Removal

by Murphy, Peter

  ‘What you said to Phil. That the Benoni and Marfrela cases were closed. I said I wish it were true.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Well, there’s no one left to prosecute,’ Kelly smiled. ‘Both suspects got rather rough justice, which I can’t officially approve of, but it isn’t going to make me lose any sleep. And it saved us from having to deal with a couple of really messy cases.’

  Lazenby drummed his fingers on the top of his desk.

  ‘I spoke to a friend on the Hill this morning,’ he said. ‘This is off the record right now, though it won’t be for long. The House Intelligence Committee is going to hold hearings. There will be an announcement tomorrow.’

  Kelly sat up in her chair. ‘Hearings about what?’

  ‘What do you think? About the relationship, if any, between Lucia Benoni, Hamid Marfrela, and the President. It seems we weren’t the only ones worrying about the national security implications.’

  Kelly bit her lip, and was silent for a time. ‘The Washington Post article,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which means that you and I…’

  ‘…are potential witnesses, yes.’

  Lazenby ground his teeth in irritation. ‘And we’ll have to give them whatever we have. There’s no way to protect it.’

  ‘What about compromising an ongoing criminal investigation?’ Kelly suggested.

  ‘You said it yourself, Kelly. There’s nothing ongoing any more.’

  ‘We haven’t formally closed the cases. We could make an argument.’

  Lazenby shook his head.

  ‘They’d see straight through it. Anyway, it wouldn’t wash if there are national security issues involved. There’s only so much I can say with a straight face to protect a murder inquiry with two dead suspects. It might even look as though this Office were trying to protect the President. I can’t take that risk.’

  ‘Oh, what the hell,’ Kelly said, trying her best to sound off-hand. ‘They probably already know more than we do.’

  ‘Well, The Washington Post certainly does,’ Lazenby said. There was frustration in his voice. ‘How in the hell do they come up with this stuff?’

  Kelly looked up, suddenly very concerned.

  ‘Director, do you think they know about the Oregon connection?’

  ‘The Post? I don’t think so. I’m sure we would have read about it by now.’

  ‘What about the House Intelligence Committee?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lazenby said. ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Because, if they start getting into that…’

  ‘It will blow our whole operation. I know, Kelly. I’m going to tell them something off the record myself. I have to have some kind of understanding with the Committee Chair that they will give us some warning before they go down that road. He can’t give me that assurance if he doesn’t know about it. We can’t take the risk of it coming out accidentally. Obviously, if I tell them off the record, there’s ultimately no way to prevent them from going into it on the record. All I can do is rely on their judgment.’

  ‘What can I do, Sir?’ Kelly asked after some time.

  ‘For now, nothing. I’ll let you know when I hear more.’

  Ted Lazenby looked back at her and suddenly smiled. ‘Oh, there is one more thing I should tell you.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘It seemed to me that Lieutenant Morris is in more or less the same position as we are. I mean as a likely witness. He’s as good as been on our team for some time. So today I called Chief Bryson and asked him to release Morris to us on temporary assignment for the duration of this situation. The Chief agreed, but of course I wanted to run it by you. If you have any objection…’

  Kelly somehow managed to keep a perfectly straight face.

  ‘No objection at all, Sir, not if you think it best…’

  She stood and made her way to the door of Ted Lazenby’s office, turned, and looked at Lazenby very seriously.

  ‘Director, if there should be any chance of the Marfrela-Oregon connection becoming public record…’

  ‘I’ll pull Phil out of there faster than you can say ‘Hamid Marfrela’. I promise.’

  The relief showed in Kelly’s face as she turned to leave.

  ‘Thank you, Director. Good night.’

  * * *

  Kelly drove absent-mindedly through the early evening traffic to the Indian restaurant where she was to meet Jeff and Linda for dinner. As ever, parking in Georgetown was a challenge but, after circling for a short while, she got lucky, and pulled gratefully into a space in a residential street not too far from the restaurant. As she entered, she saw Jeff sitting at a corner table. Miniature statues of Shiva and the elephant-god, Ganesh, stood in small alcoves built into the walls to each side of his chair, and a photograph of the Taj Mahal at sunrise hung above Jeff’s head. The lighting was subdued, with flickering candles in burgundy glass holders on the tables, giving barely enough light to read the menu. A woman’s voice, accompanied on the sitar, filtered unobtrusively through the room, effortlessly finding the mysterious quarter notes so characteristic of eastern music, as it intoned a Hindu hymn. There was no sign of Linda. Kelly walked over to the table. Jeff stood and pulled out a chair for her as they kissed.

  ‘Hi, sweetheart, been waiting long?’ Kelly asked.

  ‘No. Just arrived.’

  Kelly took a drink from the glass of iced water in front of her. She grinned mischievously.

  ‘Jeff, have you been keeping something back from me?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘So, you don’t have any news to tell me?’

  He laughed. ‘Oh, you mean about turning my hobby into a paying gig?’

  Kelly stuck her tongue out at him. He laughed.

  ‘I only found out myself this afternoon. Chief Bryson told me. I tried calling you but you were already in your meeting with Lazenby. It was nice of him to arrange it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Kelly said. ‘Did Bryson tell you why?’

  ‘Only that Lazenby thought I should be on the team until the Marfrela killing is finally resolved.’

  Kelly shook her head.

  ‘The Marfrela case is resolved, as of today,’ she said. ‘The assassin’s body turned up in Oregon. No, this has nothing to do with the criminal aspects of the case. It’s about the stuff The Washington Post published. The President’s opponents are out to get him, and they see this as the perfect issue. There are going to be hearings in the House.’

  ‘I see,’ Jeff Morris said slowly. ‘And I take it the House is going to be interested in what we know about the case?’

  ‘That’s what Lazenby is assuming,’ Kelly replied. ‘And I’m sure he’s right. There’s been no official announcement, by the way, so keep this to yourself.’

  A waiter appeared silently behind Kelly. He placed a plate of poppadoms on the table, but did not withdraw.

  ‘Excuse me, Mem’Sahib, you are Kelly Smith?’

  ‘Yes,’ Kelly said, turning towards him.

  ‘A message has come for you, Miss Smith, it is coming by the telephone. It is coming from the party who was going to join you for dinner, Miss…’

  ‘Miss Samuels?’

  The waiter was reading hesitantly from a note.

  ‘Yes, Mem’Sahib. Actually, Miss Samuels was calling and asking me to say she cannot join you as she had hoped. Actually, the case is, she is to be having to be working late, and she will be obliged if you will be calling her later.’

  Kelly and Jeff looked at each other.

  ‘You’re sure that’s what she said? She was working late?’

  ‘Quite sure, Mem’Sahib. I am making the note of it myself, personally,’ the waiter said, offering the piece of paper to her.

  Kelly shook her head.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘We’ll be ready to order in a couple of minutes.’

  ‘Very good, Mem’Sahib,’ the waiter said.

  He withdrew a
s silently as he had come.

  Jeff picked up the plate of poppadoms, offered one to Kelly, took one himself, and broke a piece off.

  ‘Maybe Julia Wade wants a rematch.’

  Kelly smiled.

  ‘I hope it’s not to do with Bob,’ she said quietly.

  ‘I’d have thought she would have had it with him by now,’ Jeff said, munching on his poppadom. ‘Why hasn’t she just told him once and for all to shove it?’

  ‘You don’t know Linda well enough yet,’ Kelly replied. ‘That would be far too simple.’

  27

  MARTHA GRAYLOR GRITTED her teeth.

  ‘Come on, Conrad,’ she said into the phone as assertively as she dared. ‘You owe us one. The President gave you an exclusive in Paris last year. He handed you NATO’s position on the Balkans, the whole nine yards, before the ink was even dry on the official communiqué. No one else had that.’

  ‘That was in return for my being nice to him during the election,’ Conrad Beckers smiled on the other end of the line.

  The voice was deep, reassuring, self-confident. It belonged to a man whose hour-long news show on Public Television commanded more respect than any other television news program in the country. Beckers had spent years as a political columnist before a perceptive producer realized how good he would look and sound on television. He came with all the skills which had brought him success as a writer. He was a shrewd reader of people as well as politics. It was said that he could converse fluently in three languages besides English. It was whispered that he was consulted confidentially at the highest levels. His show was meticulously researched, and presented with a thoroughness and objectivity which was the envy of the sound-bite slaves who plied their trade on the networks. Anyone who was anyone in Washington aspired to be the next victim of Conrad Beckers’ incisive cross-examination. Uncomfortable as it was to be publicly dissected, it was a sign that one mattered in politics, that one had arrived. When Martha Graylor called unexpectedly, Beckers was in make-up, preparing to tape an interview. He talked while an assistant unobtrusively applied foundation, and just a hint of black pencil around the temples.

  ‘Nice to him, my ass,’ Martha replied.

  Beckers laughed.

  ‘I was too. All right, Paris was a good story. I was grateful then, and I’m grateful now. And I’m telling you, the President is welcome to come on the program as often as he likes. All I’m saying is, we need a little notice. We can’t do it tomorrow. We have a major time-sensitive piece already recorded.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘The likely consequences of the Fed raising the interest rate. And a background piece on market fluctuations.’

  ‘Big deal.’

  ‘It is a big deal. If we don’t run it tomorrow, it’s history.’

  Martha snorted.

  ‘History? You want to talk history? Conrad, I’m offering you the President’s first word on his opponents’ efforts to assassinate him. What more history do you want than that?’

  ‘The partisan rhetoric doesn’t play with me, Martha. You should know that by now.’

  ‘All right, I’m sorry. But this is important, Conrad.’

  Beckers reflected on the image of himself in the brightly-lit mirror in front of him, and gestured for a little more black pencil around one of his sideburns.

  ‘What does he want to say?’ he asked.

  There was a silence. Beckers watched himself shake his head in the mirror.

  ‘You can’t play that game with me, Martha. If he’s just going to repeat his story that he never banged Lucia Benoni, and anyone who says otherwise is a liar and a traitor, frankly that doesn’t sound like history to me. He’s said it before. So, what gives? What makes it so urgent that the President has to speak to the people tomorrow?’

  ‘The House Intelligence Committee will be making an announcement about holding hearings,’ Martha said, doing her best, but sounding unconvincing even to herself.

  ‘I know that,’ Beckers said. ‘I read the papers. And in the usual way, we would expect the President to respond briefly through you and then more fully at a press conference a day or two later. I still don’t get it.’

  There was silence again. The assistant had finished her work. Conrad Beckers nodded appreciatively then, on impulse, suddenly gestured to her to leave him alone in the room. He waited until she had closed the door behind her.

  ‘He’s going to admit it, isn’t he?’ he asked. ‘He wants to tell the people he’s been lying to them.’

  Martha hesitated a moment too long.

  ‘There will be no advance statement, Conrad. But it will be worth your while. And the President will answer any questions you have.’

  ‘That’s the rule on my show,’ Beckers said. ‘Nothing is off limits. Whether it’s the President or anyone else. That’s the way I work.’

  ‘Then it’s not a problem, is it?’ Martha said. ‘So, will you do it, or do I have to ask CNN?’

  This time it was Beckers who did not reply immediately.

  ‘He is the President of the United States, Conrad.’

  Beckers decided. ‘All right. Where and when?’

  ‘We’d prefer your studio. Any time before lunch.’

  ‘Let’s say ten-thirty.’

  ‘Deal,’ Martha said. ‘My people will work with you on publicity, but there must be no advance statement of the subject-matter.’

  ‘You think no one will figure it out?’

  ‘All the same…’

  ‘All right, Martha. All right. We’ll gear up for it, and we’ll shelve the story on interest rates for a day. My producer will kill me.’

  ‘I think that’s highly unlikely, Conrad,’ Martha said, hanging up.

  * * *

  Martha looked at her watch. She was due to report to the President in a few minutes’ time. She opened her purse and took out a small mirror and her lipstick. She was about to apply some lipstick when she paused, suddenly shocked by the lines on her face, the tightness around her mouth, the dark shadows around her eyes, the evidence of long hours and not enough sleep. She looked older. ‘It’s this damned job,’ she thought. Angrily, she applied the make-up. She was in the process of replacing the lipstick and the mirror in her purse when there was a timid knock at the door. She looked at her watch again.

  ‘Come.’

  The door opened slowly. The young woman who walked uncertainly in looked pale, and her eyes were red. Martha put down her purse and stood.

  ‘Agent Samuels? Come in. What’s the matter? Is something wrong?’

  Without a word, Linda Samuels almost ran over to Martha Graylor’s desk, sat down in one of the armchairs in front of it, and held her head in her hands. Martha walked quickly around to the front of the desk, sat in the chair next to her, and put an arm around her shoulder. At her touch, Linda began to cry. Martha did not try to interrupt her, but simply let her arm rest gently in place on Linda’s shoulder. After some time, Linda lifted her head, appearing to be embarrassed. She ran the back of a hand across her nose. Martha handed her a tissue from the blue, flower-covered holder on her desk.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Graylor,’ Linda said. ‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I’m making a fool of myself. I shouldn’t have disturbed you. I’ll go… It’s just that… I didn’t know where else to turn. I just thought… I’m sorry…’ She tried to get up, but Martha pressed down with her arm a little more firmly.

  ‘Don’t be silly. Stay right where you are. I’m glad you felt able to come to me. Why don’t you tell me about it?’

  Linda finished wiping her nose with the tissue, screwed it up into a tight ball and held on to it as tightly as she could. She looked vacantly across the room.

  ‘I’m in trouble,’ she said quietly.

  Martha smiled.

  ‘You mean, because of the code red? No, absolutely not. In fact…,’ she took Linda’s hand confidentially, ‘look, I’m not really supposed to tell you this, so keep it to yourself, but if it will make you feel better,
I happen to know that there’s a commendation in your future. The President was pretty impressed, Agent Samuels. So were we all. We felt the President would have been well protected if it had been a real emergency. I promise you, you are not in any trouble. Quite the reverse.’

  Linda shook her head vigorously.

  ‘No, that’s not what I mean,’ she replied with a deep sigh.

  Martha raised her eyebrows

  ‘What, then? Boyfriend trouble? My God, have you ever come to the wrong person for that.’

  Linda managed a weak smile, and turned to look Martha full in the face. She lowered her voice almost to a whisper.

  ‘You know about the hearings they’re going to have in the House?’

  ‘The House Intelligence Committee? Yes,’ Martha said. ‘I wish I didn’t, but I do.’

  ‘I got a call yesterday from someone at the Committee Chairman’s office. An aide of some kind. He said I was going to be subpoenaed as a witness. He said I was to pull together any written notes or records, and be ready to produce them. They want to interview me next week.’

  Martha looked up sharply.

  ‘You? Why would they want to talk to you?’

  Linda wound the screwed-up tissue around her little finger as tightly as she could.

  ‘I was with the President when he was in Chicago. I was on the Detail…’

  Martha sat back in her chair for a moment, then stood and walked away towards the window of her office.

  ‘I see,’ she said eventually.

  ‘I don’t know very much, really,’ Linda continued. ‘I saw the Benoni woman arrive, and I saw her leave. In between… well, I was standing right outside the door, and I couldn’t help but hear…’

  Linda allowed her voice to trail away.

  Martha Graylor seemed lost in thought for some time.

  ‘We’ll have to get you some legal representation,’ she said decisively. ‘I’ll set up a meeting for you with a lawyer from the White House Counsel’s office.’

  ‘It won’t do any good, Miss Graylor, will it?’ Linda asked. ‘They can order me to testify, can’t they? There’s no privilege. It was decided during the Clinton impeachment. They told us about it during our orientation when we joined the Detail.’

  Martha turned back towards her, and nodded.