The Whole Truth

by David Baldacci

  “I don’t know. I felt like I had to. Then I went to her apartment and it didn’t get any better there.”

  “All the memories.”

  “And running into her parents, and having her father attack me.”

  “Good God!”

  “But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst part was him blaming me for what happened to Anna.”

  Katie sat back, looking stunned. “Why would he do that?”

  “If you see it from his perspective, it sort of makes sense. He finds out I run around the world and duke it out with men who have guns. And on top of that he’s told I’m basically a criminal. Then Anna gets shot. My fault.”

  Another few seconds of silence passed. “Look, I’m going to hold off on the story. For now. Until I know more.”

  “I think that’s a very wise move, Katie.” He paused. “And I appreciate it.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “My plan hasn’t changed. I’m going to find Anna’s killer.”

  CHAPTER 64

  NICOLAS CREEL WAS GROWING IMPATIENT. He would have thought that the Scribe would have published the story by now. Lesnik was dead; he had told James all. She had the story of the century. The very thing she needed to take her back to the top. So what was the problem?

  He had his people place certain tactful phone calls to various sources, including the Scribe. Creel was actually a passive investor in the newspaper and he’d been the one who’d discreetly behind the scenes orchestrated the assignment for her. There seemed to be some tension there, he had learned. She had submitted the story. But they were holding on to it for some reason. Well, he would put a stop to that.

  He phoned Pender and explained the situation to his “truth manager,” as Creel liked to refer to him.

  “I don’t want to be seen trying to influence the paper, so shake this story loose from them, Dick, any way you can.”

  “Never fear, Mr. Creel. I have the perfect way to get it done.”

  Pender hung up the phone. There was one surefire way to make a newspaper sitting on a story publish it. And that was make them think they were about to be scooped. In the age of the Internet, it was the easiest thing in the world to do.

  By that evening, Pender had planted in several different but highly visible places on the Internet entries implying that a drastic turn of events regarding the London Massacre was about to be revealed.

  “Startling new revelations,” one fake blog entry proclaimed. “Insider’s account to be revealed.”

  Another said that “global consequences are resting on the murders in England and what really happened there and why,” and that it was connected to another recent murder in London. And that the story would be revealed in full any minute and the truth would be astonishing.

  Pender had had these statements placed on sites that he knew most newspapers, including the Scribe, trolled hour by hour for material.

  He sat back and waited for them to pull the trigger.

  It didn’t take long.

  Kevin Gallagher was made aware of the claims on the Web barely an hour after they’d been posted. Like other papers he had staffers posted there to snatch up items of interest. Well, what his people were dropping on his desk were not only matters of interest, they were slowly eating away at Gallagher’s stomach lining. When the higher-ups at the paper discovered that they were about to be beaten to the punch on the biggest story any of them could remember, Gallagher was told in crystal-clear terms that if the Scribe was scooped on this story, it would be the last thing that he ever did as an employee of the paper. And if Katie James wouldn’t agree to release the story, Gallagher had better damn well find a way to do it.

  With thoughts of his career and a Pulitzer for the paper going down the tubes, Gallagher did what he felt he had to. And then he called Katie.

  “We have to run the story, Katie,” he said. “We’re about to get scooped.”

  “That’s impossible. No one else knows.”

  “I’m looking at four different Web sources that say otherwise.”

  “Kevin, we’re not publishing.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s not right.” And I gave Shaw my word.

  “I’m sorry, Katie.”

  “What do you mean you’re sorry?” she said sharply, her heart starting to pound.

  “I didn’t call asking for your permission.”

  “Kevin!”

  “It’ll be in the morning edition.”

  “I am going to kill you!” she screamed into the phone.

  “They were going to fire me. I’ll take death over that. Sorry again, Katie, but I’m sure it’ll turn out all right.”

  He clicked off and Katie sat there staring at the wall of her London flat. God, did she need a drink.

  Then she stopped thinking about booze. Shaw!

  She called him, part of her hoping he wouldn’t answer, but he did.

  “I have some bad news,” she began lamely.

  When she’d finished, he said nothing. She said, “Shaw? Are you there?”

  Then the line went dead. She did not take this as a good sign.

  The next day the world learned that, according to an inside source, the killers behind the London Massacre were Russians sent there allegedly by Russian president Gorshkov. Their motive was as yet unknown. To say that this hit the earth like a molten-lava tsunami would have been the grossest of understatements.

  Dozens of lawsuits were immediately filed by the victims’ families against the Russian government in British courts, even though those tribunals had no jurisdiction. A small bomb exploded outside the Russian embassy in London. Security was beefed up as protestors marched in front of the building, while the grim-faced ambassador was holed up inside burning up the phone lines to Gorshkov. On the streets of London thousands of marchers carried flags reading “Gorshkov is a murderer.” They’d been discreetly supplied by people working with Pender.

  The families of the victims appeared on the BBC, all major U.S. networks, and also in several other countries. All denounced Russia’s atrocity, and their tearful faces and crushed hearts made a stunned world reach a level of apoplectic fury that had been seen very few times in history.

  Stoking the inferno even more was the revelation that the inside source, Aron Lesnik, had been shot down in broad London daylight. In fact, he’d died right in front of Katie James, who’d just zoomed back to the top of the journalism world after her exclusive bombshell.

  The Russians again issued stern denials of it all. And these statements made not a dent in the opinion of the world. Gorshkov was said to be so crazed that he was walking around the Kremlin carrying a gun and threatening to blow his and anybody else’s brains out at any moment.

  Everyone wanted to find Katie James. As did the London police once they realized they’d been snookered by the intrepid journalist. Only she’d disappeared. There were rumors flying around that Gorshkov had ordered her killed.

  Was she already dead? A few billion people wondered.

  As soon as Shaw had hung up on her Katie had packed her bag and fled. She’d found a room at a decrepit boardinghouse that accepted cash and asked no personal questions at all. She settled in – no, burrowed in was a more appropriate term. She vowed that if she survived all this, her first order of business would be to fly to the States and take a baseball bat to Kevin Gallagher’s knees.

  CHAPTER 65

  A SHELL CORPORATION owned by Nicolas Creel held title to a thousand-acre estate in Albemarle County, Virginia, within a short drive of Thomas Jefferson’s beloved University of Virginia. It was a working farm with stables of horses bred to run and then stud out. It had some cattle, some crops, and a mansion so large that it could fit several Monticellos inside of it comfortably. Creel had fl own in today and his chopper had delivered Dick Pender here to discuss and implement the next step in the plan.

  The men sat at a small conference table in a room that was totally sound- and bugproof. Pende
r asked, “Did your wife come back with you from overseas?”

  “No. That relationship is now over.”

  Miss Hottie was still in the South of France and would be receiving the divorce papers just about now, Creel silently calculated. And the odds were better than even that she would be completely naked when that event occurred. He wondered briefly how she would be able to manage on the $5 million a year “stipend” the prenup provided for the next decade. Well, at least her predilection to nakedness should save the lady some money on clothes. And then Miss Hottie disappeared from his mind completely.

  “I see.”

  Pender noticed the architectural sketches on the table. “Building another grand palace somewhere?”

  “No, an orphanage in Italy.”

  “Your range of interests never ceases to amaze me, Mr. Creel.”

  “Glad to hear it,” the billionaire said coldly.

  “James’s one story has already surpassed everything we did,” Pender added. “I have never seen media activity like this before. Never.”

  “Wait until we finish the story for her.”

  “Let me see, that includes Chinese ownership of The Phoenix Group,” Pender said, glancing at his papers. “And files showing that Phoenix was behind the Red Menace campaign were found in the building, but the police have covered it up to prevent an international crisis.” The man recited these items as though he were reading off a grocery list. He looked up and smiled. “That, may I say, is a true showstopper. You’ve never risen to greater heights, and I don’t bestow that compliment lightly considering what you’ve accomplished in the past.”

  “The situation would require no less, Dick,” Creel said sharply. “How soon can you let it fly?”

  “Give the word and it’s all over the Internet. Five minutes after that, every major news outlet will have it in their greedy little claws.”

  “You sure they won’t sit on it? Try to verify things?”

  Pender laughed. “Verify? In this day and age? Who cares about verifying anything? It’s all about speed. Who gets there first defines the truth. You know that as well as any man living.”

  “Then do it. Now.”

  Pender typed on his BlackBerry one word. Launch. He said the word out loud as he typed it. “I thought the term appropriate for someone in the defense industry,” he said.

  “Inspired,” Creel said dully.

  The two men worked for several more hours and then Pender packed his bag.

  “What’s next?” he asked the billionaire.

  “Another boots on the ground,” Creel answered. “Have a nice ride back to D.C. Oh, and Dick, when we sign the official deals with China and Russia I believe a substantial bonus will be in order for you.”

  Pender couldn’t hide his pleasure. “Just doing my job.”

  “Oh, does that mean you don’t want the bonus?”

  Both men laughed, Pender a little nervously.

  “Thank you, Mr. Creel.”

  After Pender left, another door to the conference room opened. Caesar sat down across from his master.

  “Of course you still know where James is,” Creel said. It wasn’t a question.

  The other man nodded. “Hiding out in London, but we kept her on a tight leash after we took care of Lesnik.”

  “Aron Lesnik. I never trust people who do things for altruistic reasons. You never know when they might want to do the right thing again and end up screwing you.”

  “He was pissed about his old man getting killed by the Soviets, that was for sure. So do you want us to kill this guy Shaw?”

  “No. At least not yet. If I were a betting man, and occasionally I am, I would say the time will come when the answer to that question will be yes.”

  “How about James?”

  “She’s performed her part and I see no reason to keep her around for a return engagement. She did reveal the Russian piece in her story so the solution is fairly obvious.” He eyed Caesar suggestively.

  “Not polonium- 210,” Caesar protested. “That shit is dangerous to handle and it’ll take me a while to get some.”

  “It would be stupid to make it that obvious.” Creel sat forward and peered directly into Caesar’s eyes. “But once upon a time there was a Bulgarian dissident named Georgi Markov, who ironically enough was killed in London with an umbrella. I trust you’re familiar with the tale?”

  Caesar grinned wickedly. “I am.”

  “Then do it.”

  Creel waved his hand and Caesar vanished as quickly as he’d appeared.

  CHAPTER 66

  SHAW WATCHED SILENTLY as Royce’s men continued to scour the interior of the massacre site for clues that just wouldn’t come. The MI5 agent had gone outside to meet with someone, leaving Shaw to wonder if things could get any worse. Royce had been furious about the story Katie James had written but he could hardly blame Shaw for that, because he’d told the man nothing about his involvement with James and the late Aron Lesnik.

  Lesnik had been pulled from the Thames with the slug that ended his life still parked in the back of his brain. He wouldn’t be giving any answer sessions.

  Frank walked down the hallway and joined him. “You never told me where you took off to after we left Anna’s apartment.”

  “That’s right, I never did.”

  “Have anything to do with Katie James or her exclusive?”

  “I don’t hang out with the woman, Frank.”

  “Right. So how the hell did she get that story with the Polish guy? And who killed him?”

  “No clue,” Shaw said dully as Frank scowled at him.

  A forensic tech Shaw had never seen before passed by him at the same time that he heard the front door downstairs slam shut. The tech said, “You mind? I need to use the facilities.”

  Shaw looked over his shoulder and realized he was standing in front of the bathroom door. He moved aside and the man went to open the door, or at least tried to.

  Feet were stomping up the stairs. Shaw could hear Royce yelling. The agent was clearly upset about something, and from what Shaw could make out, that something was him.

  The tech jiggled the handle of the bathroom door as a uniformed sergeant who’d been on duty here from the first day passed by.

  The sergeant said, “You must be new here. You’ll have to use the loo in the basement, lad, that one’s busted.”

  Shaw could hear Royce clearly now.

  “Shaw? Damn it, Shaw!”

  The MI5 agent appeared at the top of the stairs, breathless and red-faced. He charged right at Shaw waving a piece of paper.

  “What the hell do you know about this?” he demanded.

  Shaw read the paper. It was a printout from an online news service. The story was short but to the point. The Chinese government owned or had ties to The Phoenix Group. And it was also revealed that evidence found inside the building allegedly proved that The Phoenix Group was behind the Red Menace campaign, which implied, of course, that the Chinese had been behind it. That, according to the news service’s unnamed source, was why Gorshkov’s men had attacked the place. It was a simple connect-the-dots explanation that would play very well all over the world.

  “This is all over the Net,” Royce yelled, pointing a finger at Shaw. “And now all over the bloody world.”

  Frank had read the story over Shaw’s shoulder. “So why is that his problem?”

  “I’m not the source,” Shaw said calmly. “I haven’t told anyone about anything that’s gone on in here.”

  Royce’s features clearly showed he didn’t believe that answer. “Not even your friend, James? Another scoop for her maybe?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Shaw said heatedly.