Conspiracy

by Stephen Coonts

  Poof.

  McSweeney gurgled something. One of the nurses jumped over, checking the monitors.

  “Where am I?” muttered the senator.

  “You’re at the hospital,” said Jimmy Fingers.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” McSweeney asked.

  “What am I doing?” Jimmy Fingers felt his anger rise. “I’m watching out for you, the way I always do.”

  McSweeney shook his head.

  I ought to kill you right now and be done with it, thought Jimmy Fingers.

  Two large men in suits, obviously members of the Secret Service, parted the curtains at the front of the room.

  “You’re Fahey?” one asked.

  “I am,” said Jimmy Fingers. “What’s up?”

  “The President is on his way.”

  “What the hell is he doing here?” said Jimmy Fingers.

  The agent couldn’t have looked more shocked if Jimmy Fingers had turned into a butterfly.

  “We don’t want the President here,” said Jimmy Fingers.

  “What are you saying, Jimmy?” asked McSweeney.

  “Senator, the President is on his way,” said the Secret Service agent. “One of the chief of staff’s assistants should be here momentarily. The President will be along right after that.”

  “We don’t want him here, Gideon,” Jimmy Fingers told the senator. “He’s using this for political gain.”

  “The President can go anywhere he wants,” said McSweeney. “I’m touched that he’s concerned.”

  “He’s not concerned,” snapped Jimmy Fingers. “Not about you. This is all part of some setup.”

  “My God, Jimmy, give it a rest. Let the President come if he wants. I’m dying here.”

  THE PRESIDENT’S CHIEF of staff had located the head of the surgical team that had operated on McSweeney. The doctor and two of his assistants were standing in a small waiting area just outside the recovery room.

  “Mr. President, this is an honor,” said the surgeon. “I wish it were under different circumstances.”

  “How’s your patient?”

  “Doing very well, considering the circumstances,” said the doctor. “He’s conscious. Some of his people are with him.”

  “Can I speak with him?”

  “By all means.”

  They started walking down the hall. Dean stayed close to the President, buttressed by two burly Secret Service agents. There were armed federal marshals on both ends of the hall, and all the rooms in between had been vacated.

  “Charlie, can you talk?” asked Rubens in his ear.

  Dean took a few steps away and pulled out his sat phone, pretending to use it.

  “Dean.”

  “There’s a possibility that the person who set up the assassination on McSweeney was a member of his staff,” said Rubens. “It may have been his aide, James Fahey, also known as Jimmy Fingers. We’re in the process of informing the Secret Service right now. Fahey may be at the hospital. If so, it would be a good idea to apprehend him there now. He needs to be questioned.”

  “All right,” said Dean, noticing that the President was heading into the recovery room.

  JIMMY FINGERS HAD always prided himself on his ability to keep cool under difficult circumstances, but this moment was more trying than most. It wasn’t bad enough that Marcke had ended McSweeney’s career; now he was going to rub it in by using the assassination attempt to bolster his own image.

  It was almost too much to handle. It was too much to handle, but Jimmy Fingers couldn’t do anything about it. He was trapped in the room as the President came in, surrounded by his bodyguards and aides.

  Damn all these bastards, thought Jimmy Fingers. Damn them all.

  DEAN PULLED ASIDE Freehan, the Secret Service agent in charge of the presidential detail.

  “Which one of these guys is James Fahey?” Dean asked.

  “The senator’s aide?”

  “We have to talk to him.”

  “What?” Freehan put his hand to his ear, listening to a message. Then he looked back at Dean. “You sure about this, Dean?”

  “Yeah.”

  The Secret Service agent turned abruptly and strode into the recovery room. Dean followed. A short, wiry man stood near the senator’s bedside, glaring at the President, who was just bending over at the right side of the bed.

  “Down!” shouted Freehan.

  JIMMY FINGERS REALIZED the moment he saw the Secret Service agent’s glower that they had figured it all out.

  Somehow, they had figured it all out.

  And then they were rushing at him, and he did the only thing he could do under the circumstances—he pulled his pistol from his pocket.

  CHARLIE DEAN SAW Jimmy Fingers start to pull something from his pocket. He launched himself at the man, flying through the air like a guided missile.

  Something cracked below Dean about midway across the room, but he continued onward, elbow and forearm up. He caught Jimmy Fingers in the neck and they fell back toward the wall. There were two more loud cracks, and Dean felt incredible pain.

  He flailed, unable for some reason to form his fingers into fists, unable to kick with his legs or do anything else but grind his upper body into the other man’s. There were shouts all around him, and another crack. Jimmy Fingers pushed up, and then his face exploded, a few inches from Dean’s.

  “He’s down!”

  “Go!”

  “Go!”

  “Dean? Dean? … Dean?”

  THE PAIN WAS so intense that it was impossible to tell exactly where it came from. It surged like a tsunami over Dean, pushing him beneath itself. Then suddenly he lifted free, spinning in a slow circle in the middle of the room.

  Everyone was watching.

  Not the Secret Service agents. Not the President. Not the senator or his aide. But everyone else.

  Everyone. People he hadn’t seen in thirty years, back in the Marine Corps. His first business partner. Sal, the gas station owner who’d given him his first job.

  Longbow stood silently next to him, his bolt gun over his shoulder.

  “I missed you, Charlie,” said Longbow.

  Dean couldn’t answer. The room filled quickly. He didn’t recognize many of the faces. Phuc Dinh was there—or rather, the man Dean had killed thinking he was Phuc Dinh.

  Oh, thought Dean. Oh.

  154

  AS SOON AS the Art Room told Tommy Karr what had happened, he commandeered one of the Secret Service cars and drove to the hospital. He knew the general location, if not the address, but he didn’t have to ask the Art Room for directions; half the city seemed to have turned out, trying to find out what was going on.

  Helicopter gunships circled overhead and every police officer who lived within a hundred miles of LA had been called in to work. Even with his credentials out, Karr had a difficult time negotiating the roadblocks and the traffic; finally, with the hospital in sight, he abandoned the car and began jogging toward Dean.

  Dean was still in intensive care when Karr arrived.

  “Better get Lia here right away, whatever it takes,” Karr told the Art Room.

  155

  “HOW MANY THINGS would you change?” asked Longbow.

  “I don’t know,” said Dean. “Maybe nothing important.”

  “Interesting,” said his old friend. “You mean you’ve made no mistakes?”

  “No, that’s not what I mean. Of course I made mistakes. But how do you separate them from everything else?”

  “Interesting.”

  “You know we killed the wrong guy in Quang Nam,” said Dean. “It was his brother. He sent him as a decoy. Must suck to live with that.”

  “You killed the wrong guy.”

  “Yeah. He’d been tipped off somehow. But he was only on the list in the first place because the Americans who were paying him off stole his money and they were afraid he’d squeal.”

  “Did he?”

  “Eventually.”

  “So that was one
mistake you’d take back.”

  “I don’t know. No. His brother was VC, too. Well, one thing I’d do differently—I wouldn’t let you go to fill the canteens.”

  Longbow smiled. “Well, I wouldn’t have let you go in my place. The man who got me had circled below the ridge. I shouldn’t have been surprised. I even saw him before he fired. But I slipped a little—I missed my shot, Charlie Dean. Isn’t that crazy? Whoever heard of a sniper missing his shot?”

  “It happens.”

  Dean thought of the mountain lion, the sudden surge of adrenaline. A moment that could have gone either way.

  How many moments were like that, when you could change things? How many would he change, if he really had the power to do so?

  Maybe he did have the power. Maybe that was what happened—maybe you got another shot at doing things right when you died.

  LIA’S LEGS TREMBLED fiercely as she walked down the hall of the hospital. Tommy Karr walked beside her. For the very first time since she’d known him, he didn’t crack a joke; he didn’t chuckle; he didn’t laugh; he didn’t even smile.

  “This way, ma’am,” said the aide who was leading them. They passed through a double set of doors into a large room. Hospital beds were clustered around the room, each one surrounded by several carts of medical equipment. Monitors beeped; displays burned green; vital signs charted into undulating hills on the black screens.

  Charles Dean lay in a bed next to the nurses’ station, surrounded by machines. Tubes ran to his face and arms. He’d been hit by three bullets. One had punctured his lung; one had severed an artery; a third had slipped against the outer wall of his heart.

  “Charlie Dean,” gasped Lia. “Oh, Charlie.”

  A WOMAN PARTED from the crowd. It was Qui Lai Chu, the woman who had been his guide and translator in Vietnam.

  “You’ve come back, Mr. Dean,” said Qui. “Why?”

  “It was my assignment. I didn’t come on my own.”

  “You came to see the road you might have taken.”

  “No,” said Dean. “You’re wrong.”

  “Where will you go now?” asked Qui.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Are you ready to die?”

  Dean thought about the question for a long time. Finally, he said that he didn’t think it was up to him.

  “No,” said Qui. “But you should know that you won’t be forgotten. You will not turn into a hungry ghost.”

  For some reason, that comforted him.

  LIA GRIPPED DEAN’S hand and leaned close to his ear.

  “Charlie? Charlie? Can you hear me?”

  He turned his head toward her. The nurse behind her waved to one of the doctors, motioning him over.

  “Lia,” Dean said, without opening his eyes.

  “Charlie?”

  “I’d do it all again. Everything. Us.”

  Lia sank to the floor. “Oh, God,” she prayed.

  “It’s all right,” said Dean, opening his eyes. “I’m going to be OK.”

  “Charlie.”

  “I’m going to be OK.”

  “You want kids?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  Dean smiled, then closed his eyes. “I’m tired. Real tired.”

  Lia looked up and saw the doctor staring down. “Is he going to be OK?” she asked.

  “I’m going to be OK,” Dean said to her. “I’ll be walking out of here tomorrow.”

  “You’re not walking out of here tomorrow,” said the doctor sharply.

  “But he will be OK,” said Lia.

  The doctor paused for what seemed the longest time, then nodded slowly.

  “He’ll recover. But he has to take it slow. Very slow.”

  “That word’s not in my vocabulary,” said Dean.

  Lia put her hand against his cheek. “It is now,” she told him. “It is.”

  Turn the page for an excerpt from the next

  book by Stephen Coonts

  THEASSASSIN

  Available Now

  St. Martin’s Press

  Prologue

  OCTOBER—IRAQ

  Ragheads dragged the driver out of the vehicle and took him away,” the sergeant told the lieutenant, who was sitting in a Humvee. “They shot the woman in the car. She’s still in it. Iraqi grunt says she’s alive but the assholes put a bomb in the car. They’re using her as cheese in the trap.”

  “Shit,” said the lieutenant and rubbed the stubble on his chin.

  The day was hot, and the chatter of automatic weapons firing bursts was the musical background. The column of vehicles had ground to a halt in a cloud of dust, and since there was no wind, the dust sifted softly down, blanketing equipment and men and making breathing difficult.

  U.S. Navy Petty Officer Third Class Owen Winchester moved closer to the lead vehicle so that he could hear the lieutenant and sergeant better.

  He could see the back end of an old sedan with faded, peeling paint sitting motionless alongside the road about fifty yards ahead. Three Marines and three Iraqi soldiers were huddled in an irrigation ditch fifty feet to the right of the road. On the left was a block of houses.

  “Let me go take a look,” Winchester said to the lieutenant.

  “Listen, doc,” the sergeant said, glancing at Winchester. “The rag heads would love to do you same as they would us.”

  “I want to take a look,” Winchester insisted. “If she can be saved …” He left it hanging there as distant small-arms fire rattled randomly.

  The place was a sun-baked hellhole; it made Juarez look like Paris on the Rio Bravo. The tragedy was that real humans tried to live here … and were murdered here by rats with guns who wanted to rule the dungheap in the name of a vengeful, merciless god, one who demanded human sacrifice as a ticket to Paradise.

  The lieutenant had been in Iraq for six months and was approaching burnout. The wanton, savage cruelty of the true believers no longer appalled him—he accepted it, just as he did the heat and dirt and human misery he saw everywhere he looked. He forced himself to think about the situation. A woman. Shot. She would probably die unless something was done. So what? No, no, don’t think like that, he thought. That’s the way they think, which is why the Devil lives here. After a few seconds, he said, “Okay. Take a look. And watch your ass.”

  The sergeant didn’t say another word, merely began trotting ahead in that bent-over combat trot of soldiers the world over. With his first-aid bag over his shoulder, Winchester followed.

  They flopped into the irrigation ditch directly opposite the car, where they could see into the passenger compartment. There was a woman in there, all right, slumped over. She wasn’t wearing a head scarf. They could see her dark hair.

  Fifteen feet from them was the rotting carcass of a dog. In this heat, the stench was awe-inspiring.

  An Iraqi soldier joined them. “She has been shot,” he said in heavily accented English. “Stomach. I get close, see her and bomb.”

  “How are they going to detonate it, you think?” Winchester asked, looking around, trying to spot the triggerman. He saw no one but the Iraqi soldiers and Marines lying on their stomachs in the irrigation ditch, away from the dog. The mud-walled and brick buildings across the way looked empty, abandoned, their windows blank and dark.

  “Cell phone, most likely,” the sergeant said sourly. “From somewhere over there, in one of those apartments. Or a garage door opener.”

  “Saving lives is my job,” the corpsman said. “I want to take a look.”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  “Probably.” Winchester grinned. He had a good grin.

  “Jesus! Don’t do nothin’ stupid.”

  With that admonition ringing in his ears, Winchester ditched the first-aid bag and trotted toward the car. From ten feet away he could see the woman’s head slumped over, see that the door was ajar. He closed to five feet.

  She wasn’t wearing a seat belt, and a bomb was lying on the driver’s seat.
Looked like four sticks of dynamite, fused, with a black box taped to the bundle. The woman moved her head slightly, and he heard a low moan.

  Winchester ran back to the ditch, holding his helmet in place, and flopped down beside the sergeant.

  “There’s a bomb on the driver’s seat,” he told the sergeant, whose name was Joe Martinez. “And she’s still alive. I think I can get her out of there before they blow it. Takes time to dial a phone, time for the network to make the phone you called ring. Might be enough time.”

  “Might be just enough to kill you, you silly son of a bitch.”

  “The door is ajar and she isn’t wearing a seat belt. I can do this. Open the door and grab her and run like hell.”

  “You’re an idiot,” Sergeant Martinez repeated.

  “Would you try it if she was your sister?”

  “She ain’t my sister,” the sergeant said with feeling as he scanned the buildings across the road. “What do they say? No good deed goes unpunished?”

  “I will go,” the Iraqi soldier said. He laid his weapon on the edge of the ditch, began taking off his web belt. “Two men, one on each arm.”

  “She’s my sister, Joe,” Owen Winchester said to Martinez. He grinned again, broadly.

  The sergeant watched as Winchester and the Iraqi soldier took off all their gear and their helmets, so they could run faster.

  “You fuckin’ swabbie! You got balls as big as pumpkins. How do you carry them around?” Martinez laid down his rifle, took off his web belt and tossed his helmet beside the rifle. “I’ll get the door. You two get her.” He took a deep breath and exhaled explosively. “Okay, on three. One, two, threeeee!”

  They vaulted from the ditch and sprinted toward the car. The sergeant jerked the door open. The other two men reached in, Winchester grabbing one arm and the Iraqi the other, and pulled the wounded woman from the car, then hooked an arm under each armpit. Joe Martinez picked up her feet, and they began to run.

  They were ten feet from the car when the bomb exploded.