by Sydney Bauer
David’s 10pm ‘deal breaker’ had been negotiated for a number of reasons. First, it would give him time to brief his friend and Boston Tribune deputy editor Marc Rigotti who had resisted all recommendations from his editor to run a piece on ‘prominent Boston attorney David Cavanaugh’s marital link to the wife of the most “hated” prisoner in the country’. Rigotti was an old friend and David knew he might need his support in the weeks to come. He had called Rigotti and arranged to give him a copy of the interview at 8pm – two hours before it went to air – so that he could report on it in tomorrow’s Tribune, giving him the scoop on other national dailies.
David would not meet his new client until the following day; this was Croft’s deal breaker. She knew if any one of those ‘unscrupulous leeches’ who camped outside Suffolk County Jail saw someone – anyone – of interest coming to or from the local lock-up, they may be able to string enough brain cells together to scuttle her breathtaking scoop. They agreed David would make one phone call to his recently signed client to confirm his representation prior to the interview broadcast but would ‘not set foot within ten miles of SCJ until tomorrow morning at the very earliest’. David, who knew meeting with his client was a major priority, outwardly yet reluctantly agreed, but silently he was grateful for another day’s grace before facing a man he had despised for over a decade.
The decision to allow the interview to run at all, particularly in its entirety, had been a significant one – one which at first seemed unthinkable. But, after consulting with Mannix, King, a quiet but focused Sara – and by the early hours of Friday morning, an understanding Arthur, who David had finally brought into the loop – they all agreed this may be the only way to both spook the Gospel trio out of their caves and give David a chance of starting his representation of this ‘no win’ case with a positive – even if it was an outrageous one. They also believed, if they had any chance of getting to and ideally sharing information with CIA boss Dick Ryan, they had to provide him with a ‘catch’ to let him know they were serious. Karin’s public revelations would be the hook and hopefully, by tomorrow, they would get close enough for him to bite.
David had told Karin enough to make her aware of the dangers. Karin admitted, during their brief, private conversations during their late night negotiations with Croft, that her revelations regarding the ‘real’ murderers were fabrications, fabrications she soon discovered were based on terrifying facts. David explained the public broadcast of her accusations would ‘put her life in significant risk’, to which his ex-wife smiled and replied, ‘What life?’
And so, as the moon made its late appearance, finally forcing the sun into a slovenly decline to the west, and as TBS were running ‘nexts’ for the ‘exclusive Newsline two-hour special’, the three remaining Gospel members were going about their business totally unaware of the repercussions the next 120 minutes would bring.
FBI Washington Field Office Assistant Director in Charge Antonio Ramirez – alias ‘Matthew’ – had just arrived back in Washington for the weekend, grateful for the respite from what he referred to as the Boston B graders. He was picked up at Ronald Reagan by two of his deputies and headed straight to his large, familiar office at the Washington Metropolitan Field Office on 4th Street. He longed for the comfort of power that the FBI’s head office brought with it, and was relieved to be back amongst his loyal elite.
‘John’ was busy partaking in some appropriate personal PR. Her reputation had always been one which garnered respect and admiration from the American people but she knew better than anyone else that it could do with some softening.
She had met with the President late that afternoon, his responses being even better than she had hoped. While he said he needed some time to think them over, he basically embraced her proposals – especially after she eased his concerns by assuring him that her family would stand behind her 100 per cent.
She now had no doubt that when Latham exercised his right to execute the twenty-fifth amendment and announce her nomination as the new VP, that the mandatory majority vote from both Houses of Congress would follow smoothly – thanks largely to the previously planned ‘pressure’ Ramirez would apply to their select group of narcotics clients and their relatives – and winning and securing the confidence of the American people in this new role would be something she would continue to build on each and every day.
Thus tonight she found herself at a photo call for Tommy Bradshaw Jnr, who had just won the state spelling bee championships despite the strain of having lost his father under such tragic and unexpected circumstances less than four months ago. Her press advisor had suggested a three-generational family photo in the White House East Room, next to a plaque and portrait that had been mounted two months previously in the late Vice President’s honour. The hour was late, and Tommy Jnr was tired, but she also knew the piece would get good coverage on a Saturday morning and she could not, at this crucial stage, waste any opportunity for a ‘feel good’ publicity boost.
At exactly 9.15pm, Assistant Director of the Bureau of Customs and Border Protection’s Office of Intelligence Travis Toovey – alias ‘Mark’ – was enjoying his third martini with a man named Alistair at a discreet up-market gay bar in Northwest Washington. It was his second ‘date’ with Alistair, a respected political correspondent for the San Francisco Chronicle, and Toovey was at last starting to relax, the dry gin slowly washing away the worries that had been steadily building over the past few months.
He recognised the feeling for what it was and revelled in the joy of ‘relief’. For the fear of exposure from Bradshaw’s death was now diminishing – thanks to the press’ ‘guilty until proven innocent’ approach towards Professor Stuart Montgomery – and John’s position all but a fait accompli. Of course his new silver Mercedes SL class convertible didn’t hurt either. It was his own personal reward following the months of clandestine activity which had eaten away at his nerves and plumped up his bank account. He knew the other two would not approve; it was ostentatious and perhaps a little risky, but he only drove it on weekends and, he surmised, what they did not know would not hurt them.
At 10.03pm Alistair’s cell phone, which he had placed on the small polished blackwood bar table between them, vibrated silently in a small unwelcome dance, interrupting their conversation on the variances between east and west coast homosexual acceptability.
‘That was my boss,’ said Alistair. ‘I have to run. There’s a photo op with the Bryant/Bradshaw clan at the White House, something about the kid winning a spelling bee. Anyway, I sent a photographer but the boss wants me to hightail it down there fast. Seems Newsline are running some big exclusive on the Bradshaw murder and the chief wants me down there to confront the family as it goes to air.’
‘Exclusive?’ said Toovey. ‘I don’t understand.’ His heart was exploding like an automatic rifle in his chest.
‘An interview,’ said Alistair pocketing his cell. ‘With the wife.’
‘Melissa Bryant Bradshaw?’
‘No, the other wife – Montgomery’s wife.’
Toovey could not believe his ears and did not respond when Alistair grabbed his suitcase and placed his right hand over Mark’s in their very first gesture of physical contact. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
Alistair turned to go, leaving Toovey with the bill and an instant migraine he knew would only be cured with the security of knowing how bad this could be – how bad this already was. He had to find out what was going on – and talk to the others . . . now.
‘Wait,’ he said, throwing a fifty on the table and grabbing his bag and keys. ‘I have my car. I’ll drive you.’
He knew Alistair had arrived in a taxi and, better still, was headed to the one place he knew he would find those answers – 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Alistair looked confused, the drive was totally out of his way. But then he smiled, thinking his new ‘boyfriend’ wanted the extra time with him, even if it was on a busy Pennsylvania Avenue traffic jam on a sweaty summer night.
> ‘Thanks, Travis,’ said Alistair, opening the bar door and standing back for his date to follow. ‘You know, at first I thought you were kind of self-obsessed, and a little highly strung. But I was wrong, Travis. You’re actually a very considerate guy, and full of surprises.’
‘That’s me, Alistair,’ said Toovey, forcing a smile. ‘Full of surprises, the master of disguise.’
‘Grandmother, I’m tired,’ said seven-year-old Tommy Bradshaw Jnr, squinting under the lights of the East Room’s bohemian cut-glass chandeliers. Tommy Jnr was the spitting image of his late father; strawberry blond hair, dark blue eyes.
‘Not much longer dear,’ said Maxine Bryant, maintaining the smile for the flashing bulbs, her arm stretched proudly over her grandson’s shoulders, her daughter Melissa completing the threesome (or foursome if you included Tom’s portrait in the background) – the perfect picture of wholesome, all-American achievement.
It was a good turn out, just as John knew it would be. In fact, she was confident this picture would run front page across all the metropolitan dailies tomorrow – for the Bryant/Bradshaw clan were still very big news; their dignity in loss, patience for justice and determination to fight for a better America. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed, photogenic perfection.
And then she saw him. He entered behind another man, a reporter. He stood at the back of the room, staring straight at her, the unmistakable glint of fear in his eyes.
Stupid, stupid Mark, she thought to herself, knowing his position at Customs and Border Protection gave him access to many areas of the White House but wondering what the hell the press would think if they turned to notice the Head of Intelligence from CBP at a photo call for a kid who just won a spelling bee.
‘Tommy Jnr is tired,’ she whispered to her press secretary. ‘Let’s wrap this up.’
But it was too late, the reporter that Toovey had followed was calling a question from the back of the room and the entire gallery turned to face him.
‘Mrs Bryant, Alistair Gorton from the San Francisco Chronicle.’
‘Mr Gorton,’ interrupted press secretary Lindsay Lowell. ‘This is a photo call, not a press conference. All the information you need on Tom Jnr’s stellar achievement is in the release at the back of the room.’
‘Forgive me, Lindsay,’ said Alistair who knew Lowell from his daily rounds at the House. ‘But this has nothing to do with young Thomas’ award – as terrific as it may be.’ Alistair smiled at the boy before going on.
‘Mrs Bryant,’ Alistair turned his attention to the White House Chief of Staff, ‘would you or your daughter like to comment on the fact that Dr Karin Montgomery has just given an exclusive interview to TBS’s Newsline program claiming her husband is innocent of the late Vice President’s murder?’
Alistair did not stop there, obviously realising his question would propel this sweet little soiree into unexpected hostile territory. Maxine flashed a look at Press Secretary Lowell whose now red face indicated she had no intention of having her ‘feel good’ photo session hijacked by a ‘seriously out of line’ reporter.
‘It is going to air as we speak, Mrs Bryant,’ said Gorton. ‘Dr Montgomery is claiming her husband has been framed by a group of individuals. She also says she knows the identity of said individuals and has revealed them to her lawyer under attorney client privilege.’
The room erupted in a buzz of disbelief, the flashbulbs started up again, catching the controlled horror on Maxine Bryant’s face. Lowell, a tall, light-skinned, African-American woman with a forceful confidence and the physical strength to match, moved across the Fontainebleau parquetry oak floor to put an end to all questioning – but Maxine gestured her away.
‘I am sorry, Mr Gorton, as you can see I have been busy with my grandson this evening and have not had time to . . .’
‘Mrs Bryant,’ this from another reporter who had just entered, a woman Maxine recognised as Davinia Jones, the political editor of the Washington Post. ‘Are you aware that Professor Montgomery has hired a new lawyer – David Cavanaugh, the same attorney who used to be married to Karin Montgomery before she . . .’
‘Ms Jones,’ countered Bryant, the tremble in her voice perhaps betraying the surge of discomfort she attempted to control inside her. ‘Professor Montgomery is an American citizen and, like all Americans, entitled to the best representation as she sees fit.’
‘Mrs Bradshaw,’ this from Alistair, now targeting Melissa Bryant Bradshaw, ‘are you aware of any enemies your husband may have had at the time of . . .’ But his question was lost in the melee, as more reporters flooded the back of the white-walled eighteenth-century classical style room, and Lowell finally took control.
‘This photo call is over,’ she said to the growing crowd, before turning to the three to say, ‘Come on. Let’s go.’
And in that instant, Maxine Bryant’s world shrank, so that all she could hear was Karin Montgomery this, and Karin Montgomery that, and other words and phrases such as framed and conspiracy and identity and attorney client privilege and Cavanaugh – David Cavanaugh.
Lindsay was a blur to her right, her left hand on her right arm trying to pull her towards the door. ‘Please, Mrs Bryant . . .’ she began, her words swallowed in the din. ‘Come on,’ she said again, and Maxine forced herself to refocus.
And then John looked up from the confused child at her feet, and to the ashen-faced man at the back of the room – Mark – and then further back, towards the door to his right – Matthew.
Matthew was here.
And there he stood, strong and emotionless, and she felt the surge of power between them as she gave him a silent order with the slightest movement of her eyes: ‘Leave and take Mark with you’. And then she put her hand to her throat, sliding it ever so slowly across her long slim neck, before bringing it down with pointed finger indicating he should do what needed to be done before the night was out.
He nodded, and they both turned in opposite directions, she shepherding the boy out the side door, and he shepherding his ‘boy’ out the back. And in that moment she knew that time was no longer a luxury. They had to move fast because finally . . . finally, her time had come.
40
CIA Director Richard Ryan obviously did not know what to make of him. He looked at the second member of their golfing threesome – retired politician and ex-US Vice President Larry Howell who, not known for his discretion, raised his eyebrows yet again as their new partner returned the iPod plugs to his ears before tackling the 9th hole of the Bethesda Congressional Country Club’s Blue Course.
‘Where’d you find this one, Dick?’ asked Howell loud enough to scare a flock of sparrows from a nearby oak tree. ‘The local Tower Records store? Or is he one of your CIA goons gone undercover as Jerry Lewis in The Caddy?’ Howell laughed raucously at his own joke, successfully emptying the remaining birds from said neighbouring tree.
‘I thought he was a friend of yours,’ said Ryan, his timbred southern accent slow and thick. ‘I saw his check-in card and it said he was from the Bureau of Public Debt – thought you must have known him through your contacts at the Department of Treasury.’
‘First up, Dick, the guys at Treasury aren’t contacts, they’re friends. The guys at Treasury are always your friends, get it? Which means you and me had better start smooching with this fruit cake if we know what’s good for us.’ More laughs – one last bird.
‘Apparently he was a friend of John Leung’s,’ said Ryan. ‘Put the family down as his reference. Linda Leung had signed the guest card.’
‘And you got all that in thirty seconds flat from scamming a look at his registration card?’
‘That, and a quick chat with Malcolm on the front desk.’
‘Hmmm,’ grinned Howell. ‘Don’t give up your day job, Dick.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re too damned good at it.’ And this time, Ryan laughed too.
Frank McKay fired off a cracker of a shot with his one wood, angling the ball high with a sligh
t draw, sending it flying down the 607 yard par 5, avoiding the heavy foliage traps and sailing over the obstacle course of bunkers which bordered the fairway off the tee.
‘Jesus,’ said Howell, completely unaware that McKay, now removing his earphones, had heard their entire conversation. Until this morning Frank McKay had never even heard of an iPod, let alone known how to use one.
‘That was one hell of a shot, Frank. They teach you that at the Department of Treasury?’ he said, obviously fishing, with that laugh again. ‘Or you really one of Dick’s spooks been holed up on some brainwashing camp for budding golf pros?’
‘I prefer to think of myself as a civil servant with a passion for golf,’ smiled Frank, his honesty taken just as he wanted it – as a form of modest downplay.
‘Aren’t we all?’ gleaned Howell. ‘But just not as good at it as you, hey Frank?’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment, Mr Vice President.’ Frank knew the protocol, even ex-Vice Presidents got to keep the moniker.
‘No other way to take it, son. Just remember me when you’re talking to your buddies at the IRS – or rather forget me, if you know what I mean.’ Chuckle, chuckle, guffaw, guffaw. ‘Hotdog, I’m cookin’ today.’