President Clifton Yates. The most powerful man in the world. The man who’d welcomed him to the White House on numerous occasions in the past six years. A man who’d shaken his hand, and smiled, and looked deep in his eyes with the warmth and sincerity of a dear and intimate friend. This man was a liar and a thief and a murderer. He would fall hard. His administration would crash in a burning heap, flames jutting to the sky, his name forever linked with shame. And it would happen today.
Brooke had told Peel about her boss, Darla Donovan, and the others from work, and the explosion at Darla’s apartment building. She’d done a brave thing coming here, putting herself at risk so that he could learn the truth of what had really happened on that California highway on that day so many years ago. He would not forget it. Not ever. She’d also explained how frightened she still was, for herself and for her family. He promised to take care of them. And he would.
On the screen, Ettinger concluded, and the tape began to rewind in the VCR.
The morning was growing bright and alive outside. Jeff Peel hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours, but he’d never felt more energized in his entire forty-three years on earth.
Peel needed to make a call but wanted to let the women sleep. He pulled on his coat and closed the door behind him. He stepped out of the room and shut the door. He pulled his cell phone from his coat and stopped near an ice machine to dial. There were many arrangements to make, and many plans to lay out.
It was time to set things into motion. It was time for the world to know the truth. It was time to bring the leader of the Free World to his knees.
60
WITHIN THE HOUR,ISAACROSENBLATT GREETED HIS OLDfriend with a tall cup of hot coffee. The sky was clearing. Jeff Peel boarded the Learjet and sipped from his beverage. He sat up front in the cockpit with his friend.
“You ready?” Rosenblatt said as they taxied to the head of the runway.
Peel nodded. “I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life.”
They lifted up out of Detroit, banked over the water, and headed south. Rosenblatt estimated their flight time to be less than an hour.
A taxi was waiting outside for Clara. It would deliver her to a major airport, where she’d catch a flight home, in a first-class seat, courtesy of Jefferson Peel.
A half hour later, a second Learjet taxied onto the same strip of runway and ripped into the sky. Brooke had settled into a plush leather seat and gazed out the window as the city faded into the landscape behind them. She was exhausted and bleary-eyed, but relieved to have gotten this far.
Peel had made arrangements for her and her family to be safeguarded until further notice. It was a huge relief to feel somewhat protected again.
With the relief came a new wave of sorrow. Her friends and colleagues were dead. Gone forever. Her life would not and could not ever be the same. For one, she’d never go back to NBC. At the moment, who could say that she’d even stay in journalism? There were more peaceful ways to spend your life and make a living. It was time to date someone, tolove someone. Right now, though, her memories of the past couple of days would be hard to shake. She looked out the window at the world passing beneath her, allowing herself to get lost in the endless gray and blue. And then she fell asleep.
From Reagan National Airport, he took a taxi into the heart of D.C. He was greeted at the front doors of the CNN Washington, D.C., bureau by familiar faces. They shook hands, and a popular television anchor ushered him up the elevators to the studios.
The anchor showed Peel into his office, and locked the door. Peel told him what he wanted to do, and presented the infamous videotape. A secretary knocked at the door a few minutes later and offered them fresh coffee and pastries. The anchor tore into a jelly doughnut, but Peel ignored the food. The meeting lasted ten minutes, then the door to the office was flung open, and they rushed Peel to makeup to get him camera-ready.
The anchor rushed into the control room, videotape in hand. “Get this queued up, sports fans!” he said, handing the tape to the producer on duty. “And prepare to interrupt our current broadcast!”
Taken aback, the producer put her hands on her hips and shot him a look. “Do you have any idea what our current broadcastis?”
“Indeed I do!”
61
EVERY MAJOR MEDIA OUTLET WAS THERE TO GET A PIECE OFthe action. They ranged from CNN to Fox News, from MSNBC to the Associated Press. Even C-Span showed up with a camera. They battled for turf in the limited space allotted for news organizations. For the moment, it was the biggest story anyone had been a part of in several decades.
The cameras rolled. Reporters bunched shoulder to shoulder, their microphones at the ready for when the service was over. The same group had mashed inside the cathedral for the funeral service an hour earlier. And now, at the graveside service, this would be their last chance to get all the tears and wailing on tape and to get good shots of the widow dressed in black. They wanted shots of the Ettinger children; that would look great on the front page and on the evening news. The media circus salivated at the sight of the casket.
The earth beneath their feet was hard. As hard as earth can be without being bedrock. The temperature had dipped below zero again, and the windchill did nothing but add to the overall misery. Snow flicked against the polished brass and cherry of Ettinger’s casket, peppering the American flag, which a formation of uniformed Marines had draped over the rounded lid.
The president opened his mouth and croaked out an anecdote from some years ago, an incident from their first campaign. His face was gray. The bags beneath his eyes had grown and even darkened in the past two or three days. Secret Service agents stood behind dark glasses, only a few paces off his heels.
The widow, cloaked in black, her face behind a veil, heard nothing. The wind whistled in her ears. Her children stood on either side, hands in hers. Stoic young faces, pink from the cold. Bradey stared numbly as flakes melted on the brass handles of the box that held his dad. Jude could taste the salt of her tears.
Yates chose his words with care.
“Not only have I lost my vice president—a gifted public servant and man of the people, but most of all, I’ve lost a friend, a confidant. This is a bitter pill to swallow. Friends, true friends, are never replaced. Others may come in time, added to those already dear to our hearts. The void left by one who has departed is never filled, and the void left by Jim Ettinger is great, indeed.”
Eloise Ettinger, mother of both James and Nelson, listened from her wheelchair, tubes ran from her nose and from beneath layers of insulation to monitors on a metal cart to one side. Nelson Ettinger stood a step behind his mother and his sister-in-law, his hands deep in the pockets of his coat.
A minister closed the graveside service with a generic prayer, and a few of the closer acquaintances skirted by to offer Miriam their condolences. Yates approached and took her hands in his. He leaned in close, speaking private words inches from one ear. She thanked him, and then he was quickly ushered away in a cluster of Secret Service.
Unlike many women married to politicians, she had not wed for money or power. She wasborn to money, and money by its very nature, produces power. She’d married for love. And had stayed in love, even through the turmoil that comes with a life lived in the public eye. Only James knew why he’d married her. She could not speak for him. He’d taken his heart to the grave.
Elaine collected Bradey and Jude and led them off toward the limousine. They wove among the endless white tombstones that made up Arlington National Cemetery.
For a short moment, Miriam was alone with her husband at his final resting place. She plucked her leather gloves off with her teeth, folded them, and set them on the American flag. She knelt at the head of the casket and spread her hands against the polished cherry.
Wind whistled through the cavity between the bulky casket and the hollowed-out patch of earth below it. The fabric of the big green canopy overhead whipped and flapped in the numbing breeze. Soon, Miriam could bar
ely feel her fingers. Most of her body seemed frozen. But that was just as well. Let me freeze, she thought. She brushed her cheek against the hard wood, as if brushing against his chest. If she could, she’d go with him. Arm in arm.
Car engines fired in the near distance. Flashbulbs popped. She glanced up at the morons with the cameras and microphones. The carnival had already begun.
It was time to go. But this would be her last moment with him above ground. She could smell the fresh odor of disturbed dirt circulating in the opened chasm at her feet. Miriam said her goodbyes and pressed her lips to the cherry lid. Then she rose and pulled on her gloves.
A glance to the east and she saw the limo idling at the curb, Elaine and the kids inside in the warmth. She started slowly toward it. Twenty or thirty feet from the limo, she paused and turned for a last look. The grounds crew had already removed the flag and were in the process of lowering the box into the hole.
Clifton Yates put his back against the seat and took a long breath. An aide handed him a bottle of water. He unscrewed the cap and took a sip. He loosened the tie around his collar. Chief of Staff Russ Vetris was seated next to him.
“How’d I do?” Yates asked, then sucked down half the water in the bottle.
“You won them over, as always,” Vetris said.
They watched the endless rows of headstones pass outside the tinted windows as the limousine wound through Arlington Cemetery. Hundreds of cars had lined either side of the narrow roadway.
Cameras snapped pictures of the sleek black limousine that carried the president past them.
Vetris was making notes in his day planner.
“Philbrick looked kinda shaky up there, don’t you think?” Yates said. Anthony Philbrick had taken his place beside the president during the funeral service. He’d made a short statement, sharing a few memories of James Ettinger, then segued into a homily on how the country could use this tragedy to pull together. His words at the graveside service had been a variation of the same speech.
“He’ll loosen up,” Vetris said without looking up. “We threw him in the deep water right off the bat.”
Yates nodded, then glanced out the tinted window at the passing throng.
A cell phone rang, and everyone checked their coats. It was Vetris’s phone. He dug it out of his coat, and answered it.
The president had his back against the plush leather, his eyes closed. It wouldn’t have taken much to doze off. The five hours of sleep last night just hadn’t cut the mustard.
A look of utter perplexity flushed over Vetris’s face. He snapped the phone shut and barked at one of the aides riding with them, “The TV! Turn it on!”
Yates raised his head. He opened his eyes and watched the sudden commotion. A television set was mounted in the wooden console between two seats. A small receiver mounted on the outside of the car picked up satellite signals.
The aide fumbled with the small buttons beneath the TV screen.
“CNN!” Vetris barked. “Turn up the volume!”
The aide surfed through the channels, finally stopping on CNN. He cranked the volume several notches.
The president stared at the small screen.
The face of Jefferson Peel looked out at them from the TV screen. He was in the process of addressing the camera: “…that their deaths occurred under the most suspicious of circumstances. Just last night I came into possession of a piece of evidence that irrefutably proves that their deaths were no accident at all. You, the American people, will now see for yourselves, with your own eyes, that among those responsible for the deaths of Senator Lyndon Peel and his wife, Deborah, was none other than President Clifton Yates.
“This sounds shocking, I know, but the footage you are about to view will strip away any doubt that exists. The following taped statement was recorded in the hours preceding the murder of James Ettinger.”
The live feed featuring the face of Peel was immediately replaced by a slightly grainy video recording. And suddenly there he was, Ettinger, dressed in a bathrobe, facing the camera in a poorly lit room. He cleared his throat, and began to speak:
“Hello. My name is James Highfield Ettinger, vice president of the United States. Today is the seventeenth of December. By the time anyone views this tape, I will have resigned from office…”
Russ Vetris turned slowly to face the president. But he had nothing to say. No words would form in his throat. The shock was too absolute and sudden. The silence in the car was deafening.
All the blood had drained from the president’s face. His vision wavered. There was a buzzing sound somewhere deep in his ears, and he thought he might be having a heart attack. He prayed that he was, and that he would die right here and right now. Because what lay ahead of him was too horrific to even imagine. The aides did their best not to make eye contact with the president.
With Ettinger’s voice in the background, Yates put his face in his hands. He, along with everyone else in the limousine, knew full well at that moment that his presidency was over.
62
JOEL WOKE WITH HIS CHIN TOUCHING HIS CHEST.HE’Dslept later than he’d planned. The morning light was full and bright in the house. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes, only to see Megan standing in front of him.
Her eyes were fixed on him, cautious but strangely unafraid. He just stood there staring at her, his tongue waiting for his brain to send a signal.
“I have no idea where I am,” she said. “What’s going on?”
Joel wanted badly to rush forward and hold her, to comfort her and set her mind at ease. Joel said, “I wish I understood it all myself.”
“I don’t understand. How did I get here?”
“It looks like you got mixed up with some very dangerous people.”
Megan eased closer.
“But you’re safe now.”
Megan stood frozen, studying the man before her. They both stood staring at each other. The look in his eyes was gentle and loving, familiar.
“Is it really you?” she asked.
Joel smiled, but said nothing.
Megan watched him uncertainly.
He said, “When you were seven, you found a small porcelain panda bear while playing in a neighbor’s yard. Your mother washed the dirt from it in the sink. That panda was your prized possession.”
Megan took an unconscious step forward, her eyes widening.
“You kept it on the windowsill in your bedroom. One day you knocked it off the windowsill and it broke into three or four pieces on the floor. You cried all afternoon until I got home to fix it. I glued it back together. Then you climbed onto my lap and smiled up at me. I’ve never forgotten that smile. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Her eyes moistened, then welled up, tears finally spilling down one cheek and then the other. Her lower lip began to tremble.
He continued, “You hugged my neck and kissed me on the cheek, and that made me feel like the greatest superhero on earth. Do you remember what you named that little panda?”
Megan put her face in her hands. Tears seeped through her fingers. She nodded her head. “Yes,” she said. “Randolph. I named him Randolph. He was my best friend.” She raised her head. Her eyes sparkled with tears. “I’d forgotten about him.”
Joel smiled. “I never forgot that bear. Because he made my baby girl so happy.”
Megan approached him on unsteady legs. Her lips quivered as she parted them to speak.“Daddy.”
“Sweetheart.”
“Itis you,” she said.
Joel rushed forward and embraced her, enveloping her in his arms. Megan sobbed, pressing her face to his chest.
“I’ve missed you so much,” she said.
“You have no idea how much I love you, Megan. I’ve loved you since the minute you were born.”
“I would’ve tried to find you,” she said. “But things with Mom were complicated.”
“Shhh. I know…I know. Don’t worry about what’s already done.”
Megan pulled away from him for a moment, a perplexed look on her face. “How…how’d we get here?”
“I’m not altogether certain. The past few days have been a blur.” Joel described his sighting of her at the airport. He told about the events at the Waldorf, and the man who attacked him. He told her about the story on the news of the three men involved in a shooting in Syracuse, and of his suspicion of a connection between it all.
“Was it…Olin?” she asked, tearing up again.
“That’s not a name I know. And I’d rather not speculate. But someone attacked me in my hotel room, and he claimed to be a part of your life,” Joel said.
The realization of it settled upon her with the weight of lead. “Olin’s dead, isn’t he?”
“It’s possible that he is. I’m sorry, Megan.”
She clung to him once more, threading her arms around his midsection.
“But if it was him, he was involved with some terrible people. The people responsible for us being here. These people tried to kill us, and it is very likely they are responsible for his death.”
It was then that the seed of doubt, planted on that night in London when she and Olin first met, blossomed forth. From the very beginning, a voice somewhere deep inside had warned her that Olin St. John was not the person he claimed to be. He’d been handsome, and rich, and he’d been so loving to her; none of that could be denied. But on some level, she’d always known something was amiss. Sometimes it’s easier to deny than accept. Now she felt like a fool. Like a stubborn fool. She’d fallen so hard for Olin. He’d stepped into her life at a moment when she needed him most. So it had been so easy to paint him with a glossy veneer, and to accept him for who he said he was. Her family had disintegrated when she was so young that her foundation had been swept out from under her. And in truth, that’s what Olin St. John represented. Something solid she could call her own.
The Greater Good Page 32