House of Secrets - v4
Page 19
Andy joked, “Is the lighting better in here for the hidden cameras?”
“You tell me what you consider your best side, Senator. We like our customers happy.”
The jesting notwithstanding, as Andy took his seat in one of the comfortable chairs, he took in the lamps and wall switches and various accoutrements in the room. Something in the room was recording the scene. Only a fool would think otherwise. Pierce launched right in.
“Your friend Chris is certainly pissing blood these days, isn’t he?”
Andy knew from experience that the director liked to swing heavy hammers. He floated a disarming smile across the room. “Why, I was saying just the same thing to the little lady the other day.”
Pierce did not return the smile. A shade over six feet, with a head full of thick hair now gone the color of steel and the sort of powerful features that could well have been carved from the granite mined in his native New Hampshire, William Pierce’s tenure as director of the Bureau now spanned three administrations. He was known to be fully at peace with the nickname that had been attached to him for most of his career: Iron Man. At sixty-seven, he remained in impressive physical condition, still working out strenuously on a daily basis and still keeping up with competitive rowing, a passion developed in his college days in New Haven. Andy had found occasion several times over the years to join the director for a round of golf. Pierce couldn’t putt to save his life. But his tee shot was a wonder to observe.
Pierce settled a hard look on his visitor. “In case you’re wondering, you’re good to go. At least from where I sit.”
“Good to go?”
“The veep job, Andy. Let’s not sit here pretending you don’t know you’re being vetted up the ass to replace Wyeth.”
“That’s not why I’m here.”
Pierce didn’t seem to have heard him. “Also, just so you know. Screwing Spanish girls is not going to disqualify you for the office.” He paused, looking for a reaction. Andy gave him none. That is, unless one of the hidden instruments in the room was monitoring the pace of his heartbeats. Pierce continued. “Hell, we’ve all screwed a Spanish girl at some point. In a manner of speaking.”
“Rita Flores.”
“Here’s the thing. If you were actually running for the office and needed real votes, it’d be over. Married man? Nice pretty wife like you’ve got? But this is an appointment by the president. John Q. is not going to get to weigh in.”
Andy shifted in his chair. “Is it worth my asking how you know about that?”
“It is not.”
“Does Hyland know?”
“You’ll let me worry about that,” Pierce said flatly. “Like I said, nobody is squeaky-clean, Andy. So don’t you worry. You’re every bit as qualified as the president’s other choices.”
The FBI director was an old crony of Andy’s father-in-law. The two had come up together, both politically and socially. Andy recalled how Bill Pierce in particular had bolstered Whitney during the ugly months following his and Lillian’s return from London; he’d been fiercely loyal to his friend and cohort. Andy’s own relations with Pierce had always been cordial, if not exactly cuddly. The director brought out the natural wariness in a person. At least, if the person had any common sense.
“I need to ask you something,” Andy said. “Different topic. Though, thank you for that ringing endorsement.”
“Don’t mention it.” Pierce took a beat. “In fact, don’t mention it. So what is it you want to know?”
“First, I’d like to ask that there be no strings attached.”
“Strings?”
“I want you to promise me that you don’t open a file the moment I walk out of here. This is really nothing more than a fishing expedition on my part. It wouldn’t be good for this conversation to get around. Clearly I’m not going through channels. Those would be the AG’s office. I just don’t happen to have as open a listener over at Justice as I do here.”
“Okay. That’s the suck-up part,” Pierce said.
“Exactly.” Andy paused. He wanted to make sure he had his white lie in order. Especially if it was being recorded. “I’ve got a constituent, Bill. Up in the city. You’d know him if I named him, and I’m not going to name him. He’s got his fingers in pretty deeply with some import and export entities. All on the up and up. I’ve checked. Believe me, I wouldn’t be wasting either of our time if it were otherwise.”
“That’s a very wise disclaimer, Andy,” Pierce said.
The director didn’t sound as if he was wholly swallowing Andy’s tale, but Andy pressed on.
“The problem here is that it seems there have been some whisperings of late linking this individual with a man by the name of Aleksey Titov. You know about this Titov, don’t you, Bill?”
Pierce maintained his poker face. On his right ring finger he wore a large gold signet ring inset with a light blue stone. He had hold of the ring with his index finger and thumb and was rotating it in half-circles on his finger.
“Go on.”
Andy cleared his throat. “Ostensibly, this Titov runs his own import business. Actually, I shouldn’t say ostensibly. He does. He’s a businessman. He’s registered. But I’m sure you remember the dust that was kicking up around Christmastime about this? I wasn’t really paying it much attention myself, except that this Mr. Titov lives in New York and he seems to throw a lot of money around. So anything that might develop around a character like that is something my office would want to keep an eye on.”
He paused for Pierce to pass comment, but the director maintained a stony silence. The expression on his face gave Andy nothing to read. The room was cold, and Andy could feel the Freon chilling the perspiration that had formed on his neck and at his hairline. It was too late to second-guess his plan; he plunged ahead.
“I guess that’s what I’m after, Bill. There was that little flare-up of interest over the winter. As I recall, it looked at the time as if Titov was being given an extremely close look by the Feds. I guess I’m just sort of wondering what the status is there. I know the guy’s a mobster. He’s organized dirt.”
Pierce nodded almost imperceptibly. Andy paused again. Pierce still gave no indication of being ready — or willing — to weigh in on what he was hearing. Andy plunged forward.
“I’m strictly fishing here, Bill. I’m just looking to see if there’s anything interesting that might not yet be in the public record that might be something I can pass along to my friend. Like I said, my guy is just trying to make a buck the old-fashioned way. It’s pathetic that someone like Titov can steal the food off his plate. For that matter, it wouldn’t do me any harm to know what’s going on in my backyard either, would it? Call me curious. I’m just wondering if this Titov has got anyone in particular in his pocket that we know about. Is he considered a big player? Or maybe angling to become one? Basically, I’m trying to find out his status.”
Pierce allowed his head to tip slightly to the side. “His status?”
“Sure. Or the status of any investigation that might be going on with regard to him. For example, I’d love to be able to tell my friend if this Titov was about to explode. I’m just looking to get more of his story.”
Andy wasn’t sensing an especially receptive vibe from the director. Now that he was actually airing his vague inquiry, the story wasn’t sounding terrifically convincing. He needed to be more blunt; William Pierce had too good a nose for the decorative bullshit. Andy skidded forward in his chair.
“Bottom line, Bill. How big a target is Aleksey Titov? On the scum factor. High? Low?”
“This is for your friend?”
“That’s right.”
“And what’s good for your friend is good for you?”
Andy didn’t care for the implication of Pierce’s question, but then again he wasn’t in a position to quibble. Andy straightened in his chair. He had to pull the plug on this thing.
“Forget it, Bill. I’m being vague, and you’re right to call me on it. Next thin
g you know, I’ll be seeing Russian mobsters under every pillow. Forget it.”
“I’ll look into it,” Pierce said.
“No, honestly. No need. I was really more curious to see if there was anything off the top of your head. You stick with the big fish. And feel free to come waste my time whenever you wish.”
Pierce gave a shrug. The two men chatted for several more minutes. Andy had the distinct feeling that the FBI director was gently batting him around, the way a cat does with a smaller creature in advance of snuffing it out. When Andy rose to leave, Pierce clamped a hand on his shoulder and walked him to the door.
“You know I’m apolitical, Andy,” Pierce said as they paused at the door. “My personal feelings have no place in my job. But—”
Andy jumped in. “Thank you for your time, Bill. Seriously. All this noise going around about Chris and the rest of it. I guess I’m just trying to distract myself.”
A trace of a smile appeared on Pierce’s face. “Give my regards to your lovely wife, will you?”
“Sure thing.”
Andy passed through Pierce’s outer office and made his way back to the street. He knew that the FBI director’s window looked out in the direction of the Mall and that even if Pierce had wanted to stand at the window watching his visitor’s departure he wouldn’t have been able to. Regardless, knowing this did not keep Andy from the feeling that he was not walking down the street unobserved.
Oh good, he said to himself as he reached the corner of Pennsylvania and Ninth avenues. Paranoia. I’d been wondering where the heck you’ve been.
Andy caught the three forty-five out of Reagan National. He attempted to occupy himself during the short flight with the latest Richard Russo book. To a large degree, Russo wrote the same book over and over, but that didn’t really matter to Andy, nor apparently to thousands of other readers. Each version of the story generally improved on the previous rendering. Deeper poignancy. Richer humor. Harder heartbreak. All the good stuff.
Andy couldn’t concentrate.
By the time his tray table was locked in its upright position and the swirling grid of single-family dwellings adjacent to LaGuardia filled the window by his elbow, Andy hadn’t turned three pages of the book. The flight landed, and Andy put his smile on autopilot as he navigated his way to the arrivals area, where a car was waiting for him. He felt both relief and suffocation as the door closed behind him, entombing him in the rear seat of the car.
Traffic was already slowing as the car made its way along the Grand Central Parkway toward the Midtown Tunnel. Andy’s gaze was aimed out the tinted window at the Manhattan skyline, but the calliope of skyscrapers was not registering in his mind. Abruptly, he lurched forward in his seat.
“Brighton Beach. How long would it take us to get down there?”
The driver caught his eye in the rearview mirror. “No longer than it’ll take us to get through the tunnel.”
“Do it. Head down there.”
The driver hit his turn signal and slid into the left lane. “Do you have an address, sir?”
Andy was already lost again in thought. “I… No. No address. We’re not really going anywhere.”
“Sir?”
“Just go! It doesn’t matter. I just want to see the goddamned place.”
The director of the museum’s Costume Institute was off in Greece for two weeks, a tidbit of information that Smallwood had stumbled onto the day before.
The director’s office was small and cramped, and Smallwood felt like a lumbering giant in it. He was standing at the photocopier. Although it wasn’t necessary to close the lid in order to produce workable copies, Smallwood did have to press down hard on the original in order to ensure the clearest copy, so he couldn’t simply let the machine do its work without him.
As the copier’s light scanned horizontally back and forth beneath the glass, its emerald glow illuminated two naked mannequins that were standing off to one side of the machine, lending them a sense of animation. The emerald light was bathing his face as well. Every time it crossed his face, Smallwood lowered his eyelids, enjoying the wash of green. In addition to the low hum emitted by the photocopier, there was a rhythmic series of clicking sounds as well, sounds that Smallwood fell into duplicating, clicking his tongue along with them.
Smallwood was making five hundred copies. A good round number. More than he really needed, but that was all right. At first he had feared the original might not reproduce so nicely. But the copies were looking good enough. The photocopier engaged a series of plastic racks where the copies exited the machine, and after each rack collected fifty copies, it automatically shifted up a notch to the next empty rack. Smallwood appreciated the machine’s efficiency of design. He found the whirs and clicks and pulsating green light extraordinarily soothing. He also appreciated the dungeonlike quality of the ill-lit office, and the two naked mannequins bathing in the rhythmic swipes of light. Smallwood felt he could have remained down in the office for days on end.
The plastic rack clicked up its final notch. Smallwood’s eyes remained open for the final copies. The pages slid out onto the rack, one every second, accompanied by the photocopier’s rhythmic click… click… click… They arrived faceup, momentarily suspended before dropping down softly onto the previous copy.
The cute little girl and her evil father.
As Smallwood watched the final fifty copies coming from the machine, it seemed that the father was becoming more and more evil with every passing sheet of paper. It really wasn’t right that the little girl was saddled with such an evil creature for a father. Not right at all. And apparently this man held a lot of power. His influence could be felt by millions.
Smallwood plucked the next copy as it came out of the machine and studied the handsome face. It was unacceptable, this person wielding such power. Something had to be done about it. If for nothing else, Smallwood thought, at the very least for the cute little girl who was whispering into her daddy’s ear.
Christine had been pleasantly surprised when Andy phoned to say that he had been called to New York for a meeting and that he’d be able to be home for dinner.
“Sweet of you to drop in on your constituents.”
She thought that the family could do with a special dinner. She headed over to the market to pick up the ingredients for one of Andy’s favorite dishes, Dublin fish stew. She decided to keep Andy’s night at home a surprise for Michelle. Rosa was picking up Michelle and her friend Emily at school, and the three of them were planning to head over to Hudson River Park. Christine added some artichokes and a bag of forbidden rice to her shopping basket. At the pastry counter she nabbed a strawberry cheesecake. Her husband would drool.
Christine was oddly keyed up when Andy arrived home, but she immediately sensed that his energy was much more subdued than hers. He looked drawn. When she asked him what business had brought him up to the city, he brusquely waved the question aside.
“Nothing. Just stupid stuff.”
Andy changed into his jogging clothes and went out for a run. Christine’s joy over choreographing the special dinner was gone. As she cut the haddock into chunks and washed the irritatingly dirty spinach, she realized just how angry she was with Andy. A part of her knew it was unfair of her, but she was furious that no matter what, it always came down to being all about him. His campaign. His decisions. His speeches. His career. The long-ago echoes of her mother’s tangles with her own self-involved husband didn’t help to pacify Christine in the slightest. Christine measured out the rice and lined up the spices. She ran cold water over the hard-boiled eggs and peeled them in the sink, then took a knife to the eggs, slicing them swiftly with a practiced precision.
As she whittled the eyes out of the potatoes with a paring knife, Christine replayed in her mind the weekend she and Andy had spent together in Boston. She marveled at how swiftly they had fallen into sync and right back out again. The past three days seemed only to have deepened the sense of estrangement she was feeling.
Except for the slightly overdone artichokes, the meal was delicious. Andy uncorked one of the bottles of the Benziger Reserve Chardonnay they had picked up during last spring’s visit to Sonoma Valley and entertained Christine and Michelle with tales of the Earth Day event. His mood seemed to have lifted since his return. He thought his story of meeting Tori Amos would get a rise out of Michelle, but the child could not have looked more bored.
“Sweetie, your cluelessness is showing,” Christine said to her husband. “Our daughter isn’t even eight years old. Tori Amos is a dinosaur.”
Midway through the meal, Andy started in on a story about his intern and an accident she had been in the day before involving a motorcycle. The story seemed to have come out of the blue. It sounded horrible. The young woman’s left hip was essentially shattered. Christine sat speechless as her husband shared the gory details. It was bad enough that he was telling the story in front of Michelle in the first place. But even worse was the oddly casual gloss he was putting on the tale, as if he were doing nothing more than sharing with his family a mildly interesting little snippet of information. It was clear from Michelle’s face that Andy’s story was upsetting her. Christine intervened.
“Andy? I think this can keep until later.”
Andy seemed confused. “I just thought… Well, I figured you should know, that’s all.”
“Fine. So I know. And so does our daughter. Thank you for sharing.”
Andy’s reply was interrupted by the phone ringing. Michelle hurried out of her chair.