Conspiracy (41 page)

A man who
might
have been Chief Ball, however, had gotten off at Depew, a suburban stop within a few miles of the rental outlet and the Buffalo Niagara International Airport.

“Why would they be traveling together?” Lia asked Rockman when he briefed her after she got up.

“No idea. There's a slight possibility that they're working together to solve this.”

“I doubt it,” said Lia. “What about the rental place? Did they have a video?”

“Don't you think that was the first thing we checked?” said Rockman testily. “Clerk doesn't remember her. Probably didn't even look at the card. We're checking to see if there are other video cameras in the area.”

“Did the FBI forensic team find anything in her car? Like blood?”

“Nothing. The car was vacuumed recently; that was about it. You can interpret that any way you want.”

Lia thought back to Amanda Rauci's condo. She hadn't struck Lia as a neat freak. Then again, maybe Amanda had cleaned the car before leaving on a long trip. Some people were like that—they wanted to start fresh.

Amanda checks out the police chief; then she leaves her car at a train station.

Maybe she didn't leave it there—maybe Ball left it there after he got rid of her.

“You with me?” asked Rockman.

“Yeah, I'm with you,” said Lia.

“We're going to send the clerk an e-mail with Amanda Rauci's photo and see if he can remember her. You may have to go up there and talk to him. We'll let you know later.”

“Peachy.”

“In the meantime, do you think you could get a sample of Chief Ball's DNA?”

“As soon as I see him I'll ask him to spit into a cup.”

“A few strands of hair would do it,” said Rockman. “Ask his wife.”

“You think she keeps it in a locket?”

“Hair in a comb. Listen, even a sweaty shirt will do.”

“All right.” Lia dreaded going back to the house and talking to Mrs. Ball; the woman's pain registered transparently on her face. Whatever the truth, this was going to end very badly for her. Lia, so stoic about pain when it came to herself or the sort of enemies she usually dealt with, suddenly found she had no stomach for inflicting it on a bystander.

“Check in every hour,” said Rockman. “We'll call you if there's anything new.”

“Fine,” said Lia. She pretended to turn off the sat phone, then signaled the waiter for another cup of coffee.

 

SOME GUYS WORE
the fact that they had served in the Marines on their bodies—literally with tattoos and more figuratively in the way they spoke and thought and acted. They were lifers, and proud of it, and went out of their way to make sure everyone knew they were
Marines
.

Capital
M
.

Charlie Dean wasn't one of them. He'd been an active Marine for a substantial portion of his life—but being a Marine wasn't
all
of his life. If the service had helped define him, the key word was “helped.” Charles Dean was a good Marine, but he'd also been more than that. He'd been a successful—and unsuccessful—small businessman, a private investigator and bodyguard, a clandestine employee of the government, a hunter and outdoorsman. While there was a great deal of truth in the old adage that a Marine never became an “ex-Marine,” from his earliest days in the Corps Charlie Dean had known there was more to the world than his drill sergeant would have had him believe.

And yet if there was one thing that Dean believed in deeply—believed in so firmly that it was rooted to his soul—it was the values that the Corps preached. Some of them had a way of sounding trite or even shallow when explained to someone else, but then, simple things often did. That didn't make them any less important.

So the idea that a Marine had stolen from the government and betrayed, maybe even killed, a fellow Marine hit Dean like a blow to the chest. As he thought about Senator McSweeney,
Dean recalled the first time he'd been shot, an AK bullet going through the fleshy part of his calf. It had burned like all hell, and sent his body into shock, but the thing he remembered now, the bit of the experience that remained vividly with him, was the disbelief, the sheer wonderment at the wound—the realization that he wasn't invincible, or charmed, or special, or above the action, or any of the other white lies a man might believe when he went into combat the first time.

A Marine could betray his fellow Marines and his country. It didn't seem possible.

Dean was not naïve. He'd seen plenty of poor Marines and a few out-and-out cowards, not only in Vietnam but also afterward. He'd seen, and at times had to deal with, terrible officers. But this was magnitudes worse. It seemed a product of evil, rather than weakness.

“You're not to accuse him of any wrongdoing, or involvement,” Rubens told Dean, instructing him on how to deal with McSweeney. “Simply let him know about Tolong. Study his reaction, but nothing more.”

Senator McSweeney was now the leading candidate for President in his party; it was very possible that he would beat Marcke in the next election.

A traitor as President.

Maybe the assassin felt the same way. Maybe that was why he wanted to kill McSweeney.

“Mr. Dean, are you still with me?” Rubens asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Charlie, can you do this? Can you talk to him?”

“Absolutely.”

It was the same word he'd said when he'd been given the mission to assassinate Phuc Dinh. It was the thing he'd always said, as a Marine.

 

“I NEED PICTURE
ID for the plane ticket,” said the attendant. “Rules.”

“Oh yeah, right.” Ball reached into his pocket for his wallet. He'd tried to think of a way around using his actual ID but just couldn't come up with one. His only solution was to buy tickets to other destinations with the hope of throwing anyone looking for him off the trail.

“Here you go,” said Ball, pushing his license forward on the counter.

He hoped they weren't looking for him yet. Or if they were, that the usual efficiencies of government bureaucracies would mean they wouldn't find him until it was too late.

 

DEAN WONDERED WHETHER
Senator McSweeney might recognize him from Vietnam somehow, and vice versa. But there were many captains and many, many more privates, and nothing registered in McSweeney's face as he shook Dean's hand and gestured for him to take a seat in the hotel room.

Nothing clicked for Dean, either. He'd seen McSweeney so many times now in the briefings that it was impossible to visualize him as he was thirty-some years ago. And this was a good thing—insulation from his emotions.

“I'm supposed to give you the update alone,” Dean told the senator. More than a dozen people were milling around the room.

“Oh, that's all right. These people know just about everything about me anyway, right down to the color of my underwear.”

McSweeney turned to one of his aides and examined the clipboard in her hand. Dean waited until he had McSweeney's attention again before answering him.

“I'm afraid my orders were pretty specific.”

The senator frowned. “This is a pretty busy day.”

“Yes, sir.”

McSweeney turned to another aide, who had questions about how to deal with the local press. Dean folded his arms and scanned the room. The Secret Service had blocked off the entire floor of the hotel as well as the one below it, and it was impossible for anyone who didn't have a confirmed appointment to get up here. The curtains were drawn and the furniture
had been rearranged to make it almost impossible for a sniper to get a good shot from the only building in range.

But that wouldn't keep a truly devoted assassin from making an attempt on the senator's life. The easiest thing to do, thought Dean morbidly, was to blow up the whole damn suite—fire a mortar or rocket round point-blank from across the way and everyone in the room would be fried, Dean included.

“How long will this take?” McSweeney asked.

“A few minutes,” said Dean.

“Let's go into the bedroom then,” said McSweeney, leading the way.

Dean closed the door behind him.

“The President sent you?” said McSweeney.

“The President ordered the briefing,” said Dean.

“Well, shoot.”

“Do you remember Vietnam very well, Senator?”

 

THE QUESTION CAUGHT
McSweeney completely by surprise. He tried to cover it by seeming annoyed.

“Of course I remember Vietnam,” he told the NSA agent. “Do you?”

“As a matter of fact, I do very well.”

Something about Dean's manner and appearance—perhaps his erect stance, or maybe his buzz cut—told McSweeney that he was a fellow Marine.

“Where'd you serve?” McSweeney asked him.

“I was a Marine Corps sniper,” said Dean, adding some of the details of his tour.

“Jesus, we were in-country at the same time,” said McSweeney, relaxing. He patted Dean on the shoulder and pulled over the chair in the corner to sit down. “Have a seat. Sit on the bed; go ahead. I didn't know you were a Marine. I should have known. I apologize.”

“You don't have to apologize, Senator.”

“You know, I went back to An Hoa a few years ago. Has to be one of the most beautiful places on earth.”

“I imagine you're right,” said Dean.

“You've seen some shit, I bet,” said McSweeney.

“Absolutely.”

“So what's going on? Are the Vietnamese really targeting me, or is that all bullshit?”

“You're definitely being targeted, but the information about the Vietnamese being behind it is wrong,” said Dean.

“Good. Surprised?” added McSweeney. “That I think it's good?”

Dean shrugged.

“I don't want to be an international incident,” McSweeney told him. He started to get up.

“How well do you remember Vietnam?” Dean asked again.

McSweeney gave Dean a puzzled look, then suddenly realized he knew everything.

 

DEAN CAREFULLY REPEATED
what Rubens had told him to say, highlighting the missing money and the suspicion that Tolong had arranged to fake his own death. He didn't mention Gordon by name; Rubens wanted Dean to listen for the name, to see if the senator volunteered it. They weren't sure if McSweeney knew he was dead or not.

“One theory is that Tolong, or whatever he calls himself now, is the person who's hunting you,” said Dean.

McSweeney's face had remained placid as Dean spoke; nothing seemed to have registered. He spoke without emotion now, without even the mild excitement he'd displayed earlier when Dean told him he was a fellow Marine.

“What's the other theory?”

“That whoever shot at you got Ball.”

“I see. So, what does he want? Revenge?”

“We're still trying to figure everything out.”

“I knew Tolong,” said McSweeney. “I sent one of my aides when his body was recovered. I don't see how his death could have been faked. Are you sure about this?”

Dean nodded.

“Have you done DNA testing?” asked McSweeney.

“Yes.”

McSweeney made a face, then rose. “All right,” he said. “Thank you. I assume you or someone else will keep me updated.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dean knew he was getting a performance, but he wasn't exactly sure how to interpret it. The senator seemed disturbed and concerned, but no more than anyone might be.

Maybe he wasn't involved. Maybe Tolong or whoever was trying to kill him had other reasons, and McSweeney was innocent.

“You're welcome to stay, Mr. Dean,” said the senator, opening the door to the suite room.

“I have to check back with my boss,” Dean told him. “I'll be around.”

“Good.”

 

JIMMY FINGERS ENTERED
the suite at his usual gallop, and was nearly flattened by one of the Secret Service agents.

“Careful there, big guy,” Jimmy Fingers told the agent, barely squeezing out of the way.

“You're back,” said Senator McSweeney, appearing behind the bodyguard. “And before eight.”

“Told you, Senator. Early bird gets the worm.”

“How's the uncle?”

“Great-aunt. Not so great. I'm the closest relative,” added Jimmy Fingers.

“I hope she's loaded.”

“Wouldn't that be great?” Jimmy Fingers could tell that something was bothering McSweeney, but there were too many people around to ask what it was. He fell in beside the senator as he and his entourage made their way back to the elevator.

“Secret Service people have a new theory about the assassin,” said McSweeney. “They've gotten the NSA involved as well.”

“Vietnam?”

“Yes, but not what you expect. It's a whacked-out theory.”

“How whacked-out?” Jimmy Fingers tried to smile, but he knew his effort fell far short.

“Has to do with a Marine that worked for me and now supposedly wants revenge. Pretty whacked-out.”

Relief ran through Jimmy Fingers' body like the rush from a descending roller coaster.

“It would have to be whacked-out,” said Jimmy Fingers. “Assassins aren't sane people. Smart, but not sane.”

“Good point,” said McSweeney, stepping into the elevator.

 

TOMMY KARR HELD
up the laminated press card for the Secret Service agent in charge of screening the press horde covering McSweeney. The agent squinted, frowned, then consulted his list of reporters.

“If I'm not on there, can I take the rest of the day off?” Karr joked.

Secret Service agents were not known for their sense of humor, and this one was not an exception. He scowled at Karr, frowned at his list, and then told him to go ahead.