Conspiracy (4 page)

“This involves one of my agents, a man named Gerald Forester. You know about him?”

Rubens shook his head.

Frey's entire body rose and fell as he took a deep breath.

“Supposedly it's suicide. But I don't buy it.”

 

SENATOR MCSWEENEY DUCKED
out of the committee room and began looking for his aide and driver.

“Jimmy Fingers, where the hell are you?” McSweeney's voice boomed in the hallway.

“Behind you, Senator. Watching your back. As always.”

“We're late.”

“Yes, sir.”

James Fahey—alias Jimmy Fingers—caught up to his boss and began walking beside him. Fahey had earned his nickname as a young political aide in the state capital; a rival had claimed he had his fingers in everything. The nickname hinted of connections to the old-line Irish political machine as well as the Mob; it was meant as a slur, but Fahey took it as a compliment and somehow it stuck.

“Quick stop at the Swedish embassy, fund-raiser at Brown's Hotel, meeting at the Savoy, followed by dinner with Dr. and Mrs. Fox. Heavy rollers.”

“You don't have to tell me who Dr. Fox is, Jimmy. I've been at this almost as long as you have now.”

Political columnists liked to style Jimmy Fingers and his boss as the “Original Odd Couple of Politics.” Born to a family of what the commentators politely termed “independent means,” McSweeney had rugged good looks augmented by impeccable tailoring and lightly moussed hair. Jimmy Fingers, about the same height but far more slender, looked frumpy and wrinkled no matter how fresh or expensive his suit. His hair, thinning rapidly, made a haystack look neatly
ordered. And those who said he had a face only a mother could love were being far too kind.

But the men were a matched set where it mattered—politics. Jimmy Fingers was often called the senator's hatchet man, and one writer had even declared Fingers was the “dark genius behind the throne.” It was true that in local races Jimmy Fingers had generally favored tactics suited to X-Treme Boxing. But he could be subtle as well, just as McSweeney could use the knife when necessary.

Both men were equally committed to one goal: furthering McSweeney's political career. And they had shared that goal for more than twenty years, since Jimmy Fingers had taught McSweeney how to use direct mail to attack his opponent in an assembly race.

McSweeney's Secret Service bodyguard edged a little closer as they walked outside. The protection was optional, but since the campaign had received an e-mail death threat, McSweeney had opted for it.

“When's Wilson meeting me?” said McSweeney as they walked toward his car.

“He'll be upstairs at Brown's Hotel.”

“Let's blow off the Swedish embassy reception,” said McSweeney. “I'd like more time to talk to Wilson.”

“Svorn Jenson is going to be at the embassy. He and his pals will be good for a hundred thousand in the campaign. All you have to do is smile at him and leave. He'll be thrilled.”

“Oh, all right. What's Wilson going to tell me, anyway?”

“What he always does. The numbers are bad, but they're improving. He needs to justify the money you're spending on him.”

“The numbers better start moving soon,” said the senator. “Or he's going to have to find a real job.”

“Worry about the primaries, not the polls,” said Jimmy Fingers. He opened the door but didn't get in.

“Aren't you coming?” asked McSweeney.

“I have to pick up some dry cleaning before we head back to the district. I figured this would be a good time—the Swedes didn't invite me to the reception.”

“You could go in my place,” said McSweeney.

“Maybe next time, Senator,” said Jimmy Fingers, pushing the door closed.

 

ONE THING GIDEON
McSweeney had to give Jimmy Fingers—the guy was never wrong when it came to potential donors. Svorn Jenson's face lit up the second he saw McSweeney enter the reception; McSweeney pumped his hand, then went off to pump a few more before ducking out the side door. Even though he was in the embassy for no more than five minutes, he had made a friend—and campaign donor—for life.

Brown's Hotel, his next stop, was located in suburban Virginia, a few miles from the Beltway. McSweeney spent the ride there calling potential campaign donors. Running for President took an incredible amount of money, and raising it took an incredible amount of time, especially when you were the second or third favorite candidate in the upcoming Super Tuesday primary. Despite his upset victory in New Hampshire and his efforts since, McSweeney's campaign was faltering, and privately he felt he'd need a miracle to make it through the next month.

He was about a quarter of the way through his list of calls when they reached the hotel. McSweeney took his time getting out of the car. A knot of people gathered on the opposite sidewalk. They were gawkers rather than well-wishers; McSweeney could tell from their expressions that they didn't recognize him. That was a disappointment—his television spots had been in heavy rotation in the state for a week—but he didn't let on, waving enthusiastically and urging them to remember him in the upcoming primary.

Turning back toward the building, he began striding toward the lobby door. Each step stoked his confidence, and by the time he reached the edge of the red carpet in front of the glass, he felt invincible.

Number three? Two? No way. He was going to surprise everyone. It was New Hampshire all over again.

Something caught his attention and McSweeney turned
his head to the right. He saw a figure in black clothes standing beyond a knot of tourists.

The man had a gun.

“Get down!” yelled someone. In the next moment, McSweeney felt himself falling to the ground.

 

THERE WAS NOTHING
in Frey's description of the agent's death that convinced Rubens it was anything but a suicide. The man was going through a painful divorce that promised to separate him from his children. Even Frey admitted that Forester could occasionally be moody and was most likely disappointed that he hadn't advanced rapidly up the Secret Service hierarchy, despite early promise. And while Forester had handled literally hundreds of investigations during his career, he didn't seem to have generated any enemies from them. The cases he had been working on before his death were typical ones as far as the Secret Service was concerned. The most serious involved an e-mailed death threat against a candidate for President—ironically, the candidate was Senator McSweeney, who had just finished grilling Rubens. Forester hadn't closed out the inquiry, but Frey's cursory review of the case made it appear there wasn't much there.

The state police and the local prosecuting attorney had made it clear that, as far as they were concerned, the agent had killed himself. But Frey had ordered the Service to conduct its own investigation.

“There are some interesting loose ends,” said Frey. “Before he died, Jerry received some e-mails that we'd like traced to the source.”

Frey reached into his jacket pocket and took out two pieces of white paper, which had printouts of the e-mails. Both e-mails had a Yahoo return address, and there was standard header information.

“The e-mail address has been falsified,” said Frey. “It originated somewhere overseas. It says Vietnam, but we think that's false. We'd like to know from where, of course.”

Rubens took the paper. Among the Secret Service's lesser-known duties was the investigation of identity theft, and the agency had its own array of computer experts. If they couldn't trace it, Rubens thought, the message must be suspicious.

“We don't have the e-mails that Forester sent,” added Frey. “I'm afraid we don't know whether that is significant or not. He worked on the road a lot, and routinely would have ‘shredded' sensitive information on his laptop. The e-mail would have been erased.”

Rubens looked at the first e-mail.

Sir:

 

The business was a long time ago. All information long gone.

 

The second e-mail was much the same:

 

Sir:

 

I cannot be of assistance. Please.

 

“The business?” asked Rubens.

“I have no idea what it means. The e-mails seem to have come as he was investigating the threat made against Senator McSweeney. That e-mail was tracked to a library just outside Baltimore, where someone used a public-access computer. But we couldn't find a connection. Forester looked at constituents and other people who may have had a beef with the senator. Doesn't look like he found a link. He was still checking into it—he was going back to the area where McSweeney first served as assemblyman when he died.”

Rubens folded the e-mails and placed them into his pocket. “Did you know the agent very well?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I broke him in. He was a good man.”

Before Rubens could find a way to tactfully suggest that Frey's opinion might be clouding his judgment, the Secret Service director's phone buzzed.

He answered it, and immediately his face turned grim. “I'm on my way,” he told his caller after listening for a few moments.

He snapped off the phone and turned to Rubens.

“We've just had a report of shots fired at Senator McSweeney. I'll need to get to my car.”

 

THE TARGET MOVED
at the very last moment, complicating the shot, but the shooter stayed on mission, pulling his finger steadily and smoothly against the trigger. The roar of the gun in the closed room was greater than he'd expected, but the recoil curiously less. The bullet sailed true, a perfect shot.

He had no time to think about these things, however; the entire enterprise had been carefully timed, and to make his getaway cleanly he had to leave immediately.

In the stairs on the way down, his heart double-pumped. It was a brief clutch, nothing more than a hiccup—a reminder of his age, nothing more. Rather than slowing down, he doubled his pace: he was too old to fail now. The chance to succeed would not come again.

The door slapped behind him as he made it to the street. He heard sirens the next block over. Quickly, the shooter slipped the steamer trunk with the rifle into the side door of the minivan, then slammed the door shut. The motor, started by remote control as he came down the steps, was already humming.

He fought against the instinct to press his foot too firmly on the accelerator. When he reached the corner, he stopped, signaled, then carefully pulled out into traffic.

Ten minutes later, he was on the Beltway. Only then did he give in and press the button for the radio.

The first report made his heart double-pump again.

“Senator McSweeney has been shot in Washington, D.C., just outside the Capitol Building!” said the announcer breathlessly.

The fact that the reporter had gotten the location wrong should have tipped the shooter off, but for the next few miles he drove in a kind of fugue state, believing that everything had gone wrong.

And then a different reporter came on, one who was actually at the scene.

“The senator appeared to be unhurt,” said the reporter. “He was immediately taken into Brown's Hotel, where he was to be the guest of honor at a campaign fund-raiser. I was just arriving myself. Let me repeat, Senator McSweeney appears to be OK.”

Thank God, thought the shooter. Thank God.

 

MCSWEENEY RESISTED UNTIL
he realized that his bodyguard was trying to drag him into the hotel, away from the chaos and commotion on the street.

“I can do it myself,” he muttered, struggling to get to his feet.

McSweeney tripped over the carpet as he came through the door and flew into the lobby, crashing against one of the hotel workers before regaining his balance. People were ducking or cowering or simply standing in dazed silence, unsure what was going on.

“Down, we're going down, through this door,” said the Secret Service agent next to him. “Steps. Watch the steps.”

McSweeney's lungs were gasping for air by the time he and the agent reached the bottom landing. They turned left, entered another hallway, then went into a room at the right. The Secret Service agent, face beet red, stood by the door, pistol out.

“Why are we here?” McSweeney asked the Secret Service agent.

“Please, Senator, until the situation is secure.”

“Why are we in this room?”

“It'll just be a moment. It's under control.”

McSweeney reached into his pocket for his phone.

“Sir, please—no communications until we're sure everything is copasetic,” said the agent. “Just to be safe.”

“My wife is going to be worried.”

“It shouldn't take very long.”

McSweeney put the phone back reluctantly. “Who shot at us?”

“I don't know, sir,” said the agent. He put up his hand, then held it over his ear, obviously listening to something on his radio.

McSweeney's phone began to buzz. He checked the caller ID window on the phone and saw that it was Jimmy Fingers. McSweeney flipped it open despite the bodyguard's frown.

“I'm OK, Jimmy,” he told his aide. “The fucker missed me.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, thank God! Do you know the radio just said you were dead?”

“Well, I'm not.”

“We'll want to get a statement out right away.”

“Rumors of my death are greatly exaggerated,” said McSweeney, echoing Mark Twain's famous comment.

“No, something more serious,” said Jimmy Fingers, always thinking of the political ramifications. “A potential slogan. ‘My work won't be stopped by a madman.' If you were in the lead, then you could joke. No, it has to be just right. We'll work it out when I get there. I'm a few minutes away.”