Grand Master (43 page)

By nine o’clock those who had not yet read
the story were rushing out to buy a paper so they could. It was all
anyone could talk about. Nothing got done. Everyone was on the
phone, trying to find out what others thought, or huddled together
in small groups in the corridors trying to figure out what was
going to happen next, whether Russell would resign or be impeached.
That was the only choice he seemed to have. The White House went
silent. There was no comment from the President and no indication
when there might be one. At Madelaine Constable’s house, no one
would answer the door. At eleven o’clock it was announced that
Senator Ryan of Michigan would hold a press conference at noon. He
had new evidence about the murder of Robert Constable.

The hallway outside Ryan’s office became
impassable, cameras, television lights, and, as it seemed, every
reporter in Washington, crowded together, waiting for Charlie Ryan
to step through the door and tell them what he knew. The air was
thick with anxiety, suspense, and something close to panic. The
country was at a cross-roads and no one could know which direction
it would take. One president had been murdered; his successor was
about to be forced from office. The woman who was about to become
vice-president, the woman who would have succeeded Russell, was
guilty of the same crimes as her husband. Charlie Ryan took it all
in stride. His opening remark was a bombshell.

“The murder of President Robert Constable was
organized and arranged by the head of the Secret Service, Clarence
Atwood. Mr. Atwood did not act alone. He was taking order from
either Irwin Russell or Madelaine Constable or more probably both.
As you know from today’s report, Robert Constable and his wife,
along with Irwin Russell and former congressman Frank Morris, all
took part in a scheme of bribery and corruption. Quentin Burdick, a
reporter you all knew and respected, discovered this. He had an
interview scheduled with the President. That interview never took
place; the President was killed the night before. He was killed out
of fear that he might talk, that he might try to blame everything
on the others. That would have ruined everything, not just the
President’s own reputation, but the political ambitions of his wife
as well as the Vice-President’s career. They would all have gone to
jail.”

As soon as Ryan finished, the questions
started, one on top of the other. Ryan held up both hands, quieting
the crowd, and then slowly, methodically, called on each reporter
who raised a hand. “How do you know? What evidence do you have that
Clarence Atwood arranged the murder? What - ?”

“Murders,” corrected Ryan. “Robert Constable
was not the only person he had killed. There was Frank Morris, then
Quentin Burdick, and then the two in France: Aaron Wolfe and Austin
Pearce.”

“But what evidence do you have?”

“First, he lied when he told Senator Hart
that an investigation had started into the death of the President,
and that both the FBI and the CIA were involved. Second, he knew
that Senator Hart had started an investigation of his own, trying
to find out who was behind the murder of Robert Constable. He knew
it because Madelaine Constable told him what Hart was doing, and
because Atwood met with Hart to discuss it. Atwood framed Hart for
the murder, fabricated evidence, because he had to discredit
anything Hart might say about what he found.” Ryan leaned closer
toward the battery of microphones. “He framed Hart because then
they could have him killed, shut him up forever, and claim, like
they did with that paid assassin of theirs in New York that he was
trying to get away.”

“But Hart was trying to get away,” protested
another reporter. “If he’s innocent, if Atwood did it, why is Bobby
Hart still running?”

A cheerful grin broke unexpectedly across
Charlie Ryan’s slightly freckled mouth. “That’s a damn good
question. Why don’t we ask him?” And with that, he reached behind
him, opened the door to his office and Bobby Hart stepped out in
front of the cameras and an audience of reporters that for half a
second was rendered speechless.

When it was over, after he had recounted most
of what had happened and what he had learned, after he had
patiently answered their questions, Hart went to his own office
where he found an exuberant and exhausted David Allen. “We had a
few defections,” said Allen in a wry, understated way. “But it’s
always good to find out who you can trust.”

“A few?” asked Hart, as his eyebrows danced
higher. He dropped into a chair the other side of Allen’s
perpetually cluttered desk. “There’s hardly anyone here.”

Allen’s look mimicked Hart’s own. “Any minute
now the calls will start coming in, all of them telling me how
sorry they are, how stupid they were, that they never really
believed you did anything like everyone else seemed to think you
did. What do you want me to do?”

“Let them come back. There was a point I
almost thought I must be guilty.”

Hart’s secretary, one of the few members of
the staff who had not doubted his innocence, came rushing in, her
hand trembling as she handed him a slip of paper. “It’s Mr. Atwood.
He says you need to call him right away. That’s his number. He
sounded strange, unbalanced; desperate, I think.”

Hart took the number and went alone into his
own office. He could feel the anger rising up inside him, rage at
what Atwood had done, not just to him, but to Helen too. Why was he
calling now? To ask forgiveness, to offer explanations, to try to
make some kind of deal?

The voice at the other end answered on the
second ring. The one word greeting, that single ‘hello,’ had the
weak, lifeless quality of a man in mourning. “Oh, it’s you,” he
added when Hart identified himself. Then there was nothing, a dead
silence.

“You called me,” said Hart finally. “What is
it you want?”

At first Hart thought that Atwood had started
to cough, but then he realized that it was laughter, the bitter
laughter of an angry, broken man. “You think you have it all
figured out, don’t you? You think you know what happened and why.
Let me tell you something, Senator: you don’t have the first
clue!”

Hart was not impressed. “I’m really not
worried, Atwood. It will all come out at your trial.”

“Trial? Is that what you think is going to
happen?” There was another long silence, and then he added: “You
want to know what is going to happen? Listen to this.” There was a
sudden, violent roar, an obscene, mind-numbing noise, and then
there was no sound at all. Hart shot out of his chair and ran to
Allen’s office.

“Call the police. Clarence Atwood has just
shot himself.”

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

Bobby pushed open the iron gate at the head
of the drive, and then stood there, taking in the view, the endless
horizon of the blue Pacific gleaming in the late day sun,
remembering how much Helen liked it here, how much he liked it
here, away from all the glamour and glitter, the half-truths and
lies, of politics and Washington. It was paradise, the Garden of
Eden, and in what now seemed a singular act of stupidity, he had
left it of his own accord, tempted by ambition. He was home, a
place they both loved, but instead of telling Helen that they could
stay here forever, that after everything that had happened, all the
treachery and murder, all the hurtful false accusations, they could
finally live a quiet, private life, he had to tell her something
else. As he saw Helen open the door and start running up the drive,
laughing and crying at the same time, he wished more than anything
that he could tell her that, that things were now going to be the
way they were at the beginning when every day was perfect and they
knew nothing would ever change.

Helen threw herself into his arms and for a
long time they just held each other and did not say a thing. With
his arm around her shoulder they walked in silence to the house,
lost in the simple irreplaceable comfort of being together again.
“I should have met you at the airport.”

“All I’ve wanted to do is see you here,
alone, no one else around; no crowds, no reporters - just us.” They
went inside and Bobby laughed a little, surprised that everything
was just the way he remembered it. He felt as if he had been gone
for years, half a lifetime, nothing that could be calculated by the
normal measurements of time. Things had moved at too quick a pace
for that.

“You must be exhausted,” said Helen as she
made him sit down. They were in a sitting room just off the living
room, where they often spent their evenings watching the sun slip
out of the sky and set the sea on fire. “I’ll get us something to
drink.”

Content to breathe the familiar air of home,
Bobby watched her walk away, and, watching, could feel what it felt
like at night when she was laying next to him and there was nothing
else he wanted to do and nowhere else he wanted to be. He was
grateful that he had found her, grateful that he had never lost
her.

“I watched it all on television,” said Helen
after she gave him a cool drink in an ice-filled glass. “It was
very dramatic, the way Charlie did that, opening the door and you
stepped out. I started to cry, and then, when I saw the stunned
look on the faces of those reporters, I started to laugh.”

She had started talking, and now she could
not stop. Her excitement grew with every word, as she recounted
what she had seen. “And the coverage has been non-stop, everyone
with an opinion about what is going to happen and, as usual, no one
knows what they’re talking about. Except of course that Russell has
to go, that Madelaine Constable is finished, and that one or both
of them may have had her husband killed. Everyone knows now that
Atwood had it done; everyone knows - .” Suddenly, she stopped. “I’m
sorry; I forgot. He really killed himself while he was talking to
you on the phone? How awful! Why did he do that, though? Why did he
want you to know that he was doing that? Was it his way of getting
back at you for finding out what he had done?”

Bobby tapped the edge of his glass. “He
wanted to let me know that I wasn’t even close to the truth. That’s
what he said, but I’m still not sure what he meant. He didn’t kill
himself because he was innocent. Unless he was just angry and
deranged, lashing out at the world the way people about to kill
themselves sometimes do, unless he just wanted to make me wonder if
I had made some kind of tragic mistake, it has to have something to
do with Madelaine and Russell, something about why they did what
they did. I don’t know. But Atwood’s dead and his secret, whatever
it was, died with him. And so has any chance of proving that
Madelaine and Russell are responsible for Robert Constable’s death
and the death of all the others.”

“But they’ll still face charges, won’t they,
for what they did with The Four Sisters?”

“Maybe not.”

“But why? They have all the evidence.”

“Madelaine can claim that she did not know
anything about what her husband was doing. And as for Russell, he’s
trying to make a deal.” There was a look in Bobby’s eyes that told
her that this had something to do with them, that whatever deal the
President was trying to make might have serious consequences for
how they lived their lives.

“A delegation from the House and Senate, led
by Charlie Ryan, met last night with Russell in the White House.
They were there until almost three in the morning. They told him
that his only choice was resignation or impeachment, that if he
chose to fight, if they had to impeach, they would gather all the
evidence from every source they could find and that not only would
the vote for impeachment be unanimous but that he would then
certainly face criminal charges in a court of law.”

Helen summed it up neatly. “If he is
impeached, he goes to prison; but if he resigns…?”

“That’s the question. Russell wants a promise
of immunity, or the promise of a pardon from his successor. Charlie
was furious. He told Russell that no one was going to promise him
anything, certainly not a pardon for crimes that - and Charlie said
this to his face - might include conspiracy to murder. Russell
looked like he had been hit by a truck. Charlie told him that the
best he could hope for was that the fact he chose to resign instead
of putting the country through the ordeal of a trial of impeachment
would be taken into account in whatever deal he made with
prosecutors. It might be enough to keep him out of prison.”

Helen caught the omission, the thing that had
not been said. She felt a catch in her throat at what she had begun
to foresee. “There is no vice-president. If Russell resigns,
who…?”

Bobby got up and, forcing a smile, held out
his hand, beckoning her to come outside. He led her through the
rose-covered yard, out to the far side of the pool. The air was
sweet with the scent of the bougainvillea and the distant,
salt-water sea. “Remember when we came here, remember how we said
that whatever happened we would always have this place? I know how
difficult I’ve made things for you, how hard you’ve tried to make
things easier for me. But something has happened -”

“Just tell me, Bobby. Whatever it is, it’s
all right. Whatever you think you need to do, that’s what I want
you to do. It’s something about Charlie and that meeting with the
President last night and the fact that there isn’t a vice-president
and -”

“Russell had to promise to nominate a new
vice-president, someone they would name, someone who would be
confirmed immediately and would take over the moment Russell
left.”

“It’s you, isn’t it?” she asked with a smile
that surprised him with its eager confidence. “It should be you. It
had to be you. You’re the one who saved the country from that band
of murderers and thieves. Who else could it be?”

“But what about you?” he asked. “I know how
much you hate that life, all the nonsense that is involved.
Everything we do, everything we say - the only privacy we’ll ever
have is late at night. It wasn’t a week ago that nearly everyone in
Washington thought I was a murderer and that you were….”