by Allan Topol
Ann hesitated. "Maybe you're right."
He took a step toward them.
"Stop right there," Jennifer barked, drawing and aiming the gun. "Toss it to him," she said to Ann.
Ann lobbed the tape in an underhand throwing motion. The man caught it with both hands.
"You got what you wanted," Jennifer said. "Now get the hell out of here fast, before I take target practice on what's left of your face."
He looked furiously at the two women. When Jennifer tightened her grip hard on the pistol, though, he reconsidered. He turned and ran toward the Camry. In an instant, he was roaring out of the parking lot.
Mark rolled down his window, gave them a quick thumbs-up sign, and drove after the Camry.
Back at Ann's house, they changed into dry clothes and waited by the phone. It was almost two hours before Mark called from the cell phone in his car. Jennifer grabbed it on the first ring.
"Your boyfriend made his delivery."
"Where?" she asked anxiously.
"Slow down. They're too professional to deliver straight there. He walked into Farragut Square with a white plastic bag in his hand. Left it under a park bench and sat there in the rain until the pickup man came."
"What happened then?"
"Patience, Jennifer. Patience," Mark barked, sounding like a drill sergeant. "The pickup man got into a car with diplomatic plates. He drove back to the Chinese embassy up on Connecticut Avenue."
A huge smile lit up her face. "Beautiful. I love you, Mark."
"I aim to please."
"And you got all of this on film?"
"I'm insulted that you asked. That's what you're paying me for."
"What's the number on the plates?"
"It'll be on your e-mail this afternoon along with the photographs, but I already checked. The car's registered to the Chinese embassy."
"Thanks, Mark. Great job."
Jennifer put the phone down. "Mission accomplished," she said to Ann. "You got that creep out of your life, and we know that you were right. He was working for the Chinese government." Her mind shifted gears to the Gillis defense. "Tomorrow, I want you to go down to that bank vault, take out the video, make a copy, which you'll drop off at my office, and return the original to the vault."
Ann's eyes sparkled with satisfaction. "You're going to use the tape in Clyde's defense. You do believe me that the Chinese killed Robert."
"Absolutely. I don't intend to let Clyde Gillis take the fall for it."
* * *
"Ann Winthrop asked me to represent you," Jennifer said to Clyde Gillis. They were alone in an interview room at the D.C. jail.
Before she said another word, Gillis blurted out, "I didn't kill Mr. Winthrop. I hope she believes that."
As Jennifer looked into his eyes, she was convinced that he was telling the truth. "Ann knows you didn't do it, and I believe you. We just have to convince some other people."
"You mean like that Ben Hartwell?" Gillis made no effort to conceal his animosity.
Jesus, Ben must have put a full court press on Gillis. She knew how frightening he could be to a defendant. "Convincing a judge and a jury," she said soothingly, "will be much more important." She reached into her briefcase and extracted a yellow legal pad and a pencil. "Okay, start at the beginning," she said. "Everything that happened to you from Saturday morning until this minute."
As he spoke, she took copious notes. His account of Saturday's events confirmed her belief in his innocence. His description of the jail interview with Ben infuriated her. It had been an effort at intimidation, plain and simple.
When Gillis finished his story, she dropped her pen on the table and squeezed her fingers, which were stiff from writing. Gillis sipped a glass of water as she leafed back through her notes, looking for any clarifying questions to ask.
He was feeling less nervous than when she had arrived, because she seemed to know what she was doing. Still, he didn't know what to make of this situation. It was odd that Mrs. Winthrop, whose husband died, had hired a lawyer for him. He felt as if he were a pawn being manipulated by so many forces. Nothing that happened now would surprise him.
"Go back to Saturday," Jennifer said. "Did you see anyone else go into the house?"
"Around two o'clock a funny-looking man in a brown raincoat."
"What do you mean, 'funny-looking'?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. Sort of looked like a woman."
"Tall? Short?"
"Average."
"Did you see him in the house with Winthrop? I mean, through the windows?"
"Not really."
"What's that mean?"
"Through a crack in the curtains in the back room downstairs..."
"The room in which he was killed?"
"Yeah. That one. I saw a light go on a little after this man came, but that's all I saw."
As she leafed through her notes, what repeatedly jumped out at her was the money and the gun in Gillis's truck. That was powerful evidence someone had planted. But who? Somebody working for the Chinese government? That certainly seemed like a possibility after everything else that had happened today.
Did they have Ben on their payroll too? She dismissed that idea instantly. There was plenty that she disliked about him, but he'd never do anything like that. On the other hand, if he was being duped by the planted evidence, he'd do everything he could to persuade Gillis to confess.
Now that she had heard about this two-o'clock visitor to Winthrop's house, she was feeling more bullish about her case. Somebody else had been in the house at the time. She'd find out who he was and zero in on him. Of course, she still had the gun and the money from Gillis's truck to deal with, but all she had to do was create enough reasonable doubt for one juror to hold out.
"One other question about this two-o'clock visitor," she said.
Gillis gave her a pained look. "I didn't see him that well."
"White man or black?"
"White," he answered.
Good, she thought. If I zero in on this visitor, a mostly black D.C. jury will get the picture. It's the same old story: A black man's being nailed to cover up for a white crime. You're dead meat, Ben Hartwell.
As she thought about him, she looked up at Gillis again. "If that Ben Hartwell comes back, or one of his people, don't you talk to him."
He gaped. "You mean I don't have to?"
"That's exactly right."
"Good. I won't do it." He hesitated, then asked, "Are you going to get me out of here?"
"I'm sure going to do my best," she said. She stuck out her hand for him to shake. "And I'm feeling a lot better about the case now than when I got here."
Chapter 10
She was asleep in her spacious Westport house when the phone rang in the den. Even though it was two-fifteen in the morning, she heard it immediately. All of those years working in the field had taught her to be a light sleeper. Her life had depended on it. Paul didn't stir as she slid out of bed. In her bare feet she raced lightly across the cold wooden floor. Goose bumps broke out all over her naked body.
She brushed back her long blond hair as she picked up the phone.
"Is this Nancy Burroughs?" the caller asked. The words were chopped and broken. From her training she knew they were using a voice scrambler again. That didn't bother her. People calling her had a right to protect themselves and their identity.
"It's a very proper British name," she responded in the prearranged code.
"We need your help again. Our business isn't finished. Washington has gotten more complicated."
"It always does."
"Reservations have been made for you at the Shoreham Hotel. Check in before nine o'clock this morning. Somebody will contact you. You'll get your instructions then."
"Understood."
The phone suddenly emitted a dial tone.
Gwen stood for a couple of minutes in the den looking at the sliver of moon outside, deciding how to get to Washington. Driving was clearly much better because
she could transport her own guns and other equipment, but any car—even a rental car—could be traced. So she decided to fly unarmed. They would provide the equipment she needed. If it wasn't up to her standards, well, she loved shopping in Washington.
She went back to bed, but she couldn't fall asleep. Excitement was surging through her. She was like a warrior thrilled to be going back into battle. The suburban life was just a way to pass time. She lived for days like this.
Thinking about it made her feel randy. She considered waking Paul, but he was sleeping so soundly. Besides, she wasn't sure that he would be up to it without a major effort on her part. That was a price she had decided to pay when she married for financial security. So she reached into the night table on her side and removed the dildo. She inserted it with her left hand and massaged her clitoris with her right. To stifle her cries when she came, she bit her lower lip. Afterward, she lapsed into a deep sleep.
Two hours later, she woke up ahead of the alarm. Before leaving for LaGuardia and the seven o'clock shuttle, she left Paul a note on the kitchen table. "I had to go for a couple of days for business—Love, Gwen."
Paul wouldn't complain. And he wouldn't ask her any questions. That, too, was part of their agreement. He knew that she would be back.
* * *
Believing that Cunningham was too soft on the Chinese, Chip Donovan persuaded Margaret Joyner, the director of the CIA, to invite Admiral Hawkins, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, to the meeting dealing with Chinese troop movements. Donovan also knew that there was no love lost between Hawkins and Secretary of Defense Cunningham. When Cunningham had been passed over for chairman of the Joint Chiefs by Brewster's predecessor in favor of Hawkins, Cunningham had resigned from his position as a general in the army to become CEO of Blue Point Industries. The four of them were gathered around a table in the back of Cunningham's office.
With a silver-tipped pointer in his right hand, Donovan, dressed in his usual black suit and black turtle-neck, was pointing at a map of China on the wall and explaining what the agency's spotters, including Sherman, had observed on the ground in China, what Peng had reported, and what satellite pictures showed. "The conclusions from all of these are the same," Donovan said. "This is the largest Chinese military buildup toward Taiwan that we've ever seen."
"And you think that Beijing is getting ready to launch an attack?" Hawkins asked.
"That's the conclusion I would draw. I think—"
Cunningham interrupted Donovan in midsentence and turned to Joyner. "You don't share that view. Do you, Margaret?"
She took off her glasses and tossed them on the table. "I can never predict what they're up to. If it's a bluff, toward what end? Unless..." She hesitated, uncertain whether she wanted to complete her thought. In the dispute between Winthrop and Cunningham about the President's decision on the Taiwan arms package, she had supported Winthrop when asked by the President. Now she didn't want to give Cunningham the satisfaction of conceding that the Taiwan arms package might be producing the result he had predicted. A month ago, she had believed that Beijing would move on Taiwan when they were ready to do so, regardless of what Washington did, and at least Taipei should be in a position to defend itself. She was no longer sure.
"Unless what?" Cunningham pressed.
She wiggled out of presenting her thoughts. "Unless Beijing's trying to create a foreign policy diversion to take the focus away from another round of domestic unrest."
"What's Taiwan doing in response?" Cunningham asked.
"Mobilizing their forces. Acting as if there will be war this time."
Cunningham grimaced. He hated to see both sides go down this path. One spark could ignite the whole thing.
"I think we'd better take the issue to the President," Joyner said.
"Not without a detailed recommendation from this group," Cunningham responded, unwilling to take a chance that Brewster, who sometimes shot from the hip, would call Beijing's bluff and start a war in Asia. "He's absorbed by economic matters, putting together the tax-cut package and the upcoming European economic summit. Also, he's only operating at half speed these days. He hasn't recovered fully from Robert's death. You should know that. If we leave him on his own, there's no telling which way he'll jump."
"Fine," Joyner said. "Then my suggestion is that we recommend to the President that he call Ambassador Liu. Tell him what we have seen and demand that Beijing pull back their forces."
Donovan looked at Hawkins, egging him on with his eyes. The admiral took the cue. "At the same time, we should begin moving our own forces in the Pacific toward Taiwan, letting Beijing know that we take our commitments to Taiwan seriously. We have three aircraft carriers in the region. I say we put them on a course for the Strait of Taiwan."
Cunningham raised his eyebrows. "You're ready to go to war for Taiwan?" he asked, sounding incredulous. His intention was to make Hawkins feel like a fool, but it didn't work. The admiral wasn't intimidated.
"I wouldn't put it that way."
"Then how would you put it?"
"I want the Chinese to know that we honor our commitments. With your West Point and military background, you of all people should understand that sometimes we have to resort to force in support of principle."
Cunningham held his ground. "I also understand the horrible toll on those involved. And"—he raised his voice for emphasis—"the limits of American military power in Asia. By making the military moves you suggested, we're playing a dangerous game."
Joyner interjected. "It's a dangerous part of the world. Now, do we have a recommendation to take to the President, based on what Admiral Hawkins and I proposed?"
Cunningham was afraid to disagree. He didn't like the Joyner-Hawkins position, which the President would accept if it came from this group. But he was worried that opening up the issue before Brewster would produce an even more militant decision.
With a sly smile on his face, Donovan watched Cunningham squirm. You can suck up to Liu all you want, he thought. When Beijing sees those aircraft carriers moving toward the Strait of Taiwan, they'll get the picture. And at the same time we'll hit them with Operation Matchstick. Boom. Boom.
* * *
Gwen parked the battered dark blue Honda Civic on the street about two blocks from the D.C. jail. Before getting out of the car, she paused to check herself in the rearview mirror. The brown contact lenses masked her blue eyes. The long brown wig, aided by facial makeup, made her a brunette. She had rounded off her face with large tortoiseshell glasses, with plain glass, to complete the bookish, serious look that she wanted.
Her clothes matched that image. Under her old cloth coat she wore a simple gray suit and white blouse. The top two buttons were left undone. A little of her lacy bra showed through, and some cleavage as well. She put on pale lipstick and looked at herself again.
Satisfied with what she saw, she picked up the worn leather briefcase from the car seat, slung it over her shoulder, and headed out of the car. The sky was dark and threatening. Rain was predicted, but that wouldn't come until this afternoon.
A few blocks away she saw the outline of RFK Stadium, its charcoal-colored light towers rising to blend into the dense gray sky. It was cold, and she walked quickly. Approaching a twenty-foot fence, she looked up at the coiled barbed wire on top, running around the perimeter of the old redbrick building. Just above the main gate was a guardhouse, and two men, one gripping a machine gun, watched her carefully.
She stopped at the gate and rang the bell.
"Identify yourself," a man's voice announced through an intercom.
"Estelle Marino, public defender. I'm here to see Clyde Gillis."
There was a long silence while whoever was in the charge studied the list of approved visitors for the day. Gwen maintained a confident look. She had been assured that her name would be on that list.
She could feel a slight moisture under her arms. Jails did that to her. It was the one thing in life she feared. Not just the confinement, but the
torture that went with it almost everywhere in the world. And you were helpless, so damned helpless. She had Saddam Hussein to thank for her fear of jails. The bastard. If she had her way, he'd have been rotting in the ground long ago.
A buzzer sounded, and the gate opened by remote control.
"Proceed to the front door of the building, Miss Marino," the voice said.
She walked slowly across the deserted path that led to the front door, knowing that countless eyes were watching her from the barred windows that made up the top three floors of the building. Her walk wasn't provocative or sensual. It was professional, that of a harried, overworked, and underpaid public defender.
Inside the front door, a heavyset white man of about fifty with red hair, cut short, and a grizzled, pockmarked face sat behind a thick piece of plate glass. The badge on his khaki prison guard's uniform said Harvey "Red" Dougherty.
"Your ID," he barked into a microphone. She passed him the photo ID that showed her as an attorney with the District of Columbia Public Defender's Office.
He studied it for a moment, then looked at a computer printout resting on the desk in front of him. He nodded and slid it back to her. "Pass through the metal detector," he said, pointing.
She met with Clyde Gillis in a small interview room near cell block four. They made her wait alone for fifteen minutes before they brought him into the room in handcuffs. A different guard—not Dougherty—was with him. Gillis looked weak and tired. His eyes were bloodshot and unfocused as he sat down across the table from her. In the center of the table, her briefcase sat open with the row of six identical-looking pens arranged on top of a yellow legal pad.
Gwen waited until the guard left the room and slammed the door.
"I'm with the Public Defender's Office," Gwen said. "I'm helping your lawyer, Jennifer Moore. Estelle Marino's my name."
"I already told my story to Miss Moore."
"She wanted me to hear it again. To see if there are any inconsistencies."