Eagles Fly, page 16
“Let it rest, Colonel Goldmann,” Asheim’s other daughter, Sandra, said, barely in control of her voice. “Deborah and I both agree that there has been enough death.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Goldmann said softly, truly at a loss for words. “Your father was a good man.”
“We know,” Deborah said. “And thank you for taking the time to tell us the news in person. We appreciate it.”
She and her sister left Ben Abel’s office, and for a long time Goldmann sat staring out the window at the green fields outside the perimeter fence, until the kibbutz president broke the silence.
“They are two good and very strong women. True sabras.”
Goldmann nodded. “Yes.”
“Are you that strong, Colonel?”
Goldmann looked deeply into Ben Abel’s kindly, understanding eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
Asheim’s death would not remain in vain, Goldmann thought as he picked up his luggage, went out of his apartment, and locked the door behind him. Nor would the deaths of Benjamin, Elizabeth Norby, and Silverstein go unchallenged.
Downstairs on the street, the cab he had called for pulled up and he climbed in the backseat. “The airport, please,” he said.
20
The newspapers were filled with Stewart Engstrom’s apology to the American public and the promise that he would not go on any more of his backwoods jaunts after the New York Times had labeled his latest trip an “irresponsible escapade.”
“So long as I hold public office I’ll content myself to the golf course or the ski slopes,” Engstrom told a news conference.
And the Washington Post, which all along had maintained the position that Engstrom’s backpacking trips had “invigorated” the vice president, reported that since his latest adventure, he seemed a changed man. “Somehow younger and more vital.”
Kelsey had pored over the newspapers during their flight east with a rising conviction that he was correct; the man pretending to be Stewart Engstrom was in reality a man he had known as James Locke.
Farley’s stunning revelation from London that the real Locke had died in a car accident fourteen months ago was not so surprising on reflection. The man Kelsey had operated on evidently had been aware of the real Locke’s death and had merely assumed his identity for the few months he was at the clinic.
But what was disturbing, deeply disturbing to Kelsey, was his father.
He looked up as their cab pulled off the George Washington Memorial Parkway and headed toward the Marriott, where they had reservations. Normally he would have stayed in town, but he was only planning on staying overnight, and the Marriott was conveniently close to the airport. To the west, the Pentagon loomed like a vast dark cloud across the highway. Across the Potomac the city of Washington was spread out in the early evening.
“Now that we’re actually here, I’m a little frightened,” Marion said.
He looked at his wife. “I wished you’d remained home, but now I’m glad you came.”
She smiled and patted his hand. “Your father is going to be surprised when we show up at the party.”
“‘Irritated’ would be a more apt word,” he said.
“A son checking on his father’s judgment?” Marion asked, but then she had a second thought, and the astonishment showed on her face. “You don’t believe him.”
Kelsey turned away from her, not able to hide the sudden emotion in his eyes.
She reached out and gently turned him back. “You think your father lied to you,” she said, but he did not answer her. “Why? What possible reason could he have for lying to you?”
“I don’t know,” Kelsey said after a long silence, and they said nothing more to each other.
The cab pulled into the Marriott’s driveway and stopped at the front entrance. Kelsey paid the driver and he and Marion got out, went into the motel, and checked in.
Upstairs in their room Kelsey took off his coat and loosened his tie, but Marion made no move to unpack their two overnight bags.
“If Stewart Engstrom is an imposter, maybe he is good enough to fool your father,” she said. She stood in the middle of the room looking at her husband, who had pulled open the curtains and stared across the river at the city.
That same thought had raced through his mind a dozen times since this afternoon, and each time he had been forced to reject it. If there had been doubt, even a tiny doubt, in his father’s mind about the authenticity of Engstrom, it would have been all right. But the old man had been so damned sure. Even to the point of mentioning the supposedly obscure five-thousand-dollar campaign pledge he had made several years ago. That was something an imposter could not know.
It all boiled down to two possibilities, however. Either the man who had returned from Alaska was in reality Stewart Engstrom, the vice president, in which case Kelsey was a fool. Or the man was an imposter, in which case Kelsey’s father was a part of some insane plot.
He turned to face his wife. “My father was too certain that the man is Stewart Engstrom.”
“Let’s return home, Richard,” she said in a small voice.
“I can’t do that.”
She absently brushed a loose strand of hair away from her forehead. “You can’t be having doubts about your own father.”
He started to speak, but he could not form the words even though that thought was foremost in his mind. Instead he went to the phone, got an outside line, and dialed his father’s house in College Park.
On the second ring his father’s Washington secretary, Rupert Livermore, answered the phone. “The August Kelsey residence.”
“Rupert, this is Richard. Has my father arrived there yet?”
“Richard, it’s so nice to hear from you,” the man said. He sounded genuinely pleased. “We’re expecting him within the hour. Are you in Washington?”
“No, I’m calling from Chicago.”
“Is there some trouble?”
“Nothing serious,” Kelsey said. “I’d like to talk to my father sometime this evening.”
“He’ll be here only briefly, and then he’s going to a cocktail party for Vice President Engstrom.”
“I see,” Kelsey said. His heart was hammering. “If I miss him at the house, perhaps I can phone him at the party.”
“Certainly,” the man said. “It’s being held at Senator Teller’s home.”
“Georgetown?”
“That’s correct.”
“Thanks, Rupert.”
“I’ll tell your father you called,” the man said. “And by the way, say hello to your lovely wife for me.”
“I’ll do that,” Kelsey said, and he hung up the phone. He looked at his watch, which showed it was shortly after seven, then took off his tie and began unbuttoning his shirt as he headed for the bathroom. “The first comers usually arrive at these things around eight,” he said over his shoulder. “If we get there by nine, Engstrom should be on hand.”
Marion opened the overnight bags and began unpacking. “Will you be able to tell just by looking at him?” she asked from the bedroom.
“If I get close enough,” Kelsey said. He finished undressing and stepped into the shower, adjusting the spray as hot as he could stand it.
Locke’s rhinoplastic operation that repaired and reshaped his damaged nose was all done within the nasal passages, so nothing short of a detailed physical examination would reveal the work for certain.
The postoperative scars from the repairs done to his cheeks were hidden in the hairline of the scalp as well as in the folds of tissue adjacent to his ears.
And the mentoplastic operation that reshaped his chin was done from inside his mouth, so no scars would be visible.
Which left no real clues for the untrained eye to detect the man was an imposter. But Kelsey was not untrained. And furthermore, he had come to intimately know Locke’s face.
The shape and exact coloration of the eyes, for instance, Kelsey remembered vividly. And if the man was wearing tinted contact lenses to hide such details, that fact alone would be at least a partial indictment.
The man’s skin texture was another of the factors Kelsey would pay close attention to, along with the coloration and quality of his hair, his eyebrow and eyelash lines, and dozens of other subtle little indicators that only a plastic surgeon would see.
If the man at the cocktail party tonight was James Locke, he would see it.
The home of Leonard Teller, junior senator from Alaska, was located in Washington’s fashionable Georgetown district. It was an elegant two-story brownstone. The house had been in the Teller family for sixty years. Teller’s father, Ronald, had spent five consecutive terms in the Senate from Oregon, and his father before him had been the representative from that state.
It was not clear in Kelsey’s mind what his father’s connection was with the Tellers, but the man had come to his graduation from medical school, and Kelsey had briefly met him then. Senator Teller had also sent a wedding gift when he and Colleen were married and again when he and Marion were wed.
By nine o’clock the house was ablaze in lights. Limousines were parked on either side of the street to the corner, and two uniformed doormen were checking invitations when the cab dropped Kelsey and Marion off.
The doorman holding a clipboard looked up, a pleasant expression on his face, as they approached. “Good evening,” he said. “May I have your names?”
“Dr. and Mrs. Richard Kelsey. We’re friends of the Teller family, but I don’t believe we’re on your list.”
The doorman ignored the last part as he flipped through the invitation list. “Yes, here we are, sir,” he said. “Mr. Livermore telephoned a short time ago and advised us you might be arriving. Go right in, please.”
Marion clutched her husband’s arm more tightly, and Kelsey felt a little light-headed. Livermore had known he was in Washington, and yet on the phone he had not let on that he knew. Every move they had made had probably been watched. It was frightening.
“Has my father arrived yet?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.
“No, sir,” the doorman said.
Several other people had arrived and were approaching the entrance. Kelsey and Marion went up the stairs and entered the house, where a liveried butler took their coats.
They went through the vestibule, which opened to the left into a huge dining room and to the right into the living room. There were at least four dozen people there already. Some of them were gathered in small groups speaking intently to each other, while a dozen or more elegantly dressed men and women were seated or stood around Engstrom, who was leaning nonchalantly against the fireplace mantel, Senator Teller at his side.
Kelsey stopped just under the archway into the living room and stared across at Engstrom, his stomach flipping over several times.
“Let’s go home, Richard,” Marion whispered. She was obviously frightened.
Kelsey leaned her way slightly, never taking his eyes off Engstrom. “I’ve got to make sure.”
“Richard! Please,” Marion whispered more loudly, more insistently.
Teller happened to look their way at that moment, and the man’s face brightened into a smile. He said something to Engstrom and headed across the room.
“Dr. Kelsey,” he said, extending his hand.
Kelsey shook it. “My wife, Marion,” he said, desperately trying to control his voice.
Teller took her hand and shook it, then looked back at Kelsey. “You have a lovely wife, Richard. Your father brags about her constantly.”
“Rightly so,” Kelsey said lightly to fit the banter. Inside he was frightened, and he hoped that Marion would hold up for just a few minutes longer. He had to get close enough to Engstrom to make sure, and deep inside he wanted the man across the room to really be Vice President Engstrom. He wanted that more than he had ever wanted anything.
“Come on, you two,” Marion was saying. “You’re making me self-conscious with all this talk.”
Teller laughed lightly. “Your father telephoned me a little while ago with his apologies. Said something had come up and he didn’t think he could make it tonight. But he asked me to ask you to say hello to Stew Engstrom for him and tell him something about a campaign promise fulfilled.”
Kelsey forced a smile. There it was again. His father knew he would be here. It was ominous.
“Does that make any sense to you?”
“Yes it does. If you’ll introduce us to the vice president, I’ll pass the message along.”
“Certainly,” Teller said, and he led them across the room.
Engstrom, who had been talking with several other people, turned when they approached, and the shock was almost a physical blow to Kelsey. The man was James Locke. There was absolutely no doubt in Kelsey’s mind, despite the fact the man’s eyes were a rich brown now and had been pale blue before.
Engstrom was offering his right hand, still bandaged, and Kelsey was holding it lightly, but he was not hearing the introduction Senator Teller was making. Everything and everyone else in the room seemed to fade away as well, except for Engstrom’s face. The more Kelsey looked into the man’s eyes, the more certain he became that the vice president was an imposter and that the real Engstrom lay dead at this moment in some shallow grave in Mt. McKinley National Park.
“I’m sorry your father couldn’t make it this evening,” Engstrom was saying. “I was looking forward to seeing him again.”
Kelsey was certain the man had emphasized the word again. “I’m very pleased to meet you, sir,” he said, somehow finding the appropriate words.
“Dr. Kelsey has brought you a rather cryptic message from his father, though,” Teller was saying, and Engstrom seemed to lean slightly forward.
“Sounds intriguing,” Engstrom said, looking directly into Kelsey’s eyes.
“The campaign promise you reminded my father of earlier today has been done,” Kelsey said, barely hearing his own words.
The statement seemed to draw a blank from Engstrom for a brief moment, but then the man’s face contorted into the famous Engstrom grin, and he laughed out loud. “How about that,” he said.
Teller was obviously curious, and Engstrom turned toward him. “About five years ago or so, August and I made a little bet. I told him I’d be in the White House one day either as president or vice president. To seal the bargain he promised to pay five thousand dollars into my favorite charity if ever I made it. When I talked to him on the phone this afternoon, I reminded him of the bet.”
Teller chuckled at the story, but Kelsey had been listening less to the words and more to Engstrom’s tone of voice.
“Have you got a cold, Mr. Vice President?” he asked.
Engstrom turned back to him. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do,” he said. “Another of the things I unintentionally brought back from Alaska with me.”
The voice was Locke’s. Kelsey was one hundred percent certain of it. And for the briefest of moments he had to resist the almost overpowering urge to reach out, grab the man, and make him admit the truth. But the feeling passed as a heavyset woman in a tightly fitting cocktail dress came up to them.
“Mr. Vice President, there are some people you absolutely have to meet this instant,” the woman boomed in a Wagnerian voice.
Engstrom nodded his apologies and asked Kelsey to say hello to his father, and then he was gone.
A little while later Teller drifted off, and Kelsey and Marion found themselves alone near the front vestibule.
“It wasn’t Engstrom, was it?” Marion said in a half whisper.
Kelsey shook his head. “The vice president is the same man I operated on at the clinic. I’d bet my life on it.”
Marion looked pale. “What do we do now?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I just don’t know.”
21
Kelsey and Marion left about an hour after they had met the man posing as the vice president, and climbed into a taxi that pulled up out front. More people were arriving at the party.
“The airport Marriott,” Kelsey absently told the driver, and the cab pulled away from the curb as he settled back in the seat, his right hand resting on Marion’s hand in her lap.
For several minutes they rode in silence, Kelsey deep in his thoughts. Locke did look and act amazingly like Engstrom, and so far he had evidently fooled the people he had come in contact with. The cocktail party tonight was probably some kind of a test of just how good the masquerade would hold up in a group of people who knew the real vice president. From what Kelsey had observed briefly at the party, everyone believed the man to be the real vice president.
Kelsey knew without a shadow of a doubt that the man posing as Engstrom was the same man he had operated on at the clinic. But his father was a problem. If, as Marion had suggested, the man posing as Engstrom had indeed managed to fool his father, someone who intimately knew his father’s dealings with Engstrom must have been in on the training.
He turned that thought over for a moment. Locke, whoever he really was, could not have done this alone. Which meant there must have been some kind of an organization. A very effective group, probably based here in Washington, but with tendrils everywhere.
Engstrom must have been the target long ago. His rise in politics must have been watched, perhaps even aided from time to time, and when he got into a position of power, the switch was made.
Another cold thought crossed Kelsey’s mind, and he reflectively glanced over at Marion, who smiled uncertainly at him. She looked frightened.
If Engstrom’s wife had been alive, they never could have pulled this off. Acting as an imposter, a very capable and highly trained person might fool acquaintances, and some friends, but not a wife.
Engstrom’s wife’s death, therefore, had been no coincidence. She had been murdered so that Locke could take over.
He sat back, sighed deeply, and ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair, and Marion snuggled a little closer to him.
But none of that fit. There were too many coincidences. Too many happenstance occurrences. If there was an organization, and if it had watched Engstrom’s rise and had murdered his wife so that a switch could be made, it would be a precise group that would not have left anything to chance. Every step would have been carefully planned, every contingency expected. From the beginning everyone having contact with Engstrom’s imposter would have been planned for. Which included Kelsey.
