Could Senator Rawley give them a preview of what he was going to say?
Had he heard the rumor that the president might drop out of the race?
The last question made Del smile.
“No, I didn’t hear that one.”
The president went on the air at 7:30 Eastern time from the White House press room. He made the disclosure that the Justice Department had received an anonymous tip that the shots fired at Senator Rawley in Chicago and at one of the Secret Service agents protecting him in Los Angeles were hoaxes designed to elicit sympathy for the candidacy of Senator Rawley. The weapon, previously believed to be an M-100 sniper rifle, had been shown to come from neither the armories of the navy SEALs nor any of the factories of McLellan Munitions, Inc. The FBI was already hard at work investigating the allegation of fraud, the president said.
He continued, saying that he was making this news public only because he considered the situation a crisis for American democracy. The possibility that a deceit of historic proportion might influence the outcome of a presidential election had persuaded him that the American people must be told.
A reporter asked the president if there was the slightest bit of corroborating evidence for such an outrageous allegation against Senator Rawley.
The president replied that he was not accusing Senator Rawley of having any complicity in or knowledge of such a plot, if it existed. The president said political partisans often took measures of which candidates were un aware.
But what evidence was there that Rawley supporters might be behind such a scandalous deception? The president said that there was no evidence against specific individuals, but what made the allegation impossible to ignore or to keep quiet was that it squared completely with the fact that the FBI had been unable to find any trace of a real assassin.
Could that be because the assassin, while not yet successful, had been better at his job than the FBI had been at theirs? The president bristled at the suggestion and told the reporter that was an interpretation of events he would never make.
“Mr. President, how would you feel about having your campaign investigated at this point in the race?”
“In Senator Rawley’s place,” the president said, “I would welcome such an investigation.”
In San Diego, Jenny gave the finger to the president’s image on a TV monitor.
As soon as the president was off the air, Del went on. CBS magnanimously made their feed available to all the other networks at Del’s suggestion. Del’s old friend from Wisconsin asked simply, “Senator Rawley, what is your response to what the president has said this morning?”
“My response is simply this: Mr. President, I invite you to join me for the rest of the campaign. Let us make joint appearances all across our great country. Let there be no public venue where one of us is seen without the other. If I truly have nothing to fear, then you have nothing to fear by appearing with me. In fact, sir, I don’t see how you could possibly fail to accept my invitation. Because if you do, you will automatically undercut the credibility of the allegation you say the Justice Department has received. The allegation you deemed so important that it compelled you to speak to the nation. And by campaigning together, Mr. President, you’ll have the opportunity to investigate my campaign firsthand. Perhaps you’ll be able to ferret out the culprit behind such an act of ignominy… should such a culprit exist outside the imagination of your partisans.”
The other anchor asked Del if there was any precedent for major presidential candidates campaigning together.
“Actually, there is. John Kennedy and Barry Goldwater planned to do it in 1964. The idea was that they would travel together from town to town. At one stop, Kennedy would speak first and Goldwater would rebut. At the next town, each man would take the opposite role. I would be very happy to offer the same arrangement to the president.”
“But that plan was obviously never put into effect—” “Because President Kennedy was assassinated,” Del completed the thought.
“But neither the president nor I should have to worry about that if the man who shot at me is just a prankster.”
Jenny smiled grimly. She had come up with the story about Kennedy and Goldwater. Now, if the president refused to accept Del’s invitation—his challenge—it would show not only that he was afraid but also that he didn’t measure up to a major hero from each party.
“On the other hand,” Del continued, “perhaps the president remembers Anton Cermak.”
“I’m sorry, Senator,” the anchor replied.
“You’ll have to help me with that one.
“Anton Cermak was the mayor of Chicago. In 1933 he attended a political rally in Miami and had the honor to sit in an open car next to my namesake, Franklin Delano Roosevelt. A man jumped out of the crowd that was watching the president motor by and fired a shot at Roosevelt. He missed the president but the shot struck Mayor Cermak… who died of his wound.”
“You think the president should worry about something similar happening to him if he campaigns with you?”
“No, not if he believes the allegation of a hoax he felt it was his
duty to share with the country.” Del looked directly into the camera.
“On the other hand, let’s see how he responds to my invitation. The phone lines are open, Mr. President.”
DeVito jumped when the phone rang in the coffin-sized office he was using at the Federal Building in San Diego. He’d been hunched over a computer for hours in unfamiliar surroundings, and he wasn’t expecting a call. He reached for the receiver with suspicion, as if it might explode in his hand.
It didn’t, and the caller, an agent with Orpheus’ protection detail, had good news. The candidate had spoken with the director and DeVito still had a job. But everyone was leaving for Costa Mesa in an hour. So haul ass back to the hotel.
DeVito hung up and slipped the printouts of the work he’d done over the past several hours into a binder. The life and times of Garvin Townes. Public records of his early life and education were easy to come by. The man had been born and raised in Lawrence, Kansas, and came from a locally prominent family. Townes had gone off to Yale, and after graduating he took a job with an international construction firm, Amcon, Inc. Townes’ starting position had been that of a troubleshooter. Two years later his job description had been changed to termination consultant.
Given the man’s connection to J. D. Cade—the long-distance shooter-termination might take on a very sinister meaning.
But, to all outward appearances, Townes was an upstanding citizen. Had joined the National Guard in Virginia, where he had his official residence.
Got called up and sent to Vietnam—as a captain. Okay, maybe he got a big leg up because he was an Ivy League grad. But within a year he was a major and the next year a full colonel. DeVito had heard of rapid battlefield promotions, but Townes was supposed to have been in a warehouse in Saigon keeping the guys who parceled out socks and jocks from robbing the store blind. Something wasn’t kosher about his army career.
Especially when DeVito saw he’d stayed over there for five years. Gung-ho combat lifers hadn’t stayed that long. And a guy with a Yale sheepskin had found a career in Pilferage and Inventory Control? PANIC, they’d called it. Yeah, must’ve been a real scream, DeVito thought sourly. A million laughs to stay in that goddamn country so long.
Then Townes had left the army in ‘72 and… disappeared. There was no record of him even being alive until he showed up where? In the Treasury Department. Head of Departmental Internal Management and Oversight.
DEIMOS. Which DeVito had just looked up in a reference database
because it sounded sort of familiar. The monitor in front of his weary eyes told him Deimos was one of the two moons of Mars.
Maybe that was where Townes had been hiding all those years, DeVito thought.
A link on the screen offered to call up further references for the word. DeVito wasn’t sure it was worth the effort. He’d been told to hustle back to the campaign. The circus was about to leave town. He got up from the desk and headed toward the door, but he stopped, thinking he’d better not leave the computer on; somebody might come along and see what he’d been doing.
The thing to do was go back to the starting menu and shut the machine down.
But when he got back to the desk his hand reached out for the mouse, almost of its own accord, and clicked on the link for further references. Up came a screen that informed him that in Greek mythology, Deimos was the son of Mars, the god of war.
Below that, in small type he had to blink to see, was one last reference.
Deimos was Greek for “panic.”
J. D. had gone back to bed to catch up on his sleep and managed to get another three hours. After a stingingly cold shower, he felt relatively rested and alert. Room service brought breakfast, and he was done eating and dressed by 6:30.
He accessed Pickpocket’s private chat room, hoping that the little thief might have…
Bingol You wanted to know about Townes? You think having his autobiography might help? It’s called “In the Defense of Liberty.” Instructions to Townes’ lawyer say it’s to be published fifty years after his death. The damn thing was protected by safeguards that took Red and me all night to figure out. Great fun! Hope this helps you fuck the people who had me shot.
J. D. quickly downloaded the attached file and started to read with his heart pounding.
The first thing he noticed was that the manuscript had an index. He quickly scanned it… and found his name. Continuing on, he found a reference for Alvy McCray, and for the PANIC unit.
J. D. had no doubt that Pickpocket had read at least the material that pertained to him. Most likely Red had, too. Little by little his secrets were slipping away from him. But in this case, he felt sure they wouldn’t go any farther. After all, Pickpocket wouldn’t have met his new girlfriend or even be alive to continue plying his trade if not
for J. D. Besides, when you’d learned somebody you knew had killed people, you probably didn’t want to get on his bad side.
But J. D.‘s feelings for the little thief and his friend were overwhelmingly positive just then.
They’d given him the key to get out ofTownes’ trap without having to kill anyone.
He was still reading when the phone rang and Jenny asked him to return to Del Rawley’s suite immediately.
J. D. said he’d be right there, but he took the time to assign a password to Townes’ memoirs. Then he shut down the computer and locked it in his suite’s safe. Another pair of Secret Service agents escorted him to Del Rawley’s suite.
“They’re waiting for you, Mr. Cade,” said one of the agents at the door.
J. D. entered the room where the Rawley brain trust had gathered around a large-screen TV. Jenny spotted him and told him to hurry over. J. D. picked up his step and stood behind the sofa on which Del Rawley sat.
The candidate looked up over his shoulder at J. D. and said, “We’re about to see how your strategy played at the White House, Mr. Cade.”
The TV showed the press room at the executive mansion. The lectern was unmanned. Then the president’s press secretary strode into the room and stepped behind it.
He began without preamble.
“The president has instructed me to inform you that he accepts Senator Rawley’s invitation to campaign with him. The president’s campaign manager, Mr. Ronald Turlock, will be calling the senator campaign manager, Ms. Jennifer Crenshaw, as soon as I’ve completed my remarks.”
The Rawley suite erupted in cheers. Del looked up at J. D. and grinned.
Special Agent DeVito slipped into the suite, noticed only by his colleagues.
“The president, furthermore, will make the gracious first gesture of altering his schedule to meet Senator Rawley in Los Angeles tomorrow. There he hopes to sit down with the senator and successfully negotiate an itinerary that will meet the needs of both candidates. I have no further information at this time and I will be taking no questions.”
Which, of course, didn’t keep the newsies from screaming a blizzard of questions at the press secretary anyway. The din died when Del Rawley clicked off the set—just in time to hear the phone ring.
“I believe that’s for me,” Jenny said.
“I’ll take it in the next room.”
The candidate stood and extended his hand to J. D. “Thank you, Mr.
Cade. You’ve done me another service.”
Unaware of all that had transpired in the hours he’d spent in the federal building, DeVito watched Cade shake hands with the candidate. Once again he’d come back to find that the man he was increasingly sure was an assassin had turned out to be a hero.
He just couldn’t under-DeVito saw Roth enter the room. Roth’s features were impassive, all except for his eyes. His eyes—looking squarely at J. D. Cade—blazed with hatred.
No, even that was not adequate to describe what Roth was feeling. It was something more. It was… betrayal.
In a moment of revelation, DeVito was suddenly sure he knew what was happening.
Cade, the guy from PANIC, was supposed to be working for Roth, the guy from DEIMOS. But he’d turned on Roth. Fuck, he’d s/io( Roth’s partner, Danby. Maybe he was even going to go after Roth himself.
DeVito made sure his own face was a mask as Roth approached. At first he thought Roth was coming to say something to him, but the prick didn’t give him so much as a glance, just walked up to Orpheus and asked if he expected to depart according to schedule.
DeVito thought Roth was clearly a man with a lot on his mind… like maybe he’d have to kill Orpheus if Cade wasn’t going to do the job.
The only other person in the room who noticed Roth’s mute rage was Donnel Timmons.
Blair McCray’s pickup truck pulled up in front of Belle Cade’s house on Lark Lane. He’d brought Evan home from the hospital. After talking with Chief Billy Edwards in the morgue last night, the two lawmen had gone up to Evan’s room. There the chief had watched and then taken possession of the digital video disc that Pru Laney had made for Evan.
Evan had already copied the confession to his hard disk.