by Sydney Bauer
‘So Bradshaw was betrayed by his best friend who vetoed an autopsy because he knew what it would show,’ Sara went on, ‘that he poisoned the Vice President with an evil narcotic that robbed him of his ability to fight back, so that Ramirez could silence him for good. Which means that, Ryan is our John.’
‘Yes . . . but . . . ,’ said David.
‘But what?’ she said.
‘I don’t know. Somehow, it just doesn’t sit right. The man saved his life all those years ago – so why would he kill him now?’
‘Greed, I guess,’ she said. ‘I know it’s hard to believe, especially for someone with your idealistic view of the world.’ She paused then, and he knew what she was going to say. ‘Don’t get me wrong here,’ she went on. ‘I love you because of your idealism, and I’d like to believe that most of the time people’s good intentions are just that. But there are some individuals in this world – like Ramirez and Ryan – whose credo is one of self-service.
‘Maybe Ryan was a good guy years ago, perhaps he grew older, more bitter, more ambitious. Maybe he was jealous of his popular friend. Who knows? But don’t you see? In the end his motives don’t matter. The fact is he is a murderer masquerading as an ally and we have to bring him down.’
She was right. And as much as the whole idea felt like lead in his stomach the evidence was indisputable. Ryan had means and opportunity, and his motive was obviously twofold – a need to prevent his friend from discovering his true role in GIV and a determination to eliminate him as the major obstacle in his intended ascension to the Presidency. George Bush Snr was an ex-Director of the CIA so the progression to President from that post was not an unfamiliar one. The nation knew him as Tom’s best friend with similar visions for America, and they would milk this image for all it was worth.
‘What about Maxine Bryant?’ asked Sara at last. ‘She may not be John, but somehow I still think she is connected to all of this.’
‘I agree,’ said David. ‘Maeve Barlow might have sworn Ramirez was determined to keep her out of that suite but that doesn’t necessarily mean she wasn’t involved. She may not be one of the original Gospel Four, but that’s not to say she didn’t find out what was going on and was too ambitious to stop it. And if Ryan is as determined and unscrupulous as we suspect, maybe he threatened her? Maybe he promised her a political payoff when he became President. Maybe he threatened her daughter or her grandchildren? Maybe he . . .’
They were interrupted by the ring of David’s phone.
‘That’ll be Joe,’ said David, springing from his kitchen chair to grab the phone from the dark granite counter. ‘We have to fill him and the others in ASAP. Joe,’ he said.
‘Yeah, it’s me.’
‘I was just about to call you. We need to talk. Sara and I need to . . .’
‘Jesus, David,’ said Mannix, and David could hear the distress in his voice.
‘What is it?’ asked David, now looking across at Sara who had obviously sensed his concern.
‘It’s Nancy Doyle,’ he said.
‘Nancy . . . what? What happened?’ said David, now feeling the panic rise in his throat.
‘She’s dead, David. Shot once, point blank between the eyes.’
‘Oh God.’ David felt a chill of fear spread through his entire body, the blood rush to his face, a shiver slide down his spine.
Sara moved to his side. ‘What?’ she said. ‘What is it?’
‘Where? How?’ David went on.
‘In her suite at the Regency Park. Croker never heard a thing. It was Ramirez. He used a silencer – and left behind a calling card so that none of us would doubt who was responsible.
‘He wants to warn us, David,’ Mannix went on. ‘He is telling us to back off or face the same fate. He left his thirty pieces of silver and my guess is, he has thirty, or sixty or maybe ninety more where that came from.’
61
It was quiet. The sun flooded through the southern windows in an expanding beam which formed a spotlight for the millions of dancing dust particles which only seem to allow themselves to be seen in rare moments such as these. David looked across Joe’s living room at Croker, the beam passing right over his head, the particles floating around him in some random choreography predicted by the breeze which accompanied the sun through the half opened window. It was hot and humid and the air felt thick – a heaviness reflected in Croker’s expression. His face told the story of a new depth of sorrow grounded in his loss and, worse still, the fact that he blamed himself for her death.
‘I should never have left her alone,’ he said, his hazel eyes now awash in a pool of bloodshot red. ‘The funny thing is, I didn’t sleep all night, and I still didn’t hear a thing.’
‘There is nothing you could have done,’ said Joe. ‘Ryan gave Ramirez Nancy’s exact location. Unfortunately the hotel doesn’t have security cameras covering every inch of the corridors. Our guys were on cycle, patrolling the upper floors at the time – checking on the Mahoneys, the Bishops and the Caspians. Ramirez must have kept watch, he’s a professional Sam – quick, silent, untraceable.’
Croker just shook his head, the dust particles shuffling in the air around him.
They sat there then – David, Joe, Sara, Croker, Leo, Susan, Frank, Arthur and Nora – in a moment of stillness that bound them together. Joe’s living room, so recently filled with hope and anticipation, now felt like the sitting room in a funeral parlour, smelling of loss and regret and death. Perhaps they knew this was the only moment they would get to mourn Nancy Doyle before they set about bringing down the two men responsible for it all. Perhaps this was the calm before the storm. The no-man’s land from which there was no turning back.
They had spent the morning relocating their witnesses to various ‘safe-houses’ around the city, and Karin had checked into a nondescript three star hotel in Cambridge. King had pulled in a lot of favours from some old FBI pals who agreed to do round-the-clock surveillance and he was confident they were all safe – at least for the time being.
‘Where the hell is Ryan?’ said Croker at last, his sorrow now transforming to anger, his determination for revenge resolute.
‘We don’t know,’ said Joe. ‘He was due to contact David this morning, so that he could meet the Bishops and interview them personally. But he hasn’t called.’
‘We have to find him,’ said David. ‘We were right from the very beginning. Ryan is the key to it all – just not how we suspected. He had us fooled from day one.’
‘Fooled?’ said Frank McKay. ‘The man deserves a God-damned Oscar. I am usually able to pick ’em, but this guy sold me good. Cavanaugh’s right, we need to find the bastard and we need to find him now.’
And then, as if the gods had decided it was time to turn things their way, David’s cell phone rang.
‘Cavanaugh,’ he said.
‘It’s Marc,’ said Rigotti.
‘Marc,’ said David with a sigh. ‘I know I promised we’d keep in touch on this thing, but I got nothing I can tell you right now.’
‘No? Well, maybe I got something for you. Maxine Bryant and the President have gone AWOL.’
‘I don’t understand?’
‘AWOL, disappeared, on the eve of her supposed nomination for the Vice Presidency. So I put out some feelers, made a few calls, checked with some friends at the airlines and . . .’
‘And . . .’ said David, having no idea what this meant, if anything, to their cause.
‘And I found her. Bryant that is, right here in Boston at the Fairmont Copley Plaza, of all places. She’s booked into a suite on the fifth floor. In fact, from what I know, the government have taken at least four rooms on that floor, including suite 533 – the Presidential Suite itself.’
‘Bryant is staying in the same room where her son-in-law was murdered?’ asked David, looking up at the others in the room. ‘That’s downright sick.’
‘Not the same room but close. And wait, it gets better. The Presidential Suite itself was apparently reserv
ed by the CIA. In fact, according to my sources, Dick Ryan personally booked the room, giving orders they were not to be disturbed. I sent a mole over there about an hour ago and he says the place is crawling in suits. But he did get a personal view of a hurried Ryan and Bryant getting into the elevator together. Something’s going down, dude, and I thought you might know what.’
‘Thanks, Marc,’
‘What? Hold on, David, I was calling you for info. My editor’s on my back. I need this story. I know you, and you know something. Come on, man, I gave you the tip off, you have to help me out here.’
‘Seriously, Marc,’ said David, rising from his chair. ‘I really appreciate the call and I promise I’ll ring you back soon.’ And then he hung up before Rigotti could say another word, and switched off his phone.
‘What is it?’ said Joe. ‘Where the hell are you going?’
‘Back to the scene of the crime,’ said David.
‘What?’ asked Sara. ‘What did Marc say? What does he know?’
‘Nothing – but he gave me a lead on Ryan.’
‘Jesus, Cavanaugh,’ said Croker, now up out of his chair. ‘I want in on this. I deserve in on this.’
‘No,’ said David, the rest of the room shocked by the sharpness in his voice.
‘I’m sorry, Sam, I know what you’re going through but enough is enough. It is much smarter if I do this solo.’
‘No way, David,’ began Joe. ‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘Come on, Joe. Think about it. I’m the only one with a chance of getting in there. You and Croker are law enforcement. I’m just a dumb ass lawyer representing a guy on his way to a lethal injection. Don’t forget, Nancy Doyle was my client and they killed her – right under our noses.
‘No,’ he said again, now grabbing his keys and heading towards the door. ‘We’re running out of time. I’m doing this by myself, and I’m going to do it now.’
‘Is it done?’ asked John.
‘Yes,’ replied Matthew.
‘You took care of it personally?’
‘Yes.’
‘How in the hell did she survive the . . . ?’
‘My operative will be punished.’
‘You were careful?’
He did not bother answering.
‘How did they know she was still alive?’ John went on.
‘My guess is they are responsible for her still being alive – and now they are responsible for her death.’
‘So that’s the end of them then,’ said John.
‘There is nothing else. We are expecting Cavanaugh’s call to confirm he is changing his plea at any minute, and then, we’ll have it in the bag.’
‘Then I should still plan on . . . ?’
‘Yes,’ he interrupted. ‘You should be here Monday morning as planned. Is the President still set on a Monday announcement?’
John said nothing and for a second Ramirez felt a tinge of disquiet.
‘He’s out of town,’ said John. ‘I am told it is a matter of international security. I’ll be privy to such matters soon but I can’t push it – not just yet. In any case it is nothing to worry about. He called this afternoon and assured me the timing of the announcement should not be affected. I alluded to a breakthrough in the Montgomery case and he asked that I keep him informed. He said he understood my need to be in Boston if necessary and would fit around my needs.’
‘How accommodating of him.’
‘Indeed,’ she said after another slight pause.
‘Plan your flight for early Monday,’ said Ramirez. ‘So the press have an opportunity to film you arriving. This is a very important moment for you. You deserve to make the most of it.’
‘As long as you are sure Cavanaugh has nothing that will . . .’
‘Nothing.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
62
In the end they let him go. For there was no stopping him and when they cut to the chase they knew he was right. They had no chance fronting the Fairmont as a posse. Hell, David had little to no chance of making it to the hallowed penthouse floor alone, but at least a battalion of one could move between floors without causing too much suspicion. At least, that was the theory.
He contemplated calling Pieter Capon but in the end decided against it. Capon was a good man but he was also, no doubt, under strict orders from Ryan and his CIA cronies that they not be disturbed under any circumstances. David would be told ever so politely that the top floor was out of bounds and that would be that.
Maeve Barlow was another alternative and might be of assistance when it came to access to the penthouse floor. But she alone would not be enough – he needed something else.
And so, as he pulled into Trinity Place along the eastern boundary of the hotel, he tried to think of something, anything that would give him an edge. What was it they taught us in survival school? he asked himself, trying to remember the specifics of a wildlife endurance camp he and his older brother Sean had been to as teenagers. Try to blend in with your surroundings, aim at losing yourself in commonality and become one with your enemy, even if it meant walking into their camp right in front of their very eyes.
And then he had it. In fact, he had had it all along, in his front shirt pocket to be exact. It was sitting there against his heart, rising and falling with his every breath, Dick Ryan’s personal signature on David Cavanaugh’s approval for temporary CIA Agent status. It was the fax Ryan had sent on Thursday night, before his trip to see James Bishop in DC. He was one of them, after all.
‘It’s nice to see you again, Mr Cavanaugh,’ said Maeve Barlow who David had called via front desk reception. ‘Is there anything I can help you with?’
‘Hi Maeve,’ said David with a smile, trying to appear as relaxed as possible. ‘Nothing major. I just need to see CIA Director Ryan and I’m not sure what room he is in.’
‘That’s easy,’ she said. ‘He’s up on five, one of the executive suites. Maybe I should call Mr Capon. I am sure he would enjoy accompanying you up there.’
‘No, that’s fine. I really don’t want to bother him. But maybe, if you don’t mind, you could show me up, if that’s okay.’
‘Sure. I was about to go on my break anyway. In fact it’s lucky you caught me, I think Mr Ryan’s security personnel have restricted the elevator access to the fifth floor. But we can use my master key. Do you want me to ring ahead to let him know you are on your way up?’
‘No thanks. He’s expecting me.’
David hated lying to the helpful girl, but he knew there was no alternative. He had guessed the access to the upper floor would be restricted – and Maeve was his ‘free pass up’. From there on in, he would have to rely on his ‘Temporary CIA Status’ fax and hope that he made it as far as Dick Ryan’s door.
The interior of the ornately furnished elevators were mirrored. And David avoided looking at his own reflection for fear he would see the stifled panic in his eyes. He took a breath and released it slowly, trying to slow the beat of his heart, feeling suddenly hot despite the chill of the temperature controlled air-conditioning.
The lift climbed, slowly, David focusing on the red electronic numbers which seemed to ascend, at least at first, at a ridiculously lethargic rate. But as they passed level two, three, four, the timing between floors seemed to compress as if some invisible lift driver had shoved his appropriately polished shoe on an indiscernible accelerator.
‘Don’t you think so?’ said Maeve. And David realised he had not heard a word of the young girl’s chatter.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Absolutely,’ he confirmed, having no idea what he had just agreed with.
Ding!
‘Here we are then,’ said Maeve. ‘Director Ryan is in 531, down the end of the corridor to your right, just beyond the Presidential Suite. I might pop down for a quick coffee before my break is up if that’s okay? Do you think you’ll be right from here?’
And then he saw them – eight, ten, maybe more dark-suited se
ntries lining the fifth floor corridor like a scene from Will Smith’s Men in Black.
Storm Troopers, he thought to himself, making the mental reference to his childhood obsession with Star Wars . . . except they are in black, not white, guarding their own Dark Lord like their expendable lives depended on it.
‘Sure,’ he said, summoning all the confidence he could muster. ‘And thanks again, Maeve – Warrior Queen right?’
‘Yes, Mr Cavanaugh, you have a good memory.’
‘Maybe the name just fits,’ he said, grateful for her help and knowing in a way it was true. ‘You go get that coffee. I am going to be fine.’
He stepped out of the lift and felt a sudden wave of loneliness as the slight breeze from behind indicated the elevator doors had closed and Maeve was no longer with him. He pulled the fax from his pocket in readiness, and then he began to walk. He passed the first two men, then the second, his feet feeling slow and heavy as if the plush pile carpet was absorbing his footfalls like a sponge. Somewhere in his subconscious he registered the piped muzak sound of some classical symphony. Vivaldi maybe? Four Seasons? No doubt Montgomery would know.
The third group was not so accommodating. Perhaps they, unlike their earlier counterparts, had not seen him in the lift with Maeve? Maybe the earlier four had assumed he worked for the hotel, but that cover had only got him so far. Six feet from the Presidential Suite he was stopped by an agent who appeared vaguely familiar. The man had been standing guard outside the Presidential Suite door and David knew he had seen him before. He had a strong sense of déjà vu as if he had stepped back in time. No, more like he had stepped into a TV show or a movie and was now playing himself in some deadly reality fest from hell.
‘Who are you?’ asked the man, his broad Texan drawl deep and confronting.
‘My name is David Cavanaugh and I am here to see Director Ryan.’ David unfolded the fax. ‘I have been trying to contact the Director all morning. We have an appointment, with a man named Bishop.’