Dark Ambition

by Allan Topol

  "I'd like to get a copy of your report on the Winthrop investigation."

  "I wasn't kidding. I didn't file one."

  "You know that fluid you saw on the front of his pants?"

  He looked at her warily. "Uh-huh."

  "Is it discussed in the FBI report?"

  He smiled. "I think the Bureau missed it."

  "Yeah, right. Who did their work?"

  "Henry Langston in the Bureau lab."

  "C'mon, those FBI people are too good to miss something like that."

  Now she had his attention. He tapped his fingers on the hood of his car and looked at her quizzically.

  "There could be a lot of other possible explanations for its omission."

  "Such as?"

  "Langston was planning to test Winthrop's pants, but before he had a chance, somebody in the government, maybe a top dog at the Bureau, called and told him to skip it because it was irrelevant and could only embarrass Mrs. Winthrop."

  "Is that what happened?"

  He didn't seem to think so either. "I'm just saying it's a possibility."

  Yet someone might have made another request. "Who made the call, you think?"

  "Langston wouldn't say, but he'll tell you the truth when you get him under oath and cross-examine him at trial. Henry's the kind of guy who won't risk perjury for any reason."

  "I have another question. How thoroughly did they examine Winthrop's body for foreign hairs?"

  "With a fine-tooth comb. They'd have given anything to come up with one from an African American, but they didn't."

  "What about the carpet in the room in which Winthrop was killed? Did they check that carefully as well?"

  He regarded her with a new respect. "I don't know. I doubt it. Bill Traynor was pushing the investigating unit to get done and get out."

  "I have a proposition for you. How would you like to go back with your lab people quietly and do a thorough job on the carpet in that room? I'll arrange for Ann to give you access to the house."

  He liked this idea a lot. "What am I looking for?"

  "A hair. A woman's hair."

  "Ann's hair?" he asked, puzzled.

  "No, a hair that might be from George Nesbitt."

  "But you said..." He suddenly started to laugh. "If we found something, that would really show the Feds who's competent and who's not."

  "And it would strengthen my case on reasonable doubt."

  He tossed the cigarette to the ground and crushed it out with his foot. "There's one thing you've got to understand," he warned her. "I'm a police detective. I'm not a PI. If I find anything, I'll give it to the government's trial team as well as to you."

  She had been hoping to surprise Ben before the judge, at a pretrial hearing, or maybe even at trial. "Suppose you hold up talking to them for a while?"

  "No way. It's my job."

  She thought for an instant about having Mark Bonner arrange for the testing, but quickly rejected it. If Campbell found anything, his police credentials would make him a much more effective witness. Besides, Ben couldn't do a damn thing with the test results except read them and weep. "Go check the carpet," she said. "I'm going to blow Ben right out of the water."

  He wrinkled his nose. He was impressed with Jennifer and wanted to help her out, but this was taking a turn he didn't like. "Careful, now; Ben's a personal friend."

  "Then if you find anything, you can deliver the bad news to him yourself."

  Chapter 14

  Clutching a thin briefcase in his hand, Chip Donovan walked out of the main entrance of the agency's headquarters in Langley and into his waiting limousine. "The Westin Hotel on Mass Ave. in Washington," he said to his driver. "I have a lunch meeting. Wait for me there. Afterward, we're going up to the Hill."

  The black Lincoln Town Car pulled away from the curb, and the last of America's superspies from the Cold War days snapped open the briefcase resting on the backseat and pulled out a thin brown envelope. Inside there was a pad with Donovan's scribbling that would have been unintelligible to anyone else. To him, whose mind functioned better with a pencil in his hand, they were the conception of a follow-up mission in China after Operation Matchstick succeeded. This time it would be a massive explosion in Tiananmen Square, taking the battle right to the party elders. And at the heart of his plan was one of his own seasoned pros.

  He wanted to move while there was still a void at State. He had no idea whom Brewster would pick to be the new secretary, but it was likely that Donovan would never get support for his approach in Foggy Bottom. This morning, Donovan had been in his office trying to fill in some of the blanks in the new proposal when the private telephone in his desk drawer rang. As soon as he heard the voice at the other end, he knew how he could fill in one of the key blanks.

  "Do they still have grilled Dover sole for lunch?" were Gwen's first words.

  "What a nice surprise," he had replied.

  "One o'clock today. Our usual place. Is the suite still eight-oh-three?"

  He glanced at the calendar on his desk. He was supposed to be lunching with Senator Hanlon up on the Hill.

  "How do you know I'm free?" he had asked her. "Maybe I'm busy."

  "Because for me, you'll cancel anything on your calendar."

  She gave that deep sensual laugh of hers, and he smiled. Of course, she was right. He didn't have to eat with Senator Hanlon. A late-afternoon meeting would work just as well.

  In the back of the car, he closed his eyes and thought about her. He had met Gwen almost twenty years ago. At the time he was the head of naval intelligence, operating in Boston and planning to move to the CIA. One morning a report of a bizarre case came across his desk. A drunken sailor had picked up a hooker in the combat zone in Boston and had gone home with her. He strangled her and then fell asleep. At about four a.m. her fourteen-year-old daughter, who was also turning tricks on the street, came home alone and surveyed the scene. She picked up a two-by-four, and with repeated blows smashed in the sailor's skull. Then she took a kitchen knife and cut up the rest of his body savagely. She put his sexual organs into an envelope and mailed it to the U.S. naval headquarters in Boston.

  Donovan had gone to see her at the Waltham School for girls, where she was incarcerated. From the court files, he knew that she had no idea who her father was. It took three visits before she would even talk to him. Yet he knew that he had found what he was searching for: a totally amoral human being devoid of human emotion, precisely what he wanted to be part of a new elite unit of anti-terrorist killers that he planned to organize at the CIA. Donovan's theory was that the only way to stop terrorists was by training people who operated the way they did. It took him three more visits to recruit her with the promise of a new life if she let him and the agency people train her. A single call from Langley to the governor of Massachusetts secured her release.

  Fourteen years later, he couldn't blame her for leaving the agency after Operation Desert Storm. She could have killed Saddam six months before Iraq invaded Kuwait if the first Bush White House had only given her a green light. Though Donovan had repeatedly offered to divorce his wife and marry her, Gwen had told him, "You're for love and fun. When I get married, it'll be for money." Following her plan, she married Paul, who had started a highly successful computer support business, and got his money out by going public, leaving the suckers who bought in holding the bag in the now defunct company. How could Donovan ever be angry at her? He had created her. She was what he had made her.

  They crossed the Potomac on the Teddy Roosevelt Bridge, hit downtown, and got stuck in a massive traffic jam caused by blocking off Pennsylvania Avenue to cars. What's this country coming to? Donovan thought. We can't even protect our President.

  "Use the siren," he ordered his driver.

  "Yes, sir," the stocky former army sergeant said. He slapped a red gum ball up on the roof, hit the siren button, and drove through a narrow lane that opened for the Town Car.

  Donovan was ten minutes late. She was already in
the suite when he arrived. He could smell her before he could see her. He should have guessed that she wouldn't wait for him. She was trained to pick any lock.

  He followed her scent through the living room into the bedroom, where she was stretched out naked on top of the floral bedspread, her head resting against a cluster of pillows, her legs spread. He walked over and kissed her long and hard, and she pulled him down onto the bed, clothes and all. Then she pushed him away and began undressing him, tossing his clothes on the floor as she went.

  "I was glad you called me," he said. "I was hoping that you might need something from me."

  "Yeah, I need something from you. Nobody goes down on me like you do. That's what I need."

  When he was undressed, he began kissing her body slowly and methodically, using his tongue to play with her breasts while his left hand stroked her soft, wet vagina. When he buried his head between her legs, licking her engorged clitoris, her whole body began to tremble. Finally, she grabbed his head with both of her hands and pulled his face down hard against her. "Oh, God, yes, you bastard," she cried out in pleasure. Moments later, she spun her body around and went to work on him with her mouth.

  After an hour of making love, they both lay back exhausted. Gwen laid her head on his chest, full of graying hairs that gave away his sixty years. "Should I order lunch?" he asked.

  "I did when I arrived." She glanced at the digital clock next to the bed. "It'll be here in about twenty minutes."

  She climbed out of bed, ran the bathwater, and threw in some bubble bath. When it was full, they sat in the tub together with her leaning back against his chest.

  "What brings you to Washington?" he asked.

  "Just passing through on my way back from Europe," she lied easily. "I decided to stop over and break up the trip. I like to see you when I can."

  "Thanks," he said dryly. "Everybody should have something he's really good at. How's Paul?"

  She kicked her feet, splashing the water. "He's Paul. I have everything I could want, and my freedom too. It's perfect. Well, almost."

  "What do you mean?"

  "He doesn't like oral sex." She laughed.

  He played with her breasts, massaging the nipples between his thumbs and forefingers until they grew taut. "You working much?"

  "Freelancing for some foreign governments." She flicked a glance around the room. It was the agency's suite. She knew he regularly swept it for bugs, but technology was getting so sophisticated you could never be sure. Besides, he didn't need to know about her current project in Washington. "You don't want to know more than that," she added, "but I do need a favor from you."

  He kissed her lightly on the back of her neck. "I'd do anything for you, Gwen. You know that."

  "I want to do a little shopping while I'm in Washington. Any suggestions?"

  He stiffened slightly behind her. "What are you looking for?"

  "The usual," she said casually. "Surveillance equipment. Weapons. And so forth."

  "Go to 1285 Seventh Street Northwest. Ask for Big Bob, and tell him it's company account 762. Pay him in cash. He won't ask you for an ID."

  She nuzzled her cheek against his. "You're so good to me."

  "I try," he said lightly. "People call me from time to time asking for a recommendation. You're the first name I always give them."

  She reached behind her buttocks and cupped his balls in her hands. "Thanks, Chip. I like working. Not for the money, of course. I don't need that, but for the fun of it."

  He smiled and shook his head. He truly had created a monster.

  She could feel his dick growing, and she wrapped her hand around it. "I'm such a psychopath. You ever worried that I'll kill you?"

  He chuckled. "No way. Not until you find somebody to make you feel good like I just did."

  She twisted her head around and kissed him. "You conceited bastard."

  The doorbell rang. They heard a man call, "Room service." She stood up and tossed him a terry-cloth robe. "Put a tent over your pole."

  She refused to let the waiter fillet her Dover sole. Donovan watched her devour the fish voraciously and then use her teeth to pick any meat off the bones.

  "I see that you're still wearing your black uniform," Gwen said. "You promised to tell me why one day."

  A large smile lit up his face. He ran his hand through his thick gray hair. "It's not that exciting."

  "I've always wanted to know about it."

  He got up and fixed himself a glass of scotch and a vodka for her. "I went to a Jesuit school for college. St. Vincent in western Pennsylvania. I wanted to be a priest."

  She burst out laughing. "You, a priest?"

  He looked offended. "I had a cherubic face in those days."

  "You still do. And you probably loved to eat pussy then. Was that legal? I mean, for somebody who was studying to be a priest?"

  "The answer's no, and that came later. Well, anyhow, it was the height of the war in Vietnam, and I stopped believing in God, which made it hard to be a priest. But something else happened. When I saw kids burning the flag and pissing on it, I got really outraged. This country's not perfect, but it's the best there is. So the U.S. became my god. I started wearing the black suit and black turtleneck—my uniform, as you put it—because it made me feel like a priest in my own order. Call it Saint George, as in George Washington, if you'd like. So there you have it."

  She loved the story. Smiling, she asked, "How's the work going for you in your religion these days?"

  "I'm developing a new project, as a matter of fact. You interested in doing something with me again?"

  "Didn't we just do something?"

  It was his turn to smile. "I mean professionally."

  "I won't come back to the agency and all that bureaucratic horseshit."

  "I wouldn't ask you to. I mean as an independent contractor. It'll involve travel to the Far East."

  Her eyes gleamed with interest. "I could handle that. The only place Paul likes to go is Europe. Talk to me when you're ready."

  "I hope to. Things may change with Winthrop gone."

  "Yeah, it was too bad about him. Washington's getting to be a dangerous town." Careful, she told herself, once the words were out of her mouth. He's smart, and he knows your body language very well. Don't give away too much.

  "They arrested Winthrop's gardener," he said.

  "I saw that in the newspaper. Did he really do it?"

  Donovan shrugged. "I'm not involved. It's Murtaugh's baby. As usual, the FBI is clueless."

  She laughed. The rivalry between the two agencies hadn't changed.

  "Actually, it is funny," he said, "Murtaugh couldn't find Winthrop's killer if his life depended on it. I sure as hell am not going to use any of our people to bail him out."

  The way he said it made her hesitate. "If it wasn't the gardener, then who do you think did it?"

  "I just know what I hear on the street."

  "Which is?"

  He kept his face bland, but he was staring at her intently. "A foreign government's involved. Maybe even a big one in Asia. The biggest one of all."

  "Really? Isn't that nice."

  Her innocent act didn't fool him. "Did you ever hear of a book called The Peter Principle!"

  She shook her head.

  "One of the author's theories is that a person can be really good at one job, but when he gets promoted to planning and management responsibilities, he runs into trouble."

  She looked at him with a worried frown. "What are you trying to tell me?"

  "Just watch your back. I'd hate to have anything happen to you."

  * * *

  "I got a call from Mrs. Winthrop telling me that she got you a good lawyer," Lucinda said to Gillis. "Jennifer Moore is her name."

  Wanting to talk more about his situation, she had come alone to visit him this time. They were sitting across from each other at one of the wooden tables in the visiting room.

  When Gillis didn't respond but looked into space with a blank
stare, Lucinda said, "Did you hear what I just told you? Did this Jennifer Moore call you?"

  "It won't make any difference," he said weakly.

  "What do you mean?" She leaned across and shook his arm, which brought a guard scurrying over. She quickly pulled back. "What are you talking about?"

  "Nothing will matter." He sounded so beaten down and despondent. She had never known him to be like this, not even when doctors had diagnosed Clyde Junior's kidney disease.

  "What's wrong?" she asked, concerned.

  He didn't respond.

  "I know there's something wrong. Please talk to me, Clyde."

  He shook his head sadly and looked down at his hands, refusing to say another word until visiting time was over.

  From a pay phone in the visitors lounge, Lucinda called Jennifer and told her what happened.

  Jennifer knew exactly what she was talking about, which was a source of some relief to Lucinda.

  "They did something to him," Jennifer said.

  Lucinda was puzzled. "Who did what?"

  "I don't know," Jennifer answered determinedly. "But I intend to find out."

  Chapter 15

  At three o'clock, Ben took a copy of the indictment of Clyde Gillis up to Al Hennessey's office on the fifth floor. Outside, a gloomy sky had overtaken the early morning sun. It matched his mood. Drafting the indictment, which the grand jury had rubber-stamped, had been painful. With each line, he had more and more doubts as to whether Gillis had in fact killed Winthrop. There was nothing specific he could point to, just his instinct as a prosecutor. Still he plowed on, like a good soldier, for all the considerations he had weighed in his mind in Slater's office on Monday morning, but feeling antsy all the while.

  The moment Ben walked into his office, Hennessey barked at Liz, "Hold all my calls."

  "Except if Jim Slater calls from the White House," Ben shot back.

  Ben's quip infuriated Hennessey. "Jesus, you got an attitude."

  "I think we should be lawyers, not political hacks."

  Hennessey scowled. He was getting tired of Ben's pious carping. They weren't operating in an independent sphere. They were part of the government. "Life's never that easy for prosecutors. We work for the President, remember?"