Dead on Arrival

by Mike Lawson

  ‘Okay, Bob,’ Mahoney said, ‘I give up. I’ll leave the exit thing in the bill, but then I’m gonna call up every newspaper in your state and tell ’em it’s in there. I’m gonna tell ’em, because no one with a human-sized brain’ll be able to spot that little gem in five thousand pages of text. So fine, Bob, you win. Now you better get ready to explain your victory to everybody who’s not related to you.’ With that, Mahoney slammed down the phone.

  ‘Of all the jackasses on Jenkins Hill,’ he muttered.

  ‘Jenkins Hill?’ DeMarco said.

  ‘That’s what Capitol Hill used to be called,’ Mahoney said, ‘back before they built this building and started stuffing it with idiots.’

  Mahoney sat there fuming a moment longer and then looked at his watch. ‘Go see if he’s being held up at security,’ he said. ‘I’ll bet that’s what happened. If I hadn’t been preoccupied with Bob-goddam-Meechum I woulda thought of that sooner.’

  As directed, DeMarco left the speaker’s office and traveled to the door that approved visitors, those with appointments, used to enter the Capitol. Normally it took only a couple of minutes to get past security if your name was on the list, but DeMarco suspected, times being what they were, that the U.S. Capitol Police were exercising more diligence than normal – especially with this particular visitor.

  The man who was keeping Mahoney waiting was named Hassan Zarif. DeMarco didn’t know Hassan, but he figured it was a pretty safe bet that the Arabic-looking guy standing with his arms outstretched as a security guard patted him down was him. On the table next to Zarif was everything that had been in his pockets: wallet, keys, spare change, and a pen. Another guard was now taking the pen apart, a simple ballpoint, to see if there was a surface-to-air missile packed inside it. A briefcase was lying open on the table, emptied of its contents, and next to the briefcase were Hassan’s belt and tie and shoes.

  Hassan Zarif was a short, slender, handsome man. His hair was black, his nose aquiline, his eyes an odd but attractive caramel color. Clearly embarrassed at the treatment he was receiving, he was restraining himself, saying nothing, but he looked as if he was about to explode.

  ‘Hey, guys, what’s going on here?’ DeMarco said to the security guards.

  The man frisking Hassan looked over at DeMarco, then glanced down at the security badge pinned to the breast pocket of his suit, the badge confirming that DeMarco was permitted to be inside the building. DeMarco had worked in the Capitol for many years, but this particular guard didn’t recognize him and DeMarco didn’t recognize the guard.

  ‘What do you want, sir?’ the guard said.

  DeMarco looked at the guard’s name tag. McGuire.

  ‘Mr McGuire, would you come here a minute so I can talk to you without everybody hearing?’

  ‘I’m in the middle of—’

  ‘McGuire, a lot of powerful people work in this building. You are not one of them. I’m just trying to save you some pain, m’man. C’mere.’

  McGuire turned to the guard dissembling the pen and said, ‘Watch this guy,’ gesturing with his head toward Hassan, then he stepped over to DeMarco. ‘Yeah, so what is it?’ he said.

  ‘That guy you’re screwin’ with, McGuire, was invited here by John Mahoney. The speaker. In fact, he was supposed to be in Mahoney’s office fifteen minutes ago.’

  ‘I’m just following procee—’

  ‘McGuire, it feels like it’s about twenty degrees outside. Right now you’re working indoors, probably a pretty good place to be this time of year. How hard do you think it would be for Mahoney to have you assigned to a less comfortable post? Now, the speaker’s waiting to see that man and you’ve had plenty of time to confirm that he’s safe, so quit dickin’ with him, put his stuff back in his briefcase, and apologize for hassling him.’

  McGuire’s face flushed red – not as red as Mahoney’s had been a few minutes ago but red enough. But he didn’t say all the profane things flashing through his Irish brain. He turned and said to Hassan, ‘Sir, you’re free to enter the building. And I – uh, I apologize for the inconvenience of our – ah, current security procedures.’

  Hassan didn’t say anything. He put his belt back through the loops in his pants and shoved his belongings into his pockets. He put on his shoes and started to tie his tie, then just shook his head and stuffed the tie into a pocket in his suit jacket.

  ‘Mr Zarif,’ DeMarco said, ‘I’ll escort you to Mr Mahoney’s office.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Hassan said, but he didn’t look at DeMarco. He just stared straight ahead as they walked toward the staircase, bristling from the embarrassment of what had just happened but too dignified to complain.

  As they stepped into the speaker’s office, Mahoney got up from his chair and came out from behind his desk. DeMarco thought he would shake Hassan’s hand but instead Mahoney pulled the smaller man close, crushing him in a hug.

  While Mahoney was greeting Hassan, DeMarco explained what had happened at the security checkpoint.

  ‘Goddamn, Hassie, I’m sorry,’ Mahoney said. ‘I should have had someone down there to meet you.’ Then he glowered at DeMarco as if DeMarco should have thought of that.

  Hassan smiled, but it was a bitter twist of his lips. ‘It wasn’t as bad as at the airport. I was expecting that they’d give me a hard time, so I left Boston early yesterday morning. I missed my first flight because they spent so long inspecting my luggage and searching me. I was actually strip-searched. That’s never happened before.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Mahoney said again. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  Hassan looked away and his chin began to tremble, and for a moment DeMarco thought the man was going to cry, but then Hassan took in a breath and said, ‘Yes, Mr Mahoney, a drink would be good. Bourbon if you have it.’

  Hassan Zarif, DeMarco concluded, was not a strict Muslim. Any more than Mahoney and DeMarco were strict Catholics, for that matter.

  Mahoney poured drinks for himself and Hassan, Then, realizing that he hadn’t bothered to ask if DeMarco wanted one, he said, ‘Joe, what about you?’

  ‘No, I’m okay,’ DeMarco said. He knew that’s what Mahoney expected him to say. Plus – sheesh! – it was only ten in the morning.

  ‘How’s your father doing?’ Mahoney said.

  ‘Not well, sir. He’s in intensive care. It was his second heart attack. We’re not sure he’s going to make it.’

  ‘But they’re taking good care of him?’ Mahoney said.

  ‘Yes, the nurses at the hospital, they have souls. And at least, where he is, the press can’t bother him.’

  Mahoney didn’t say anything for a minute. ‘So,’ he finally said. ‘What can I do for you? When you called—’

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Mahoney, but is this gentleman,’ Hassan said, looking over at DeMarco, ‘one of your assistants?’

  DeMarco knew Hassan might have asked the question simply because he wanted to know who DeMarco was before he spoke. But DeMarco also suspected that the question may have had to do with the way he looked. DeMarco had dark hair that he combed straight back, a strong nose, and a big, square, dimpled chin. He was broad-chested and had thick shoulders and heavy, muscular arms. He was a good-looking man, but he looked tough and hard – he didn’t look like some congressman’s assistant.

  Most congressional staffers were eager young kids just a few years out of college. Or, if not kids, they looked like crafty old negotiators, wheeler-dealers who spend all their time in dimly lit bars making the trade-offs that pass the laws. DeMarco didn’t look like someone from either of those groups. He looked instead like the guy a casino boss might assign to have a word with a card counter or a man the Teamsters might deploy to talk to a trucker who was behind on his dues. He looked, in other words, a lot like his father – and DeMarco’s father had been a hit man for the Italian Mafia.

  In response to Hassan’s question, Mahoney made a motion with his head – a little bit of a shake, a little bit of a nod – a motion that could have meant anything,
and said, ‘Sorta. When you called, I figured it might be good if Joe sat in on this meeting. He’s a guy who helps out with things around here.’

  That was sorta clear as mud, DeMarco thought, and Hassan seemed to think so too.

  ‘I only ask because—’

  ‘Joe’s okay, Hassan. Now tell me why you’re here. Is it because the FBI’s hassling your family?’

  ‘No. I mean we are being hassled – the FBI’s questioned me and my sister and searched our houses – but I don’t need your help with that.’

  ‘So what is it, son?’ Mahoney said.

  ‘I want some answers!’ Hassan said, his voice rising. ‘This thing is killing my father. I want to know what really happened.’

  ‘Answers?’ Mahoney said. Then he added, in a surprisingly gentle voice, ‘Reza was flying the plane, son. There’s no doubt about that.’

  ‘Sir, I know he flew the plane, but nothing makes any sense. The FBI claims they found links between Reza and al-Qaeda, but they won’t say what they are. The information’s classified, they say. At the same time they’re implying that Reza was working with al-Qaeda, they’re saying he just went crazy because of all the pressure he’d been under lately. And he was under pressure, but he wouldn’t have tried to crash a plane into the White House because money was tight or because he’d lost a few cases in court. And no matter what kind of pressure he was under, he wouldn’t have killed his family! You knew Reza, Mr Mahoney. Can you imagine my brother killing his own children?’

  ‘Not unless he went off the deep end like the Bureau’s saying,’ Mahoney said.

  But DeMarco was thinking, This guy’s the pilot’s brother!

  Hassan shook his head. ‘I talked to Reza three days before he … before he died. He was angry about everything going on – this bill of Broderick’s and what happened on Meet the Press – but he didn’t have some kind of nervous breakdown. I don’t care what the FBI says.’

  Mahoney just sat there for a moment, not sure what to say. ‘What do you want me to do, Hassie? You know how I feel about your dad, but I can’t change what happened. And you might not like what the Bureau’s saying, but those guys are pretty sharp. And for something this big … well, you know they didn’t do some half-assed investigation.’

  ‘The Bureau’s wrong!’ Hassan said. Before Mahoney could debate the point, he added, ‘Mr Mahoney, all I want are some answers that make sense. I want to know why this happened. I want to know about these so-called links to al-Qaeda. I want to know why my brother killed his wife and kids. The FBI won’t talk to me, sir – but they’ll talk to you.’

  Hassan Zarif left Mahoney’s office a few minutes later, after extracting from the speaker a promise that he would look into Reza’s death. As Hassan was departing to fly back to Boston, Mahoney tried desperately to think of something to say to comfort the man. The best he could come up with was, ‘If that hospital’s not treating your dad right, you let me know.’

  And Hassan’s response had been, ‘The doctors can’t do anything for my father, sir. He’s lost his will to live. You’re the only one who can help him.’

  After the door had closed behind Hassan, DeMarco said, ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Shit, I don’t know,’ Mahoney said. He poured more bourbon into his glass and took a deep swallow. ‘But I sorta agree with him on a couple things.’

  ‘Like what?’ DeMarco said.

  ‘Reza was always a hothead, but I can’t imagine him getting hooked up with terrorists. So I’d like to know myself what this supposed connection is between him and al-Qaeda. And as for killing his family – I mean, you read all the time about some fruitcake deciding he wants to end it all but instead of just shooting himself he takes his whole family or a bunch of strangers with him. Like that wacko down at Virginia Tech. But those kind of people, they usually have a history of mental illness or they’re loners and losers. Reza wasn’t like that.’

  DeMarco wasn’t too sure about Reza Zarif’s sanity, but he didn’t say so. Instead he said, ‘But he did kill his family, boss. And it’s like you told Hassan. The FBI’s not staffed with fools, and from everything I’ve read they did a pretty thorough—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know,’ Mahoney said, sounding tired.

  ‘So what do you want me to do?’ DeMarco asked again. ‘Go talk to somebody at the Bureau?’

  ‘I guess. Poke around a little, but keep my name out of it.’

  ‘Aw, come on,’ DeMarco said. ‘You know the Bureau’s not going to talk to me unless you tell them to.’

  Mahoney shook his big head. ‘I go back a long way with Hassan’s father, but the press doesn’t know that yet – and I don’t want ’em to know. I don’t feel like dealing with a bunch of goddamn reporters asking me how come I’m such good pals with a guy whose kid tried to park a plane on the president’s desk. And if I talk to the Bureau, the press’ll find out. So you do some diggin’, but keep my name out of it.’

  ‘Just how am I supposed to—’

  But Mahoney wasn’t listening. He’d already picked up the phone and was punching buttons. It was time for him to make someone else’s life miserable.

  4

  Mahoney tried to get back to work, to get everybody moving in the right direction on the damn transportation bill, but he couldn’t concentrate. He couldn’t stop thinking about Hassan Zarif’s visit. The other thing nagging at him was he couldn’t help but wonder what impact Reza Zarif’s act would have on Bill Broderick’s cockamamie bill. He finally decided he had to get out of the office to clear his head.

  He put on his topcoat, muttered something to his secretary that she didn’t hear, and left the Capitol. He’d been thinking about going for a walk on the National Mall, but when he got outside he realized it was way too cold to be doing that. He’d freeze his fat ass off. Then he saw a U.S. Capitol police car, the cop inside it drinking coffee and reading the Post.

  Mahoney rapped a big knuckle on the passenger-side window of the patrol car and the cop jerked in surprise, almost spilling his coffee. Then he saw it was Mahoney, and his lips moved in a silent Oh, shit!

  The cop powered down the window. ‘Yes, sir, Mr Speaker,’ he said.

  ‘Hey,’ Mahoney said, ‘how ’bout givin’ me a lift someplace?’

  Now the cop knew he wasn’t supposed to be Mahoney’s chauffeur, and Mahoney knew he wasn’t supposed to ask the cop to drive him – but the cop was afraid to say no and Mahoney wasn’t afraid to impose on anyone.

  ‘Uh, sure,’ the cop said, and Mahoney got into the front seat of the patrol car.

  ‘Where to, sir?’ the cop asked, transitioning effortlessly into his new job.

  ‘Tell you what,’ Mahoney said. ‘How ’bout takin’ a slow spin around the Mall? I just gotta clear my head. Politicians … shit, they make my brain ache some days.’

  ‘You got it, sir,’ the cop said.

  Mahoney lit a cigar, was kind enough to crack a window in deference to the other man’s lungs, and then sat back and reflected on the political phenomenon named William Broderick.

  A year ago, it would have been difficult to find a dozen Americans outside the state of Virginia who’d ever heard of the damn guy. And even three months ago, only 23 percent of all Virginians could name their newly elected representative to the U.S. Senate. But in the last two months, since Broderick had introduced his dumb-ass bill on the Senate floor, his name had become known to virtually every American who could read a paper or turn on a television.

  It was a fluke that Broderick was even in the Senate. His predecessor had been a flamboyant egomaniac by the name of John Wingate whom Mahoney had sometimes admired but more frequently detested. Wingate had served in the Senate for forty-one years and then died suddenly and unexpectedly six weeks before the last election. At the time of Wingate’s death, Broderick had been running for a seat in the House, and there was considerable doubt that he would have been able to beat the incumbent. But when God created a senate vacancy by way of a well-timed stroke, the R
epublican bosses put Broderick’s name on the ballot – and he won. As there had been little time for his constituents to get to know him, all Mahoney could figure was that the majority of Virginians preferred a Republican they’d barely heard of to any Democrat running.

  Mahoney glanced out the window to his right, at the Federal Court House, and saw two cameras pointed at a guy in a suit. Someone was holding a press conference. He wondered which lawyer, prosecutor or defender, was telling lies today.

  Why Broderick had been chosen by his party was not totally clear to Mahoney. He knew Broderick had served briefly as an aide to that gasbag Wingate, he’d spent some time in the Virginia state legislature, and eight years ago he’d been a largely invisible one-term lieutenant governor. But that was about it, as far as Mahoney knew. The man certainly hadn’t cast an impressive shadow on the political landscape.

  But Broderick did have money, and quite a bit of it. His granddaddy had owned coal mines at a time when those pesky unions hadn’t been strong enough to insist that miners be paid a living wage for their dangerous labors. When Grandpa died he passed on his loot to his only son, and then Broderick’s father died at an early age and passed it on to Bill and his two brothers.

  The car was passing the National Archives. Mahoney was aware that on the other side of the building was a statue of a lady seated in a chair, and chiseled into stone at the base of the statue were the words WHAT IS PAST IS PROLOGUE. The sentiment was Shakespeare’s, from The Tempest. Mahoney had no idea what the words meant in relationship to the play, but they were certainly appropriate to the seat of government.

  Broderick had gotten considerable ink the last couple of months, so Mahoney knew something about the man’s family, and he concluded that Bill Broderick had been the runt of the litter. He was the middle brother. Brother number one was a doctor, a neurosurgeon, no less, and brother number three was a real estate baron on the West Coast whose net worth would soon surpass Grandpa’s. Bill, by compari son, was just a minor party hack, a guy trying and largely failing to ascend the political ladder. Until recently, nobody had even noticed that he was on the ladder.