Conspiracy (46 page)

 

MCSWEENEY ENGAGED IN
his pre–meet and greet ritual—he took a quick shot of bourbon from an ancient metal flask, then washed it down with a squirt of mouthwash. He peeled off a Wint-O-Green mint from his roll of Life Savers and popped it in his mouth, reaching for the door of the car.

Jimmy Fingers met him outside the car. “You're not going to believe this,” said Jimmy. “The President wants to talk to you tonight.”

“What, does he want to make sure we don't wear the same dress tomorrow?” snapped McSweeney sarcastically.

“He didn't say. It may have to do with Iran—there was just an assassination attempt on the prime minister. It's just hitting the Internet now.”

“Oh,” said McSweeney. He couldn't decide whether to feel flattered or to suspect a trick.

Being from New York, McSweeney had a significant number of Jewish constituents and was considered close to Israel; ironically, he also represented a substantial number of Iranian-Americans and had twice spoken to pro-reform groups.

Before becoming President, Marcke had spoken with him regularly about the Middle East. Now that there was a crisis, McSweeney thought, he had no choice.

“Where does he want to meet?” McSweeney asked Jimmy Fingers.

“At the Paley house. It's on his way to the airport, or so he says.”

“The Paley house? He's up to something.”

McSweeney considered what that something might be. While the President changed his schedule the way some politicians changed their socks, this was the sort of deviation the press couldn't miss. Why go out of his way not just to meet McSweeney but also to do it on what was metaphorically his turf?

“Marcke is always up to something,” said Jimmy Fingers. “The question is what.”

McSweeney thought back to the meeting with Dean—was that what this was about?

Jesus
.

“Should we put him off?” said McSweeney.

“We don't want to look like we're ducking him. He is the President.” Jimmy Fingers rubbed his knuckle along his lower lip. “He wants to get you on the record.”

“What if I don't want to go on the record?”

“It's a no-brainer. You back Israel. Be very strong.”

“I can't take the meeting.”

Jimmy Fingers gave him a look McSweeney hadn't seen in years.

“What do you mean?” said the aide.

“It's some sort of trap. It's got to be.”

Jimmy Fingers shrugged. “Marcke coming here—frankly, even if you didn't give him a commitment, you'll still look good.”

McSweeney thought about the man who had confronted him the day before—Dean, clearly sent by the President. After dissecting the meeting, McSweeney had decided that Dean didn't know everything, and that he certainly couldn't tie him to the money. But maybe he'd been wrong—maybe the President could.

If that was what the President wanted to see him about, then he couldn't run away, could he? Marcke might be hoping he would.

It would be just like Marcke to get on his high horse, to try to confront him—try to trick him—to get sanctimonious with him.

Let him. He'd find a way to turn it around.

He would. And in any event, it was too late to run away.

“Maybe this has to do with the whacky Vietnam theory,” Jimmy Fingers suggested. “Maybe he wants to tell you personally.”

“Maybe.”

McSweeney teetered on the brink of telling Jimmy Fingers the entire truth, but he pulled back. It would be a mistake, a bad mistake. He had to tough it out.

“Do you want to take the meeting or not?” asked Jimmy Fingers.

“Yes,” said McSweeney quickly. “I have nothing to fear. Bring him on. It makes me look good, right?”

Jimmy Fingers studied him for a moment. Should they call it off? McSweeney wondered. Would that make it look worse?

He was being paranoid, he told himself. This certainly had to be about Israel and Iran.

“It'll make you look good,” agreed Jimmy Fingers finally. “Very good.”

 

TOMMY KARR WHISTLED
as he walked through the foyer of the Paley house.

“Nice digs,” he said. “You could build a cathedral with all this marble.”

“What makes you think this isn't a cathedral?” said Theresa Seelbach, the
Newsweek
reporter.

“It's a shrine,” said another. “To cheap Arizona real estate and slasher movies.”

“To
once
-cheap Arizona real estate,” said Seelbach.

“I didn't realize Paley was backing McSweeney. Didn't he give money to Marcke last time?”

“It's the wife,” said Seelbach. “Besides, all these people hedge their bets.”

Karr continued into the large great room. It was easy to tell who was a newsperson and who wasn't; the guests were several times better dressed and lacked the cynical masks that were part of the journalists' uniform. Security people were scattered around the edges of the room, trying to look as unobtrusive as possible. It was a small gathering—only about seventy-five people had been invited—but the net worth in the house rivaled that of several Third World countries.

“Tommy, are you listening?” asked Rockman from the Art Room.

“Always,” said Karr, walking toward the jazz combo set up near the indoor fountain.

“Can you talk?”

“Only with my mouth.”

Karr glanced at the fountain, wondering if it would be tacky to throw a coin in and make a wish.

“President Marcke is on his way over to the Paleys'.”

“That's nice.”

“You see Chief Ball there?”

“Lots of policemen. And even more Secret Service people—I bet there's more of them than squirrels outside. But I haven't seen Ball yet.”

“Is McSweeney there yet?”

“Nah. Supposed to be here soon, though. They send the press ahead. You know these mansions get bigger and bigger as the night goes on?”

“Keep an eye out for Ball.”

“Now there's something I hadn't thought of myself,” said Karr, smiling at the band member who had started to stare because he was talking to himself.

“Excuse me, sir,” said a Secret Service agent, easily identifiable by his lapel pin, radio earbud, and bad haircut. “But we're asking everyone to go outside so we can sweep the building again.”

“What are you sweeping it for? Dirt?” joked Karr.

“Weapons, sir,” said the man. His utter lack of humor made Karr laugh even harder.

 

THE PRESIDENTIAL CAVALCADE
whipped through the Paleys' gates, sweeping by the armed Secret Service agents and their black SUVs flanking the road and driveway. The President's car was admitted past a small barricade formed by police cars and Secret Service vehicles to a courtyard in front of the house. The rest of the fleet had to park on the driveway, aides and then reporters disgorging through a gauntlet of security people as they were shuffled toward the house.

Dean, sitting with the President in his car, could tell the aides were baffled by his decision to talk to the senator. It was obvious that, with the exception of Cohen, they didn't know Marcke's real reason for coming.

They probably wouldn't have approved even if they did, Dean realized. They looked at things from a political point of view; it was their job, after all. But having spent his time watching Marcke, Dean had come to believe that the President wanted to confront McSweeney not because he was a political rival, but because Marcke was personally outraged that a senator could have betrayed his trust as an officer and a Marine during the war. He was going to call McSweeney on it.

It was, Dean thought, an overly idealistic, perhaps even naïve idea. And yet he completely agreed.

A pair of helicopters whipped overhead. While the Secret Service had already secured the house for McSweeney, they had redoubled their efforts because of Marcke. Agents armed with high-powered rifles with night scopes stood nearby.
While they were always present when the President traveled, generally they were a bit more subtle.

The head of the Secret Service detail came to the President's car. Marcke, talking to a donor on the phone whom he was disappointing by changing his schedule, raised his finger for the agent to wait. The agent glanced at Dean wistfully, as if to say,
Does he do this to you, too?

“What do we have?” Marcke asked when he got off the phone.

“Senator McSweeney is at the gate.”

“Well, let him through. He's why we're here.”

The President made another call. By the time he was done, McSweeney's car was parked a short distance away.

“Stay close, but in the background,” Marcke told Dean. Then he got out and went to meet the senator.

“Senator, looks like we beat you here!” shouted Marcke.

“Mr. President,” said McSweeney, leaving his aides and bodyguards in the dust.

“Gideon, you're looking very well,” said the President. “Campaigning agrees with you.”

“It does, Jeff. As with you.”

The two men shook hands.

“I understand you're not going to make the dedication tomorrow,” said McSweeney.

“No, the attempt on the Iranian prime minister has complicated the situation out there immensely. The Israelis are being blamed and they're bracing for an attack.”

“Were they behind it?”

“Not that we know.”

“Obviously, we have to support the Israelis,” said McSweeney.

“I'm glad you feel that way.”

“Come on in,” said McSweeney. “Have a drink.”

“Aren't you afraid I'll steal your thunder?”

“Ah. I already have their checks. Come on,” added McSweeney. “We can talk about this some more.”

“I do want to talk to you, yes,” said Marcke. He turned and motioned to Dean. “Charlie, come along with us.”

MCSWEENEY FROZE FOR
a second as soon as he saw Charles Dean step out of the shadows.

Good God, he thought to himself, Marcke knows
everything
.

Does he? Or was this some sort of bluff, designed to unnerve him?

McSweeney glanced to his right, looking for Jimmy Fingers.

“I'm here,” said the aide.

“Actually, I think this would be better discussed between you and I,” said Marcke.

“Well you have your aide,” said McSweeney, smiling tightly. “I don't want to be outnumbered.”

“Mr. Dean is along for informational purposes only.”

“I have a few things to do inside the house,” said Jimmy Fingers.

“Thank you, Jimmy,” said the President.

Jimmy Fingers, his back toward Marcke, rolled his eyes.

“Go ahead,” said McSweeney.

Maybe it was better that it was just him, he thought.

“So what's this about, Jeff?” he asked the President. “Iran and Israel?”

“I wanted to talk to you about a couple of things,” said Marcke, starting toward the house.

When in doubt, deny, deny, deny, McSweeney told himself, hustling to keep up.

 

BALL RETREATED TO
the kitchen as soon as he spotted the reporters getting off their bus. McSweeney would be here in moments.

Was he doing this?

Ball thought about the village—
his
village—of Pine Plains. Over the years he'd occasionally chafed at its small size and, much more often, the political bs that was a necessary part of small-town government. But by and large he had had a good life there—an excellent one, one that commanded respect and attention.

That was gone now. Even if he didn't shoot McSweeney, he was doomed. Gordon and his big mouth had begun the unraveling. Gordon and his greed—trying to get McSweeney to go along with something he'd never go along with, certainly not at a time when he was trying to become President. Gordon had been a fool, even coming to Ball—tracking him down after all of these years!—and asking him to talk to McSweeney. As if he had any real influence at all.

What Ball didn't know was whether Gordon had gone to the Secret Service, or they had merely stumbled upon him somehow. From the questions that Forester and then the others had asked, it appeared that someone had made threats against the senator, and the Secret Service had then begun trying to figure out who had made the threats. Maybe they'd gotten a list of disgruntled constituents and others. Gordon would have been on the list. A routine check, a hint or two
from Gordon, and it mushroomed. Forester's suicide—legitimate, as far as Ball knew—must have provided the catalyst. Ball realized now that at some point they must have suspected it wasn't suicide, and that he was involved.

Or McSweeney set it all up. It played out that way as well. Ball just couldn't decide which it was. McSweeney was devious enough to try to kill him, but Ball didn't think he was smart enough.

He should have done Gordon in Vietnam. That would have been the sensible thing to do.