The Negotiator (62 page)

“We’re ready for you, Senator,” she said.

Bennett Hapgood rose, stood while the makeup girl removed the bib and dusted any last specks of powder off the pearl-gray suit, and followed the stage manager down the corridor to the studio. He was seated to the left of the host of the show, and a soundman expertly clipped a button-sized microphone to his lapel. The host, anchoring one of the country’s most important prime-time current affairs programs, was busy going down his running order; the monitor showed a dog-food commercial. He looked up and flashed a pearly grin at Hapgood.

“Good to see you, Senator.”

Hapgood responded with the obligatory yard-wide smile.

“Good to be here, Tom.”

“We have just two more messages after this. Then we’re on.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll just follow your lead.”

Will you, hell, thought the anchorman, who came from the East Coast liberal tradition of journalism and thought the Oklahoma senator a menace to society. The dog food was replaced by a pickup truck and then a breakfast cereal. As the last image faded of a deliriously happy family tucking into a product that looked and tasted like straw, the stage manager pointed a finger directly at Tom. The red light above camera one lit up and the host gazed into the lens, his face etched with public concern.

“Despite repeated denials from White House Press Secretary Craig Lipton, reports continue to reach this program that the health of President Cormack still gives rise to deep concern. And this just two weeks before the project most closely identified with his name and his incumbency, the Nantucket Treaty, is due to go before the Senate for ratification.

“One of those who has most consistently opposed the treaty is the chairman of the Citizens for a Strong America movement, Senator Bennett Hapgood.”

On the word
Senator
, the light of camera two went on, sending the image of the seated senator into 30 million homes. Camera three gave viewers a two-shot of both men as the host swung toward Hapgood.

“Senator, how do you rate the chances of ratification in January?”

“What can I say, Tom? They can’t be good. Not after what has happened these past few weeks. But even those events apart, the treaty should not pass. Like millions of my fellow Americans, I can see no justification at this point in time for trusting the Russians—and that’s what it comes down to.”

“But surely, Senator, the issue of trust does not arise. There are verification procedures built into that treaty which give our military specialists unprecedented access to the Soviet weapons-destruction program. ...”

“Maybe so, Tom, maybe so. Fact is, Russia is a huge place. We have to trust them not to build other, newer weapons deep in the interior. For me, it’s simple: I want to see America strong, and that means keeping every piece of hardware we have—”

“And deploying more, Senator?”

“If we have to, if we have to.”

“But these defense budgets are starting to cripple our economy. The deficits are becoming unmanageable.”

“You say so, Tom. There are others who think the damage to our economy is caused by too many welfare checks, too many foreign imports, too many federal foreign aid programs. We seem to spend more looking after foreign critics than our military. Believe me, Tom, it’s not a question of money for the defense industries, not at all.”

Tom Granger switched topics.

“Senator, apart from opposing U.S. help to the hungry of the Third World and backing protectionist trade tariffs, you have also called for the resignation of John Cormack. Can you justify that?”

Hapgood could cheerfully have strangled the newsman. Granger’s use of the words
hungry
and
protectionist
indicated where
he
stood on these issues. Instead, Hapgood kept his concerned expression in place and nodded soberly but regretfully.

“Tom, I just want to say this: I have opposed several issues espoused by President Cormack. That is my right in this free country. But ...”

He turned away from the host, found the camera he wanted with its on-light dark, and stared at it for the half-second it took the director in the control booth to switch cameras and give him a personal close-up shot.

“... I yield to no man in my respect for the integrity and courage in adversity of John Cormack. And it is precisely because of this that I say ...”

His bronzed face would have oozed sincerity from every pore had they not been clogged with pancake makeup.

“ ‘... John, you have taken more than any man should have to take. For the sake of the nation, but above all for the sake of yourself and Myra, lay down this intolerable burden of office, I beg you.’ ”

In his private study in the White House, President Cormack depressed a button on his remote control and switched off the TV screen across the room. He knew and disliked Hapgood, even though they were members of the same party; knew the man would never have dared call him “John” to his face.

And yet ... He knew the man was right. He knew he could not go on much longer, was no longer capable of leadership. His misery was so great he had no further lust for the job he did, no further lust for life itself.

Though he did not know it, Dr. Armitage had noticed symptoms these past two weeks that had caused him profound concern. Once the psychiatrist, probably looking for what he found, had caught the President in the underground garage, descending from his car after one of his rare forays outside the White House grounds. He intercepted the Chief Executive staring at the exhaust pipe of the limousine, as if at an old friend to whom he might now turn to dull his pain.

John Cormack turned to the book he had been reading before the TV show. It was a book of poetry, something he had once taught his students at Yale. There was a verse he recalled. Something John Keats had written. The little English poet, dead at twenty-six, had known melancholy as few others had, and expressed it like no one else. He found the passage he sought: “Ode to a Nightingale.”

... and for many a time

I have been half in love with easeful Death,

Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath;

Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

To cease upon the midnight with no pain ...

He left the book open and leaned back, stared at the rich scrollwork around the cornices of the private study of the most powerful man in the world.
To cease upon the midnight with no pain
. How tempting, he thought. How very tempting ...

* * *

Quinn chose half past ten that evening, an hour when most people were back home but not yet in bed asleep for the night. He was in a phone booth in a good hotel, the sort of place where the booths still have doors to give the caller privacy. He heard the number ring three times; then the phone was lifted.

“Yes?”

He had heard the man speak before, but that one word was not enough to identify the voice.

Quinn spoke in the quiet, almost whispering voice of Moss, the words punctuated by the occasional whistle of breath through the damaged nose.

“It’s Moss,” he said.

There was a pause.

“You should never call me here, except in an emergency. I told you that.”

Pay dirt. Quinn let out a deep sigh.

“It is,” he said softly. “Quinn has been taken care of. The girl too. And McCrea, he’s been ... terminated.”

“I don’t think I want to know these things,” said the voice.

“You should,” said Quinn before the man could cut the connection. “He left a manuscript behind. Quinn. I have it now, right here.”

“Manuscript?”

“That’s right. I don’t know where he got the details, how he worked them out, but it’s all here. The five names—you know, the men in back. Me, McCrea, Orsini, Zack, Marchais, Pretorius. Everything. Names, dates, places, times. What happened and why ... and who.”

There was a long pause.

“That include me?” asked the voice.

“I said,
everything
.”

Quinn could hear the breathing.

“How many copies?”

“Just the one. He was in a cabin up in northern Vermont. No Xerox machines up there. I have the only copy right here.”

“I see. Where are you?”

“In Washington.”

“I think you had better hand it over to me.”

“Sure,” said Quinn. “No problem. It names me too. I’d destroy it myself, except ...”

“Except what, Mr. Moss?”

“Except they still owe me.”

There was another long pause. The man at the other end of the line was swallowing saliva, several times.

“I understand you have been handsomely rewarded,” he said. “If there is more due you, it will be provided.”

“No good,” said Quinn. “There was a whole mess of things I had to clear up that were not foreseen. Those three guys in Europe, Quinn, the girl ... All that caused a deal of extra ... work.”

“What do you want, Mr. Moss?”

“I figure I ought to get what was offered to me originally, all over again. And doubled.”

Quinn could hear the intake of breath. Doubtless the man was learning the hard way that if you mess with killers, you may end up being blackmailed.

“I will have to consult on this,” said the man in Georgetown. “If ... er ... paperwork has to be prepared, it will take time. Don’t do anything rash. I’m sure things can be worked out.”

“Twenty-four hours,” said Quinn. “I call you back this time tomorrow. Tell those five down there you had better be ready. I get my fee—you get the manuscript. Then I’ll be gone, and you’ll all be safe ... forever.”

He hung up the phone, leaving the other man to calculate the choice of paying up or facing ruin.

For transportation Quinn rented a motorcycle, and bought himself a chunky sheepskin bomber jacket to keep out the cold.

His call the next evening was picked up at the first ring.

“Well?” Quinn snuffled.

“Your ... terms, excessive though they are, have been accepted,” said the owner of the Georgetown house.

“You have the paperwork?” asked Quinn.

“I do. In my hand. You have the manuscript?”

“In mine. Let’s swap and get it over with.”

“I agree. Not here. The usual place, two in the morning.”

“Alone. Unarmed. You get some hired muscle to try and jump me, you end up in a box.”

“No tricks—you have my word on it. Since we are prepared to pay, there’s no need. And none from your side either. A straight commercial deal, please.”

“Suits me. I just want the money,” said Quinn.

The other man cut off the call.

At five minutes to eleven John Cormack sat at his desk and surveyed the handwritten letter to the American people. It was gracious and regretful. Others would have to read it aloud, reproduce it in their newspapers and magazines, on their radio programs and TV shows. After he was gone. It was eight days to Christmas. But this year another man would celebrate the festive season in the Mansion. A good man, a man he trusted. Michael Odell, forty-first President of the United States. The phone rang. He glanced at it with some irritation. It was his personal and private number, the one he gave only to close and trusted friends who might call him without introduction at any hour.

“Yes?”

“Mr. President?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Quinn. The negotiator.”

“Ah ... yes, Mr. Quinn.”

“I don’t know what you think of me, Mr. President. It matters little now. I failed to get your son back to you. But I have discovered why. And who killed him. Please, sir, just listen. I have little time.

“At five tomorrow morning a motorcyclist will stop at the Secret Service post at the public entrance to the White House on Alexander Hamilton Place. He will hand over a package, a flat cardboard box. It will contain a manuscript. It is for your eyes and yours only. There are no copies. Please give orders for it to be brought to you personally when it arrives. When you have read it, you will make the dispositions you see fit. Trust me, Mr. President. This one last time. Good night, sir.”

John Cormack stared at the buzzing phone. Still perplexed, he put it down, lifted another, and gave the order to the Secret Service duty officer.

Quinn had a small problem. He did not know “the usual place,” and to have admitted that would have blown away his chances of the meeting. At midnight he found the Georgetown address Sam had given him, parked the big Honda down the street, and took up his station in the deep shadow of a gap between two other houses across the street and twenty yards up.

The house he watched was an elegant five-story redbrick mansion at the western end of N Street, a quiet avenue that terminates there with the campus of Georgetown University. Quinn calculated such a place would have to cost over $2 million.

Beside the house were the electronically operated doors of a double garage. Lights burned in the house on three floors. Just after midnight those in the topmost floor, the staff quarters, went out. At one o’clock only one floor remained illuminated. Someone was still awake.

At twenty past one the last lights above the ground floor went out; others downstairs came on. Ten minutes later a crack of yellow appeared behind the garage doors—someone was getting into a car. The light went out and the doors began to rise. A long black Cadillac limousine emerged, turned slowly into the street, and the doors closed. As the car headed away from the university Quinn saw there was just one man at the wheel, driving carefully. He walked unobtrusively to his Honda, started up, and cruised down the street in the wake of the limousine.

It turned south on Wisconsin Avenue. The usually bustling heart of Georgetown, with its bars, bistros, and late shops, was quiet at that hour of a deep mid-December night. Quinn stayed back as far as he dared, watching the taillights of the Cadillac swing east onto M Street and then right on Pennsylvania Avenue. He followed it around the Washington Circle and then due south on Twenty-third Street, until it turned left into Constitution Avenue and pulled to a halt by the curb under the trees just beyond Henry Bacon Drive.