Jericho's Fall, page 8
(iv)
“You remember our conversation from this afternoon?”
“Vividly.”
“Good. I told you, when Jericho left the Agency, we thought he was cracking up. Now let’s do the math, shall we? You and Jericho got together in 1994. You split up in 1995. Things calmed down. Jericho calmed down. He wasn’t crazy after all, we decided. Life went on. Oh, there were other women, of course. Not many. Nobody else he invited to move in. There was only one of you, apparently. As for Jericho, his life went on. He did some lecturing, he taught for a while at the University of Colorado. He sat on a couple of corporate boards. Joined a private equity fund, settled down to a long retirement of counting his money. He wrote his books, but he submitted them for vetting, just like he was supposed to. They always passed. Jericho was scrupulous. He never even walked to the edge of telling what we needed him to keep secret. After another year, maybe two, we backed off on the surveillance.”
She saw it. “And that was a mistake.”
He nodded. “That was a mistake. We kind of forgot about him. Our mad ex-Director. The way you think, if you don’t open an envelope, the bill isn’t due. We got on to other things. It’s a busy world, and surveillance is expensive—a fortune to maintain, a bigger fortune to review and analyze. Resources are limited. Despite what our friends in the press seem to think, we’re usually looking for targets to shut down, not new ones to add. So, yes, we turned off the mikes. Oh, we looked in on him now and then, but even that became desultory. Then, five years later, six, Washington went into a brand-new panic. Not only Washington. Some other capitals, too. Including the capitals of some rather unofficial nations. Because Jericho began to send out signals. He knew the back channels. He knew how to get his messages to the right people. And the signals he was sending out told the nastiest people in the world—and some of the best, too—that he had their secrets marked down, that he had provided against any threat to himself. If he were to die, natural causes or not, if any member of his family came to harm? He had so arranged matters that the secrets would come out. He was warning those still in the trade to leave him alone.”
“He never mentioned anything like that.”
Agadakos took a moment to answer, as if waiting for her to correct her testimony. “No. He wouldn’t have. But, Rebecca, you have to understand the uproar that followed. Suddenly everybody had a motive to get rid of him. And at the same time, everybody had a motive to protect him. In those days, the Agency believed in psychologists. We had a dozen on the payroll. We told them the story. They said he was delusional. Well, we knew that part already. Nobody was trying to kill him. Nobody ever would. Nobody has ever murdered a Director of Intelligence, retired or not. It would be insane. I came up here, Rebecca. To Stone Heights. I told him. ‘Jericho,’ I said, ‘it would never happen. Never. Nobody wants you dead.’ Know what he said? He said, ‘Look at Colby’ Do you know who Colby was?”
She did not.
“One of Jericho’s predecessors. Director of Central Intelligence in the last years of Vietnam, right into Watergate. Retired. Went canoeing one night in 1996, had a heart attack. The canoe overturned, and he drowned. The rumor mills went wild. You know how people can be. The media, but insiders, too. Everybody had a theory. But most of us—the professionals, Rebecca, the people in the trade—we knew. It wasn’t an assassination. It was just a heart attack. Some things happen the way they look. William Colby probably had the most complete autopsy in American history. Natural causes. No question. But you couldn’t tell that to Jericho. He was obsessed with Colby. Whoever got Colby would be getting him next. This was his only protection: threatening the world. We had this conversation around 2002. But it was plain that Jericho had been worrying for five or six years. Most likely since Colby died, although the shrinks said he was probably deteriorating already.”
Dak let the dates sink in. Beck chose silence.
“Anyway, I went back to Langley We talked it over. Hands off, we decided. Give him some protection, but get word to everybody else. He’s nuts, but don’t take any chances. Let’s all cooperate, and keep him alive. And we did. Not that he was ever under threat. That was all in his head, Rebecca. Nevertheless, in his head or not, we had to believe him when he said he’d arranged for the secrets to come out. He even had a cute little code for his project. JERICHO FALLS. Get it? He’d say, if Jericho ever falls, everybody’s walls will come tumbling down. Meaning, no more secrets, anywhere.”
Rebecca’s gaze, like Dak’s, was focused in the distant past. She remembered walking with Jericho in his woods, the only place he seemed to feel safe from surveillance, and how he used to assure her that if anything ever happened to him, if Jericho ever fell, the bastards would pay. “And Clark?” she said, as, in her mind’s ear, a mountain wind teased through the branches. “Is that why he’s here? Is he working for somebody who’s also worried about what happens if Jericho falls?”
“I don’t know why he’s here, Rebecca. I don’t know why anybody’s here. He writes books about famous families. The Kennedys sued the hell out of him. Maybe he’s doing the Ainsleys now.”
“But you think he’s on the track of JERICHO FALLS, don’t you? That’s what worries you. Lewiston Clark, whoever killed the dog.” She waved a hand toward the street. “You think somebody might be out there. They’ve heard that Jericho is dying. They’re wondering if the threat still stands. Even if he dies of natural causes, everybody’s worried what secrets his death is going to spread. And they might have sent people to—to what?” Like a patient tutor, Agadakos did not help. He waited for her to work the answer out for herself. “They can’t hurt him. They don’t dare. All they can do is—is try to find whatever he’s hidden. Just in case. They want Jericho to make it not happen. To promise to keep their secrets.”
“I’m not saying it’s anything like that—”
“It could be, though. That’s what you’re warning me about.” Again the kindness in his eyes seemed forced. “But maybe there isn’t anything.” She had spotted a way out. “Maybe he never hid anything. No contingencies in case Jericho falls. Maybe he only thinks he did. Maybe he was looking for attention. He was always”—for a moment words failed her, and the one she chose did not entirely satisfy—“proud.”
Dak’s tone was mournful. “I tried to sell them that line, Rebecca. I tried ten years ago. I tried—well, more recently. Nobody will believe it. They can’t take the chance.” Lifting his chin. “No, honey. They think he’s made provisions about what happens when he dies, and they’re not happy about it.”
“Who’s they?” she demanded.
The old spymaster ignored her.
“We’ve done what we can to check, of course. But Jericho was once the best, and he’s still very good. Every time we think we’ve found his footprints, they turn out to be a wisp.” He saw her puzzlement. “A term from the old days of the Agency. It means a false trail, planted to fool investigators. Jericho was always very good at planting wisps, Rebecca. He once arranged to have Soviet Intelligence send operatives to London to assassinate one of their own best men, who they thought had turned. To this day, they’re still fooled.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“The London story? Good.” He sipped his coffee. “It’s better if you don’t. I wouldn’t want you spreading it around.”
“What I mean is, I don’t believe you can’t find whatever it is he’s hidden. You’re the Central Intelligence Agency. You were. You’re the CIA, and you have a whole alphabet soup to help you, right? FBI, NSA, DOD, I don’t know who else. You have secret prisons, right? Mental hospitals, interrogation centers. Undisclosed locations. Why don’t you just swoop down in your helicopters, gather him up, take him to one of your undisclosed locations, and make him tell you? Are you trying to tell me that the combined resources of the United States government can’t find what one little old man has hidden somewhere?”
At last the surface calm faded. Dak’s anger was swift and stormy, even though Beck suspected it was not directed at her. “You’re naïve, Rebecca. You have the press-eye-view of what we do. Let me tell you the facts of life. Number one, even if we possessed the facilities you mention, we can’t just sweep up the former Director of Central Intelligence and Secretary of Defense and lock him away somewhere. As the consultants would say, it creates all the wrong incentives. Your people start to wonder which one of them is going to be next, and all of a sudden they’re not as loyal to you as they were yesterday. Number two, suppose we did. Suppose we put him in a hospital somewhere and pumped him full of drugs. Interrogated him till he vomited his knowledge onto the floor. He’s sick, Rebecca. He’s sick and he’s sixty-six years old. We’d be more likely to kill him than get information. And number three—”
He hesitated. Say it, Beck urged silently, wanting Dak to be the man she had always taken him for. Say he’s your friend. Say friends don’t do that sort of thing to each other. Say you’ve been holding off the dogs.
“Number three,” he resumed, “if Jericho Ainsley were to disappear, well, for all we know, that would set off whatever chain of events he’s arranged. No, Rebecca. Jericho is untouchable. He knows it, and they know it.” The calmness settled on him once more. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking the autobiography is what everybody’s looking for. I’m sure it isn’t. Jericho is too canny. You’ve been at the house all of twenty-four hours. He won’t be ready to trust you. He asked you to help him so you’d come running to me. He was testing you, that’s all.”
“And I failed,” she said. Then she saw the real point. “But if it doesn’t mean anything, then why did you tell me the rest of the story?”
“I told you this afternoon, Rebecca. You need to keep your eyes open. And not just that.” He leaned forward, folding large hands around his cup. “You see, Rebecca, the trouble is, there are lots and lots of interested parties. We’ve figured out that somebody up here is helping him, and that’s about it. You’re the most recent arrival. You’re his one true love. The one he’s kept tabs on all these years. It won’t be easy persuading people that you’re not a part of whatever he’s up to. You’re about to become very popular.” He saw her face and, finally, smiled. “Oh, don’t worry. Don’t worry. Jericho would hardly spread his umbrella of protection over his family and leave you out.”
Sometimes Beck’s mind surprised her with its speed. “All those years. The security officers from the Agency who kept visiting me. This is why, isn’t it? Jericho had me on his list of people who couldn’t be touched, and they wanted to know if I might be part of whatever he’s up to.” Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the wheel. She imagined Jericho, alone in his mountaintop redoubt, brooding as his years of glory slipped further into the past, scheming and conspiring, but with himself as lone co-conspirator. All at once she ached for him.
Dak was not finished. “There’s one more thing, Rebecca. You may be the last person on the face of the earth Jericho loves. If anybody can talk him out of this madness, it’s you.” His cool eyes measured the effect of his words. “There’s nobody else, Rebecca. You have to do it. For the good of your country. And because—”
She waited him out. “Because?”
“Because, sooner or later—unless Jericho changes his mind— somebody might decide to take the chance. Your dear Jer-Bear could wind up in one of those secret hospitals after all.”
The smile had gone ice cold.
CHAPTER 9
The Message
(i)
The drive from town was forty-five minutes in daylight and good weather, but that night she made it in twenty-five flat through a freezing rain. She practically hydroplaned through part of the woods, but barely slowed. Nobody ran her off the road. No black helicopter buzzed her. She felt foolish and small, caught up in battles too large for her abilities, but another part of her wondered whether Phil Agadakos was as crazy as Jericho; or whether, even, the two of them were in it together—whatever it was—the A & A boys, fulfilling one last project before the end.
This is for your own good. You can’t go anywhere near his autobiography. And you have to tell him that as loudly and clearly as you can.
She wanted to believe that Dak was exaggerating, that nobody would care about secrets well over a decade old. But she reminded herself that this was a world in which cartoons could spark deadly riots. All points of the ideological compass were rife with hatred and fanaticism, searching for outlets. There were reasons other than avoiding embarrassment for keeping Jericho alive, and appeased. Philip Agadakos, in short, could be acting from honorable motives.
Or maybe not. Ever since Dak’s top-secret history lesson, Beck had been trying to avoid the obvious. William Colby had died in 1996, and Jericho Ainsley had started his steep slide soon after. That was what Agadakos wanted her to understand: a year after Rebecca left him, Jericho had slipped from unbalanced to unhinged. Dak, no fool, was trying to feed the very guilt that Dr. Eisenstadt was trying to help her overcome. The more responsible Beck felt for whatever Jericho was up to, the better the chance that she would help stop him.
And if that was Dak’s plan, it was working.
She turned in at the immobile gate, and there was no Chevy Suburban and no dead dog. But there were two new cars up at the top of the hill, and one of them was Deputy Mundy’s cruiser. Beck flew up the steps and, lacking a key, leaned on the bell. But Pamela already had the door open. Pete Mundy had his hat in his hand. An older man in an ill-fitting suit was barking orders. Two unsmiling strangers, a man and a woman, sat talking to the family. The atmosphere was grim.
Audrey forced upon her an unwanted hug, and, holding Beck within all that motherly softness, tried to explain what was going on. Rebecca hardly heard. She was staring at the settee, where Jericho himself sat—in slacks, not pajamas—oxygen bottle on a little trolley in case it was needed, looking sad but somehow tough, momentarily fit.
Then she tuned in the news that had forced Jericho from his bed. The older man was the sheriff, Pete’s boss. The two suits were detectives from the state police. Jimmy Lobb’s truck had turned up at the bottom of a gorge on the far side of the mountain. Mr. Lobb’s remains were in the cab. There was only one set of skid marks, the detectives were explaining. Nobody was chasing him. Nobody had forced him over the side. He had simply lost control of the truck.
His dog was missing.
“Probably drunk as a skunk,” rumbled the sheriff, who in Colorado was elected. His name was Garvey.
“We’ll know when we get the lab reports,” said one of the detectives.
“Coordinate with my man,” Sheriff Garvey snapped, pointing to Pete. Heading for the door, the sheriff looked Rebecca up and down. “Where was this one?” he said to the air. “Take her statement.”
He left.
Beck went and sat next to Jericho, who was shaking his head, whispering to himself. She tried to listen.
“Bastards killed my friend,” he whispered, clutching her wrist. Tears ran freely down his face. He put his mouth close to her ear. “You just remember who fired the first shot.”
(ii)
Later.
Beck was dreaming fitfully, something about the old days, not her time at Stone Heights with Jericho but a year or so afterward, back when she was learning the secrets of life from middle-aged hippies in Thailand, working in an American bar, half the time stoned out of her mind, but always looking blearily over her shoulder, because she knew that they were after her, Jericho had said they would never let her go, that she would be in their files forever, and in her dream she could sense their wraithlike presence, feel their bone-cold fingers on her neck, but when she turned there was never anybody there, nobody except— except—
Except her cell phone was ringing.
Beck sat up, head pounding the way it used to when she was hung -over. But surely the beers she had consumed at Corinda’s—
Still ringing.
She told herself not to answer. She was sick of the weird high-pitched whine. She shut her eyes in the gray darkness, waiting for the voice mail to cut in, but it never did. The ringing continued. With an angry sweep, she grabbed the phone to shut it off, and that was when she saw the number on the screen.
Her mother’s condo in Sarasota.
In the middle of the night.
She fumbled twice before she was able to push the green button. “Mom?”
“Hi, Mommy,” said Nina.
“Sweetie-pie!”
“Mommy, I’ve been trying and trying to reach you, but you won’t call me back, and so—”
“I’m sorry, baby. Mommy’s phone hasn’t been working—”
But Nina was still talking, nonstop, the way she did.
“—and so Grandma said I should stop leaving messages, but I’m leaving one more, just in case, okay? Because I really wanna tell you about the surprise we have for you—”
Voice mail. Somehow she was listening to the voice mail.
“—because I love you and I’m so excited and I just want to tell you, okay? So, call me, okay? And—and—I’ll be there in a minute!—I have to go, because Grandma is calling me, and I didn’t tell her I’m calling you—Just a minute!—I’m in the bathroom and I guess I better go, but call me, Mommy, okay? Call me soon, so I can tell you about the d—”
The message stopped.
She stared at the screen. The call had been lost. She tried to call her voice mail, but she had no bars. She felt a wave of vertigo. Her brain was slushy, as if she had just opened her eyes, and she wondered if she had dreamed it all. Her hand was sweaty as she slipped out of bed. Not bothering with a bathrobe, she hurried through the bathroom to Jericho’s office and picked up the phone. She heard Pamela’s voice. She was doing business. Two in the morning, and she was doing business. Something about cutting out one of the chase scenes, at a savings of a million and a half.
