Father Night, page 3
“Well, all right, then. I need you to get me out of here.”
“What, the hospital?”
“The hospital, Moscow, Russia.”
Jack was puzzled. “But you have so many friends, so much power.”
The old man smiled. “The jackals are circling, the hyenas, and now the lions. They’re all watching. They all smell blood.” He folded his hands on his lap, staring at the tracery of raised blue veins. “Times have changed, Jack. Now money is the only thing that matters. If you have enough money, you buy your way into power. It’s easier, you see, than fighting for it yourself. And so much quicker. Shortcuts. These people today, they’re lazy, they want everything immediately. Money is the speedway, the rocket to the moon, so to speak.”
He shifted slightly, rearranging the sheet over him. “So the old ways are dying, if not already dead, all right, fine, I’m not one to hold on to the past, wringing my hands, mourning for the old days. I think about the future, always, which is why I must make my escape before I get dragged down by what is happening now.”
“Which is?”
“A present for which I am unprepared.” He shook his head. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m neither senile nor paranoid.”
“Although in our business,” Jack said, “a little paranoia is a good thing.”
A small smile played around the corners of Gourdjiev’s mouth, but was quickly extinguished. “This escape has to be done now—today.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“I’ll tell you when we’re out of Russia, not before.”
“Annika told me that you want to get to a cache of information you’ve amassed over the years.”
“Evidence of wrongdoing, malfeasance, extortion, embezzlement, murder. Documents and photos, taped conversations, videos, that sort of thing.” The old man smiled. “There’s no such cache.”
“Then why did you tell Annik—”
“For her own protection. If she knew everything is inside my head, she’d be paralyzed with fear for me. You understand I can’t have that.”
Jack did. Again, he thought, who wants her dead? The same jackals, hyenas, and lions that are watching, circling the old man, waiting for an opening; it stands to reason. But who are they?
Dyadya Gourdjiev tapped the back of Jack’s hand with a papery finger. “I wanted you to meet Katya. I love her and she loves me. Now, in my twilight, that’s all that’s important to me—love. I have no more need of either money or power—they’re for younger people, like you and Annika.”
With a sudden lunge, he clutched Jack’s hand. “You love my granddaughter, yes?”
“Yes,” Jack said.
“Because she loves you. This is my beacon in the dark, the only thing I pay attention to now. This is the depth of my trust in you, Jack. Words—words mean nothing, an actor’s lines. I want you to remember that. No matter what may occur, you must remember that you love each other, that that love will never change, that it is your true strength, your only salvation.”
The old man looked deep into Jack’s eyes. “You don’t understand this now, but I have faith that one day you will.”
Jack sat for a long time, turning over everything Gourdjiev had said. At last, he roused himself. He had a fistful of questions, but he knew the old man well enough not to ask them now. “As to our escape,” he said, “I suppose you have a plan.”
“When do I not?” That smile again, sharp as a scimitar’s blade. “I’m going to have to die.”
* * *
HENRY HOLT Carson received a call from the president after hours, though, when it came to both men, that phrase hardly existed. Carson was as apt to be up and working at three in the morning as he was at three in the afternoon. His sprawling empire, anchored by his InterPublic Bancorp, made it imperative that he often transact business in Asia and the Middle East. He was not a man to delegate tasks both difficult and delicate to others just because it might gain him some sack time. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” was Carson’s most beloved phrase.
The two men met in the parking lot in back of an enormous Walmart inhabited only by dead-looking trailer trucks unhooked from their cabs and the president’s Secret Service detail, which had immediately established a watchful perimeter of granite-faced men linked by a wireless network. Crawford and Carson looked a lot alike. Hands plunged deep in cashmere overcoats, they smiled at each other in a chilly, feral manner, because more often than not the reason for their meetings wasn’t pleasant. For both men, business was everything, pleasure a distant memory enjoyed by their younger selves in another, dimly recalled lifetime.
“Making money?” Arlen Crawford said with his just-us-folks Texan heartiness.
“Every minute of every hour of every day,” Carson said. “But since you’re regularly kept abreast of our mutual holdings I very much doubt that’s why we’re here in this godforsaken place.”
“It suits our purpose.” Crawford, tall and rangy, with a cowpoke’s rough, wind-reddened skin, indicated that the two should walk. Crawford was not a man who enjoyed being sedentary. Briefings saw him walking back and forth behind the facing sofas in the Oval Office, a habit that still disconcerted some members of his cabinet. This was the very reaction Crawford sought. The president liked everyone off balance, even his closest advisors. “Absent a real live battle,” he would say, “it keeps ’em sharp.”
The president extracted a pair of Cuban Cohibas from his inside breast pocket, handed one to Carson, then stuck the other between his teeth. The two men paused, bent their heads together as Carson, protected by hunched shoulders and a cupped hand from the wind, lit the cigars. He used one of his prized possessions, a massive silver Ronson lighter, given to him by the premier of China during a pilgrimage Carson had made to Beijing six years ago to clear the way for his brother Edward, then a senator. Also, to consummate a highly lucrative deal with a Chinese high-tech firm headquartered in Shanghai.
The two men continued their leisurely amble around the deserted parking lot, chatting about an upcoming Senate vote, personal golf scores, and Crawford’s new press secretary. Nothing important. Carson, walking on the balls of his feet, waited patiently for the current scenario to unfold. The Secret Service perimeter shifted with the location of the POTUS. The men’s electronic whispering to each other possessed the hard, dry rustle of an autumn wind.
At last Crawford cleared his throat and said, “I’m growing concerned with Three-thirteen.”
The mere mention of the name sent chills through the usually imperturbable Carson. “You’re always concerned about Three-thirteen,” he said, easily projecting a tone of nonchalance, “though for the life of me I cannot understand why.”
The president stopped and turned toward his friend. “Because, Henry, I am growing tired of its monomaniacal focus on Iran.”
“I should be the last person on earth to have to remind you of Iran’s growing threat in destabilizing the entire Middle East.”
“All that is true enough, Henry. But the fact is you neglected to talk to your brother about Three-thirteen.”
“Edward was rightly preoccupied with the Russia treaty. Besides, he was hardly in office long enough—”
“I know very well why you didn’t tell Edward.” The president sucked on his Cohiba, as if to bolster his courage. “He wouldn’t have understood. Edward had a highly elevated sense of morality.”
“Which we do not.”
“We’re realists,” the president said, “not idealists.”
“My brother would never have understood our motivations.”
The president regarded the glowing tip of his cigar. “On the contrary, I think Edward would have understood all too well.”
Carson turned on the president, his eyes blazing. “What have I told you, Arlen? I do not want to talk about Edward.”
“The Good Brother.”
Carson, eyes narrowed, took a step closer. “What is it with you tonight, Arlen? Do you have a death wish?”
“Jesus, Henry.” Crawford, rearing back, turned pale.
“I made you, Arlen, and I can destroy you. Without my influence, you’re a leaky boat dead in the water. If perchance you have forgotten, then consider this your wake-up call. Your last warning. Clear?”
The president continued to suck on his cigar. His hand was trembling.
“I was just … I’m voicing a concern … for both of us.”
“Meaning?”
“Of late, there has been talk among cabinet members,” Crawford said. “They’re growing uneasy with Three-thirteen’s power. They say it should have been shut down long ago. So I want … I think for both our sakes it should be dismantled before it takes on a life of its own.”
Carson stared at the president with poisonous eyes. He rolled his cigar within the O of his pursed lips. “What you suggest … can, of course, be accomplished.”
“Good.” Crawford looked relieved. “I don’t want any more questions raised.”
Carson felt his heart grow heavy, but he revealed none of his true feelings to the president.
“And, while you’re at it, please make sure every trace of the Incident is expunged.”
“Let’s not start that again.”
“The Incident started events spinning out of control.”
“The Incident is ancient history. The inquiry following it—”
“Was a sham. We both know it.” The ash on Crawford’s cigar burned bright for a moment, before falling like snow at his feet. “The inquiry was meant to do one thing only: absolve those involved of any guilt or responsibility.”
“Which, at the time, included you and me.”
“No, not me.” Crawford stared at lights blinking far in the distance as if they had a message for him. “I was on the periphery.”
“At the last minute you backed away.”
The president winced. “I had other obligations. Important ones.” His gray eyes flashed. “That’s why I relied on you. The plan was agreed upon. Three-thirteen deployed Acacia to the Horn of Africa, along with a battalion of Marines, for cover. From there, it completely vanished off every grid known to military and man. Twenty-seven hours later, the Incident occurred, causing a cluster-fuck the likes of which I have never seen before or since.”
“Which is precisely why it needs to remain buried.”
“Ancient history has a way of biting even the most vigilant in the ass. If word of the Incident ever got out, I’d be ruined.” The president cleared his throat. “I am thinking more along the lines of incinerated.”
Carson waited a moment, marshaling his thoughts. “I think that can be arranged.”
“Whatever is done,” the president said, “I don’t want to know about it.”
Of course you don’t, Carson thought. This will happen when and if I give the order, not you. “Arlen, I want to be clear. There are risks to taking any action whatsoever.”
“Deal with them, Henry. Use whatever means. Above all, I want plausible deniability.”
Carson nodded, disgusted by the other man’s cowardice. On the other hand, if Crawford weren’t such a coward, Carson wouldn’t be able to exploit him as he did. “I’ll take care of it.”
They had made a full circle and were now back at where the cars were parked.
President Crawford stuck out his hand. “Henry, good to see you.”
Carson grasped it briefly. “As always, Arlen.”
The president nodded to his Secret Service detail, letting them know he was ready to leave. “This conversation never happened.”
Carson produced a lupine smile. “What conversation?”
* * *
NONA HEROE had just come in from the field, where she had been involved in a hostage situation at a stationery store. Before it could get out of hand, she had taken control by entering through the cellar and, coming up behind the perp, disarming him, and taking him into custody. Marching him out the front door, she had announced herself and shoved him over to the uniforms clogging the street. Now, as she strode across the office, she was looking forward to her lunch break so she could visit her brother in the Bethesda Naval Hospital. As often as she went, it never seemed enough.
“Chief of detectives wants to see you,” one of her Violent Crimes detectives said when he saw her come in. And then he added, as he watched her make her way to her cubicle, “Now, boss.”
“Uh-huh.” She turned on her heel and went back down outside, crossed the street to the building opposite the one she worked out of, passed through the marble lobby and into a stainless-steel elevator. She punched nine, then had nothing but her reflection to stare at on the ride up. She saw an imposing woman, with a good figure, the fine, slightly exotic features of her paternal grandmother, and skin the color of bittersweet chocolate. She was still on the good side of forty, but looked more like thirty. Then she turned away, snorting in self-derision.
Exiting, she took a hallway to the end, turned left along another, shorter corridor, and stopped in front of a wood-paneled door. On the wall to the right was a plaque that read: LEONARD BISHOP, CHIEF OF DETECTIVES.
She rapped once with her knuckles, opened the door, and walked in just as Bishop said, “Enter.”
He stood up when he saw her, but did not come around from behind his massive oak desk. The walls were hung with decorations, commendations, and photos of Bishop with various politicos from both parties, past and present, including President Arlen Crawford, looking red-cheeked, windblown, and every bit the rangy Texan. There was no picture with his predecessor, however. Edward Carson must have been killed too soon after taking office for Bishop to have arranged a photo op.
The CoD’s pride in his connections was somewhat justified by his years getting bloodied on the streets of D.C., though Nona found pride a repellent trait.
“Take a pew, Detective,” Bishop said with a sweeping gesture. “Congratulations. Your quick thinking averted a potential crisis and, quite possibly, loss of life.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Bishop seated himself, shuffling some papers aside, bringing others under his gaze. “I’m putting you in for a commendation.”
“That’s not necessary, sir.” When he glanced up sharply, she altered her tone. “But much appreciated, sir.”
He nodded and dropped his gaze again to the documents in front of him. “And cut out the ‘sir.’” Glancing up briefly again, he added, “When you’re in this office.”
He cleared his throat, then looked up and smiled. He was a rather handsome man, slim, with angular cheekbones, an aggressive nose, wavy silver hair, and brilliant blue eyes, which looked even better when viewed through a camera lens.
“Today’s heroics only underscore a decision I made this morning,” he said. “As of next week, you’ll be the new coordinator of detectives.”
“Sir? Uh, Chief Bishop, I’m not sure I understand.”
The CoD spread his hands. “It’s a promotion, Nona. Two pay grades higher and, six months from now, if all goes well, you’ll achieve the rank of deputy chief of detectives.” His brow wrinkled. “I must say, you don’t look pleased.”
“Chief Bishop, correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t coordinator of detectives admin, a desk job?”
“Right as rain.” Bishop’s smile broadened. “You’re being kicked upstairs, Nona. No more looking over your shoulder, waiting for the bullet you never hear. And at your age. I had to pull some strings because of that. Some of my colleagues thought you weren’t ready, but I maintained that you are. You don’t want to prove me wrong, do you?”
“Of course not.” She sat forward, perched on the edge of her chair. “And I don’t want to seem ungrateful—”
The CoD’s smiled slipped. “Then accept the promotion, and do it graciously.”
Nona took a deep breath and let it out. “Look, Chief, I’m a street detective, that’s what I’ve been trained for, that’s what I love. It’s my life.”
“I understand that completely, who better than I? I came up through the ranks just like you.”
“I run Violent Crimes; I do it a damn sight better than anyone you might get to replace me.”
The CoD nodded sympathetically. “I hear you, but times change, and so must we all. You’ll be moving over here.”
Away from Alan Fraine and all her friends at Violent Crimes. Nona took a moment to settle the disharmony inside her, to calm down, to find a way to walk the fine line it would take to get what she wanted without terminally pissing off her superior. Bishop was one of a handful of powerful men inside the Metro Police. If he had a mind to, he could ruin her career.
“This is an amazing opportunity, no question about it,” she began.
Bishop smiled. “That’s more like it.”
“But I must respectfully decline.”
“You can’t decline, Nona, respectfully or otherwise.”
“But the street is where I belong, Chief. It’s where I do my best work. I am skilled—”
“The time has come to learn new skills.”
She stood up. “It seems we’re at an impasse.”
He pursed his lips. “If there’s anything I hate, it’s an impasse.”
She said nothing, stood primly as a schoolgirl with her hands clasped in front of her.
He leaned back, his fingers steepled, studying her intently. “Have you done something to your hair? A new style?”
The silence stretched and yawned, gaping open to a future she could not abide.
At length, the CoD sighed. “Okay, there is one way to keep the status quo, so to speak, for you to keep your beloved street,” he said slowly, as if working it out as he went.
“What?” The eagerness in her voice was unmistakable. “Just tell me.”
“It involves me,” he said, his words coming ever more slowly as he put emphasis on each one. “And it involves you.”
She saw how he undressed her with his eyes, and the revelation hit home. She had been set up. Bishop never expected her to take the coordinator job; he knew her too well and he was too smart to take her off the streets, where, like today, she made him look good. He had wanted this all along, this bending of her to his will, to lord it over her with both power and sex. Under his thumb.
