‘I hope that got their attention.’
‘It did. Oregon seems a strange place for a Lebanese cultural attaché to be plying his trade. Mr. Marfrela may have a little explaining to do.’
President Wade walked around the office, and eventually came to rest, leaning with his back against his desk.
‘How sure are State about this? That’s not a great picture, and he’s wearing shades, for God’s sake.’
‘They were able to enhance it, Mr. President. You wouldn’t believe the things they can do these days. They’re sure.’
Wade nodded.
‘You understand there are certain political considerations in the case of Lebanon?’
‘Yes, Mr. President,’ Lazenby replied at once.
‘We must be careful about this. What are your people doing about it?’
‘Keeping their heads down for now. State asked us to put a tail on him. Unless you have an objection, I’ll have someone pick it up tomorrow. We’re not sure whether he’s back in town yet. But I don’t want to give away the fact that we’re on to him.’
Out of the corner of his eye, Steve Wade saw Martha Graylor move into his line of vision.‘Time to go,’ she mouthed silently.
The President nodded.
‘No objection. Just make sure the watchers are discreet. Keep me informed, Ted. I have to run to my press conference.’
‘I will, Mr. President.’
* * *
‘Talk to me on the way,’ Wade said to Martha. He strode purposefully from the room for the short walk through the West Wing from the Oval Office to the press briefing room, with his Vice President and Press Secretary close behind, Martha struggling to keep up, still clutching her stack of papers. Linda Samuels fell in unobtrusively by his side.
‘Good morning, Agent Samuels.’
‘Good morning, Mr. President.’
‘Am I safe?’
Linda smiled. It was the President’s standard pleasantry with her.
‘I believe you are, Sir.’
She deliberately increased her pace, walking a little ahead of the President so as to avoid appearing to overhear his conversation, and checked in with Gary Mills on her radio.
‘What’s new, Martha?’ the President asked.
‘Nothing much. Usual stuff. Lebanon, Israel, oil, unemployment. You read the briefs yesterday. If I may, Mr. President, I do need to remind you about your agreement with the British Prime Minister…’
‘Keep quiet about our options if the oil supply is threatened. I remember.’
‘I think that’s about it.’
They paused outside the door of the press room. Linda Samuels walked briskly inside. Automatically, Martha scanned Steve Wade’s appearance for any fault, however small. She adjusted his tie. Linda reappeared.
‘All clear, Mr. President.’
‘Looking good, Mr. President,’ Martha said. ‘Go get’em.’
The standing ovation and loud applause which greeted Steve Wade everywhere he went was one of the things he liked best about the job. It happened even in the White House press briefing room. The veteran news reporters who frequented it seemed to be swept up in the adulation almost as much as the general public. Wade relaxed as he reached the podium, and raised his hands to call for quiet. Gradually, the applause died away, the reporters retook their seats, and the questioning began. It was a routine press conference, and the President was not expected to make a prepared statement. He was, however, expected to answer questions on a wide range of topics. Steve Wade had the reputation of being the master of his briefs and of being adept at fielding even the toughest questions. Today seemed to be no exception. Effortlessly, he explained his policy in the Middle East and the oil question, and ventured a few sage remarks about where the experts thought the economy was heading. The press conference was nearly over, and Martha Graylor was leaning comfortably against the wall by the door through which the President had entered. A woman reporter raised her hand. The President smiled and pointed a finger.
‘Mary.’
‘Thank you, Mr. President. Mary Sullivan, Washington Post. Mr. President, I’m sure you’re aware that your name is being linked in some quarters with a woman named Lucia Benoni. I wondered if you had any comment?’
Martha stood bolt upright. The President missed perhaps half a beat.
‘Linked? I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘Linked romantically, according to my source, Mr. President.’
‘Oh, for Heaven’s sake. What was this lady’s name?’
‘Lucia Benoni, Mr. President.’
The President bestowed his brightest smile.
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mary, but the name means nothing to me at all. And I’m not linked to anyone except the First Lady.’
Martha allowed her head to sink on to her chest.
‘Fuck,’ she muttered under her breath.
‘With all due respect, Mr. President,’ Mary Sullivan continued calmly, ‘you have in the past admitted…’
‘Mary, I’m surprised that The Washington Post would give any credence to a story like this. We went through all that during the election campaign. I did make mistakes in the past. I admitted that, I repented, and my wife forgave me. We have a good marriage today, and that’s all I’m going to say on that subject.’
‘So you deny any association with this woman, Lucia Benoni?’
‘Categorically. I’ve never even heard of her. I don’t know who she is, if she exists at all.’
Martha Graylor was gesturing to him frantically with her head.
‘Now, I’m sorry, Ladies and Gentlemen. That’s it for today. Martha will be with you tomorrow.’
Ignoring a loud chorus of shouted questions, Steve Wade walked out of the press room and led the way back to the Oval Office at a furious pace. When he walked at full speed, even Linda Samuels had trouble keeping up with him. Ellen Trevathan and Martha Graylor were trailing by quite a distance.
‘Where the hell did that come from?’ Wade shouted over his shoulder.
‘From left field,’ Martha replied. ‘We had no inkling.’
The President paused outside the Office.
‘Well, we need to damn well get an inkling. See what you can find out. I’m not going to let those bastards assassinate me again. If the Post is running a story like this, someone out there must have some information. Let’s put the lid on this now.’
‘All right,’ Martha said. ‘And you’re sure you don’t know…?’
‘No.’ Steve Wade held up his hands. ‘No, I don’t. I really don’t know.’
With a brief glance in the Vice President’s direction, Martha walked away towards her own office. Linda Samuels turned her back, pretending to be absorbed in her radio.
‘Can I come in for a moment?’ Ellen asked.
Wade nodded. They entered the Oval Office together.
Ellen waited until Steve Wade had seated himself at his desk. She drew herself up to her full height, and folded her arms across her chest.
‘You promised me there would be no more of this crap.’
‘There isn’t, Ellen. I have no idea what’s going on here, but I intend to find out.’
The Vice President looked straight into the President’s eyes.
‘Steve, you know how much this means to me. You know I’m thinking of running next time. I don’t want this sort of stuff going on any more. It nearly screwed us in both campaigns.’
Wade stood, appearing agitated.
‘What do you want me to say, Ellen? They come up with some name I’ve never even heard of, right out of the blue. What do you want me to say?’
‘I want to hear you swear it’s not true. If you lie to me about this…’
The President gritted his teeth.
‘I swear to you. It’s not true. Is that what you wanted? Can I carry on with what’s left of my morning now?’
Ellen nodded briefly and headed for the door. She paused and turned back towards him on her way out.
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‘Thank you.’
Steve Wade sat back down, and prepared himself for another unpleasant confrontation. He picked up his internal phone to speak to his private secretary.
‘Where’s the First Lady?’
‘Having her hair done, then lunch with the Capitol Hill Wives, Mr. President.’
‘Ask her to see me as soon as she gets back.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘I mean as soon as she gets back.’
‘Yes, Mr. President.’
‘And get the Director of the FBI on the phone. On a secure line.’
* * *
In the privacy of her office, Martha Graylor was on the phone with Harold Philby, the editor of The Washington Post and one of the doyens of the Capital’s press corps. The tone of Philby’s voice as he wished her a good day suggested some amusement, which was almost as irritating to Martha as the questions his reporter had asked at the press conference.
‘What can I do for you today, Martha?’
‘You can start by giving me the head of Mary Sullivan on a silver platter. I can’t believe you of all people would ambush us like that.’
‘Mary followed the rules, Martha. We got the story at the last minute, but it has substance.’
‘Says who?’
The editor remained silent.
‘I won’t forget this, Harold. You could have called me this morning.’
‘We just wanted to get a reaction. I doubt we’ll go any further with it unless the woman herself comes forward.’
‘So she’s not your source?’
Another silence. Then Philby gave a little.
‘No, she’s not.’
‘Are you going to talk to her?’
‘I’m not sure. We’re having a conference this afternoon. We won’t publish anything without giving you the chance to comment.’
‘You’ve had all the comment you’re going to get from us.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t put money on that,’ Philby replied quietly.
‘For God’s sake, Harold. You don’t have to chase down every piece of tittle-tattle that crosses your desk. You could use a little discretion.’
‘It’s not personal, Martha,’ Philby said. ‘It’s just a story. You, of all people, should know that by now.’
Martha hung up. She lowered her head into her hands.
‘Jesus Christ,’ she said to herself, out loud. ‘Here we go again.’
6
KELLY AND FRANK had been asleep for only a short time when the telephone rang. Frank had just returned from a long road-trip with Senator O’Brien, and they had celebrated his return in Kelly’s apartment with Chinese food and a bottle of Pinot Blanc. Kelly had sunk into a deep, dreamless sleep. When the jarring sound of the phone finally penetrated her senses, she was disoriented, feeling that she was hearing a sound from some other world which did not really concern her. The phone rang insistently several times before she slowly raised herself on to one shoulder, reached over to the small bedside table, and picked up. Frank appeared not to have heard the ringing; he was lying on his side with his back to Kelly, breathing rhythmically.
‘Smith,’ she said quietly into the receiver. Under her breath, she added: ‘God, this better be good.’
‘Kelly?’ Lazenby said, ‘I’m sorry to call at this hour.’
Slowly, Kelly sat up, rubbing her eyes.
‘Director? I’m sorry. I was dead to the world. What hour is it?’
‘It’s a little after three,’ Ted Lazenby said apologetically.
Kelly shook her head vigorously in an effort to force her brain into gear.
‘OK, Sir. Go ahead.’
‘I just got a call from Henry Bryson, the Chief of Police for the District. They have a murder in North West, and they think we should take a look at it. For some reason, the Chief didn’t want to go into detail over the phone. I hate to do this to you, but I need you to go find out what’s going on.’
‘A murder in the District? What does that have to do with us? What jurisdiction do we have?’
Frank was waking up, and was looking at her sleepily, his head raised off the pillow a little. She kissed her first finger and placed it on his lips, shaking her head to tell him to go back to sleep.
‘The same jurisdiction we always have in the District, joint jurisdiction with the D.C. Police. You know how it works.’
‘Well, yes, Sir, but we would generally defer to them unless there’s something…’
‘As I said, Kelly, Chief Bryson didn’t want to go into it on the phone. But jurisdiction isn’t an issue as far as he’s concerned. There’s something there he needs us to take a look at, and at this point, I have to assume it’s important.’
Kelly struggled to pull herself upright, and again tried to signal to Frank to go back to sleep.
‘Sir, with all due respect, jurisdiction may not be a problem for the Chief, but I need to know it isn’t a problem for us before I go trampling all over a D.C. Police crime scene.’
‘It’s not a problem for us. He’s asking for our cooperation. He understands what’s involved, and he assures me he’ll take care of it. Get something to write with and I’ll give you the address. I want you over there right away. You’re not to discuss whatever this is with anyone except me. Call me at home as soon as you can get to a secure line.’
Kelly made a note of the details.
‘Any questions?’
Frank was fully awake now, and his look was one of irritation. She turned her back to him and lowered her voice.
‘Director, is there any chance you could send someone else? Frank just got back into town, and we…’
Her voice trailed away, and there was silence on the other end of the line.
‘I’m on my way, Sir,’ she said.
She turned back to Frank, replacing the receiver.
‘I’m sorry, sweetheart.’
He was climbing angrily out of bed. She held out her hand towards him.
‘No, Frank. You don’t need to get up. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Go back to sleep.’
He was searching for his clothes.
‘Maybe, one of these days, we can have some kind of life.’
Kelly tried to keep calm, but her own fatigue was kicking in, and she felt her voice become sharp.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You heard me. God damn it, we can’t even get a few hours of good sleep without the phone ringing off the hook.’
Kelly shook her head.
‘Hey, I’m not the one who’s at the beck and call of a senator twenty-four hours a day, and who goes out of town without saying goodbye. What are you making such a big deal about? I have a job too, you know. I’ll be back by the time you wake up.’
‘I’ve already woken up, in case you haven’t noticed.’
‘You know what I mean, Frank. Don’t do this. Go back to sleep. I’ll be back soon. It’s probably nothing.’
But he was getting dressed as quickly as he could.
‘No. I’ll get out of your hair.’
Kelly sat down miserably on the side of the bed.
‘I don’t want you out of my hair. Frank…’
He was stepping into his shoes, and taking his car keys from the dressing-table.
‘I don’t want to discuss it,’ he said.
‘Fine,’ she replied. ‘Neither do I.’
Helplessly, Kelly watched as he opened the bedroom door.
‘Frank, please don’t go. Not like this.’
He turned back towards her, and for a moment, Kelly thought she saw a look of guilt cross his face.
‘Call me later,’ he said, closing the door behind him.
She wiped her eyes.
‘Oh, sure,’ she said.
* * *
Kelly drove quickly through the deserted early-morning streets of the District. It was cool and overcast, and a light drizzle was falling. She wore a thick sweater under her black FBI jacket. The address Lazenby had given her was an upmarket
apartment building in North West, just off Wisconsin Avenue. She knew the building. It was one which had become fashionable with some members of Congress as a Washington base. She had visited it before, on occasions when she had found it necessary to ask a legislator one or two questions which called for a certain degree of discretion, questions which were better not asked at a public venue such as the FBI’s Headquarters. She remembered the building’s expensive taste in artwork, and had speculated that it was probably not a cheap place to live. And now somebody there was dead, and the Chief of Police for the District was anxious to share jurisdiction. As she approached the building, Kelly saw several D.C. police cars parked outside the front entrance to the building with their emergency call lights flashing. At the entrance, two uniformed officers were talking to the concierge. As she was driving her private car, Kelly parked in the next block, and walked towards the officers, holding up her badge. One of the officers inspected it and waved her inside.
‘It’s Number 462, Agent. The Chief asked that you go up as soon as you arrived. You are welcome to use the elevator. The scenes-of-crimes people are through with it now.’
‘Thank you.’
Kelly walked across the foyer, a massive space with a proportionately high ceiling and marble floor, ornate crystal chandeliers and ponderous fixtures. Two confused-looking night janitors, hispanic women, were sitting on a red velvet sofa in the center of the foyer, talking quietly to each other in Spanish. Kelly smiled comfortingly and greeted them in the same language, then entered the elevator and punched the button for the fourth floor.
The fourth floor was swarming with police officers. One met her as she emerged from the elevator and inspected her badge carefully before directing her to apartment 462. Along the way, she noticed the doors of several other apartments slightly ajar, their occupants trying to get a look at whatever might be going on. The door of apartment 462 was open, but access was restricted by yellow crime-scene tape. Kelly’s badge was inspected yet again before she was allowed to cross the threshold. The officer asked her to wait at the door. Moments later, he returned with Henry Bryson, Chief of Police for the District of Columbia. To Kelly’s surprise, despite the antisocial hour, he was formally dressed in a suit and tie. Bryson motioned to her to follow him into the living room. One or two forensic officers were at work in one corner of the room, but there was apparently no reason to cordon off the rest of it.
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