He would’ve killed Xenos for many reasons, could probably have listed half a dozen or so instantly if asked.
But he would never do it just to “follow orders.”
Xenos only hoped, without really knowing why, that the old man wouldn’t be killed for his momentary bout of ethics.
Which led directly to the problem at hand.
The tap Xenos had placed behind Alvarez’s diploma had revealed that a half hour after he’d left her, she’d received a call from her tormentors. Although he’d only
heard her side of the conversation, it was enough. Her hurried orders to her staff immediately afterward were clear enough.
She was headed back to New York, most probably to another meeting with the men from Flushing. And she would most likely be carrying some classified papers with her. She’d called “the committee repository” to request access to “Bureau updates,” before catching her flight.
She’d added one other piece to the puzzle as well.
On the plane, Xenos played back that part of the tape.
A
LVAREZ:
“When was the last time you talked with that boy from Columbia?”
K
RUSIEC:
“Which boy?”
A
LVAREZ:
“Paul Satordi. The one who was doing the IRT research for us.”
K
RUSIEC:
“I don’t know. Couple of weeks ago, I guess. Why?”
A
LVAREZ:
“When, exactly?” Her voice had gone low and cautious.
K
RUSIEC:
“Uh, I guess it was around the time you spoke at the Ellen’s Fund banquet.”
ALVAREZ:
“He was there?”
K
RUSIEC:
“Don’t you remember? He worked at the hotel where we were staying?”
Alvarez’s voice had almost been indecipherable; it had gone so sad and mournful. “Oh God.”
As he considered this newest piece, viewed in context with the rest of the continually bizarre tableau, Xenos decided what to do.
As soon as he got off the jet shuttle, he placed a cell call. An hour later his corsican contact in New York arrived at the airport.
They wandered among the kiosk food stands and souvenir shops, weaving their way through the sporadic crowds that surged through the plush terminal. The big man talked, the little man listened. For the better part of an hour Xenos reported what he knew, what he thought, drew the connections wherever and however he thought they lay.
Quattro Cani made few comments, asked fewer questions. Merely listened, nodded, and shook his head.
“When I leave this airport,” Xenos finally said,
“finito. Capito?”
“Lui’ è morto?”
“Sconosciuto,”
Xenos said unemotionally. “But whether he’s dead or not, he ain’t a runner. I’m sure of at least that much.”
“That will please his brother. A pause. “And frighten him.
“I understand.”
“And this Alvarez, she is definitely involved?”
Xenos hesitated.
“Sì. Non disposto, mal disposto.
But, yeah. They turned off into a relatively empty alcove where they could talk more freely, away from the deplaning tourists and businessmen they’d wandered into.”
“Willing or not, she must be made to cooperate, the Corsican said offhandedly.”
“None of my business.”
A broad, charming smile, so similar to Franco’s that for the briefest moment Xenos wondered if it was taught to all members of the Brotherhood.
“Would you be willing to, uh,
facilitare
her cooperation? For appropriate remuneration, of course.”
But Xenos had already turned his back and was starting to walk away.
“Just keep your end of the deal, he called over his shoulder as he mixed with the crowds.”
“We have already broken ground on the new ward, Dureté,” Quattro Cani called after him. Then, looking around to be sure he hadn’t been spotted—his death warrant if seen by the wrong eyes—he wandered away in the opposite direction.
To make his calls and set his plans.
Plans—more or
less
venomous depending on how the game was going—were also being laid in the den of a quiet home in Georgetown.
Senator Rod Buckley carefully lined up his next shot while waiting for his two guests to finish pouring their drinks. “Three in the corner,” he said as he concentrated.
“Five hundred says you blow it,” Lane Kingston, former congressman and current director of the Peace corps, called out.
“If gambling weren’t illegal in this state,” Attorney General Jefferson DeWitt said, laughing, “I’d take you up on that.”
Buckley simply smiled, pulled back the cue, and easily made the difficult bank shot. “That,” he said with a self-satisfied grin, “is called grace under fire.”
“That’s called damned lucky,” DeWitt said as he poured himself another drink.
“Lucky
is
graceful,” Kingston said between bitefuls of his sandwich.
“More pearls of wisdom from the only M.A. ever to flunk philosophy.”
“Pearls before swine,” came out hoarsely—half word, half sandwich.
For almost ten years these three men had casually insulted, prodded, harassed, or needled each other in their once-a-week “our nights.” It was a ritual that none of the men would miss, although none deeply enjoyed either.
Brought together by politics and life, the men were considered by many to be the next generation of leaders in the Democratic Party.
Brought together by common appetites—for food, challenges (physical and intellectual), women, and ambition—the men considered themselves the cream of their generation, poised on the verge of assuming their destinies.
Brought together by George Steingarth—the lame duck president’s closest friend and personal adviser—the men were being
considered.
And all of that combined with the free-flowing beer and liquor to be deeply intoxicating.
Actually they had a great deal in common.
Under fifty, athletic, intellectual, charismatic, all had
been Rhodes or Westinghouse scholars, had attended college in the U.S. and abroad. They spoke several languages, were fanatical sports fans, and had an almost boyish admiration of women.
All women.
They were slightly more conservative on national security issues than the rest of the party, but quite liberal on social issues. All three were married to trophy wives, had trophy kids, trophy careers, and a natural sense of humor that carefully hid their goals.
Most important, they all
knew
they’d been chosen—by God or the party, it didn’t much matter since none of them really believed in either—for great things.
So in the thralls of their burning desires—for power, pleasure, and destiny—they’d found each other. Once a week to have no secrets, no hidden agendas. To share, to help, to prop each other up.
One day, they all knew, one of them must step to the fore and take up the trappings of his personal destiny. But until that day, they would be there for each other.
Or so the other two would be led to believe.
“Rod,” Kingston asked, “what d’you hear on PAN CON ’03?”
“Dead in the water.” Buckley grimaced as he made another shot. “Never get out of committee.”
“Why?”
“Women’s lobby.”
DeWitt shook his head.
“Person’s
lobby, please.” Buckley laughed. “Well, certain
persons
have had it in their head that the grants are antiwomen in nature.”
Kingston glanced at a
New York Times.
“Are they?”
“Probably.”
“You going to fight it out?” DeWitt looked over his
friend’s
shoulder at the front-page article.
Buckley shook his head. “Wrong fight, wrong time.” “Even with this? DeWitt tossed the paper onto the pool table.”
Buckley glanced at it, then made his shot, around the paper. “We’ve seen headlines like that before.” He
chuckled. “They’re essentially meaningless. Like when the
Post
called you—what was it?
The Beltway Bad Boy?”
DeWitt shrugged. “Only my
very few
enemies think me abrasive, really.”
“Yeah,” the senator agreed. “Your friends
know
it. And what about you, Laney? I seem to remember a
Sun Times
piece that used the phrase
perniciously ambitious.”
The man who enjoyed a 78 percent approval rating among college students (especially coeds) smiled. “Like that’s a
bad
thing.”
“Didn’t CNN call you something like the senator from Fantasy Island?” The attorney general laughed while taking a closer look at the photograph that accompanied the headline.
“My point exactly.” Buckley threw down his cue on the table, then picked up the paper. “The media in this country select hot button phrases like”—he read the headline aloud—
“Puzzling Disappearing Act Plagues Congress-woman
, then forgets about it ten minutes later, when someone else gets caught with their pants down.”
“I wouldn’t mind seeing old Hard-Ass caught with her pants down sometime,” Kingston whispered as they looked at the photograph.
“Fucking Alvarez is such a pain in the ass,” Buckley said angrily, “I doubt I could get it up over the agendized bitch.”
Kingston pointed at the paper—a photograph of Valerie at a White House function in a clinging evening gown.
“Fucking
Alvarez is exactly what we’re talking about. Think about it.”
As he looked at the color photo—the one Alvarez always attacked the paper for using instead of her more conservative “official” portrait—the senator’s hand slipped down to his crotch. “Point taken.”
Both men looked at the attorney general.
“Being a gentleman and a lover/protector of the fairer sex,” DeWitt said, “I will, of course, withhold comment, beyond this.”
He walked over, took the paper, seeming to consider
the picture carefully. “Congresswoman Alvarez represents all that is best in America today, he said in his politician’s voice.” Successful legislator, mother, community activist. I applaud her accomplishments and eagerly look forward to working—closely—with her in the future.
“I can just imagine,” Kingston said with a leer. “You got something going with her?”
“He wishes.” Buckley shook his head at the shorter attorney general. “What makes you such a feminist all of a sudden?”
DeWitt raised his eyebrows. “Obviously, my lecherous friends, you haven’t seen the latest polling data. Women between eighteen and forty-nine consider me ‘boyishly engaging.’ And I am nothing if not devoted to my supporters.”
“Bullshit!” Kingston—notorious for his temper—shouted. “You telling me you wouldn’t fuck Alvarez given half a chance?”
DeWitt smiled comfortably. “Of course I would.” He stopped suddenly as there was a knock on the door, and his aide let himself in. “But I would do it politically correctly, he said easily, then turned to the younger man.”
“Yes, Michael?”
Michael Culbertson, personal assistant to Attorney General DeWitt, knew full well what these evenings were about—alternately sharing the guarding of the door with the personal aides of the senator and the Peace Corps director. But he understood his role and where it could eventually leave him as well. So he suppressed any expression, beyond basic pleasantness, as he began.
“Mr. Attorney General, gentlemen, Mr. Steingarth has asked me to inform you that the fight is about to start. The fighters will be coming into the ring shortly.”
“Yes!” Buckley called out. “I’ve been waiting all week to see this! That Mendoza’s a mean motherfucker.”
DeWitt followed him toward the door. “But Hollander’s got the speed, man. Boxer over slugger every time.”
“Screw it,” Kingston said brusquely. “Raw power over finesse any day.”
And they were gone.
Michael spent the next ten minutes straightening up the room, putting away the bottles, making sure any notes, papers, crude sketches, were either burned in the elaborate brick fireplace or returned to briefcases. Finally he crawled beneath the pool table, retrieving a small cassette recorder.
Because Michael had ambitions of his own.
“Tonight is going to be different.”
Valerie was shocked that the words were said out loud. For the last nine hours she’d been thinking the thought, enabling the thought, but had never even whispered the words. Fear of their real meaning had kept her silent. But sitting in her car in the isolated Long Island field had somehow brought the reality of it to her.
And they had found their voice.
For the fifth time since she’d parked, she checked the specially secured briefcase issued to senior members of the Select committee on Intelligence.
Strictly for transporting extremely sensitive or classified documents, it was lead-lined, contained a chemical incendiary device that would instantly reduce the contents to ash if the case was improperly opened. As well as a few other “nuances,” the designers had called them. Things that would’ve made James Bond jealous. Things that had actually been inspired by those movies. Cartoon gimmicks that government and private sector engineers had brought about to terrifying realities.
They’d been all too willing to give it to her, along with the extraordinarily classified papers it housed. She was the ranking minority member, chair of the subcommittee dealing with the Source 24601 defection, and an acknowledged expert on the subject. Hell, she’d even been a part of the team that had initially debriefed the former communist colonel when he’d defected.
Unquestioned credentials for any and all files in the case.
Despite that, Valerie had been as cautious in obtaining them as she’d ever been in her life.
She’d asked for seven files unrelated to those she’d been ordered to bring to the meeting; files on things from Chinese missile throw weights to the color combination on the shoulder flashes of the Moscow Militia. But the files
they’d
wanted—classified FBI and CIA reports on Source 24601’s recent assassination and his unfinished allegations about a penetration in the U.S. intelligence establishment—were there as well.
She certainly thought about
not
taking them, had no intention of ever turning them over to the bastards that had destroyed her life. But prudence and routine demanded that she go through the motions. Who knew who else had been trapped (voluntarily or not) in the conspiracy? So she had established the record. All files properly signed out for in triplicate, with two witnesses each.