“Well, it depends…,” I said, and waited for him to look at me properly.
I wasn’t ready to beg yet. If I’d achieved a position of power, that was because I fought for it in daylight, whereas Gregory here wore a fancy suit and managed an agency that existed underground only—physically and otherwise.
“On what?”
“How can I put it? I’m having a kind of existential crisis.”
“What makes you think I have anything to do with that?”
“Because Charles told me you do.”
“That’s a matter of interpretation.”
“You’ll need to explain that to me.”
“You’ve been president. You know how this country works. You certainly understand national security issues. We simply do what’s required of us.”
“Tell me, Mr. Olsen, whom do you serve?”
“Excuse me?”
“Whom do you work for? I mean, you’re clandestine. There’s very little or no accountability for what you do here. I get it. It’s part of our democratic package—the undemocratic parts that contribute to the whole. But as far as I understand it, you don’t legally exist. I’ve never been briefed about you.”
“You’re right. I don’t work for the country known as the United States of America.”
That was hard to hear, because I was deep inside a very American military base.
Gregory must have seen my consternation, because he added, “I work for an idea called the United States of America. I’m part of a structure that ensures its continuity. At the end of the day, you and I want the same thing. We just play different roles.” He stood up. “Coffee?”
I nodded, and he went over to an espresso machine on a side table. The sound of it running in that acoustic hall was thunderous. He brought me my cup of coffee and leaned against his desk with his. Now he looked like a giant standing before me, ready to drive our dialogue until, sooner or later, one of us begged for something. Me.
“I know that people like you see yourselves as chess players and such,” I said and sipped my coffee. Gregory sipped his and continued to stare at me like he was the Almighty himself. I continued: “But when you try to anticipate too many movements, there’s a chance you could get it wrong. For instance, you could very well exaggerate, take disproportional measures, and hurt the wrong people.”
Gregory finished his coffee and extended his hand toward me. “Your cup?”
He placed both cups on the side table and, much to my relief, sat back down on his chair. “In my line of work,” he said, “I deal with very complex issues. But we take a different approach to the people on the surface.”
“Is this the part where you lecture me about the ineptitude of politicians?”
“No. You seem well aware of that.”
“So, educate me.”
Gregory pointed to the screens behind him. “All of these represent complexity. We believe in transforming this complexity into simple actions. We cut rotten trees down at the root. And in the process, the healthy ones get damaged too.”
“You’ve just confirmed my fears. You’re at war. A clandestine war.”
“Not being sentimental about it is what makes all the difference. It’s what ensures continuity. The United States of America.”
“Mistakes aren’t part of your world, I take it. They don’t count.”
“You’ve got it wrong, Mr. President. Precisely because we know that mistakes are unavoidable, we choose not to be limited by them. We choose continuity at any cost, by any means necessary.”
In other words, I was a dead man.
This conversation wasn’t going anywhere. Gregory Olsen was, by any definition, a fanatic. A fundamentalist. There was no reasoning with him; his determination was unbreakable. The only thing left for me was, indeed, begging. I bet he knew I was coming to that sooner or later.
“So, Loretta Johnson is gone,” I said. “And Samuel Flynn. It doesn’t take much thought to work out that Charles Dulles is no longer with us.”
Gregory raised his eyebrows. I’m not sure what he was trying to express. Surprise? Offense?
I went on: “Which leads me to my daughter and me.”
“I’m listening.”
“The fact that you might consider us a liability.”
“You are. It’s unquestionable.”
“That’s due to your bad judgment. An exaggeration. A mistake. When I made my mistakes, I faced the ire of the people up there, on the surface. You, on the other hand, are protected in an underground bunker. You never have to show your face.”
“You’re not being pragmatic.”
“All I’m asking is that you leave Stella. Take me—all of me—instead.”
Gregory said nothing. I held his stare, and my breath, desperately trying to exude authority, all the while praying silently. Whatever he said next was going to determine Stella’s future. Life itself depended on what was going on inside the machined, ideological brain of Gregory Olsen. The hardest part of it all was that my proposal depended on this man having a heart inside his chest.
My own heart was pounding fit to burst. “You said yourself—you and I want the same thing. That’s true. I’m asking you, as a father, as a legitimate former president, and as a desperate man. Forget about my daughter. Leave her out of this. She won’t bother you. I promise. More than that, I give you my word of honor.”
Gregory leaned back in his chair. He went for his pipe on the ashtray and broke our stare. The answer, when it came finally, was nothing more than a single movement of his head: a barely discernable nod.
I exhaled, and it came out as a noisy groan, but I didn’t care. I wanted him to see that he was talking to a father, that I was human, and, most importantly, that I was weaker than him. No matter how objective that man appeared in his presumptuous suit, he was vain. All of us were.
“There’s something else I want to ask,” I said, seizing the moment after that brief demonstration of humanity from Gregory. “I need some time with my daughter. We’ve been separated for a long time.”
His eyes, on me again, were empty and cold. “I’ve been separated from my own daughter for three decades.”
“Then you know how it feels. Also, I don’t want to know when you decide it’s time for me to join the Creator. And, if I can ask this, make it look natural.”
“That could be arranged. Just don’t get too comfortable.”
“I appreciate that. Just so you know, I’ve been nurturing a bit of a myth about myself. I asked a friend at Bozeman Salutis hospital to convey to anyone interested that I’d developed liver disease. I have a feeling that this could make things easier for you.”
“Anything else, Mr. President?”
“If we can agree on all these terms, I don’t think I have anything else to ask of you.”
Gregory picked up the telephone on his desk and said into it, “I’m done.”
Almost instantly, I heard the elevator door open. I turned to see the operative who’d shown me here waiting in the elevator for me. I stood up and walked around Gregory’s desk. I looked at him for the last time and did something purposely pathetic: I offered my hand to him. I wanted our deal to be sealed with a handshake. Though it wasn’t necessary, the further humiliation suited me and my plea.
Gregory and I shook hands briefly, then I left.
48
GLASGOW, MONTANA
Only one Secret Service car and a TV network van remained out on the street. In the past few hours, the rest of the media had lost interest in the Glasgow house. The number of reported sightings of Anthony Morris had grown exponentially—an FBI number registered calls from people of thirty-two states. Stella and Mohe decided this was an opportunity to get out of the house as soon as night fell.
Mohe went first, walking out of the front door, getting in his car, and driving away—but only as far as the empty street behind the house. Stella slipped out of the back door, dressed for the cold winter and therefore hard to identify, and retraced the
steps she’d taken to the house days before. Mohe was waiting for her right where Fernanda had dropped her off.
Mohe drove for thirty minutes to a small bar owned by a good friend of his. He’d called earlier and asked for a specific table behind a column, out of view of the only other two people present by the time they arrived.
Over glasses of bourbon, they talked: about Stella’s years apart from the family, about Mohe’s divorce and romantic misadventures, and about Stella’s desire to find someone mature to whom she would give her heart. All the time, they kept their eyes permanently fixed on each other.
Stella felt good with Mohe. He’d been on her mind since he’d visited her in Arcata. That good vibe was getting stronger by the minute. Suddenly, the twenty-year age gap between them didn’t feel that inappropriate. The bourbon in their blood heightened that perception.
Then Mohe said, “I figured out the numbers in the memoirs.”
“And?”
“It’s a bank account. It has to be Charles’s.”
Stella nodded. “A roadmap to Charles Dulles’s money laundering. My father’s insurance policy against his threats.”
“Exactly.”
“What bank?”
“Sand Group Bank.”
“How did you figure it out?”
“Not too hard, really. It’s the only bank with branches in the exact locations described by your father in the memoirs. Panama City, Roseau, The Valley and Road Town.”
“Well, I’m of proud of you.”
Mohe smiled warmly and touched Stella’s hand. “I would do anything for you and Tony.”
They looked at each other for some time. No matter how attracted they were to each other, it was uncomfortable for all the obvious reasons. Mohe was Anthony’s best friend. He was twenty years older than Stella. And Tony was still missing.
Stella gently pulled her hand away and picked up her empty glass. “One more?” she said.
“Anything, Stella.”
Mohe raised the empty glass and his friend behind the bar nodded.
“So, what now?” Stella said.
“What do you mean?”
“We know about Charles. What do we do with the information?”
“Nothing. We wait for your father. If—God forbid—he doesn’t come back to us, we go after Charles and threaten the shit out of him.”
“That’s a lousy plan. Why wait for the worst? I say we make the threats tomorrow. No more waiting.”
“Right. Leave it to me.”
After their glasses were refilled, Stella took a long swig and gathered her courage to test the waters. “What about the shrink?”
Mohe smiled. “Debby?”
“Yes. Dr. Deborah Hastings.”
“She’s not concerned about Tony’s mental condition.”
“Good. But how concerned are you? About her?”
“Oh. I take it you and Vicky have been talking.”
“Does it matter?”
“No. If you’re asking about the status of my relationship with—”
“That’s exactly what I’m asking. You don’t have to answer me if you don’t want to.”
“I have nothing to hide. Debby is a good friend.”
“Does she know about that part? Friends?”
Mohe laughed. Stella laughed with him. “I hope she does,” he said.
“You know what I think?” Stella leaned forward and gave Mohe her best feminine look.
“What do you think?”
“That you’re in no condition to drive.”
“That makes two of us.”
“I wonder what would be the appropriate thing to do under the circumstances.”
“Well…Stella?”
“Mohe?”
“There’s nothing appropriate about the circumstances.”
“Clarify that for me.”
“Jesus, you don’t make it easy for me, do you?”
“You’re supposed to be the mature one. Tell me what you have in mind.”
“I’d rather not.”
Stella leaned back. Maybe she went a bit further than she should have. She looked the other way.
Mohe called his friend, who approached them. The place was empty and both were ready to go.
“You still rent the room upstairs? We have too much alcohol in our blood. We don’t want to be driving.”
Stella’s head snapped round at that.
Mohe’s old friend nodded. “You’ll have to get going early in the morning, though. You might draw the wrong attention.”
Mohe reached out and took Stella’s hand. She smiled at him.
“Sure,” he said.
49
GLASGOW, MONTANA
Gregory Olsen’s last gesture of kindness was to arrange for a Noctis jet to fly me to Glasgow Airport. Robert was waiting there, after I called him from Arizona. I asked him to bring the old Ferrari instead of the discreet black SUV. I had nothing to hide. At least, that was the idea for when they saw me arriving at the house. Make it look like my absence had been nothing more than a temporary escape for an eccentric old man.
There were no reporters outside my house. They were chasing me around the country, I heard. When Robert parked the Ferrari, a Secret Service agent approached, identified himself, and went for his gun. Robert was his target.
“At ease, soldier.”
“Sir, are you okay?” the agent said.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
The other two agents were already on their radios, updating their bosses.
I didn’t wait for the avalanche of questions I knew was coming. “Let me clarify something. I have an agreement with the Secret Service that I live my life as a normal citizen. As such, you don’t get to know where I go, when I go, and when I return.”
“You don’t look very well,” the agent said.
“That’s because I’ve been fasting.”
“You’ve been what? Sir, where have you been? Really.”
I sighed, ready to end this dialogue. “I spent a couple of days at a spiritual retreat. That’s all. Now, would you be kind enough to leave me alone?”
“Sir, will you be needing me?” Robert said.
“No. Thank you, Robert.”
I didn’t know how much of my story the Secret Service man believed, but I thought it was enough for the time being. Questions would certainly be asked later.
Vicky was waiting at the front door. She had heard the Ferrari arriving. I walked toward her, and as I got closer, I could see in her eyes that she was glad to see me.
“Tony! Tony… Where have you been?”
For some reason, I felt like hugging her, and so I did. The warmth of her body made me feel truly at home.
“Have you gone crazy?” she said, leaning back to look at me.
“Why?”
“Why? We’re hugging!”
“Is that such a bad thing?”
She shook her head. “Come inside. You have a lot to catch up on.”
“Is that so?”
“You look awful.”
“Thank you, Vicky.”
Inside the house, I went straight to my bedroom and took a long shower. As I stood under the spray, the hot water relaxed my physical tension, and I began to feel a difference at an emotional level.
I was back home.
And my worst fear was gone.
Charles, the snake of my nightmares, was certainly not part of this world anymore, and Stella was no longer at risk—at least, not because of what I’d done in the past. Wherever she was now, she was safe. I knew she’d escaped from Charles. From what people told me, she was a strong woman. And clever. I had a feeling that she was fine.
So, Charles’s ghost could no longer haunt me. The problem was, someone else had neatly replaced Charles in that role: Gregory Olsen. I was trusting that he was a man of his word. But I didn’t know how much time was enough in his judgment. Or how painful the natural death I’d requested of him would be.
I heard a knock on my bath
room door. Only now did I realize I had been sobbing in the shower. I turned and saw Vicky coming in. That was a first. She had never seen me naked before—or crying.
I saw her silhouette through the bathtub curtain. She was undressing. My prestige was quickly going down the drain. No boundaries were being respected. Was that how it was to be a normal person?
Vicky climbed into the bathtub. I turned to her, part shocked, part aroused. And still sobbing like a fragile, dying animal. She saw my pain, rubbed my eyes with her thumbs, and gently hugged me. In her embrace, I felt overwhelmingly protected.
“You silly old man!” Vicky said.
Now she owned me. But I couldn’t complain. “Vicky…”
“Don’t say anything. I need to tell you something.”
Vicky looked at me and waited for my nod. She said, “I called Stella. She’s coming to see you.”
I nodded again. What else could I possibly desire at this point?
“You’re going to finish your shower, get dressed, and sit with Stella like two grown-ups. You’re not the president anymore, and you haven’t been for a long time. That’s a thing of the past. You’ve had your time; now let it go. Pride is a poison.”
“Yes, Vicky,” I said softly.
“No more wasting time, agreed?”
“Agreed.”
How could she be so right about me having no more time to waste? Of course. They believed I was dying, slowly, of liver disease. I let them think that when I wasn’t dying, but now I really was. What a mess I’d created.
50
GLASGOW, MONTANA
After my shower, I lay on my bed and relaxed. Vicky had blessed me with her sincerity and love, bringing me down to earth, to the things that really mattered. I felt fortunate to have someone like her by my side.
I told myself, no more wounded father. No more misunderstood public servant who sacrificed so much and yet didn’t get the full support of family.
I would set aside the Anthony Morris who’d prevailed for decades.
When I heard voices coming from the living room, I tensed up. This was it. Stella was in the house. I got up and took my time choosing an outfit—cream pants, a light blue shirt, and dark brown shoes. I combed my hair for longer than usual, sprayed cologne, and then dithered for a bit at the bathroom mirror.
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