by Allan Topol
Hennessey ignored the comment. "It's a little more complicated than I've said."
"Meaning what?"
Hennessey hesitated, then said, "Jim Slater asked for you personally on the Winthrop case."
Ben was surprised. "Slater doesn't even know me... although I expect that to change when he gets my summary of the Young evidence."
"Sure he does. You did, after all, receive the attorney general's award last year. And you have a reputation as a tough prosecutor with the highest conviction rate in the office."
Ben shook his head at the none too subtle flattery. "Okay, now that I'm properly buttered up, tell me what you want me to do in the Winthrop case."
"Get a conviction as quickly as possible and wrap it up."
"Do they even have a suspect?"
"The gardener working at the house."
"That sounds awfully convenient. Who's on the case?"
"Bill Traynor's spearheading it for the FBI. He's one of the Bureau's top people, and he's reporting right to the director."
"I know Bill. We've done a couple of cases together." What Ben didn't say was that Traynor had made it clear to Ben that he was anxious to finish up his twenty-five years in the Bureau, which should be next year, then cash in by getting a top security job in industry. He wouldn't be hustling on this or any case. His primary objective would be to avoid offending the FBI director, Ken Murtaugh, so he could disappear over the hill with full accolades.
Hennessey added, a bit too smoothly, "Bill's got a young lawyer on Jim Slater's staff working with him to make sure every possible resource of the government is made available. Ed Fulton's his name. His title for this case is special assistant to Director Murtaugh. He's supposed to help clear roadblocks."
"While supposedly keeping the White House out of a law enforcement matter," Ben said cynically.
"No comment."
"None was required." Ben scribbled Ed Fulton's name on a piece of paper near the phone. "Just what I need. Toilet training some hotshot kid trying to make an instant name for himself in the White House."
Hennessey tried to sound optimistic. "Maybe you'll like this Fulton kid."
"You want to bet on that?"
"I told Slater that you'd call Bill at the Hoover Building as soon as we're done. They need help getting a search warrant this afternoon."
Ben raised his hand, as if Hennessey were in the room. "Hold it a second. Time out. I've got other plans this afternoon."
"Like what?"
"With my daughter, Amy."
"Can't the nanny take her?"
"It's Elana's day off. I'm allowed to be a father one day a week."
"God, Ben, isn't there any way you can rearrange things? We're talking about the murder of the secretary of state, for chrissake. If it's a sitter you need, my daughter's sixteen, and she's—"
"Go back to your brunch, Al. I'll handle it."
"I'll owe you for this."
As Ben put the phone down, renewed energy was surging through his body. He didn't give a shit about Al Hennessey or even Jim Slater. The Winthrop case was high visibility. Killing a cabinet officer was a capital crime. And Hennessey was right about one thing. Of all the people in the office, he had the best chance of getting a conviction.
Okay, so that meant he had to bail out on Amy. First, Ben reached Elana at her sister's, in Adams Morgan. She promised to come within the hour. Then he went into the living room, where Amy was playing the piano with intensity in her deep brown eyes. He sat down next to her on the bench and gently touched a couple of keys. Not that it mattered, because Ben was tone-deaf. Happily, Amy had inherited her mother's ear for music, and "much more natural talent than I ever had," Nan used to say.
Amy stopped playing and started to cry. Gently, Ben picked her up and put her on his knee. She turned and threw her arms around him. As the tears rolled down her tiny face, he felt a familiar ache in his stomach.
"Why did Mommy have to die?" Amy asked.
The question stunned Ben, as it always did, notwithstanding the canned answer that Amy's psychiatrist had suggested. How did you explain to a four-year-old what lymphoma was? How could he say to her, "Sorry, kiddo, you got a bad break. You lost the loving, caring parent and ended up with your workaholic dad—the mad-dog prosecutor?"
But Ben didn't say that. He held her tight. In silence, he waited for her to stop crying. Ben's eyes looked over Amy's curly brown hair to the photograph resting on the piano. He and Nan were standing behind Amy while she blew out the candles on the cake from her third birthday. She might have inherited her mother's ear for music, but unfortunately for Amy, she had inherited Ben's looks. Nan was a ravishing black-haired beauty with coal-black eyes, an exotic, glamorous look, and a perfect nose and set of teeth. Ben had brown hair and eyes, and a square jaw with a double chin at the bottom of a face that usually looked like he needed a shave. Well, at least he and Amy had perfect eyesight, while Nan wore contacts.
Two weeks after that picture was taken, Nan was diagnosed with lymphoma. Ten months later she died. Looking at the picture, Ben was tempted to think that he and Nan had been happy in those days. But that would have been revisionist history. They had never been in love. Their marriage satisfied mutual needs each had: for some companionship that didn't threaten career plans; for sex; and for the semblance of a family life. They were like thousands of other busy Washingtonians in this regard. For Ben, there was something else as well. He had been on the rebound when he met Nan. His marriage with the well-known pianist was a way of sticking it to that bitch who broke up with him. The marriage would have lasted, though, because even after Amy was born, they never spent enough time together to grow weary of each other.
When the well ran dry, Ben brushed back Amy's hair. He wiped her tears with his handkerchief. Then he kissed her on the forehead and said, "Listen, kiddo, I have to change the plans a little today."
She opened her eyes wide and looked at him suspiciously.
"Suppose Elana takes you to the library for the story hour and then to Ben and Jerry's. You can have a hot-fudge sundae with two chocolate-chip cookies. What do you think of that?"
"But I want to go with you, Daddy," she said. "Elana always takes me."
"Suppose Elana takes you today, and next Sunday we practice the scooter and I take you to the movies. How's that sound?"
Suddenly, she understood. "You have to work again today," she said dejectedly.
"Yeah, I'm sorry. It's something very important that just came up."
"Why do you always have to work, Daddy, even on Sunday? None of the other kids' daddies work on Sunday."
He was feeling guilty for letting her down, but he didn't have a choice. The secretary of state had been murdered. "It's just a busy time. I'm real sorry."
"Well, that's okay," she said, leaning into his shoulder.
"I'll make it up to you, Amy; I promise."
"You always say that," she replied softly, her words cutting through him like a knife.
He broke away from, her, feeling like crap. "Now you go up and change into your own clothes and play with your Barbies. I'll get the scooter and put it away."
"I want it in my room."
"Somebody could get hurt. It's better in the garage."
She pounded her fists on the piano bench. "No, Daddy. No. I want it in my room."
Ben didn't want to argue with her, and he gave in. "Just keep it in the closet, honey."
In short order, Ben showered and dressed. When he walked into her room to put the scooter away, Amy was dressing her Barbies in fancy clothes and high-heeled shoes. She looked so sad that Ben wanted to cry. Ben ran his hand through his hair, trying to decide how he could remedy the situation. Suddenly he had an idea. The summer before Nan was diagnosed with cancer, she had been invited to play at the Aspen Music Festival. He had loved the town and spending long hours alone with Amy, without the press of legal business. It had been a marvelous two weeks.
"Do you remember Aspen?" he asked Amy.
<
br /> She perked up instantly. "We went in a raft. We went to concerts. It was fun."
"Right. Over Christmas we'll go to Aspen. Just the two of us. I'll teach you how to ski."
"Wow." Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. "For sure, Daddy?"
"For sure, honey."
"Like they ski on television?" She moved her hand across the air. "Whoosh... whoosh... whoosh."
"Well, maybe you won't go that fast in the beginning, but you'll learn."
Amy got up, raced over, and jumped into his arms. "That's a great idea, Daddy."
Ben wasn't quite sure how he'd manage to get the time away in late December between the Young and Winthrop cases, but he would. He was going to do everything possible to avoid disappointing Amy again.
Chapter 4
Marshall Cunningham, the secretary of defense, sipped coffee on the redwood deck of his estate in Great Falls, overlooking the Potomac River. He was deep in thought, pondering events of the last twenty-four hours and trying to guess what Liu, the Chinese ambassador, would have to say when he arrived in a few minutes.
His wife, Betty Sue, had gone inside to work out on the treadmill. On the table lay the morning Washington Post. Not surprisingly, Robert Winthrop's death dominated the front page. The articles about what had happened were filled with speculation, but little in the way of facts. Half a dozen groups claimed credit, including radical Arabs, Serbs, and Kurds. The basic biographical information was straightforward. Cunningham picked up the paper and reread the article.
Robert Winthrop was fifty-four years old. He was born in Darien, Connecticut, the first son of distinguished Wall Street lawyer Albert Winthrop. His mother, Harmonia, was from the socially prominent Dalton family in New York City. Winthrop graduated from Exeter Academy, Princeton University, and the Harvard Law School. Following graduation from law school, he enlisted in the air force, serving during the Vietnam War, with distinction in the Judge Advocate General's office in Washington. He then joined his father's law firm, Spencer, Winthrop, and Brooks.
He was a member of the prestigious Council of Foreign Relations, the New York Athletic Club, the Century Society, and the Cosmos Club in Washington. He was a good friend of President Brewster for many years, and he had been an informal adviser to Philip Brewster when he was still senator, before his election to the presidency.
Cunningham reached into his pants pocket and pulled out two tickets for the Redskins-Dallas game. The Cowboys' owner had invited him and Betty Sue to sit in a box with them, along with half a dozen of the Dallas business elite, who had been friends of Cunningham's when he had been president of Blue Point Industries before he moved to Washington with Betty Sue to take the DOD job. He really wanted to go to the game to see all those people, but he didn't know if he could.
The housekeeper came out and said, "The Chinese ambassador is here."
"Bring him out," he said.
Liu Zhen was a man, like Cunningham, with a cold, impassive look, whose heavily creased face and dark brown eyes, behind thick, black-framed glasses, had been trained to divulge nothing of his inner thoughts—unless, of course, he wanted them to show. As he walked out to the deck and shook Cunningham's hand, they didn't disclose a thing.
Cunningham didn't bother to offer Liu tea. He knew the Chinese ambassador well enough to know that his preference was for strong black coffee. When Cunningham pointed to the thermos on the table, Liu said, "A cup of coffee would be lovely." His English was spoken with a clipped British accent, the result of a Cambridge education at a convenient time to be away from China, when the cultural revolution was going full blast. Liu sat down in a wrought-iron chair at the table and looked out toward the river. "It's a great view of the Potomac and the Maryland side," Liu said.
"Only after the trees shed their leaves," Cunningham muttered. He didn't like small talk.
"I appreciate your seeing me on short notice," Liu said. "Can we speak frankly?"
"Absolutely," Cunningham looked across the table at Liu and gave him a wry smile. "You don't even have to worry about video or recording equipment out here."
Liu didn't appreciate Cunningham's effort at humor. "Then I'll skip telling you that I and my government are sorry that Secretary Winthrop is dead."
Cunningham shrugged. "I wouldn't have believed you if you had. I knew that wasn't why you wanted to see me." The American kept himself in check. There were some questions he wanted to put to Liu, but he decided to wait, letting the Chinese ambassador set the pace of the meeting. Cunningham studied Liu as his visitor sipped coffee. The man's face told him nothing.
Finally, the Chinese ambassador put down his Wedgwood cup and said, "We had nothing to do with the secretary of state's death. I wanted you to know that."
Cunningham refused to tell Liu that he believed the denial. He stared at his visitor, waiting for Liu to continue.
"However, my government hopes that Secretary Winthrop's death will lead to a reexamination of the President's decision to submit the massive arms request for Taiwan to Congress in January. Specifically, we want the four destroyers equipped with Aegis battle-management radar, the army's PAC-3 missile defense system, and the diesel-powered submarines all removed from the package of weapons being sold to Taiwan."
Cunningham took a deep breath, trying one final time to formulate his position on this issue, which had been running through his mind ever since he had heard the news reports of Winthrop's death. "Let's review the bidding. Shall we?"
"As you wish."
"Two months ago when you first heard that Robert Winthrop had persuaded the President to submit the Taiwan arms package to Congress in January, you came to me in the hope that I would persuade Brewster to reverse his decision."
"That's correct. I know that you agree with my government's position on the matter of Taiwan."
"The word 'agree' is an understatement. From the time I've spent in Vietnam and Japan, I understand how significant the issue of Taiwan is to Beijing and how it might become the spark which ignites a full-scale war in Asia. I know that a war like that wouldn't benefit this country."
"But it would benefit big arms manufacturers like Blue Point Industries, who would make the sales to Taiwan."
Cunningham shrugged. "I'm not working for them any longer. You know that doesn't enter into my thinking. I've got one interest now. That's doing what's best for this country. Because of that, I'm willing to accede to your country's position on the undesirability of such an extensive arms package for Taiwan in order to avoid a war. So you could say that we wanted the same thing, you and I. As we both know, Winthrop had a different position."
At the mention of the secretary of state, Liu pursed his lips together.
Certain that the Chinese ambassador was cursing under his breath, Cunningham continued. "Winthrop believed that the people of Taiwan have a right to their independence, that the United States has made commitments for their integrity for many years that should be honored, and that particularly after Tiananmen Square, your government shouldn't be placated by appeasement."
Liu was furious. "All of which is absurd. Taiwan is a part of China."
"Regardless of who's right, Winthrop convinced the President to accept his position. And I gave you my commitment that I would attempt to persuade the President not to submit that arms request for Taiwan to Congress. I was hopeful that I would succeed. Am I correct?"
Liu nodded.
" That's where we stood at the end of October, when your government decided to take matters into its own hands with that London video and everything that followed."
Despite his iron self-control, Liu felt a tiny amount of perspiration breaking out on his upper lip. The London video had been his idea. Beijing didn't know about it. He had put his career and his life on the line with that decision. "We were doubtful that in a matter of foreign policy, you could prevail in view of the President's close relationship with Secretary Winthrop. We decided to provide you with some assistance."
"This was help I didn't ne
ed, because it complicates the basic issue. If the video is discovered, there will be a full investigation. Someone will attempt to tie your government to Winthrop's death."
"The video won't be discovered." Liu paused and emitted a short hissing sound. "And we had nothing to do with the death of the secretary of state."
Cunningham selected his next words carefully. "That may be," he said in a tone intended to show Liu that he wasn't convinced. "However, the London video makes it more difficult for me to persuade the President to reverse a decision that Winthrop favored so strongly. For all I know, Winthrop told the President about the video and what you'd done."
Liu pulled back. He hadn't considered that possibility. "You're not serious."
"I don't know. As you said, they were very close."
His face showing displeasure, Liu said, "Are you telling me that you'll no longer work for a reversal of the decision on the Taiwan arms package?"
Cunningham paused for a second, trying to frame his words carefully, wanting to make certain Liu understood. "What I'm saying is that until the case is closed on Winthrop's murder. I'm limited in what I can do on this issue. You've got to understand that."
"I see." Liu said.
Cunningham knew he didn't see at all.
When Liu left, Cunningham went to the edge of the patio, next to the railing, and looked at the Potomac below. Dammit. The meeting hadn't gone the way he'd thought. He wasn't certain that the Chinese would wait for him to obtain a reversal of the Taiwan arms proposal. They might take a more aggressive position on the ground with their military. That would enrage Brewster. Cunningham knew how the President would react. He'd say nobody threatened the United States. He'd increase the arms request for Taiwan and put American military forces in the Pacific on alert. Events would spin out of control faster than a runaway truck on a mountain road. He couldn't let that happen. He'd have to regain control over this situation.
Betty Sue called him from the doorway. "Hey, c'mon, it's time to get dressed or we'll miss the kickoff."