House of Secrets - v4

by Richard Hawke

  Dimitri was holding an empty beer bottle over his head. As the man pushed into the room Dimitri swung the bottle at him, but his aim was off and the bottle bounced ineffectually off the intruder’s shoulder. The blond man spun to his right. He whipped his arm in an arc, and a slice appeared across Dimitri’s undershirt. In a flash, the hoodlum brought the knife back, and this time it sank into Dimitri’s ribs, all the way to the handle. Irena let out a scream. A look of dumb confusion came to her husband’s face as his shirt began to redden. Using the embedded knife as a lever, Dimitri’s assailant pumped his arm forcefully and brought Dimitri down off the chair and crashing to the floor.

  Irena screamed and scrambled up onto the bed.

  The blond man jerked the knife free, and as Dimitri struggled to rise to all fours, the hoodlum launched a hard kick into his side. The two had cleared the doorway enough that he could reach over Dimitri and swing the door closed. Irena scooted farther back on the bed, her knees crunching right over Dimitri’s laptop.

  Dimitri was trying to stand, but the blond man put a foot on his shoulder and toppled him easily. In an instant he was hunched over Dimitri, plunging the knife into his chest two, three, four times. His arm pumped as though it were a machine; the blood was spreading across Dimitri’s undershirt.

  “Stop! Stop it!”

  Irena’s screams ripped at her lungs. But the man was not stopping. He was grunting with his efforts. Dimitri, too, was making grunting sounds. But his were smaller. Weaker.

  Oh, Dimitri.

  Irena grabbed hold of the laptop. In a single bounce she was at the foot of the bed. As she raised the laptop, she noticed the blue flash drive poking from its side, and she snatched it from the machine. She lifted the laptop over her head. Red bubbles were foaming from Dimitri’s mouth. His eyes met hers. At least, Irena thought they did. She had never before seen such sadness in them.

  Irena brought the laptop down with all her might, hooking it at the last instant like a batter swinging for the fence. It caught the hoodlum full force against his face. Irena saw something the size of an aspirin propel to the floor as the man sprawled sideways on top of Dimitri.

  Irena slipped off the bed. With the firmer footing, she brought the laptop down again, hard hits against the back of the man’s head. Two. Three. Four. The final swing of the laptop caught him on the side of his head, and Irena saw his eyelids flicker as he tumbled sideways onto the floor. She took one last look at her husband.

  Stupid, stupid man.

  Irena jerked open the door. Her feet moved with a rodent’s swiftness, silent on the carpeted hallway. They steered away from the elevator and found the stairs. They brought her round and round and round, down to the ground floor, then carried her swiftly across the hotel lobby. They did not slow down for the man at the front desk, who was calling something out to her.

  Clutching Dimitri’s computer to her chest, Irena hit the sidewalk at full speed. The sound of her own footsteps spurred her to run faster. She was undaunted by the light rain and the random puddles and by the fact that she had no idea whatsoever where in the huge, scary, lonely world she was going.

  After a set of early morning tennis, Whitney Hoyt and his wife showered separately then shared breakfast in their bathrobes out on the stone patio. Eggs Florentine. Tomato juice. Caffe latte.

  While their plates were being cleared, a deer made an appearance at the edge of the trees. The deer grazed on the grass, then raised its head in alarm and stood stock-still for some twenty seconds before bounding back into the trees. Jenny went inside to change, and Whitney spent the next forty minutes with the Times and the Journal and The Washington Post. The world — no surprise — was still a mess.

  At ten o’clock, Whitney dressed. Jenny was off to a meeting of the Greenwich Flower Festival, of which she had volunteered to be co-chair. Whitney was in his study when she popped in to say goodbye.

  “This is really happening, isn’t it?” she asked.

  Whitney slid his glasses up onto his forehead. “Anything is possible. But yes. I’m beginning to feel a sense of inevitability.”

  Jenny paused, her hand resting lightly on the doorjamb. “What do you suppose this is going to mean to Christine?”

  “Christine understands. Whatever fuss she makes, it will remain private. You’ll help her with that. You’re a good sounding board for her.”

  Jenny took off. Twenty minutes later Paul Jordan poked his head into the room.

  “Whitney? The shoes are coming.”

  Hoyt was flipping through some papers. A play of amusement crossed his face. He looked up.

  “You’re certainly Mr. Cloak-and-Dagger these days, aren’t you?”

  Shoes was a term for federal agents that Jordan had picked up from the movies. Jordan and his wife were unabashed movie junkies, particularly American gangster films. For nearly a dozen years, the love of their life had been their Scottish terrier, which Hailey Jordan had named Baby Face.

  Jordan adopted a tone of mock solemnity.

  “The president, sir, and two of his men.”

  Hoyt waved a hand. “Show them in.”

  Jordan stepped back from the door, and two Secret Service agents appeared. The agents glanced impassively around the room, then took up positions on either side of the door. Paul Jordan bowed his head slightly as President John Hyland entered the room. Hoyt stood and started around his desk, but the president covered the distance in four long strides.

  “Governor. It’s good to see you again.”

  “Likewise, Mr. President. Sorry to disturb your morning.”

  The two men shook hands. Hoyt directed the president to have a seat in the mahogany red leather chair in front of his desk, while he took the rocker opposite.

  “It’s not a problem,” Hyland said. “I was able to cancel a very boring breakfast.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m afraid we don’t have much time, however. The boring lunch is a little harder to nix.”

  Hoyt nodded. “I understand that.”

  Hyland gave a signal, and his shoes left the room. Paul Jordan surveyed the room intensely for several seconds, giving a terse nod to Hoyt, then joined them. The door clicked closed behind him.

  The president leaned forward in the chair, grasping his hands together. If he looked like a man wearing handcuffs, the impression was not wholly inaccurate.

  “Okay, Whitney. I gather from your message that you have a few things to tell me about Chris Wyeth. Not as if I haven’t been hearing more than enough the last couple of days.”

  “True enough,” Hoyt said.

  “Nothing good, I assume.”

  “Chris certainly wouldn’t think so.”

  Hyland studied the man in front of him. The relationship between the new president and the former governor had always been cordial and primarily superficial. Hyland was well aware that even in his role as private citizen, Whitney Hoyt still commanded respect and loyalty in certain political circles. He was far from being a person without influence.

  Hyland asked, “Is it even worth my asking why you didn’t come forward with your information last year while we were vetting him?”

  “Not worth asking, John.”

  “I see.” Hyland waited, but it was apparent that Hoyt had no more to say. “Okay, Governor,” Hyland went on at last. “This is all in your court. I’m begging, you’re giving. How are we going to run this?”

  Hoyt rocked his chair slightly. “We don’t have to be so arch here, Mr. President. It’s simple horse trading. The good old-fashioned style.”

  “Wyeth is finished,” Hyland said. “I get that. That seems to be established. I take it you’re holding the nails to the coffin.”

  “I doubt you’ll really need them. But yes, I am.” Hoyt leaned sideways and lifted a manila folder from the edge of his desk.

  “It’s always been a real love-hate matter with you and Chris, hasn’t it?” the president said.

  Hoyt brought the folder onto his lap, considering the president before respo
nding. “It’s neither love nor hate, Mr. President. Either of those would suggest that the man holds a special enough place in my heart. That’s simply not the case here. It’s my country I have in mind, not Chris Wyeth’s specific failings. Granted, Chris is smart and he’s capable and he’s shrewd. It’s impressive how he’s maneuvered all these years. One really does have to respect a man who is good at his game. You, for example. I’ve enjoyed watching you, Mr. President. You’re immensely skilled. You’ve got the common touch down cold. People relate to you. They trust that you’re going to deliver. Hell, you’re the Joe DiMaggio of politics.”

  Hyland scoffed. “I hope that isn’t to say I’ll end my days selling coffeemakers.”

  Hoyt smiled blandly at him. “I hope not, too. And take this from one who knows. It’s definitely the final act that’s the trickiest. They take away all your toys, but you’re still expected to be having fun.”

  “You’re doing okay for yourself, Governor.”

  “Well, yes. I’ve got a good wife and fond memories and loyal friends. For the most part, I’m a happy man.”

  Hyland eyed the folder in Hoyt’s lap. “But clearly something has made you unhappy.”

  Hoyt cleared his throat. “I’m afraid you simply didn’t pick the best man for the job, John. I love my country. I want to see it thrive. For all his smarts and his obvious successes, Chris Wyeth sitting in the Oval Office does not say thrive to me.”

  Hyland smiled. “Last time I looked, I was the one sitting there.”

  “Of course you are. Let’s just say that Chris Wyeth is too close for my tastes. It’s not always a healthy thing for a man to get everything he wants.”

  “And you think Wyeth wants my job?”

  Hoyt waved his hand. “Christ, man, of course he does. Don’t play silly with me. Chris Wyeth has been aching for that job since he was in diapers. This is no secret. You took on an eager beaver, Mr. President.”

  “Do you mind my asking you something, Governor?” Hyland said.

  “Please.”

  Hyland shifted in the chair. “You looked like a pretty eager beaver yourself at one point in your career. There are a lot of people who never understood your not taking a crack at the office.”

  Hoyt continued rocking slowly in his chair. “That’s a statement. You said you wanted to ask me a question.”

  “The question is, why didn’t you ever run for president when you were so clearly positioned for it?”

  Hoyt’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, can’t we just say I wanted to spend more time with my family?”

  “If it means anything, Whitney, I feel you would have made a superb chief executive.”

  “Well, thank you, Mr. President. That’s very kind of you. Not that I believe that’s how you really feel.” Hoyt gave his guest a measured smile. “And I hope you enjoy your time at the top. With the world the way it is now, I don’t know if I envy you or pity the living hell out of you.”

  “If those are my choices, I’ll take the latter.” The president glanced down at his watch. “I’d love to spend the morning kissing each other’s tails, Whitney. But I really don’t have much time. We should move on to the business at hand.”

  “Of course. You do have a country to run. My apologies.” Hoyt lifted the folder from his lap. “So. Our man Wyeth.”

  “Horse trading.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The president eyed the folder. “I take it Andy Foster is the other horse?”

  “Best in the stable.”

  “Better than John Bainbridge?”

  Whitney Hoyt gave an overtly theatrical blink. “Bainbridge. Oh. Wait a minute.” He dropped the folder back onto his lap and reached over to the desk and picked up a second manila folder. “I’m sorry, John. It’s this one. This is the sad, silly story of your vice president. I’m so sorry. My mistake.”

  He leaned forward in the rocker and handed the second folder to the president. “Chris was always a little too eager for his own good. Too eager to remember to cover his tracks. One of those fatal flaws, I’m afraid.”

  Hyland despised this man. This was precisely the sort of politics that had been degrading the people’s regard for the governing process for decades. It was Hyland’s fervent hope that political dinosaurs like Whitney Hoyt would complete their damn extinction already and stop spawning new little dinosaurs. It was dispiriting.

  “Okay, Governor. I have to say, your eagerness is not terrifically becoming. So what’s in the other folder?”

  Hoyt was unmoved. “John Bainbridge would be a foolish choice, Mr. President. Read it and weep.” He picked the folder up off his lap and handed it to the president. Hyland immediately tossed it up onto the desk.

  “I’m not even going to look at this.”

  “Have it your way, Mr. President.”

  “And my way is Andy Foster?”

  Hoyt rocked backward in his chair. “That strikes me as a very inspired choice.”

  Hyland held a steady gaze on his host, then stood up from his chair.

  “Inspired.”

  He put as much disgust into the word as he could. It was not nearly enough to faze his host.

  “There’s Daddy!”

  Michelle dropped her half-eaten toast and practically leaped at the small television on the kitchen counter. Christine was scraping her spatula along the bottom of the pan; she gave the scrambled eggs one last stir and flipped off the flame.

  Good Morning America was showing a clip from Andy’s Earth Day speech the day before. Christine set down the spatula and turned to the television. “Oh, look at those sunglasses. Your daddy is such a dude sometimes.”

  Michelle’s nose moved to within inches of the screen. “Shhh. Listen!”

  The little girl’s father was exhorting the Earth Day crowd: “Renew your sense of compassion and your kindness and your caring! Renew your respect and appreciation for this precious planet and for all the living beings on it! We are the renewable energy that can save our earth. We are the ones who can fix what we’ve broken. So let’s get together and renew!”

  The picture cut to the chanting crowd — “Vee! Pee! Vee! Pee!” — then switched back to the studio and the unabashedly smitten expression worn by the morning show’s political reporter as she turned to the show’s co-host.

  “It’s pretty clear they like him. They really, really like him.”

  The story continued with footage of Andy signing books in a bookstore somewhere, the line of customers snaking off out of sight, and then several seconds of a campaign appearance Andy had made with Chris Wyeth in Cooperstown during the fall campaign. The voice-over put particular emphasis on Senator Foster’s ability “to really connect with the people.” The piece concluded with the studio reporter assuring the cohost that “the country could do much worse than to welcome Andy Foster as its next vice president should circumstances open such a door.”

  “Turn that down, please,” Christine told Michelle as she divvied up the eggs onto two plates.

  “Is Daddy going to be the next nice president?”

  Christine eyed the girl warily. “Okay, are we just being cute here?”

  “Is he?”

  Christine decided that the malapropism was genuine; she’d have to remember to share it with Andy. “Nobody really knows that right now, honey,” Christine said. “A lot of things would have to come together in a certain way. I think the smartest thing right now is to focus on your breakfast.”

  “Miss Brandstetter asked me yesterday if we were going to move to Washington.”

  Christine wasn’t thrilled to hear that. “Tell you what. If anyone else asks you any questions like that, do what I do.”

  “What’s that?”

  Christine set her fork down and pressed her hands over her ears. “La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la…”

  Michelle’s face lit up. She clamped her hands on her own ears. “La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la…”

  Well, that’s fine, Christine thought as she and her daughter made moon
y faces at each other. La, la, la, la…

  But how long is this really going to work?

  Andy had his game face on.

  There was no avoiding the scrum of reporters and cameras waiting to ambush him as he arrived at the Capitol building. He recalled his father-in-law’s advice: Give them everything and give them nothing.

  Senator Foster gave them his attention, even suggesting with an amused smirk that he respected the badgering their job required them to do. A windup clown doll could have just as well tottered along the sidewalk and recited the nonsense that Andy offered, though the clown doll would have lacked the charm that Andy brought to the task. The senator even allowed a modicum of eagerness to bleed into his presentation. He winked and grinned and expressed authentic uncertainty about what was happening in the executive branch right now.

  “You know, it’s just too early in the morning. Let me get my first cup of joe and I’ll get back to you on that.”

  A handful of reporters stuck with him as he made his way inside the building and along the corridor toward his office, a Pied Piper scene played out time and time and time again in those fabled halls. The door to his offices beckoned, and it opened just as he and his gaggle reached them. An amused Jim Fergus stood there to welcome his boss.

  Andy turned to the reporters and demurred in earnest. “Honestly, at this point I’m as much in the dark as all of you are. So right now, I’m just going to get on with the work of the people. That’s what I’m being paid for. Everything else, we’ll see what we see when we see it.”

  And with that, his aide-de-camp ushered him into the office and closed the door.

  “You know, there’s an easier way of saying that,” Fergus remarked.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “‘Surely I shit you. I shit you not.’”

  Shortly after 11:30, Senator Foster excused himself from a tedious meeting of the Senate Ethics Oversight Committee and made his way by foot to the J. Edgar Hoover Building. Within several minutes of his arrival, Andy was shown into the office of William Pierce, the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The two greeted each other and Pierce steered the senator to an anteroom just off his office.