by Dick Rosano
“How about if we skip the interrogation style?” I asked, a bit amused.
Alana’s right eyebrow raised as did the right corner of her lips, in a failed attempt to indicate surprise. Then she relaxed, raised her hand for a waiter, and resumed.
“Okay, one question at a time. What did your mother say about the name?”
“Nothing, I guess,” I replied, telling the waiter that I would have a glass of Blaufrankisch, a wine with deep color and great spice. “The name stuck, so it must have been alright with her.”
“And ‘Appalachian?’”
“It’s a rather beautiful area that refers mostly to the mountainous regions of the southeastern United States.”
“And it’s a style?” she asked.
I had to laugh.
“It’s a culture, so to speak. Let’s leave it at that.”
Alana switched the subject, telling me that her research had cleared me. She also commented that they matched Dryden’s fingerprints to the stolen laptop and notified Interpol that their file on Darren Priest had been corrupted.
“And you know,” she added, “you should carry a sidearm.”
“I was never very good about that,” I admitted.
“Good with the weapon? I thought you were a qualified expert on the Sig Sauer?”
I still wondered how much of my file she knew.
“No, good with carrying it,” I replied.
Our dishes began to arrive, including Alana’s wiener schnitzel. I ordered pork chops which came with a side of mashed potatoes and green beans. She finished off her martini and asked for a glass of champagne to go with the meal.
“So, what did you have to do in D.C.?” she asked.
“I said I had some business in the States. I didn’t say D.C.”
“Come on, Darren, do you think I don’t know where you went?”
“Is it going to be like this from now on? Will you always know where I am?”
At this, Alana only offered a wicked smile.
Chapter Thirty-Six
April 24
McLean, Virginia
In mid-morning, Ebert emerged from his bedroom still dressed in bathrobe and slippers and clomped down the steps to the main floor of his townhouse. He headed directly for the front door to get the newspaper from the sidewalk, following his daily routine. Along the way, he heard the television news from the other room as his wife followed her daily routine of watching the CNN morning “Breaking News.”
If anything had happened while they were asleep, she wanted to know immediately. Ebert had grown tired of the 24/7 news cycle, figuring that he always knew the headlines before they made it to print, so he could wait till he got to his office to be briefed by his staff. Unless his wife insisted on filling him in on the latest political news over eggs and bacon in their kitchen.
He pulled on the front door handle, swung the door wide, and stepped across the threshold and down the three brick steps to the sidewalk. The Washington Post was always delivered in a plastic bag even when it wasn’t raining, and Ebert, stooping over to retrieve the journal, pulled at the bag while still standing on the concrete. Slipping the multi-sectioned newspaper out of its bag, he unfolded it and read the headline above the fold:
“High government official implicated in investigation of girl’s body found in Bethesda.”
That bulletin was not on the nightly news by the time he had gone off to sleep. Below that bold print was another line in slightly smaller font.
“Police have identified a suspect.”
From the open door to his house, he could hear the news bulletins from the television speakers.
Ebert’s head was buzzing at what he saw of the headline. Then he heard his wife scream at the television. Police sirens could be heard a few blocks away and they were getting louder.
Another scream came from inside his house. Something like “Oh, my God,” but with much more colorful language. “That fucking bastard!”
He remained on the sidewalk and turned his attention to the first paragraph below the prompt:
“The investigation is moving swiftly. Police have not released any names but have collected evidence including photographs and a journal. Bindemann, a private school favored for decades by the moneyed class of Washington, has been implicated.”
The sirens were now accompanied by flashing lights as a police caravan swung onto his street. There were three cars, all with lights on, and a black Chevy Suburban in hot pursuit behind the other three cars. He knew that the first three were local Washington police. The Suburban had a more ominous look. That’s the vehicle normally used by the Secret Service.
For a moment, Ebert wondered whether the police and Secret Service were approaching in unison or in a race with each other.
He looked at them, then he turned toward his house to go inside. He decided that the best plan with all this going on was to get inside his house.
As Ebert walked up the steps, a shot rang out from the open doorway of his house. He stood motionless for a moment, with a stunned look on his face. The newspaper dropped from his hand as he looked down and, for a brief moment, he watched crimson-colored blood bubble out of a hole in his chest. A blood-red stain was already smearing across his bathrobe from the gaping wound.
“You fucking bastard!” rang out from the shadow of the doorway.
His wife stood there, her brow furrowed as much in panic as in anger, Eberts’ own Beretta APX Compact pistol in her right hand.
Seconds later, as the sound of screeching brakes brought the police cruisers to a halt in front of his house, Ebert slumped backward and tumbled onto the sidewalk.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
April 24
Chamber of the U. S. House of Representatives
I was sitting in the gallery of the U.S. House chamber, crowded in among the hundreds of guests quickly rounded up after President Pendleton announced his intention to address Congress. Members of the Senate and House were present but, unlike the more staged State of the Union address, this one did not include members of the Joint Chiefs, the Supreme Court, and Cabinet members.
The public announcement said that the President would be addressing pressing matters of policy, including his position on important legislative initiatives. It sounded like a standard speech, one that could be given to television cameras in the Oval Office, and not requiring the physical presence of all five hundred and thirty-five members of Congress. Not to mention the hordes of private citizens peering down from the rows of seats above.
For the first ten minutes, Pendleton stuck to the themes that were printed in the announcement, then he paused. It seemed like a theatrical pause at first, and he looked down at his papers. When he looked up, his voice was strong, and his eyes were red. His pause held the chamber spellbound; there was not a sound.
“I am, and have long been, deeply honored to be chosen to serve as President of the United States of America. Throughout my years of service, including as the Secretary of the Army and in my current position, I have tried to bring my best to the office every day, to represent the people of this great country with all my heart and all my soul. And I have tried to do so with honesty and in good faith.
“I have at times failed, in both honesty and good faith.
“For that, I ask your forgiveness and your patience as I now embark on a new path, one that I hope will raise the level of my service higher, one that will no longer require a plea for forgiveness and patience.
He paused and the people in the bowl of the chamber and the gallery above leaned forward.
“As all those who have preceded me in the Presidency will attest, the daily challenges and unrelenting pressures of the Oval Office can transform a person. The weak succumb to deflection and spurious self-defense; the strong lift their shoulders to the challenge and accept the transformation.
“I hope to be judged among the latter, and that my strength will serve the American people and my transformation will be regarded as appropriate f
or the times.”
Pendleton glanced at his notes, then up at the crowded room before him. Neither registered in his consciousness. He seemed to be considering his next words and plumbing the depths of his message extemporaneously without regard for prepared comments or the audience he faced.
“The politics of partisanship has been difficult for this great nation to manage, and the demands of a divided constituency have become nearly impossible to navigate. Compromises are generally viewed as positive but surrendering close-held values in the name of compromise – sometimes within the same party – still troubles the soul. To satisfy the political demands of partisan warfare, I…we…have been required to surrender some of these close-held values.
“To reach a deal,” and here the president paused, clearing his throat, “we have too often had to acquiesce to extreme sentiments, and extreme pressures, that would be better marginalized in our civil society.”
Again, Pendleton paused, looking up from his notes and away from the teleprompters to pan the faces of the crowd. He looked at the elected officials from both houses of Congress, nestled closely together in the rows before him, members of both parties separated by an ideological gap wider than the agendas that motivated the two groups. And he looked at the faces in the gallery above, the invited guests and family members who were granted access to his address. A long sigh escaped from his lips, and his eyelids dropped imperceptibly lower as an invisible cloud passed over his face.
His fingertips let go of the edge of the papers on the lectern; his eyes drifted away from the teleprompter and moved directly toward the crowd before him. He reached up and carefully withdrew his eyeglasses. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, then spread them slowly across his eyes. When he lowered his hand, his eyes were red. He looked tired.
After a brief moment of staring at the assembly, he replaced his glasses and resumed his speech.
“To acquit my duties and to serve my country…this country that I believe in with all my heart and soul…I have at times surrendered to convenience and influence. I have, at times, allowed threats to force me to give time and credit to the lesser angels of our nature.
“The greatest president in our nation’s long and lustrous history, Abraham Lincoln, advised us to tend to the ‘better angels of our nature.’ I am not to be compared to him on any level, but I will still take his advice as my solemn vow, and I reject here forward any unfair influences that cause me to violate the trust that the American people have placed in me. In order to be successful in this, I must disavow the influence of my party, and of those within it who believe they can use me to carry out their private agendas.
“Although I stand here as the President of all Americans, it is by tradition and organization that I am also the leader of the party that elected me. The Republican Party.
“Once called the Grand Old Party with its devotion to temperate spending, conservative social values, and compassion for the underserved among our people, the divisions within the party have now grown so deep, and so wide, that there is no longer anything grand about the Ol’ Party.
“What were once bedrock principles of the GOP now seem like sugary ornaments on a once-great organization. We can – I can – no longer count on the morality of the party nor its commitment to compassionate conservatism, a heart-wrenching realization that makes me reconsider all the principles that I brought to this office and to this party, but which I now conclude have been abandoned by it.”
Murmurs in the chamber could be heard.
“It is, therefore, time to collect the wisdom that comes with contemplation and apply the lessons learned from it. And so it is, at this moment in time, that I announce that I will resign my affiliation with my current political party. I will serve out my term as an independent, and I will not seek re-nomination in the coming campaign.”
I was among those who stood at the announcement. Some people beside me rose to their feet in surprise, many rose in excitement. The applause from the rows of spectators drowned out the presiding officer’s gaveled attempt to restore order, but was matched by a similar uproar in the seats below filled to capacity with members of the Senate and House who were taken in complete surprise by the announcement and who couldn’t restrain the gasps and vocalization that spontaneously erupted.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
April 24
Julius Meinl
Thomas Adrian came through the doors to DFR-Wien and approached Bao Chinh standing in the lobby.
“Hi, I’m Tom Adrian. I’d like to open an account here. A checking and savings account. Personal. Not business.”
“Let me help you,” Chinh replied, guiding Adrian over to the counter in the middle of the lobby where there were forms to be filled out.
“Complete this form,” he said to Adrian, retrieving a slip of paper from the row of baskets on the counter, “and hand it in to the teller.”
“Thank you,” said Adrian, then, “Excuse me, are you Mr. Bao Chinh?”
“Uh, yes, I am. Again, sir, your name?”
“Thomas Adrian. I’m the new Chargé d’Affaires for the American Embassy. I just arrived today.”
“Oh, yes. I know the Ambassador. Nice lady.”
“Oh, well, actually, Ms. Frontiere is no longer there,” Adrian said. “She had to return home suddenly. She left last night. Family issues, actually. But you are Mr. Chinh, yes?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
Adrian reached into the pocket of his suit coat and withdrew an envelope. He handed it to Chinh who read the writing on the cover. It was addressed to Mr. Bao Chinh, DFR-Wien, Vienna, Austria.
“What is this?” he asked, looking up from the envelope to Adrian.
“I don’t know exactly. I was asked to deliver it to you.”
“By whom?”
“A friend,” said Adrian, who then turned toward the teller to open his accounts.
Chinh opened the envelope and found within it a single piece of note paper. On it was written:
Frederick “Freddie” Hughes (Sergeant, E5, U.S. Army)
Army Munitions Specialist
Tour of Duty in Vietnam: May 1974 – April 1975
Rotated back to the United States: April 29, 1975
Honorable Discharge from Army: May 5, 1975
Current residence: Little Rock, Arkansas
Chapter Thirty-Nine
April 25
Willard Hotel, Washington, D.C.
I lifted my backpack and slung it over my left shoulder. It’s a career-long habit, hoisting the weight to my left side and leaving my right hand free for combat, if necessary. With one more look around the hotel room, I walked out, down the hallway, and into the elevator lobby.
President Pendleton had set up this room in the Willard Hotel, just a block from the White House. I lived just outside the city, but he wanted me in the gallery the night of his announcement and wanted to make sure I had a hotel room to retire to – a present, of sorts – instead of having to drive home.
The elevator doors opened onto the lobby with its high faux marble columns and vaulted ceiling. As I checked out, I was informed that the bill had already been paid by an unidentified donor. So, I turned toward the exit with a slight smile and a memory of the historic event that I had witnessed the evening before. I thought about Pendleton’s early life. He was a reprobate, of sorts, as a teenager. Not unlike many other rich kids with too much money and too little parental attention. But his offense involved touching and fondling the girl, also not unlike the behavior of other teenage boys of the time. He wasn’t a rapist or a murderer, though.
Just as I walked around the perimeter of the sitting area of the lobby, I stopped suddenly when I saw Alana relaxing on one of the deep-cushioned couches there.
Smiling, I approached her, lowered the backpack from my shoulder and sat down.
“What are you doing here?”
She smiled back and her gaze swung toward another couch across from her. Followin
g her eyes, I saw a little girl sitting there, smiling broadly, and swinging her legs back and forth from the cushions that kept her feet far from the floor.
“This is Kia,” said Alana, “my daughter. I thought it was time that she saw Washington, D.C.”
At the introduction, I stood, covered the few feet to the other couch and sat beside the little girl. Not the least bit shy, she held out her hand and introduced herself.
“I’m Kia. Well, actually, my name is Chiara, but you can call me Kia,” shaking my hand in a friendly, though small-handed clasp. I looked over at Alana before replying.
“Her father was Italian,” Alana said.
I held the hand of the little girl and now looked into her eyes and smiling face.
“My name is Darren, but you can call me Darren,” I said playfully.
“Hey, that’s the same thing!” she replied with a small-child’s laugh.
Acknowledgments
Only one name may appear on the cover of a book, but few books are written without the input, support, and advice of many people. I owe much to Linda and Kristen, for believing in me and for tolerating all the stories that I have told over the years that ended up compiled in this, and other, works.
I am also indebted to Don Oldenburg, a good friend and my indefatigable editor, whose suggestions put a shine on my storytelling and whose belief and support kept me focused on the task at hand.
About the Author
Dick Rosano’s writing career has spanned three decades, including long-running columns appearing in The Washington Post, Wine Enthusiast, Country Inns Magazine, United Airlines Hemispheres magazine, and many other nationally distributed publications. He has been a featured commenter – in print and in person – around the world. He has lectured at the Smithsonian Institution, the American Institute of Food and Wine, Johns Hopkins University, University of Maryland, and at many conferences in the United States, Europe, and South America. His lectures have been heard by many international audiences, including as a featured speaker on Viking Cruise Lines.