“There were deaths.”
“There are deaths every day. Even of school children.”
Skorzeny gestured in the direction of Notre Dame. As he did, one of the bateaux mouches floated by, casting its Platonic reflections on the walls of Skorzeny’s elegant cave. The old man’s face danced in and out of the chiaroscuro. “Do you think the God who once resided in that prime piece of Parisian real estate ever murdered a school child? A virgin? A nun? Of course He did. So if what happened today in Edwardsville wasn’t a tragedy, then what was it?”
“As you said, sir—an occurrence.” He realized that Skorzeny liked to take both sides in an argument, but it was getting late. Even Skorzeny had to sleep some time.
Skorzeny began to move toward the interior stairway, toward his private chambers. It was only at moments like that the man showed even a glimmer of his age. There was the hint of a shuffle in the walk, a moue of weariness at the mouth. Both of which would have vanished by morning—which, on Skorzeny’s schedule, was only a few hours away. “Really, Monsieur Pilier, you disappoint me.”
As Skorzeny passed him, Pilier tried once more: “An opportunity?”
“Precisely,” said Skorzeny. “Good night, Monsieur Pilier.”
“Good night, sir.”
Skorzeny stepped into the hallway. He never took reading to bed. When it was time to sleep, that’s what he did. Efficiency above everything. Tonight, however, he had a valedictory. “Do you ever wonder where He went?”
“Who, sir?”
Skorzeny shot him a look. Suddenly, one bony hand shot out, grasping Pilier hard. “Inform our other British member that I expect to receive his report of his American activities at the London board meeting. That is all.”
That was his signal. Pilier nodded and went to retrieve a portable basin of water spiced with lemon juice in which Skorzeny ritually washed his hands before retiring, reflecting his absolute abhorrence of dirt. Mentally, Pilier referred to it as the “Pontius Pilate” bowl.
“Thank you,” Skorzeny said, wiping his hands on the freshly laundered linen towel draped over Pilier’s left forearm, which would go straight to the laundry service in the morning.
Pilier stood motionless as Skorzeny disappeared up the stairs. He had learned from experience not to move until he heard the music—you never knew when Skorzeny would poke his head out one last time with a request or an observation. What would it be tonight? What elegy to accompany Emanuel Skorzeny into slumber?
Sure enough, the voice wafted from above: “Do you remember who St. Bernard was, Monsieur Pilier?”
“Something to do with Clairvaux, sir?” hazarded Pilier, trying not to shout.
“The abbot of the great monastery, to be precise. In the twelfth century, the man who preached the Second Crusade in 1146. Friend to Saint Malachy, he of the apocalyptic prophecy of papal succession in 1139. Of the 111th Pope, Peter the Roman, and the revenge of the dragon.”
Pilier had no idea what he was talking about. When Skorzeny went off on one of these numerological tangents…
“Today, their successors will not even use the word, ‘crusade,’ much less preach one. What do you call that, Monsieur Pilier?”
Pilier thought for a moment. Of course it was a trick question. They were all trick questions. “Prudence, sir?” he replied.
“Cowardice,” said Skorzeny, shutting the door again.
Silence for a moment, and then the music: the opening strains of the Elgar cello concerto, first movement. Skorzeny’s taste was impeccable, as always.
Chapter Twenty-four
LEXINGTON, KENTUCKY
Devlin caught the Greyhound bus from St. Louis to Lexington, Kentucky, where he bought an airplane ticket under the name “Matt Nolan,” bound for Reagan International. There, he would pick up a CSS drop car in the long-term parking lot and drive himself home.
Things weren’t as bad as he’d feared in Edwardsville. The explosion had demolished the gym, but ironically the fact that Bartlett’s team had blown holes in the walls during their assault had dispersed the power of the bomb and saved the rest of the school.
The bad news was there was one child still missing—Emma, the daughter of Hope Gardner, the woman who had so bravely and foolishly penetrated the school, the sister of the boy he had pulled to safety into the Dumpster when Milverton’s little going-away present blew. There was no way to tell whether she was alive or dead at this point, but the longer they went without finding her body, the better the chances of finding her were. Unless, of course, she had been blown to bits.
The other bad news was that the hero, the guy he’d seen breaking through the police lines and had gotten himself killed for no reason—that man had been identified as Hope’s husband, Jack. That family had really taken a hit.
One part of Devlin admired him. But the time for civilian heroes was when trouble started, not when it was almost over. A civilian hero was the customer sitting munching his Big Mac with a .45 in his pocket when the punks tried to hold up the McDonald’s, the man who, seeing a couple of thugs breaking into his neighbor’s house, racks up his 12-gauge, blows the perps out of their socks, and then waits for the cops to show up.
Devlin knew all this because had been tracking the aftermath of the school operation via his next-generation iPhone, which after all had been licensed to Apple and AT&T by the NSA in a top-secret agreement that gave the agency discretionary but complete access to all audio and visual files transmitted over the system. Even now, the NSA computers in Fort Meade and the huge data chompers in Poughkeepsie were busily sorting through teenage pranks, the exotic but enervating sexual practices of random couples, and the idle chatter of millions of cell-phone laundry lists and bitch-out sessions.
Still, the panic that had overtaken the New York Times and its fellow travelers when word of the “warrantless wiretapping” program had leaked into print was ridiculous. Nobody, least of all him and the operatives in Branch 4, had the time or the patience to sort through granny’s recipes for apple pan dowdy. The vast majority of the intercepts went straight to the data-sifters, churning bytes, megabytes, gigabytes, terabytes, and googlebytes in search of that magic combination of zeros and ones that might signify terrorist buzzwords.
And all thanks to something called the “SKIPJACK” algorithm. First proposed by the Clinton administration as part of something called the “Clipper Chip,” the original 80-bit key, 64-bit block, 32-round, unbalanced Feistel network called Skipjack would have placed a chip inside all new communication devices to allow the encryption of private communications. The catch was that, buried deep in the proposal, was an “escrow” proviso that called for a third party to maintain the “keys” to unlock encrypted communications, which government agents could access with court permission. The whole idea being, essentially, to make private data-encryption impossible, as the classified Presidential Decision Directive No. 5, issued by Clinton in 1993, made clear. In other words, like most congressional laws and state referenda, it meant the exact opposite of what it said.
That “third party,” of course, was the National Security Agency, which had invented the damn thing in the first place. And it was never very difficult to find a sympathetic judge in Washington, no matter which party was in power.
The NSA had invented the chip’s underlying cryptographic algorithm—Skipjack—which the agency promptly classified. When the civil-liberties types started barking, Clinton backed away, leaving the playing field wide open for the NSA to step in and lock the whole thing down. In a fit of false openness, the NSA in 1998 released the Skipjack algorithm to computer security companies wishing to develop off-the-shelf encryption products compatible with federal government communications systems. And so the marriage made in heaven was consummated. Talk about a poisoned pawn: now every American potentially was subject to federal monitoring.
Well, that sure made his job a lot easier. Too bad he didn’t have the heart to tell that to Eddie Bartlett’s daughter, Jade. Tapped into her iPhone, he co
uld keep tabs on his partner’s family, just to be on the safe side.
Devlin’s off-market “iPhone” was something else again. It was part of his deal that he had access to beta-plus-one versions of everything. With a few punches of his game console he could slam through into a teenage girl’s webcam as she Facebooked some fiftyish dirtbag claiming to be a runaway from Alberta and rat him out to the FBI—anonymously, of course. Echelon had nothing on Skipjack.
“Can I get you something else?” said the cocktail waitress in the Lexington airport lounge. Devlin glanced at his watch: plenty of time. “What do you think…Laura?” he replied.
She didn’t move. She was about twenty-six, midwestern, tanned—German background, for sure, since Irish and English girls never darkened in the sun like that—small-breasted, nice legs. His type.
The girl smiled. “Do I know you?” Worked every time.
Devlin shot her one of those apparently honest, searching gazes that women loved. Women were like fish; you had to get them to nibble, then bite, but had to reel them in slowly, playing them out just enough to give them the illusion that they could safely swim away at any time. “I’m sorry…Courtney?” She dipped a little at the knees, moved in closer, an open invitation if you knew how to read body language.
“Amber,” she said. “See?” She pointed to the name tag just above her left breast.
Devlin shook his head. “No, not Amber.” The girl looked momentarily puzzled, which is exactly what he expected. “I’ve met all the girls named Amber and I sure would have remembered you.” He was smiling now. “No, I’m pretty sure your name is Destiny.”
It took her a couple of seconds to get the joke. She gave him one of those quizzical, excuse-me smiles this generation was so adept at. Instinctively, she moved to the next level, something else he was counting on. “I think it was at Marengo?” The mock-shake of the head, the sarcastic furrowing of the eyebrows. “Remember?”
Devlin pretended to think. This was going to be easier than he thought. Marengo was a nice touch, and out of anybody else’s mouth but hers it might have raised a flag or two. “Marengo? Whose side were you on—Napoleon’s, the Austrians’, or the chicken’s?”
She giggled. “You’re smart, aren’t you? I can tell.”
“No one’s ever told me that before.”
That got her laughing again. “I was talking about the club—you know, the one downtown?”
“Right,” he said. “Maybe you could take me there?” He watched her eyes as she was making up her mind. As soon as he saw assent—“What time do you get off?”
“Don’t you have somewhere to go?” she smiled. “I mean, you are here at the airport.”
“My flight just got canceled.”
“Ten o’clock,” she said “What did you say your name was?”
Thank God there was a flight to Washington early the next morning. Sometimes the loneliness was crushing.
DAY TWO
Facts stand wholly outside our gates; they are what they are, and no more; they know nothing about themselves, and they pass no judgment upon themselves. What is it, then, that pronounces the judgment? Our own guide and ruler, reason.
—MARCUS AURELIUS, Meditations, Book IX
Chapter Twenty-five
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Senator Robert Hartley kicked off his shoes, poured himself a drink, and looked out the window at the Potomac as it flowed past his apartment in The Watergate. It was after midnight. It had been a very long day and he was looking forward to some well-deserved relaxation.
He liked Washington, he decided, and even though he had promised the people of his state that three terms would be plenty, he had since found ample reason to rearrange his position on the subject. Seniority, for one thing, which was the only thing on Capitol Hill that outranked sex as a congressional motivating factor. All that was left now was how to pitch his repositioning as high principle, instead of opportunism.
After all, he was an effective pork-barreler—make that “constituent services provider”—and he kept federal dollars flowing into his state far in excess of what they paid out in taxes. Early on, he had learned that pork was a zero-sum contest among the fifty states, and so he’d found himself in complete agreement with Mr. Micawber: that taxes plus one extra dollar back from the feds equaled happiness, and taxes minus one dollar equaled misery. Especially at the ballot box.
Second, he knew his way around the corridors. One thing the Clintons had taught everybody—a lesson they in turn had learned from J. Edgar Hoover—that he who controls the files controls the capital, and Hartley had made it his first order of business upon arrival in the District of Columbia to get to know the men who knew the men who kept the secrets. Although privately he despised the FBI for the life it had forced Hoover and Clyde Tolson to lead, he knew enough to ingratiate himself with the Revolving Door known as the FBI director, as well as with the Empty Seat known as the Director of Central Intelligence. It was amazing how close you could get with somebody once you knew what really motivated him or her. Which was pretty much the same thing that motivated everybody: money, sex, and power.
Third, there was the war chest. So much cash that Hartley hadn’t yet mustered the courage to ask his bundlers where it was all coming from. Small donations, he was assured, all well within the campaign finance limits. Keeping track of stuff like this was beyond anybody’s powers except a fleet of high-priced lawyers with unlimited billable hours, but Hartley supposed that was the price you paid for democracy.
Not bad for a boy from the Bronx. As a kid, Hartley had set his cap for a ticket out of the old neighborhood, which in his case lay between Belmont and the Mosholu Parkway. As a teenager, he had started calling himself “Hartley” instead of his real name—it sounded so much tonier—and after a while it had become such second nature that he’d had it legally changed between the time he applied to Harvard Law and when he was accepted. Good-bye Kings College, hello Cambridge, Mass.
After Harvard, he’d clerked for one of the justices for a while, but realized soon enough that the life of a lawyer was not for him, that the law degree was only a means to an end, which was politics. He found he had a real knack for it, so when the time came for him to settle on a base of operations, he picked a state in the upper Midwest where the folks were just as nice as pie, a place where he could rub off the abrasive edges of his native accent and his personality but could still retain a trace of his otherness as he climbed the ladder from the state legislature to the House to the Senate.
He knew that a lot of people considered him a prick—you couldn’t rise as high as he had without making plenty of enemies—but his constituents didn’t seem to care: he was their prick, and he delivered. And, really, was that so bad? He wanted what everybody else wanted, status, respect, power, and, in those moments when he was truthful with himself, love. Even if he had to look for it in unsavory places sometimes. Oh well, he could live with that. In fact, he had been living with it for most of his life.
Which is why it was strange but true—“ironic,” even, in the currently debased usage of that word, which usually signified “coincidental”—that just about the only friend he had in the world was the man who was now sitting in the Oval Office.
But latterly a new element had just been injected into the forthcoming campaign: President Tyler’s sagging fortunes. What just happened in Edwardsville wasn’t going to help his poll numbers, that was for sure. Despite the false sense of security post–9/11, wouldn’t take much to swing the pendulum of fear back into the red zone. Another attack, God forbid, and…
Hartley realized in this game of high-low poker, he had a great hand to play. The only question was when to declare.
Declarations were not something politicians instinctively gravitated toward. Like most of his colleagues, Hartley preferred to dither and debate until events or circumstances or fate or whatever finally forced his hand. And then he jumped in the direction of the wind, principles as intact as possible, press rel
eases at the ready.
Hartley didn’t live at The Watergate, of course. His residence of record was in Georgetown, like everybody else’s. He kept this particular flat rented under an assumed name that was protected by an ironclad confidential understanding with the management, and used it for special occasions.
He was mentally trying on the Oval Office for size when a sound outside in the hallway caught his attention. Sometimes his visitors from the agency were a little shy or inexperienced, and it took a friendly voice of encouragement, or a drink, or something stronger, to put them at ease. Few recognized him—hell, they were barely old enough to vote, most of them. To them, he was just another middle-aged white guy from the hinterland, come to the great city to stroll on what passed for the wild side on the banks of the Potomac.
He peered through the security peephole, but saw nothing. He put his ear against the door, but heard nothing. Hartley was no longer paranoid—liberation was a wonderful thing—but discretion was still part of his implicit deal with the voters and there was no point in pushing his luck.
He glanced at his watch and made a mental note to discuss tardiness with the manager of the service, the next time he encountered him in one of the District’s discreet watering holes that catered to powerful men with his tastes.
This time, the knock was unmistakable. Hartley turned back to the door, and yanked it open—
Nobody.
“Goddamnit—”
The man he didn’t see blew past him before he knew what was happening. Grabbed Hartley by the arm and pulled him inside. Closed the door behind them softly and said, “Ready?”
Hartley looked his unexpected visitor over. The fellow certainly didn’t look like he was from A Current Affair, the name of the escort service he regularly employed. Even were he into fetishes, this get-up—a good-looking blond hunk in a suit—wasn’t what he had ordered at all. “Who are you?”
Michael Walsh Bundle Page 13