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The Retirement Plan - ALL 31 CHAPTERS - Please critique

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Lidless
Post subject: The Retirement Plan - ALL 31 CHAPTERS - Please critique
Posted: Sun 05 Dec , 2004 7:25 am
Als u het leven te ernstig neemt, mist u de betekenis.
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All chapters of the book © Steve Prowse

Please critique - good or bad.

Acknowledgements

Being an Englishman living in the Netherlands, writing a novel based in America was always going to be a daunting task, particularly for a first-time writer. I have tried to make the operational details and descriptions within the book as authentic as possible. As in an acceptance speech, I have a host of people to thank.

In alphabetical order they are, deep breath, Shirley Bania (secretary to the Attorney General, Janet Reno), Tim Buchanan (guard at Montebello), Debbie Caldwell (Citizen Assistance Center, Broomfield ), Tracy Coleman (duty manager at the Hay-Adams Hotel, Washington – you were right, the Secret Service did not shoot us when we went on the roof), Tom Corrigan (duty manager at the Grand Hyatt, Washington), Linda Cowan (FBI Research Department), Dr. Teodor Flonta (Department of English and European Languages and Literatures, University of Tasmania), Jesus Gabre (Washington taxi driver – never have I had a more entertaining ride), Elisabeth Gehl (secretary to Senator Biden of Delaware – don’t worry Joe, she only drew a schematic of your office), O’B (a bartender at the Capital Grille, Washington – good luck with the play, man), Dot Hammond (ReMax Horizons – realtors for Montebello), David Shuster (reporter for Fox News Channel – definitely a fan of tan), HN Tina Smith (Bethesda Naval Hospital) and Kathy Thrift (Department of Justice). For reasons of anonymity, I must thank Bill (White House – no, not that Bill), James, Michael and Helen (FBI agents) and “Lloyd” (NSA). Your generosity and assistance in helping this stranger were overwhelming.

Prologue

“Kill a man, and you are an assassin.
Kill millions of men, and you are a conqueror.
Kill everyone, and you are a god.”
Jean Rostand (1894-1977)


Robert Aitken glanced at his 1940’s LeCoultre watch with its square, golden face and carefully maintained leather strap and sighed audibly. Ten p.m. already and still no sign of putting the finishing touches to his speech. A quick survey of his office brought no inspiration and in fact made matters worse. Instead of enlightenment from the Matisse above the unused fireplace, his attention was drawn to the window. He stood up and tensed his shoulders as he gazed down at the wide street five floors below, noticing with envy the elongated violet shadows that were merging across it.

Why have an office with windows, he wondered. The view of Washington was an lesson in history and power but it only served to remind him he was almost a prisoner behind the glass. He knew whenever there was a blazing sun outside – a thought that always depressed him whilst trapped in the regular interminable meetings, and rain was always a downer even though the bullet-resistant glass shielded the noise.

The worst part of all was on evenings like this, stuck in the airless office, all too aware that the volume of anonymous traffic taking people home, to dates, to secret liaisons, to bars and restaurants in Georgetown had already died down.

He had felt honored when the new President had asked him to take up the post, something he always known informally would happen, and the day of swearing in had been a relief after almost twenty years of sweated dedication. However the last three and a half years since had taken their toll – the inordinate amount of gray now in his hair along with the bags, no, suitcases, under his eyes being the most obvious to the cameras. He did not mind the gray so much. Statesmanlike. It comes with heavy responsibility.

If only this Administration would let me get on with the job and stop being result-merchants. It’s always the case when a President’s seeking a second term. Still, he thought, win or lose only three more months to go, less after this speech.
A flicker of a smile crossed his lips.

*

Montebello is generally recognized as the best of the luxury condominiums freckling the Greater Washington landscape. The easy access by both car and public transport to the District of Columbia has helped it become home base during the week to a large number of the movers and shakers on Capitol Hill. With its tennis courts, gyms, swimming pools and even card-playing rooms in the middle of thirty-five
acres of thick woodlands it is fast replacing the traditional country club as the location for the behind-the-scenes politicking and deal making. The only thing it lacks is a golf course, but Belle Haven is less than a mile away.

“Upwardly mobile” has taken on a new meaning at Montebello. The new recruits into government are generally resident on the lower, more affordable floors hoping to rub shoulders and develop their networks. As they rise in both affluence and influence this is reflected in their floor number. On the upper floors the view of the Potomac and Washington itself are unrestricted by the oaks and maples that dominate its grounds.
As the assassin drove down Route One, the lights of its four fifteen-story towers slowly came into view.

*

Aitken had given up for the evening. The speech’s format had slowly evolved over its twenty years of rewrites from a cumbersome diatribe to two thousand words of precision. The speech still needed to be more structured, more deductive in case CNN decided to run it in full. Axiom leads to lemma leads to corollary leads to sound bite. He just could not figure out how to fit in the last piece. This speech he hoped would change many things but its emotion had tired him. He speed-dialed his security detail. Home-time.

*

The killer approached the small main-gate at the perimeter of Montebello and licked his dry lips. With CCTV at most strategic access-points and random, roving security patrols surrounding and pervading the buildings he had long since decided on his strategy. Perversely, the front-door approach minimized the risk. The guards’ booth was one of the few places that did not have electronic surveillance, trusting instead the six eyeballs that resided inside.

He had already killed that night. The first time had served a dual purpose, a dry run to see if he could kill in the manner used, and it had been essential to get him past the security gate he was nearing.
Every sense was on full alert as the guards’ booth came into view. Dry run. He tried desperately to smile inwardly at the phrase. He needed to calm down, to regulate his breathing, to ignore the two-ton weight that seemed to be attached by thread to his bowels. Any killer in the moments before the death has a tight fist for a stomach, either from recognition of their own fragility or from psychotic anticipation. Fear is the greatest protector of life and pain the best educator.

He leveled the new Beamer next to the redbrick booth and wound down his window, his other hand ready to throw the stolen car in reverse at the first sign of trouble. Did he not have ‘Murderer’ tattooed on his forehead? The thick-bodied guard wearing the semblance of a policeman’s uniform stepped out of the booth to greet him. He had a bored look about him.

‘James Wilson for Peter Macintosh, Building Four, Room 1408. He’s expecting me.’ He had been practicing it over and over again during the forty-five minute car trip to keep the tremor from his voice. The pudgy guard eyed him for what seemed a fraction of a second too long, but then stepped back into the booth, picking up the phone to validate the guest. After noting the license plate and issuing the twenty-four hour color-coded parking permit, dark orange for that day, he was allowed through.
Bastard, thought the guard as he watched the taillights of the Beamer disappear around the corner of the winding path, didn’t even say thank you.

*

As Aitken exited the building into the agreeable August evening the two agents, who had already been outside for five minutes scanning the streets and neighboring buildings, assumed their stations on either side of him as he made his way to the dark blue Crown Victoria. It had recently taken up position outside the entrance. Once Aitken was safely ensconced in the back seat, the two agents made their way to the protection car immediately behind.

The scent of freshly-polished leather filled Aitken’s nostrils. He ritually closed his eyes and let himself succumb to the experience. He had earned the right.

‘How are you today, sir?’ asked Aitken’s capped driver as he eased the car into the thin traffic. The second car followed as if there were an invisible tow-rope between them.

Aitken opened his tired eyes and looked at his chauffeur’s professional mien in mirror. ‘Fine, Danny. How was Marie in the school play?’
‘Great, just great. Sung her heart out,’ he answered proudly. ‘You know Grease actually started off as a stage-play several years before it hit the big screen?’

‘So did Rocky Horror,’ nodded Aitken, ‘but she’ll probably have to wait for college for that one. At least I hope so for both your sakes.’

‘Damn right. Babies may be angels, but as their legs grow longer, their wings grow shorter,’ Daniel pronounced.

Aitken beamed his first genuine smile of the day. ‘Any gossip from the drivers’ pool?’ Daniel had advised him on the first day of their pairing that it was the quickest and most reliable way to keep informed on the latest developments.

‘Bradshaw’s going to announce a twenty-five point drop in the Fed Fund Rate tomorrow,’ Daniel replied with confidence.

‘Pressure from on high?’

‘Probably,’ he shrugged, ‘but not explicitly.’

The President could not order a cut, but he and Bradshaw went back almost thirty years. With three months still to go before the election, such a cut would not seem overtly political, even if the President were trailing by fourteen points.

Daniel was wasted as a driver.

The miniature convoy was about to enter the dimly lit Ninth Street Tunnel when Aitken had a change of heart. ‘Danny, can we stop outside the White House for a few minutes?’

‘Sure. Meeting anyone, sir?’

‘No, I just need to collect my thoughts.’

Daniel picked up the comm-link to the second car. ‘We’re diverting to the White House perimeter. No exit, I repeat, no exit.’

‘Copy that,’ came the reply. Incredible, Daniel noted, not for the first time, we can put a man on the moon, use a cell phone in the middle of the Sahara, and yet even when a car ten yards behind talks to me they sound as if they’re mumbling into an empty tin can.

*

After driving up the serpentine tarmac incline he reverse-parked the car as close to Building Four’s entrance as possible. Stepping out into the fresh air, he leant gently against the Beamer, mindful not to set off its alarm. He scanned the area with seasoned eyes. You don’t have to do this, part of him said, you can still turn back. No, he decided, the benefits of tonight will outweigh the nightmares afterwards.
He glanced up at the now-indigo sky. The brighter stars were already twinkling in the warm air. The Greeks believed stars were pinholes in a black drape through which the gods would observe us. Please let them be wrong. A lonely owl far in the distance began to call out for company and refocused the assassin’s mind on his task.

He entered the lobby entrance, a spartan area out of keeping with the rest of the building and picked up the old-fashioned black telephone. It took only a few seconds to locate the internal number for Room 1408 on the large board to its left. ‘Hi, come on up,’ came the voice on the other end, followed by the click-buzz of an electronic lock. Thank God, he thought, still not trusting his voice to any conversation.

He walked briskly to the brass-effect elevator and pressed the call button. The doors to the elevator on his left slid effortlessly open on cue. As he rose smoothly he checked his progress, counting down the floor numbers. It was only when the number display jumped from twelve to fourteen that the assassin was reminded that there was no thirteenth floor. Guess that makes fourteen unlucky, he grinned to himself. He could find humor in anything at the moment.

*

Daniel parked the car outside the White House knowing full well it would attract the attention of a number of surveillance cameras who would even now be running the plates though the computers. Aitken’s eyes viewed the floodlight building with a measure of contrition.

Forgive me Mr. President, my President, my friend. I do this not as a personal attack but as an indictment of the entire system. You have to play by the rules - anything else would be political suicide. Only a lesser political animal, an insider like myself, could do what I am about to. Please understand.

He checked himself. Am I seeking a benediction? He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘Thanks, Danny. Montebello, please.’

I’ve got to shake myself out of this, he counseled himself. He pulled out a cell phone from his jacket and dialed a number he knew by heart. ‘Hello, this is Drinker.’ Cell phones were notoriously insecure. ‘Is it possible to have my usual cocktail ready in about an hour? Yes? Excellent, thank you. I’ll have someone pick them up.’ Daniel’s impassive face stared straight ahead.

*

What hell did Jim want at this time of night? Wilson would not say over the phone, only that it was urgent. Maybe he needed a shoulder to cry on for some reason - he certainly seemed upset. Macintosh really was not very good at this, As far as he was concerned, a problem shared meant two people were depressed, but he was Jim’s friend.

As he knew it was Wilson, he hadn’t bothered to turn to Channel Three on his television, which was tuned to the CCTV in the lobby. It would not have done him any good anyway – the assassin had studiously kept his back to it. With a welcoming bourbon already in his hand he opened the door, only to see a lead pipe descend upon his skull.

*

Twenty minutes later the small limousine pulled up outside Building Four, the agents having already checked with the booth that all was well. The party made their way up to their floor whilst Daniel ran his errand. After a brief scan of the hallway, the agents allowed Aitken to exit the lift and proceed to his room at the far right end of the corridor. He declined their offer to sweep his apartment. Time was short - he needed a shower before his cocktail arrived. Only after Aitken had firmly closed the door to Room 1208, directly underneath Macintosh’s, did they retire to theirs.

*

As Daniel was approaching Montebello’s main gate for a second time, on this occasion with two passengers in the back seat, the killer was parking the Beamer outside the Huntington Metro Station. He was a very different person this time, both without and within, as he left the vehicle. Gone were the phony goatee beard, wig and steel-rimmed glasses. Gone were the black overcoat and dark trousers smeared in blood, and gone were the doubts. Like a snake shedding its skin, he thought. It was almost as if he were an actor playing a murderer and then going home to the wife and kids. It’s not real, he tried unsuccessfully to delude himself. It had been someone else.

He gave up and a thin smile of accomplishment crossed his face. Once I was a caterpillar. Now I will have beautiful wings. With a mixture of denial and heady euphoria he was swallowed up by the Metrorail.

*

The ringing of his telephone, strangely dull, brought Aitken back to consciousness for a few fleeting moments. He knew he was dying. Yes, he observed with curious detachment, I’ve read about this many times - the cold, the numbness, the strange peace that envelops you. But there’s one thing the writers have always got wrong. It’s not your life that flashes before you, but all the things you should have done, all the things you could have done.

As he slipped back into the void, despite everything he believed, he started to pray.

*

Daniel’s comm-link was not working. He almost collided into one of the Montebello guards as he ran into their booth and lunged for the telephone. Pick up, pick up. ‘This is Murphy. Aitken’s not answering,’ he breathed quickly into the mouthpiece.

‘You sure?’ asked the agent on the other end of the line.

‘Of course I’m fucking sure, you asshole!’ he screamed. ‘It rang ten times and there’s even a phone in the goddamn toilet!’

‘Stay there. No ins and outs until we give the all clear.’ Daniel heard the muted thud of the phone being dropped.

*

With the agents on either side of Aitken’s door, their Glocks already in hand, one pulled out a key from his pocket and inserted it gently, holding up three fingers to his partner. Seconds later, the door was thrown open and they took turns covering each other as they scoured the luxury apartment. It was only when they reached the ornate bathroom that they stopped cold. Whoever had done this was long gone. No training in the world could have prepared them for what they witnessed. One of the agents wretched there and then.

Aitken’s cold, almost colorless, naked body was suspended like an old, raggedy marionette from the shower rail by his wrists, the lower half of his body leaning against the inside wall of the ceramic bath. His toes had been hacked off and stuffed unceremoniously into his ears, eyes and mouth. What blood was still in his body continued to drip steadily through the stumps left on his feet into the crimson river that flowed towards the plughole.

The second agent pulled out his radio with a trembling hand. ‘Special Agent Fredrickson. Lawyer is down. I repeat, Lawyer is down.’ And out, he added mentally. ‘Send the crash team, full works, Montebello Building Four, Room 1208, and patch me through to FBI Director Douglas.’

The post of Attorney General of the United States of America was now vacant.

Last edited by Lidless on Fri 04 Feb , 2005 4:10 am, edited 5 times in total.

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*Alandriel*
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Posted: Sun 05 Dec , 2004 10:02 am
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Nice read - :mrgreen: .. and what a way to go :Q

I'm not sure you want comments in here or feedback or anything but I still wanted to say it was a pleasure seeing this up and reading it :D
... and this post can be removed if you like
:cool:


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Dindraug
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Posted: Sun 05 Dec , 2004 11:43 am
Tricksy Elf!
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Cool, I have been waiting to see some of this since Amsterdamerung :mrgreen:

Look foward to seeing more,

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Jaeniver
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Posted: Sun 05 Dec , 2004 8:58 pm
I can't count but I'm cute
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Finally he posts his famous book!!!!!!!! Steve send me a copy when you're finally satisfied alright ;) signed please :mrgreen:

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Lidless
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Posted: Mon 06 Dec , 2004 4:14 am
Als u het leven te ernstig neemt, mist u de betekenis.
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Thanks everyone for expressing an interest. Feedback would be good, yes. I’ll be posting a chapter a day. Just be warned that the first chapter you just read for me is the most badly written, but it was the first written and I find it hard to change.

Book 1

Blood

1


“Asking 'Who ought to be the boss?' is like asking 'Who ought to be the tenor in the quartet?' Obviously, the man who can sing tenor.”
Henry Ford (1863-1947)


As the murder had taken place in such a populated building, it had proved impossible to contain the story for any significant time. Within half an hour Montebello was besieged by a media-frenzy.

FBI Director Tom Douglas had chosen to arrive by helicopter rather than attempt to drive through the maze of police vehicles and TV vans festooned around the guards’ booth. As he peered down on the scene he was reminded of a balloon safari he had once undertaken in his younger days. A zebra had been chased down by three cheetahs and as they started to vigorously disembowel their victim a pack of hyenas waited impatiently nearby, driven wild by the scent of fresh blood. Only once the cheetahs had had their fill were the hyenas allowed to pick the bones of the carcass in a scene of nigh-hysteria.

Douglas could understand the media and how it worked. It is essential for any high-profile job in Washington. Down below would be all the major players and Washington wannabes, each trying to be the first with some kind of scoop or new angle.

Although Aitken had been only fifty-three, all the major networks and news companies would already have a detailed draft obituary on him that they would be faxing to the on-scene reporter. They even have departments devoted to obituaries on living household names, whether they were the latest teen-idol or a senior politician. It is a measure of popularity as to how often the obit was updated. In news, the greatest sin is not misreporting, but being unprepared.

Douglas did not hate the media – they had their job to do as did he. Both had their excesses and both were invaluable. The pervasive and invasive nature of the modern media actually helped to curb many of the excesses of those in power. The cathode cop. In fact the media have given the FBI some ideas on cases that they hadn’t thought of themselves. The only trouble is every time a major story breaks, the news companies spend more time speculating rather than reporting. A spectrum of talking heads are wheeled on camera to tell the audience what they thought had or will happen, and the motives behind the actions. In most of the cases this is just filling airtime, or “hot-air” time as many people in Washington describe it.

Douglas’s first posting after leaving UCLA had been in the resident agency in Santa Ana, an unremarkable office, and he had methodically worked his way up to the jewel in the crown, assistant director in charge of the New York office. New York, with well over one thousand agents, is the largest field office the FBI has, and the only one outside of Washington that requires its own assistant director. Two years ago Aitken had promoted him to FBI Director, going much against the vogue of appointing a judge. Douglas’s strength of being a people person and his overwhelming experience had won over the few critics he had. The fact that he was over sixty had never been an issue.

One of the first things that Douglas had done after his appointment had been to cut through the swathe of red tape that bound the internal workings of the FBI. As he had said at his first meeting with the deputy and assistant deputy directors, he wanted a bureaucracy, not a bureau crazy. Even his memos were clear and concise, which had endeared him to his superiors throughout his career. Most colleagues had thought that quantity was the benchmark and would churn out Thomas Hardy novels.

The helicopter pilot had wanted to land as near as possible to Building Four, but Douglas insisted on landing over four hundred yards away, still well within Montebello’s grounds, for fear of disturbing any forensic evidence. Douglas thought it unlikely that there would be any evidence so far out - even a discarded cigarette would be gold dust to the bubs in the DNA lab.

Douglas was thankful he was out of sight of the cameras. He felt out of place in his tuxedo having come straight from a dinner given by the Society of Former Special Agents of the FBI. At sixty-five, he was older than many of his hosts. He had been in the middle of the standard conversation with the editor of The Grapevine, its official publication, on whether the FBI should be merged with the DEA when the call had come through.

After the clattering police helicopter had made the gentlest of landings in the middle of what Douglas presumed to be a picnic area he congratulated the pilot and stepped out onto terra firma. He loved flying and the exhilaration of landing. People don’t have a fear of flying – it’s crashing that terrifies them, he had concluded. He used the DoJ’s Sabreliner as much as possible, even though it was not fitted with a toilet. He was often criticized for acting like the CEO of a wealthy company trying to impress with the corporate jet but for Douglas it was a simple case of time management. The fact that he enjoyed it was just one of life’s happy coincidences.

Since the helicopter had landed in an unexpected place it had caught the reception committee awaiting him off-guard and Douglas had covered much of the distance to the building with long purposeful strides before being met by them. They included a mixture of FBI field agents and local police, including Bill Williams, the ever-serious Fairfax commissioner.

‘Update, Bill?’ Douglas ordered sternly, continuing towards the building without breaking his rhythm. This was no time for pleasantries. Williams made a quick about-face and came level with Douglas.

‘The protective detail discovered Aitken’s body at twenty-three-oh-seven hours after being alerted by his chauffeur that he wasn’t responding to his phone.’ His voice became low and somber. ‘Tom, it’s not a pleasant sight.’

‘Tell me one that is, Bill. How’d he get in?’

‘As far as we can tell, he entered the grounds about forty-five minutes earlier posing as a guest of the owner of the apartment directly above. He killed him, used a rope to shimmy down to Aitken’s balcony and broke in that way.’

‘Any leads so far?’

‘Only the car. The registration is in the name of a James Bernard Wilson, the name he gave the main gate, but it’s obviously a phony. I’ve put out an APB on both him and the car. SWAT is taking down the address since it’s in Washington and out of our jurisdiction, but you’ll find either an innocent or another victim. One of your profilers,’ the last word reeked of disapproval, ‘is already up there solving the case for us and getting in the way of Forensics and Dr. Scarpetta.’

Ever since Patricia Cornwell started her series of best-selling novels about a fictitious chief medical examiner of Virginia by that name, many of the local police have insisted on referring to the real version by the same.

‘We’re running the CC tapes now and interviewing all the residents as well as the guards. We might get lucky,’ he shrugged hopefully, ‘but it at least it should determine many characteristics such as race, height, distinguishing marks, et cetera.’

‘Who’s running point on this at the moment?’ asked Douglas grimly.

‘One of ours, McConnell. Good guy, solid background. Fifteen years experience in homicide. You won’t get better.’

Douglas decided to break the news up front. ‘Bill, I can understand you wanting to solve this case, and prima facie it is your case. However, Robert was probably murdered because of his position rather than a crime of passion or for personal reasons, and that puts it in the FBI’s backyard.

‘He was my boss and my friend and believe me we will throw everything we’ve got at this, so the last thing we need is a turf war. Here’s how this is going to play. I’m going to set up a specialist team, reporting directly to me.’ Williams looked crestfallen to have the ball taken away but Douglas was ahead of him.

‘Most of the special agents in and around Washington are devoted to counterintelligence, so we could use a local experienced homicide guy like McConnell if he is as good as you say he is. Give me a copy of his résumé within the next couple of hours. On top of that, we’ll need your resources too for much of the legwork – interviewing the residents, and stopping the media for the next few days from trampling over any potential evidence.’ Douglas turned and pointed eastwards into the darkness and towards the outer wall of Montebello. ‘By the way, as I flew in I noticed some of the camera crews starting to move around the perimeter. Post guys every fifty yards around it. The walls are pretty low.

‘I’ll keep you updated informally, but direct any media questions to us.’

Douglas was correct when he said that most of the Washington and Richmond field offices were devoted to counterintelligence, the National Security Division. Its headquarters are on the fourth floor of the Hoover Building in Washington. Douglas had failed to mention that the FBI could easily have made up any shortfall in manpower from another field office, and Williams recognized the olive branch. He was despondent to have the case taken away from him, but Douglas was right. Besides, the execution, for Williams couldn’t think of a better description, had been planned well in advance. This was going to be a bitch to crack.

‘Done deal,’ replied Williams, who then turned to issue orders to the other officers.

‘You got the death penalty in Virginia?’ Douglas asked.

‘Take your pick. Chair or needle.’

‘Any chance we can do both?’ he asked bitterly.

As they approached the entrance to Building Four Douglas looked up. He had been here before but the imposing semi-hexagonal tan colored architecture never ceased to amaze him in its beauty. On entering the lobby, replete with its Queen Anne reproductions, marble-like floor and Fairfax policemen the entourage made their way up to the twelfth floor. Douglas steeled himself for the assault on his visual senses he knew was about to suffer.

The long, light-beige corridor was also packed with police and FBI. As Douglas made his way past the wine-red doors of the other residents, it seemed poignant that each door had a different wreath attached. This is so the residents could easily identify their own door, but to Douglas it seemed like they were already openly mourning the loss of a neighbor.

Upon reaching the open door to 1208 he could already see camera flashes coming from within. A burly uniformed officer along with whom Douglas assumed to be one of the forensic bubs, jealously guarded the door. As the Fairfax commissioner was accompanying him he had no need to show his ID to the sergeant. He carried it at all times, even when wearing a tux.

Douglas was proved right in his assumption about the second man when he issued Douglas and Williams with latex gloves and shoe covers, and asked Douglas to take off his camel hair coat.

Aitken’s apartment consisted of two elegant large bedrooms and a custom-built bathroom both to the right of the foyer that Douglas was standing in. Immediately to his left was the impersonal kitchen, and straight-ahead was the living room which in turn led to the den and dining room.

Most of the activity was, as Douglas had expected, centered to his right but he could not fail to notice a man and a woman busying themselves around the living room window. Both were dressed in white overalls and wearing amber goggles. The man was slowly scanning the broken window frame with a fluorescent blue light. Douglas was tempted to speak with them first, to delay the inevitable, but it would be a sign of weakness. He turned and entered the bathroom.

He froze.

Aitken’s bathroom was luxurious and well coordinated. The walls and floor, in keeping with the bath, were covered with warm cream-colored tiles except for a gold-rimmed mirror that ran along the entire length of the bath and reached the ceiling. The shelves, towel rack and laundry-box were wooden and dark brown, probably mahogany. The only white that Douglas could see were two pristine towels hanging from their rails, the three members of the forensic team dressed head to toe in the obligatory color and Aitken’s waxen body which still dangled from the shower rail.

One of the forensics team, stooped over the bath, had not noticed the arrival of the FBI Director. ‘Jeez, talk about a bloodbath!’ he said, his words echoing from the enamel. Surprised there was no reaction from his colleagues, he looked behind him and the smile instantly died on his lips. Douglas ordered the forensics team out. This would be the only time that he would be able to pay his respects to his friend in private.

The floor was littered with sample bottles. Instead of chalk marks, which would not work well on ceramic, areas of evidence and potential evidence had been circled with a black magic-marker. The forensic team carefully avoided these as they left Douglas alone.

Douglas closed his eyes, trying to remember Aitken as he had been, but the image of this emaciated, pale body with its maimed feet and head burned against his retinae. The rivulets of dark blood eminating from the eyeball sockets where Aitken’s large toes had been crudely inserted were in stark contrast to the transparent nature of his skin.

Having been a career G-man, he had seen ritualistic killings before, either by a serial killer or from a Mafia hit, but this was the first time that a close personal friend had been murdered in such a fashion. His eyes stung. We’ll get this fucker, Robert, don’t you worry. Rest in peace. He let out a long inaudible sigh and turned away from the horror.

He let the forensic and pathology team back into the bathroom and sought out David Kemp, one of the bureau’s top profilers whom he knew was already at the scene. He had somehow missed McConnell who was busy elsewhere organizing the door to door interviews. Douglas would catch up with him later.

He found Kemp, a handsome, fair-haired professional bachelor in Aitken’s den. He sat in a deep, leather swivel chair surrounded by filled bookcases. It was obvious he had dressed in a hurry.

Kemp looked up at Douglas with a look of concern creasing his face. Douglas hadn’t even bothered to put his hands through his medium-length hair after exiting the helicopter - the downdraught had erased any styling that might have been there before. Also, his brown eyes seemed to have aged considerably and were glistening. So would mine if my immediate boss had been murdered. I might be next on the list. ‘How are you holding up, Tom?’ Kemp asked tentatively.

‘Better than expected David, given the circumstances,’ Douglas replied stiffly. ‘What are you doing in his den?’ It was an invasion into his friend’s private sanctuary.

‘I’ve been banished from the bathroom so here was the next best thing. To understand someone is to know what they feed their eyes,’ explained Kemp. ‘Most killings aren’t random, of course. The more I know about Aitken, the more potential connections I can make. This could still be personal you know, however unlikely.’ He tapped his two forefingers together absent-mindedly.

‘First impressions?’

‘The highly stylized method is a message,’ he continued thoughtfully, ‘and something I need to sleep on.’

‘Not much chance of that tonight. Go on.’

‘The message could be one about Aitken the AG or Aitken the man. If we can find the key to the message, we find the key to the killer.’

Kemp shifted uncomfortably in the seat. ‘Having said that, it could be a blind, or it could be an attack on the US by one of bin Laden’s friends, or even some Jewish or Palestinian fanatic not happy with our brokering the Peace Accord there. Might even be a message from Milosovic,’ he shrugged. ‘Given the ritualistic nature of the murder, it could be a Mafia or a drug hit, but the likes of which I’ve never seen or heard of before.’

Douglas did not want to hear this. Kemp had just opened up the whole world as a suspect, but Kemp continued unabashed. ‘I can tell you three things, though. Firstly, we are not dealing with a serial killer, since Macintosh upstairs was not mutilated at all. Most serios, if they have a unique MO like this, will do the same handiwork on all their victims regardless of the danger of getting caught or the time constraint. It’s their public signature and they want the work attributed to them, even though it’s obvious that he was responsible for both murders.

‘Secondly, Aitken was definitely the target. Macintosh upstairs was merely a means to an end. And finally,’ he said with authority, ‘the killer was definitely male, Caucasian and in his mid-to-late thirties.’

Douglas was puzzled. ‘I thought you people worked on correlations and probabilities.’

‘I spoke to one of the guards on the main gate.’

‘Oh.’


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Rodia
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Posted: Mon 06 Dec , 2004 12:21 pm
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I'm gonna start reading my copy over Christmas. :twisted:


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Jaeniver
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Posted: Mon 06 Dec , 2004 9:11 pm
I can't count but I'm cute
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:evil: Rodia...


suuuure make me jealous

_________________

So give me your forever.
Please your forever.
Not a day less will do
From you

~Other half of the Menacing Glare Duo~ partner-in-crime out to confuse the world!


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Lidless
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Posted: Mon 06 Dec , 2004 10:08 pm
Als u het leven te ernstig neemt, mist u de betekenis.
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2

“It is better to be seventy years young than forty years old.”
Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894)


Helen Powell desperately needed money that night. Her eyes furtively scanned both sides of the street outside the shop she was about to rob for anyone showing an uncommon interest in her. The trouble was that with perfect light-tanned skin, long blonde hair and breasts slightly out of proportion to her athletic body it was almost impossible for her to avoid the ravenous eyes of men and the jealous glances from women. Luckily this was one of those rare moments, mainly due to the fact that it was past midnight. With its mid-range shops, the street looked like any other in America. She fixed her hair in a ponytail and entered the All-Nite All-Med Drugstore.

Once again, the drugstore was non-descript, as if the owner had viewed every drugstore in the country and applied the average to his own, only the lighting was better. As ever, there were the emergency provisions of disposable nappies, light bulbs, liquids, TV dinners, condoms and small furry toys stocked along the two aisles. As Helen wandered about the store she wondered about the toys. Probably used for last-minute birthday presents, or more likely an “I’m sorry I was so late at the office darling I love you” peace offering.

Satisfied that there were no obvious cameras about and no threat from the sole customer, an old man trying to decide between treating himself to real orange juice or the usual Tang, she strode across the checkered linoleum floor to the immensely fat man behind the counter. Jesus, the only way women would be attracted to him would be through gravity, she thought.

In one smooth action she pulled out a Colt, shattered two of the bottles of cheap booze behind him and leveled the gun directly between his eyes.

‘Empty the register!’

The storekeeper’s shoulders slumped. Here we go again. He had felt the sudden, disconcerting eddy of air from the path of the second bullet against his left cheek. ‘Look lady, I’ve less than five hundred,’ he apologized in advance, trying to keep the contempt out of his voice. ‘I’ve only come on a couple of hours ago and there’s no hidden safe. I only ever keep a float of two-fifty in the register. All the rest goes to the bank each day, miss.’ The storekeeper remained calm. In truth this was the second time he had been held up that night.

‘I don’t give a rat’s ass! And don’t tell me to miss. I never miss. Empty the fucking register now and give me your wallet,’ she paused, ‘and a couple of aspirins! I’ve got a bitch of a period.’

Oh shit. The owner complied without hesitation. ‘Great, I get the comedian,’ he mumbled to himself.

As he began stuffing crumpled notes into a brown paper bag, Powell scrutinized the old man ten feet away to her left. He was standing stock-still by the OJ watching her keenly. As she turned her attention back to the storekeeper, the door to the drugstore flew open and two dark figures ran in, immediately taking cover behind some shelving before she could draw a bead on them.

‘FBI! Drop the gun. Now! ’

Helen needed leverage. Human leverage. She couldn’t easily get to the storekeeper as both the counter and the register were between them. Instead she dove to her left, somersaulting across the floor as she did so and came up neatly beside but just behind the old man. Snapping her left arm across his larynx she jerked his body in front of hers, his tweed hat tumbling onto the floor. The old man could feel her breasts pushing hard into his back. If it hadn’t been for the two guns aimed in his direction and the one digging against his right temple, it was the greatest thing to have happened to him for a while.

‘Let the civilian go, lose the gun and get down on the floor, now!’ barked one of the agents.

‘You lose the guns and lie down! You got ten seconds or I’ll waste him,’ she shouted back. The storekeeper stayed cowered behind the counter. For once it wasn’t going to be him that was gunned down in a standoff.

‘You kill him, you’re dead!’ yelled the agent.

‘You’re confusing me with someone who gives a fuck!’ As she spat the words, the red dot of light that had centered on her exposed gun-hand suddenly moved up to her right eye, temporarily blinding her. As a reflex she moved her gun hand up to shield her eye only to have it seized by powerful hands behind her that continued the motion upwards and behind her. The speed was such that the gun flew out of her hand and clattered safely onto the floor out of her reach. A knee pushed hard into her back and she sprawled helplessly onto the linoleum.

Before she could orientate herself she was pinned down, her left hand being pulled back roughly as the cuffs were applied. Damn. She had concentrated so much on the first agent that she had only assumed that the second was still with him.

‘You probably know Miss Miranda better than me, so let’s cut the crap, OK?’ he said with no hint of remorse into her ear.

As the first agent pulled out a notepad and started to take down particulars from the storekeeper and the old man, the second agent pulled Helen roughly to her feet and marched her towards the drugstore’s entrance, his gun deep in the small of her back. She feigned a limp as she walked. As she approached the open doorway, she suddenly pivoted on her right heel and into the agent immediately behind her. Her left knee came up hard between his legs, giving him a new set of tonsils and he went down. Before the first agent could respond, she had run out of the store and into the night.

‘Time out!’ ordered the old man. ‘The debriefing room in fifteen, people. And someone tell Toni she can stop running now.’

*

Ten minutes later once he had taken off the make-up, a more youthful version of Samuel J. Hawthorne regarded himself in the men’s room mirror. Not too bad, a few crow’s feet around the eyes maybe. He wasn’t vain by any means, but he had just hit thirty-nine and wasn’t looking forward to his next birthday. Anniversary, he corrected himself. Once he had reached a quarter of a century, he had started to celebrate the anniversary of it each year. Please God, don’t let Annie and the kids throw a party for the next one.

His looks were reasonably close to the FBI ideal – short black hair, blue eyes, though one with a small green fleck in it – the sort of thing only close inspection in the mirror or by a lover would notice, and medium-strong angular features. He rated himself a seven, which was about right. At five-ten and one-seventy pounds, his build would not stand out in a crowd either, which was perfect for his stint a few years earlier as an undercover agent assigned to the NSD in Washington. If ever anyone walks past the ‘Absolutely No Suspects Past This Point’ sign in any of the field offices, they see predominantly a bunch of nobodies.

Hawthorne was one of the hundred and sixty instructors at the FBI Academy, located on the US Marine Corps Base at Quantico, Virginia. Opened three days after Hoover’s death in ’72, it is situated on three hundred and eighty-five acres of woodland and comprises facilities most campuses would die for as well as a gym and an assortment of firing ranges. It also includes Hogan’s Alley, the training ground Hawthorne had just been employing. The DEA and Forensic Science Research and Training Center also share the facility.

Unlike most of the other instructors who were full-time, Hawthorne was only on loan from Washington for sixteen weeks - the standard course length. Although he was only into his second week, he had proved popular with his students. Like any teacher worth their salary, he preferred to let his class debate amongst themselves, only offering guidance when they went off track or missed something. He always remembered his biology teacher reciting notes from a dog-eared book for the class to copy down like drones.

Donning his black leather jacket over jeans and the class T-shirt, white and proclaiming ‘Perfect Practice Prevents Piss-Poor Policing’ in blue lettering across the chest, Hawthorne crossed Hogan’s Alley and entered the large wooden hut at the end of the street. Inside was quite spartan, with rows of small classroom tables each accompanied by identical black plastic chairs, all facing a well-used blackboard. The only signs of luxury were a TV/VCR unit in one corner and a well-used but inadequate coffee machine next to a single telephone in the other.

Hawthorne was greeted by the sight of seventeen similar T-shirts, most of which were partially covered by unbuttoned shirts. The two students who had taken part in the exercise and were still in suits, together with Toni Bradbury, the other instructor that they hadn’t met before tonight who had been playing the role of Helen Powell, were also in attendance. She was leaning against the side, whitewashed wall with her arms folded. Helen Powell is the name given to all female criminals in Hogan’s Alley.

‘Well, you all watched it on Candid Camera,’ he addressed the class as he strode businesslike to the coffee machine. Hawthorne was referring to the camera that had been hidden in a box of cereal by the counter. Turning to the two suits he continued, ‘but first I want to ask Kevin and Chuck for their take. Nice move with the laser-sighting by the way.’ Bradbury nodded in agreement.

‘Thanks,’ acknowledged Kevin. ‘I think Chuck made the basic mistake of being too close to Helen when he was taking her out of the drugstore. If you’re that close, the target can simply move to the side and back in one swift motion, as happened here. Your gun becomes useless – the target’s body is blocking the gun arm and then it’s up close and personal.’

‘Agreed,’ nodded Hawthorne, pleased with the observation. ‘Two steps minimum distance. Anything you want to add, Chuck? What about Kevin’s performance?’

‘I’d really rather not talk at the moment,’ Chuck responded with a weak voice, still clutching his family’s jewels. His face had yet to return to its normal color.

‘Guess you’ll remember this lesson at least,’ Hawthorne smiled. ‘Anyone?’ Several hands went up. ‘Jane.’

‘Kevin was shouting at the top of his voice. It was almost like that drill sergeant in An Officer And A Gentleman.’

‘Louis Gossett, Jr.’ volunteered another student.

‘Anyway,’ Jane continued, irritated that she had not remembered the name. ‘I realize that it was a diversion tactic so that Chuck could flank her unawares, but in my opinion it was dangerous. It could easily have inflamed the situation from a shouting match to a shooting match.’

‘Correct,’ nodded Hawthorne seriously. He took a quick sip from his plastic cup. ‘Voice control is essential in this business and one of the greatest weapons at your disposal. You guys were shouting – that’s different from being forceful. Remember the old adage, the more someone shouts the less the other person hears? But what’s more important?’ he probed.

One student raised his hand. ‘Body language,’ he said with confidence. ‘Pardon me ma’am,’ he said turning to Bradbury, ‘but just ’coz Helen Powell looks like the Venus de Milo with arms and, er, firmer breasts, one should look to what the body does, not to what the body looks like.’

‘Go on,’ Hawthorne encouraged.

‘Chuck should have noticed how she rolled to you, Sam,’ continued the student. ‘That was smooth and should’ve told him that she was probably trained in combat tactics. It only compounded his error later. Most men have got one brain, one penis, and only enough blood to supply one at a time.’

‘Looking to get laid tonight, John?’ Hawthorne teased. Chuckles all round.

‘Er, no Sam,’ responded the now sheepish pupil, consciously avoiding Bradbury’s direction.

‘John’s right. I missed that one,’ Chuck confirmed with a slightly strangled voice. ‘I thought Helen was being played by one of the Day-by-Day Associates,’ he said referring to the hired actors used in the Quantico training sessions.

‘Body language is the fundamental as you will learn in the coming weeks,’ explained Hawthorne. ‘By the way, Chuck, I overheard you reading the rights to Helen. This may be a training exercise and you think you are at liberty to give a Hollywood version. If it came to court, an able defense attorney would be able to get the old man to state exactly what you said, and all your heroics would have been for nothing. Don’t ever, ever, do it again, even to an actor.’ Chuck nodded, accepting the rebuke.

‘You’re all still missing the most important point of the exercise. Think.’ Silence. ‘Actually it was Kevin who ballsed up,’ hinted Hawthorne. He held out his hand in apology. ‘Oh, sorry Chuck.’ A groan emanated from Chuck, still in agony.

‘Come on people. Think.’ There were no takers.

Hawthorne’s bleeper broke the silence. He checked the message and walked briskly over to the phone. ‘Toni, take over.’

As Hawthorne dialed and spoke softly into the mouthpiece Bradbury put them out of their misery. She paced around the room as she spoke. ‘The two of you should never have entered the drugstore in the first place. A quick look-see through the window would have shown that the storekeeper was complying. They’re almost only ever in real danger if they offer resistance or if the suspect is highly drugged. A quick tell of both body languages would have confirmed that neither was the case.

‘You should have waited until Helen had exited the premises,’ she expanded. ‘There were no flashing lights, no screeching of tires outside, no warning. She could never have guessed you were there waiting for her. But Kevin raced in headfirst, with Chuck duty-bound to back him up. Instead of a controlled situa-’.

Hawthorne interrupted her as he put down the phone harshly and strode purposefully towards the door. ‘Sorry to butt in Toni, I’ve got to go to Washington immediately. Can you mop up?’

‘Sure.’ He didn’t hear her. The door was already closed behind him as he started to jog under the stars towards the car park.


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Lidless
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Posted: Fri 10 Dec , 2004 8:03 pm
Als u het leven te ernstig neemt, mist u de betekenis.
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3

“Those who are too smart to engage in politics are punished by being governed by those who are dumber.”
Plato (c. 428-347 BC)


At four-thirty in the morning the effects of being up all night were beginning to take their toll on President Arnold Wilburforce as he ran his hands through his shock of white hair. He took off his glasses and pinched the inner corners of his eyes. Although his body had slowly adjusted over the years to surviving on only four hours sleep any incursion on that was felt deeply.

After two centuries of experience, the support mechanism for the presidency had an answer. He ripped open a small gray metallic sachet and poured a fine white powder into a crystal glass, filling it to the brim from a matching crystal decanter. He drank it down in one. Tasteless, he sneered inwardly. Can’t be doing me any good then. Why does good medicine always taste so <deleted> awful?

In truth the powder contains a much smaller amount of a Benzedrine derivative than Presidents are led to believe by the White House pharmacy. This version, unlike its predecessor, does not have the drawbacks of imbibing the recipient with overconfidence but still boosts alertness and functionality for some hours. More importantly it is non-addictive. Only Reagan had refused to draw upon this chemical crutch and he had paid dearly for it when he fell asleep in front of the Pope and one billion people.

The only other drug that Wilburforce in common with every world leader took was a cocktail of vasopressin, diphenoxylate and atropine. Vasopressin is an antidiuretic hormone and was first used by the British Royal Family and has never been superceded. Wilburforce often wondered how much Yeltsin had required. The latter two compounds had been developed by NASA to restrict the bowel movements of astronauts.

Wilburforce was continually amazed that the public had never cottoned on to it. How else can we endure hour after hour of state functions and banquets and never need to take a leak?

‘Okay, Owen,’ he sighed as he wearily replaced his glasses, ‘What’s the score?’

Chief of Staff Jacobs quickly swallowed his piece of hot buttered toast. ‘Well, I’ve run it through the computer model and I think it’s probably in the ballpark,’ he said cautiously. It was early days yet. ‘Initially you’ll close the gap between you and Senator Harlow to three points from the current fourteen, due to the knee-jerk reaction to a threat against the USA. Also, people will perceive that the Administration must be doing something right if some bad guy, be he domestic or foreign, decided to assassinate Robert.

‘You’ll lose some support as some people will view the Administration as incompetent, unable to protect their own, but overall you’ll be around three behind,’ he concluded as he closed the file that rested on his lap.

Dr. Owen Jacobs was the sharpest political analyst around and had never bothered to major. The two ass-kissing honorary doctorates bestowed upon him last year did not count in his mind.

He had started out life in the outskirts of Aspen, helping out in his father’s general store at weekends from the age of nine. Even in those early days he had proved to be shrewd in business. He always seemed to know what the latest fashion of skiwear or the latest toy-craze was at an exceptionally early stage. His father was skeptical at first, but after young Owen had been proved right time after time he had begun to listen and take action on his son’s advice. Hell, after several years, he might even be able to open a second store in Aspen itself, something Owen’s grandfather had dreamed of.

But it was not to be – Jacobs Junior had bigger plans. A consumer analyst for one of the larger retail chains was a regular customer and had marveled at the perception this adolescent possessed. He had even rode on the boy’s back a few times, promulgating some of the insights as his own. It had worked out well for both of them. The analyst was if anything fair in sharing his commission if not the praise.

At the age of sixteen Jacobs had dropped out of school and joined the same chain as the analyst. His father was not pleased. In fact, the two only reconciled many years later when Jacobs had moved from working for a direct competitor of his father’s business into the political arena. Working for the retail chain had proved lucrative but ultimately unsatisfying to Jacobs. His real skill lay in reading people, not attending product focus groups.

He had learned that the governor at the time was planning a visit to Mount McClellan, from which one-sixth of Colorado could be seen, and had deliberately “bumped” into him there. The talk had been about the environment and Wilburforce had been impressed by how much Jacobs seemed to have his finger on the pulse. Within a month he was almost a permanent resident of the Governor’s Mansion on Eighth Avenue.

It was a successful pairing as America found out fifteen years later when Wilburforce walked into the Oval Office against all the odds.

‘If the security services manage to catch him soon, you will keep almost all the gain up to the election, but the longer it takes, the more that gain will diminish,’ Jacobs continued grimly. ‘If he’s not caught, we’ll look weak and ineffectual and probably take a net hit of between three and five points from our current standing.’

Wilburforce cursed out loud and slumped backwards into the soft padding of the green armchair. His fate, indeed the next four years of American history, was essentially out of his hands. ‘So you’re telling me that there’s nothing I can do?’

‘Naturally back the investigative team up to the hilt. No limits,’ Jacobs suggested. ‘Tom Douglas has an idea he’s been kicking around for a couple of years now and I think you should hear him out. He’ll be here any minute. Also, the obvious “rally ’round the flag” speeches and concentrate some more on anti-crime measures. Should pick up some points that way, but I’ve already factored that in.’

The President’s shoulders sagged further. ‘Jesus, Owen, what am I supposed to feel right now?’ he complained. ‘One of my very best friends has been brutally murdered, and yet it may well have given me the only real chance to stay here for another term.’

‘That is between you and your conscience, Mr. President,’ replied Jacobs with neutrality ringing in his voice. Wilburforce stared at the ruddy face, surprised by the unhelpful response.

One of the Secret Servicemen who had been standing next to Durrie’s nostalgic Farmyard in Winter painting interrupted politely. ‘Mr. President? Director Douglas and party of one have just entered the White House as you requested and will be here in a few minutes.’ Jacobs took the opportunity to take another bite at his now-lukewarm toast.

‘I’ll see them in here, rather than the Oval Office,’ Wilburforce decided. ‘I’m sure it’s been a long night for both of them as well and they could do with some nourishment.’ Wilburforce had hardly eaten himself, anyway. The Navy steward immediately left the room unbidden to fetch two more place settings. ‘And get me a run down who “party of one” is,’ the President said with irritation.

Wilburforce continued after a few moments of thought. ‘As Victor Dennison is, was, Deputy AG, he’s automatically taken over from Robert. I think I should make it permanent, at least up to the election.’

‘I agree, Mr. President,’ nodded Jacobs. ‘If you were to choose anyone else, people would ask why Dennison was Deputy in the first place. Bit of a poser but, like Robert, he’s a hard <deleted> when the need arises and could well prove an asset in the next few months. Just push everyone one rung up the ladder. Confidence in your appointments.’

The President nodded silently.

*

Aitken’s body had been reverently and delicately moved to the basement of the FBI Headquarters in Washington where the Laboratory Division is situated. The autopsy had already been performed and various tissue samples had as a matter of routine been sent to the Chem/Tox Lab for analysis.

There are over ten million organic compounds, and the lab’s mass spectrometer can fingerprint over sixty thousand of those most commonly found in the human body in a matter of minutes. The technician in charge, a man who looked like a human version of a lab rat, held the back of his hand to his open mouth as he yawned audibly, awaiting the results. Six in the morning, been here all night, and I’m checking tissue samples of someone who’s died from a lack of blood. He absent-mindedly scratched his stubble. Dead-end job! A soft ping interrupted his reverie, announcing that the analysis was complete.

He moved wearily over to his computer terminal and clicked open the results file on Aitken’s blood, lazily scanning the readout. His eyes suddenly widened with surprise. What the <deleted>? Like any reputable scientist he ran the test again only to get the same reading. His hand darted to the telephone next to his left hand, his eyes still staring at the screen. ‘Kenny, did you find any needle marks around the feet area? Well look – in fact comb the body for them. And I need his medical records. Now!’

*

Douglas’s feeling of awkwardness in his tux at Montebello was nothing compared to that which Hawthorne now experienced in his jeans and buttoned leather jacket as the two of them were escorted through the White House. The fact that he was one of the most decorated agents and Douglas was the FBI Director had not seemed to count for anything. They had both been subjected to a thorough screening protocol before being allowed into the inner sanctum. Hawthorne half expected to see one of the agents strap on a latex glove and ask him to bend over to do the one-eye. ‘The little shits are trying to make a point,’ Douglas glowered to Hawthorne, referring to the fact that it had been the Bureau protecting Aitken and not the Secret Service.

As they progressed through the building, Hawthorne realized just how much of the White House he had missed when he had been on one of the public tours. As realtors were fond of saying, it was deceptively spacious. After a few minutes the Secret Service agent leading Douglas and Hawthorne stopped in front of a deeply polished oak-paneled door and knocked discretely twice.

‘Come.’

Wilburforce preferred to have breakfast and informal meetings in the Green Room. It was one of the many functions it had served throughout history. Over the years it has been used as a lodging room, a dining room, a sitting room and even a whist room in Monroe’s day. Most of the furnishings are from the early nineteenth century in a style that Thomas Sheraton would have approved. It derives its name, as does many of the White House rooms, from the color scheme Jackie Kennedy had chosen for it in ’62. It was adjoined to the Blue Room. The rather garish green watered-silk fabric that covered the walls was the first thing to strike Hawthorne as its door opened. Well, if I wasn’t awake before, I sure am now.

Wilburforce, in his charcoal-gray suit and sober dark tie befitting the moment, stood up to greet them. Jacobs had left moments before. He regarded both Douglas and Hawthorne with surprise and smiled, not because they seemed so disparate and out of place, but because both sets of apparel showed they were not wasting any time.

‘Tom, thanks for stopping by at such an ungodly hour,’ greeted Wilburforce, taking Douglas’s proffered hand. ‘How are you holding up?’

‘Not bad, Mr. President, considering.’

‘And you must be Sam Hawthorne,’ remarked Wilburforce turning to Douglas’s right. ‘Heard a lot about you. How’s training suiting you?’ He took Hawthorne’s hand strongly in his, laying his other hand gently upon Hawthorne’s outstretched arm just by the elbow - the standard political-buddy posture. Wilburforce exuded an invisible aura of puissance.

‘Enjoying it, even if it is temporary, Mr. President. It’s good to see how the rookies think - in a way it helps to clear your own mind. On top of that, they got some nice moves on occasion.’ Hawthorne stopped as soon as he realized the President had not wanted a detailed answer.

<deleted>, thought Wilburforce. Why hadn’t I been told it was only temporary? Satisfied that the preliminaries were over and the minor error glossed over the President gestured to the breakfast table. ‘Gentlemen, let’s get down to it. We lost a damned good friend tonight.’

As they sat down the President took off his jacket and placed it on the back of his chair. The Navy steward took Douglas’s overcoat whilst Hawthorne elected to keep his T-shirt under wraps. As the coffee was being poured Wilburforce wasted no time. ‘Tom, how could you have let this happen?’ Straight for the jugular.

Douglas was already prepared. ‘Mr. President, as you know, because of the very nature of a democracy, people like yourself need to be seen outdoors. There is no way in the world that any protection detail will stop the most expert of assassins or the most suicidal of fanatics. Take Yitzhak Rabin for example. He was assassinated in broad daylight by a law student of all people, and the Israelis have the best security in the world.’

Wilburforce did not need to be reminded. ‘That doesn’t answer the question. Robert was murdered in his own home.’

‘As far as I can tell, he waived aside the two agents request that they quickly sweep his apartment, or so they tell me – I’ve no reason to doubt them. Maybe there was a false sense of security, twelfth floor, idyllic surroundings, some local security presence, but still it was slack. The agents should have been more forceful. The case has already gone to OPR, our equivalent of Internal Affairs. They could have been involved, but the screening for the protection teams is pretty tight. They’ll probably be suspended followed by a transfer to Fairbanks, Alaska.’

‘Look, Tom,’ answered the President with irritation, ‘At best it was sloppiness on your part, at worst it was complicity by the agents. Which should I tell the American people?’ Wilburforce, at sixty-three years of age, even though he was the most powerful person in the world, was in many ways like any other human being - he always got his greatest buzz from ordering around people older than himself.

‘Mr. President, if I may?’ Hawthorne volunteered. Wilburforce acceded enigmatically.

This was getting nowhere. If Douglas’s plan was going to work, Hawthorne needed to gain the confidence of this man. He was about to step onto dangerous ground and he knew it. He carefully placed his already empty bone-china coffee cup on the table. ‘Mr. President, with all due respect, we know Robert Aitken’s killer had an accomplice. It was Aitken. ’

‘I think you had better explain yourself, young man!’ barked the President of the United States of America. Douglas almost dropped his plate of freshly-scrambled eggs and coughed violently.

Hawthorne continued, his voice controlled. ‘I’m sure that there are occasions when you yourself have curtailed some detailed search by the Secret Service, either because you’ve a pile of work to do or the First Lady has that look in her eye, and that puts them in an impossible position. They have a duty to perform but they have been given a direct order from their boss.’ He turned to the Secret Service agent leaning against the wall. ‘Am I right?’

Agent Harrison was caught off guard. He wasn’t used to being part of a discussion, particularly one where he was being roped in by the side arguing against the Chief. His eyes went through the whole gamut of emotions from surprise to awkwardness. He gazed at the President, then Hawthorne, back to the President and finally settled on the portrait of a thoughtful Benjamin Franklin above the fireplace.

‘Harrison?’ Wilburforce consented.

Harrison was in pain. Careers were made or broken at these moments. ‘Well Mr. President, I’m afraid he does have a point. There are instances where my team and I would have liked to undertaken a more thorough search, but you’ve dismissed us after what amounts to a mere cursory glance. We never sleep well those nights.’ He wondered if he had just lost his job.

Wilburforce stared at Harrison, not out of anger, but with new understanding in his eyes.

Hawthorne turned to the President. ‘Just by allowing him to answer my question was another example. Should he give the answer he thinks you want and defend you verbally, or speak the truth, which may result in him or his replacement being allowed to defend you better physically? A true Gordian knot.’

Wilburforce studied Hawthorne for a moment, realizing that he had just been played but regarded this agent with admiration all the more for it. Ballsy <deleted>, I like him. He knew where this was heading and decided to beat Hawthorne to the punch line.

‘You’re saying it was the same with Robert. The protection team is part of the FBI, and the Attorney General is the FBI’s boss. He put his protective team in an impossible situation. You’re right.’ The President exhaled slowly. It was time to get some details.

‘Right, what do we know so far about the assassination?’

Douglas outlined the facts that they had managed to uncover to date. It had turned out that Williams had been correct in his assumption. The SWAT team had found Wilson lying in his bath at home in a pool of blood, his body mutilated in the same way that Aitken’s had been. His car had been found at the Metrorail near Montebello. Yes, forensics are all over it. No, there are no named suspects to date, but the databases are searching for matches on the MO. Yes, Mr. President, we are looking at a range of possibilities for the motive. Yes, Mr. President, this man appears to have been working alone.

Wilburforce stared into space for what seemed like ages, gently tapping a spoon against the breakfast table. He turned to Douglas. A decision had been made. ‘The American people will not accept failure. They will demand results, and soon. I hope you will make an arrest in the next couple of weeks.’

Douglas’s political antenna quivered. Is he saying what I think he’s saying? He decided to probe. ‘Mr. President, I’m sure we’ll manage to catch the perpetrator of this vicious crime early on.’

‘I’m sure your agents will be thorough and the conviction ironclad,’ responded Wilburforce after a moment’s hesitation. Douglas dissected the President’s last two statements. The message was clear. Wilburforce was deliberately choosing his words with care – it was immaterial who was convicted, so long as there was a conviction. Jesus. The implication was not lost on Hawthorne either.

Douglas decided to make his play. ‘Mr. President, there’s something I’ve been considering proposing for a while, but now the time is ripe.’

‘So I understand. Go on.’ Wilburforce was curious. Hawthorne gestured to the steward for more coffee.

‘Well, all the action services have a small, dedicated elite team, such as the Rangers, Deltas, SEALs, et cetera. We have SWAT and Hostage Rescue. But they’re all devoted to physical response. It occurs to us that we need a permanent elite team for the most difficult high-profile investigations - the crème de la crème from all disciplines from special agents to soundmen, whether they’re currently based right here in Washington or in Seattle. The closest we have to it at the moment is the Rapid Start Team, but all they do is deploy to a crime scene and tap info into a database for the on-site investigators. Typists on wheels, if you like. With the right personnel this new group can only increase the headline success rate. I suggest they start with this one.’

Wilburforce saw the fallacy and a knowledgeable smile crossed his face. ‘I’m a politician, so I know number juggling when I see it.’ It was not a drawback in his mind. There are lies, damned lies, and government statistics. ‘It would be at the expense of cases they would otherwise have been on.’

‘True, but only in the short term, Mr. President. The beauty is, it pays for itself,’ Hawthorne countered. ‘With increased success in the major cases, we can go with a bigger bucket to the Appropriation Committee and fill it. That extra money would more than fund their replacements.’

Wilburforce wanted to check if Douglas and Hawthorne had properly thought it through. ‘What’s the initial budget for this?’

‘Less than three million, Mr. President,’ answered Douglas confidently. Wilburforce perked up at the news. The annual budget for the FBI was around three billion. The FBI Director explained further. ‘You’re only looking at relocation costs, minimal extra training, and once the team transfers to New York after this case, where else, the standard twenty-five percent hike in salary.’

‘Higher cost of living,’ nodded Wilburforce sagely.

‘No. Danger money. Trust me, I’ve been on the subway there,’ he said leaning back in the small green chair. Douglas could afford to relax. He could see that Wilburforce was hooked.

Wilburforce grunted a thin smile. He stood up and walked slowly to the window, gazing at the dark outline of the Washington Monument against the beginning of the dawn overhead. He could not for the life of him see a downside. Boy, was this going to be good when he announced it on TV. Bet Jacobs hasn’t factored this little nugget into his model. Jacobs had.

He turned to Douglas. ‘I suppose Agent Hawthorne here will lead the team.’ Douglas nodded. ‘Excellent. If he railroaded me like that, just think what he can do with a suspect.’ Where the hell had that come from? Douglas and Hawthorne looked at each other, each reading each other’s mind. Is he looking for confirmation he’s not a suspect in this case? They both decided to ignore the comment. For now.

‘I suppose you already have a name for this outfit,’ asked the President. He beckoned the steward for more coffee.

‘Yes, Mr. President. Andúril,’ answered Douglas. The puzzled look on Wilburforce’s face compelled him to explain. ‘It’s a famous sword in Lord Of The Rings. It means “Flame Of The West”.’

‘You read too much damned Tolkien. Stick to “Excalibur”,’ Wilburforce replied briskly.

‘Yes, Mr. President.’

Wilburforce wished them luck and bade them farewell. After they had left the Green Room, he mused over his fresh coffee. In-between speed-dialing Jacobs and his speechwriter, he cupped the phone in his hand. ‘Harrison?’

‘Mr. President?’

‘Sorry.’ Harrison’s visibly slumped with relief. His next pay-slip was not going to be pink after all.

*

Hawthorne and Douglas made their way out of the White House to where Hawthorne’s car was parked just outside the grounds at the South-East Entrance. The air was still warm from the furnace of the day before and the first tendrils of pink sunlight were already making themselves known and obliterating the weaker pinpoints of light above them. ‘So when does this Excalibur team first meet?’ inquired Hawthorne.

‘Eight this morning, Hoover Building.’ Douglas checked his watch. ‘The last team member’s landing at Dulles in around ten minutes. Any chance of a quick lift, Sam?’

_________________

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4

“The physician can bury his mistakes but the architect can only advise his client to plant vines.”
Frank Lloyd Wright (1869-1959)


Given how image-conscious the FBI is, the appearance of its headquarters catches most first-time visitors by surprise, but in terms of size it meets most expectations. The J. Edgar Hoover Building, squeezed between Ninth and Tenth on Pennsylvania Avenue, covers over two million square feet, houses around five thousand employees (of which only around a tenth are agents), and receives so much mail that it has its own zip code.

The only trouble is that it is ugly beyond compare. Seven stories of dull, beige, pockmarked concrete at the front and eleven stories at the back rise into the sky like a giant Belgian waffle on legs. From the vantage point of a bird, it looks like misshapen square, the sort of thing a three-year-old would draw and a proud parent would put on their fridge. Aesthetically, the most pleasing aspect of the Hoover Building is the exit, and many employees in its relatively short history have attempted to place the architect on America’s Most Wanted.

Despite having been a special agent for ten years, it was Heather Baker’s second visit to the Washington headquarters – the first was for a publicity drive for black women in the Bureau. After flashing her credentials at the reception, she was directed to the fifth floor where the Criminal Investigative Division is located. As the lift ascended, she checked herself over in the mirrored walls, pulling the wrinkles out of her deep blue business suit, a soft affair that was in sharp contrast to the power outfits she had worn in her twenties, and flicking a loose strand of black hair over her shoulders. When the lift doors opened silently she was surprised to be greeted by a beaming Douglas himself. She straightened her back as if coming to attention.

‘Director, what a pleasant surprise. How are you doing? I’m sorry about Robert Aitken, I knew you were close,’ she said graciously as she stepped out of the elevator.

‘Fine, thanks Heather,’ Douglas replied softly, ‘And it’s Tom, OK? No formalities here.’

‘Sure thing, that’s how I like it,’ she grinned. We’re all one big happy family, right? No need to guess why I’m getting the special treatment. He gestured for her to follow him down the corridor to a door that had a green screen the size of a postage stamp next to it instead of the usual clumsy black keypad.

‘Press your thumb against it,’ he said proudly. As she did so, the door slid open.

She turned to Douglas. ‘A little bit different from Chicago. I presume you’ve loaded the thumbprints of only the Andúril members and yourself into it Tom, and we clean up our own mess inside.’

‘Absolutely correct, apart from the fact that it’s now called Excalibur,’ he said, pleased with the conclusion. ‘Mind the step as you walk in – the floor is raised so that the techies can examine the underside for bugs. They are the only other people allowed in here, and even they must be accompanied by at least two members.’

Baker’s eyebrows furrowed. ‘You worried this could have been an inside job?’

‘Let’s go inside, we’re about to start,’ he answered in a level tone.
Douglas led her into the large suite. Heads around a large rectangular oak table that dominated the room immediately turned to greet them. Several started to get up, but Douglas immediately patted the air, indicating that they remain seated. The first thing Baker noticed was the smell of fresh carpet. She immediately made a headcount. Excluding Douglas and herself there were ten other men and one woman. She’ll be the typist, I bet. All were Caucasian, except for one that was definitely of Spanish descent. Typical. Fucking typical. I’m here to make up the numbers. One day you’re the dog, the next you’re the hydrant.

The suite was expansive and judging by the window spacing had obviously been two separate rooms at one time. The oak table was already covered in numerous unopened files and small bottles of water and paper cups peppered its surface. There were several smaller tables placed around the edge of the white room, each equipped with computers and telephones. A large TV screen was behind a now suited Hawthorne who was seated at the head of the table. To one side were a VCR, a blackboard with a box of white chalk and one of colored chalk and an overhead projector. A cork notice-board ran almost the full length of the room. The floor was of deep red carpet tiling, making the job of the bug sweepers that much easier. In one corner was a collection of large well-used travel bags to which Baker added hers.

She took the only spare seat, which was next to Hawthorne, as Douglas went to the other end of the table. He turned to face them.

‘Morning,’ he announced, smiling grimly. The various whispered conversations stopped and all heads turned to him. ‘First of all, my apologies for the suddenness of it all. The events of the last ten hours have necessitated this course of action. You’ve been thrown in at the deep end, I’m afraid. My original intention was to ease you in, with a few high profile but eminently solvable cases so that you would become established and accepted.’

Douglas started to pace around the large table with his hands behind him as he continued. ‘The Excalibur team, as it’s now called, is something that has been in the pipeline for the last twelve months. I’ve sounded each of you out informally about it over that time, so you all know what it’s about. You all know Sam of course,’ he gestured as he placed both hands on the top of Hawthorne’s chair and gazed at the other members. ‘He’ll introduce you all to each other.’

He smiled benevolently at the expectant faces. Do you really know what the stakes here? The fate of the Presidency is in your hands. A pep talk was in order.

‘You are the elite of what the Bureau has to offer and, like a shuttle mission, you cover all the disciplines between you. Don’t be scared to bring in outside people in if you need to. Obviously they will need to be vetted by Sam in advance. You have the entire resources of the FBI and state and local police at your disposal.’ Douglas started to pace around the room again, making eye contact one by one with each of the agents as he did so.

‘As you can imagine, there will be a lot of pressure bearing down on you from both the public and the Administration in solving this case. Sam and I will shoulder that – you just concentrate on finding this assassin. Any questions?’

‘Tom?’ A well-tanned hand half rose in the air. Douglas acknowledged it.
‘Yes, Stewart?’

‘What if we don’t solve this case?’

Douglas considered the question from Kinney. Although it was astute, it betrayed a negativity Douglas could not allow the team to have. Although he promised to shelter them from the pressure, some needed to be applied immediately. They would work it out for themselves anyway.
‘You will.’ It was an order. ‘This is one of the most important cases that we have ever had. Not because it was our boss who was murdered, not because he was a personal friend of mine, but because the outcome of the forthcoming Presidential election and therefore the future history of America will be effected by whether you succeed or fail.’ The general uncomfortable shuffling in the chairs showed that that had got their attention.

‘The last time the Attorney General of the United States of America was assassinated was Robert Kennedy back in ’68, and many people believe to this day that there was a conspiracy involving the FBI, just as in his brother’s case. Not this time. This is our moment to shine. Let’s not drop the torch.

‘Anything else?’ He quickly looked at his watch and everyone took the hint. ‘OK. Sam, it’s all yours.’ As the heavy door closed behind him, all heads turned to Hawthorne.

‘I’ll go and get the coffees,’ he simply announced. ‘How does everyone take it?’

*

‘Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States.’

The East Room fell into respectful silence as President Wilburforce made his way to the small podium. He hated this kind of press conference. Most of his speeches were either given to a sympathetic crowd or had been rehearsed well in advance. He did not have the luxury of either in this instance. To make matters worse, Jacobs had insisted that Wilburforce himself field questions from the press corp to show that he was hands on, giving the illusion that he was personally directing the investigation.

Wilburforce had learned early on that giving political speeches was the hardest form of acting - a one-time performance that depended more on the delivery than the substance in the main. This would not be acting, though – he genuinely felt saddened and angered by Aitken’s death, even though he knew it was helping him.

He took in the crowded room. Each of the two hundred small white-cushioned golden chairs arranged around the podium in semi-circular rows were filled. There’s no news like bad news, he grunted inwardly. He took two slow breaths and gazed straight into the main camera.

*

‘Sam, what the hell are you doing?’

Hawthorne turned away from the coffee-dispenser on the square beverage counter in the FBI canteen and set a plastic cup down on a tray to join four others. Douglas was staring at him, his face a mixture of anger and surprise.

‘Look Tom, I know you didn’t mean to come down hard on them,’ apologized Hawthorne, ‘but you kinda dropped one hell of a bomb on them back there. They need a breathing space after that. Besides, most of them have already been up all night and any breaks are going to be welcome – they still have one helluva long day ahead of them.’

‘So are they chewing pencils or discussing the heat wave at the moment?’ Douglas snapped. ‘Do you have any idea of the time pressure we are under?’

‘They’re taking turns giving a quick one-minute bio to each other, including some personal stuff. If they are going to function as a team, they will have to get on with each other and realize just how good the other members are,’ Hawthorne reasoned. ‘It’s a good fifteen minutes investment. Besides, I need coffee.’ Hawthorne took a sip from another cup he had been drinking from whilst getting the others.

Douglas was not convinced, but decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. ‘I’ll get a coffee machine put in the room. Just start the team off at some point today, if it’s not asking too much.’ He turned and strode purposefully to the canteen door totally unaware of the ecstatic face behind him.

*

‘My fellow Americans. The nation awoke this morning to the shocking news that Robert Aitken, the Attorney General of the United States Of America, was brutally slain last night in his home in Richmond, along with two members of the community, James Wilson and Peter Macintosh. I have already spoken with the close relatives of all concerned and offered my personal condolences and the condolences of the nation. I’m sure they will all be in our prayers tonight.’ Aitken would have hated this speech.

‘Robert Aitken was highly regarded by his peers. Professionalism, dedication, a clear sense of duty to his country, achievement and patriotism are the words that will come to most people’s mind when they think of Robert. The United States of America has lost one of its finest citizens and one of its greatest protectors. I know God will receive him with open arms. For those of us fortunate enough to know him personally, the loss is even deeper. I for one valued his friendship, his clear thinking, his wisdom and his advice. He was the meanest golf partner I ever had.’

The President’s voice cracked at this point, surprising him. The pause that followed was not for dramatic purposes, although a number of viewers thought so. It was an honest attempt to control his voice. He had to appear strong not only for himself, but for the country. He disregarded the autocue for a moment. ‘I am reminded of a quotation by Marcel Marceau, “Do not the most moving moments of our lives find us without words?”’

Another silence ensued as President Wilburforce bent his head for a few short seconds and closed his eyes, offering a short silent prayer to his friend. As he raised his head again towards the cameras, the newsmen could have sworn that he had grown in height. He gripped the wooden podium tightly and leaned towards the two microphones.

‘My fellow Americans, pain is a necessary part of life, of growth, but suffering is optional. Yes, we should all feel pain from Robert’s murder. This abomination was an elaborate attack against justice, an attack against freedom and an attack against this sovereign nation. This we will not suffer! ’ His voice seemed to resonate around the room. ‘I have asked the FBI under Tom Douglas to set up a special taskforce of the very best, called Excalibur, to track down Robert’s assassin and we will find him. I have appointed Victor Dennison, whom you all know, as Attorney General. He will be sworn in later this morning.’

His voice dropped, becoming cold and calculating, his eyes bearing down on the cameras. ‘I now address you, the killer of Robert Aitken, James Wilson and Peter Macintosh and the aggressor against this land.
‘Do not sleep, for we will be ever awake. Do not dream, for we will haunt you. Do not step into the light, for we will be in the shadows awaiting you. Youwill be tracked down and you will feel the true measure of justice. Bastards like you are always caught. I guarantee it.’

*

Mrs. Olive Grant had just turned a frail eighty-three and had been to church twice a week as long as she could remember. Her son had recently bought her a small portable television for her kitchen, and she was absent-mindedly listening to the President’s address whilst carefully pouring milk over her cereal with scrawny trembling hands. She dropped the carton on the floor and turned to the small black and white screen. What did he say? Presidents don’t say things like that!

*

Unexpectedly, the East Room erupted in applause but Wilburforce patted the air. Even those who disliked the President had to give grudging respect for what they had just heard. Once the noise had died down, Wilburforce fielded questions. As a matter of routine, almost the entire audience put their hand up, clamoring for the honor of First Question. He selected Bob Harris, a friendly.

‘Mr. President, do you have any leads at the moment, and when do you expect to catch the assassin?’ An easy one.

‘We have several promising leads at this time, Bob, and I’m sure you can appreciate my not going into specifics. As to when we shall catch the killer, I cannot say at this moment, but soon.’

Next he selected another sympathizer. ‘Mr. President, how will this effect the Administration in the run up to the election?’

‘Not at all, John. Victor Dennison has worked under Robert for several years and they made an excellent team. No ship of state has been blown off course today.’

The last two questions had been plants, the standard procedure with friendly journos. They are given prepared questions to ask by the White House Staff, in return for exclusives. It is a technique that is used sparingly. Wilburforce now entered uncharted waters. Feeling confident after the reception of his speech, he selected the pudgy hand of Peter Woodthorpe, one of the nastier elements in life.

Deep, silky tones emanated from the large overbearing reporter. ‘Mr. President, isn’t it true that Mr. Aitken’s assassination will actually boost your ratings as people rally around the flag, especially when you deliberately give such a rousing patriotic speech as you have just done? How do you feel about that?’ A thin smile appeared on Jacobs’ lips as he watched from the wings.

Woodthorpe was normally a very shrewd and able reporter. In interviews he would always start off as being the best friend the interviewee ever had, and then unexpectedly pounce. As he himself put it, “you have to get behind someone first before you can stab them in the back”. In press conferences, where it wasn’t one-on-one, he had to act as a sniper instead of a stalker. In this instance however, his appetite for the kill had gotten the better of him.

Although the question obviously had merit and insight, he had totally misjudged two things: the mood of the viewing audience and the anticipation by Jacobs and the President. They had expected exactly this question from Woodthorpe, and had considered the gamble necessary. Wilburforce was totally prepared and his eyes flared at the questioner.

‘Peter, do you seriously think I have had time to think of approval ratings at a time like this? One of my best friends, who is also the Attorney General of the United States of America has been brutally murdered, his body desecrated, and you think I have had time to concern myself with approval ratings? Do you really consider that if I had a rating of ninety percent my briefing and my response would have been any different?’ He almost snarled at Woodthorpe, and cut him off before he had a chance to reply. ‘Next question. Brittany.’

As the questions continued to flow, Owen Jacobs was a very happy man. The President had scored a double-whammy. He had come across as a strong, proud man, whilst Woodthorpe, one of his main detractors, appeared an insensitive, naïve fool. The last exchange with him was worth five percentage points in itself, but it still left the fate of the Presidency in the hands of the Excalibur team.

_________________

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Posted: Wed 15 Dec , 2004 2:45 pm
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5

“Cruelty has a human heart,
And Jealousy a human face;
Terror the human form divine,
And Secrecy the human dress.”
William Blake (1757-1827)


When Mary Donovan announced herself as coming from Information Services, Baker’s face had a small, disappointed grin on it. However it soon changed to one of admiration and surprise when it turned out that Donovan was a genius at computers, data analysis and cryptology. She had even sheepishly mentioned that she had been seconded to the NSA for two years. Her pale face and long auburn hair had fooled many in the past.

The door opened and Hawthorne entered awkwardly, carrying a large brown plastic tray with him. ‘Don’t mind me, who’s next?’ Despite his rank and reputation as one the best, Hawthorne also had a reputation for quirkiness. As he went around the table consulting a small piece of paper to match the coffee to the drinker, a slightly balding, jovial-faced man with a reddish hue to his cheeks took his turn.

‘Eammon Walsh, forensics. Second generation from Cork in Ireland’. His voice had a soft lilt that was almost mesmerizing and carried authority and wisdom beyond its years. ‘Majored in chemistry at Yale in ’78 and went to John Hopkins until five years ago, when I transferred to the FBI. Guess there’s too much Irish cop in me,’ he shrugged. Everyone smiled back at him. Walsh would be easy to get on with.

‘The last year I’ve been Chief Analyst in the Laboratory Division six floors down, though you wouldn’t know it - I seem to spend most of my time in the witness box these days. My wife, Kerry, helps with the paperwork and we don’t have any kids yet, much to our parents disapproval.’

The last comment about Walsh’s wife drew a frown from Baker that was not lost on Hawthorne. He made a mental note to check it out later. The next member awkwardly took his turn.

‘James McConnell. I’m not actually FBI. I’m just the unlucky sergeant who was saddled with this case in the first place. Director Douglas thought it a good idea for me to be on the team, at least for the time being.’ His hazel eyes were almost apologetic. Hmm, thought Baker, handsome and insecure. Now there’s a combination.

Hawthorne interjected, placing the last cup on the table as he sat down. ‘James was the first policeman on the scene, which is important enough. He’s a Richmond resident, which also helps with local knowledge and inroads to the police force there. And in case any of you are wondering why we really need someone from outside the Bureau, remember he’s got more experience than most of you around this table.’

McConnell inwardly shook with annoyance whilst maintaining a polite smile. I may not be FBI, but I am able to use my mouth, thank you. McConnell had been the last to speak which, although it was the natural order as they had gone around the table, had still bristled him.

Hawthorne took over. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together with eager anticipation. ‘OK, people, first some ground rules.

‘No talking to other agents unless they are directly working on this case, and no talking to the press. That goes through Alistair here.’ He nodded towards Alistair Thompson, the highly photogenic media relations officer who played everything by the book. He was known in the press as “Pretty Boy Thompson” or “No Comment Thompson” depending on the newspaper.

‘As Tom mentioned, I must approve all use of personnel outside this room. If it’s urgent and I’m out of contact, talk to Heather, she’s second in command.’

Baker was stunned. Out of all the investigators around the table, she had the least experience – ten years in Chicago. The sides of her mouth tensed as she tried not to smile. Then she realized. Admin. I’m doing admin again.

‘Obviously since Alistair is media relations and Richard is technical services, they won’t be taking part in the day to day investigation. Gentlemen?’

Thompson and Timms took their cue to leave. The door shut behind them, leaving nine people, the core of Excalibur, in the room. Apart from Hawthorne, the other members of the team traded looks. Benditoz, the Hispanic-looking agent Baker had noticed, decided to ask the question.

‘Is all this need-to-know stuff really necessary, Sam?’

Hawthorne nodded glumly. ‘Yes, Vince. At this stage, we can’t rule out the possibility of it being an inside job from someone inside either the FBI, the Department of Justice or even the White House. I’d like to, but I can’t, and if that hampers us then so be it. I can’t have the guy picking up our scent when we’re almost breathing down his neck.’

‘That’s another reason we’ve all been brought in from around the country. We’ve all got alibis,’ Benditoz observed.

‘You’ll make a good ’tec one of these days, Vince. Yeah,’ Hawthorne shrugged, ‘it helps. David, Eammon and I were the only ones within fifty miles of the scene, but we all have cast-iron alibis. Maybe I’ve watched too many movies. So sue me,’ he said nonchalantly. Hawthorne looked around the table. ‘Any other questions before we get down to business?’ No takers. ‘OK.’ He slid a group of thin blue folders towards the middle of the table and as he began to speak the other members each took one from the pile.

‘The main target of last night – Robert Joseph Aitken,’ he began. ‘Born in Watertown just outside of Boston in ‘45. Accepted to Harvard Law School in ’67 after majoring in physics at Cornell, but dropped out of his second year to volunteer for Vietnam. Couple of minor medals. Went back to Harvard after two tours and then straight into the state legislature in Massachusetts, finally becoming State Attorney in ’83. Focused mainly on white-collar crime – I guess in Massachusetts you don’t have much of an option – but he was very outspoken and made several key initiatives for the protection of women, children and minorities. The sort of things that get you noticed by Washington. Divorced in ’81 after eight years and never remarried. No surviving issue, his daughter died in a car accident in ‘79. Became AG three years ago after Wilburforce became President and you pretty much know the rest.’

He looked up at his team. ‘Right. Let’s go through the numbers. Method, motive, opportunity.’ He turned to McConnell. ‘Jim, you’re at the plate.’

*

Senator Terence Harlow almost broke the button on the remote as he angrily switched off the television set. It did not take a politics major to realize that the President’s address had been a great success. He threw the device towards the discrete aluminum wastebasket only for it to clutter against its side and spin silently onto the thick carpet. He stared at it for a moment, his rage not eased in the slightest. ‘Christ Carl, we haven’t put a foot wrong in this election campaign. Why this, why now?’

‘We can’t really sa-,’ the thin accountant-like figure started to reply.

‘I don’t expect an answer you idiot!’ Harlow seethed. He slumped into the leather chair in his office, massaging his black bushy eyebrows, his eyes closed. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. OK, what does this do to us?’

‘It’s close, sir,’ Mulligan answered. He did not need to go to deeply into the political dynamics of the situation. Harlow was as sharp as they came. ‘We should still win by a few points.’

‘I don’t want to maybe win by a few points. I want guarantees. What we can do to improve our chances and my sleep pattern?’

Mulligan studied Harlow’s hawk-like features. ‘What if I can find a way to make sure this Excalibur team doesn’t find this guy?’ Mulligan’s voice was almost a murmur.

Harlow opened his eyes and blinked in surprise at his campaign manager. He was silent for a good ten seconds. An antique grandfather clock against the wall marked the time. He made up his mind. ‘Find a way Carl, goddamnit, find a way.’

*

McConnell rubbed his wet palms against his trouser legs under the table, cleared his throat and began his summation. ‘Three victims in all, the first two merely a means to an end – Robert Aitken.

‘The first victim, James Anthony Wilson, a forty-three year old sound engineer, recently divorced and living alone, one conviction for possession of marihuana seven years ago. He was last seen alive at around eight-fifteen yesterday evening by a boy delivering a pizza to his address on the outskirts of Washington. No signs of forced entry and no eyewitnesses. You can see from the first photo what greeted the SWAT team.’

He paused, allowing the members to study the horror inside their files. Wilson’s clothed body was lying in a pool of blood in his bath, his small head grotesquely twisted to one side. Like Aitken, his toes had also been hacked off and pushed into his eyes, ears and mouth. Benditoz made the sign of the cross. Mutterings of ‘Jeezus! ’ could be heard around the table. A rare cloud drifted past the already intensely bright sun outside the window, casting a welcome shadow across the image.

Confident that the contents of the first photograph had been absorbed, McConnell continued. ‘Someone made a call from his phone at nine twenty-three to the second victim, Peter Macintosh, who lived in the apartment directly above Robert Aitken in Montebello. My guess is that it was Wilson, forced at gunpoint to tell Macintosh that he needed to see him urgently. Either that or this sicko is one hell of an impersonator.’ He looked around the table to see general nods of agreement.

‘I guess we can put his time of death a few minutes after that,’ Baker conjectured.

McConnell inclined his head. ‘That would be my read. He takes Wilson’s car, drives down Richmond Highway to Montebello and checks into the gate at ten thirteen, passing himself off as Wilson with an appointment with Macintosh. Macintosh by the way has a clean sheet apart from a speeding ticket eighteen years ago, was seventy-one and a widower. The next two photos are taken from the cameras in the foyer. They are not revealing in the slightest as you can see.’

All that the second and third photographs showed were slightly fuzzy black and white enlargements of a tall bearded man in a large dark overcoat, one taken from the front and one from the back.

Gary Payne, whose specialty was violent crimes and kidnapping, had been quiet up to this point recovering from his long haul that night from San Francisco, but something bothered him about the photos. ‘Jim,’ he said shuffling uncomfortably in his chair, ‘I presume these are the best photos of the guy from the CCTV?’

‘Yes,’ McConnell confirmed. ‘As you can see, the quality isn’t great.’

‘Are the cameras obvious?’ Payne persisted.

‘Yes,’ came the answer, ‘but you have to look way to your left and right in the foyer to notice them. What are you getting at?’

Payne frowned. ‘The sonofabitch’s been here before. Look, in the front photo he is looking down from the cameras, and the one from the back he’s looking straight ahead. And these are the best photos of him we have? Either he’s the luckiest sonofabitch I know or he already knew where those cameras were.’

‘You’re right,’ interrupted Hawthorne. ‘Jim, get the local cops to search the last two months of tape for anyone appearing to look for surveillance. Check the head office of the installers, architects and security company to see if any one has run off with a circuit diagram.’

‘No problem,’ replied McConnell as he clicked the top of his ballpoint. He continued to recite the events of the previous night as he made a note. ‘The guy was lucky. No one saw him in the foyer or in the lift, so apart from the guards at the main gate, this is the only description we have. A sketch artist is with them now. It’s a damn shame there isn’t a camera at the main gate – you’d have to look directly into it then.’

‘Amateurs,’ snarled Benditoz. ‘You dress these guys up like policemen and they think they’re as good as the real deal. Bet they have a portable TV in the booth.’

‘They do actually,’ replied McConnell with a thin smile. ‘They also didn’t notice that the driver was wearing gloves and a long heavy coat. Who drives wearing those on a very warm August night?’ Donovan looked at the pictures again and kicked herself. She had missed that one. Horses for courses, she mentally shrugged, I’m good in front of the computer screen, these people are good away from it.

McConnell continued with the events of the previous night. ‘He gets to Macintosh’s apartment using Wilson’s BMW, kills him with a hard blow to the head, the next photo, and then abseils down to Aitken’s balcony. Whether he broke in before or after his target returned to his apartment at ten thirty-five we don’t know.

‘My guess is that he waited until afterwards in case Aitken’s security gave it the once over. Macintosh also lived alone, so he’s got all night to wait. He just got lucky with his timing when he heard the shower. The body was discovered at eleven oh-seven when the security detail was alerted that Aitken wasn’t answering his phone.’

A series of five photographs detailed the white puppet that was Aitken in his bathroom. The team had heard of Aitken’s mutilation and now they saw it in glorious Technicolor, complete with close-ups. The room felt eerily silent. They were in the presence of evil.

McConnell allowed the team to scrutinize Aitken’s lined, sallow features, to absorb them, blend with them and possibly make sense of the madness. Ragged stumps of red had replaced his normally engaging blue eyes. The large toes had been squeezed into the eye sockets popping the fluid inside the eyeballs. The gelatinous mass had, mixed with blood, run and congealed down Aitken’s cheeks. The whiteness of Aitken’s body had made the color of claret even more vivid.

The smallest toe from each foot had been inserted into his ears, and the rest were a jumbled mass inside Aitken’s mouth. Although Wilson had been similarly butchered, the team felt more revulsion at Aitken’s demise. Technically they should not have, but hell, this was their boss, someone they knew.

Kinney was the first to recover from the photographs. He looked to McConnell. ‘As my specialty is drugs enforcement, I’ve seen some pretty horrific killings and desecrations in my time, but nothing like this, nothing even remotely like this. Anyone else?’ There were general shakes of the heads. Apart from Hawthorne, McConnell, Kemp and Walsh, the rest of the team had not seen the photographs before. They hadn’t even looked up at Kinney, their eyes still engrossed in the malevolent photographs.

McConnell resumed. ‘You won’t have. I’ve already run it through police and FBI computers. This is a first. The assassin exited the main gate just five minutes before the body was discovered, and the BMW was found abandoned just before midnight in the car park of the Huntington Metro Station. No witnesses again. That’s it so far,’ concluded McConnell. Only when he leant back in his chair did he release just how tense his body had been during his recounting of the night’s events.

Hawthorne took charge once again. ‘Thanks Jim. Good work. Before we start to kick balls around the table, I want to hear from forensics. Eammon?’ Walsh adjusted his glasses and consulted several sheets of thin paper in front of him.

‘First victim, Wilson. Died from a broken neck. From the amount of blood loss, we can deduce that the amputation of his toes was performed after he was dead. Cut right through the middle phalanges of the smaller toes and the distal phalanges of the two larger ones. As Jim said, there appears to be no signs of forced entry. There is a slight bruising to the upper left temple, which could suggest a right-handed man. From the shape of the bruising, I would guess that it was a gun pushed against his head, probably during the phone call to Macintosh. Can’t tell you the make, though.

‘We’ve found two sets of fingerprints that aren’t Wilson’s in the apartment and so far they’ve have drawn a blank, but if either belong to our man I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. Fibers haven’t given us anything either. The mutilation was done by a single-bladed non-serrated instrument whilst Wilson was in the bath, probably a hammer and chisel given the marks on the inside of the bath. The internal body temperature indicates the time of death somewhere between nine and nine-thirty in the evening.’

Walsh paused to flip over to the second sheet. Baker closed her eyes trying to imagine the scene and failed miserably.

‘Second victim, Macintosh. Massive blow by a blunt instrument to the left temporal fossa, killing him instantly.’ Walsh pointed to the left side of his skull. ‘The killer did not leave the weapon behind. From the position of the body in the room, and the blood splatter pattern, I can safely say that this was done at the door whilst Macintosh was facing his aggressor. This would confirm the assumption that the killer is right-handed.

‘The rope used to clamber down could have been bought in any hardware store and there are no unusual fibers on it. The assassin used a fisherman’s knot. It’s particularly strong and simple, but don’t read anything into it – I mean, if I were going to go off the fourteenth floor, I’d make damned sure I used a good knot.’ Walsh peered over his glasses to make sure everyone was paying attention to his authoritative analysis. Satisfied, he continued.

‘No signs of forced entry to the outside windows of the balcony. Given the heatwave, I guess they were open anyway. Glasscutters were used to get through the inner windows. The cross-section of the cut gives nothing unusual. No fingerprints on the windows, which I guess means that we won’t find any fingerprints.

‘Aitken was in the shower at the time. We found high quantities of shampoo still in his hair. He too was struck on the head, the same instrument I presume, but this time from behind and it didn’t kill him.’ He stopped to let the implications of this last statement set in.

Donovan’s hand flew to her open mouth. ‘You mean he was alive while being mutilated?’

‘Yes, but unconscious, thank the Lord.’

‘How do you know?’ she persisted.

‘The killer used the top of the side of the bath to chisel them off this time. The grouping of the marks shows that Aitken wasn’t struggling at all,’ Walsh reasoned.

Donovan continued impatiently, ‘Could he have regained consciousness at all?’

‘Possibly, but unlikely,’ Walsh declared with authority. He realized Donovan’s concern. ‘But don’t worry. Even if he did, he probably wouldn’t have felt a thing. Those idiots who attempt suicide by cutting their wrists have reported that as the supply of blood and oxygen to the brain diminishes, they start to experience a state of giddy euphoria.’

There was a sigh of relief around the table. It made Aitken’s death a little more bearable. Benditoz and Payne both actually managed a sip from the now-cold coffee. Apart from Hawthorne, no one had touched their cup since McConnell had started to speak.

‘Here’s the kicker though,’ continued Walsh, ‘Aitken’s blood shows a large quantity of warfarin had been introduced into his system.’

‘Rat poison?’ offered Benditoz. ‘He was poisoned?’

‘Yes and no,’ replied Walsh as he consulted another sheet. ‘The amount injected wasn’t lethal. Warfarin is also used as an anticoagulant, commonly used in the treatment of thrombosis and myocardial infarction, particularly in the elderly. The killer wanted to be sure that the blood around Aitken’s toes would not clot. To put it simply, Aitken had the blood systematically drained out of his body.’

_________________

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6

“If ever I utter an oath again may my soul be blasted to eternal damnation!”
George Bernard Shaw (1856-1950)


‘The only other items the killer left behind apart from the rope were an overcoat and a pair of trousers, but they’re useless too,’ Walsh continued despondently. ‘From the contents of the pockets, we know they belonged to Wilson. Fiber analysis has again turned up nothing out of the ordinary. This was one clever sonofabitch. He put Wilson’s clothes over his own so as not to get any blood on them and would give us nothing incriminating when he discarded them. There’s nothing from the car either.’

‘So there’s nothing to go on?’ complained Baker.

‘Well, from the surveillance tapes and the fact that Wilson’s clothes must have been a reasonable fit over his own, he’s white, five-nine and one-sixty pounds and judging from the footprints by the window wears size forty shoes. He’s almost certainly clean-shaven. Don’t let that goatee beard trick fool you,’ Walsh shrugged, ‘I think he’s too good to give us that one. The glasses and hair coloring may also be suspect, but don’t count on them being false just yet.’

‘That’s it?’ asked Hawthorne with incredulity. Walsh was one of the top forensics experts in the world but had spent more time listing what they had not found as opposed so something slightly more useful.

Walsh’s face brightened. ‘Well, I’ve identified the type of warfarin used down to a brand called Coumadin. That’s only available on prescription, which could be of help. We found several needle marks on Aitken’s body. The bastard even took the syringe away with him. I’m afraid that’s it – about as useful as a one-armed wallpaper hanger.’

McConnell preempted Hawthorne. ‘I’ll get onto the hospitals and doctors in a fifty mile radius to see if there’s any reported thefts of Coumadin or if any patients have lost any of their prescriptions.’

‘Gary, check the retirement homes,’ added Hawthorne to Payne. ‘They gotta use a ton of the stuff too.’ Payne nodded his assent.

‘I don’t get it,’ confessed Baker. ‘Why cut off Wilson’s toes when he was already dead?’

‘Practice,’ answered Kemp.

*

Olive Grant had been on hold for fifteen minutes before she was finally connected. ‘This is Gavin Brinkov of the White House Press Office,’ came the polite reply. ‘How may I help you?’

Her rheumatic hand clutched the telephone tightly to her ear. She could not use her ancient hearing aid as it always made a peculiar buzzing noise when the receiver was placed next to it. ‘Hello? This is Olive Grant from El Paso in Texas.’ She hesitated, not knowing whether she should have given her name. ‘I’ve just heard President Wilburforce make that speech on the television about that poor Mr. Aitken. I just wanted to say that I hope you find that...that…bastard.’

She quickly put the telephone down and grabbed the small, black, dog-eared bible lying next to it with trembling hands. She had already decided to go to church that afternoon.

*

Kemp had been busy during the night. Apart from his brief bio, he had remained silent, absorbing the details supplied by McConnell and Walsh to see if it fitted in with his first impressions of the killer.

‘May I?’ he asked Hawthorne.

‘Sure. You were next anyway,’ Hawthorne replied with ease.

Kemp leaned forward and crossed his arms on the large table. ‘The guy was practicing to see if he could mutilate a body,’ he reasoned. ‘Shooting someone is relatively easy – it’s almost impersonal in a way because you don’t feel the impact of the bullet on the victim’s body and it can be done from a distance. To coldly stab someone takes more nerve or rage because of the proximity of the victim and you can feel the moment of death.

‘Society has almost become immune to these types of deaths from the exposure in the media and in films. But it takes a strong determination to actually mutilate someone like this. It’s almost taboo. The only time I’ve ever heard about toe amputation is self-mutilation when Fijians are in mourning.’

Everyone in the room tried to see the sense of deliberately losing a toe because they had lost a relative. There was no sense to it.

‘I’ve been legless at a wake,’ volunteered Payne. Nobody laughed

‘He may have killed before or at least had some training,’ speculated Kemp. ‘He knew the difference between rendering someone unconscious and a blow that would kill.’

‘Could this have anything to do with a vampire or voodoo cult?’ asked Baker.

‘No. No marks around the neck and most ritual draining of blood come from the wrists or stomach. Another point is it looks like none of the blood was collected. It was simply let out like a tap.’

‘What about this mutilation?’ inquired Kinney. ‘Why aren’t any of the toes placed in the nose?’

‘I wondered about that,’ responded Kemp. His face brightened. ‘It’s a message. Most assassinations where it isn’t a simple gunshot or knife wound, are by people shouting for attention. They need recognition, hence a signature or a message.’

‘I don’t see the message,’ said Kinney unhelpfully.

Kemp ran a hand through his straw hair. ‘If your ears, mouth and eyes were impaired, you would be deaf, dumb and blind – but it seems a helluva way to make a general comment about Aitken or the Department of Justice. But if you think of it in another order - eyes, ears, mouth - you can’t see, hear or speak. It’s the Three Monkeys – see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. That’s the message. Got to be. Also, this guy is highly intelligent – his anger is well controlled. Your basic cool and calculating mother.’

‘What’s the origin of the phrase?’ asked Donovan.

Kemp had done his homework during the long night. ‘The phrase seems to have two independent sources. There are references to it in early fifteenth century English and French, and these seem to have been translations of something in Latin, but that’s as far as it can be traced. None of the phrases have anything to do with monkeys, though.

‘The other source, which is the more likely, is Japan. Statues of the Three Monkeys can be found in several old Buddhist temples there, and the phrase in Japanese is Mi-zaru, kika-zaru, iwa-zaru. Mi-zaru in Japanese is a bad pun on the phrase “three monkeys” – hence the connection.’

‘Bit of a long shot, but anyone using it today?’ asked Baker.

‘I did a quick check on the Net. There is a television production company here in the US that uses the Three Monkey logo called St. Clare Entertainment. They did Sliders and Weird Science, but I can’t possibly see why anyone connected with them would have a beef with the Attorney General.’ The possibility was discounted by the team.

‘The other and more promising route is an environmental pressure group called Toxic Action Network based right here in Washington. They have what is almost a mantra about chemical companies not admitting the link between pesticides and cancer - See no damage, hear no damage, speak no damage.’

Hawthorne nodded slowly thoughtfully as he rose from his chair. ‘Good work, David.’ It was time to direct. ‘Jim, you’ve got your task list already. Gary, you’re checking the retirement homes. Method we’ve dealt with. With damn all forensics together with “opportunities” wide open, we’re going to have to hammer the motive. We’ve got a few possibles already. Vince, check out this Toxic Action Network for any militant acts, suspect or otherwise, and background checks on any names you can find.

‘Mary, run this Three Monkey thing through the computers – see what else you can come up with. Try to find the connection between Wilson and Macintosh. The assassin obviously knew it. Also, get a run down on anyone recently released that Aitken personally prosecuted or showed a particular interest in when he was a state attorney and before.’

‘Sure thing, boss,’ replied Donovan as she furiously scribbled on her notepad. ‘Just one thing.’ She paused at looked up at him. ‘We’re the Excalibur team, right? How come we don’t have a round table?’ Hawthorne studiously ignored the comment.

‘Stewart, you’re the drug expert. Check for a drug or mob connection. Any major speeches or initiatives set up by Aitken concerning them. Any major convictions or ongoing investigations. Go back six months. Check your contacts back in Florida, too. Heather, you check the speeches, initiatives and headline cases for any other possible motives, but keep your eyes peeled for anything ecological, too. Work with Stewart on finding the whereabouts of known hired assassins.

‘Eammon, keep digging on the forensics side and David, keep searching for similar MO’s – I don’t care how remote. Also check out any threats made against Aitken. I’ll check out his personal life.

‘Back here at six,’ he commanded.

As the team started to rise from their chairs, enjoying the opportunity to stretch their numb legs, McConnell interrupted.

‘Aitken made a call on his cell phone to an unlisted number last night. It doesn’t come up on any of the databases I have, and when I call, they simply ask me for my code word and then hang up when I don’t give’m one.’

‘What time was the call?’ Hawthorne inquired.

‘Ten-twenty.’

‘After the assassin had already entered the Montebello grounds, then. I don’t see the relevance,’ he said.

McConnell shook his head. ‘I disagree – they could have tipped off the guy that Aitken was on his way.’

‘Unlikely,’ mused Hawthorne rubbing his chin, ‘I think the killer was prepared to stay all night waiting – he wouldn’t need a warning. Anyhow, if he was going to be tipped off, I’m sure someone would be checking the entrance to the DoJ building rather than rely on Aitken maybe phoning someone en route.’

McConnell was not satisfied. ‘Well, what about the two visitors that Aitken’s driver was bringing to the apartment. There’s no sign of them and the driver’s saying jack shit. It could be important.’

‘All right, I’ll check out both,’ conceded Hawthorne reluctantly. ‘but it smacks of a National Security thing.’

‘I’ll do it,’ brightened Baker, anxious to avoid reading through mundane speeches.

‘No,’ said Hawthorne. ‘It sounds too high-level even for this team. Leave it to me.’

‘So I’m just reading, right?’ Her face told a story.

Hawthorne gestured to a small side table next to the travel bags at the far end of the room. ‘You and I need to sort out a few things first.’

*

Carl Mulligan waited anxiously by his computer, ignoring the shafts of hot sunshine that streamed through the window to his right. He had quickly ascertained that the only practical way to frustrate the investigation was from within Excalibur itself. The fewer people involved the better, since the last thing he needed was a conspiracy theory to haunt Harlow and himself in the future. Of course, he would have to use an intermediary when approaching the agent. The only trouble was, which agent?

The media had lauded how Senator Harlow and in particular Carl Mulligan had focused on the issues rather than take the more seductive, negative route. When questioned by reporters about their tactic, all Mulligan had been prepared to say was that Wilburforce was doing a terrific job of destroying his own image and did not need outside help.

In itself the taking of the high road had attracted much support from voters weary of the usual in-fighting between Presidential candidates.

Mulligan had proved shrewd in making all election promises transparent. With the long list of orders of recruitment and deployment of the armies of tax dollars from one battleground to another, he had produced a weighty tome that showed for almost every citizen exactly how their take-home pay would be affected. The electorate votes in the main with their wallets and Senator Harlow was the first Presidential candidate in history that had had been clear and concise in what his election promises would mean to the voters financially.

There was a drawback of course – it meant that the promises were inflexible. It was a dangerous tactic since in every Presidential term there was an unforeseen issue that needed addressing financially. It was not a problem for Mulligan. He merely assigned one hundred and fifty billion dollars each year under the heading of “Unforeseen Reserve”. Nothing had been left to chance. Mulligan had started his financial analysis over ten years ago.

Mulligan gently gnawed his left thumbnail in reflection. That’s the problem with “unforeseen” – it’s unforeseen. Who could tell that the murder of one key figure in the Administration would level the playing field? I wouldn’t put it past old Wilby to have organized this, or at least that food-chain-challenged Jacobs.

At first Mulligan had struggled with himself as to whether he should attempt to impede the FBI’s investigation. He had high standards but the more he thought about the timing of Aitken’s demise the more he was convinced that his opponents were behind it. He had no recourse and made no apologies. At least there would be no blood on his hands.

His only worry was just how far he was prepared to slide into the mire.

He had asked a friend and sympathizer within the FBI for the names and rundowns of the Excalibur team on the pretext that Harlow was planning to meet with them at some point to publicly lend his support. Harlow was well known for always being prepared well in advance. His friend had scruples, but could see no harm in it.

A soft chime announced that he had just received an e-mail. Mulligan had quickly changed the settings on his computer when he had installed the program. He found that the “You’ve got mail” voice recording made the computer sound, well, even more like a computer. Regular e-mails were automatically diverted to his secretary, but he had another address that only a select few had. His friend in the FBI was one of them.

He clicked open the mail and then the file attachment. More concerned with speed than security, his source had not bothered to encrypt the message. Mulligan shrugged. The various security forces never allow a commercial encryption system onto the market that it could not break anyway, and if someone hacked the message the explanation for it was innocent enough.

Just to be on the safe side, he did not bother to print out the thirty pages but just reviewed them on screen, committing the salient points to memory as he scrolled down the document. His attention was drawn to the tenth page. He sat back in his chair, deep in thought. Perfect.

_________________

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Slightly OT....but not...gotta love Google:

http://www.storymania.com/cgibin/sm2/sm ... or=ProwseS

(thanks to Leafy)

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7

“All I have I would have given gladly not to be standing here today.”
Lyndon Baines Johnson (1908-1973): first Presidential speech to Congress


The Excalibur Suite, as the expansive room had been nicknamed, was reasonably quiet. Only the woodpecker-tapping from Donovan and Kemp’s computer keyboards cut through the humid air. The air conditioning unit was humming too softly for it to be of any use. The only alleviation from the heatwave outside had been when the blazing sun had arced high enough so that only a thin rectangle of the room was irradiated.

Hawthorne, Benditoz, and Walsh had already left the room, busy with their assignments, whilst Kinney and Baker were reading through a mountain of documents. As McConnell and Payne had been tasked with tracking down a possible source of the Coumadin, they had decided to share one of the side tables, sitting opposite each other in the relative shade.

Donovan’s first task had been accessing the FBI mainframe, supplying McConnell and Payne with a list of phone numbers. It had turned out to be a time-consuming affair. After the twentieth call of the morning, Payne needed a break. He replaced the handset and when he caught McConnell’s eye he made the shape of a T with his hand. McConnell quickly finished his call.

‘Any luck?’ asked Payne wearily.

‘Only sixteen of the twenty-three places I’ve rung stock the stuff,’ replied McConnell as he rubbed the back of his neck with a paper napkin. ‘And only one could tell me immediately that none was missing. They use a rotational audit throughout the year and happened to have counted their Coumadin this morning. You wouldn’t believe the number of different systems used for stock-checking and purchase reordering. I could almost write a book on the subject. You?’

‘Not surprisingly almost all the homes I’ve rung have it, but I’ve got the same problem with getting a quick answer. This is gonna take time and our resources are limited. Goddamn secrecy.’

‘Then we prioritize, Gary,’ answered McConnell, sitting up in his chair. ‘You FBI guys have a bigger budget than us humble foot soldiers, so I guess you’re not so used to it.’ He paused to think, his eyes suddenly widening. ‘Shit, why didn’t I think of it before? This guy must have known that we would find the Coumadin in Aitken’s body, yeah?’

‘Maybe not the particular brand, but go on.’ encouraged Payne.

‘Well, he’s thought this thing out to the last detail. He’s going to make it as difficult as possible for us to track him down. If I were the assassin, I’d steal the stuff from where it wouldn’t be readily missed. That would suggest the supplier itself or one of the larger facilities.’

Payne was skeptical. ‘True, but de facto the security would be much better at these places. I don’t think he would risk it.’

‘He’s just managed to off the Attorney General. I don’t think he’s too scared about security. He’s good – very good. It takes guts to abseil from the thirteenth floor, even if it is down only ten feet. This guy’s had professional training. I’m beginning to think all this hush-hush nonsense isn’t such a bad idea after all.’

‘You know, I think you’re right on both counts, Jim,’ said Payne in a conspiratal whisper.

‘Why don’t we contact the supplier direct,’ suggested McConnell, ‘and see if they’ve got any Coumadin missing, and ask’em to list the buyers in the area by volume purchased?’

‘Works for me,’ acknowledged Payne freely.

Whilst McConnell contacted the supplier, Payne took his time to study the Virginian policeman with a West Coast accent. McConnell was well-dressed, highly professional and by all accounts highly successful in solving homicide cases. Something bothered him.

McConnell finished his call and leant back in his chair, rubbing his neck muscles. ‘They’re not aware of any break-ins and security is very tight indeed. They’re faxing us the list I requested in about five minutes, wouldy’a believe?’

‘The modern age,’ replied Payne. He decided to use the time to his advantage. ‘I don’t get it, Jim. You seem to have all the qualities for an FBI agent, and yet you’re Local with a chip on your shoulder the size of a potato field about us.’

‘Didn’t get high enough grades at college,’ said McConnell in an offhand manner, continuing to rub his neck. He did not bother to look at Payne.

‘Bullcrap,’ persisted Payne, his Southern accent heightened. ‘With your experience and success rate you could easily get in now, even if you are close to the age limit.’

McConnell sighed and faced him. ‘I’ll be honest, I’ve been trying every year for the last five. Rejected every time,’ he replied gloomily.

Payne was puzzled. ‘How come?’

‘’Coz I turned in my partner in for murder. I’m told I’m one of the best, but I guess most people are too scared to work with me.’ The polite smile of disappointment flickered across his lips.

Payne was intrigued and leant forward, his elbows on the table between them. ‘Oh, this is gonna be good.’

‘Suppose you’d better hear it from the horse’s mouth,’ shrugged McConnell. ‘Six years ago I was based in Sacramento, also in Homicide. A couple of kids had been raped and murdered within five days of each other, and Burns and I were staking out a playground that they both visited regularly. We took shots of all the adults in the area over a three-day period and ran’em through the computer. Bullseye. Charles Frome. Nasty sonofabitch. Recently released from the psycho farm after messing with little boys. Whilst we were searching his place we had just come across some photos he had taken of the murdered kids naked in his apartment when in he walks.

‘He turned and ran. Fast mother. We took up after him but Burns was much quicker and was way ahead of me. Moments before I turned a corner I heard some shouting followed by a couple of gunshots. When I finally caught up, there was Frome, lying on the floor with two bullets in his chest. My partner explained that he was reaching for what he thought was a gun in his pocket. There wasn’t.’ McConnell stopped to take a sip of water.

‘Sounds like the bastard got what was coming. I admit, it stinks,’ said Payne, ‘but he wasn’t shot in the back. What made you think it was murder?’

‘At first just his voice. It didn’t have any conviction. There was something else too, but I just couldn’t put my finger on it at the time. It was only when I read the Coroner’s report something jarred in my mind.
‘I persuaded the Commissioner to come with me to the Coroner’s Office, and when I put the T-shirt Frome was wearing back on his body, the bullet holes didn’t line up. The ones on the T-shirt were lower down than those on the body.’

‘How’s that possible?’ asked Payne.

McConnell raised his arms in the air. ‘He was surrendering.’

‘No shit.’

‘Yes, shit. Turned out that the coroner was a big-time buddy with Burns and had agreed to hide the inconsistency. Both went down for it.’

Payne gave an understanding nod. ‘And so you’ve been voted Mr. Popular every year since,’ he said sympathetically.

‘You got it. Stuck it out for a year in Sacramento, and when that didn’t work out I moved as far away as possible, Richmond. Didn’t do any good though, the story was way ahead of me. When that didn’t work out, I tried to change agencies and move in with you boys, but I guess they’re scared too.’

‘You know, everyone’s worried about this being an inside job. I’m betting the Director made you an honorary member of the team because you had enough balls to turn your own partner in. You made it into the FBI after all, Jim.’

‘Don’t say it like that. Now I’ve got a motive for killing Aitken, you ass,’ grinned McConnell. Payne smiled at that one. ‘But what about you? For someone working San Fran you’ve one hell of a Southern drawl. You never mentioned earlier how you got there.’

‘My wife, Ellie,’ explained Payne proudly. ‘We’re both born’n bred Texans. She was teaching drama at Margo Manning and I was assigned to the Dallas office, headin’ up the kidnap section. We met on a case where one of her students, the daughter of one of the richer oil barons, had been abducted. As soon as I saw her I felt like I had been slapped in the face by a warm, wet towel. And the rest, as they say, is history. Got married within three months. When we came back from the honeymoon, there on the mat was an offer for her to go to one of the big studios in Hollywood. Casting agency stuff. She couldn’t exactly refuse.

‘That’s one of the nice things about being in the FBI – so many offices. So I put in for a transfer. Couldn’t get into LA, but by next semester there I was on the streets of San Francisco, busier than ever.

Payne paused in contemplation. ‘Prefer it to LA, though. You wouldn’t believe the number of kidnappings that are kept out of the papers by those Hollywood stars over there. That’s another reason they always ask for such high salaries. It’s almost an industry out there.’ McConnell was surprised, but it explained a lot of things. ‘Last year one actor successfully claimed the three mill he paid to get his son back on his IRS return, wouldy’a believe.’

McConnell shook his head in disbelief. ‘Your kidding!’

‘Yeah, I am,’ admitted Payne with a smile.

‘You miss Texas? I know I miss Sacramento,’ asked McConnell with a tinge of sadness.

‘Yeah, the steaks mainly. No one in California knows how to cook beef.’

‘Bet Schwarzeneggar’s chef does,’ laughed McConnell.

‘OK,’ conceded Payne, ‘But I’m betting that’s a full-time job. No time to feed me.’

McConnell took the opportunity to even the score. ‘You know why Schwarzeneggar has so many muscles?’

‘Go on.’

‘So he can wear a T-shirt with his name across his chest.’

‘Touché.’ It drew another smile from Payne. McConnell realized that Payne had not finished his story. ‘I presume you caught this guy and returned Ellie’s student in one piece.’

‘Sho’ did. He made the elementary mistake with the ransom note. He used cut-out letters from a newspaper instead of typing it out. He was careful with[/I] his[/I] fingerprints, but didn’t reckon on the paperboy’s. Had a juvenile record, so we traced him from that.’

McConnell was impressed. ‘Cute. Hey, this team’s supposed to move to New York once we’ve finished this case. What’s Ellie gonna go?’

‘Teach at that performing arts school that was in Fame.’

‘What if she doesn’t get the post?’ asked McConnell.

‘Then I guess I head back to San Fran,’ answered Payne without hesitation.

Payne was the all-American dream. Handsome, devoted and successful. Despite that McConnell liked him. ‘And leave Excalibur? You love her that much?’

He raised his cup of relieving water. ‘There’s none better.’ McConnell joined him in the toast.

They both turned to the fax machine, which had started to whir. ‘Back to grindstone I guess,’ said Payne.

*

Hawthorne crossed Pennsylvania Avenue to the Department of Justice building directly opposite the Hoover Building. As it approached the large white building with its four massive stone columns outside, he noticed that all the US flags outside, just as those on the Hoover Building, were flying at half-mast against the sapphire sky. Wanting to avoid the irrepressible sun as much as possible, he did not break his stride.

Immediately on Hawthorne’s left as he walked into the building through the Penn Center Entrance were large photographs of Robert Aitken and Victor Dennison hanging on the wall incased in dark wooden frames. After showing his credentials and checking in his gun he walked past the small reception.

The first thing to strike his senses was the heat. If anything it was worse than outside. He could almost smell it. The DoJ Building was very old by American standards and unfortunately so was the central heating. Everyone for years had complained that it was either too hot or too cold.

He entered the dull metallic elevator and made his way up to the fifth floor. The “high-ups”, as the staff inside the building referred to the senior management, had corner offices and Aitken was no exception.
Walking along the marble-effect corridor, which always seemed to Hawthorne to have the feel of an old private school, he studied the various portraits of attorney generals and deputy attorney generals of days gone by filling both sides. He had read somewhere that an official portrait was only painted upon leaving office, a fact that had surprised him at the time.

Hawthorne paused outside Aitken’s corner office, Room 5111, and took in the mural on the curved buff-colored wall around it. It had depictions of the various main activities in which the Justice Department had engaged. He could tell that it was an old mural, as one of the scenes was still labeled “Indian Land & Affairs”.

What had amazed and concerned Hawthorne even more was that the light wooden door was fitted with only a simple lock. It was something he had missed on an earlier visit. He checked behind him. None of the doors had any sophisticated security. Presuming it to be locked, he continued on to the next door, Aitken’s reception room. There was no one to be found, so Hawthorne simply walked past the secretary’s desk and through the conference room to the side-connecting door to Aitken’s office.

There is always an almost funereal quality when entering a room or house of someone that had recently died. Such places always seemed quieter, almost church-like or akin to being in an elevator. The fact that the carpet in the conference room was predominantly crimson only reminded Hawthorne of why he was there.

He opened the connecting door to find the newly-appointed Dennison sitting comfortably behind the expansive mahogany desk. Victor Dennison looked immaculate in his Pal Zileri suit, white Italian shirt, expensive cufflinks and carefully coiffured, brown hair. He looked up from a document he was engrossed in and blinked in surprise. His boyish face was ruined by a frown.

‘I thought you were my secretary,’ declared Dennison testily.

‘Sorry, I hadn’t realized the room was being used,’ apologized Hawthorne. ‘There was no one at Hannah’s desk when I went past,’ he continued.

Dennison motioned for him to sit down. ‘Coffee?’

‘Always, thank you,’ responded Hawthorne as he eased himself into one of the leather chairs. He quickly glanced around, noticing that almost all of Aitken’s objets d’art had already been replaced by those from Dennison’s old office. Even the Matisse had been replaced by a Hopper on permanent loan from the Whitney Museum.

The only surviving picture, apart from that of President Wilburforce was that of Robert Kennedy, caught in an offhand moment in the countryside wearing his slain brother’s bomber-jacket. Copies of it had been highly sought after by Justice Department staff ever since Reno had had it during her tenure as Attorney General.

Hawthorne noticed with hidden irritation that Dennison had not offered his hand in welcome to him. Dennison pressed a button on his desk and leant towards the intercom. ‘Tina?’ She was back behind her desk. ‘My usual please and two coffees,’ he looked up at Hawthorne, ‘How do you take them?’

‘Intravenously,’ answered Hawthorne. Dennison glowered at him for a second but quickly replaced it with the polite smile of a host. ‘White, and two sweeteners,’ he corrected. Dennison repeated the order into the intercom.

‘I’ve heard about you and coffee,’ Dennison said affably.

‘Where’s Hannah?’ inquired Hawthorne.

‘I’ve given her the week off – it hit her pretty hard,’ replied Dennison, ‘but I don’t think she’ll be coming back. I work better with Tina. She’s been my secretary for six years now and I swear she’s the only one who can understand her own filing system.’

Hawthorne had noticed a change in Dennison. He had met with him a few times in the past, mainly social events, and on all occasions little impression had been made. Hawthorne had assumed that he was an able pen pusher who made the right noises, but lacking in initiative. Now he seemed master of all. Dennison seemed to read his mind.

‘Hell of a way to get promoted,’ Dennison said stoically.

‘Shit happens, Mr. Dennison.’

‘Victor.’

‘Shit happens, Victor.’

‘Indeed,’ replied Dennison showing his disapproval at the obscenity. ‘To be honest, I expected you sooner, but I guess your hands are pretty full. Any leads?’

Hawthorne would normally be loath to give any information away outside of his team, particularly to someone who had directly benefited from Aitken’s assassination, but he did not see the harm in it. There was precious little to tell.

‘There’s very little forensic evidence, but there appears to be a message in the killing. “See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil”. We’re following up on that.’

‘The Three Monkeys?’

‘Yes,’ said Hawthorne, half-surprised.

‘Hmm,’ mused Dennison, anxious to be the thoughtful senior. ‘Could be a bluff, you know, Sam.’

‘I know,’ conceded Hawthorne with reluctance, ‘but it’s all we’ve got to go on.’

A knock on the door interrupted the conversation, and after Dennison had pressed another button on the desk, it duly opened. A sober but shapely brunette in her late twenties or possibly early thirties walked in carrying a small silver tray. She dutifully placed it on the desk and turned to leave.

Hawthorne considered that employees who had complex filing systems were either very clever, since it effectively made their superiors rely on them to a high degree, or highly inept. All things considered, Hawthorne judged that Dennison’s secretary was there more for his eye candy than for any secretarial qualities. Another alteration Dennison had made to Aitken’s old office was to move his desk so that when both connecting doors were open, he could see her desk. Hawthorne smiled inwardly.

‘Tina?’ asked the Attorney General.

Dennison’s secretary turned around again. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘Why weren’t you at your station?’

‘I’d just popped back to my old office to get my -’

Dennison abruptly cut her off. ‘Then get cover, even if it’s for a minute. I’m the Attorney General now, remember.’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said compliantly and turned to leave the room. Dennison waited until the door was closed.

‘Funny thing about secretaries. They always act as if they have the same power as their bosses, but it’s just pale, reflected light. Moon and the sun.’

Hawthorne had taken an instant dislike to this new Dennison, but tried not to show it. He poured the milk into his coffee and added two sweeteners. As he started to stir the mixture with a small silver spoon he decided to change the subject. ‘Were you close to Robert?’

‘Are you interrogating me?’ asked Dennison in a tone that showed both bemusement and affront.

‘No, but I need to find out as much about Robert as possible,’ replied Hawthorne neutrally. ‘Did he seem worried about anything? Did he confide in you? Did he have any new programs in the pipeline that would pis-I-mean-antagonize anyone in particular?’

‘No, not really,’ shrugged Dennison. ‘Robert pretty much kept to himself. Out of all the people I’ve worked for, I probably knew him the least. He didn’t seem too worried about anything in particular, but he had started to burn the candles at both ends of late.’

‘You know why?’

‘No. I guess he was trying to impress the hell out of whoever will be the next President.’

‘What about new programs?’ persisted Hawthorne.

‘You don’t know much about politics, do you Sam?’ Dennison smiled thinly. ‘We don’t make them in the last six months of a President’s term. That’s all turned over to his campaign managers. We have to listen to the President’s speeches to find out what we’ll be doing.’

‘So it’s all public knowledge, then.’

‘The public finds out the same time we do,’ replied Dennison disapprovingly.

Damn. Hawthorne felt sorry for Kinney and Baker, whose workload had now tripled. ‘I’m going to need access to all information concerning the programs currently underway.’

‘I don’t foresee a problem with that,’ Dennison promised.

‘Also, I need to look through Robert’s personal effects. He looked around the room to see if he recognized anything that was Aitken’s. It was a futile search.

‘You’ll find anything that was Aitken’s in a box in my old room. Harlington hasn’t moved into it yet. It’s on the next floor down directly beneath this one, 4111.’ He fished a key out of his pocket and slid it across the table to Hawthorne. ‘I wish I could spend more time with you, Sam, but as you can imagine it’s organized chaos at the moment.’ Hawthorne realized it as being Dennison’s way of dismissing him.

‘Thanks, I appreciate the time,’ came the polite return. They stood up and shook hands. It was only after Hawthorne had left the room that Dennison noticed that Hawthorne had indeed drunk both cups.

Hawthorne walked down the nearby stairwell to Dennison’s old office and unlocked the door. The furniture was still in place, but all the glass cabinets and shelves were empty. There were large rectangular marks on the wall of various sizes, whiter than their surroundings. Hawthorne presumed that the paintings that used to hang there were now in Dennison’s new office.

He instinctively checked the table drawers. Empty. There were only two items that lay on the table – a medium-sized box as Dennison had said, and an eighteen-by-twenty-four color photograph of Robert Aitken that had previously hung in the room. It was a copy of the official photograph that had hung in every office of both the DoJ and the FBI, and which Hawthorne had passed upon entering the building. For the first time, Hawthorne studied the portrait in detail.

Aitken’s face was a study in hard and soft. It exuded a benign wisdom that superceded its years, yet the eyes also showed a certain steel, a firmness of character. That’s how I remember you, Robert. He decided to take both items with him. The photograph would go up on the wall of the Excalibur Suite to motivate and focus the team.

Once he had obtained the authorization slip from Dennison’s secretary to take them out of the building, he took the elevator down to the main reception. Whilst his gun was being returned by security and his slip checked, Hawthorne could not fail to notice a small tear in one of the guards’ eyes. Puzzled, he turned around. The large photograph of Aitken that hung by the entrance was being taken down and the one of Dennison being moved over to take its place.

‘I don’t understand why Dennison bothered to have the flag at half-mast,’ the sturdy guard said to him in a half-whisper. Hawthorne silently agreed, and decided to give his smaller version over to him as a keepsake.

_________________

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Posted: Tue 25 Jan , 2005 3:35 am
Als u het leven te ernstig neemt, mist u de betekenis.
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8

“There are laws to protect the freedom of the press’s speech, but none that are worth anything to protect the people from the press.”
Mark Twain (1835-1910)


It had not taken Benditoz long to complete the standard FBI background checks on the Toxic Action Network. Unfortunately it had gleaned very little. It was a nonpartisan, non-profit organization devoted primarily to promoting the organic farming of cotton. It appeared to have a two-pronged attack, attempting to educate the farming and financial communities as well as teaching environmental activists how to use the political process.

Most of its financing came from a private foundation based in Curaçao, which had automatically raised an eyebrow with Benditoz. It meant that he could not easily trace the money back to its original sources. It also probably explained why TAN could afford the Presidential Suite at the Hay-Adams Hotel.

None of the names he had managed to run down had a criminal record and all appeared to be highly respected academics. Benditoz’s sister, who taught Spanish, had once joked that someone was deemed successful in the world of academia if there were more letters after their name than were actually in it.

Another item had intrigued him. TAN had not brought one case to the courts, but had supported and provided expert witnesses for many actions brought by others. They had major tie-ins with the several law firms that specialized in such litigation and Benditoz had been disappointed to find no connection between the law firms and Robert Aitken.

Rather than breezing in waving his FBI badge, Benditoz decided to pose as a reporter.

The FBI’s standard operational procedure when investigating any suspicious organization comes in four stages. Firstly, background checks are made on both personnel and funding. Secondly, an agent would go in under the cover of a newspaper correspondent. The FBI has found that pressure groups, craving publicity and column inches, open up to a reporter, whereas with a badge-waving special agent they are so anally-retentive they do not sit down in case the furniture might adhere to them.

The third stage is infiltration. This is a time and budget consuming process and is used much less than the FBI imply. The very suspicion of undercover agents in an organization has successfully stymied and strangled the internal communications of many ultra-wing groups and made them ineffectual. The fourth stage, and used as a last resort, is to knock on the door and show the badge.

As Benditoz had traveled light from New York, he had to obtain an expensive suit from the comprehensive wardrobe in counterintelligence to look the part. Since one of TAN’s targets was the financial community, Benditoz decided that his fake Wall Street Journal credentials that he had brought with him would be perfect. There was no time to do a mock up of the Washington Post anyway.

He had rung ahead for an appointment, and the first mention that he was with the WSJ had opened every door for him. In fact it appeared the chairman had had an unexpected cancellation earlier that morning and could Benditoz possibly be there in, say, an hour.

He had gone undercover many times in his work with Robbery but normally as some seedy lowlife. It had been several years since he had pulled the reporter trick. Like any actor or undercover agent he rehearsed, spending half an hour sitting down in an empty room with his eyes closed, going through the various scenarios, thinking of questions a reporter might ask. Only when he was satisfied that all angles were covered did he set off for the Hay-Adams.

*

Upon entering the Excalibur Suite carrying Aitken’s effects, Hawthorne noted that the activity in the room had changed little. Donovan was showing Kemp a shortcut on the computer, Kinney and Baker were still reading, and Payne and McConnell were busy on the telephone. There were various greetings.

Hawthorne put the cardboard box on the table with a soft grunt as Baker approached.

‘Hi, Sam. Any luck?’

‘Not yet. You?’

‘Nothing. The words are starting to swim in front of my face, I swear.’

‘Yeah, well I got some real bad news for you and Stewart.’ Kinney looked up from his table. ‘You’ve got to review every speech made by the President and Vice-President over the last three months. Look for any new programs that they were looking to implement after reelection. Anything that involves the environment or the Department of Justice.’

Kinney philosophically went back to the speech he was reading. ‘You’re shitting me, right,’ voiced Baker incredulously. She stared right through Hawthorne.

‘No, I’m not.’

‘I don’t get it, Sam. I’ve spent ten years working my ass off in Chicago. It’s not exactly a cushy place you know, yet I’ve made it to assistant-in-charge of the whole field office there. You put me second in command here, and all you’ve got me doing is reading speeches? Is this a black thing or a female thing?’ Baker said indignantly.

‘Being second in command, I thought you’d be used to paperwork,’ replied Hawthorne in an offhand manner.

‘Yes’m’boss,’ she said with a heavy accent for all to hear, ‘We folks sure do like to be outta dem fields,’ and marched back to her desk. Hawthorne ignored her.

*

It was only upon arriving outside the Hay-Adams, resplendent with its doormen in dark green livery did Benditoz realize just how astute TAN had been in its choice of headquarters. Not only is it a beautiful hotel with its vintage Italian Renaissance architecture but it is also directly opposite the White House. Only Lafayette Square, a miniscule park, stands between them. Benditoz recognized the view of the White House from the ground floor. It is the spot most commonly used by Washington correspondents when needing the White House as a backdrop.

He knew instinctively that TAN’s headquarters would be located on the top floor and have the best view. Upon entering the lobby, cool air swept over his body and he welcomed the sensation. On his right, he noticed the hotel’s motto emblazoned in gold lettering, “Where nothing is overlooked but the White House”.

Benditoz checked over his appearance in an ornate hallway mirror in the just outside the Presidential Suite on the eighth floor. If only you could see me now, mom. His mother had died giving birth to his sister when he was only nine years old. He had been a gawky-looking kid, and unfortunately it was not until a couple of years after Prom Night before his looks had matured into the picture of health and masculinity he saw before him now.

His skin was slightly olive in tone and, although like most of the team he was in his late thirties, there was not even a hint of a wrinkle on his face. With the hairline moustache and the little ‘V’ of hair under his chin he favored so much, his mien could have been described as a curious blend of masculinity and innocence. His father said he looked like a conquistador. The image was only marred when he grinned, it was lopsided, but he never left a nightclub unaccompanied.

He gently knocked on the door. It opened almost immediately. A man of average build greeted him. He was in his late sixties with short silver hair, a healthy tan and piercing blue eyes. There were reddish marks high up on either side of his slightly bulbous nose. In his left hand were a pair of steel-rimmed glasses.

‘Professor Keith J Miller. You must be André da Costa,’ he said with a soothing voice.

‘Wall Street Journal, yes.’ Benditoz decided not to show his credentials unless Miller asked for them. Miller was already too eager to believe.

‘Come in, come in. Sit down. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Can I get you anything?’

‘Just water, thanks,’ responded Benditoz entering the room, ‘I’ve already had my coffee quota today with the boys at Agriculture.’ Whilst Miller busied himself pouring iced water from a crystal decanter into a gilded glass, Benditoz cast an expert eye over the suite. It was a one-bedroom suite, but the bed had been removed and replaced by a second set of chairs and a table. As expected, the room was finely furnished, mainly in off-white and dark green with elaborately carved moldings, an ornamental fireplace, and a balcony. There was not a scrap of paper in sight.

‘It sure is a beautiful hotel, Professor,’ said Benditoz conversationally.

Miller was pleased with the observation and it showed. ‘Yes it is, isn’t it. It’s only sixty years old would you believe. It’s built on the site of where John Hays and Henry Adams used to live. We’ve had this room for two years now.’

Benditoz did a quick mental calculation. ‘You wouldn’t get much change from a million a year.’

‘It’s cheaper than you think,’ admitted Miller as he handed Benditoz his glass. ‘Like most Washington hotels, it has an occupancy rate of around seventy percent on average. We’re only charged sixty percent of the listed price since we pay for the whole year up front,’ Miller announced victoriously.

Benditoz could not help but walk over to the balcony. Directly in front and below him was the White House, less than three hundred yards away and a sniper’s wet-dream. It was early afternoon and the sun shone unhindered upon it.

‘Everyone is drawn to the view first,’ smiled Miller as he filled a second glass for himself. ‘Impressive, don’t you think?’

‘It sure is, Professor. One hell of a political statement, too.’

‘It helps to remind the guardians that they are being guarded,’ cited Miller. ‘Please, sit down. How can I help you, Mr. da Costa?’ Miller deliberately chose a chair facing the window even though he could not see the White House from a sitting position.

Benditoz sat down on the cushioned chair opposite and placed his arms on the mahogany rests. ‘I was interviewing a few people at the Department of Agriculture about cottonseed oil futures when somebody mentioned your organization. They even had a couple of pamphlets that you were circulating. Thought I might be interested since you’re also targeting financial institutions,’ he lied smoothly. ‘I admit, it sounded different for an environmental group and it could make a good article for the Journal. Oh,’ he said pulling out a small Dictaphone from his pocket, ‘you don’t mind my taping this do you? I could never get the hang of shorthand.’

‘By all means,’ allowed Miller. ‘I’ve yet to meet an unbiased reporter when it comes to ecological matters. I would hate to be misquoted. Are you biased, Mr. da Costa?’

Benditoz had already decided to play neutral on this subject. ‘To be honest, I’ve never really paid much attention to it before, but I think it’s coming to the point where no one can duck the issue anymore. Consider me a virgin on the subject.’

Miller visibly relaxed in his chair. Benditoz pressed the small red record button and placed the device on the table to the side of them.

‘Professor Miller,’ he began in a respectful, friendly tone, ‘Can you give me some background information on the Toxic Action Network? How did it start?’ Benditoz already knew the answer, but did not want Miller to know.

Miller took a sip of the crystal-clear water, the ice cubes chiming against the inside of the glass, before beginning his recitation. ‘Back in ’84 after the Union Carbide disaster in Bhopal, India, a group of academics, including myself, from all walks of life came to realize the potential ecological disasters just waiting to happen all over the planet, and we decided to do something about it. It was obvious that we alone could not change the world, but maybe we could change one part of it.

‘After months of debate, well that’s academics for you,’ Miller said in a self-mocking tone, ‘we settled on pesticides used in the American cotton industry.’

‘Why that?’ interrupted the newshound.

‘Well first of all it is definable and specific. The trouble with most of the other groups like Greenpeace is that their aim is too widespread. If you pour a bucket of water on a burning building all you get is steam. You pour it on a match, the match goes out, and you still have enough water for the next one. It’s a question of focus.

‘We had to choose America. The developing countries are too concerned with debt repayments to even think about the ecology, and Europe and Japan are too busy competing with us to worry. So the question came down to which industry in America. Let me give you ten statistics, Mr. da Costa.’

‘Please.’

As Miller went through his list, he counted them out on his fingers. His voice rose with indignation with every point made.

‘Amount of the world’s insecticides used on cotton? Twenty-five percent. In fact many of the chemicals in the Bhopal accident are used in the manufacture of cotton.

‘Number of active ingredients in insecticides used today that have been found to cause cancer in humans? Over eighty.

‘Percentage of all food samples tested by the FDA in 1980 which contained pesticide residues? Thirty-eight.

‘Lets talk about the cost. Estimated total costs for U.S. groundwater monitoring of all these pesticides? Between one and two billion dollars.

‘The opportunity cost to America of lost production and income, together with actual cost of medical expenses and research resources, all because of cancer? Well over forty billion dollars a year.

‘What about statistics on people? Number of people in the U.S. routinely drinking water contaminated with carcinogenic herbicides? Fourteen million.

‘Increase in cancer rates between 1950 and 1986? Thirty-seven percent.

‘Number of Americans who will learn they have cancer this year? Over one million.

‘Number who will die from it? Half a million.

‘Number of people in America killed each year by assault rifles? Less than three hundred. ’ The professor leaned back in his chair and studied the reaction of the newspaperman.

The reaction was genuine. Benditoz was completely dumbfounded. ‘You can back these statistics up? Are they from your own studies?’

‘Some are our own studies, which any reporter will of course question for bias, but most of them are from the EPA, FDA, the U.S. General Accounting Office, and various staff reports accidentally borrowed from the Department of Agriculture,’ Miller admitted freely.

‘If the figures are so high, why hasn’t anything been done about it before?’ asked Benditoz.

Miller’s face suddenly contorted into a mixture of frustration and rage. ‘I’m surprised you asked the question, Mr. da Costa!’ He stabbed an accusatory finger in the direction of his guest. ‘You of all people should know the answer to that one. The effect is more or less spread over the three point seven million square miles that is America. It is difficult for people to see the overall picture, and they don’t care because you don’t care.’ Miller took another sip from his glass to buy time, inwardly calming himself.

‘Take a plane crash. It’s all over the media for days, and yet less than two thousand people die each year from them. Thousands upon thousands more die each year from automobile accidents in this country and yet where is the media attention? Nowhere, because they are just small incidents that may get into the local paper. Who’s interested, unless of course it’s a princess? A plane crash is spectacular, involving possibly hundreds of deaths all at once. Now that’s a nice juicy story.’

Benditoz kicked himself for asking the question, but it had opened up an interesting avenue of inquiry. ‘So you need a spectacular act to get attention, Professor?’

Miller had by now fully restored his calm. ‘No, no, no. We are merely academics,’ he said in a humble voice. ‘Our job is to teach, and if that takes years then so be it. We prefer our house to be made out of bricks, not straw, Mr. da Costa.’

Miller was looking at Benditoz suspiciously. I am an intrepid newshound with the Wall Street Journal, Benditoz reminded himself. ‘I’m sure our readers would be interested to know why you are also targeting the financial community? It’s an unusual tack.’

Miller relaxed again. ‘Not at all when you think about it. Sure we, like everyone else, also focus on the farming community. We can preach’n’teach all we like, but then those farmers go back to the real world. The most difficult task they face is not in growing, but in finding financing. If a bank has to decide between lending money to a farmer that uses organic methods, and to one that uses pesticides, which will it choose?’

‘The one using pesticides. There is more guarantee on the return, and therefore less risk on the bank’s portfolio,’ declared Benditoz with authority. He silently thanked the fact that two of his friends were stockbrokers.

‘That’s my point,’ grinned Miller crossing his legs. ‘They assume there is more risk, but it’s not true, not true at all. All the farmer does is to have more people checking the crop daily. Sure it costs more, but it’s partially offset by the saving on pesticides.’

‘Then his return will be less and he won’t be competitive,’ Benditoz argued. ‘Surely the bank will still perceive a higher risk with organic farming’.

‘With the money America saves on not using pesticides,’ explained Miller as if to a child, ‘it could easily subsidize the difference and still come out on top. Jobs will be lost in the pesticide industry, but gained in the fields themselves.’ His voice became consumed with passion. ‘In the end a few people lose, but we all gain.’

It was obvious that this was a rehearsed rhetoric, and although it was important, Benditoz need to steer the conversation back to TAN itself. ‘On the way here, I called one of our research team in Legal Affairs. She couldn’t find any legal action that you have initiated, but there are many that you have supported and helped with expert testimony. Why is that?’

Miller raised an eyebrow slightly at the depth of research his visitor had managed to achieve in such a short time. He quickly dismissed his concern. Well, it is the WSJ after all. ‘There are two communities we need to influence, the agricultural and the financial. Our best strategy to win over the agricultural community is a softly, softly approach: to support it when it itself takes up the charge, to be its best friend and its staunchest ally. If we appear too aggressive, taking on the chemical companies and the polluters ourselves, we could lose many followers and attract the usual hothead fanatics that flame brightly and die out quickly. As I said, we prefer the slow-burn approach, to win over friends rather than conquer enemies.

‘The financial community listens more to those type of people, and ultimately we cannot win unless we have their ear. After all, it takes ten years to get a pesticide banned in this country, so there is no need to go around shouting like a rabid dog.’

‘What about funding?’ Benditoz made a point of looking around the room and out of the window. ‘I mean even with a discount this place doesn’t come cheap.’

Miller shrugged in response. ‘Grants, membership dues and individual gifts from people looking for a tax break mainly. FEC and IRS rules are far more relaxed than most non-profit groups realize. We simply exploit the tax game to its fullest,’ the professor said proudly. Benditoz realized that this would explain, at least in part, the offshore bank account.

‘You also say in your pamphlet that you also teach environmental activists. Can you tell me more about that?’ inquired Benditoz.

‘As I said, we are merely teachers. Sure we teach them about how to utilize the political process, we need allies - the more the merrier - but that’s it. We leave it to others to pull publicity stunts and act as terrorists.’

‘Do you support terrorist acts in the name of saving the planet, Professor?’ led Benditoz.

Miller was strangely calm. ‘Violence is least eloquent of approaches and requires minimum brain power. It is used only by people whose arguments are weak or who cannot articulate correctly. I don’t sanction it, Mr. da Costa, but I understand it. After all, who are the real terrorists?’

Benditoz did not like the answer one bit but his face remained impassive. ‘Is everyone in your organization devoted to peaceful means?’

‘As with every group of people, there is a spectrum of opinion,’ replied Miller evasively.

Bingo. Guess we have to go to stage three.

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Steve, I finished it. Do I limit myself to saying it kicked ass, or would you like some of my personal layman comments? :)

Coz I don't want to stick spoilers in this thread...

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You made it to the end. :Q

All comments are welcome of course, positive and negative, but don't write anything that's spoilerish. Either wait or e-mail me.

That in mind, I'll post another chapter. Five, in fact. This'll take it up to the end of Part 1 (of 3).

Last edited by Lidless on Wed 26 Jan , 2005 12:44 am, edited 1 time in total.

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9

“How often are we to die before we go quite off this stage? In every friend we lose a part of ourselves, and the best part.”
Alexander Pope (1688-1744)


The cardboard box containing Aitken’s personal effects had obviously been filled in a haphazard manner. It had taken Hawthorne over thirty minutes to sort and catalog the contents and plastic evidence bags littered the main table. In one he had placed all the office supplies that Aitken had: pens, sharpeners, a half-used pad of memo stickers and even a few unused pencils. Dennison seemed determined to start afresh.

A second bag contained a Dictaphone and some tapes. Hawthorne had already played the tapes, but they were filled with bland speeches and administrative memos on it for his secretary to type up. He made a mental note to visit Hannah Bernstein, who had been Aitken’s secretary for as long as Hawthorne could remember.

Other evidence bags contained photographs of Aitken with various politicians, including an unsigned carbon caricature of him playing tennis with Wilburforce, both surrounded by officials. There were also photographs of his old Vietnam unit and his Harvard graduation class, but what caught his attention was an old, thickly-framed photograph of Aitken in an outdoor swimming pool with a small girl. Hawthorne presumed it to be Aitken’s daughter. Judging by how old she looked and the faded nature of the image, it could not have been taken long before she had been killed in a car accident.

He thought her beautiful. Her long, wet black hair cascaded over her face, but did not hide the porcelain skin nor the rosy cheeks. Her impish grin was infectious, and Hawthorne caught himself smiling too. Her arms were outstretched upwards having just launched a large multicolored beach ball towards Aitken’s head. Aitken in turn was beaming directly at the camera pretending to be oblivious of his impending doom at the hands of his daughter.

There was also a Psion organizer, which he handed over to Donovan to check out along with a red, unlabelled floppy disk. In doing so, he remembered to ask her to check Aitken’s disk space on the Justice Consolidated Office System for any work in progress they may have overlooked.

Apart from three sundry receipts from the last few days that Aitken had either not bothered to take home yet or had forgotten about, the only other items the box had yielded were an unwrapped white shirt, two dark blue ties and a spare set of braces, Aitken’s trademark.

He called Kemp over. ‘David, you went over Aitken’s place last night. What did you make of him?’

‘Tidy, efficient, well structured,’ Kemp replied without hesitation. ‘All his books were in alphabetized by author. Mostly about law, golf and religion, though he never struck me as a religious person. Guess it was mainly for show. All his bank and credit card statements were neatly filed away.

‘Conservative dresser in the main. The freezer was stocked with frozen meals, and his favorite drink was undoubtedly whisky, though I saw no evidence of any drinking problem. Your basic hard-working, professional bachelor.’

Hawthorne gestured to the photographs he had taken out of the box. ‘These tell you anything?’ Kemp immediately picked up the caricature and laughed.

Hawthorne gave him a quizzical look.

‘Well, he had a wicked sense of humor about the legal system.’ The mystified look across Hawthorne’s features compelled Kemp to explain. ‘You play tennis on a court, surrounded by judges. In fact there are more judges per player in tennis than in any other sport in the world. If I’m not mistaken, these are caricatures of the Supreme Court. Look,’ he said pointing to one of the line judges, ‘there’s Dillon.’

Hawthorne saw a vague resemblance. ‘What about the photographs?’

Kemp glanced at the frames spread out on the table in front of Hawthorne. ‘Proud of his accomplishments, obviously. There were a few of these in his apartment, but no pictures of him with politicians. Guess he tried to avoid taking his work home with him.’ Kemp paused, thinking. ‘No, that’s not it. Come to think of it, there are no recent photographs anywhere in his apartment.’ He picked up the photograph of Aitken with his daughter. ‘He’s got the exact same photo in his study. Judging by Aitken’s looks, I think that is the most recent photograph he kept there.’

Being a father, Hawthorne understood. ‘You always hope you die before your children do.’

‘Amen to that.’

Hawthorne went over to Donovan who was deeply rooted in her office chair. ‘Anything, Mary?’

‘Well, it’s a basic Psion, one generation old. Aitken didn’t use much of the functions on it,’ Donovan disapproved, ‘just the memo pad, appointments and addresses. There’s nothing of interest.’

Hawthorne was disappointed. ‘What about the floppy?’

‘Weird.’

‘Weird?’

‘Weird. There’s only one thing on it, a WordPerfect document that’s password protected. Cracking the password was easy enough, but look.’ She brought it up on screen and leaned back in her chair. All Hawthorne could see was a white screen.

‘He hasn’t started to write on it yet,’ he said.

‘Exactly. I mean, what’s the point?’

‘Maybe he set it up and then found he didn’t have time to do anything with it?’ suggested Hawthorne.

‘Or more likely, he had AutoSave set up, and his attention was drawn elsewhere. In the meantime, the computer continued to save an empty document,’ she recommended. ‘The last save is just before he left his office last night.’

‘Another dead end, then,’ breathed Hawthorne. He needed a coffee.

*

The day wore on.

One of the main reasons that new graduates drop out of the FBI in the first year is due to the reality of the job. Many recruits cite watching The FBI as a child or more recently The Silence Of The Lambs as a main influence in wanting to sign up, or refer to the mundane jobs they wish to leave. The recruitment process and the training sessions devote a significant part to weeding out those recruits who are merely looking for an adrenaline rush, expecting to draw their gun every day or leap tall buildings in a single bound.

Despite Douglas’s insistence on reducing red tape, paperwork is something an agent can never avoid. Starting at the GS-10 level, agents that do not have specialized experience such as audit, combat or forensics spend most of their time on paper trails and general field work, principally surveillance or door-to-door interviews, and learn many of the tricks of the trade on the job. Computers have reduced the paper trails to a degree, but not as much as most people believe. In most cases, it simply means that the hard copies that agents produce look much nicer and are printed quicker. If they are lucky, they see action once a month.

As they advance up the Bureau’s ladder, they become more involved in operations, the decision-making process and directing the action of others. That merely means that the paper trail had been replaced by internal paperwork - budget forms, overtime requests and the ever-dreaded appraisal forms.

Apart from Kemp, Donovan and Walsh, whose specialized jobs had been unaffected in the main by Excalibur, the rest of the team felt that it was back to basics for them. Secrecy demanded it. Only Benditoz had had an enjoyable day.

Somehow the air in the suite seemed heavier and lacking in oxygen, despite the air-conditioning whining at maximum in the background. The fact that most of the team had only two hours sleep under their belt did not help.

The only high point of the afternoon had been the delivery of the coffee dispenser that Douglas had promised. Hawthorne had actually raised his hands in triumph and once the machine had been installed, had toasted it with the first cup.

Only Kinney seemed to be unaffected by it all, but he knew that he was a spare wheel in this particular case. His time would come. He had nineteen years of drug enforcement under his belt, most of it spent in Florida, and his skin had paid dearly. His deeply-tanned body had an almost leathery quality to it. He already had the look of someone who had retired there, and it was starting to affect his mind. Florida is a great place to live if you happen to be a mosquito, an orange or a Cuban but that is about it. He was hoping that the eventual move to New York would somehow rejuvenate both him and his wife.

His particular forte, which had led to him becoming almost a walking encyclopedia on the drug trade, was patience. He would slowly court a potential informer, and once turned, he would show them the utmost loyalty in return. Stewart Kinney was used to waiting.

Realizing that the team was lagging, Hawthorne decided to bring the closing debrief on the first day forward an hour to five o’clock, but first he had a couple of visits to make.

*

Chief of Staff Owen Jacobs had been eagerly anticipating the arrival of Gavin Brinkov from the Press Office for some time now and quickly ushered him to a chair.

‘Well?’ asked Jacobs efficiently as ever.

Brinkov adjusted his silver-rimmed glasses and consulted the sheet on his lap. ‘So far we’ve fielded six thousand calls to the White House concerning the President’s speech. Five thousand two hundred were about the President’s use of the word “bastard”.’ The expectant smile on the face of Jacobs disappeared. His bold gamble on using it had failed.

‘Sixty-two percent of them were in favor, twenty percent said he should have used stronger language, and only eighteen percent were against it, mainly from the elderly and the Southern States.’ The smile returned.

‘The bastards,’ Jacobs grinned. ‘What about the other eight hundred calls?’

‘Mainly offering sympathy and condolences.’

‘Poll?’

‘We’ve done a breakneck phone poll to contact as many as possible of our thousand subjects that demographically represent the United States in all respects,’ said Brinkov. Jacobs moved his hand in small circles telling Brinkov to cut the preliminaries. ‘Looks like you called it about right. We’ve got the President only two points behind Harlow now.’

Jacobs was pleased not only in the fact that his gut feel as well as his computer model appeared to be correct, but also because against the odds he may be keeping his job for the next four years after all. He needed to double-check the result though.

‘Sampling error?’ he inquired.

‘Eight percent.’

‘Why so high?’ asked Jacobs, crestfallen.

‘The phone poll was done at such short notice and is bound to have serious systematic sampling errors, because a large number of calls weren’t answered at first. We haven’t had a chance yet to redial the unanswered numbers. The results are biased in favor of more sedentary people and against more active types who aren’t at home right now.’

‘Then come back when you have something to tell me,’ Jacobs said with exasperation. ‘Basically all you’ve said is that the President is probably anywhere from six points ahead to ten behind. Even Big Bird could have told me that. Now scoot, before I start paying you in millet.’ Amateurs. I’m surrounded by fucking amateurs.

*

‘It’s Sam, isn’t it? Come in,’ gestured a red-eyed Bernstein after Hawthorne had patiently waited at the front door. It was a small inconspicuous white house in a leafy suburb just outside Arlington but still easily within the commuter-belt of Washington.

Hawthorne took time out to study Bernstein. A hairbrush on a small glass-topped table surrounded by a few of her long black hairs confirmed Hawthorne’s suspicion that she had made a quick attempt to make herself presentable before answering the door. Aitken’s death had obviously hit her very hard but he had expected it. Bernstein had worked for Aitken long before he had been made Attorney General, and by all accounts was fiercely loyal of her employer.

The first thing he did was to give her a hug. She clutched to his frame as if her life depended on it and burst into tears. Her eyes were clenched tight and she felt as if she were spiraling downwards. After what seemed like forever she resurfaced, straightening herself up with a sniff and patted Hawthorne on the chest with a fake resilient smile. He presumed that she was unaware that she no longer had a job either. Hell, he wasn’t going to be the one to tell her. Not now.

‘Can I get you anything?’ she asked on auto-pilot. Her creased face continued to sport a brave smile. Hawthorne declined the offer for once. She led him into the pine-floored living room. A large dark yellow twine mat covered most of the floor and they shared one of the two matching old beige sofas. An air freshener had recently been sprayed the room, and the faint odor of artificial lavender hung in the warm air.

‘I’ve gotta know, Sam,’ she said immediately.

‘He never felt a thing, I promise.’ Bernstein’s shoulders slumped with relief with the news. Hawthorne placed a comforting hand on one of them.

‘Hannah, I’m so sorry, but you know I need to ask some questions. If you don’t think you’re up to it…,’ his voice trailed off.

‘I am,’ replied Bernstein. The brave smile was back on her face. ‘I am. To be honest, it’s good to be able to talk about it.’

‘I know you were loyal to Robert, but if you want to help me catch who did this, you can’t hold anything back, OK,’ he said in as soothing and reasoning voice as possible.

Bernstein winced instinctively at the use of the past tense. ‘I understand, otherwise I wouldn’t be being loyal to Bob, would I?’ Hawthorne was encouraged. At least she was thinking clearly. She sniffed again and looked around for a handkerchief, locating the small packet of them on the mail-order coffee table.

He started off with some easy questions. ‘Exactly how long have you worked for Robert?’

‘Since 1984. He’d already been State Attorney in Massachusetts for about half a year when his PA left for the big dollar bills with one of the large legal firms.’

‘You sure it was money?’

‘Oh yes, she made no bones about it. She was all about money.’

‘Has Robert received any threats of any kind in the last year?’

Bernstein thought for a moment. ‘Only a couple, no more than usual. We handed them over to the FBI but they just turned out to be simple crackpots with nothing better to do than put their anger on paper.’ Hawthorne would have to follow up on them.

‘Did he seem concerned about anything recently? Did he change any habits?’ he probed.

‘Concerned? No. Actually, quite the opposite, as if a weight was being lifted from his shoulders. He smiled more often than usual, and seemed to have a spring in his step.’ She paused to blow her nose. ‘At first I thought it was because Bob knew Wilburforce was going to lose and he was coming to the end of his tenure as AG. It’s a high-pressure job. But it wasn’t that. He was working very late the last few weeks, but he didn’t confide in me why.’

‘New girlfriend?’

‘No. I would have known about it.’ That response raised the obvious question from Hawthorne.

‘Did you and he ever…’

‘Once, back in ’86 after the Christmas party. We both realized it was a mistake and carried on as if it never happened. Bob had a general rule about that: Don’t pork the payroll.’ Her features softened with the memory.

Hawthorne was pleased. Bernstein was not holding back on anything. ‘Any enemies?’

‘Only the usual political and pressure groups. Nothing I would consider out of the ordinary or particularly sinister.’

‘Were the President and Robert very close in your eyes?’

‘Yes, but I think Wilburforce was closer to Bob than the other way around.’ She wiped her eyes with a fresh handkerchief.

This wasn’t the answer Hawthorne was looking for for a number of reasons, but he began to outline one theory relating to it. ‘I know it sounds crazy, but I’ve got to ask it if only to rule it out.’ Bernstein already knew the question and beat him to it.

‘You want to know if Bob would have arranged his own death to give the President, his close friend, a boost in the polls. I mean, he had no family. Was his working late just tying up loose ends in his life?’

Hawthorne was surprised and gave a broad grin. This woman was sharp. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact.’

‘Absolutely not, no way.’ She shook her head emphatically. ‘It’s inconceivable that he would have had two innocent people killed in the process. Bob would have made sure of that. Just having himself killed would have had the same effect on the nation.’ Hawthorne nodded in appreciation of the logic.

‘Apart from Wilburforce, did he have any other close friends?’

‘Only Director Douglas and his ex-wife, Sarah.’

Hawthorne’s eyebrows shot up. ‘That’s unusual, isn’t it? They were divorced way back in ’81. I mean, there were no surviving children to the marriage.’

‘It was only because there were no surviving children that the marriage broke down in the first place. As I understand it, both were so absorbed in their own sorrow when their daughter died that they were unable to help each other through the grieving period and the marriage collapsed. They still loved each other and became friends again. Just friends. They just couldn’t hack a wife-husband relationship for fear of bringing back the memories.

‘That’s why Bob never remarried or had any more children,’ she continued. ‘He simply couldn’t bear the pain if anything ever happened to them. Last I heard, Sarah was in the same boat.’

Hawthorne had seen it before. In many instances when a child lost its life, the parents had effectively lost theirs too. Sure, they walked and talked and occasionally smiled, but inside something was missing, a numb zone. Several of them had immediately tried to have another child, subconsciously hoping that somehow their lost one’s soul would be reincarnated. Anything to take away the bitterest pill of all.

Hawthorne thought the whole idea of reincarnation ridiculous. He had read somewhere that there were more humans alive than had ever died in the sum of human history. There simply wasn’t enough old souls to go around, apart from maybe Napoleon who, judging by the number of people claiming to be him, had suffered from a serious multiple-personality problem.

Bernstein was right on one count, though. The notion of suicide or a self-arranged hit was null and void, but the last few weeks of Aitken’s life was fast becoming an enigma. It was obvious that he was a manic-depressive about the death of his daughter and had been since ’78, throwing himself into his work to bury the pain and rising to Attorney General as a result. But what had lifted his spirits in the last few weeks?

The more Hawthorne thought about what Bernstein had just said, the more he came to the conclusion that the assassination could not be connected to Aitken’s personal life. As his secretary had pointed out, there was no way that anybody would have killed two innocent people in the process, even in intense anger or rage. Besides, the hit had the hallmarks of a professional.

He realized that he had just wasted half a day.

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10

“He uses statistics as a drunken man uses lampposts – for support rather than for illumination.”
Andrew Lang (1844-1912)


By two minutes after five, the team had regrouped in the Excalibur suite. The air was more comfortable since the sun was now beating down on the other side of the building. Hawthorne brought the meeting to order. ‘OK, let’s see where we are. Gary?’

‘The only Coumadin that has been reported missing is from the George Washington last week. We’ve still got two other hospitals and a couple of retirement homes to report back, but my guess is that is where it came from. Security’s reasonable at GW, but there are no cameras in the storage room and nobody saw anything either so we’ve no eyeball. The only trouble is, it was in crystalline form, not liquid.’

Walsh from forensics interjected. ‘That’s OK. It’s kept solid to minimize impurities. Highly soluble in water. How much was missing?’

‘Fifty grams,’ replied Payne, glancing down at his notes.

‘Thank God. By my reckoning almost all of that was pumped into Aitken. I doubt we will see a repeat performance.’ There were sighs of relief around the table.

‘Jim?’ prompted Hawthorne.

‘Surveillance tapes only go back six weeks. I’ve had ten guys looking through every single one of them. Apart from a two-year-old who kept pointing to them from his buggy, zip.

‘I also ran down the names of all the residents as well as visitors and plates entering Montebello over the last two months, and apart from a few minor robber and white collar crimes a big fat zero.’

‘Heather, Stewart, anything in the speeches?’ asked Hawthorne. The room became slightly restless and uncomfortable. The agents could almost smell the electricity between Hawthorne and Baker.

‘Nothing that strikes a nerve, Masser Sam,’ glowered Baker.

‘Cut it Agent Baker,’ ordered Hawthorne, ‘or you’re on the next plane out of here. That’ll look good on your résumé.’ Baker looked at him with defiant eyes.

‘Sam, it’s been a long day,’ mediated Kinney, trying to ease the tension, ‘and we’ve been through one bland speech after another. I swear they just have one master script and just switch the words around each time. Everything’s bland. They say they’re gonna get tougher on pollution, on the drug trade, but give no specifics, and they certainly don’t name any groups or organizations they’re gonna target.’

Hawthorne ignored Baker. ‘What about a drug connection or a headline case, Stewart?’

‘I’ve checked with every contact I have. The general consensus is that if they were gonna hit an ultra-top dog, first it would be Masterson over in the DEA, and secondly, they would have used an overdose of speed or crack, not this Coumadin stuff. There isn’t a drug connection.

‘Headline cases?’ Kinney continued rhetorically as he rubbed an itchy eyebrow, ‘Again, most come from the DEA. There are several initiatives Aitken was involved in that could have led to an organized hit. Firstly, the reduction in the power and influence of the two major Cosa Nostra families, especially in three labor unions. But that initiative has been around since the dawn of time, so why a hit now? It doesn’t make sense.

‘Secondly and more promising is trying to nip the emerging organized crime enterprises in the bud, particularly the Asian street gangs and the Russian stroke East European groups. They might be hotheads trying to make a point.’

‘Count it out,’ interrupted Baker. ‘They’ve been around for a long time, just not in this country. The last thing they would want to do is to have the wrath of every American law enforcement agent on their backs.’

‘Thank you Heather,’ Hawthorne said with politeness. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yeah,’ Baker added pointedly. ‘Hate crimes.’

‘Your point?’ Hawthorne sounded as if he knew what was coming.

‘He didn’t do enough. All he’s set up was a database to improve the quality and accuracy of hate crime statistics and trends. It’s just political window-dressing. I know some people who would just lurve to get their hands on him for that.’ Several members of the group gazed down at the table wishing they were not there.

Hawthorne leaned forward and said in as controlled and as reasonable a voice as possible, ‘Look, Heather. I know you’re p-ssed off ’coz you’ve only been reading today, but Stewart’s been in the same position with no complaints. It isn’t a black thing. It isn’t a woman thing. I was away from the office for most of the day, which meant I needed my second here, OK?’

‘OK, sorry Sam,’ said Baker with a tinge of doubt in her voice.

‘What about environmental initiatives, Heather?’ inquired Hawthorne in a businesslike voice.

Baker was all professional now. ‘Aitken helped to set up the Joint Center for Strategic Environmental Enforcement that really targets polluters and helps to implement the President’s Toxics Initiative, but it’s still in its infancy and hasn’t gone for any big offenders yet. Nothing that would suggest a reprisal as extreme as the assassination of the Attorney General.

‘It’s the same point as Stewart made – wouldn’t someone whack the head of the Jaycee rather than Aitken himself?’ she asked rhetorically.

‘Good point,’ Hawthorne acknowledged. ‘We’ll come back to it later. Just to let you know what I’ve been doing, there was nothing in Aitken’s private life that would suggest anger or revenge towards Aitken that would lead two innocent people being murdered in the process. No girlfriend and no debt collectors. He was basically a father who never got over the death of his daughter. After she was buried in a cemetery, he buried himself in his work.

‘I’ve spoken to the NSA and the CIA. There’s nothing on their threat-boards that would indicate the Attorney General as a potential target, but they’re keeping their ears and eyes open.

‘There are only three beneficiaries to his will. Fifty thousand dollars to Hannah Bernstein, his secretary, another fifty thousand to Sarah Aitken, his ex-wife and the balance, around a million dollars if you include the apartment, to set up a web-site that deals with child bereavement from a non-religious viewpoint – he was quite adamant on that. I’ve checked out the financial records of both women and neither have significant cash flow problems.’

‘Just to pre-empt Gary, normally where there’s a will there’s a way, but I don’t think so here. So it’s no scoop to say he was killed because he was the Attorney General,’ Hawthorne concluded to no one’s surprise. The alternative had been an unlikely scenario but it had to be covered.

‘What was that mysterious phone call and the two guests late at night?’ asked McConnell.

‘It turned out to be nothing. Sorry to disappoint,’ shrugged Hawthorne. ‘OK, lets get on to the rest of the team. Mary.’ He lay back in his chair.

‘I think I’ve had a better day than most of you,’ smiled Donovan, brushing her hair to one side. ‘Firstly, apart from the Three Monkey connections David made, the only other promising one I could find is a gay nightclub in Moscow by that name. Maybe the Russian connection is there after all,’ she suggested.

‘No,’ said Hawthorne, shaking his head. ‘The Russian gangs despise gays. They wouldn’t be involved in the club. Also, Aitken has never been to Russia. What about the connection between the other two victims?’

Donovan was disappointed. In the back of her mind she thought she had solved the case but she did have some good news. ‘I cross-referenced payments from Wilson’s and Macintosh’s bank accounts and credit cards. They were both members of the same bridge club, the Capitol Bridge Club down on Thirty-third and Volta in Georgetown. I’ve got the membership list here.’ She pulled out a copy and placed it on the table.

‘Well done,’ said Hawthorne, happy that at last some progress had been made. ‘Gary, Jim, that’s for you tomorrow.’ Donovan slid the piece of paper across to them. ‘What about recent releases from prison that Aitken put away?’

‘Nobody of note,’ Donovan replied.

‘Eammon?’

‘Nothing more. The assassin was clean as a whistle. Either he’s had training or he’s been watching the Discovery Channel a lot.’

‘David?’

‘Nothing. Absolute blank. The MO is unique,’ he shrugged.

‘OK. Vince, tell us about TAN.’

Benditoz outlined his research on the Toxic Action Network and replayed the taped interview from the Dictaphone. As the tinny voice of Miller was reciting his statistics, Walsh was furiously scribbling notes on a small pad whilst shaking his head. Once the tape had finished, Hawthorne asked Benditoz for transcribed copies.

‘Sounds like a great potential suspect, only we’ve no specific motive. What was your impression of Miller?’ asked Hawthorne.

‘He’s a peacock, nothing more. That hotel business? Didn’t Jimmy Hoffa have an office that overlooked the White House or something? He shows passion in his cause, but isn’t willing to take up arms. He lets others do the real fighting. The real problem we have I think is the people under him. Either someone has become impatient, or he’s converted one activist too many.’

Hawthorne turned to Walsh. ‘I guess you’ve some comments on the statistics. You’ve been making faces like a bulldog licking p-ss off a thorn bush.’

‘You bet,’ enthused Walsh. ‘It’s very clever propaganda to the untrained ear. You can support almost anything if you use the right statistics. One hundred percent of people who drink water eventually die, for example. It’s a bit like people picking verses out of the Bible to suit their purpose. If you look hard enough, you can always find something.

‘Look, some statistics can be just surprising. For example, what do you think the chances of two or more of us nine people sharing a birthday?’

There was silence for a moment. Everyone was trying to do some quick mental arithmetic apart from Donovan. Her eyes were staring at infinity. Something somebody said earlier was nagging at her subconscious, but she could not figure out what.

‘Around one in forty?’ said Kinney, knowing full well that it would be the wrong answer.

‘No, about one in ten.’ Many of the team showed their surprise. ‘In fact if Timms and Thompson were in here, the odds drop to one in seven. It only takes a group of twenty-three people for it to be odds-on. Most classrooms in America have a shared birthday.’

This was Walsh, the master expert-witness at work. His hypnotic Irish rhythm almost took them by the hand and guided them step by step through his reasoning.

‘Some statistics can be surprising and misleading,’ he continued. ‘For example, you realize Sam that you have an above average number of arms for a human being?’

‘Eh?’ said Hawthorne, looking at both arms before he realized it.

‘Sure. Some people are born with none or just the one, some people lose them through life, but no one’s ever got three or more. Therefore you, with two, have an above average number of arms.’ Everyone was smiling at the logical seduction.

‘My wife will be pleased,’ quipped Hawthorne.

‘Look at the statistics Miller used. The last one he actually dated was back in ’86. Why? Because there are later studies that show that the situation is improving. The NCI has recently shown that death from cancer is reducing by around one percent a year, although the incidence of cancer is increasing.’

‘He then went on to talk about the cost of cancer as a whole to this country. The vast majority of cancer deaths and the main reason for the overall increase is as a result of increasingly unhealthy or lazy lifestyles. It totally outweighs the drop in smoking. Only two percent of cancer is attributable to environmental exposure. Of course, he neglects to mention that fact when talking about the global figures.

‘It’s a typical scenario of having a strong case, but then weakening it by loose statistics.’ he concluded.

Hawthorne decided to call it quits. The warm humid air had drained most in the room. ‘OK, it’s almost six and we’ve all had precious little sleep. For those people who have come from out of town, you all have rooms at the Grand Hyatt on Tenth and H. It’s less than five minutes from here. You’ll be glad to know that you all have rooms looking into the lobby, so you won’t be woken up by the fire-trucks that wail past every thirty minutes. The view’s better anyway.’

Sudden realization broke on Donovan’s face. She abruptly grabbed the sheet of paper she had given McConnell and Payne, quickly scanning her eyes down the list of bridge club members. She suddenly stopped at a name and jabbed it with her finger.

‘Professor Keith Jonathan Miller.’

*

Senator Harlow’s mood had improved somewhat during the day. He had been making a whistle-stop tour of two nearby states and had been surrounded by highly enthusiastic supporters the entire time. He had intonated on no less than seven occasions into bouquets of microphones that the assassination of the Attorney General could and would never have happened if he were President, that he was going to be tough on crime and the underlying causes of it.

However he, like the Excalibur team, was exceedingly tired after the day’s events. Instead of the stroll to the winning line he had envisaged only the day before, he felt as if he had to run just to stand still.

He walked down the campaign bus to where Mulligan had secluded himself with his cell phone. ‘Well?’ interrupted Harlow.

Mulligan cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Tonight. It’s set for tonight.’

*

The team was elated. Lethargic bodies suddenly sprang to life with enthusiasm and energy. ‘Vince, Gary, bring him in and hold him overnight. Let’s question him tomorrow morning – see how he feels after a night without sleep,’ ordered Hawthorne. Benditoz and Payne immediately sprang up, lifting their jackets from the back of their chairs.

‘Stop!’ Hawthorne said, putting his hand in the air as might a traffic cop. ‘If he’s our man, he would have hired someone for the job. Miller’s age doesn’t fit the profile. Also, he’s not going to break under questioning. I think he’s too clever for that. All we’ve got so far is highly circumstantial.’

‘I’ll break him,’ Payne said darkly. ‘By the time I’m finished with him he’ll be singing like a BeeGee.’

‘You won’t. Nobody will. He knows he’s looking at the death penalty with zero tolerance on this one. I’m gonna need twenty-four seven surveillance on this guy and wiretaps up his ass. Mary, I want a run-down on Miller right down to the corns on his feet. I don’t know about you,’ he said addressing the team, ‘but I also want the assassin himself.’

‘I’ll take first watch,’ volunteered Kinney.

‘There’s the problem,’ Hawthorne mused, ‘I don’t want to go outside for help, not now, not when we are this close, and yet we’ve all had no sleep.’

‘I’ll do it,’ offered Donovan. ‘I had six hours last night.’ For Donovan it was a golden opportunity. She was still smarting over missing the fact that the killer had been overdressed for the climate, and was desperate to make it up to herself, a chance to be a detective in a three-dimensional world. The Information Service was always the back office. She wanted to be a trader.

Hawthorne was dubious. ‘You got any craft?’

‘I had a refresher course at Quantico last year.’

‘Not good enough. I’m sorry, Mary,’ Hawthorne apologized without remorse. ‘Anyway, you’ve got that report to do on Miller by first thing tomorrow.’ Several members swore they heard Baker say, “It’s a woman thing, then,” under her breath.

‘It’s no problem for me,’ said Payne, ‘I got some shut-eye on the plane.’

‘Me too,’ added Kinney.

‘OK, then,’ decided Hawthorne. ‘You two double-team tonight. I’ll get the wiretaps organized in the meantime. And the rest of you, get some sleep. You’re going to need it.’

_________________

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