lapel the guard opened the small wooden gate, a more symbolic barrier than a practical one. ‘Fourth floor, Room 4111,’ he explained unnecessarily. ‘Turn right to the elevator. As you come out, follow the corridor all the way ’round to the far end of the building. It’s on the second corner.’

Hawthorne nodded as he passed the guard, secretly relieved that his bluff had worked. Harlington’s office, Dennison’s old office, was almost as far away from the security gate as was possible in the building. Only the Attorney General’s was further. He continually fingered the key in his pocket as he rode the elevator and made his way down the long passages.

The location of Dennison’s old office and its reception was exactly the same as his new one, only a floor lower. There was a large polished wooden door on the corner of the building with a simple keyhole. The official entrance was several yards further on and jealously guarded by a secretary. He walked around the corner without breaking his stride, his footsteps making hollow echoes on the white marble floor, and entered the gentle carpeted area that was the reception to the Deputy Attorney General’s office.

As a fan atop her table scanned the air blowing relieving cool air towards him, Harlington’s harried secretary made a big fuss about how trustworthy the security gate was, but Hawthorne was not interested. He merely held out a form asking her to confirm receipt of the classified material. She signed quickly, her pen almost tearing through the paper and shooed him out of her office.

As she heard his footsteps disappear into the distance, she opened the box and quickly thumbed through the document. Jeezus, another inch-thick memo, she thought, shaking her head. Disinterested, she put it to one side where it joined the others.

Hawthorne quietly returned to the door that led directly into Harlington’s office. He heard the footsteps of two people approaching and automatically tiptoed a few steps past the door before they came into view, dropping to one knee to tie an imaginary shoelace. It was necessary to hide his badge, visitor or not. The man and the woman did not even look at him as they passed by deep in conversation.

Once he was sure that the coast was clear, he returned to the door and gently inserted the key, turning it slowly. The door unlocked with a dull click. Relieved, Hawthorne quickly opened it and closed it carefully behind him. He rested against its solid frame and quickly looked around the room. Damn! The connecting door to the secretary’s office was open and he was in full view. He kicked himself for not spotting it earlier when he had delivered the package.

Luckily, she was totally absorbed in typing and had eyes only for her monitor and a piece of paper lying next to her keyboard. He ducked quickly so that her monitor hid him. His mouth was open as he made shallow breaths and he could feel his racing pulse inside his head. The room seemed airless.

He had to cross an open area that was not obstructed from the secretary’s view to reach the large desk at the other end of the room. Noticing the location of the telephone on the secretary’s desk gave Hawthorne hope. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the Justice switchboard.

After a few rings, he got through. ‘Mr. Harlington’s office please. It’s Judge Finch,’ he whispered as quietly as possible. He had no idea if there was a Judge Finch. He held the receiver as hard to his ear as possible.

‘I’m sorry, caller,’ came the reply, ‘there’s a bad connection. Could you repeat that?’

‘Judge Finch for Matthew Harlington,’ breathed Hawthorne a little louder, the mouthpiece almost touching his lips.

‘Putting you through, sir.’ Two seconds later the shrill tone of the telephone interrupted the secretary’s concentration and Hawthorne heard her sigh. As she turned her head to one side to answer it, Hawthorne darted low across the floor in the opposite direction and quickly sought cover behind the main desk.

‘Hello, Deputy Attorney General’s Office?’ There was no reply. She replaced the handset with irritation and tried to focus again on her typing.

There were subtle changes in the room, Hawthorne had noted, since his last visit when he had picked up Aitken’s effects. Added together they gave the impression of a totally different room. Although the furniture remained the same, the layout was subtly altered and the walls were now covered with pictures and framed letters.

He had no real idea why he was there. He had already checked the desk on his earlier visit and found it empty. Was it possible that some incriminating evidence had fallen down the back of the desk drawers? He knew it was an act of desperation and despised himself for it.

He pulled tentatively on the large lower drawer only to find it locked. Thirty seconds with a professional lock-pick he always carried and it was free. A bead of sweat trickled over his left eye and he brushed it to one side. He carefully slid the drawer open and felt down the back. Nothing. The only thing he felt was foolish. What the hell was I thinking of?

He sat cross-legged on the deep, green carpet and rested his elbows on his knees with his head bent deep in thought. I know it’s Dennison. I know it’s Dennison, but how do I prove it? He shook his head in sadness and sighed inaudibly. In appeared that he would have to break into Dennison’s new office after all. The fact that he was sitting four yards directly underneath a murderer did not help his mood.

The secretary’s telephone rang again and Hawthorne quickly jerked his head in its direction. ‘One moment, Mr. Harlington,’ he heard, ‘I’ll just get it for you.’ He could see the feet of the secretary from underneath the main desk as she rose from her chair and walk into Harlington’s office and towards him.

He quickly shuffled silently underneath the desk and curled himself into a tight ball in the leg space between the two sets of drawers. He held his breath. Her left foot came within an inch of his as she searched for something above him. Hawthorne tried to edge further into the leg space but a beam of wood behind prevented him from further concealment.

The secretary stopped suddenly and sniffed the air loudly. Hawthorne’s heart sank - he had made a basic mistake. He rubbed the side of his sweating neck with his fingers and held them up to his nose, confirming his suspicions. He was wearing Dunhill, a curious blend of woody yet spicy perfume that he had obviously over-applied that morning. He clasped his hands over his neck in a vain attempt to diminish the lingering odor.

As the secretary leant forward to reach what she was looking for the smell grew stronger. ‘I’ll have to ask the cleaners what they’re using these days,’ she said quietly to herself as she retrieved a piece of paper and walked back to her desk. Hawthorne did not know whether to feel offended or relieved.

‘Yes Mr. Harlington, I’ll type it up straight away,’ he heard, followed several seconds later by the sound of rapid gunfire from her keyboard. As he maneuvered himself from underneath the desk there was the sound of paper crinkling as his scalp brushed against something. He looked up. It was Dennison’s JCOS password list. There were at least forty words written on it.

As the password had to be changed at the beginning of each month and judging by the yellowing tape that held it in place, Hawthorne judged it to be Dennison’s entire password record during his tenure in that office. He gently eased it from the underside of the wooden desk and placed it soundlessly into a pocket.

Judging he was rapidly running out of luck, he retrieved his cell phone and escaped the way he had come.

*

As Hawthorne sat behind the computer terminal in the Excalibur Suite, everyone behind him, as he extracted the piece of paper and using the last password, Williams, attempted to log into Dennison’s disk space. Hinks would never have given me Dennison’s password, he thought. Too much the company man. If there was going to be any incriminating evidence, it was going to be here.

Hawthorne cursed loudly as the blue screen announced that it was an invalid password. It was the fifth of the month and Dennison was using a new password. ‘Hey, that’s my ex-boss’s name,’ noticed McConnell. Hawthorne’s eyes cast down the list of passwords previously used, looking for a clue. Williams, Crocker, Keller, Fujiyama. The list went on. There was a warm familiarity about them. Then he remembered. They were the main supporting characters of cop shows from his youth: Hawaii Five-O, Kojak, Streets Of San Francisco and Quincy. He was open to suggestions.

‘Rhodes from The FBI,’ offered Baker.

‘Gannon, Dragnet,’ said Benditoz with confidence.

‘It won’t be any of them,’ pronounced Kemp. ‘Remember, now he’s the lead.’

Hawthorne looked at the list again. The last one had been from Hawaii Five-O so he tried McGarrett as a password. After a second or two of thinking, the screen burst into life and he was into Dennison’s personal computer space.

‘Charlie, you getting all this?’ he asked Vandersmissen. Hawthorne had no bitterness or envy towards Vandersmissen now. He owed him his life and they would never have come this far without him.

‘Oh yes,’ replied Vandersmissen as he checked the camera angle. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll fuzz the computer screen when this gets aired. Enough rules have already been broken today.’

He accessed the file search routine and looked for the name Aitken had given his speech. It was not there. Baker reminded him that if Dennison had it, he might not necessarily have given it the same name. Hawthorne then tried sorting all the WordPerfect documents by size. There were two that matched the document they were looking for. The first document Hawthorne opened proved to be an internal memo about pension benefits. He opened the second one and offered a short, silent prayer.

Aitken’s speech, without the white font, stared back at them.