Dark Ambition

by Allan Topol

  "Now?" Ben said, surprised. "It's late."

  Campbell grinned. "You'll never sleep tonight anyhow."

  * * *

  Magical was again the word that popped into Jennifer's mind, only this time to describe the whole evening as Ambassador and Madame DuMont pulled away in a car from the Bistro Francais in Georgetown and Gloria Clurman left on foot for the Four Seasons, where she was staying.

  It had not only been the best performance of Luisa Miller Jennifer had ever seen, but during intermission, in the private VIP lounge on the mezzanine level, she had met all these important people who kept coming up to Gloria and Jim. The two of them were like powerful magnets that attracted everyone in the room. Then at dinner, Henri DuMont was tremendously funny, a marvelous raconteur who loved poking fun at the quirks of people from various European countries. Jim egged Gloria on to regale them with stories of the funniest things that she had seen backstage and on movie sets. As she obliged, they roared with laughter. The wine flowed freely. First Dom Perignon with moules marniere, and then with the steak and frites a fabulous Bordeaux Jim ordered that Jennifer had never heard of before, except she heard the word Rothschild in the name. They all had too much to eat and drink, but she loved every bite, and especially the chocolate soufflé at the end accompanied by a sauterne.

  Occasionally, during dinner, Jennifer felt a little guilty for taking time from her preparation of the Gillis case. She rationalized that she had worked so much the last couple of days that she needed some time off. Besides, she had done everything she could for now. The next move was Ben's with the confession. Thinking of him also caused a nervous twinge, but she shook it off.

  She was beginning to think about getting home when the driver of Slater's black Lincoln Town Car raced behind the car and held open the back door for the two of them. As the car pulled away, Jennifer closed her eyes and snuggled up against Slater, who draped his arm around her. "I have a modest proposal," he said.

  "What's that?" she replied, her eyes still closed.

  "Ever seen a polo match?"

  "Can't say that I have."

  "Good, because Saturday morning I have a match in Rancho Santa Fe. Fly out with me Friday evening. We'll come back Sunday. It'll give us a chance to get to know each other better." His arm tightened a little more around her. "Also, I want to explore with you the possibility of your coming back into the government at a high level. Maybe I'll create a new position in the White House to deal with women's issues. Health, sexual harassment, and so forth. You're smart and talented. I want the administration to take advantage of that."

  His words jolted her. With her eyes opening wide, she pulled away from him. "What about Mrs. Slater? Where will she be?"

  He looked nonplussed. "Actually, she'll probably be in Argentina buying horses. What difference does that make?"

  Jennifer gave a short, caustic laugh. "Come on, Jim. What is this, the Washington version of the casting couch?"

  He smiled at her with a twinkle in his eye. "You know what your trouble is?"

  "I don't like any question that begins like that."

  "You figure that every man is interested in only one thing." He delivered the words in a smooth, soft voice, suggesting amusement rather than irritation.

  As a lawyer, she always enjoyed verbal fencing. Trying to match his tone, she said, "Well, aren't they? Men are all alike. You want one thing. You'll get it any way you can."

  In the dim light of the car, she saw that he looked genuinely offended. "I'll bet you have plenty of conquests," she added.

  "Actually, I don't, but I don't expect you to believe that. The truth is that I find you exciting and attractive. Not some conquest. But if that's what you think this is all about, an excuse to get into your pants, then you can stay at Rancho Valencia, a gem of a resort close to my place." He laughed. "You can even wear a chastity belt all weekend if that'll make you feel better."

  She hadn't meant to come off sounding like such a shrew. To show that she liked him, and was sorry for what she had said, she punched him playfully in the ribs. "But who gets to hold the key?"

  "What key?"

  "The key to the chastity belt."

  He laughed. "I do, of course."

  "That's what I thought." She leaned over and kissed him on the lips. "It's a nice invitation, Jim, but I'm afraid I have to work this weekend."

  The kiss had made him momentarily hopeful. Her words quickly shattered that. He regrouped, concealing his disappointment. "Ah, well, whatever is worth having is worth waiting for. I assume it's the Gillis case that's keeping you here."

  She pulled back, eyeing him sharply. "How did you know that?"

  Slater realized he'd better be careful. She couldn't know that Ed Fulton was on his staff, or she'd be sure that his only interest in her was to sabotage Gillis's defense. He'd have to remind Fulton to keep a low profile. Stay in the back of the courtroom. Identify himself as a special assistant to Murtaugh.

  Slater pretended total innocence. "You were all over the television news today, after this morning's arraignment. I wondered why you didn't plead him."

  Her face had shut down. "I don't think we should talk about it."

  Slater said softly, "You mean, because I'm the enemy?"

  "Not the enemy. But you happen to work for the man who's the boss of the prosecutors I'm going up against."

  "The connection isn't that close," he said mildly. "Although I did meet Ben Hartwell. He's no match for you."

  "We really shouldn't talk about it." Her voice was firm, and he backed off.

  The car turned onto her street. Earlier, she had wondered what would happen when they got to her house tonight. Despite her hostility about the case, she liked Jim Slater, and she wanted him—wanted him in her bed. Wanted to know if he was as good at sex as he was at everything else. The wine had lowered her usual inhibitions to nearly zero. Why not? she finally decided. But he'd have to make the first move tonight. If he was still in the mood after her challenging him.

  At her front door, she inserted the key in the lock, and she waited. He put his arms around her, pulled her close, and kissed her, a long kiss. She felt him pressing against her. She knew that he was aroused. Then he released her.

  "Thanks for a great evening," he said. And he walked down the cement steps to his car. Just like that. He had his driver wait until she was inside the house before pulling away.

  As she deactivated the house security system, she was pissed at herself for being so defensive in the car. Based on how he did everything else, he would probably be a superb lover. She had no one but herself to blame for the fact that she would be climbing into her bed alone.

  As his car sped down Connecticut Avenue, Slater leaned back in the seat and smiled. Tonight he could have had her; he knew that. But she'd have to realize from the start that he'd be calling the shots.

  * * *

  The Shangri-La lobby was air-conditioned to a cool seventy degrees, but Chen was perspiring as he carried the brown suitcase from the elevator to the front entrance. Over his shoulder he had a black duffel bag with clothes for a two-day trip. He knew that the security police stationed guards in the large hotels to watch the foreign devils. With the midday bustle in the hotel, and being Chinese, he hoped they wouldn't pay much attention to him.

  A bellman offered to help Chen with the suitcase. He waved the man away, not wanting anyone else to have control of the bag. That was stupid, he decided. It made him look more suspicious.

  In the cab on the way to the train station, he asked himself once more whether he wanted to go through with this. There comes a time, he decided, when an individual has to stand up for what he believes. Since the Tiananmen Square protests, the regime had gone on doing what it had done to Mai, arresting and killing innocent people, university professors, students, and anyone who dared to yearn for freedom. Now they were gearing up to use their military might against Taiwan. People like his father had become accomplices in their own destruction. Well, that had to end. T
he world and the people in Taiwan had to realize that there was nothing inexorable about the growth of Chinese power—any more than Japan's in the 1930s. Operation Matchstick would send a powerful message to all of Asia and the world: Beijing isn't impregnable.

  As for the personal risk, he had gone over the operation numerous times with Donovan. Everything had been planned with precision, to the last detail. Nothing could go wrong. No one would ever know he had done it.

  The train station was a sea of humanity. After standing in a long line, Chen bought a first-class ticket for a train going southwest to Nanping, in Fujian province, about 230 miles inland from the Strait of Taiwan.

  At the entrance to the train track, two policemen carrying clubs stopped him—one tall and thin, the other short and squat.

  For what seemed like hours to Chen, the tall one examined his visa and passport.

  "The nature of your business in Nanping?" the tall one asked.

  "My computer company has one plant in Shanghai. We're considering building a second one in that area."

  "Why there?"

  "It's close to Taiwan. After unification, there will be transportation across the strait. We want to get there early."

  That seemed to satisfy him. One of the goals of the regime was to stimulate new business.

  Meantime, his colleague was eyeing Chen's bags suspiciously. "What's in that one?" he asked, pointing to the large brown suitcase.

  "Computer parts," Chen said. He held his breath. The contents had been packaged to resemble computer parts, and that was what the writing said. Yet if the policeman began taking the items apart, he'd be able to determine what Chen was carrying. Chen felt the moisture building under his arms and soaking his shirt.

  The short policeman pointed to the black duffel bag. "Open that one," he said.

  When Chen obliged, he looked inside, examining the contents with care. Chen kept glancing at the large overhead clock. It was getting late. Other passengers were rushing by him, loaded down with bags. If he missed this train, he'd lose his pickup in Nanping and be stranded there.

  He had only ten more minutes until the train's departure. Rushing these two policemen was a poor idea, he decided. With difficulty, he kept himself in check.

  Sensing Chen's anxiety, the thin man said, "You have plenty of time."

  The two policemen took a few steps back. The short one whispered something Chen couldn't hear. Then his colleague looked at Chen for several moments. "You can go," he said.

  Chapter 20

  "Will you make me French toast for breakfast, Daddy?" Amy said as she scampered into Ben's bedroom and jumped on his bed.

  It was a few minutes past seven. Ben was wide-awake, as he had been all night. "I will on one condition," he said.

  "What's that?" she said, climbing under the covers. He made sure his pajama bottoms were pulled up and tight around his waist. He didn't want her to see the Band-Aid.

  "What condition?" she asked warily. She was used to the little deals Ben made with her to get her to do things.

  He smiled. "The condition is, I get a big hug and a kiss."

  She was happy to oblige. Holding her tight, Ben thought, God, I love this child so much. I can't let anything happen to her.

  "Yuck," she said. "You're al! grizzly. You didn't shave."

  "Well, I just woke up, silly. Now, you let the French toast man get dressed. He'll meet you in the kitchen."

  "I'll get the batter started."

  "Easy, kiddo. Wait for me."

  "Daddy. I know what to do. I'm no baby."

  This morning there wasn't any request of hers he wouldn't grant. "Great, you get started," he said.

  Amy knew that she was on a roll. Reading her father's mood, she added, "And I'll make chocolate milk, too."

  "Whatever you want," he said as she scooted out of the room.

  The French toast was cooking in the pan, and Amy was getting ready to turn it, under Ben's watchful eye, when the phone rang. It was Jennifer.

  "Sorry, I got in too late last night to call you back," she said in a brisk tone. "What'd you decide to do about that phony confession?"

  "Hang on a sec," he said as he helped Amy turn the French toast. While keeping one eye on the frying pan, he stretched the phone cord as far as it could go into the dining room. Not wanting to alarm Amy, he whispered, "A new development in the Gillis case. It was frightening, believe me. I've got to talk to you. Please, Jenny, it's urgent."

  Jennifer knew something was very wrong. "What time would you like me at your office?"

  "Forget the office. Come to my house as soon as you can. Bring everything you have that's relevant to Winthrop's murder. And please don't say a word about this to anybody."

  They had just hung up when Amy shouted. "It's burning, Daddy!" He ran into the kitchen and snatched the pan from the burner. "Just a little crisp," he said, examining the undersides. "We'll smother it in lots of maple syrup."

  That made her very happy. As she ate, he walked to the back of the house, where he unobtrusively glanced out of the kitchen window. A plainclothes D.C. cop was sitting on the bench next to Amy's swing set at the far end of the yard near the garage, watching the house. Ben went back to the front and stood at the picture window looking out. An unmarked car was parked in front with two of Art Campbell's detectives in the front seat.

  Ben no longer thought that the blonde was fifty miles away. She was still in Washington. Before long, she would strike again. The only question was whether he and Campbell could find out for whom she was working and end their party before that happened.

  When Amy was dressed and ready for school, Ben scooped the child up into his arms and held her tight. "You have a good day, kiddo," he said.

  She kissed him. "You, too, kiddo."

  Opening the door, Ben heard footsteps. His heart skipped a beat as he glanced through the storm door. With relief, he saw Jennifer walking up the steps, swinging a black briefcase in her hand.

  "Time to go," Amy said.

  When he put her down, Amy grabbed her old metal lunch box and book bag, then took Elana's hand.

  He watched them go down the stairs, passing Jennifer on the way. At the sidewalk, they turned left and headed up the street toward the preschool. Amy was singing a Spanish song Elana had taught her. The police car fell in behind them.

  "Cute kid," Jennifer said. With a pang she wondered if she and Ben would have had a child like that if they had gotten married.

  "Thanks."

  "How old is she?"

  "Four. I'll bet you were a beauty when you were four."

  She smiled at the compliment. "I was trouble, too."

  "So what else is new?"

  "One thing that isn't new is that sweatshirt you're wearing," she said in a jocular manner. She tapped him playfully on the shoulder, wanting to make it clear that she was willing to get away from her biting, sarcastic manner.

  He eyed the Yale Law School sweatshirt dubiously. "Yeah, you were always after me to toss it. I could lie and say I bought a new one."

  "But I'd know that a new one couldn't possibly get so grungy in five years."

  "I feel comfortable in it," he said by way of apology. "I do my best work in it."

  "So I remember. By the way, I assume those are still the same jeans?"

  He smiled. "Regrettably, yes."

  Jennifer took off her raincoat and hung it herself in the closet. She was wearing a perfectly pressed Dior gray suit with a thin red stripe and a white blouse. He didn't see how anyone could look so good early in the morning. If she felt awkward being back in the house she had lived in for almost a year, she didn't say anything, although he did watch her woman's eye roaming around, trying to determine what changes had been made since she moved out.

  "Let's go back into the kitchen," he said.

  He poured two cups of steaming coffee into mugs and sat down across from her, while she waited patiently for him to begin.

  "Art Campbell told me about the blond hair," Ben said. "
He also told me that you don't think Clyde Gillis killed Winthrop. I want you to tell me what you know."

  "Where are you going with this?" Jennifer said evenly. "You've got to let me in on what's happening before you can expect me to lay out my whole case. Really, Ben. I'm not being difficult."

  Ben paused to sip some coffee. She was right, of course. He had to tell her everything first, before he could ask her to disclose what she knew.

  "I'm convinced," Ben said abruptly, "that Clyde Gillis didn't kill Winthrop."

  She straightened up in surprise. "Wow, that's a mouthful." A great load had been taken off her mind. "Then why are we here? Why don't you dismiss the case? We can all go back to what we were doing before last Sunday."

  "It's not that simple, I'm afraid."

  "You want to tell me why?"

  He looked down at the table, ashamed of what he had done, not wanting to admit it to her. "I was threatened last night and nearly killed," he said clumsily.

  At first she thought he was kidding, which Ben had had a tendency to do when they were dating. She was ready to laugh. Then she saw the grimness in his face. She thought about the attack on Ann yesterday to get the second copy of the video, and she knew this was no joke.

  "That's why we're meeting here, Jenny. Art's got police covering the house."

  "Oh, Ben, I'm so sorry," she said.

  He knew she meant it. "I appreciate that. I really do."

  "What happened?"

  He hesitated, not sure how much to tell her. "A blond woman attacked me."

  Alarm bells started going off for Jennifer. "Where did this happen?"

  Ben squirmed in his chair. At all costs, he refused to tell Jennifer what had happened to him last night. His interest in her was still strong. If she ever found out what he had done, she would probably be so repulsed that any chance of a rekindling on her part would be snuffed out forever.

  "The details aren't important," he said, "and it's painful for me to talk about." Which was true, he thought. "The key thing is that the blonde who attacked me has to be our infamous George Nesbitt. When you put that together with the fact that George Nesbitt was a phony name, and my impression from my interrogation of Clyde Gillis at the jail Sunday night, a different scenario spins out."