Gospel (36 page)

‘Mrs Bryant,' this from another reporter who had just entered, a woman Maxine recognised as Davinia Jones, the political editor of the
Washington Post
. ‘Are you aware that Professor Montgomery has hired a new lawyer – David Cavanaugh, the same attorney who used to be married to Karin Montgomery before she . . .'

‘Ms Jones,' countered Bryant, the tremble in her voice perhaps betraying the surge of discomfort she attempted to control inside her. ‘Professor Montgomery is an American citizen and, like all Americans, entitled to the best representation as she sees fit.'

‘Mrs Bradshaw,' this from Alistair, now targeting Melissa Bryant Bradshaw, ‘are you aware of any enemies your husband may have had at the time of . . .' But his question was lost in the melee, as more reporters flooded the back of the white-walled eighteenth-century classical style room, and Lowell finally took control.

‘This photo call is over,' she said to the growing crowd, before turning to the three to say, ‘Come on. Let's go.'

And in that instant, Maxine Bryant's world shrank, so that all she could hear was
Karin Montgomery
this, and
Karin Montgomery
that, and other words and phrases such as
framed
and
conspiracy
and
identity
and
attorney client privilege
and
Cavanaugh – David Cavanaugh
.

Lindsay was a blur to her right, her left hand on her right arm trying to pull her towards the door. ‘Please, Mrs Bryant . . .' she began, her words swallowed in the din. ‘Come on,' she said again, and Maxine forced herself to refocus.

And then John looked up from the confused child at her feet, and to the ashen-faced man at the back of the room –
Mark –
and then further back, towards the door to his right –
Matthew
.

Matthew was here
.

And there he stood, strong and emotionless, and she felt the surge of power between them as she gave him a silent order with the slightest movement of her eyes: ‘
Leave and take Mark with you
'. And then she put her hand to her throat, sliding it ever so slowly across her long slim neck, before bringing it down with pointed finger indicating he should do what needed to be done before the night was out.

He nodded, and they both turned in opposite directions, she shepherding the boy out the side door, and he shepherding his ‘boy' out the back. And in that moment she knew that time was no longer a luxury. They had to move fast because finally . . .
finally
, her time had come.

C
IA
Director Richard Ryan obviously did not know what to make of him. He looked at the second member of their golfing threesome – retired politician and ex-US Vice President Larry Howell who, not known for his discretion, raised his eyebrows yet again as their new partner returned the iPod plugs to his ears before tackling the 9th hole of the Bethesda Congressional Country Club's Blue Course.

‘Where'd you find this one, Dick?' asked Howell loud enough to scare a flock of sparrows from a nearby oak tree. ‘The local Tower Records store? Or is he one of your CIA goons gone undercover as Jerry Lewis in
The Caddy
?' Howell laughed raucously at his own joke, successfully emptying the remaining birds from said neighbouring tree.

‘I thought he was a friend of yours,' said Ryan, his timbred southern accent slow and thick. ‘I saw his check-in card and it said he was from the Bureau of Public Debt – thought you must have known him through your contacts at the Department of Treasury.'

‘First up, Dick, the guys at Treasury aren't contacts, they're
friends
. The guys at Treasury are
always
your friends, get it? Which means you and me had better start smooching with this fruit cake if we know what's good for us.' More laughs – one last bird.

‘Apparently he was a friend of John Leung's,' said Ryan. ‘Put the family down as his reference. Linda Leung had signed the guest card.'

‘And you got all that in thirty seconds flat from scamming a look at his registration card?'

‘That, and a quick chat with Malcolm on the front desk.'

‘Hmmm,' grinned Howell. ‘Don't give up your day job, Dick.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because you're too damned good at it.' And this time, Ryan laughed too.

Frank McKay fired off a cracker of a shot with his one wood, angling the ball high with a slight draw, sending it flying down the 607 yard par 5, avoiding the heavy foliage traps and sailing over the obstacle course of bunkers which bordered the fairway off the tee.

‘Jesus,' said Howell, completely unaware that McKay, now removing his earphones, had heard their entire conversation. Until this morning Frank McKay had never even heard of an iPod, let alone known how to use one.

‘That was one hell of a shot, Frank. They teach you that at the Department of Treasury?' he said, obviously fishing, with that laugh again. ‘Or you really one of Dick's spooks been holed up on some brainwashing camp for budding golf pros?'

‘I prefer to think of myself as a civil servant with a passion for golf,' smiled Frank, his honesty taken just as he wanted it – as a form of modest downplay.

‘Aren't we all?' gleaned Howell. ‘But just not as good at it as you, hey Frank?'

‘I'll take that as a compliment, Mr Vice President.' Frank knew the protocol, even ex-Vice Presidents got to keep the moniker.

‘No other way to take it, son. Just remember me when you're talking to your buddies at the IRS – or rather
forget
me, if you know what I mean.' Chuckle, chuckle, guffaw, guffaw. ‘Hotdog, I'm cookin' today.'

They all laughed as Frank turned to head first up the slope towards the two carts parked on the path just off to their right. The others followed, Frank making sure to leave space for Ryan who had loaded his clubs on his cart and got into the seat beside him.

‘What are you listening to?' asked Ryan, obviously too curious not to ask now that McKay was
sans
earphones and they were free from
interruption from Howell as they headed down the long shady fairway.

‘Some of the old ones – Conway Twitty, Johnny Cash, Nelson. But the back nine are even trickier than the first so I'll probably switch to a more upbeat tempo – you know, some of the younger guys like Tim McGraw, Travis Trit and maybe a little Lorrie Morgan to ease me into the 17th.'

Ryan was looking at him now, a half smile on his broad, tanned face. ‘Country music? Somehow I wouldn't have picked you as a fan. Where's that accent from anyway? Irish American? Massachusetts is my guess.'

‘In one. But my grandmother was from Tennessee, and she always said appreciating country music was a gift. She also said don't waste the gifts God gave you, so I guess I make the most of it.'

‘The appreciation of country music, or your obvious ability to hit a ball?' Ryan finally allowed the smile to spread across his face.

‘Both,' smiled Frank.

‘Fair enough,' said Ryan. ‘Fair enough.'

It was working.

Twenty-four hours ago Frank McKay knew nothing about iPods, country music, the nuances of the complicated eighteen holes that were the Congressional Golf Club's Blue Course or Dick Ryan the man – but that was before a full day and night's cramming with Joe Mannix, Leo King and his fellow homicide detective partner Susan ‘Encyclopaedia' Leigh, who fired facts at him like bullets, daring him to forget a single one.

He was their only hope, and Mannix chose him for this all-important stage of their investigation because he knew he could chip away at the toughest of exteriors without said subject realising there was any chipping going on – that, and the fact that he had a handicap of 3 while Mannix couldn't hit a ball for crap.

It was Leigh who had schooled him on the country music, researching Ryan's reported likes and dislikes and discovering the CIA Director had a home collection to rival the best of them. Ryan was forty-four, a Harvard scholarship grad from Jackson, Alabama, the fourth of four sons and the only Ryan male currently not retired or serving in the Jackson Police Department.

‘He always wanted to be a cop,' said Susan at about four this morning, curled into the corner of a couch in one of four rooms they had booked at
a cut-rate Bethesda B&B. ‘But his father knew he was smart and made him sit for the Harvard scholarship – which he got, and studied law, specialising in the criminal and international varieties. He was recruited by the CIA in his final year and graduated with honours, moving straight from Boston to Langley where he started out as a Clandestine Service Trainee. Before long he was working his way up through Counter Intelligence and Crime and Narcotics. Then he was given the job of Deputy Director of Intelligence and then, thanks to Bradshaw's pushing, the top job of Director of the CIA.'

‘Was this a case of jobs for the boys?' a bleary-eyed McKay had asked Leo King, wondering if Bradshaw's long-term debt to, and friendship with, his Harvard law buddy had fast tracked Ryan's rapid rise through the CIA's ranks.

‘His early critics would have said so,' replied King. ‘Especially since Bradshaw was the first to credit Ryan as the person who saved him from a potential life of addiction. But over the past few years Ryan has worked hard to prove them wrong. He's tough but well liked, demanding but fair. In other words, his agents back him because they respect him, not because they're scared of him.'

‘Just remember, he's worked in intelligence so he's a master at interrogation,' said Mannix. ‘My advice is to spend the game winning him over – get him to like you, put him at ease. You can't talk shop in front of Howell in any case. Hit him with whatever feels right after the last hole and then, see if you can arrange a meeting.'

‘Got it,' Frank had said, hoping to hell his over-tired brain would remember his Willie Nelson from his Waylon Jennings.

‘There's one more thing,' said Susan, who was sharp as a tack despite their all-night cram. ‘Just try not to be so . . .'

‘So what?' asked Frank.

‘So . . . um . . .
Frank
.'

‘Frank – as in . . . honest?'

‘No, as in . . .
Frank
. I mean ease up on being
you
a little. No offence McKay, but sometimes you can get a little intense.'

‘Susan,' said Frank, smiling at the other two, knowing his partner meant well but not being able to resist the comeback. ‘I have three words for you – pot, kettle, black. Lighten up, partner, it's gonna be okay.'

And so at 6.31am, Mannix and King had dropped McKay at the scenic front entrance of the Congressional CC, stocked with the paraphernalia and credentials he would need to tee off with two of the country's most noted political golfers, borrowed Pings in hand, and a hastily pre-arranged guest pass, thanks to King's mother-in-law Linda Leung, in his back pocket.

At 6.42 McKay signed on to be part of the Howell/Ryan party, listing his occupation simply as BPD (and hoping the acronym would throw them off), renting two carts and waiting for his fellow players to join him for a 7am tee off.

And now, four hours later as they approached the 179 yard 18th hole (par 3 green close to waterfront, bunkers behind), McKay felt comfortable enough to drop a crumb in the hope that Ryan would bend to pick it up. ‘Nobody is more curious than a CIA spook,' King had said just before McKay left the car. ‘You bait him, he'll bite. I'm sure of it.'

And he was right.

‘Nice swing, Dick,' said Howell, as Ryan whacked his shot in a long straight line over the meandering water hazard onto the fringe of the green.

‘The Vice President is right,' said Frank. ‘You play this course like an old friend.'

‘No one plays this course like Dick Ryan, Frank,' said Howell. ‘He's had a standing reservation here every Saturday for the past five years. He and Tom Bradshaw used to carve up the greens like Butch and Sundance. The two of them could whip the pants off every registered pair in the Club, including me and Governor George ‘Eagle' Boots, which is saying something.'

‘Bradshaw was a good player?'

‘There was nothing Bradshaw wasn't good at,' said Howell.

‘Except maybe getting himself killed.'

Shit
. It was too much, and Frank regretted it the second it came out of his mouth. His plan had been to drop a crumb – not dump a whole loaf of bread in one opinionated sweeping statement. But it had been a long twenty-four hours and he was feeling the stress. He had said it, he had been too ‘
Frank
' and now it was time to deal.

‘What did you say, Frank?' said Ryan, turning from the tee to face McKay.

‘I'm sorry, Director, I know the two of you were close and nobody had more respect for the late Vice President than me, but to be honest I can't help but think the whole thing is a little . . . I don't know, unbelievable.'

‘What's not to believe?' said Howell. ‘The poor man's dead, isn't he?'

‘No, that's not what I meant.'

‘Then what did you mean?' said Ryan, club in hand, grip tightening just a little.

‘I mean, this whole Montgomery thing, it's all too convenient. The Professor and the Vice President had a few bones to pick, granted – but murder? It just doesn't add up. The Professor is an intelligent man. He's made a career out of knowing when to step up and when to back off. Such a man never takes uncalculated risks, and certainly not those that can not only ruin your career but see you facing the death penalty. No, Montgomery is a player and that ain't the way the game is played.'

‘And you know all this because . . . ,' said Ryan, moving a step closer to McKay, a learned interrogator's expression on his face.

‘. . . because I work at the BPD and, fortunately or unfortunately, we know more than most.'