The Machiavelli Covenant (12 page)

"Hello, Victor." Richard's telephone voice was calm and soothing as always.

"I'm glad to hear from you, Richard. I thought you were going to call me earlier." Victor picked up the remote and turned down the television, then moved to sit on the edge of the bed, where he had been resting until his cell phone had rung with Richard's call.

"How is the hotel?"

"Very nice."

"Are they treating you well?"

"Yes, thank you, Richard."

"How was your walk through Atocha Station."

"I—" Victor hesitated, unsure of how to respond.

"You did walk through it as I asked?"

"Yes, Richard."

"What did you think when you saw the area where all those people died in the terrorist attack? Did you imagine what it must have been like for them? The bombs going off inside the railway cars. The screams, the pieces of bodies, the blood. Did you think of the cowards who hid the explosives in backpacks and put them on the trains with all
those innocent people on board, then set them off by cell phone when they were themselves safely miles away?"

"Yes, Richard."

"How did you feel?"

"Sad."

"Not angry?"

"Sad, and angry, yes."

"Sad for the people who were hurt and died, angry at the terrorists who did it. Is that right?"

"Yes, I was especially angry at the terrorists."

"You would like to destroy them, wouldn't you?"

"Very much."

"I want you to do something, Victor. There is a garment bag in the clothes closet in your room. Inside it you will find a dark business suit and with it a dress shirt and tie. The suit and shirt are your size. I want you to put them on and go out. As you exit the hotel you will see the Hotel Ritz across the plaza. It's where the president is staying while he is in Madrid. I want you to go there and walk in through the front entrance as any visitor would. Inside you will see the lobby and beyond it the bar and lounge. Go into the lounge and sit down at a table where you can see the lobby and order a drink."

"And then what?"

"Wait a few minutes and then get up and go to the men's room. When you come out look around. The president and his staff have taken over the entire fourth floor. See how the other guests are getting to their rooms on the second and third floors. See if there is any reason you could not get to those same rooms. Then see if there is a way for you to get to the fourth floor. Try both the elevator and the fire stairs. Don't do anything, just see if you would have access. Then go back to the lounge, finish your drink, and return to your hotel."

"Anything else?"

"Not now. I'll call you in the morning to learn what you have found out."

"Alright."

"Thank you, Victor."

"No, Richard, thank you. I mean it."

"I know you do, Victor. Good night."

Victor hesitated, then clicked off. He'd waited all afternoon for Richard's call, and with each passing hour he'd become increasingly worried that they'd changed their minds and wouldn't need him anymore. If that happened, he didn't know what he would do. There was no way he could contact them. Except for a tall pleasant man named Bill Jackson who had met him at a shooting range near his home in Arizona and talked to him about joining a secretive patriotic organization of homeland "protectors," men and women who knew how to use firearms and could be counted on to fight as individuals in the event of a major terrorist invasion; and Richard, whom he'd talked to almost daily for the last weeks but had never met, he had no idea who they were or, for that matter, even how to contact Richard.

And as the minutes and hours ticked away before Richard finally called, his anxiety level had risen almost to bursting. What would he do if they abandoned him? Go back to Arizona and the meager life he'd lived there before they'd found him? It would be as if he'd been given another chance and failed again, then let go for reasons that were not his fault at all, the same as had happened so many times before. It seemed as if it was his damnation—hard worker, always on time, never complaining, but let go in a few months anyway for
reasons never made clear. It had all been hands-dirty sweatwork: warehouseman, truck driver, short-order cook, security guard; in his entire life he had never held a job for more than fifteen months. And then this wonderful opportunity had come along, and with it growing respect and first-class travel to cities he had never dreamed of. And now the thought of losing it. Oh God! The awful shadow of that possibility burned in his guts. Fear and despair twisted inside him with each passing minute. Too often he looked at the silent phone on the bed next to him. A phone that should have rung hours before but hadn't. Then, finally, mercifully, it did ring, and he snatched it up to hear the comfort of Richard's voice bringing him back into the fold. Afterward, when he'd clicked off, he let out a deep breath and relaxed, even smiled.

Everything, he knew, was still alright.

•
VALLETTA, MALTA, 8:35 P-M.

Nicholas Marten left the hotel and started down Triq ta York. The light fog coming off the Mediterranean was crisp and invigorating for someone still suffering from jet lag as he was. He wore a dark sport coat and gray slacks, a blue shirt and burgundy tie. In his left hand was a hastily bought briefcase he had scuffed up a little to make it appear somewhat used. Inside it were several file folders, a notebook, and a small, also hastily bought, battery-powered tape recorder.

His destination was an easy ten-minute walk from his hotel and he walked it quickly, following the street past the Upper Baracca Gardens to where it turned into Triq Id-Duka.

"The doctor would be happy to meet with you, Mr. Marten," Merriman Foxx's housekeeper had told him when he'd called requesting to see the doctor on Congresswoman Baker's behalf. "Unfortunately his time is short, but he asked if you would drop by the restaurant where he is having dinner. He will take a few moments to give you whatever information the congresswoman requires."

The time was promptly at nine. The place, the Café Tripoli on Triq id-Dejqa, on the far side of the R.A.F. war memorial, a monument to British fliers who defended the island against the German and Italian invasion forces in World War Two. Walking past it Marten once again felt the history of battle here and with it the strategic importance of this fortress island. Just the feeling of it, of seeing the ancient stone garrisons and thinking of the countless invasions Malta had suffered over the centuries gave him a very real sense of the adage that war never ends, that there is always one in waiting.

It made him think of Merriman Foxx's Tenth Medical Brigade and its efforts to develop covert biological weapons, and made him realize Foxx knew that maxim all too well. If he did and took it to heart, did that mean the projects he had been working on before the program was ended had not been dismantled at all and were still alive and active? If so, was that what Mike Parsons had stumbled onto in the committee hearings? That and the fact that some members of the committee knew it and were determined not to let it become public?
If that was true, then the next question had to be
why?
What were they protecting that they had to kill Parsons because of it?

The sharp cry of an alley cat brought Marten back to where he was. He waited for traffic to pass then crossed a wide boulevard and turned down Triq id-Dejqa, looking for the Café Tripoli. He had to appreciate Foxx's openness in agreeing to see him but at the same time knew he had to be wary of him. A public meeting was always circumventive and hardly like being in a hearing room. With others in close earshot one could listen to what was being asked and then answer directly or indirectly or not at all, politely and at choice. The problem for Marten was how to handle the interview because the questions he would ask would have little to do with the hearings and instead focus on Caroline and Dr. Stephenson. It would be tricky and delicate and what would happen as a result would depend as much on Merriman Foxx himself, his character and manner, as on how Marten presented them.

•
8:45 P.M.

The Café Tripoli was down a narrow stone-step alley, its doorway lighted by a large brass lamp. Marten stopped at the top of the steps, watching as the café's door opened and three people came out and started up toward him. Behind him was a darkened doorway, and he stepped into it and waited. A moment later the three walked past and turned onto the street without ever having seen him. This was what he wanted and why he was early. The doorway was a place to observe Foxx as he passed by on his way to the restaurant. Marten wanted to
see him first, if nothing more than a glimpse. See his features and the white hair, to know beforehand what he looked like. It would be an edge up, nothing more.

•
8:55 P.M.

For a long time it had been quiet, and Marten wondered if Foxx had been early himself and was already inside. He was beginning to wonder if he should abandon his plan and just go down to the restaurant when a cab pulled up at the end of the alley, the doors opened, and a man and then a woman got out. Marten pressed farther back into the doorway as the taxi drove off and the two started down the stone steps toward the café. The woman passed first. She was quite young, dark-haired, and very attractive. The man was right behind. Medium height, medium build, his shoulders back, he wore a gray knit fisherman's sweater over dark trousers. His face was taut and deeply lined. His hair, the massive shock of it, was white as fresh snow and so theatrical as almost to be a trademark. Merriman Foxx was almost exactly as Peter Fadden had described him. "He looks like Einstein."

Marten waited until they entered, then opened his briefcase, took out the tape recorder, and slid it in his inside jacket pocket. He waited another moment, then stepped out of the shadows and walked down to the entrance of the Café Tripoli.

"Good evening, sir!"

Marten was barely inside the door when he was met by a cheerful, balding maître d' in black slacks and starched white shirt. Behind him was a smoky pub-like lounge with the sound of a jazz piano floating out of it.

"I'm to meet Dr. Foxx. My name is Marten."

"Yes, sir, of course. Follow me please."

The maître d' led him down a flight of stairs to the supper club in the basement. A number of people crowded a small bar near the foot of the stairs. Beyond it was a dining area with maybe two dozen tables; all were taken and Marten looked around for Dr. Foxx and his companion but saw neither.

"This way, sir."

The maître d' led him toward an enclosed area near the back that was separated from the rest of the club by a wood-and-opaque glass partition. The maître d' stepped around it and ushered him into what was essentially a private room.

"Mr. Marten," he announced.

Four of them were at the table. Foxx and his lady friend, as he had expected. The other two were a total surprise. He had last seen them in Washington little more than a day earlier—congressional chaplain Reverend Rufus Beck and the French writer-photojournalist Demi Picard.

"Good evening, Mr. Marten." Merriman Foxx stood to take his hand. "Let me introduce my other guests. Cristina Vallone," he nodded to the young woman who had come in with him, "the Reverend Rufus Beck and," he smiled warmly, "Mademoiselle Picard."

"How do you do?" Marten's eyes met Demi's for the briefest moment, but she revealed nothing. He looked back to Foxx. "It's very kind of you to meet with me like this and on such short notice."

"It is always a pleasure to assist the United States Congress any way I can. Unfortunately my time is short, Mr. Marten; if our guests will excuse us perhaps we can go to a corner of the bar and take care of what needs to be done."

"Of course."

Merriman Foxx ushered Marten out of the enclosed area and toward the bar near the stairs. As Marten went, his eyes again met Demi's. She was watching him without trying to show it. Clearly she was as surprised to see him as he was to see her. Further, and just as clearly, she wasn't happy about it.

Reverend Beck was a surprise too, and like Demi, he had shown no recognition. Yet Marten was certain he remembered him from Caroline's hospital room. Not only had they introduced themselves when Beck came in, but, as Demi had told him, Beck was curious enough about him to have asked one of the nurses who he was.

"Just what ambiguities did Congresswoman Baker want clarified?" Foxx said as they reached the bar. It had cleared out a little now and they stood alone at the end of it.

Marten set the briefcase on the bar, opened it, and took out a folder, then reached into his jacket pocket for a pen. As he did, he clicked on the tape-recorder. At the same time, and without being asked, the bartender set a snifter of single malt whiskey at each man's sleeve.

"There are several, doctor," Marten said, deliberately reminding himself of the reason he was here, to ascertain as best he could whether Foxx was or was not the doctor/white-haired man. His great disadvantage here, and one he hoped was not fatal, was that he had no transcript of the congressional hearings and therefore no
idea of what had been asked or answered. All he had to work with was what he knew about Foxx's history and that of the Tenth Medical Brigade, the bits and pieces he'd learned through a brief search of the Internet when he'd returned to his hotel; what Caroline had told him, and what Dr. Stephenson had said just before she shot and killed herself.