Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder (24 page)

Gibbons heard Puhlman's words, meant to comfort, but they did little to alleviate his own fear of flying. He gripped his armrests and breathed heavily.

Puhlman had tried to get them reservations in business class, but none were available. He felt cramped in his seat and muttered that it was built to accommodate midgets.

Itani visibly relaxed once the plane had reached cruise altitude. A flight attendant, who reminded Itani of Elena, asked whether they wanted to buy drinks. Itani asked for a Tom Collins.

“What's that?” she asked.

“It's a drink,” Puhlman replied. “Bring him some gin and club soda, and one of those little sugar packets. I'll have a white wine. You, Jake?”

Gibbons, who sat ramrod straight as though to make himself part of the seat, mumbled, “A beer.”

*   *   *

Puhlman, too, was on edge, but it had nothing to do with a fear of flying. Borger had given him last-minute instructions late the night before, and during that conversation Puhlman had expressed concern about Gibbons accompanying them. “He keeps asking me why he's coming with us,” Puhlman told Borger. “Says he doesn't like planes.”

“He'll get over it,” was Borger's response.

“There's more to it,” Puhlman pressed. “Jake doesn't know what's going to happen in D.C. He's been asking questions lately about what's going on with Itani, the management contract, all of it.”

“He doesn't need to know anything more than he already does, Peter. As far as he's concerned, we're involved in a top secret government program. He's well-paid to do as he's told and not to ask questions. I want him there in D.C. with you and Iskander. You've seen what Itani is capable of doing. I've got him at the peak of my control now, but keeping him at that level is a delicate balancing act. He's volatile, as you well know. I'll stay in contact with him by phone, of course, but I want someone like Jake present in case Iskander gets out of hand physically.”

“I still think that you should be with us.”

“Out of the question. Once Iskander is in place to carry out the assassination, you and Jake will head back to San Francisco. It wouldn't be prudent for any of us to be there when it happens.”

“But now Jake is asking what this is all about, especially the mess with Elena.”

Borger shook his head, leaned back in his red leather office chair, and took a sip of sherry. “Why do I get the feeling that you're having second thoughts about what we're about to do?”

“No, that's not true, Sheldon.”

“You even considered turning Iskander over to the authorities.”

“It was just a thought.”

“A dangerous thought.” Borger placed his glass back on the desk and came forward. “Peter,” he said, “if the unfortunate incident with Elena hadn't occurred, Iskander would arrive in Washington the day before the event. But the incident with Elena
did
happen. That's reality, and I suggest that we keep reality uppermost in mind until this is over.”

“Okay,” Puhlman said, “but I still have reservations about Jake coming with us. Maybe it would have been better to fill him in on what we're doing and why we're doing it. He might say the wrong thing while we're waiting in D.C. You've told him that Iskander is to be kept under wraps in Washington, but he doesn't know why.”

Borger slapped his hand on the desk and stood. “Enough!” he said. “Stop second-guessing me. Go on now, get some sleep. I have things to do.”

*   *   *

Puhlman left the house, and Borger poured himself another glass of sherry. The conversation had unsettled him, although he was already edgy when Puhlman arrived. Itani was asleep in the bedroom he now occupied. A carpet company would arrive in the morning to install a wall-to-wall black-and-white tweed carpet that Borger selected during the salesman's visit earlier in the day.

As he picked up his glass, he noticed that his hand shook, not much, just enough to be of concern. Strangely, his uneasiness had little to do with what was about to transpire in Washington.

As far as he was concerned, there was no way that Itani's action against presidential candidate George Mortinson could be traced back to him. Even if Itani's short residence at the house was revealed, it didn't translate into Borger having done anything illegal. Itani was a frightened young man who suffered from blinding headaches and who wished to resume his boxing career. Borger had often treated patients in his home, and some, including well-known show business figures, would attest to it.

Too, he reasoned, there was no way that anyone could know what had taken place between him and Itani. He'd treated him for headaches, pure and simple. Once Itani had accomplished his mission, arrangements had been put in place to dispose of him, ensuring that should his implanted amnesia falter, he wouldn't be alive to reveal anything about the true nature of their relationship.

No, it wasn't the Washington event that concerned Borger. It was what had happened to Elena, followed by the unexpected intrusion of Mica Sphere.

*   *   *

Borger had questioned Itani about his conversation with Mica immediately after she had left.

“What did you talk about?” Borger asked.

“Some things,” was Itani's reply. “Boxing.”

“She talked about boxing?”

He nodded. “She said that she likes boxing and has gone to the fights.”

“Interesting,” Borger said. “What else did you talk about? Did you mention Elena?”

Itani brightened at the mention of her name.

“You talked about Elena?” Borger pressed, attempting to keep concern from his voice.

Another nod. “I told her that I had a girlfriend named Elena.”

“I see. Did you tell her that Elena was here at the house last night?”

“Yes. Where is Elena? Will I see her before I leave for Washington?”

“No, Iskander. She had to go out of town for a few days. We'll arrange for her to come see you after you have a few bouts under your belt.”

“Good,” he said. “I would like to see my brothers before we go.”

“That's impossible,” Borger said, “but you'll see them soon. I promise you that.”

He induced trance in Itani and worked at reinforcing his hatred of Jews and Israel, and particularly of George Mortinson. He ended the session after twenty minutes, and Itani went downstairs to work out.

*   *   *

Now alone in his study, Borger mentally revisited every aspect of the situation and its potential ramifications for him.

Things had been meticulously thought out well in advance.

Once Itani had been identified as Mortinson's assassin, there would be some people who could link him to Borger and the “treatment” he'd received, although that number had been kept to a minimum. The housekeeper and cook would be shocked that an assassin had been in the house. They'd cleaned his room and fed him his meals, and they would question their employer about it. He would simply say that he, too, was shocked and had no inkling that Itani was capable of killing anyone. He'd treated him for headaches in order to allow him to resume his boxing career. End of story. That this obviously deranged young man had gone to Washington to assassinate a presidential candidate was beyond his, Borger's, wildest imagination: “If only I had known, if only I had seen signs of his insanity.” And, of course, he would offer to work closely with the authorities to unravel the illness that had driven Itani to take a public official's life.

The CIA would deny any involvement should some investigative reporter seek to link the agency with Mortinson's assassination. The agency's scientific and medical research projects were funded by the Congress and designed to enhance national security. Borger was an esteemed member of the medical community whose contributions to these valuable projects were well known. For anyone to think that someone of Borger's stature would be involved in a political assassination was absurd.

Puhlman and Gibbons would travel to Washington using phony IDs that were readily available through Landow. Itani would make the trip under his own name. Borger would enhance Itani's amnesia by phone, virtually wiping out everything leading up to the assassination, including his stay at the house, the flight to Washington from San Francisco, and the hours immediately preceding his attack on Mortinson.

Would Itani's amnesia hold up? He'd bet his professional reputation on it. But he also knew that the only fail-safe way to ensure that Itani could offer nothing to the authorities was his elimination.

Prior to Itani delivering the fatal shot to Mortinson, Puhlman and Gibbons would be on their way back to San Francisco, again flying under assumed names. There would be no record of their having been in Washington at the time of the assassination.

Every potential problem had been addressed and worked out.

Except there was a dead prostitute named Elena.

His friend Mica Sphere knew too much.

And now a meddling psychologist in Washington named Nicholas Tatum threatened to undo everything he had accomplished with Sheila Klaus, and by extension place him in jeopardy.

Something had to be done, and he had four days to do it.

 

CHAPTER

31

Meg Whitson sat with a dozen people in her office at the candidate's Washington headquarters. Everyone was aware that the campaign was coming down to the wire, and that every step leading up to Election Day had to focus on avoiding any major gaffes no matter how far ahead in the polls Mortinson was.

“Let's go over the schedule for the next week,” Whitson said as everyone dutifully opened their notepads to the printed schedule that had been distributed earlier in the day.

“Wow, he's not taking a day off for a whole week,” someone quipped, accompanied by a chuckle.

“He wanted to,” said Whitson, “but I laid down the law.”

Those in the room knew that if anyone could lay down the law to Mortinson, it was Meg Whitson.

“I want to concentrate on the rally four days from now,” she said.

It was billed as a meet the candidate event to be held in the Woodrow Wilson Plaza, a four-acre courtyard adjacent to and part of the Ronald Reagan Building and International Trade Center on Pennsylvania Avenue in downtown D.C., the largest building in this city of large buildings, 3.1 million square feet of multiuse space designed to bring together the best minds to forge a national forum for the advancement of trade. The building, owned by the General Services Administration, was the only federal building dedicated to both government and private use; many lavish weddings and political events had been held there, as well as numerous international trade conferences.

The thinking behind the rally reflected Mortinson's approach.

Some in his camp advised that it be a fund-raiser, a suggestion that Mortinson vetoed. The campaign was flush with cash, especially since the polls showed him to be far ahead. Fat cats seeking favors who would ordinarily finance the Republican Swayze's campaign saw the writing on the wall and had started writing large checks to fill Mortinson's coffers, as had major corporations that were now free to donate as much as they wished thanks to the recent Supreme Court decision that gave them that right. “The whores know which side their bread is buttered on,” Mortinson quipped in private to close aides. In public he advocated taxpayer-supported elections with the big-money interests cut out, although he knew there was scant chance of that ever becoming law. “This is no longer a country by and for the people,” he proclaimed in some of his speeches. “The corporations own the country, and it's time to give it back to the people.” That message resonated with a majority of voters, who were fed up with the stranglehold lobbyists and corporate leaders had over elected officials and the resulting legislation that favored them. Some of Mortinson's political advisers urged him to tone down those remarks for fear of losing the support of business, but Mortinson overrode their objections. “I want the voters to know who I am and what I stand for,” he preached at staff meetings. End of discussion.

And so the rally four days hence would bring together chosen representatives of hundreds of civic organizations, unions, teachers, firefighters and police officers, charitable groups, government workers, community organizers from major cities, local athletic clubs, the clergy from every faith and some of their parishioners, senior citizens and schoolchildren, and Mortinson's cadre of friends who'd stood with him since his days as a family member of Wisconsin's preeminent political dynasty and as a U.S. senator. Music would be provided by one of the city's top Dixieland jazz bands, and booths would be set up for guests to enjoy soft drinks, popcorn, and other snacks.

Of course the choice of venue had generated some amused comments from political pundits. After all, the building was named for Ronald Reagan, a Republican, and Mortinson had uttered some critical words about the fortieth president during the campaign. But he'd always been quick to assure that he'd admired Reagan the man, which he did, and keep his criticisms to policy matters about which they differed. No sense in alienating Reagan lovers in the crowd.

“What happens if it rains?” someone asked.

“It shifts indoors,” Meg said. “The space has been cleared.”

The Secret Service agent charged with protecting the candidate, and who attended as many staff meetings as possible, took the floor. “We have concerns,” he said. “It's my understanding that the senator will give a speech but then insist on personally greeting everyone in attendance.”

“That's right,” said Whitson. “After Governor Thomas gives his own talk as the VP candidate and introduces Mortinson, the senator will speak for twenty minutes. Following that, he, the VP, and their families will form a reception line, and those in the crowd will have an opportunity to shake their hands and have a photo taken with them.”