Dark Ambition

by Allan Topol

  She was suspicious about the details, but let it go. "Which is?" she asked.

  "Art and I figure that somebody in the administration knows who killed Winthrop, and they're trying to cover it up. Your client happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. They rigged the evidence to fit him."

  That was what she had thought all along. "Then why not release him?"

  "These people play for keeps. She threatened to kill me and Amy." He winced at the memory. "The confession has to be coerced. If I let Gillis out, she'll kill him in a minute and leave a copy of the confession beside the body."

  The news of these threats alarmed her. "Then why not go to Director Murtaugh at the FBI, or even the President? Ann can get us into the White House."

  He said quietly, "Because I don't know how high up this goes."

  She thought he was overreacting. "Brewster's a decent man. He's never been mixed up in anything like this."

  "Neither of us knows him that well," he said, frowning. "I can't speak for you, but I'm not prepared to bet my daughter's life on a guess about the integrity of a president I don't know. We've had some beauts in the Oval Office over the years."

  "So whom do you trust? What do you plan to do?"

  "With Art's help, and hopefully yours, I'll find out who hired the blonde to kill Winthrop. Then I'll go to the President—only after I've set it up so I can say the story goes to the press if anything happens to me."

  She nodded her head hesitantly. "That sounds like a good plan."

  He saw the doubt on her face. "The trouble is, I don't have much time. On top of that, I don't have the faintest idea who hired the blonde. That's where I'm hoping you might be able to help."

  Jennifer studied Ben carefully. In those bloodshot eyes was a fear that she had never seen before. Ben was genuinely afraid for his own life and Amy's. How could she possibly not help him? She wouldn't be compromising the rights of Clyde Gillis. Ben was now in agreement with her that Clyde was innocent. And if Ben was right, Clyde might be murdered unless they found out who was behind Winthrop's death.

  She reached into her briefcase on the floor and pulled out a stack of papers. "These motion papers are what I've been working on the last couple of days," she said as she tossed a copy across the table.

  Ben studied the headings: Motion for Temporary Injunction to Prevent the Chinese Ambassador from Leaving the United States; Motion to Depose the Chinese Ambassador; and Motion to Require the Chinese Ambassador to Appear as a Witness at the Trial of Clyde Gillis.

  Ben was stunned. "The Chinese ambassador? Liu? You've got to be kidding."

  "I'm not, Ben. From Ann Winthrop I've learned facts that you don't know."

  "And you really think that Liu had something to do with Winthrop's death?"

  "Not something. Everything. The Chinese government was unhappy about Winthrop's Taiwan arms package. They learned that Winthrop employs prostitutes when he travels, and they tried to blackmail him. When he refused to yield to the blackmail, they decided to kill him by sending a woman he thought was a prostitute. A woman dressed as a man and with a fake ID in the name of George Nesbitt. Winthrop thought she was coming for sex. When she was in his house, she killed him."

  Ben sat quietly for a long minute, letting her words sink in. "That's quite a story," he finally said.

  Jennifer realized that he wasn't prepared to accept her conclusion, based on what she had said. She couldn't blame him. She still had gaps she wanted to fill in herself. "It's consistent with your theory. When somebody close to the President found out about it, they knew that they had a major scandal and a foreign policy nightmare on their hands. They couldn't take that a year before Brewster's reelection. So they initiated the cover-up that you're talking about."

  Ben got up and walked around the room, mulling over what she had just told him. "It all fits together," he said thoughtfully. "Somebody in the administration could be covering up Winthrop's murder, arranged by Liu. Where's the proof, though, that Liu was responsible?"

  Instinctively, she hesitated. It was her defense counsel knee-jerk reaction against disclosing evidence to a prosecutor in advance of trial.

  Ben knew what was running through her mind. "C'mon, Jenny," he said, "this isn't a normal case. Let go of the defense counsel role. For better or worse, we're in this together. Your client and I both have our lives on the line."

  "Sorry, Ben, that was habit. Pavlov's dog at work. You're right, of course."

  In a no-nonsense, detailed, factual presentation, she summarized everything that she had learned since Saturday. She showed Ben the pictures Mark Bonner had taken on Monday at the video place and then the ones depicting the pickup and delivery to the Chinese embassy. She played Ann's audiotape of Winthrop's meeting with the Chinese ambassador on November I. She told Ben how Ann had been accosted in her house and forced to go to the bank vault in order to retrieve and turn over a second copy of the video, by the same man who delivered the first one to the Chinese embassy representative.

  When she was finished, Ben said, "Is there another copy of the video?" Reluctantly, Jennifer reached into her briefcase and pulled it out. Having just repeated what had happened yesterday to Ann, she was now scared herself.

  "Let's take a look at it," Ben said, leading the way to the living room. He turned on the television and shoved the tape into the VCR. As the screen came to life, the camera was focused on the bedroom of a hotel suite. Ben guessed that the camera had been installed in the hotel room adjacent to the suite and that a special mirror, a one-way glass, had been installed between the two rooms. The camera was shooting through that glass. The picture was clear, not at all grainy. The Chinese had obviously employed a professional camera crew with state-of-the-art equipment.

  At first they were looking at an empty bedroom. Then faint voices came from the living room of the suite. Ben recognized Winthrop's voice, off in the distance.

  Within a minute, they heard stronger voices. Winthrop entered the bedroom, followed by two women, both blondes, wearing identical black micro miniskirts and low-cut black tank tops. Winthrop reached into a bureau drawer and extracted a large roll of British pounds, which he divided between the two women. They counted it carefully and then put the money away.

  The three of them were still standing in front of the bed when the women began undressing him. All the while he was laughing and smiling.

  "On the chair, big boy," one said to him when he was fully undressed. "First you can watch us play."

  They undressed each other, fondling and kissing as they did. Winthrop egged them on with delight.

  Finally, the two women pulled Winthrop toward the bed. His penis was fully erect as they pushed him down on his back across the king-size bed. One of the women slipped a condom on him, and then put him in her mouth. The other one squatted over his face, spread out her vagina, and thrust down toward his mouth. "Eat me, big boy, eat me," she cried out. Winthrop began licking her wildly.

  Jennifer was filled with loathing and disgust. She reached for the remote control and turned off the set. "You've got the idea," she said. "I played it to the end when Ann first gave it to me. The rest is more of the same. He was scum."

  Ben was shaking his head. "That video's dynamite. I see why people are prepared to do anything to get hold of it. I don't think you should be carrying it around with you."

  "I won't give it up."

  "At least let Art make a copy to lock up in his office."

  She nodded. "That I'll do."

  Now convinced of Liu's involvement in the Winthrop affair, Ben picked up her motion papers and leafed through them.

  "My idea," Jennifer said, "is to confront Liu head-on by making him testify under oath about his involvement in Winthrop's death."

  Ben shook his head absently, still flipping through her papers. "It won't work."

  "Why not?"

  He looked at her directly. "You'll never get a chance to depose him. The White House will blow smoke about diplomatic immunity. While
you're fighting that legal battle, they'll let him slip out of the country. And even if you did manage to depose him, he'd admit everything on the tape, but deny he had anything to do with Winthrop's murder. And you know what?"

  She gazed at him, waiting for him to continue.

  "We don't have a shred of direct evidence linking the Chinese ambassador or his government to the murder."

  "But we have the video," Jennifer protested, "and proof of his efforts to get it back."

  Ben nodded. "That's true, but it's still a big leap from that evidence to Winthrop's murder. If we put on a case in court against Liu with what we have now, we'd never survive a motion to dismiss."

  She wrinkled up her nose, thinking about what he had just said. "So where's that leave us?"

  "We've got to get some direct evidence linking the Chinese government and Ambassador Liu to Winthrop's death. Then we can force the administration to let us question him. If they won't, we'll go to the press. The key now is to get that direct evidence."

  "Easier said than done."

  "You're not kidding. Let's go back over everything one more time. There's got to be a loose thread somewhere we can grab onto and use to unravel the ball."

  She started back over her story a second time. In the middle, he interrupted her. "Peg Barton," he said. "Ann told you on the audiotape, from the night Winthrop and Liu met at Winthrop's house, that the Chinese ambassador said the secretary of state used Peg Barton in London to arrange the evening with the two prostitutes. It's not much, but it's a name. It gives us something to go on."

  She still didn't follow. "How can she help us?"

  "Your friend, the shrink at NIMH, told you to find out who supplied him with prostitutes. Peg Barton is in London, but at least she moves us in that direction. Besides, she's someone who interacted with both Winthrop and the Chinese. You know what I mean?"

  Jennifer didn't. He could read it on her face.

  Ben continued, "Peg Barton and her girls had to be in on making the London video."

  Suddenly, the telephone rang. Ben glanced at it nervously. What if it was the blonde threatening him again? Demanding to know whether he was taking the confession to Judge Hogan this morning? Telling him that she was watching Amy's preschool?

  "You'd better answer it," Jennifer said.

  His hands were moist when he picked up the phone. Hearing Campbell's voice, Ben breathed a sigh of relief.

  "Can you come over to Clyde Gillis's house ASAP?" Campbell said. "I may have a break for you."

  "Jennifer and I are on our way."

  "And take your cues from me," Campbell ordered him. "Don't try to seize control. It won't work here."

  "Yes, sir."

  Excited, Ben hung up and ran up the stairs, discarding his Yale Law sweatshirt and faded jeans on the way. He'd better shave fast and dress like a lawyer. Campbell was always careful, Ben knew. If he had a break, then maybe their position wasn't as hopeless as it had seemed an hour ago.

  * * *

  Jennifer drove while Ben kept checking through the rear window, looking for the blonde. As far as he could tell, they weren't being followed.

  Lucinda Gillis was sitting on the living room sofa when Campbell led Ben and Jennifer into the Gillises' house. Upstairs, two girls were shouting at each other. A television set was blasting downstairs.

  Impervious to the noise, Lucinda sat perfectly still, with a composed look on her face. Her arms were crossed in front of her chest. Jennifer sat down on the sofa next to her in a show of solidarity with her client's wife.

  "We've come to an understanding of sorts," Campbell said to Ben. "Mrs. Gillis saw you in court yesterday. She knows it's your case. She'll agree to tell you about her husband's confession if you agree to certain things."

  "What are those, Mrs. Gillis?" Ben asked politely.

  The detective removed a piece of paper from a ledge above the fireplace filled with knickknacks and handed it to Ben. It was in Lucinda Gillis's handwriting. As Ben read aloud, the detective paced.

  " 'One. We agree to release Clyde Gillis from jail immediately and not charge him with any crime because we know that he is innocent. Two. We will not charge Lucinda Gillis with any crime if she gives all of the money to the police. Three. We will protect Clyde and Lucinda Gillis and all of their children.' "

  What money were they talking about? Ben wondered. That must be the break Campbell had referred to.

  There were two signature lines at the bottom. Underneath one, the words Ben Hartwell for the United States was spelled out in black letters. Detective Arthur Campbell for the District of Columbia was written under the other.

  When Ben finished reading, he handed the document to Jennifer.

  Campbell said, "I told Mrs. Gillis that we would sign it if she made one change. We can't release her husband yet because we can protect him better in jail. I'll make sure that he gets treated well. But I told her that you won't prosecute him anymore."

  "That's right," Ben replied without hesitation, knowing full well that he could be fired for making a commitment like this on behalf of the United States without Al Hennessey's express approval.

  Lucinda nodded her agreement. "Change the paper, Detective Campbell," she said.

  Jennifer handed Campbell the paper, and he made the revisions.

  As Ben waited, he thought, What a sad commentary on our society. People don't believe the police unless they put it in writing. The two men signed the paper and handed it to Lucinda.

  Satisfied, she began talking. "Yesterday afternoon, a woman called me and said she could help me. She asked me to meet her at the Van Ness Metro stop, which I did."

  Ben was about to break in, but he bit his tongue. Campbell had said this was his show.

  "What did she look like?" Campbell asked.

  "She had lovely blond hair and blue eyes. She was pretty, but not as beautiful as Miss Moore," she said, pointing at Jennifer, who blushed. "They look like the same type. Except that she wore her hair long, hanging down, not up like Miss Moore. And she wasn't wearing glasses like Miss Moore."

  Campbell reached into his briefcase and extracted the picture the artist had made last night with Ben's description.

  "Yeah, that's her," Lucinda said.

  Jennifer looked at the picture, then at Ben, knowing that he would have been attracted to her, which must be how he got himself into trouble last night.

  "What kind of car was she driving?" Campbell asked.

  "It was old and blue. That's all I know. Afterward, I thought I should have looked at the license plate." She pursed her lips. "You don't think about those things at the time."

  Campbell waited patiently, making sure Lucinda was finished with that part. Then he asked, "What happened next?"

  "I got into her car. From Connecticut Avenue, she drove into Rock Creek Park. She pulled off into a parking lot. You know, one of those little ones next to a picnic grove? Anyway, there was nobody around. At first I was a little frightened. But she said that she wanted a quiet place to talk."

  "What did she say?"

  "She told me that she had spoken to Clyde at the jail and promised him two million dollars if he would confess. It would be paid out at a rate of ten thousand dollars for every month of his life. He refused. So she told me that she would kill all of my children one by one."

  Ben expected her to start crying at this horrible threat. Not Lucinda Gillis. She had a core of inner strength that she drew upon to continue talking in a flat, unemotional tone.

  "She just said it so matter-of-fact, as if she was telling me it would rain tomorrow. She didn't seem like a real person. She showed me a sharp knife to convince me that she was serious. It wasn't necessary. I had no doubt from the cold-blooded way that woman talked."

  Instantly, Ben's hand went to his pants, covering the right cheek of his buttocks and the wound. Yeah, she's serious about using that knife, he thought.

  "We talked some more. Finally I told her that I would persuade my husband to change his mind
about the confession. She said that was good. She asked for my account number at Riggs Bank and promised me that the first deposit of ten thousand dollars would be wired into my account at six o'clock yesterday if Clyde confessed. She gave me a telephone number to call her at five o'clock. I convinced Clyde to confess. Then I called the woman."

  Ben looked expectantly at Campbell.

  "Mrs. Gillis kept the phone number," he said. "It's a pay phone on the corner of Twelfth and L. Mrs. Gillis also gave me her account number at Riggs Bank." He stopped to pat his pocket. "And a note that lets me get any information about her account."

  Ben decided at this point it was all right for him to speak up. He turned to Campbell. "I think we better go down to Riggs Bank and see about that deposit."

  * * *

  They left Jennifer's red SAAB convertible on Quincy Street and set off in Campbell's unmarked car to the main branch of Riggs Bank. The detective didn't take a direct route. He wove around streets and back alleys of southeast Washington until he was certain they weren't being followed.

  At the bank, Ben and Jennifer waited in the car, parked on Pennsylvania Avenue, which was off limits to vehicular traffic, while Campbell went inside alone.

  In the high-ceilinged marble lobby resembling a shrine as much as a bank, he sat down across the desk from a pale, thin young man with black horn-rimmed glasses resting halfway down his nose. On his desk was a sign with gold letters that said, Harvey Miller, Vice President. The banker studied Lucinda Gillis's note carefully.

  "Without Ms. Gillis being here," Miller began, "I'm afraid that—"

  "If you even dream about giving me any shit like that," Campbell said irately, "I'm going right to Mr. Parker, who always cooperates with the police. You'll be Harvey Miller, former vice president."

  The detective's harsh tone, coupled with invoking the name of the president of the bank, had the desired effect. Miller pushed back his glasses and began punching buttons on the computer on his desk. The screen immediately sprang to life.