Roader turned to face her. “Excuse me?”
“I passed on the locations of the bombs to a recent acquaintance of mine at CIA, who mobilized the FBI and local authorities to take care of the situation.”
“You—,” Roader said. “I don’t understand.”
“Sure you do,” Tolman said, and dropped the black binder on Roader’s lap.
“What is this?”
“The book is a history of The Associates. The fax page is the evidence of where April 19 had set the explosives at Grant Park. The best I can tell, it came from an associate of Ann Gray’s who remained loyal to her after all her other field people defected to The Associates for more money. I’m just guessing here, because Gray is gone, but I would say that this associate, whose initials ‘M.B.’ are at the top of the fax page, was able to infiltrate the group that had turned against Gray, and he convinced them he’d turned, too.”
“Ann Gray? The Associates?”
“Oh, and the letter clipped to the first page is my resignation from RIO.”
“What?”
Tolman felt her color rising. “Don’t play dumb with your plausible deniability and all that. The Associates. You knew all about it. Ultimately, it was you who ordered Nick Journey and me killed.”
Roader’s hand gripped the arm of the bench. “I think you’d better explain yourself, young woman. Where do you—”
“Nope, not playing anymore. Tired of the blood and all the lies and pure, unadulterated bullshit.”
“The Associates?” Roader said, looking wildly around, as if he expected someone to come to his aid. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“And I thought you used to be a historian. Allow me to”—she paused, thinking of Ann Gray—“enlighten you. It started in the McKinley administration, right after the Spanish-American War. A group of New York businessmen approached one of the president’s unofficial advisors and suggested a private fund for the White House, a fund that would never appear on any budget. Sort of a discretionary fund, to be used for policy initiatives or for the president to buy booze, whatever struck his fancy.
“But McKinley’s advisor said he’d have no part of it, so the original Associates told him he had no choice but to accept it. This is what was so ingenious. The Associates set themselves up as a legitimate business in a little town in upstate New York, and then arranged the fund for the White House anyway. If the White House complained or tried to give it back, The Associates would simply tell the world about the secret slush fund. The president was never to know, only his underlings. But if the underlings didn’t cooperate with what The Associates wanted, they’d threaten to make it public. They’d ruin the president—even though the president didn’t know about it. Sheer brilliance. They could steer him in one direction or another, whatever their agenda was—through whatever staffer or cabinet secretary or advisor actually knew about the funds. Years went by, and different Associates came and went, always looking for business opportunities, more money that would increase their hold over the White House. Sometimes it was the president’s legal advisors in charge of the funds, sometimes a chief of staff, as you know. Only twice was it a cabinet member, under Coolidge and LBJ.”
“You’re crazy,” Roader said.
“Maybe so, but it’s all right there, along with the money Barry Cable found. Poor Barry—he did his job and you killed him for it. We don’t know how Barry found the accounts, but he started to investigate, and when he did you had a keystroke tracker placed on his computer. That’s how Gray knew his subpassword, ‘sixty-eight GTO.’ That’s how she could tell Rayburn, and he could tell me. Once she decided to expose the scheme and bring The Associates down, when she was ready for me to find it, I could find it.” Tolman propped an elbow on the arm of the bench, feeling weary. “After a cut to The Associates, and paying the expenses of running the mine, the White House still received over five hundred million dollars. That could buy a lot of votes, influence a lot of policy. But subtly, right? Your friend President Harwell had a difficult time making decisions. You probably helped him a lot with that, helped him with the ‘vision thing.’”
“You are out of line,” Roader said, but his voice had no strength in it.
“It’s all right there, Mr. Roader, in black and white. Victor Zale and Terrence Landon were the leaders of The Associates for thirteen years, and they had some great schemes, but the Silver Cross was the biggest, a perfect opportunity to take advantage of something that no one knew existed, and make a shitload of money. But Zale was unstable, thought that he and he alone knew what was best for the United States. After Gray blew up the buildings, using April 19, he decided to turn it back on her, use her own people, and in the process wipe out the protesters—for some reason he hated both sides—and cripple the Mendoza administration.” Tolman shook her head. “Tell me, how much of President Harwell’s and Mendoza’s agendas have been influenced by Associates money?”
Roader looked around. His guards were gone. Instead, striding through the garden toward him, was President Robert Mendoza, in a white open-collared shirt and dark pants, his glasses reflecting the sun, gray streaks in his dark hair.
“Meg,” he said.
Tolman stood. “Mr. President.”
Mendoza raised one hand, and a group of Secret Service agents surrounded Roader. Ray Tolman led the group. His daughter winked at him.
Roader was led away. Tolman thought she heard him crying.
When they were alone, Mendoza said, “Meg, I don’t know what I can say to you.”
“Nothing, sir. I’m leaving RIO.”
“Don’t, Meg. We need you.”
“No, you don’t, and I don’t want to be a part of this anymore.”
Mendoza sat down on the bench, as if they were two old friends chatting, and he motioned for her to sit next to him. “I knew nothing about it.”
Tolman sighed. “I know that, sir. None of the presidents did, according to the book. That’s not the issue. But sir, this went on for over a century. Were our elected leaders really in charge, or were the men who ran The Associates?”
“Who can say, Meg? Frankly, it’s horrifying. But we don’t know. Some Associates may have been content in knowing they had the leverage without ever using it. And yes, some may have actively influenced policy, for better or worse. But we don’t know.” Mendoza spread his hands apart. “See, I was never supposed to be president. I was never even supposed to be vice president. I was one of those ‘surprise’ VP picks at the convention. I barely knew Harwell. Then when he died so suddenly last year, I didn’t have time to assemble a staff, so I’ve kept most of his people. If I’m given the opportunity to serve a term of my own, I’ll have my own people. But The Associates are history now, after holding these illegal funds over the heads of presidential advisors for more than a century.”
“But, sir…”
“Say it, Meg.”
“I’m tired of the lies. You’re going to sweep this under the rug, and Roader will ‘resign’ for personal reasons, and no one will know what really happened. For the good of the country and all that, and I can’t stomach it.”
“No,” Mendoza said.
Tolman looked at him.
“I’ve scheduled a news conference for tonight. It’s all going to take place in the light. I’m tired of lies and bullshit, too, Meg.” He smiled, leaning against the bench. “Are presidents allowed to swear? I hope so. I’m going to tell all of it, except for a couple of small things. I’m going to work out an agreement with the French—without giving in to Delmas Mercer’s foolishness. I’m a Southerner, Meg, but I’ve no desire to fight that war again. I’m going to discuss Grant Park, and how we almost had a truly horrific act of terror there. Did you hear that the leaders of two main opposing groups actually sat down—right there in Grant Park—and talked to each other, after they found out about the bombs that were intended to wipe out all of them? Two leaders at extreme opposite ends of the spectrum sat down and talked.”
“You
… you’re going to come clean with all of it?”
“Every bit of it. And as for the gold, sixty miles south of the Silver Cross? The current owners of the land keep all their mineral rights. The land belongs to them. But we’ll add a provision to the French treaty and give them a percentage of any profits that might come from mining the land—if the owners choose to develop it. They already have geologists there now, so I think it’s a safe bet we’re about to see an extraordinary discovery—maybe as extraordinary as the Silver Cross. But France is an important ally for us in the world, and I’m not going to see this permanently damage our relationship. If the French economy collapses, the whole world is in a lot of trouble.”
Tolman rocked back against the arm of the bench. “You’re going to get killed politically.”
“Probably,” the president said. “I have the delegates locked up from the primaries, and the convention is in three weeks, but it’s possible I may get a last-minute opponent for the nomination at the convention. The leaders of the party will start trying to make backroom deals and recruit someone to oppose me as soon as this becomes public. I’ll be damaged goods. If, by some miracle, I do still get the nomination, the other party’s going to be ready to carve me into little pieces.”
Tolman said nothing, wide-eyed.
“Adlai Stevenson said, ‘I would rather be right than president.’ And he was never elected, was he? But he held to his principles. I am president, and I still want to do what is right. I don’t think the two have to be mutually exclusive. Do you?”
“They shouldn’t be.”
“But most people don’t believe that anymore, do they? Some days I do, some I don’t. But I’m not going to make this go away and talk about it being ‘for the good of the country.’ This country is a lot stronger than that, we’re better than that, and we can withstand more than most politicians think we can.”
Tolman said nothing, staring at the president.
“Can’t believe I’m saying this, can you?” Mendoza said, and laughed. “It’s crazy, all right. A president telling the truth, even if it makes his own administration look bad.” He shifted around on the bench, crossing one ankle on the other knee. “Look, Meg, I asked you to take over RIO last year because I thought you could make a difference, could clean it up and do things right. I still believe that. Especially after all this … after the Silver Cross.”
“You’re really going to release all of it?”
“I’m going to tell people the truth, and maybe they’ll kick me out on my ass for it. But that’s what I’m going to do. If I’m not reelected, I’ll go home to Charlotte and practice law and spend time with my kids. My daughter is expecting my first grandchild in December. But if the American people see fit to give me a chance, they won’t be disappointed. Will you stay with RIO?”
Tolman’s mind tumbled and churned, and she thought of Barry and Jim and Dana Cable, lying side by side in the little cemetery in the Ozarks. And she thought of Sandra Kelly and Andrew and Nick Journey, and she thought of her father, spending his lifetime protecting presidents, serving a government that could sometimes be inept and corrupt, and at other times be a towering light for the rest of the world.
“I’m tired,” she said.
“Take a month off,” the president said. “Play piano all you want. Then come back and help us. The Wade Roaders and Victor Zales of the world aren’t the whole story. There are also the Noah Brandons and the Nick Journeys and—”
“Don’t say it,” Tolman said. “I’ll take that month.”
“And then?”
She flipped open the book Ann Gray had given her in Texas, pulled out the letter she’d printed before coming to the White House, and tore it in two.
“I’ll stay out of your way and let you work,” Mendoza said with a smile. “We can make you director if you like.”
“No, I think I’d rather stay as a deputy director, if it’s all the same to you. Erin’s better at the administrative part of it than I am. I’d rather work on individual cases.”
“Whatever you like.”
“Sir?” Tolman said. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For taking this risk.”
“On you or on the country?”
“Both, I think.”
Mendoza smiled. “Oh, one more thing, Meg. Those little things I won’t release? Your name and Nick Journey’s. I want you to keep your privacy. I’m not going to turn you into heroes. We overuse that word these days anyway.”
Tolman felt a weight drop away from her shoulders. “That’s the best offer I’ve heard in a long time,” she said, and watched as the president of the United States turned and left the Rose Garden.
* * *
A little less than twenty-four hours later, she stood on the seawall below Fort Fisher, at the spot where Dana Cable’s blood had stained the rocks. She looked at the Cape Fear River to her right, and the Atlantic Ocean to her left.
Rose Greenhow had died near here. Dana Cable died here. Noah Brandon’s grandfather had dived until he found the “real” silver cross here. Tolman went still, considering all that had happened, considering what she’d agreed to do, to stay with RIO, despite the betrayals, the deaths, the lies.
She tuned out the ocean, and she thought she could catch a little snippet of Beethoven’s Cello Sonata no. 2, as played by her friend, long hair flying as she bowed her instrument in the second movement.
“We figured it out, Dana,” she said, and wiped her eyes. “The rose and the silver cross. We figured it out.”
There was no answer but the wind and the water. She lowered her head for a moment, then looked toward shore. Inspector Larry Poe was waiting there, and she waved to him. He waved back, and then Tolman started the long walk toward land.
CHAPTER
46
Journey and Andrew sat in Sandra’s hospital room at the OU Medical Center in Oklahoma City, Andrew working puzzles two at a time, while Journey read The Journal of the Civil War and an occasional newspaper. He’d tried to avoid the mass media after President Mendoza’s news conference. He’d seen enough uproar for a while.
But he couldn’t help seeing one headline on The Oklahoman’s education page: NORTH CAROLINA INDUSTRIALIST LEAVES COLLECTION TO OKLAHOMA COLLEGE.
Ten days after they’d met at The Oceanic, Noah Brandon died in his sleep of a brain hemorrhage. After his death, an attorney contacted the president of South Central College and said that Brandon had changed his will—the day after he met with Nick Journey—and had bequeathed his extensive collection of historic papers and artifacts to SCC. The collection was said to be worth several million dollars. Journey had to smile when thinking of the courtly old man.
He looked over at Sandra and the smile faded. The bullet had missed major organs, and while she had to have some arteries rerouted, Sandra had been miraculously lucky. She would survive, and with extensive rehab, she would only miss a month or so of the fall semester. Her parents had stayed for a week, her brother a little longer, and they’d worked through their initial anger at Journey. It would take a long time for them to fully trust him, and he didn’t blame them. He and Sandra hadn’t talked much about the shooting itself. He didn’t know if he had the words within him.
She woke up and looked over at him. She smiled, and his heart nearly broke.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey yourself,” he said.
“Andrew?”
“Loving those puzzles you got for him. He’s getting really fast at them.”
She went quiet for a long time. He sensed something big coming.
“Nick,” she said.
He took her hand. She moved around on the bed, trying not to jostle her IV line.
“This is … hard,” she said.
“Yes.”
“I … I did what I did because … well, I guess I don’t know. I didn’t think about it. I saw Andrew running, and I knew he didn’t understand that these were bad men, and I couldn’t … it wasn’t
a heroic act or anything. It was just … what I did.” She squeezed his hand. “I don’t have the right words.”
“Funny, I was just thinking the same thing.”
“I’m scared, Nick. Is this what your life is like? What about the next job you do for RIO? What happens then?”
“I don’t know. I can quit the RIO thing.”
“No, you can’t, and that’s part of what is so amazing about you. You always try to do the right thing, even when it’s difficult. Whether it’s RIO or Andrew or helping a student, and even if it means trying to balance one or more of those things against each other.”
“But I can’t always figure out what the right thing is,” he said.
“Yes, you can, but you’re not going to believe me anyway, so I’m not going to die on that hill.”
“Thanks, I think.”
“I’m scared, Nick. Because I … I don’t know how to say this and I’m confused and torn up.”
Journey steeled himself and said, “You don’t have to say it. If you don’t want to see me again, I get it. Believe me, I get it. I understand. You could have died out there.”
She slapped his hand. “No, dummy, you don’t get it. Why do you think I gave you the cross? I wanted you to know it was okay to go, to do what needed to be done. I’m a big girl, and I could survive here without you beside me, if you needed to go and do the right thing, to finish what you started.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
Sandra closed her eyes. “Nick, I’m thirty-one years old and I’ve never said this to anyone in my life before today, and I’m saying it lying here recovering from a gunshot wound that could have killed me. But, Nick … I think I’m falling in love with you.”
Andrew had been strangely quiet, and Journey heard him tap his feet on the floor. “I don’t know what—”
“You don’t have to say anything,” Sandra said, and a single tear streaked down her cheek. “Not yet.”
Journey brushed the tear away, pulled her beautiful red hair away from her face, touched her cheek.
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