by D. W. Buffa
“You may not have to. Atwood may prove it for us. In just a few hours, all the pressure is going to be on him.” He nodded toward the lights of the White House looming in the distance. “You know she had to be on the phone the moment you were gone, telling Russell what you told her, trying to figure out what they can do to save themselves. I don’t imagine either one of them is going to be getting any sleep tonight.”
They drove to Finnegan’s apartment just off Dupont Circle. A pre-war building in which most of the tenants worked for various foreign missions, it gave Finnegan a place to get away from people who worked on the Hill, a place where he could pass almost unnoticed among the others who lived there. He had insisted Hart stay with him until it was safe for him to go home.
“Laura okay?” he asked. He tossed his jacket on a chair in the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and looked over his shoulder. “Beer?”
“Sure. Thanks. And yes, Laura is okay, though a little angry with me right now.”
Finnegan snapped the caps off both bottles and put one on the table in front of Hart.
“She wanted to stay, didn’t she?” Finnegan plopped down on the chair opposite. “Good thing she didn’t. God knows what’s going to happen now. She’s home in Santa Barbara? Good. You’ll see her in a few days.”
A bright, fearless smile cut across Finnegan’s mouth.
“The Senate is full of guys married to women more qualified than they are to hold the office. But you and I, my friend, are the only two ready to admit it.” He laughed quietly and took a drink. “Now, tell me something more about what happened over there. I know about Austin; I know about the rest of it. Tell me about Jean Valette.”
Hart leaned his elbow on the table and bent his head forward. He was not sure where to begin, or whether there was anything he could say to describe what Jean Valette was like. He was not even sure he could describe the effect Jean Valette had had on him.
“He’s either the most intelligent, the most profoundly intelligent, man I’ve ever met or the craziest. When you’re with him, everything he says makes sense. He held me, for hours at a time, mesmerized by the astonishing things he said. He seemed to have all of history in his mind. Not just dates and places, battles, wars, things like that, but how they were all connected to each other and what they meant. When we look at history, we look back; he starts at some point in the past and looks forward. That’s the difference, I think: he seems to put himself back in time, to see things the way they were seen at the time. It was not like anything I’ve ever heard. but then, later, when I was alone and thought about what he had said, when I was not under the force of the magnetism he has—eyes that I swear could make you believe anything—then I was not so certain that it was not all lunacy, a madman’s description of the world.”
Finnegan pushed back until the front legs of the chair were off the floor. With his tousled reddish hair, he looked more like a graduate student having a beer late at night at some Ann Arbor tavern than a member of the United States Senate. But for all his youthful appearance, there was a serious dedication, an intense earnestness, a power of concentration that few others in the Senate, whatever their age, could duplicate. Others could talk endlessly on the Senate floor, their colleagues half asleep; Finnegan, with an instinct for the heart of the matter, never spoke to anything but the point.
“He said he knew all this would happen? Not that Constable would be murdered, but that Constable, and the others, would one way or the other all be destroyed?”
With so many other things on his mind Hart had forgotten that he had mentioned this.
“You told me yesterday, on the ride from the airport. But there’s a question, isn’t there?” The two front legs of the chair hit the linoleum floor with a clatter as he bounced forward. “If he knew that, if he was so certain that once Constable, and poor Frank Morris, and that fool Russell, became involved, grabbed millions for themselves, they would end up killing one another, why did he do it? It’s no answer to say because it was the only way some of the companies he controls—that The Four Sisters controls—could do business here. He knows this will destroy them. He doesn’t really need more business, does he? He’s one of the world’s richest men.” Finnegan’s eyebrows shot up. “And from the way you describe him…well, would you say he was someone driven by the need for money, this strange recluse with that diminishing library of his? There’s only one conclusion you can draw from this, isn’t there? For whatever reason, Jean Valette wanted them to destroy themselves. Listen, if someone tells you they’re suicidal and then asks if they can borrow your gun…well, you get the idea.”
Hart remembered the remarkable expression on the face of Jean Valette as they sat together, surrounded by towering banks of empty shelves, and the sense of something electric in the air as he began to tell him about the book he had written, and how, if he was not careful, what he had learned about the future might truly drive him mad.
“Jean Valette isn’t much interested in what happens to individuals. He thinks there is too much at stake for that. And there is something else,” said Hart with a deeply troubled expression. “The fact that no one else seems to think there is any crisis only makes him more certain that there is.”
Finnegan glanced at his watch.
“It’s late. Better try to get a few hours sleep. We’ve got a lot to do in the morning.”
Nodding in agreement, Hart started to get up, but then stopped and shot a quizzical glance at Finnegan.
“What about the Secret Service agent, the one who was there the night Constable was murdered, the one I met when I had that meeting with Atwood at the Watergate? Richard Bauman—what were you able to find out?”
Finnegan pushed his chair close against the table and emptied what was left of his beer into the sink.
“All anyone knows is that he quit, and then disappeared. No one has seen him; no one knows where he went. No one knows for sure if he is still alive.”
“I thought he might know something,” said Hart. “When I met him that night he seemed genuinely distraught, kept blaming himself for what happened, for helping the killer get away.”
“Get some sleep,” said Finnegan as he walked him to the door of the second bedroom. “In a couple of hours the papers hit the streets and this whole town is going to blow up.”
It was a figure of speech, of course, not meant to be taken literally, but in places like the White House and the various offices on Capitol Hill it was a fair description of the reaction to the story Philip Carlyle had written under the kind of banner headline used only for a domestic crisis or war. Carlyle had everything: dates and places where meetings had taken place, records of each transaction by which the Constables, along with Irwin Russell and the late Frank Morris, had enriched themselves and violated the public trust. It was all there, every seedy detail in an epic tawdry tale of narrow-minded greed and corruption. But that was only half the story. Bribery and extortion had been the prelude to murder.
Instead of starting with the murder of Robert Constable in a New York hotel room, Carlyle started with the two murders in France. Why were Austin Pearce, the former secretary of the treasury, and Aaron Wolfe, head of the political section at the embassy in Paris, killed by two American intelligence agents stationed at that same embassy? Carlyle reported that the chief of detectives of the Surete was convinced that it was to stop them from revealing what they had learned from Bobby Hart about who was really responsible for the assassination of Robert Constable.
“‘It clearly was not Senator Hart,’ insists Inspector Dumont. ‘He came here looking for the connection with The Four Sisters. The two killers were not working for him. He was downstairs talking to the landlady when the shooting started. He ran upstairs, tried to save Mr. Pearce, and was almost killed himself. He shot the assailant, wounded him in the shoulder, and forced him to flee. Hart did not kill anyone, but someone in your government is trying to kill him.’”
By nine o’clock those who had not yet read the stor
y were rushing out to buy a paper so they could. It was all anyone could talk about. Nothing got done. Everyone was on the phone, trying to find out what others thought, or huddled together in small groups in the corridors trying to figure out what was going to happen next, whether Russell would resign or be impeached. That was the only choice he seemed to have. The White House went silent. There was no comment from the president and no indication when there might be one. At Hillary Constable’s house, no one would answer the door. At eleven o’clock it was announced that Senator Finnegan of Michigan would hold a press conference at noon. He had new evidence about the murder of Robert Constable.
The hallway outside Finnegan’s office became impassable, cameras, television lights, and, as it seemed, every reporter in Washington, crowded together, waiting for Charlie Finnegan to step through the door and tell them what he knew. The air was thick with anxiety, suspense, and something close to panic. The country was at a crossroads and no one could know which direction it would take. One president had been murdered; his successor was about to be forced from office. The woman who was about to become vice president, the woman who would have succeeded Russell, was guilty of the same crimes as her husband. Charlie Finnegan took it all in stride. His opening remark was a bombshell.
“The murder of President Robert Constable was organized and arranged by the head of the Secret Service, Clarence Atwood. Mr. Atwood did not act alone. He was taking orders from either Irwin Russell or Hillary Constable or more probably both. As you know from today’s report, Robert Constable and his wife, along with Irwin Russell and former congressman Frank Morris, all took part in a scheme of bribery and corruption. Quentin Burdick, a reporter you all knew and respected, discovered this. He had an interview scheduled with the president. That interview never took place; the president was killed the night before. He was killed out of fear that he might talk, that he might try to blame everything on the others. That would have ruined everything, not just the president’s own reputation, but the political ambitions of his wife as well as the vice president’s career. They would all have gone to jail.”
As soon as Finnegan finished, the questions started, one on top of the other. Finnegan held up both hands, quieting the crowd, and then slowly, methodically, called on each reporter who raised a hand.
“How do you know? What evidence do you have that Clarence Atwood arranged the murder? What—?”
“Murders,” corrected Finnegan. “Robert Constable was not the only person he had killed. There was Frank Morris, then Quentin Burdick, and then the two in France: Aaron Wolfe and Austin Pearce.”
“But what evidence do you have?”
“First, he lied when he told Senator Hart that an investigation had started into the death of the president, and that both the FBI and the CIA were involved. Second, he knew that Senator Hart had started an investigation of his own, trying to find out who was behind the murder of Robert Constable. He knew it because Hillary Constable told him what Hart was doing, and because Atwood met with Hart to discuss it. Atwood framed Hart for the murder, fabricated evidence, because he had to discredit anything Hart might say about what he found.” Finnegan leaned closer toward the battery of microphones. “He framed Hart because then they could have him killed, shut him up forever, and claim, like they did with that paid assassin of theirs in New York, that he was trying to get away.”
“But Hart was trying to get away,” protested another reporter. “If he’s innocent, if Atwood did it, why is Bobby Hart still running?”
A cheerful grin broke unexpectedly across Charlie Finnegan’s slightly freckled mouth.
“That’s a damn good question. Why don’t we ask him?”
And with that, he reached behind him, opened the door to his office, and Bobby Hart stepped out in front of the cameras and an audience of reporters that for half a second was rendered speechless.
When it was over, after he had recounted most of what had happened and what he had learned, after he had patiently answered their questions, Hart went to his own office, where he found an exuberant and exhausted David Allen.
“We had a few defections,” said Allen in a wry, understated way. “But it’s always good to find out who you can trust.”
“A few?” asked Hart, as his eyebrows danced higher. He dropped into a chair on the other side of Allen’s perpetually cluttered desk. “There’s hardly anyone here.”
Allen’s look mimicked Hart’s own.
“Any minute now the calls will start coming in, all of them telling me how sorry they are, how stupid they were, that they never really believed you did anything like everyone else seemed to think you did. What do you want me to do?”
“Let them come back. There was a point I almost thought I must be guilty.”
Hart’s secretary, one of the few members of the staff who had not doubted his innocence, came rushing in, her hand trembling as she handed him a slip of paper.
“It’s Mr. Atwood. He says you need to call him right away. That’s his number. He sounded strange, unbalanced; desperate, I think.”
Hart took the number and went alone into his own office. He could feel the anger rising up inside him, rage at what Atwood had done, not just to him, but to Laura too. Why was he calling now? To ask forgiveness, to offer explanations, to try to make some kind of deal?
The voice at the other end answered on the second ring. The one-word greeting, that single “hello,” had the weak, lifeless quality of a man in mourning. “Oh, it’s you,” he added when Hart identified himself. Then there was nothing, a dead silence.
“You called me,” said Hart finally. “What is it you want?”
At first Hart thought that Atwood had started to cough, but then he realized that it was laughter, the bitter laughter of an angry, broken man.
“You think you have it all figured out, don’t you? You think you know what happened and why. Let me tell you something, Senator: you don’t have the first clue!”
Hart was not impressed.
“I’m really not worried, Atwood. It will all come out at your trial.”
“Trial? Is that what you think is going to happen?” There was another long silence, and then he added: “You want to know what is going to happen? Listen to this.”
There was a sudden, violent roar, an obscene, mind-numbing noise, and then there was no sound at all. Hart jumped out of his chair and ran to Allen’s office.
“Call the police. Clarence Atwood has just shot himself.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Bobby pushed open the iron gate at the head of the drive and then stood there, taking in the view, the endless horizon of the blue Pacific gleaming in the late day sun, remembering how much Laura liked it here, how much he liked it here, away from all the glamour and glitter, the half-truths and lies, of politics and Washington. It was paradise, the Garden of Eden, and in what now seemed a singular act of stupidity, he had left it of his own accord, tempted by ambition. He was home, a place they both loved, but instead of telling Laura that they could stay here forever, that after everything that had happened, all the treachery and murder, all the hurtful false accusations, they could finally live a quiet, private life, he had to tell her something else. As he saw Laura open the door and start running up the drive, laughing and crying at the same time, he wished more than anything that he could tell her that, that things were now going to be the way they were at the beginning when every day was perfect and they knew nothing would ever change.
Laura threw herself into his arms and for a long time they just held each other and did not say a thing. With his arm around her shoulder they walked in silence to the house, lost in the simple irreplaceable comfort of being together again.
“I should have met you at the airport.”
“All I’ve wanted to do is see you here, alone, no one else around; no crowds, no reporters—just us.”
They went inside and Bobby laughed a little, surprised that everything was just the way he remembered it. He felt as if he had been go
ne for years, half a lifetime, nothing that could be calculated by the normal measurements of time. Things had moved at too quick a pace for that.
“You must be exhausted,” said Laura as she made him sit down. They were in a sitting room just off the living room, where they often spent their evenings watching the sun slip out of the sky and set the sea on fire. “I’ll get us something to drink.”
Content to breathe the familiar air of home, Bobby watched her walk away, and, watching, could feel what it felt like at night when she was lying next to him and there was nothing else he wanted to do and nowhere else he wanted to be. He was grateful that he had found her, grateful that he had never lost her.
“I watched it all on television,” said Laura after she gave him a cool drink in an ice-filled glass. “It was very dramatic, the way Charlie did that, opening the door and you stepped out. I started to cry, and then, when I saw the stunned looks on the faces of those reporters, I started to laugh.”
She had started talking, and now she could not stop. Her excitement grew with every word, as she recounted what she had seen.
“And the coverage has been non-stop, everyone with an opinion about what is going to happen and, as usual, no one knows what they’re talking about. Except of course that Russell has to go, that Hillary Constable is finished, and that one or both of them may have had her husband killed. Everyone knows now that Atwood had it done; everyone knows—” Suddenly, she stopped. “I’m sorry; I forgot. He really killed himself while he was talking to you on the phone? How awful! Why did he do that, though? Why did he want you to know that he was doing that? Was it his way of getting back at you for finding out what he had done?”
Bobby tapped the edge of his glass.
“He wanted to let me know that I wasn’t even close to the truth. That’s what he said, but I’m still not sure what he meant. He didn’t kill himself because he was innocent. Unless he was just angry and deranged, lashing out at the world the way people about to kill themselves sometimes do, unless he just wanted to make me wonder if I had made some kind of tragic mistake, it has to have something to do with Hillary and Russell, something about why they did what they did. I don’t know. But Atwood’s dead and his secret, whatever it was, died with him. And so has any chance of proving that Hillary and Russell are responsible for Robert Constable’s death and the deaths of all the others.”