by Sydney Bauer
‘Don’t go, David. Call Joe. Arrest this animal and lock him up for good. Stop this now, before he ruins everything.’
‘What?’ said David, absorbing everything she had said. ‘Sara, you know we can’t arrest him. We don’t have enough evidence, nothing that will stick. It’s too early. We still need to . . .’
‘Bullshit. I know you, David. You want to go downstairs because of some pathetic macho cliché that says you need to defend my honour. Well, you should have thought of that when you invited Karin into your home and denied me the right to know she was here.’
She took another breath, and David watched, helpless, as he saw her try to control her shaking, lower her voice, and speak with some essence of calm.
‘I know you want to beat the crap out of him. I can see it in your eyes. And don’t think for one second that I don’t feel like throwing a few punches myself. But I am asking you . . . no . . . I am begging you . . . don’t go. Because if you do, he will kill you, of that much I am sure, and if you let him do that, I promise, I will never, ever forgive you.’
He looked at her and said nothing, his chest rising and falling in deep rhythms of contemplation, his hands clenched, his face shiny with sweat. And then he moved forward and grabbed her face, holding each cheek firmly before saying, ‘I am so sorry. I love you,’ and kissing her hard on the lips.
And then he pushed past them both, and headed down the corridor, and into the elevator, and down, down, down towards the killer waiting below.
54
Boston Common is America’s oldest public park and, in its almost 400-year history, it has played host to everything from grazing animals and training militia to innocent Quakers hung from trees in a symbolic damnation of everything that challenged the existing puritanical order. The northern boundary, at the corner of Beacon and Park, stood at the top of a rise. It overlooked the now dark expanse of the Common which seemed to be drawing him in for this confrontation with another heretic – this one also disguised as a man of government, a man who took an oath to serve and protect and then spat in the face of everything his organisation was said to represent.
David heard him before he saw him, sitting on a nearby park bench, taking in the spectacle of the golden-domed State House which sat across Beacon, overlooking the extensive parklands below.
‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ said Ramirez, gesturing towards the shimmering gold dome. ‘Did you know that dome started off as a leaky wooden roof, before being covered in copper and finally gold leaf in the late 1800s. Of course, they had to paint it grey during World War II in case any enemy ships used it for target practice, but these days they re-gild it every four years so the damned thing never loses its lustre.’
David could not believe it. This criminal was sitting there giving him a history lesson – the cool night air moving about him in drifts, catching the humidity of his breath and dispersing it in miniature plumes of fog.
‘To be honest it’s a little garish for my tastes,’ Ramirez went on. ‘Sort of a poor man’s White House. But that’s Boston for you, isn’t it, determined to outshine its competitors in an effort to solve its pathetic identity crisis. It lost its status as head of government to Washington and it will always play bridesmaid to the Big Apple so all you’re left with is a neurotic city with all that hot air and no idea where to blow it except up its own arrogant historical ass.’
‘Shut the fuck up,’ said David, taking a few steps closer so that he could get a better look at Ramirez. He was concerned the FBI agent may be carrying a weapon, but his hands, at least for now, were empty and placed casually over the back of the dark green painted bench. ‘You didn’t ask me down here for a debate on urban sociology, Ramirez. What the hell do you want?’
‘Come on, Cavanaugh,’ said Ramirez, finally getting to his feet, a tall park lamp casting his shadow long and foreboding like a dark accomplice stretching out before him. ‘I was cutting you a break. I figured you might want an excuse to leave your apartment which, I have no doubt, has been the venue for some rather intense discussions in the past few minutes. Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s okay to have your cake and eat it too – just so long as one piece doesn’t find out about the other.’
‘You asshole,’ said David, taking a step closer.
‘Don’t be stupid, Counsellor. I asked you here for a reason, to give you an opportunity to save yourself, so I suggest you shut up and listen.’
‘I’m not interested in anything you have to say.’
‘Oh yes you are. Or else you should be, considering I am about to offer you a way out.’
‘Way out? I don’t need a way out, least of all from you.’
‘Life without parole.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll get Adams to take the death penalty off the table and reduce the sentence to life. You get to save your blessed Professor’s skin and we get our conviction. Of course, it’s not what we hoped for originally but even the FBI and the Department of Justice have some sense of compassion, and we doubt Vice President Bradshaw would have wanted another life to be sacrificed.’
‘You have got to be . . .’
‘Think about it. Right now you have no chance in hell of securing your “not guilty” verdict. The people of America are angry and justifiably so. You have a relatively good reputation, surprisingly so considering you have never ventured out of this little “burb” they call the “Hub of the Universe”, and I promise you, by getting rid of the death penalty, you win a small victory and get to save face. Then you walk away from this unholy mess and continue on with your so-far promising career. Perhaps I could even put in a good word for you in DC. Lord knows you might be looking for a move after tonight. A little space from the girlfriend wouldn’t do you any harm. Something tells me she’s a live one, and bound to hold a grudge.’
David was speechless. It took all his strength not to attack him there and then. He could not believe this murderer had the audacity to even suggest he was in the position to offer David advice.
‘You are unbelievable, Ramirez. And the funny thing is, I think you may actually believe the crap that comes out of your mouth.’
‘I haven’t finished,’ said the FBI Agent, taking two swift steps towards David so that now he was only a foot away. ‘And believe me when I tell you it is in your best interests to listen. All you have to do is change your plea, from “not guilty” to “guilty” and then we all shake hands and go home. It really is the best solution, and a gift for you and your firm considering you are about to be slaughtered in court, and subsequently on the front page of every newspaper in the country.
‘There is no way you can win this one, Cavanaugh. You either take this deal or brace yourself for the ultimate downfall. You’ve already had one brush with mortality over this trial, so why risk another? And then there’s your girl to consider, so young and full of promise. I’d hate to see anything happen to . . .’
That was it. He’d had enough. David was upon him before Ramirez even knew he was coming, crash-tackling him to the ground and swinging him around so that he could land a punch squarely on his chiselled jaw. But Ramirez was just as quick, jumping to his feet to deliver a low (or ‘gedan’), snapping (or ‘keage’) karate kick to the area just above David’s ankles, forcing his opponent down before he had a chance to get up. David turned onto his back to see Ramirez in the process of raising his right leg, his instep squared directly above his throat. He rolled at the last second, avoiding the thrust of Ramirez’s kick and causing the Assistant Director to stumble before correcting his balance and bracing for the next assault.
‘Give it up, Cavanaugh. I am a black belt in karate, in case you haven’t noticed.’
David had, but at this point he just didn’t care. He jumped to his feet, crouched low in a scrum-like position, and then ran straight at him, ramming Ramirez from the side and pushing him back, hard, against the streetlamp. The FBI Agent hit it with a thud and David felt the rush of air leaving his lungs. As Ramirez gasped, Dav
id took the opportunity to land another blow, this time to his left cheek just below the eye. But what happened next was almost a fait accompli, part of the script David knew had to be played out before this ‘meeting’ was over.
Ramirez grabbed David’s arm as it rebounded from his face and twisted it sharply down behind his back so that now David was forced to roll with it, leaving him flat on the grass, with his face eating dirt and Ramirez looming large, above him from behind. The pistol’s muzzle was cold and hard against his forehead, pressing deeply into his not-yet-healed wound which split open under the pressure. The sickly metallic smell of the SIG P-226, mixed with the sterile scent of Ramirez’s breath made his stomach turn as he stretched his neck in an effort to get some air.
‘Is this what you do, Ramirez?’ spat David, a mixture of dirt, blood and saliva spraying from his mouth as he spoke. ‘Is this what you do? Shoot your victims from behind? Is this how you killed Bradshaw? Did you have the guts to look into his eyes as you injected him with the drug that took his life, or did you take the coward’s option and sedate him so as to avoid his knowing gaze of condemnation?’
He was saying too much – way too much – but he also feared these may be his final words and, if this were the case, he wanted Ramirez to know that he knew, and to realise that he wasn’t that clever after all.
‘You won’t get away with this. It’s over, do you hear me? We know about you, and about John, and all that you have done in the name of greed and power. You . . .’ David began to cough, the blood pooling in his mouth which was now turned upwards to speak. ‘You and your two-faced boss may think you are above the law,’ he went on. ‘But you’re not, and I promise you, if it is the last thing I do, I will crush you both and avenge the death of every victim you have left in your wake.’
Ramirez said nothing, just pushed his knee further into David’s back so that he could free his left hand and wipe the spray of blood from his face.
David knew the FBI Agent’s urge to kill him would be great – and here, now, alone, in the dark, it would be so quick, so easy, so satisfying. His only hope would be if Ramirez erred on the side of caution, deciding that the risk of the police linking him to the discovery of David’s battered body in the middle of Boston Common would be too big a gamble to take. Sara’s account of the night’s events would crucify him and so, in the end . . .
Ramirez pressed the barrel of his handgun further and further into David’s wound until David heard it ‘click’ against the outside of his skull. The pain was so great that David saw flashes of white, the blood now pouring freely down his face into his eyes, as the weapon reached further inside his head.
‘This is your lucky day, Cavanaugh,’ said Ramirez at last. ‘It’s now 1am Thursday and, considering I am in a rather uncharacteristically generous mood, I am giving you until Monday. That’s four days. In other words I expect to see you and your client before Judge Donovan Monday morning, for a change of plea hearing at 9am sharp, with the legal documentation submitted and your confessional hat grasped tightly in your hand. You miss that appointment and you are going down.’
And with that, he pulled the gun from David’s forehead, the squelching sound of skin being suctioned slowly from the wound playing loud and sickeningly in David’s ears.
David’s immediate response was to roll over. His anger was so great, his need to get to his feet all encompassing, but his head was spinning and his legs unresponsive, and in the end all he could manage was a small gesture of defiance. He reached into his pants pocket, hoping to find at least one of what he was looking for, and then he found it, judging its denomination by its size and shape. He retrieved the quarter and threw it at Ramirez just as the FBI agent was turning to leave.
‘You’re a traitor, Ramirez,’ he said as the coin missed his mark completely, landing flat on the tar-covered walkway. ‘I promise you I’ll find twenty-nine more pieces like that one for you before this is over – and let the world know exactly what a Judas you really are.’
Ramirez turned to pick up the coin with his handkerchief and deposit it in his pocket. ‘You amuse me, Cavanaugh, which is a compliment by the way, because believe it or not, I am not easily entertained. But I warn you. Watch your back. Next time, my gun leaves a calling card in your brain and then you and Bradshaw can talk justice for all eternity and beyond.’
Less than a year before, a former CIA counter intelligence officer gave an interview with a major British news magazine. In it he gave detailed information on the various technological advancements intelligence organisations such as the CIA and MI5 had made in regards to electronic surveillance. The man, a renegade ex-CIA agent who was interviewed under the code name ‘Zebra 1’, talked about anything and everything from the hi-tech advances in microscopic bugs to the use of mobile phones as sophisticated listening devices picking up signals and conversations from distances of miles.
He said US intelligence organisations had been using powerful unidirectional microphones to pick up conversations behind glass windows for decades, with new technology applying radio waves and laser beams that would bounce off the glass and turn the vibrations into speech – a system not unlike the infra-red device employed by Ramirez outside Myrtle McGee’s earlier that evening.
‘Zebra 1’ gave details on developments in personal and automobile tracking systems, wireless computer interception gear, cell phone interceptors and blockers. He spoke of advancements in room bug and phone tap detectors, computer key stroke detectors, state-of-the-art covert transmitters and shattered the myth that ‘white noise’, such as a running shower, could make any listening device defunct. The new technology was now so advanced that even the faintest of conversations could be isolated and enhanced to crisp and comprehensible perfection.
He did say, however, that there was still one place where a man could feel reasonably safe to speak freely without fear of precise and relatable detection – in the great outdoors.
‘It remains the case today as it has always been, that probably the best way to avoid being eavesdropped is to pass information during a long, unpredictable and unannounced walk in the park,’ he told the reporter. ‘Unless there is a pre-arranged satellite surveillance link trained on said individuals at that specific stroke of time, it is highly unlikely that a conversation can be recorded with any definition or legitimate guarantee.’
Unfortunately, for the unlikely pair in the nondescript gunmetal grey van parked in Park Street directly across from the northern entrance of Boston Common, ‘Zebra 1’ was right.
‘This is useless,’ said the technician to CIA Director Richard Ryan. ‘The space is too big. We have nothing to bounce off.’
‘Quiet,’ said Ryan. ‘Did you hear that?’ He turned to his companion. ‘Cavanaugh mentioned John. Shit, he’s saying too much.’
‘For God’s sake,’ said his companion. ‘This is insane. We can’t hear them, let alone see them from here. Cavanaugh could be in serious trouble. Perhaps you should . . . ?’
‘Ramirez won’t kill him. The bastard is too smart. He knows the risk is too high.’
‘That’s four days to change your plea,’ they heard Ramirez say, this time the signal a little stronger. ‘. . . Judge Donovan Monday morning, 9am . . . legal . . . confessional . . .’
‘Jesus Christ,’ said the companion. ‘He wants him to change his plea!’
More static and then another voice – Cavanaugh’s. ‘You’re a traitor, Ramirez. I promise you I’ll find twenty-nine more pieces of silver like that one for you before this is over – and let the world know exactly what a Judas you really are.’
Then Ramirez again: ‘. . . watch your back . . . gun . . . calling card in your brain . . . you and Bradshaw can talk justice for all eternity and beyond.’
‘Richard,’ said the companion. ‘This has gone too far. How could it have come to this? How could I not have seen it? You have to stop this now. You have to bring him in.’
‘Not yet. You heard Ramirez. Cavanaugh has four days. H
e and his friends are smart. They’re good people. Their hearts are in this. Give them the time, see what they can come up with.’
‘But they think I am the one who . . .’
‘Don’t you see? If you don’t play this out, there will always be doubt, always a way for John and Ramirez to point the finger at someone else – at Montgomery, at me, and more to the point, at you.’
‘I am many things, Ryan, but I am not a coward,’ she said. ‘I have been betrayed. They want to take me on, then let them.’
‘No,’ said Ryan. ‘I understand your anger but the minute you get involved it becomes political. If we make this anything more than an independent, agenda-free investigation, Ramirez and John can claim they were set up – and could appeal on grounds of entrapment.’
Ryan could see his companion looked unconvinced.
‘We have to control this from a distance. They’ve come this far without our help. Let’s see what else they can do.’
‘First subject is back in his car,’ interrupted the technician. ‘Second subject is on the move – slowly.’
‘See,’ said Ryan. ‘Cavanaugh’s a tough bastard. He’s okay.’
‘No thanks to us.’
And then they sat there in silence, listening to the distant fuzz of the technician’s surveillance equipment.
‘So what do we do now?’ began the companion. ‘Let’s say Cavanaugh and his friends are smart enough to uncover the truth, how do we play this without it looking like “he said/she said”?’
‘By giving Ramirez what he wants,’ said Ryan.
‘Excuse me?’
‘We get Cavanaugh to change his plea – or at least feign that as his intent. Then we make a show of it. Pull them all into court. Give them their hallowed day in the sun.’