“Very well,” Ward said, leaning forward. “I think you’ve broken your oath and the law. I think you personally have done it — not just as an FBI agent where the FBI’s not supposed to be, but by committing specific acts. That you, as an official representing the United States, were deliberately instrumental in causing a man to die. I think that’s hypocrisy, for our officials to act like that. I think it’s evil. And I think when we — and I mean especially people like me, in the Congress — close our eyes — or what is worse: keep them open, so that we can wink — at behavior by our law enforcement people that is blatantly illegal, we in fact commission it. We tacitly commission it. And therefore by condoning it, we participate in the guilt, and I do not like that. Last August, August twenty-second, a young man that I knew, that I met in this house, last August twenty-second he was found dead in a British jail. I do not believe his death was accidental. I believe it was procured. And I suspect you were the functionary who handled that procurement.”
“Gerald,” Florence Walker said, “you know all about Sam Tibbetts. You know how dangerous he was. He was a dangerous man. He was a radical, and he used heavy drugs, and he was crazy. A jury even said that.”
Ward nodded. “I do know those things,” he said. “I also know he was in custody. That he’d been apprehended by a ruse — which I guess I would condone, even though I don’t generally approve of our government achieving its means by deceit — and he was in custody at the time of his death. And that’s not supposed to happen to a healthy man in custody.”
“British custody, Mister Ward,” Fiona said. “We formally requested that he be turned over to us as soon as he was captured at Heathrow. Our request was denied, pending extradition. We were prepared to hold him in maximum security at an American military facility. With all due safeguards. All the arrangements had been made. The Yard denied our request.”
“As they should have,” Ward said. “If he’d been in some Air Force stockade, he wouldn’t have lasted as long as he did. If he wasn’t shot on the way to it, ‘trying to escape.’ So, since you couldn’t get him into your clutches to kill him that way, you went around the other way and had it done by them. Contracted the murder out.”
“Congressman,” Claire Naisbitt said, placing her left hand on his right forearm, “there was a very thorough investigation.” In the near distance a chime sounded. “No evidence of foul play was found.”
“Oh,” Ward said, “sure: ‘a complete investigation.’ The usual ‘full-scale probe.’ ‘The customary whitewash’ would be a fairer term, a little closer to the truth.”
“Congressman,” Claire Naisbitt said, “really, you assume too much. The post-mortem examination was very thorough. A lengthy inquest was conducted. I think about thirty witnesses were called. No culpability could be found. No evidence to believe there’d been a homicide. But much to indicate that he had died by his own hand.”
“That he deliberately took an overdose of narcotics, was it not?” Ward said.
“Yes,” Claire said. “Cocaine. And he’d been known to use cocaine. He had a history.”
Ward sighed. “Mrs. Naisbitt,” he said, “Samuel Tibbetts was taken into custody upon arrival at Heathrow. They’d been expecting him. Now you know how strict security’s been at Heathrow ever since the IRA started acting up. Long before the PLO started leaving bombs around, Heathrow security was tighter than a Pullman window. Hell, half of America’s movie stars and at least two-thirds of the world’s rock musicians who use dope’ve gotten away with it for years, until they made the mistake of flying into Heathrow with their stashes. Then they got busted And jailed.
“Now,” he said, “can you tell me that a man arrested under security conditions even more extreme than those that are ordinarily enforced; can you tell me how a man who was strip-searched, body cavities and all, once at the airport and again at the jail, where his clothes were taken away from him — can you tell me how he managed to smuggle in enough free-base cocaine to give himself a lethal joint? Can you tell me that?”
“Yes,” she said, “I can. The inquest found that the cigarettes containing the lethal dose must’ve been supplied to him after he was incarcerated. But the finding was that the one that killed him had probably been contained in one of the unopened packages from his luggage, and that he’d probably prepared the dose himself, just in case he was captured. But there was no reason to suspect anyone else of providing it to him. Only that in the future, to prevent such things happening, prisoners should not be supplied with their own cigarettes — only those from the interrogation center’s supply. Negligence, yes, but very far from criminal.”
“Mrs. Naisbitt,” Ward said, removing her hand gently from his arm and reaching forward for his port, “your trust in the authorities of your adoptive country is most admirable and sweet. But you’ve been too long away from America. You’ve missed the direct experience of the remarkable frequency with which enemies of our State, or those in control of our State, succumb to suicidal tendencies. Are shot by demented assassins, always acting alone.” He took another slice of bread and spread cheese on it.
“Some fruit, Gerald?” Florence Walker said, as he chewed the bread.
“Yes, Congressman,” Fiona Cangelosi said, her eyes glittering, “have a bite of the apple. You must need to replenish your knowledge of good and evil, after sharing so much with us.”
He stared at her. He put his glass down, removed his napkin, placed it on the table, pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. “Clayton,” he said, nodding toward him. “Florence,” he said, again nodding. “It’s really been a most delightful evening, and I’m sorry I can’t stay. But I do have an early plane tomorrow, and there’s reading I must do. So, if you’ll excuse me, thank you very much.”
“You’ll find your way out, Gerald?” Florence said, making no move to rise.
“Oh, yes indeed,” he said from the foyer, getting his coat from the closet. “No trouble in that respect.”
Doctor Dan cleared his throat, awakening the lady with the vacant smile from her reverie. She nodded. He stood up as Neville Naisbitt entered the room. “I have grand rounds in the morning, Clayton,” the doctor said. “Must be on our way.”
“What’s this?” Naisbitt said. “Collided with a fellow out there in the hall, come in here and others leaving — must be my reputation.”
46
Shortly before 1:30 on the morning of February 22, 1986, Clayton Walker rose unsteadily from his favorite leather chair in the study of his home at 221 Sutton Place, and, slurring his words, informed Neville and Claire Naisbitt, Fiona Cangelosi and his wife that he was “completely exhausted” and on his way to bed. Neville Naisbitt drank the rest of his Glenmorangie scotch and stood up. “Absolutely knackered myself, Clayton,” he said, taking Walker’s arm and steadying him. “Think we both should bid the ladies to sleep well, and we’ll see them in the morning.” Clayton mumbled something and made a half-hearted wave as they left the room.
Florence turned to Claire when they had gone up the stairs to the second level of the condominium. “Neville’s such a dear, Claire,” she said. “Such a kind, decent man. He’s always been so thoughtful about Clayton.”
“He’s thoughtful about Clayton because Clayton saved his leg,” Claire said. “And tonight, in particular, he’s being thoughtful of Clayton because Clayton is drunk enough to fall and injure himself.”
“Oh, Clayton will be all right,” Florence said. “He’s just had a touch too much port. He’ll be fine in the morning. As fine’s he ever is.”
“Nonsense,” Claire said. “I understand your, what must be your feelings of helplessness, Florence. But the fact that you have them changes nothing, and he will not be fine in the morning. He’ll be suffering hangover, and he’ll not be fit for duty. You should do something. Commit him, if necessary.”
“I refuse to do that, Claire,” Walker said. “I’ve had one, my son was confined, and I have no doubt whatsoever that it finished him. I’ll not d
o the same thing to my husband.”
“Sanitaria,” Naisbitt said, “are not the same as prisons.”
“They are for men as proud as Clayton,” Walker said. “Proud as he used to be, at least. And besides, it’s too late. He’s lived this long with his burdens? He’s earned his anodyne.”
“It’s still the business with James, I suppose?” Fiona Cangelosi said.
Florence nodded. “I don’t tell people that,” she said. “When they comment on his drinking, I just say: ‘Oh, well, what Lauren Bacall said? “I never knew a man worth a damn who didn’t drink too much.” ’ Because it’s too much bother, and too much pain, to explain. I just don’t care to go into detail about James, now that he’s out. I mean, everybody knows he was in prison, of course. They all know about the case. And they assume that he’s not right, or he would be with us. Nearby, anyway. But I just don’t care to discuss it with them, under any circumstances. And especially not when Clayton’s around.
“When that happens,” Florence said, “he goes on about how James is ruined. And then, unless someone manages, somehow, to get him off the subject,” she put the fingertips on her right hand to the bridge of her nose, shutting her eyes while she rubbed it, “unless someone gets him off onto another subject, which is terribly difficult, sooner or later he goes back all the way to James’s birth.” She opened her eyes. “And when he does that,” she said, “when he does that, I’m just terrified, especially when Gerald’s here, that he’ll start that business about how he knew, how he sensed, from the first instant he saw James in the nursery, that the child was damned.”
She looked pleadingly at Claire. “You do understand, don’t you?” she said. “That it’s not, that it’s not because no one knows the story. Everyone knows. Everyone knows that Clayton had every right to throw me out when I became pregnant with James. Everyone, including Wilhemina, knows I offered to leave. They’d been separated, even then they’d been separated for years, and this was over forty years ago. I knew she’d never give him a divorce. I was willing, I was willing to go away.” She paused. “And I should have, too. But Clayton, it was Clayton who wouldn’t allow it. He pleaded with me, Claire. He wept. He begged me not to go and leave him. Said he didn’t care what people thought. We would hold our heads up high and let them think as they wished, and I owed that much to him. To do as he asked.
“Well,” she said to Fiona, “I did it. And one of the nicest things that ever happened to me was the day you came to me and said that you’d thought about what I’d told you — about never salvaging, never trying to salvage something that’s damaged beyond repair, and that you were going to divorce Louis.”
“Your advice meant a lot to me,” Fiona said. “If I hadn’t been stuck with it, I would’ve given him his name back, too. But with Alicia and Tony in school, and all, all that tedious paperwork of explaining every year why the Cangelosi kids live with Miss Campbell — well, I said ‘The hell with it.’ But you were right, Florence. Once the air goes out of the balloon, there’s no point in pretending.”
“Yes,” Florence said. “Well, that’s what I mean, Claire. Against my better judgment, I allowed Clayton to be gallant. As he wished. He formed this image of himself as the compassionate husband. The forgiver of transgressions. In time, in time we did conceive, and when Christina was born, well, I thought we had been healed. But then came that terrible business with James, when he was gone for so long. And then when he was captured and tried, and Clayton had his heart attack. Then: James convicted. Then in prison. Clayton thinking he’d been a fool. An utter, total fool.” She sighed. “Odd as it may sound, given how he’s lived his life, but Clayton’s still a proud man. And he should be. He’s a brilliant physician. Or used to be, at least, before all of this. It’s hard for a man like that to look in the mirror and see what he believes to be a fool. A dupe. It’s very hard.”
“Does he know,” Claire said, “does he know about Christina? Now? What is going on?”
Florence sighed again. “I hope not,” she said. “I desperately do hope not. Christina, Christina’s the only consolation that I think he has. He’s very rigid, you know. Extremely rigid, morally. That was what was so astounding when I became pregnant with James. I was sure he’d throw me out. Maybe that’s why I did it. But he didn’t. And now, now if he had any idea what Christina, how Christina’s acted, really, all her life — or since she was sixteen — I do not know what he’d do. I simply do not know.” She hesitated. “No,” she said, “that’s wrong. I do know what he’d do. He’d call her a whore. And probably a murderess.” She laughed. “Along with us, of course.” She leaned forward, clasping her hands before her. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she said. “All of them, so fucking righteous? So damned sanctimonious? Gerald sitting there tonight, full of his usual blather about liberty and rights? And how vicious and unprincipled he thinks you must’ve been, Fiona, to do what he thinks you did?”
Fiona sipped from her port. “If he knew the half of it,” she said. “he’d bust so many gussets he’d have to wear a truss.”
Claire smiled. “I’ve always found it best, with Neville,” she said, “never to disclose more than about forty percent of the entire story. Strictly limit the details to those he absolutely has to know. Neville is the chamberlain of ideals and principles. No need cluttering up his mind with a lot of sticky, practical questions. They only get in the way of his thinking. They confuse him. Doesn’t do to let men get distracted by petty questions.”
“Such as whether it’s permissible to kill someone else’s son, whom you don’t know, in order to save your son?” Fiona said, laughing.
“Wasn’t that funny?” Florence said. “I could barely keep a straight face, when Gerald was badgering you. I wanted to say: ‘Gerald, Gerald. When did you get so pompous? You didn’t, you never acted like this, before you went to Congress. If you had, we never would’ve had all this trouble, because I never would have screwed you. James would never have been born.’ ”
“The cauldron does bubble, doesn’t it?” Claire said. The other two women laughed. Fiona was surprised by a yawn. “Oh, goodness,” she said. “I’m really sorry. I think that means I’d better go. I hate to be a spoilsport … actually, what it is is that I hate to miss the fun. But Alicia’s leaving for San Juan tomorrow morning, and I have to get her up and out to LaGuardia. You know how it is with the airlines these days — all the security.”
“She’s going to see Louis?” Claire said.
“Well,” Fiona said, “I hope not. I’m under the impression she’s going with Mom and Dad to Caneel Bay. But you never know with Louis. He could turn up anywhere.”
“What’s he doing now?” Florence said. “I only met him the once, but he seemed a charming man.”
“ ‘What’s he doing?’ ” Fiona said. “Or: ‘What are they calling it?’ ” The other two women laughed. “What he’s doing, I assume, is what he’s always done. Whatever needs to be done. What they’re calling it, now? Well, now Louis’s a roving consultant from the Department of Agriculture, and he’s working with the government of Honduras on a ten-year plan to develop export crops. Isn’t that cute? When he left London in such a hurry, he went to Sri Lanka as an expert on deep-water ports.” She laughed. “Louis’s a man of infinite expertise. You name a country with a really bad drug problem, or one that’s genuinely looking for some help controlling people who blow up cars, and — it’s the strangest coincidence, but Louis almost always turns out to be one of the logical choices of people we send to solve those other problems. If Canada sometime next year suddenly finds itself with a full-blown terrorist problem again, I bet you Louis’s sent up north. To breed Huskies or something.” She sighed. “He’s a remarkable, charming man,” she said, “but what a trial to be married to him.”
Claire laughed. “Did you both get in trouble?” she said. “After the Tibbetts affair?”
“Oh, no,” Fiona said. “No, Louis was long gone and hard to find while Tibbetts was still alive. And, you have to ke
ep this in mind: Louis’s genius is that he never, never does anything himself. Louis makes arrangements, and that’s all he ever does. All I did, when I heard from you through Claire, all I did was mention it to Louis. And he said: ‘Well, when does Larry Badger say he’s coming in?’ And I told him what Alton’d found out, from his Cyclops, or whatever he calls it. That he’d cross-filed all of Tibbetts’s aliases, and located a booking for Joseph Thomas from Morocco to Lebanon, and then one for someone named Swift out of Beirut, and then one for Jay Cullinan from Zurich to Heathrow, changing for Shannon. And Louis could just reel that stuff out of his head, without looking it up. And he said: ‘Yeah, schedules change next week. Marrakech to Beirut. Beirut to Athens. Athens to Zurich. Transfer to Swissair. Change to Aer Lingus. He’ll be in the transit lounge at Heathrow around seven. Have the cops grab him then. Make sure they insist on all the formalities before they turn him over to us and this Massachusetts cop — who shouldn’t even be here; must be a renegade. Yard’ll have him in Paddington Green interrogation center by four that afternoon. Should be fairly easy. Swap his cigarettes while they’re tossing him. Then just give them back, and wait for him to finish it. What’s the bastard smoke?’ And that was why I called you, Florence, to find out what he smoked. I told Louis, and three days later, Louis was on his way out the door. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘that little matter with Tibbetts? All been taken care of. See you in a month.’ He was gone before I left for Malta. When I got back, there was a note — he’d gone to Sri Lanka. That was when I decided. It was fun; it was exciting, but it had to stop.” She shrugged. “I hated to let him go,” she said. “But I think he was relieved. Louis’s really a sweet man; he would really like to be. But he loves his life so much that he just cannot let it go. Not for anything. I should’ve married Alton, that August in Salzburg. But then I thought: ‘Alton is crazy.’ So I married Louis. Maybe I’m the one who’s crazy. Maybe Louis’s fine, and I’ve been unfair to him.”
Outlaws (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard) Page 41