by Pat Warren
“I’ll be flying back to California tomorrow. Three days of meetings in San Francisco, L.A., then San Diego.”
“But I won’t get to see you because of all that’s happened?”
“Oh, yes, you will. I’ll find a way.”
She smiled. “I hoped you’d say that.”
“Liz, I’m sorry about putting you through all this. You’ve got a spotless reputation, and suddenly it’s being sullied.”
“I don’t think of it that way. It’s just something to get through until it’s all over and we can be together.”
“I love you. You’ve got my beeper number. Don’t hesitate to call if you need me. Or if you just want to talk.”
“I won’t. And I love you, too.”
Smiling, Adam hung up just as Anne buzzed him. “Yes?”
“Mrs. McKenzie’s here and would like to see you,” Anne said in her smooth voice.
Just what he needed. However, there was no escaping her here. He hoped she’d come to settle the details reasonably. “Send her in, please.”
She was wearing a pale yellow linen suit and huge sunglasses. She walked in slowly, hesitatingly, and sat down on the chair opposite his desk. His eyes on her face, Adam waited.
Diane took a steadying breath. “Adam, I’ve come to apologize.” She brushed the air with a shaky hand. “For everything. For sounding like a fishwife, for acting like a fishwife. I’m sorry I nagged you, that I hounded you about your absences. I’ve been in politics almost as long as you, and I know you have a very demanding job. Please forgive me, and I promise you’ll never regret it.”
He knew her too well to believe her. “I accept your apology, if that’s what you want. But it doesn’t change anything. I still want a divorce.”
She needed a cigarette badly but knew how he disliked smoking. She swallowed in an effort to control the pain of his repeated rejections, the pain she dared not show him. “I’ve been wrong, I know. But I can change. Please, sugar, let me show you.” Begging, humbling herself like this, didn’t come easily. But she was about to lose all her dreams as well as the man she’d learned belatedly she cared about. That bitch in Pacific Beach would undoubtedly take her place.
“This is useless, Di, and demeaning for both of us. We had some good times. Let’s end things on a pleasant note. I’ll see to it that your settlement is more than fair.”
“I don’t want your goddamn settlement,” she said, her voice rising. “I want my life back. I deserve my life back. I’ve been faithful to you, which is more than I can say for you. I’ve helped get you elected, put up with your moodiness, your absences. Even adopted a child, for you. And this is the thanks I get?”
Adam’s patience fled. “Let it go, Di, before we wind up hating each other.” He stood in dismissal. “Leave your lawyer’s name with my secretary, and my attorney will contact him.”
She was trembling so badly that she could barely get to her feet without letting him see. Her back straight and unwavering, she walked away without another word.
Adam and Fitz walked along the jetway at L.A. International Airport, deep in conversation, fine-tuning the first draft of the shelter bill. They were nearly inside the main terminal when they heard Adam being paged. Looking around, he spotted a white phone and called in. In moments he heard Liz’s voice.
“Hey, how’d you find me?” he asked, thinking she might have decided to drive up and surprise him.
“I talked with your secretary and managed to find out your arrival time.”
Something was wrong. Her voice sounded unnaturally strained, frightened even. If those damn reporters had gotten to her, he’d have to give Harlan a call. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I know you’re on a tight schedule, but I don’t know where else to turn. I’ve called the State Department and they could offer very little. I need help.”
“The State Department? What’s happened?”
“It’s Sara. She’s being held hostage by the IRA in Ireland.”
CHAPTER 21
Adam paced the small office he still maintained in San Diego, wondering whom to call next. He and Fitz had cancelled the L.A. meeting and taken the next flight down. After listening to Liz tell him everything that Anthony Bromley from the Associated Press had said, he’d assured her he’d take it from there and contact her as soon as he had something positive.
So far, he had nothing to tell her.
He’d talked with Bromley and with Wayne Parker’s immediate superior at the Associated Press office in New York and learned very little more than they’d told Liz. Apparently Wayne had rented a car and driven the girls up to the Donegal Bay area just west of Ulster, where they’d rendezvoused with an old college chum of Wayne’s named Kendrick Ryan. From that meeting on, no one was certain how or why they went over to the Ulster area.
Adam stood looking out at late afternoon traffic on Broadway, knowing he’d have to call Liz soon. Invoking congressional privilege, he’d talked with officials of the State Department and the Irish embassy, as well as international experts on the government staff.
He’d had only one concrete suggestion.
The secretary of state’s office, while declining to get involved, suggested that perhaps if he were to go to Ireland in person and negotiate for the release of the hostages, he might be successful, because trying to get through to their captors from this side of the pond seemed unlikely. Adam’s negotiating skills had been highly regarded since his early days in politics. Recalling the understandable anxiety in Liz’s voice, he knew he just might have to get involved. That he was thinking that, knowing it would be an unpopular decision, told him just how deeply he cared for Liz.
Mickey Jones, his aide in charge of the San Diego office since Steve Quinlan’s departure, appeared in the doorway. “Phone for you, Adam. Jesse Conroy from Sacramento. Says he’s been calling all over looking for you.”
“Thanks, Mickey.” Adam picked up the desk phone. “Jesse, what’s up?” The attorney general was probably calling about the McCaffrey-Davis investigation. Ordinarily he’d be eager to hear the report, but right now he had other, deeper concerns.
“I guess you haven’t had the television on. There’s been a plane crash at Selfridge Air Force Base in Michigan. One of McCaffrey-Davis’s T-38’s. Both pilot and trainee killed. They crashed into a field, narrowly missing a Softball game in progress with sixty, seventy people in attendance.”
“Jesus.” Adam slumped onto the desk chair.
“Those parts are definitely defective. Our man tested several himself. One out of three failed. The heads of the company still deny it all. They’re up to their eyeballs in a cover-up. This crash should make your case.”
Right. If he could convince Palmer. “Thanks, Jesse. I’ll take it from here and get back to you.” He walked into the main room and flipped on the television, searching for the news. He found no coverage of the plane crash, but rather a report on the Americans being held hostage in Northern Ireland.
Leaning against the edge of a desk, Adam watched as they flashed pictures of all three in turn. Blond, blue-eyed Sara Fairchild smiled back at him, lovely, young, and innocent, from what looked like a studio portrait. Liz must be terrified. He had to go to her, and soon. First, though, he must deal with this plane crash, and Palmer.
Fitz joined him just as the announcer was ending the story. “It’s just been learned that Senator Adam McKenzie, the Democratic vice-presidential candidate in the forthcoming election, has been contacted and is considering intervening on behalf of the hostages. More on this later.”
“Oh, brother,” Fitz moaned aloud. The phone started ringing just then. He glanced up at Adam. “Guess who that is.”
Adam just shook his head. Mickey caught it and motioned to him.
“It’s Palmer Ames.”
With a resigned sigh, Adam picked up the phone. “Palmer, I was just going to call you.” No defense like a good offense. “I assume you’ve heard about the T-38 that crashed in Michigan, killin
g both pilot and trainee. That was a McCaffrey-Davis plane. Now do you believe we have a problem with those shipments?”
Taken aback, having been all geared up to do battle over another issue, Palmer was silent a moment, regrouping. “I did hear something about that. Didn’t know whose plane it was.”
“I just got a call from Jesse Conroy. He’s checked it out. We’ve got to insist on a recall of the rest of the T-38’s.”
In his Alexandria, Virginia, home, Palmer propped his slippered feet on his favorite footstool. “Now, hold on. I talked with Jim McCaffrey after you brought this to my attention last time. He assured me the situation’s been remedied.”
“Remedied? Two men died today. Many more could have if the plane had gone down in that ball field next to the crash site.”
Palmer took a sip of his after-dinner brandy. “Of the thousands of planes McCaffrey-Davis has sold to the government, theoretically only a handful could jeopardize human life. This must have been one of those peculiar coincidences where all circumstances were present at the same time. Odds are good that that won’t happen again.”
“Theoretically? Palmer, how would you feel if your son was test-piloting one of those planes? Would the odds comfort you?”
“Now, listen here, son—”
“No, Palmer, I won’t listen. If even one more life is in danger, the planes should be recalled. I’m sure we all want to act with honor on this.”
“Honor can be a slippery concept, son.” Palmer forced himself to calm down. There were better ways to handle this—and Adam McKenzie. “You’re right. Tell you what, let me take care of this. I’ll call Jim and work it out because I understand you’re quite busy. You’re too busy to attend the meeting I’d set up in L.A., but not busy enough to keep off the evening news.”
Here it comes, Adam thought. Win one, lose one. “I haven’t decided definitely if I’m going.”
Palmer decided to use the fatherly approach. “Listen, son, you need to think this through.” He knew that if he ordered Adam not to go, he’d hop on the next plane. “The last thing we need so close to election is to get involved in international politics. We’re not in a position to meddle in a foreign war. It’s a hotbed. There are voters here in our country on both sides of this touchy issue. You risk alienating them all.”
“I don’t see how. All I would do is try to negotiate the release of an American newsman and two young girls.”
And one of those girls was Liz Fairchild’s daughter, the other woman, according to Palmer’s sources. Crazy what a man will do for the right bedmate. “I’m asking you. No, I’m begging you to let this be. It’s political suicide. You’ve worked long and hard to get where you are, Adam. Don’t blow it. Let the State Department and the Associated Press get them out. They will, you know.”
Maybe. And when? Under what conditions were they being held? What damage, physical and mental, would those girls wind up with? “I’ll give it serious thought, I promise you. Meantime, you call Jim McCaffrey.”
“Right. And Adam. Stay in touch.”
Adam hung up, feeling as if he had a foot on two ice floes, each going in opposite directions. Turning, he saw Fitz scowling.
“I gather he’s coming down pretty hard, eh?”
“Naturally.” Adam rubbed the back of his neck. “He doesn’t want me to go. As for the other thing, he says he’ll take care of McCaffrey. But I wonder.”
“Me too. I’m worried about just how good Palmer’s word is.”
Adam was, too. He’d tossed his hat into Palmer’s ring. If he trusted him and more men died, how could Adam live with that? On the other hand, if he went to Ireland and the whole thing blew up in his face—which some people he’d talked to had hinted it might—where would that leave him, personally and politically? If he didn’t try his best to free her daughter, how would Liz look at him? If something happened to her and he hadn’t tried…
“Phone for you again,” Mickey called out. “Lady says her name’s Liz, but wouldn’t give me a last name.”
“I’ll take it in the back office, Mickey.” Adam walked to the room, closed the door, and punched in the lighted button. “Hi.”
“Hi. I… I really hate calling, but I have to know something.” Her voice was low, trembling. “I’m going crazy here. Have you learned anything?”
He gave her an edited version of what he knew, hitting only the highlights. “So that’s where we stand.”
“This person who suggested you go there. What has he in mind?”
“That I negotiate their release. Of course, we have no way of knowing if the person in charge over there will even talk to me.”
“Do you know who’s in charge?”
He did know. Fitz had taken the call from Associated Press and given him a note on it before the newscast. The man’s name was Jamie Hogan who claimed to be with the IRA. But several reliable sources said they’d never heard of the man. Adam’s fear was that the man was a rebel, representing neither side, a soldier-of-fortune type who was in it for himself and the band of men who followed him.
However, that wasn’t known for certain, either. He decided that telling that to Liz at this point would only worry her more. “We’ve had conflicting reports, but no specific demands from any one person.” Which was the truth, insofar as it went.
“Someone has to know something.” Liz hated the hysterical edge to her voice, so she cleared her throat and tried again. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. Palmer’s up in arms, all but forbidding me to go. If I thought I could work something out for sure, I’d go in a minute; but that’s not a given, either.” He ran a hand through his already mussed hair.
For hours Liz had paced, she’d cried, she’d railed against the fates. Would having Adam go over there put him in jeopardy as well? she wondered. Her baby was a captive. Sara was there under God only knew what conditions. Men in wartime did terrible things. Her imagination, always overactive, had her picturing scenarios she didn’t want to consider. This had to end and end well.
She trusted Adam. If anyone could bring Sara back to her, she believed he was the one; but he had no real motive to stick his neck out except to help her, at the risk of putting himself in hot water with Palmer Ames. She had to give him a reason as strong as hers.
She had to tell him.
“Adam, I need to see you. Right away.”
He heard a sudden, a new urgency in her voice. “What is it?”
“I can’t go into it on the phone. It’s very important. Can you come over?”
He wasn’t doing any good here anyhow. Fitz could always reach him at her place. “I’ll leave right away.”
Liz hung up. She had half an hour to figure out how to tell Adam that he was Sara’s father. She closed her eyes. Dear God.
She led him out onto the terrace, where a warm breeze rustled through the palm trees and a full moon cast them in a silvery light. She saw the fatigue on his face and hated the thought that she’d be adding more. She’d never asked anything of him, not back then and, more recently, not for herself. But for Sara, she had to try.
She stood near, but not touching him, her damp hands behind her back. She’d rehearsed her story, found it gravely lacking but hadn’t been able to come up with a better version. Swallowing, she looked up at him. “Do you remember that summer we spent so much time together, when you were running for attorney general and I’d just graduated from Stanford?”
Adam saw that nerves had her coiled tightly, which was what he’d expected. But there was something more. “You know I do.”
“We made love often, didn’t we? And sometimes spontaneously, carelessly. We didn’t always think to use birth control.” She watched his eyes, knew the exact moment when he realized what she was leading up to. She rushed on. “I was so crazy in love with you, but I knew about your ambition, knew that winning your first election was just the beginning, a stepping-stone to higher office. I knew you didn’t want to be tied down by marriage and a baby
.”
Adam just stared at her, stunned, unable to speak.
“And I was right. When you moved to Sacramento, you rarely called. The last time, you had Fitz phone to brief me on the arrangements he’d made for me to join you for a weekend getaway. That was right after I found out I was pregnant.”
His eyes had darkened, she noticed, and surprise had turned to a slow, heating anger. Her stomach muscles clenched, but she had to finish, to say it all. “I didn’t know what to do. I knew if I told you, you’d do the honorable thing; but I didn’t want a husband who felt trapped. I didn’t want to mess up your plans, to ruin your dreams. Richard dropped in one evening and found me upset. I blurted out that I was pregnant, but didn’t say who the child’s father was. He told me he’d loved me a long time and asked me to marry him. He told me he’d love the child as his own. And he did. But Adam, Sara is your daughter.”
He was silent, his profile hard. She hated having to defend her actions. Couldn’t he see, understand? She’d been young, frightened, alone.
Adam turned to face the sea, his thoughts a jumble, a kaleidoscope of racing emotions: anger that she hadn’t trusted him enough, joy at learning he had a child of his own, frustration over all the lost years.
Liz let her nerves settle, then spoke into the quiet night. “I was so afraid that day you bumped into her here that you’d spot the resemblance. She has your hair, your eyes, even that dimple by your mouth. I—” She broke on a sob.
Adam turned to her, battling his own pain. “All right. I understand why you didn’t tell me back then. But later, why didn’t you tell me later?”
“You were married to someone else. I couldn’t hurt Richard. He loved Sara, and he’d been so good to both of us. And I had to think of what it would have done to Sara, to suddenly learn that Richard wasn’t her father.”
“How about after he died?”
Nervously she gripped her hands together. “I had my reasons then, too. You’d never once said you loved me, not until much later, that night on the beach by your home. How did I know you wanted us? I didn’t want to be the one to break up your marriage. Besides, you were nominated for the vice presidency. How would it sit with the party if they learned you had an illegitimate daughter? I never, never wanted to hurt you.”