Against All Enemies (44 page)

“As a matter of fact, I can.”

“He made that decision on his own,” Beth added, “without telling us. But by then, Cassidy knew he was innocent and wanted to get him into the witness protection program.”

“So why the fake murder?”

Beth gave him a look reserved for simpletons. “Thanks to Meredith, Brad is a marked man. It was only a matter of time until some wacko gunned him down.”

“Was Sgt. Rockne part of this?” Sutherland asked.

Beth shook her head. “He was a complication that almost got out of control. But he did make a very credible witness.”

“Where does Jim Bob fit in all this?” Sutherland asked.

“His real name is James Robert Sullivan,” Beth explained. “He’s an undercover agent for DOJ and was investigating Meredith’s First Brigade at the time. He had established a reputation as a wild card, and they had no trouble believing he would kill Brad and then disappear.”

Sutherland’s head hurt. “I’ve got two friends waiting about a mile down the road. I’d like to bring them in so they can hear all this.”

“Certainly,” Beth said. “I’ll have James drive you down.”

Sutherland jumped to his feet. “Jim Bob is here?”

“In the next room, listening in case you got out of hand.”

“Shit!” Sutherland shouted, running from the room.

“James,” Beth called. “Drive Hank down to his friends and find out what’s wrong.”

“Will do,” Jim Bob answered. He came through a door, paused and looked at her. “We work for DOJ? What will the Boss say if he hears that?” He gave a short, guttural snort as he left the room.

Jefferson took his wife’s hand. “Do you think he’ll believe it?”

Beth Page arched an eyebrow. “He’ll have some doubts and wonder why we’re in Switzerland. But all the pieces fit. He’ll buy it. Besides, that’s all he’s going to get.”

Sutherland was running hard when the Mercedes pulled alongside of him. “Get in!” Jim Bob shouted. Sutherland piled in and they sped down the mountain.

“You got a gun?” Sutherland rasped, his lungs hurting for air.

“In Switzerland?” Jim Bob replied. “You got to be crazy.” They blasted down the road and slammed to a halt by the rented Audi. One door was open but no one was in sight. “Over there,” Jim Bob said, pointing to a culvert. They rushed over. Brent Mather was lying in a shallow pool of water stained red by blood. They dragged the unconscious man onto the road. Jim Bob felt the side of his neck, searching for a pulse. “He’s alive. Barely.”

“Where’s Toni?” Sutherland said, standing and looking around. He ran to the edge of the road and scanned the valley. Far below, a car was making its way along the road leading to the village. “Damn!” Sutherland yelled. He ran back to the Mercedes and jumped in. “His name is Brent Mather,” he yelled at Jim Bob. “He’s FBI. I think August Ramar shot him and has got Toni Moreno, an OSI agent. He’s driving a silver-blue sedan.” He didn’t wait for an answer and slammed the car into gear, hurtling down the twisting road.

Twice, Sutherland almost skidded off the road. Then his sense of caution kicked in. He slowed and drove more sanely. He wanted to use the cell phone to call the chalet but he needed all his skill and concentration to get down the mountain. Once, he came perilously close to the edge and somehow caught a glimpse of a silver-blue sedan on one of the switchbacks below him. Then he was through the village and at the main road. True to form, he turned the wrong way and reached a dead end at the train station. He threw the Mercedes around to head back the way he’d come.

He slammed on the brakes. A silver-blue sedan was in a long line of cars driving onto the flatbed carriages for the train trip through the tunnel. The cars were loading from the rear of the train and driving forward from carriage to carriage until the train was full.
Dumb
, he thought.
Why would he go that way?
He closed his eyes and tried to call up an image of the moving map display in the Audi. It worked. Once through the tunnel, it was a short drive, less than a hundred kilometers, over Simplonpass and to the Italian border. “Going to look up some old buddies?” Sutherland muttered. He grabbed the cell phone and called the chalet. No answer. “Damn!” he roared.

The last of the cars were loaded and the train was almost full. A conductor was moving alongside, waving his wand for the engineer to start moving. Sutherland gunned the Mercedes, wheeled it around, and drove up the loading ramp. The train was starting to move and a guard waved him to stop. He mashed the accelerator and charged up the ramp, the wheels smoking. The car flew into the air and crested the rapidly opening gap. He slammed onto the flatbed and stomped the brakes, skidding to a halt before ramming into the back of the only car on the carriage. “I can’t believe I did that,” he muttered to himself. He got out and gave the guard an expressive shrug as the train pulled into the tunnel. From the guard’s gesture, there was no doubt the police would be waiting for him on the other side. “But not for Ramar,” he growled to himself.

Darkness engulfed him and he was glad for the dome light inside the car. He crawled back in and shut the door. Now the darkness was total and reminded him of the time he was in Carlsbad Caverns and the guide had turned out the light for a few seconds. One of the train’s wheels sparked and lit the tunnel like a strobe light. Then it was pitch black again.
How much longer do I have?
he thought. The dome light in the car in front of him came on. He could see the two passengers disrobing. The light went out. “So they’ve got time for that,” he muttered.

He reached up, flicked the Mercedes’s dome light off, and opened the door. The light stayed off. He got out and made his way by touch to the next car. A spark flashed and he caught a glimpse of the couple. They were locked in a nude and passionate embrace in the backseat. He worked his way forward to the front of the carriage. He probed the connecting ramp leading to the next carriage with his toe. As best he could tell, the ramp was bolted to the rear carriage and overlapped the carriage in front. The train swerved around a bend and a spark from the electric power lines overhead briefly illuminated the tunnel. He had figured it right. The ramp was an overhanging extension of the rear carriage and swung back and forth over the tail end of the leading carriage. No problem as long as they were going straight ahead.

He made his way across the gap and went from auto to auto by touch, Once, a dome light came on in front of him, but it was so blinding he had to stop and shield his eyes. A car honked and the light went out.
They like to ride in the dark
, he told himself. He was at the next gap and had to lose touch with the car he was using as a guide. He inched across the connecting ramp, arm outstretched, hoping to feel the car on the next carriage. Suddenly, the train went around another bend and he lost his balance. He stumbled forward onto the next flatbed as the ramp swung away. The train straightened and the ramp swung back. It cut into the back of his shoe, slicing off the heel. “Holy shit!” he gasped.

Another spark and he saw the silver-blue sedan on the next carriage. He made himself go slow. Then he was across the ramp and onto the flatbed. Another spark. The silver-blue sedan was two cars in front.
I’m going to feel like an asshole if it’s some other couple fucking their brains out
. He worked his way past the last car and was now alongside the sedan.
What now?
Another spark and the problem was solved for him. In that brief half-second, he looked directly into the face of August Ramar. The car door crashed open, almost knocking Sutherland off the train. The dome light came on and Ramar was out of the car, gun in hand.

On his back, Sutherland kicked at the door, slamming it closed, engulfing them in darkness. Instinctively, he kicked again. He felt his toe collide with something hard and heard a satisfying grunt of pain. He came to his feet and retreated to the front of the sedan. He crouched in the darkness waiting. Another spark and he saw Ramar, a few feet away, coming after him, still holding the gun. He charged into Ramar head first, spearing him in his solar plexus. He reached for the gun and grasped Ramar’s arm. Ramar’s free hand came up and grabbed a fistful of Sutherland’s hair. Ramar pounded Sutherland’s head into the hood of the car. The train swerved and Ramar let go, grabbing for a handhold.

Sutherland held on to Ramar’s gun arm as he tried to shake the gun out of his hand. They were both off balance and fell in the darkness. Ramar’s arm slammed into his mouth when they hit the floor. Sutherland bit down, hard. Ramar shouted as the train slowed. They rolled forward and Ramar was on top of him. He jerked his arm free and smashed the gun into the side of Sutherland’s head. A dome light in a nearby car flashed and, for a moment, the struggling men were blinded. Sutherland jerked his left hand free and jabbed at Ramar’s eyes. Ramar screamed.

Ramar fell back, still holding on to his gun. Sutherland kicked at him as they went around another bend. Ramar rolled onto the connecting ramp leading to the next carriage and swung the gun around in Sutherland’s direction. He blindly fired off three shots, the slugs ricocheting down the tunnel, the muzzle flash blinding. Sutherland was on top of him, one hand grabbing for the gun, the other for Ramar’s hair. The train slowed again. Ramar’s gun banged into Sutherland’s head and he fired. The sound deafened Sutherland and in the muzzle flash, he saw Ramar’s face contorted in rage, inches from his own. Sutherland grabbed the gun as Ramar kneed him in the stomach.

“Where’s Toni!” Sutherland shouted.

Ramar spit in his face.

A killing rage swept over Sutherland. He banged the gun against the grated steel of the connecting ramp from the rear carriage. The gun fell away. The train rocked into the last bend, and ahead, light surged into the tunnel. The connecting ramp swung clear as they entered the bend. Sutherland shoved Ramar’s head into the gap, smashing it against the side of one of the shock absorbers that kept the carriages apart. The ramp swung back as the carriages straightened.

Sutherland jerked his hand back just as the edge of the swinging ramp cut into Ramar’s neck. He watched in horror as the severed head fell to the tracks below.

Sutherland was deaf in his right ear from the gunshot and couldn’t understand a word the policeman was saying. “A body!” he shouted, pointing to Ramar’s car. The policeman looked confused. The only body was lying at his feet, headless, dripping blood onto the tracks. Sutherland walked back to the sedan and looked inside. Nothing. Then he felt the car rock from someone kicking in the trunk. He reached in and jerked the keys out of the ignition. The policeman was ahead of him and at the rear of the car. Sutherland threw him the keys. The policeman fumbled with the lock and threw the lid up.

A very frightened, bruised, and angry Toni Moreno was lying in the trunk, trussed up with duct tape. The policeman cut her free and she climbed out, throwing herself into Sutherland’s arms. “He killed Brent,” she sobbed.

“He’s okay,” Sutherland said.

“What happened?” the policeman asked.

She massaged the side of her head as she stared at Ramar’s body. “Him,” she finally said, pointing at the body. “He shot my partner and I jumped him.”

“You jumped an armed man?” Sutherland muttered, wondering if he would ever understand her.

“I almost had his weapon,” Toni explained, “then everything went black.”

“He knocked you out,” Sutherland said, examining the ugly bruise on the side of her temple. “He probably figured you’d make a good hostage if he got caught.” He didn’t want to think about the most likely scenario. Ramar would have raped and killed her once he finished asking questions.

“And Brent’s okay?” Toni asked, holding on to him.

“He was alive when I last saw him,” Sutherland said, stroking her hair and feeling very protective, almost like a father.

5:00
P.M.
, Monday, August 9,
Aspen, Colo.

Art Rios found Durant asleep in the overstuffed leather chair by the big window overlooking the valley. He carefully lifted the rescue mission’s after-action report from his lap and thumbed through it. The Air Force, with its penchant for wrapping everything up in tidy packages, had detailed Gillespie to compile the document. As expected, the important parts were either omitted or glossed over. There was no mention of Durant or him by name, only references to “expertise drawn from the civilian community during the planning phase.” Nor was there any mention of Agnes. Rios smiled when he read the references to Kamigami. He was simply an unnamed agent operating under nonofficial cover.

“Hire Gillespie,” Durant said without opening his eyes.

“Will do,” Rios said. “What are you going to do about al Gimlas?”

“Kamigami says he’s got relatives in Egypt. I’ll get his family out of the Sudan and the Egyptian Army can use him.”

“And her?”

Durant’s eyes came open. Rios had never before asked him a direct question about his private life.

“I mean Agnes,” Rios said, clarifying the matter.

“That is a problem.”

7:00
P.M.
, Wednesday, August 11,
Washington, D.C.

The TV reporters with their microphones and videocams had arrived at the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts ten hours before the telecast. People in a holiday mood surged around the Center and were backed up as far as the Lincoln Memorial to the south and the Watergate complex to the north. And still they came. The reporters roamed the area and confirmed this was a Meredith crowd, happy and secure in the knowledge that their messiah would soon walk among them on his way to do battle with the hated media.

Exactly one hour before the TV show, Meredith emerged from the Watergate Hotel and made his way through the crowd on foot, followed by a few of his staff. The mass of humanity parted like the Red Sea and, to the person, they were his bodyguards. At that exact moment, many would have willingly died for him.

Sutherland waited in the control booth while Marcy spoke to the director. Finished, she turned to Sutherland. “Hank, I really appreciate the offer, but I’m not using your information on Jefferson.”

“Why not?” Sutherland replied. “It’s good stuff, complete with Swiss bank account numbers and records. It ties in perfectly with what you found and raises some heavy-duty questions Meredith needs to answer.”

“The legal beagles aren’t sure. Jefferson is dead and there is some question of libel.”

“The defense of libel is the truth,” Sutherland said.

The show’s director spun around in his chair. “Marcy, they need you in makeup.” She nodded and left the control booth.

Sutherland looked at the main stage where the technicians were putting the final touches on the set. It was a simple semicircular raised platform with three leather swivel chairs set in front of a huge high-definition digital TV screen. “Why here?” he asked the director. “Why this way?”

“This was the only way Meredith would do it,” the director said. “He wanted a big audience.”

“Well, you certainly got that.”

“Yep. It looks like we’re going to sweep the ratings. Right now, I’d estimate an audience share of at least forty-five.”

“How did that happen?”

“Meredith has turned this into a Roman spectacle,” the director answered. “It’s the lions versus the Christians only this time, it’s the Christians licking their chops.”

Liz Gordon stepped onto the platform and sat down in the middle chair. She adjusted the earphone as her hairdresser artfully buried the thin lead in her thick blond hair. Satisfied, she spoke a few words for sound before she took the countdown. They were live on every major TV network in the nation. “Welcome to CNC-TV’s
National Forum
,” she began. “We are here this evening at the request of Jonathan Meredith—” The applause was deafening. It lasted for a full minute before the handlers could get the audience under control. “As I was saying, we are here with Mr. Meredith. Also, here with us is the reporter from the
Sacramento Union
, Marcy Bangor. As you probably know, she first broke the story alleging criminal activity on the part of Mr. Meredith’s organization.”

The audience was silent as Marcy walked onstage and sat down. Then it was Meredith’s turn. Loud applause shook the auditorium as Meredith took his seat. He let the adulation crest over him before he made a quieting motion with his hand. Immediately, the audience fell silent.

“The rules governing tonight’s program are very simple,” Liz Gordon explained. “I will act as moderator and each will have a chance to respond to my questions in turn.” She motioned to the large screen behind her. “Mr. Meredith has asked for the opportunity to show what we in the business call ‘soundbites’ and Ms. Bangor has agreed. Later on, the audience may ask questions. So with that, let’s begin. Mr. Meredith, why did you choose to respond to the allegations made by Ms. Bangor and her paper in this way?”

Meredith leaned forward in his chair, his hands clasped between his knees as the camera zoomed in on him. “It’s quite simple. Because of the way the media works, I am guilty of these so-called crimes until proven innocent. There is absolutely no truth in this story. But, unfortunately, we’ve seen this tactic before. By the time the truth is known, innocent people are convicted in the public’s mind and are yesterday’s news. Consequently, the truth is never known.” He continued to talk, capturing the camera as much with his presence as with his words. He was on home turf and at his best.

Then it was Marcy’s turn. But it was obvious that she was out of her element and after the first round of exchanges, the momentum of the program turned against her. After her poor response, Meredith knew he had won. It was time to be the generous and benevolent victor. “Ms. Bangor, I must give you credit for being here tonight. Normally, reporters are not so brave and prefer to remain hidden in the anonymity of a newsroom.”

Liz Gordon tried to defuse Meredith’s probe by going on to the next topic. But Marcy wouldn’t let it go. “And I suppose you are brave and heroic by always operating in public?”

It was exactly what Meredith wanted. “Ms. Bangor,” his tone was kind, almost fatherly, and played the TV audience to perfection, “I have never claimed to be brave or heroic.”

“Really?” Marcy answered.

Again, Meredith captured the camera. “This is exactly the point I’m trying to make here tonight. The twisting of facts and innuendo are the weapons used by the media. If we may, can we run the videotape?”

The screen behind them came alive. It was the famous scene recorded by the tourist at the San Francisco Shopping Emporium. Meredith was coming out of the smoking ruins carrying the badly hurt waitress Sutherland had brought down from the rooftop restaurant. Meredith tenderly handed her over to a fireman, his face wracked with anguish, before collapsing to his knees, panting hard. A blanket was thrown over his shoulders. Again, the voice from off screen was heard. “My God, the man’s a real hero.”

Meredith looked up, his face ravaged with pain. He pointed to four firemen wearing respirators descending into the smoke billowing from the underground BART station. “There’s your real heroes.” He struggled to his feet. “I had to do something….I was there.”

The scene had lost none of its impact and, for a split second, the audience at the JFK Performing Center sat in silence. Then the applause erupted, filling the building with approval before subsiding. “I’m not a hero, Ms. Bangor. I was just there.” Meredith had made his point and blown Marcy away.

“Mr. Meredith,” Marcy said, “may I ask you a question?”

Liz Gordon shot her a quick look. There was a slight change in Marcy’s voice, something different. “At this point, it would only be fair.” She looked at Meredith for confirmation. He nodded his acceptance.

“Mr. Meredith,” Marcy began, “you are an accomplished speaker, perfectly at ease in front of large crowds. How much do you rehearse for a TV performance, like tonight?”

The sudden change caught Meredith off guard. But he quickly regained his balance. “Of course, I prepare. My aides and I go over possible questions and topics. Then we work on answers. After all, to be prepared is to be forewarned.” He gave her his best smile. “But I must admit, no one thought of that question.” He looked thoughtful. “I am going to have to speak to them about that.” A murmur of laughter worked its way through the audience.

“I also have a videotape,” Marcy said. On cue, the screen came alive. At first, it was nothing but a blue background screen. Then a few images were superimposed showing various scenes of disasters including the Murrah building destroyed in the Oklahoma City bombing. Then it went blue again as Meredith appeared in front carrying a small child made up to look bloody and badly hurt. He handed the tiny victim to an actor dressed as a paramedic. He turned to the camera. “We need to see pain, Mr. Meredith,” a voice off-camera said. Pain appeared on Meredith’s face. “Pant a little,” the voice directed. “Yes, that’s it. Now sink to your knees.” Meredith sank to his knees. “Someone throw a blanket over him.” A blanket was thrown across his shoulders. “Line, please,” the voice said.

“My God, the man’s a hero.”

“Make that ‘My God, the man’s a real hero,” the voice said. “Emphasis on ‘real.’” The line was repeated as directed. “Very good. Now, Mr. Meredith, this is the part we will have to improvise.”

“I don’t like to improvise,” Meredith said, still on his knees.

“I understand,” the voice said. “We will have real rescue workers there. But finding a victim to carry out will be difficult so we have to play it as it develops. If no one is there for you to point at, say ‘The real heroes are the firemen, the paramedics.’ Then come to your feet. Make it an effort. Say, ‘I was just there.’ Keep it simple.”

Meredith frowned. “Wouldn’t it sound better if I said, ‘I had to do something…. I was there.’”

“That’s good,” the voice said. “But turn it around. Say, ‘I was there. I had to do something.’”

“I say it my way,” Meredith snapped.

“Of course, sir,” the voice replied. The tape ended.

Onstage, Meredith found his voice and exploded, shaking with rage. “You dumb bitch! You’d flush your country down the toilet!” He caught himself before he said more.

Marcy’s voice was hard and implacable. “This was filmed four days
before
the bombing. You were rehearsing because you knew.” She repeated her last words, hurling them at him in righteous anger. “
Because you knew!
”

“How could anyone know about something so horrible?” he croaked. Then stronger, regaining his old confidence, “This is a fake, pure and simple.” He looked at the audience for support. But there was only scattered applause, which quickly died.

“If it’s a fake,” Marcy said, “that was one hell of a double on the screen.”

“I’m tired of these lies,” Meredith said. He shook his head, a sad look on his face. “I was foolish in coming here and thinking I would be treated fairly by the media. We all know what you are.” He stood and walked off the stage.

Marcy rushed into the control booth, her face flushed. “Where is he?” she asked.

“He’s in a limo going back to the Watergate,” the director said. “We’ve got a crew there.”

“Where did you find that tape?” Sutherland asked.

Marcy didn’t answer him directly. “Do you remember when you told me to keep asking why? Well, I did. I kept digging until I found the so-called tourist who just
happened
to record the scene with his camcorder. Would you care to guess what else he had filmed?”

“Meredith had to know in advance,” Sutherland said, playing with the implications.

“Check this out,” the director said, drawing their attention to a monitor. The scene was the entrance to the Watergate, but the cheering crowd that had marked Meredith’s entrance was eerily silent. Four aides hustled Meredith from the limousine. Just as they reached the doors, an orange arced out of the crowd and bounced off Meredith’s shoulder.

“That’s a beginning,” Sutherland said.