Conspiracy (7 page)

“The lead investigator, an agent by the name of Mandarin, has also been assigned to this case,” said Jackson. “That's not necessarily a coincidence, though Mandarin is regarded as one of their top investigators.”

Jackson added that Mandarin had told him that he thought Forester had killed himself because “that's where the evidence is,” but that the agency wasn't going to close out the case any time soon.

“Prior to his death, Agent Forester made some inquiries by e-mail to a person in Vietnam. He wanted to talk to someone there, though it's not clear why. We don't know what he intended to ask or hoped to find out. We don't even know for sure who it was he was trying to talk to. We have narrowed down the number of possibilities to three, all of whom both have a connection to the present government and were involved somehow in the war. That's significant because Vietnam was believed to have been working on a program to assassinate American leaders three years ago.”

“And that,” said Ruben dryly, “is why you are here and we are involved.”

Jackson continued to fill in details, noting that McSweeney had served in Vietnam, which would make him an excellent candidate for a revenge plot. He also admitted that there was considerable room for skepticism. The NSA had a “robust” system in place for intercepting and monitoring Vietnamese
communications, official and otherwise, and while these were being reviewed, no information had been gathered that revealed an assassination plot.

“Also, if Agent Forester thought that the threat originated from Vietnam, he would have communicated that to his superiors,” added Jackson. “And he did not.”

“Maybe he didn't get the chance,” said Lia.

“Possibly.”

“What did McSweeney do in Vietnam?” Dean asked.

“He was a Marine officer,” said Jackson. “Toward the end of the war, he served as a commanding officer with the strategic hamlet program in Quang Nam Province, outside of Da Nang.”

“I know where it is,” said Dean.

It was the same area where he had served. He didn't know McSweeney, though he had heard of the strategic hamlet program—a risky, typically Marine-type program that had troops live with the Vietnamese. It was a good idea or a loony idea depending on who was talking about it. They all agreed it hadn't worked.

“How do you feel about Vietnam, Charlie?” asked Rubens.

Dean shrugged. “I don't feel anything particularly.”

“Very well. Then I want you and Lia to go there and find Agent Forester's contact and see if you can get him to shed light on his message.” He looked at his watch. “Spend the rest of the day familiarizing yourself with Agent Forester and his investigation. Be back and ready to leave this evening.”

 

THE SHOOTER HAD
had a clear, easy shot from the fourth-floor window. He'd have been able to see the senator's car arrive and had a good angle as he walked up toward the door. The shooter would have been able to see the decoy as well, assuming he had walked in the middle of the sidewalk.

Charlie Dean knelt at the window, studying the view. Eighty-five yards, with traffic, people, distractions—it wasn't surprising that the shooter had missed. Forget the fact that the rifle and ammunition were off-the-shelf: adrenaline would have been the shooter's real enemy. How many people could even learn to control their breath under stress? It wasn't easy. The instructors told Charlie he had a knack for it, but he didn't think it was easy.

And yet the setup seemed perfect. The shot was clear; there was no trace of a bullet, no trace of anyone in the room.

That argued that the shooter was, if not a professional, someone who took extreme care, who'd thought about the setup a great deal.

“What did he use to steady the gun?” Dean said, stepping back. “If he didn't shoot from the window ledge, what did he use? Did he have a tripod? No way he took an offhand shot.”

“He puts something on the radiator there,” said Lia, pointing. “Takes it with him when he's gone.”

“Nobody sees him.”

Dean went back to the window and stared down. Maybe the guy was a pro, but one out of practice, a man who hadn't killed in a long time. Someone like himself, who knew the
theory but had lost the steps, who got too excited when the moment came. Who'd missed—just as Dean had when the lion charged.

“Charlie Dean, Charlie Dean—what are you thinking?” Lia asked.

“I don't know,” said Dean as he rose.

He scanned the block, looking for anything that might have distracted the shooter. Then Dean did the same thing in the room. It was a high-ceilinged, empty office; the linoleum on the floor was stained but swept clean, the walls bare except for shadows where photos had once hung.

“So?” asked Lia.

“Let's go see what the Secret Service people have to say.”

 

“LET ME PUT
it this way,” Brian Wilson told Senator McSweeney as he began the slide show on his laptop. “If it weren't for the possibility of collateral damage, I'd say you should get shot at every week. You've gained four to five points in the polls in every state. The metrics are definitely trending in your direction.”

Jimmy Fingers rolled his eyes. Though in his early thirties, Wilson looked as if he were still a college kid, and dressed the part. He constantly sprinkled terms like “metrics” and “coefficients” into his talk. Jimmy Fingers wasn't so old-fashioned that he would ever allow a candidate to seek office without a pollster, even if he was only running for dog-catcher. Still, Jimmy resented the tendency to reduce everything to numbers, and thought they were way overvalued.

What did people
think
of McSweeney? That was what was important, after all. Did they think he was lucky to be alive? Or did they think he was special enough that the assassin's bullet had missed because of fate or God's hand?

The answer meant a world of difference. But of course Wilson didn't even ask the question.

“There are a few days left to make an impression for Super Tuesday. With all the publicity about the assassination attempt, I'd like to shoot a spot emphasizing your war record,” suggested Brian Carouth, the campaign's media consultant, after the pollster wrapped up. “I think it will play very well.”

“No. We don't need to do that,” said McSweeney. “The spots we're using have done just fine.”

“A little more biography—” suggested Carouth.

“Issues are what's important,” said McSweeney. “My health plan, immigration, taxes. That's what we pound.”

“Now, Senator, as we all know, people vote for the man, not the white paper,” said Wilson. He glanced at Jimmy Fingers, probably expecting him to help, but Jimmy said nothing. “And a war record is a big plus. It says a lot about a man's character.”

“The Vietnam War is not the negative it once was,” added Carouth. “That's ancient history.”

“There's no need to bring up my military record,” said McSweeney. “We'll leave it alone.”

Jimmy Fingers recognized from McSweeney's tone that he would not change his mind on the matter, even as Wilson continued pushing the ads. It was refreshing to see the consultant strike out so decisively, thought Jimmy Fingers.

Truth be told, Jimmy Fingers actually agreed with Wilson. But since when was truth an important ingredient in a political campaign?

 

LIA FLICKED THROUGH
the notebook. Most preschoolers had handwriting neater than Forester's. Nor were his notes particularly informative or complete. An entire page would be devoted to a time—10:30, say—that appeared to be for an appointment, though neither a date nor a place was recorded. The words “Pine Plains” were written at the top of the last page. At the bottom of the page, were numbers and one word: “84, Parkway, 44, 82.”

“Is this some sort of code?” Lia asked, passing the sheets to Dean.

John Mandarin, the Secret Service special agent in charge of both the McSweeney investigation and the inquiry into Forester's death, frowned.

“We think those are directions. Interstate 84, Taconic Parkway, U.S. Route 44, and State Route 82. It would be how to get to Pine Plains.”

“But he didn't go to Pine Plains,” said Dean. “He went to Danbury.”

“Nearest approved hotel,” said Mandarin. “He would've gone first thing the next morning. Had an appointment with the police chief there.”

“Is this the last notebook?” asked Lia.

“It's the only notebook. Far as we know.”

Mandarin was the classic Secret Service agent. He was average height, weight, and build. While his last name indicated that there were Chinese ancestors somewhere in his family's past, his face mixed Asian and European characteristics so
well that it would have been impossible to place him in any genetic pool without a DNA test. He wore a brown suit, a white shirt that appeared to be graying around the collar, black shoes and socks. His accent was as bland as a midwestern television announcer's, and when he spoke he kept his hands perfectly still. In total, Mandarin was a veritable Zelig who could fade into even the most convoluted background.

“Can we see another of Agent Forester's notebooks?” asked Lia. “Something to compare it to?”

“I have to tell you, we really don't see much of a connection between Forester's death and the McSweeney assassination,” said Mandarin. “State police called Forester's death a suicide. FBI looked at it and they agreed.”

“What do you think?” Dean asked.

“Officially, the matter is still open. But unofficially . . .” He shook his head.

“Our angle is the e-mails,” said Dean.

“Yeah, I know. Another wild-goose chase.”

Something about the way Dean stared at the Secret Service agent reminded Lia she loved him. It was an intrusive, unwelcome thought—a distraction when she should be working—but it was difficult to banish.

Mandarin went to a nearby file cabinet to see what he could find. He returned with two pouchlike folders. Besides typed reports and disks, there were stenographers' notebooks filled with notes.

Lia checked the pads. If anything, there was even less detail in them.

“Are you positive this is the only notebook he used for this case?” Lia asked, pointing to the one Dean still had in his hand.

“He never did anything in Pine Plains,” said Mandarin. “Killed himself first. Believe me, we've gone through his things. It wasn't in the room, or at his house. Lousy business,” added the agent. “His wife seemed to be a bitch, but he's got kids, you know? He wanted custody, and she wouldn't budge. Probably why he pulled the plug.”

Mandarin pressed his lips together, then looked at the
floor. He had the air of a man who would trade half a year's salary to get another assignment.

“Can we have a copy of the notebook?” Lia asked.

“Yeah, I guess. Take a couple of days. You'll have to fill out a form and then—”

Lia snatched the notebook from Dean's hand and started toward the copy machine.

“What are you doing?” asked Mandarin.

“Filling out the paperwork,” she said, pulling up the machine's cover to begin copying.

 

AMANDA RAUCI GOT
up from the couch and walked to the kitchen. Her eyes had finally stopped burning, but her head still felt as if it were filled with straw. Her whole body did.

The bottle of Tanqueray had only a finger's worth of gin left in the bottom.

God, she thought, did I drink all that?

Jerry, Jerry, Jerry.

Amanda rubbed her forehead, then poured the last of the gin into her glass. She hadn't gone out of the apartment since coming back after discovering Forester's body. She hadn't even gone to the funeral.

She couldn't have trusted herself. She was sure his ex-wife had driven him to this.

Amanda drained the glass in a gulp. Then she went to the window in her living room and pushed it open. The air smelled damp, as if it was going to rain soon. A motorcycle revved in the distance. As it passed, she heard the soft chatter of some children walking on the trail that ran behind her condo.

Why would Jerry kill himself?

He wouldn't. She knew in her gut that he wouldn't. There was just no way—no possible way—that he would kill himself.

Maybe if he didn't think he'd see his boys.

But he'd never do this to them. Never.

Or to her.

But what other explanation was there?

A fresh wave of self-pity swept over her. Even though she knew that's what it was, even though she hated the emotion more than anything, it left her helpless. She stared blankly out the window, eyes unfocused.

“He didn't kill himself,” she said finally. “He didn't.”

Amanda pushed the window closed. If she'd said those words once, she'd said them a thousand times in the past week and a half.

Amanda's vacation had a few more days to run; then she'd be back at work. She had to pull herself together before then. She had to stop drinking.

“I'll try another shower,” she told herself. “And then make a plan.”

 

LIA LET DEAN
ask the questions. Mrs. Forester seemed to respond better to him. She was almost flirting, in fact.

Mrs. Forester readily admitted that she and her husband had been in the process of getting a divorce. Nor did she hide the fact that they hadn't gotten along for several years.

“Does it make sense to you that he killed himself?” asked Dean. They were all sitting in the small dining room, around a battered, colonial-style dinette set.

She picked a nonexistent piece of lint from her sweater before answering. “No, Mr. Dean, it doesn't.”

“What do you think happened?”

“I don't know. I suppose he did kill himself. But honestly, it wouldn't have been over the divorce. Jerry wasn't emotional like that. We didn't get along, and this was the logical next step. Divorce, not suicide.”