Authors: Gerald Felix Warburg
Mastering the matrix offered Rachel the illusion of control. As she struggled to begin her transition back into the Washington work world, she required this grounding. She was desperate to get her arms around the challenges that floated about her in a life that suddenly lacked any apparent order.
“I’m dangerous,” she’d warned Alexander the night before in a phone call. “I feel like I’m pregnant or something. My skin is incredibly sensitive. I get these intense cravings for a particular food. I feel like running off to conquer Pike’s Peak, or going wind surfing in Tahiti.”
“Rather inconvenient,” Alexander said, laughing as she rambled.
“I have no time for a goddamn mid-life crisis,” she groaned.
She had become hopelessly overprotective of Jamie, she knew. She suspected danger lurked around each corner. She was reluctant to let him play at friends’ houses. She stood sentinel on the sidewalk, arms crossed, as he rode his scooter up and down the driveway, waving to the ever-present Arlington County police car.
Her mind exercised a will of its own, slithering past the topic at hand. She developed a voracious appetite for fiction, savoring the perorations of Ian McEwan, and losing herself in the moody World War II works of Alan Furst. Her thoughts dallied with the surreal and the religious. Her sleep was heavy and irresolute.
In vain, she tried to ride the waves of emotion as they welled up from deep within. She wished to be done with artifice. She became a threat to all that was pretentious. She felt a new reverence for life, a respect anchored by the very fact of her narrow escape. She felt the rekindled appreciation of sense and sensibility, the eagerness to share any small kindness, the desire for fulfillment. She was alive and renewed. She was a survivor.
On that first morning back, she felt perilously flip, even as dozens of eyes watched her. The standing ovation was nice, but just that—nice. Polite smiles all around.
They might excuse her stumbles for a day or two. Then they would blow right by her—especially some of the more ambitious ladies in the firm, professional jealousy being what it was. Her competitive instincts kicked in. She had no choice. Clients were lining up for Capitol Hill visits. “So very sorry about your partner getting blown up,” she imagined them saying. “But where is my tax break?”
Congress was grinding away, marking up bills in committee, moving appropriations to the floor. She had no choice. Business marched on. It was time to dance.
“Let’s start with Energy and Water,” she began, breathing deeply. “Always the first appropriations subcommittee to report out a bill. Let’s see. . . Phil. The City of Tacoma has been in to see Congressman Myers. The chairman is on board to support the riverbed improvements, a $7.5 million earmark. The chart says your Senate-side strategy is in place with Mr. Kerr. Need any help?”
She looked up from her papers sprightly, smiling like a schoolmarm managing her brood, struggling mightily not to betray her difficulty in staying on the lesson plan.
If they’re listening so intently
, she worked to convince herself,
I must have something important to say.
“Nope. May need to get some extra local juice with Bingham once we get to conference. I’ve got some VIP calls lined up, in case. But we look solid so far.”
“OK, then, to the University of Missouri. Liz, we look good for the earmark for their agricultural research building. Nice to have Senator Guerin chairing the subcommittee. Looks like a slam dunk. Will we get the full three million?”
“Can’t say for sure yet, but we’re pressing to get the whole amount when the subcommittee votes. Depends on the allocation they get from the full committee pot, but I think we’re good for the three mil.”
“Sounds great. OK, next up is Telstar. Tom, would you like to walk us through our strategy for the R&D grant.”
Tom Bacigalupi, her deputy on this, her biggest account, updated their colleagues smoothly. They were on target for ten million dollars in funding for Telstar’s photovoltaic system for ships at sea—a barnacle they were trying to attach to the Department of Energy’s appropriations bill. She pressed to ensure that the vaunted TPB template was being followed. “Fallbacks? Media strategy? Client visit with stakeholders? Plans to circle back with champions and Congressional leadership? Follow-up letters from local VIPs?”
All seemed in order. With Rachel’s firm hand back at the helm, the good ship TPB was under sail once again. They’d disposed of the bodies, swabbed the decks, and sailed on with the wind. The carnage seemed hardly to slow them. The dead man who had perpetrated the April Fool’s Day crime had still not been identified. Yet, Jonathan Talbott had brought construction teams on site in revolving shifts, night and day, to make their physical plant whole again. Weeks after Porter’s funeral, TPB had gained more new business than they had lost.
Rachel was reassured by the morning’s exercise. She could still ride point in a storm. She could still get the job done. The more her colleagues spoke, however, the more she felt staggered under the weight of the mundane.
What if I hadn’t been late coming over from the Willard that morning? You would all be here marching onward without me, talking business and making lunch reservations
.
She moved on to the education bill, but her mind was drifting. She was thinking of other people and places. She was thinking of Jamie’s quizzical stare that first evening at the hospital. She was thinking of Iceman Barry, checking the home alarm system, briefing the cops. She was thinking of the ocean, yearning once more for the cleansing foam to wash over her. She was fighting an overwhelming desire to flee, to strip off her heels and stockings, to toss her scarf and run free—to be done with it all.
“Rachel? May I see you a moment?” It was Talbott, in a gray suit at the doorway.
How long had he been watching
?
“Certainly. Karen, will you take over?” She slid her charts to a colleague on her right and stood, relieved to have been rescued from her dangerous daydreams.
The walk down the hall to Mr. Talbott’s temporary office on the other side of the suite was awkward. After some time, her boss spoke.
“It’s the FBI again, Rachel.” Talbott, ever the proper Brahmin, pronounced the word “again” with a formal long “A.” “They requested the opportunity to see just the two of us first.”
Then, as they approached the Fourteenth Street corner of the floor, there was Mr. Hickman, he of the sad eyes and neighborly smile, standing with an assistant. Hickman reached to greet her, a firm shake offered with a bracing left hand and a steadying gaze. She fancied him, and was embarrassed to find herself checking for a wedding ring.
“I have some good news,” Hickman began after they were seated. “As you know, we’ve shared your frustration trying to solve this one.”
“We know you have been making every effort,” Talbott said. “But it has been several weeks now. And the perpetrators are still at large.”
“Yes. And we know your personal loss has been compounded by the disruptions and the need for added security.”
“It has been a terrible loss. And a terrible uncertainty.”
“Sir, as you know, there were no claims of responsibility. It’s been a lot harder given the number of possible suspects. I mean, there have been a number of sensitive areas we have had to get into, the need to coordinate with FBI, CIA, Homeland Security.”
“Sensitive areas?” Talbott asked.
“Just all the different folks—foreign interests and all—that you do business with. So many people coming and going from your offices that day, too.”
“Mr. Hickman, is this not a murder investigation? This isn’t CIA work. I don’t understand.”
“Certainly, sir. And that is how we’ve treated it. It’s just that we had a lot of ways to go trying to establish motive. We’ve had to analyze a certain amount of circumstantial evidence on who the real targets were. The Canadian Ambassador. Senator Smithson. Mr. Dooley.”
What does this have to do with Mickey?
Rachel was confused as she listened to them parry like attorneys.
Where was this going
?
“And your conclusions?” Talbott cut short the speculation with his own question.
“We think we’ve got it resolved.”
“Resolved?”
“We think we know who it was that day with the bomb.”
“Indeed. Who?”
“We have no positive ID. The bomb was apparently in the perpetrator’s lap. Didn’t leave much intact to work with, I mean, on DNA.” The FBI man pivoted as he got to the point. “Mr. Talbott, what more can you tell us about the New World Land Company?”
“The Hong Kong investment consortium?”
“Yeah. The real estate outfit.”
“That was one of Mr. Porter’s ventures with the Hightower Fund.”
“And how much do you know about his partners in this venture?”
“Actually, very little. You see, Mr. Hickman, as we have explained to you several times, I run the government relations shop. Mr. Porter managed our international investments. But how does this relate to the bombing?”
“Mr. Talbott, Ms. Paulson.” Rachel started a bit at the mention. She had begun to think the two of them had forgotten she was there. “It seems that Mr. Porter may have left his Asian partner holding the bag on some bad debt. We are still sorting this out. But it appears that this partner, Joseph Cheung, saw a couple of his real estate ventures crater last month, triggering default clauses in the loan agreements. Then he disappeared. We’ve traced his movements to Washington on April 1. He was seen leaving the Mayflower Hotel early that morning, and we think he headed over here in a cab. We believe the bomb was on his lap in the cab in front of the garage when it detonated.”
“Joseph Cheung?” Talbott maintained perfect decorum, his bearing erect as ever. “You believe Mr. Cheung was responsible for all this?”
“Yes,” Hickman responded confidently, “that’s where we’re heading.”
“Cheung, a murderer?”
“Well, it may prove to be a crime of revenge.”
“Revenge?”
“Payback. We’ve had our sources trying to get more details out of Hong Kong this week. But frankly, the cooperation of the Hong Kong authorities comes only in fits and starts. Helpful one week, stonewalling the next. So the work has been quite challenging.”
“I see.”
“Mr. Hickman?” Rachel said. “May I ask a question?”
“Yes.” His soft eyes held her again.
“Are you sure you understand
who
they were trying to kill? The bomb went off right outside our main offices, where Mr. Talbott and I were due to be meeting. I mean, on your recommendation, I’ve had police around my house twenty-four hours a day ever since.”
“That’s right, ma’am. We appreciate your cooperation. And I certainly understand your concern.” His steady gaze calmed her. “But there’s evidence that Mr. Cheung had issues only with Mr. Porter. Mr. Cheung had suffered a series of business reversals in the Hong Kong real estate market. He apparently blamed Mr. Porter and his Hightower Fund for exacerbating a run on his capital. Cheung went to Tokyo before he came to Washington. He was erratic, drinking heavily, and ranting during his meetings with his Japanese bankers. Your Mr. Porter allegedly defrauded him, then pulled the rug out from under him with their partners in Tokyo. So we think we are pretty solid on motive.”
“I see.”
“It’s also clear that the bomb itself was targeted at personnel—there wasn’t a whole lot of structural damage beyond the entrance and the offices facing the street. It was
people
he was after.”
“So Alan was killed over money?” Talbott said. “What a horrid thought.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And. . . do you think we are safe now?” Rachel asked.
“Yes. Mr. Cheung was after just Porter, and was heading for his office. We plan to notify local jurisdictions over the course of the morning and withdraw the police protection. Sorry for the intrusion.”
Mr. Hickman stayed for a while, and the three shared a coffee, Rachel drinking deeply, craving the caffeine jolt. Talbott and Hickman reviewed how they would handle the release of information regarding the investigation’s wrap-up. Soon, the rest of Rachel’s first morning back was gone, lost to internal PR planning and to calculating discussions about who should be told what.
They were doing what the TPB team did best. They were shaping the news, sculpting content, spinning the murder of one of their own. Their PR team would blithely explain away the violence on their own doorstep.
So this was where it all led
, she thought.
This is how it would have ended for me—with a carefully massaged press release regretting my demise
.
When finally they broke just before the noon hour, Rachel found herself spent. No longer able to face her day, she felt compromised by the compulsion to flee.
She gave in. She rode the elevator down to her BMW and drove out the F Street garage, its entry covered with fresh whitewash. She turned left on Fifteenth Street, driving past the rows of Vietnamese-American tee-shirt vendors, all the way to Constitution Avenue. She drove down the Mall, past the White House and the Ellipse, rolling through the flashing yellow light at Twenty-Third, then pulling up the westbound ramp onto the Roosevelt Bridge. She hit the northbound merge onto the George Washington Parkway in a transfixed state, and drove right past her Spout Run exit.
Opening the sunroof, she saw now, for the first time, what a glorious spectacle this May day had become. Full green-leafed oaks lined a brilliant blue ribbon of water, several crews sculling in the river’s center. Every neck was strained, oars cocked, awaiting a signal from a small boat alongside. As she cruised past, the stillness was abruptly broken by a signal that sent the athletic bodies churning down river in a frenzy, all arms working together.
Rachel drove on in silence. She was an electronic runaway, her Blackberry turned off and stuffed in the glove compartment. She felt wild as she opened all the windows, breathing deeply again, letting the wind whip her hair and flatten her silk blouse against her chest.
She took the McLean exit and retreated south down Kirby Road through neighborhood streets toward home. She found the driveway once again empty; the police had apparently gotten the FBI call to withdraw.