The Machiavelli Covenant

by Allan Folsom

  That part he was familiar with because it was a piece of the story she had told him when she'd called him in Manchester and asked him to come.

  "The fever came less than a day after I woke up in the clinic," she'd said. "It got worse and they did tests. A white-haired man came, they said he was a specialist but I didn't like him. Everything about him frightened me. The way he stared at me. The way he touched my face and my legs with his long, hideous fingers; and that horrid thumb with its tiny balled cross. I asked him why he was there and what he was doing but he never answered. Later they discovered I had some kind of staph infection in the bone of my right leg. They tried to treat it with antibiotics. But they didn't work. Nothing worked."

  Marten walked on. The rain came down harder but he barely noticed. His entire focus was Caroline. They had met in high school and entered the same college certain they would marry and have children and be together for the rest of their lives. And then she had gone away for the summer and met a young lawyer named Mike Parsons. After that, his life and hers changed forever. But as deep as his hurt, as badly as he had been wounded, his love for her never diminished. In time he and Mike became friends, and he told Mike what Caroline and only a few others knew—who he really was and why he had been forced to leave his job as a homicide detective in the Los Angeles Police Department and move to the north of England to live under an assumed identity as a landscape architect.

  He wished now he had gone to the funeral of her husband and son as he'd wanted to. Because if he had he would have been there when she'd broken down and when Dr. Stephenson had come. But he hadn't, and that had been Caroline's doing. She had told him she was surrounded by friends and that her sister and husband were coming from their home in Hawaii, and that, considering the danger surrounding his own situation, it was better he stayed where he was. They would get together later, she'd told him. Later, when things had quieted down. She'd sounded alright then. Shaken maybe, but alright, and with the inner strength to carry on that she'd always had. And then all this had happened.

  God, how he had loved her. How he still loved her. How he would always love her.

  He walked on thinking only that. Finally, he became aware of the rain and realized he was nearly soaked through. He knew he had to find his way back to his hotel and looked around trying to get his bearings. That was when he saw it. A lighted edifice in the distance. A structure embedded in his memory from childhood, from history, from newspapers, from television, from movies, from everything. The White House.

  At that same moment the tragic loss of Caroline caught up with him. And against the rain and the dark, and with no shame whatsoever, he wept.

  MONDAY

  APRIL 3

  4

  • 8:20 P.M.

  It was still overcast and drizzling.

  Nicholas Marten sat behind the wheel of the rental car parked just down and across the street from Dr. Lorraine Stephenson's Georgetown residence. The three-story house, in this leafy, upscale neighborhood, was dark. If anyone was home they were either already asleep or in a room to the rear. Marten chose to assume neither. He had been there for more than two hours. Someone asleep would have had to have gone to bed about 6:30. Possible, of course, but unlikely. Alternatively, over that same two hours, someone in a room to the rear would most likely have left it for one reason or another: to go to the toilet, another room, the kitchen, something; and because of the time of day and the dreariness of the weather that person in all probability would have turned on a light to illuminate their way. So common sense told him Dr. Stephenson had not yet come home. Which was why he was waiting. And would continue to do so until she did.

  * * *

  How many times that day had he taken the note from his jacket pocket and read it? At this point he could quote it from memory.

  I, Caroline Parsons, give Nicholas Marten of Manchester, England, full access to all of my personal papers, including my medical records, and to the personal papers of my late husband, United States Congressman Michael Parsons of California.

  The note—typed, signed in a shaky scrawl by Caroline, then dated, witnessed, and stamped and signed by notary public—had been delivered to Marten that morning at his hotel. The day and date of its writing and the timing of its delivery were telling. This was Monday, April 3. Caroline had called him in Manchester late in the day on Thursday, March 30, asking him to come, and he'd left for Washington the following morning. Her letter had been written and notarized that same day, Friday, March 31, but he had known nothing about it until this morning. On Friday she had still been lucid, and knowing her time was short and unsure that he would get there before she died, had called for a notary and had the piece done. Yet he had known nothing of its existence and it had not been delivered until after her death.

  "That was as she wished, as I wrote you, Mr. Marten," Caroline's attorney, Richard Tyler, told him over the phone when he called to inquire about it. Tyler's cover letter had informed him that Caroline's letter was indeed valid. Just how far the authority she had given him might go if challenged in a court of law was difficult to say. Nonetheless it remained a legal document and Marten could use it as he chose. "Only you would know her intentions for writing it, Mr. Marten, but I take it that you were a very close and dear friend and she trusted you implicitly."

  "Yes," Marten had said, thanking Tyler for his help and asking if he could call on him later if legal questions arose, before hanging up. Clearly Caroline had not discussed her suspicions or fears with her attorney, which probably meant she had shared them with no one but him. That the delivery of the letter had been delayed until after her death would have given Marten an opportunity to reflect and to see how very serious she had been about her allegations that she and her husband and her son had been murdered. The letter and the timing were everything, designed with the sense that Marten might not fully believe her allegations because of her physical and mental state, but knowing too that if he did, he would do everything he could to find out about them.

  He would do it because of what they'd meant to each other for so many years, regardless of the divergent roads their lives had taken. He would do it too because of who he was and what he was made of. The letter would help convince him she'd been right. It would also help open some doors that might otherwise have remained shut.

  • 8:25 P.M.

  Headlights suddenly reflected in Marten's rearview mirror and he watched a car come down the street behind him. As it drew nearer he could see that it was a dark late-model Ford. The car slowed as it approached Stephenson's home then moved on past, turning at the end of the block. For a moment he thought it might have been the doctor herself, but if it had been she'd changed her mind and kept on going. It made him wonder if maybe she wanted to return to her house but was afraid to. If so, it underscored the reason he was there and went hand in hand with what had happened earlier when he'd tried to get in touch with her.

  He'd phoned her office twice that morning. Both times he'd explained to the receptionist that he'd been a close friend of Caroline Parsons and that he wanted to discuss Caroline's illness with Dr. Stephenson. Each time he'd been told the doctor was with patients and would return his call later. By noon there had been no response.

  After the lunch hour he'd called again. Still the doctor was not available. This time he asked that Stephenson be told that if she was reluctant to discuss Mrs. Parsons's situation she need not worry because he had the lawful authority to access her medical records. His tone had been wholly businesslike and was meant to ease any professional concerns Stephenson might have had. In truth, despite Caroline's letter and what she had told him, he had no tangible reason to believe there had been foul play. Caroline had been terminally ill and under enormous stress and life would have seemed desperately hopeless and cruel any way she looked at it. Nonetheless, the letter existed and the questions lingered, and so until he was wholly convinced Caroline had been wrong, he would continue to pursue it.

  What surprised him, w
hat turned him and made him sit waiting in the dark outside Stephenson's home, had come at ten minutes to four in the afternoon, when the phone rang in his hotel room.

  "This is Dr. Stephenson," she'd said, her voice flat and without emotion.

  "Thanks for calling back," Marten had said evenly. "I was a close friend of Caroline Parsons. You and I met briefly in her hospital room."

  "What can I do for you?" she pressed; this time her voice had an impatient edge.

  "I would like to talk to you about the circumstances surrounding Caroline's illness and the cause of her death."

  "I'm sorry, there are privacy issues. It is not something I can discuss."

  "I understand, doctor, but I have been given legal access to all of her papers, her medical records included."

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Marten," she said sharply, "there is nothing I can do to help you. Please don't call again." Abruptly she hung up.

  Marten remembered standing there, the receiver still in his hand. Like that, he'd been shut down and shut off. What it meant was that if he wanted to see Caroline's medical records he would have to go through an entire legal process and then months and perhaps thousands of dollars in legal fees later, he might or might not get to see them. Even if he did—especially if Caroline had been right and there had been foul play—how could he be sure that the records he had been given access to had not been tampered with?

  From his own past experience he knew that investigators who took no for an answer and went home rarely got any answers at all. The detectives who stayed in the game and pressed it, who sometimes didn't go home for days were the ones who got the resolutions they were looking for. It was why he knew what he had to do next. Get to Dr. Stephenson right away and ask her point-blank if she thought Caroline had been murdered.

  It was an approach that more often than not got some kind of concrete response. Usually it came in the way a question was answered, a hesitation or an awkward wording of a phrase, or by the person's eye movement or body language, sometimes by all three. Rarely did someone involved with a crime not somehow give themselves away. Proving it, of course, was something else. But that was not his purpose now, only to get some sense that Caroline had been right, that she had deliberately been given some kind of toxin that had killed her. And if she had, to see if Dr. Stephenson had personally been involved.

  5

  Lorraine Stephenson had called him at ten minutes to four. By four twenty he had walked the several blocks from his hotel to George Washington University Hospital. At four twenty-five he was in the hospital's medical staff office talking to the woman behind the desk. Once again his experience as a homicide detective served him well. Doctors who regularly work at a hospital are registered with that institution's medical board and their personal records are kept on file in the medical staff office. Because she had visited Caroline at University Hospital, Marten expected Dr. Stephenson would have formal medical privileges there and consequently her personal records would be on file in the medical staff office. Assuming that, he'd simply told the woman at the desk that Dr. Stephenson had been recommended to him as a possible family physician and he would like some professional information about her—where she had gone to medical school, done her residency, that kind of thing. In response the woman had brought Stephenson's file up on her computer screen. As she did, Marten looked around the room and saw a large box of facial tissues on a filing cabinet several feet behind her. Stifling a sneeze and saying he had caught a cold in the rainy weather, he asked if he might have a tissue. It took the woman ten seconds to get up from her desk and walk with her back to him to retrieve the box of tissues. It took Marten seven seconds to step around her desk, look at her computer screen, scroll down, and retrieve what he needed. Three minutes later he left the office with a handful of tissues and the knowledge that Dr. Lorraine Stephenson was divorced, had graduated from Johns Hopkins University Medical School, had done her residency at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York City, kept professional offices at the Georgetown Medical Building, and lived at 227 Dumbarton Street, in the city's Georgetown section.

  • 8:27 P.M.

  Again Marten saw lights in his mirror. A car approached and then passed. Where was she? Out to dinner, to a movie, some kind of professional conference? Suddenly he thought of Stephenson's tone and manner, heard her words as she'd ended their conversation.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Marten," she'd said sharply, "there is nothing I can do to help you. Please don't call again." Then she'd hung up.

  Maybe there was more there than he'd thought. Maybe what he'd heard as cold aloofness had really been fear. What if Caroline had been murdered and Stephenson had been involved or had even done it herself? And then he'd telephoned her saying he had a legal document giving him access to Caroline's medical records and that he wanted to talk about her illness and the cause of her death. If Stephenson had been involved, what if she had returned his call and put him off simply to buy time so that she could cut and run? What if at this moment she was on her way out of the city?

  • 8:29 P.M.

  Another vehicle came down the street behind him. It began to slow as it neared Stephenson's home and Marten saw that it was the same Ford that had slowed minutes before. This time it slowed even more, as if whoever was in the car was trying to see inside the house, to determine if a light or lights had been turned on, an indication that the doctor had come home.

  No sooner had it moved past, than it abruptly sped up and drove off. As it did, Marten caught sight of the driver. A chill touched his neck and ran down his spine. It was the same man who had been driving the car that had so slowly passed him near the Washington Monument the night before.

  What the hell is this? Marten thought. Coincidence? Maybe. But if it's not, then what is it? And what does he want with Dr. Stephenson?

  • 8:32 P.M.

  Marten saw a car turn at the end of the block and start down the street toward him. As it neared he could see it was a taxi. Like the other car it slowed as it reached Stephenson's home, then it stopped. A moment later the rear door opened and Dr. Stephenson got out. She closed the door and the taxi drove off, then she started for the house. At the same time Marten stepped from his rental car.

  "Dr. Stephenson," he called out.

  She started and looked back.

  "It's Nicholas Marten, Caroline Parsons's friend," he said. "I'd like a few minutes of your time."

  Stephenson stared at him for the briefest moment then suddenly turned and walked hurriedly down the sidewalk away from her house.

  "Dr. Stephenson!" Marten called again and went after her.

  His feet touched the far curb and he saw her glance back. Her eyes were wide and filled with fear.

  "I mean you no harm," he said loudly. "Please, just a moment of your—"

  She turned back and kept on. Marten followed. Suddenly she broke into a run. So did Marten. He saw her pass under a streetlight and then disappear in darkness beyond. He ran faster. In a moment he was under the streetlight and then in the darkness. He didn't see her. Where the hell was she? Another twenty feet and he had his answer, she was standing there watching him come. He stopped.

  "I just want to talk to you, please, nothing else," he said, then took a step forward.

  "Don't."

  It was then he saw the small automatic in her hand.

  "What's that for?" He looked up from the gun and saw her eyes locked on his. If before he had seen fear, he now saw cold resolve. "Put the gun down," he said firmly. "Put the gun on the ground and step back from it."

  "You want to send me to the doctor," she said quietly, her stare unwavering. "But you never will. None of you ever will." She paused and he could see her trying to decide something. Then she spoke again, her words deliberate and clearly enunciated. "Never. Ever."

  She was still staring at him when she shoved the barrel of the automatic into her mouth and pulled the trigger. There was a loud pop. The back of her skull exploded and her body dropped like a stone to the pavemen
t.

  "Jesus, God," Marten breathed in horror and disbelief.

  A heartbeat later his senses caught up with him, and he turned in the dark and ran from the scene. In ninety seconds he was in his rental car turning off Dumbarton and down Twenty-ninth Street. Stephenson's suicide was the last thing he had expected and it had unnerved him. It had been an act clearly done out of sheer terror and came about as close to confirming that Caroline had been right as you could get, that she had been murdered. Moreover, it made him believe Caroline's other allegation was true as well, that the plane crash killing her husband and son had been no accident.

  Right now all of those things faded to the background. The important thing was that he not be caught in the middle of it. There had been nothing he could do for Stephenson, and a call to 911 for help could well have forced him into a situation where he would have to identify himself to the police. They would want to know why he was there. Why she had shot herself in front of him on a darkened sidewalk several hundred yards away from her house. Why his rental car was parked just across the street from it.

  What if someone, a neighbor maybe, had seen him sitting in the car and then confronting Stephenson when she came home and following her when she ran off down the street? The questions would be nagging and ugly. He had no proof of anything Caroline had said and if he told the truth his story would seem incredible at best and the police would probe deeper. All he needed was for them to begin doubting who he was and look into it. If they did they might well open the door to the past, one that could turn loose the dark forces in the Los Angeles Police Department still hunting him. Men who hated him for what had happened in L.A. those not-so-many years ago and were still trying to track him down and kill him. It meant he had to keep as far away from all this as possible yet still remain close enough to stay on top of it.