Nuzzling her face against a pillow on the couch, she closed her eyes, breathing deeply. A scene blinked onto the blank canvas of her mind. It was Wyatt—theold Wyatt—from years ago. He was standing in the backyard of the house, his jeans muddy up to the knees, the collar of his letter jacket flipped up. His blond hair was tousled. A football was clutched under one arm. She was standing at the patio door, and he was smiling at her. Java, their chocolate Labrador, was bounding up and down, ready for more fun.
He didn’t wave, didn’t move a muscle. She didn’t wave. They didn’t need to. Everything they had to say to each other was implied, understood, and reciprocated. Wyatt just smiled at her, and she smiled back at her brother. And for that moment, the world seemed like a good place to be.
Shelby had been up for nearly twenty-four hours now and would be lucky to get shut-eye anytime soon. Initially, there had been hope that the Ettinger email would add up to nothing, that is was just a brother-to-brother sort of thing, that it was meaningless, benign, and ultimately nonthreatening. But that had not been the case.
In the beginning, he would have never dreamed that Ettinger might be a loose cannon. Stott and Albertwood had expressed their concern for some time, but Shelby had shrugged off their paranoia, at least early on. But in recent months Ettinger had become uncooperative, a bit reluctant to be a team player. It became apparent to all that the vice president was unreliable. And yes, actions had been taken to silence the threat. But it had all been done in the name of security.
He’d had to shelter the president from any knowledge from the beginning. That was the nature of the beast. What the president didn’t know, the president wouldn’t have to cover up. Regardless of whatever Yates might have suspected, he had no direct knowledge or involvement. Except the email, of course.
It was unfortunate that Ettinger’s widow had come straight to Yates with the email. That was something that Shelby would have preferred to protect him from, if at all possible. Now she expected an answer, and from his mouth to her ear. That required Yates to lie. But lie he would.
The president was standing in snow up to his shins. It was late and he was exhausted, having spent another day licking his wounds and rallying the troops, bracing for the inevitable. His Irish setter was playing in the snow, pouncing at his own shadow. They were on the lawn outside the Oval Office, and the flowers and landscaping were out of sight beneath the blanket of white crust. Shelby stood beside him.
Shelby had his hands deep in his coat pockets, his breath escaping in silvery plumes. He’d come with bad news. Very bad news. His job now was to brief the president on where they stood and give him the prognosis.
“Were our friends there?” Yates said. They had stepped outside the Oval Office, where they could speak a little more freely.
“Yes, of course,” Shelby said.
“Is it bad?”
“Yes.”
The president looked off beyond the lawn, toward the lights ofD.C. The day had started off all wrong, and he had no doubt that what his attorney was about to tell him would not end it on a positive note. “Have they been busy?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“There was a home video camera set up in the basement at Beagle Run,” Shelby began. “We don’t know what he said on tape, but the tape is gone. It’s nowhere in the lodge. Our boys turned the place inside out,” Shelby said. He kept his voice low, periodically throwing a glance over his shoulder toward the lights in the windows. He was paranoid about mikes and cameras. He eyed the setter, wondering if there was a tiny mike hidden on the dog’s collar. “But we think we have some idea of where it went.”
Shelby was vaguely aware that the president had turned to face him. Shelby cut an eye his way.
“Our man on the FBI tech crew found something in the trash near the video camera setup. It was the thin plastic backing from an adhesive shipping label. It had been crumpled and tossed into a wicker wastebasket near a worktable. The tech guy apparently didn’t think much of it at first, but then he held it to a light, and clearly whatever was written on the address label left an impression on the backing. You know? Like pressing down with a pen or pencil. It leaves a very slight impression. So they scanned it onto a computer and enhanced the image.”
“And?” Yates said.
“We got an address.”
“Who is it?”
“It was addressed to a postal box in New York.”
“Who is it?”
“It would be in your best interest if you limited your knowledge of these things. You know that, Mr. President.”
“How bad is it?”
“Very bad.”
“Can we do anything about it?” The president was staring off into nothingness again. The setter had made his way over and was sniffing at his shoes. Yates ignored the dog.
“We’re working on that.”
“Don’t pull that crap with me, Glen. Just tell me whether or not the matter can be handled.”
“With the proper resources, nothing is beyond our reach.”
“Is that a yes or no?”
“It is a yes.”
“Glen, you know I can’t tell you to do what I need you to do.”
“Of course.”
“You have an address?”
“Yes.”
“You have a name?”
“We have the name that the postal box is addressed to, yes.”
“Has the tape arrived yet?”
“That, I don’t know. We’re working on that. If it has arrived and by some miracle the tape is still in the box when we get to it, everybody can stand down. Crisis averted. The tape, after all, is what we’re after. If it’s been picked up…”
“Just…get it taken care of, Glen. Whatever that entails. I don’t knowwhat’s on that tape, if anything. But if it’s even remotely close to what we assume, our little kingdom will topple like nothing this country has ever seen.”
“I understand.”
Yates was clearly growing agitated. “Tell me this much, Glen. This name you have, on a scale of one to ten, how dangerous is it?”
“In all honesty, Mr. President,” Shelby said, shaking his head and turning to leave, “if the name that box is registered under turns out to be legitimate, you might as well throw away the scale.”
Hearing this, Clifton Yates pivoted slightly in the snow and said to his lawyer’s back, “It’s really that bad?”
Shelby did not turn around to face the president. He simply said, “Worse.”
Terri Bryant worked her key into the lock and opened the door quietly. She spotted Brooke asleep on the couch and eased the door shut. She peeled off her coat and draped it over the back of an upholstered chair.
Terri didn’t wear watches; didn’t believe in them. She glanced up at the digital clock on the microwave as she passed through to the refrigerator. Her eyes rolled back in her head in ecstasy as she bit into a brownie and chewed it slowly. She snatched a paper towel from a roll atop the fridge and stacked three more brownies on it. If Brooke had burgled her stash, she couldn’t tell. Before exiting the kitchen with her snack, Terri wrapped her hand around the bottle of wine from the cabinet, then tiptoed in and flopped down about eighteen inches from the TV screen.
She uncorked the wine and took a big swig. Terri was the polar opposite of Brooke Weaver in most every area of life, not the least of which was the simple biological fact that she was black and Brooke was white. In addition, Terri had grown up the daughter of a very successful federal judge, had never had to do without, and viewed life as a leisurely pursuit. They meshed well because of their differences.
Brooke twisted beneath her blanket, then woke with a start.
Terri, who was sitting Indian-style with the brownies and wine between herself and the TV, leaned back on an elbow and smiled at her roommate.
Brooke rubbed her eyes, coming out of a haze. “What…time is it?”
“After midnight.”
“Ugh.”
“I’m surprised Darla let you come home tonight,” Terri said, biting a brownie in half and talking with her mouth full.
“She’s about to run me into the ground.” Brooke yawned, working her way into a sitting position, bunching the blanket in her lap. “I wasn’t going to be any good to her if I didn’t get some R&R.” Terri’s mention of Darla pulled her from the groggy haze of sleep. She’d meant to call her boss, either at home or the office, and give her the heads-up that she wouldn’t make the party.
She grabbed the cordless off the wall and dialed the office at Rockefeller Plaza. It rang several times, then Darla’s voice mail recording kicked in. Brooke disconnected. She considered her options. She would have liked to tell Darla in person, but she couldn’t keep calling until Darla got back from wherever she’d gone. And if, by chance, Darla had headed home, she’d be in bed by now. Her boss only went home to sleep. She didn’t cook. She did carryout, or ordered in. And Brooke knew better than to wake her. It was a quick decision. She’d try the office again, and if Darla didn’t pick up, she’d just leave a message on her voice mail, apologizing and wishing her a merry Christmas. She dialed, waited for the snappy voice of the recording, and succeeded at sounding adequately contrite.
Fortunately, she already had her bag packed for the trip home, so she would not have to mess with that tonight or in the morning. Considering Wyatt’s rapid deterioration, and not knowing how long she might actually end up having to stay at her parents’ place in case things went downhill fast, she figured it might be a good idea to take her backpack and her laptop so she wouldn’t fall quite so far behind at work. That way she could email back and forth with Darla.
She headed to the front room for more brownies and to watch late-night television with Terri.
The mail from the V.I.P. box never entered her mind.
20
Thursday morning
OLIN WAS GONE WHEN SHE AWOKE.MEGAN COULD SMELLhim on the sheets and the pillows and on her own body. She nestled herself down in the fluff of the bed, craving his embrace. The sun was high and bright in the window.
She had no idea what time it was, and didn’t care. They had not left their room since yesterday afternoon. Long sessions of love-making bridged the hours and exhausted them. Their time apart had carried the weight of an eternity. Having him with her again, kissing her, touching her, was like slipping into a warm soothing bath and melting into the soapy bubbles. She closed her eyes and a dreamy look washed over her face. Olin would be back soon enough, she knew. He’d gone on his morning run. So in the meantime she’d just have to dream about him.
For the first mile and a half, Olin always took it easy. It was a time to limber up, get the old bones loosened and flexible. Then he’d kick into gear and push pretty hard for the next three. The last mile was the cooldown.
This morning, nature and New York were conspiring to upset his routine. He was used to the chill and slop of Europe, but this was just a mess. By the time he hit the four-mile mark, his ears burned, his lungs were on fire, and his nose was lit up like an emergency flare. Out of breath, he backed against a wall, hands on hips.
Going against his precise and disciplined nature, he cut the run short by a good half a mile and walked briskly to a corner near the Waldorf. He plucked a copy of theTimes from a tall stack at a newsstand and folded it under his arm, heading quickly for the warmth of the hotel.
Once outside their room, he twisted the doorknob and eased the door open, silently, careful not to wake her. He took cautious steps on the deep carpeting.
She was not asleep. Even with his stealthy approach, she had heard him enter. And she was waiting for him.
He froze when the bed came into view. His fiancée was on display. And what a sight she was. The covers were in a mound at the foot of the bed. Except for the pillows and her glorious body, the bed was bare. Megan had posed herself seductively. Smiling, he walked over to her and they kissed deeply. She pulled him down against her. When he pulled away, she pouted playfully.
“Just for a little while,” Megan said, her voice throaty with desire and need. “Please.”
Olin grinned. Who wouldn’t? “Before I can survive another round with you, I need fuel, replenishment.” He jabbed a thumb toward the phone on the nightstand.
Room service delivered a cart filled with breakfast goodies.
Megan draped herself with a tissue-thin gown and curled up in a chair at the table to eat. Olin sliced strawberries on his waffles and sipped coffee from a heavy ceramic mug decorated with the Waldorf’s logo. His copy of theTimes was spread out to one side of his plate.
His chosen profession had taught him many lessons. But first and foremost, to leave a job behind once it was finished. By doing this, you mentally separated yourself from the details, training your mind to delete the fact that your involvement ever existed. He blanked the episode from memory. It never happened. This protected him from his own reaction if ever questioned or confronted. In essence he remained an outside observer. And so, on this cold but lovely morning spent with his beautiful fiancée over fruit and croissants and waffles and coffee, Olin St. John read with great interest the breaking story that covered the entire front page of theTimes. It concerned the assassination of the vice president of the United States of America.
Russ Vetris was breathing fire. He screamed at junior staffers and a cluster of secretaries, the secretaries tripping over one another, scurrying to take cover at their desks. The chief of staff had a copy of theNew York Times rolled up in his fist. He ordered everyone out of the Oval Office, and then slammed the door.
Yates was pacing around the room, proofreading the statement he’d be making in half an hour. Thanks to the banner headline on the front page of theTimes, the old speech had already taken a fatal trip through the shredder. The people wouldn’t be hearing the news firsthand from their leader, as he’d planned. Word was already out. The call had woken Yates before dawn, informing him that word of Ettinger’s death had leaked.
He had on pinstriped slacks and a bathrobe. No shirt, no socks. The makeup girl would be in any minute. The president’s red pen was bleeding all over the latest draft, which had been delivered to his desk merely seconds earlier. He’d spent the last ten minutes pacing, shaking his head, cursing at the wall, kicking at the large hand-loomed Egyptian rug in the middle of the room.
“I told you we were going to wait too long!” Vetris hissed, whacking the back of a couch with his copy of theTimes.
The piece in theTimes quoted an unnamed source, listing a string of facts, including such things as the vice president’s time of death to the caliber of bullet that had exploded his skull. The piece was dead-on, and it had surfaced at the worst of all possible times. Now it would be all about damage control. Now was the time to lie. And you had to lie with sincerity burning in your eyes. Later on, if facts surfaced beyond your control, the lies could and would be doctored. In politics, nothing was absolute and nothing was final.
“Someone’s gonna burn on the cross for this!” Vetris went on, flopping down behind the president’s desk.
“Have you spoken with Martindale today?”
Vetris shook his head. “This thing has set the Hoover Building on fire. Martindale is ducking for cover. That’s what the FBI is good for—nothing.”
“The American people are going to want to hear our list of suspects. I go on camera and confirm that Jim Ettinger got a new part in his hair courtesy of some schmuck with a sniper’s rifle, and tell them we sat on our haunches for half a week, and now we’ve got nothing to show—no suspects, no leads. That’ll fly, Russ. That’ll fly real well!” The president kicked at the rug again. He stopped in his tracks and stared down at the copy of his speech. As he reread it for the two-dozenth time, he clenched his teeth and shook his head. Every word of the thing was drivel.
“How long till showtime?” Yates asked. He owned a dozen Rolex and Omega watches yet had nothing on his wrists.
“You’re going live at nine,” Vetris
said, badly wanting to scream at someone over the phone.Any one.
“What time is it now?”
Vetris tugged on his sleeve and glanced at his arm. “Nineteen minutes till.”
“Get Fortner in here,” the president said with a snarl.
The phone rang.
Russ Vetris jerked it to his face. “Vetris. Yeah. Okay. No…no, I want it within the hour or they’ll be finding pieces of you scattered all over the Bible Belt!” He slammed the phone, then slammed his fist against the desk.
The president just stood there in his bathrobe, with no shoes or socks, his gut peeking over his slacks, waiting for his chief of staff to say who’d been on the phone.
“That was Heins, with the Secret Service. They think they’ve found the leak. They’re not too anxious to hand out a name until they’ve dug a littler deeper.” Vetris put his face in his hands, and then raised his eyes, locking glares with Yates. “When we find this cretin, I want to be locked in a room with him for ten minutes. Just ten minutes. I’ll have him squealing…beggingfor an expedient death. Anyway, I expect to receive word by the time you get done dancing for the TV camera.”
“Get Fortner on the phone. I want him in here, pronto.”
Two minutes later, Vetris was out the door, and President Yates was at his desk. The hair and makeup women entered the Oval Office and went to work on the shipwreck the week had turned him into. Robert Fortner, his head speechwriter, found a seat on a couch with his laptop balanced on his knees.
Eleven minutes and counting. The camera crew had already set up, and they now assumed their positions with the speed and efficiency of a well-lubed machine. The hair and makeup people departed, and Fortner printed up a new draft, complete with all the president’s changes. He handed the page to Yates, who scanned it and grunted. He gave the speechwriter a sour look. Fortner bolted for the door and was gone.
The lights were hot and bright in his face. He cleared his throat, sweating profusely under his suit and tie. The final draft of the speech came up on the TelePrompTer. A man wearing a headset counted down from three, then gave the thumbs-up. The president faced the camera and confirmed what the world already knew.
The Greater Good Page 11