by Stuart Woods
He stopped for a moment and assessed the layout of the floor. There was a sea of desks in a large newsroom, and offices, apparently for higher-ranking people, along the walls. Where would he sit if he were Willie Gaynes? he asked himself. The corner office, that’s where.
Felix walked purposefully along one side of the newsroom, not dawdling but not hurrying, either. He was wearing a necktie and his best jacket, so he wasn’t dressed too differently from how the other men present were dressed. The corner office was dead ahead, and the door was closed. He stopped, took a deep breath, let it out, rapped on the door, opened it, and stepped in.
Gaynes was sitting at his desk, talking on the telephone. He looked up at Felix and put a hand over the mouthpiece. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
“I’m one of Ned Partain’s best sources, Mr. Gaynes, and Ned told me that if ever I couldn’t reach him about something important I should come directly to you.”
Gaynes pointed at a sofa. “Sit over there and shut up,” he said, then went back to his phone conversation. “Señor, please give me the name and number of that funeral home,” he said, then jotted down the information. “Can you tell me, señor, was this accidental or a homicide?” He listened. “All right, I understand that the official investigation will take some time, but can you give me your personal opinion, based on your experience as a police officer?” He listened again, and his face grew more serious. “Thank you, señor,” he said. “Please call me at this number should you learn anything new about the case, and may I call you again, if I have any questions? Thank you, señor, and good-bye.” He hung up and turned to Felix, but he said nothing. He seemed to be deep in thought.
Felix waited him out, and suddenly Gaynes seemed to snap out of his reverie.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asked, as if he hadn’t asked before.
“I’m Felix Potter, Mr. Gaynes, one of Ned Partain’s sources. Ned told me to contact you if I had something important and couldn’t find him, and I can’t find him.”
“That’s because Ned is in Panama, playing the role of corpse,” Gaynes said. “I’ve never lost a man due to violence before, and I’m having a little trouble digesting it.”
“Ned has been murdered?” Felix asked.
“It appears so. That’s the opinion of the Panamanian police officer I just spoke to, anyway. You’ve worked with Ned, you say?”
Although Felix had set eyes on Ned Partain only once, in a coffee shop in the building, he saw an opportunity. “Yes, sir, and I’m extremely sorry to hear about Ned’s death. Is there anything I can do?”
“You can tell me what’s so important that you come barging into my office unannounced,” Gaynes said, appearing to recover himself.
Ned held up his briefcase. “Mr. Gaynes, I have something in here of national importance, something that could have an important effect on the presidential race.”
Gaynes sighed. “Spit it out, kid. This has been a bad day all ’round, and there isn’t much of it left.”
Felix opened his briefcase and took out a small CD player. He got up and walked toward Gaynes’s desk. “I have a recording of two people here that’s going to knock your socks off, Mr. Gaynes.” He set the little machine on Gaynes’s desk and switched it on.
“This better be two celebrities fucking,” Gaynes said.
“Almost,” Felix replied. The two voices began speaking, their conversation broken, then there was a gap, and they spoke again.
“What’s with all the interruptions?” Gaynes asked. “And why do I care about this?”
“These people were on a cell phone and were recorded just outside the White House,” Felix said.
“What, you’re telling me they’re White House staff? That’s certainly not the president’s voice. This guy doesn’t have a southern accent.”
“Sir, what does it sound like to you that they’re doing?” Felix asked.
“Doing? They’re certainly not fucking. I’ve heard a lot of recordings of people fucking, and that’s not what they’re doing.”
“No, sir, but they’re talking about fucking.”
“Well, I guess you could draw that conclusion,” Gaynes said, “but I wouldn’t want to have to prove it in court. Why do you come in here with crap like this?”
“Because the man is the vice president of the United States,” Felix said.
“The vice president is dead,” Gaynes said. “Don’t you watch TV?”
“Not that vice president, the new vice president,” Felix said.
Gaynes squinted at Felix. “Play it again,” he said.
Felix played it again.
“Well, he’s got the deep voice and no accent,” Gaynes said. “He sounds like Dick Nixon. Why do you think it’s what’s-his-name?”
“Martin Stanton, sir. I’ve had an expert compare this recording with Stanton’s press conference on TV, after he was picked to be the veep. It’s the same voice.” This was a bald-faced lie, but Gaynes didn’t know that.
“Well, Stanton is getting a divorce,” Gaynes said. “Who’s the woman?”
“I haven’t been able to nail that down yet, sir.”
“What city is she in?”
“I’m not sure about that, either.”
“Who recorded this?”
“I did, Mr. Gaynes. My car is equipped to intercept cell-phone conversations.”
“And you were at the White House?”
“I was driving around the neighborhood of the White House, sir.”
“Play it again,” Gaynes said.
Felix played it again.
“It does sound like Stanton,” Gaynes admitted. “Who’s your expert?”
“I’m afraid I have to keep that confidential, sir. He thinks this is too hot to touch.”
“Well, it’s hot only if it’s Stanton and only if he’s fucking this woman and only if we can find out who the hell she is.”
“I think it’s a pretty good start, sir.”
Gaynes pressed the eject button on the machine and removed the disc. “You leave this with me, and I’ll have it checked out by an expert I trust. If he says it’s Stanton, then we’ll talk.”
“We need to talk now, Mr. Gaynes,” Felix said. “We need to agree on a deal, if what I’ve told you is confirmed.”
“All right, I’ll give you a grand, cash, right now, and another ten grand, if it checks out.”
“I’m going to need twenty-five thousand, if it checks out,” Felix said.
“I’ll pay you that when Stanton’s voice is confirmed and the woman is identified,” Gaynes said. He swiveled his chair around, opened a safe, and counted out some money with his back turned. “Here’s your grand,” Gaynes said. “Give me your phone number and get out of here.”
Felix gave him a card, picked up the money, and got out of there.
36
HOLLY USED HER CELL PHONE TO GET THE ADDRESS OF THE LAW FIRM OF BARTON & Falls, which turned out to be in a seedy part of Washington in a commercial strip mall, next door to a bail bondsman. The plate-glass windows had been darkened with film stuck to them, and the door was locked, but there was a doorbell and intercom. Holly rang it.
“Yes?” a voice said.
“I want to see a lawyer,” Holly said.
“What’s your problem?”
“My husband has just been arrested for possessing a firearm and drugs.”
A buzzer rang, and Holly pulled open the door. A woman of about forty, not unattractive, sat at a desk in the small reception room, filing her nails. The remains of a sandwich rested on a paper bag, next to a cardboard coffee cup, which was next to a large handbag.
“Everybody’s at lunch,” the woman said, shoving a sheet of paper and a pen across the desk before returning to her nails. “Fill out this form.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Holly said. “Are you Darlene Cole?”
“Who wants to know?” the woman asked.
Holly held up her FBI ID. “FBI. Let me see some ID.”
> “What’s this about?” the woman asked.
“Don’t make me ask you again,” Holly said.
“I don’t have to show you any ID,” the woman said.
Holly returned her ID to her handbag, set it on the floor, raked the sandwich and coffee cup off the desk, grabbed the woman’s handbag, and turned the considerable contents out onto the desk.
“Hey!” the woman yelled.
“Shut up, unless you’d rather be handcuffed and interviewed at the federal detention center.” Holly found a wallet amid the detritus of the handbag contents and inside that, a Maryland driver’s license in the name of Darlene M. Cole.
Holly went to the front door, locked it, and returned to the desk. “Let’s make this short and sweet,” she said to Darlene, holding up the photo of Teddy Fay. “You met this man some years ago, and he told you his name was Fay, is that correct?”
“What if it is?”
“His name is not Fay—Fay has been dead for some time. This man is an American intelligence officer currently assigned to a foreign country. You made the mistake of believing him when he told you he was Teddy Fay and the further mistake of trying to expose him to Ned Partain of the National Inquisitor. As a result, Mr. Partain is dead, and the agent’s life is in jeopardy, and you have committed a serious violation of the National Defense Act that could get you detained for up to a hundred and twenty days without being charged or seeing a lawyer. If you are convicted you’ll do up to twenty-five years in prison.”
“You’re crazy, lady. I don’t know anything about this,” Darlene said, pushing her chair back against the wall.
“I want all the prints of the photograph, and the negative,” Holly said, “and I don’t have time to argue with you.”
Darlene’s eyes swiveled toward her wallet on the desk, then snapped back to Holly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Holly produced a pair of handcuffs. “You are under arrest for a Title I violation of the National Security Act,” she said. “You do not have the right to remain silent, and you do not have the right to an attorney for the first one hundred and twenty days of your detention. Stand up and put your hands behind your back.”
Darlene sat wide-eyed and unmoving. Holly walked around the desk, jerked her out of the chair, threw her against the wall, and handcuffed her. “Sit down,” she said, shoving her back into the chair.
Holly picked up the wallet and emptied it of its contents: credit cards and photographs. She flicked through the pile until she found a small envelope, which yielded a strip of thirty-five-millimeter negatives. Holding it up to the light, she compared the frames to the photo of Teddy Fay. “Right,” she said. “Where are the prints?”
Darlene said nothing.
“All right, let’s get out of here,” Holly said. “We’ll continue this discussion in a cell downtown.”
“I don’t have any prints,” Darlene yelled, bursting into tears. “I gave them all to Ned Partain.”
“If you’re lying to me, I’ll find out,” Holly said. “Under the act, you’re eligible for extreme interrogation techniques, and you’ll tell me everything.”
“I swear I don’t have any prints,” Darlene sobbed. “You’ve got the negatives, so take them and leave me alone.”
Holly jerked her to her feet and unlocked the cuffs. “As I told you, Ned Partain is dead, murdered, and you could be next. You’d better not breathe a word to a soul about my visit, and you’d better forget you ever talked to Partain, or you could be joining him down at the morgue in Panama City, do you understand me?”
“Yes, yes, I understand,” Darlene sobbed.
“If I were you, I’d move to another city far away and change my name. The people who killed Partain have long memories.” Holly unlocked the door and walked to her car, laughing under her breath.
Back at Langley, Holly walked into Lance Cabot’s office and deposited the prints and negatives on his desk. “I believe that’s all there is,” she said.
“I don’t want to know how you got this stuff,” Lance said.
“What stuff?” Holly asked, then she turned and went back to her office.
LANCE PUT the prints and negatives in an envelope, sealed it, and wrote “birth documents” on the envelope and locked it in his safe. No need to mention this to Katharine Lee, he thought. He felt comfortable in his skin for the first time since he had received the call from Owen Masters in Panama City.
Was Owen going to be a problem? Did he have an ax of some sort to grind? Or would he be the loyal time server he had always been and keep his mouth shut?
Lance resolved to think more on this when he was calmer and more relaxed.
37
MARTIN STANTON WAS STANDING BEFORE A BATHROOM MIRROR IN HIS PAJAMA bottoms when the phone began ringing. He shaved faster, hoping it would stop. It didn’t. Finally, he grabbed the receiver next to the toilet in the giagantic bathroom. “Yes?”
“This is the hotel operator, Mr. Vice President. I have a gentleman on the line who says he is your attorney.”
“Yes, I’ll take the call.” There was a click. “Jake?”
“Yes, Mr. Vice President. How are you this morning?”
“Nearly shaven. Can you hang on for a minute?”
“Of course.”
Stanton went back to the mirror, moistened his beard, and completed the project. Rinsed and toweled dry, he returned to the phone, put down the toilet seat, and sat. “All right, Jake, what’s up?”
“I’ve just been on the phone with Betty’s attorney, and he says she says she wants another fifty thousand, to help her resettle. And the Cadillac.”
Stanton tried not to scream. “Our settlement gives her fifty thousand for resettlement expenses already.”
“She says it’s not enough.”
“She wants to reupholster, recurtain, recarpet, and repaint every square inch of the house,” Stanton said. “I won’t do it, not anymore.”
“I don’t blame you, Marty. We’ve already given her about sixty percent of your estate. It may be we’ve reached the point where we have to draw the line, tell them to accept what’s on the table or we’ll see them in court.”
“I think you’re right. Give her the Cadillac, tell her she can have it today, if she signs the settlement as is, but nothing else. This is the end of the line.”
“All right, with your stated permission, I’ll tell her attorney just that. He’s smart enough to know that a judge, or even a jury, is not going to give her more than sixty percent of community property. She might even get less.”
“Then do it, Jake, right now. Let me know what to expect. Oh, just to let them know I’m serious, tell them that if she doesn’t sign, or if she signs and then complains about it, I’ll release the settlement agreement to the press.”
“All right, Marty. I’ll get back to you.” He hung up.
Stanton hung up, too. His blood pressure was up; he could feel it throbbing against his temples. How did what started out as an amicable attempt to settle turn into this? It was insane!
He put on his wristwatch and checked it. An hour until his first appearance. He chose a suit and tie and got dressed. As he finished, the doorbell rang, and the Secret Service agent in the living room answered it. Stanton walked into the living room to find an attractive woman standing in the foyer. “Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning, Mr. Vice President,” she said, extending a hand. “I’m Elizabeth Wharton, your campaign manager, if that meets with your approval.”
“Please come in, Ms. Wharton. I didn’t even know I had a campaign manager yet.”
“The president, knowing that you had not had time to assemble a staff, directed his campaign manager, Senator Sam Meriwether, to appoint someone to help. If you would prefer someone else, that will be fine.”
“Tell me about yourself . . . may I call you Elizabeth?”
“Liz will be fine, sir. I’m from the small town of Delano, Georgia, President Lee’s hometown. I graduated
from the University of Georgia with a master’s degree in history. I taught history at Agnes Scott College in Atlanta for seven years, working on Democratic campaigns on the side, then I worked on Senator Meriwether’s staff when he was in the House, and I managed his campaign for the Senate.”
“Sounds like a good background, Liz. Let’s see how it works out.”
She opened a leather envelope and produced a sheet of paper. “Here’s your revised schedule for today. You’re speaking at a brunch this morning attended by members of the San Francisco alumnae association of Brandeis University. They’re just about all Jewish, and we’ve included a statement of your support for Israel in your speech, which I wrote, myself, last night.” She handed him half a dozen pages. “Please read it on the way to the event, and if you don’t like any of it, please feel free to wing it, but remember to include your support of Israel.”
“I’m sure it will be fine,” Stanton said, tucking the pages into an inside pocket. She was very attractive indeed, he thought, and obviously very smart. The doorbell rang again, and a middle-aged Filipino man was admitted.
“This is your valet for the campaign,” Liz said, “Alfredo Garcia. Alfredo will pack and unpack for you and manage your luggage in transit. The Secret Service wants someone who has been cleared by them.”
“Good morning, Alfredo,” Stanton said.
“Good morning, Mr. Vice President. May I pack your things?”
“Yes, please.”
Alfredo disappeared into the bedroom.
“And I have some good news,” Liz said. “Your campaign airplane has arrived, fresh from its annual inspection. It’s a BBJ, Boeing Business Jet, which is based on the 737 series of airliners. It will carry you in comfort, along with half a dozen staff and a dozen or so press.”
“Do I have half a dozen staff?” Stanton asked.
“You do, sir. When we arrive at Oakland to board the aircraft, you’ll find two secretaries, Alfredo, representatives of the Mallet Polling Company and of Tom Black’s political consultancies, and of course, me.”