Michael Walsh Bundle (26 page)

Devlin resisted the temptation to reply in German. Schopenhauerian questions were best answered in the tongue whose syntax gave them birth, but “Mr. Grant's” German was not totally fluent, and he didn't feel like dumbing himself down at this point. Not with what was happening in Long Beach.

“Thank you, Dr. Hesse, for your most astute and provocative question. I think that what I am trying to say, in essence, is this—what we are up against is not something new. There have been forces of savagery antithetical to our culture since its beginning. Since the Irish monks salvaged the detritus of Roman civilization and retreated to the rocky western shores of Eire. Since St. Malachy mentored Bernard of Clairvaux. This savagery—I'm sorry, but there is really no other word to describe it—must be fought with both understanding and resolve and even, at times, utter ruthlessness. Fortunately we in the United States are blessed with some of the finest intelligence and security operatives in the world.”

The BND man pondered this for a moment. “But, if what you said about the nature of the threat is true, doesn't that give these ‘operatives' extraordinary executive authority with very little accountability?”

Inwardly, Devlin smiled. “The best way I can answer that question is to quote Wendell Phillips, in a speech before the Massachusetts Antislavery Society in 1852. ‘Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty,' he said. I really can't improve on that.”

 

Half an hour later the news was on the radio, on television, and on the Web sites:

“Stella Maris
Sinks at Long Beach.” By the time she sank, imploded from the bottom with limpet mines, placed with the aid of radar-and-ELINT-surveillance jammers, the SEALs had retrieved whatever had been in the dead zone, and would let him know sooner than ASAP; if his hunch was right, this was a major national-security issue now.

And by the time they did, he'd be on an airplane. Long Beach Airport was only ten minutes away and he'd booked a seat for himself on a flight to Baltimore. Maryam was already in the air.

L
ONDON

It was a shaken Emanuel Skorzeny who absorbed the shock of the sinking of the
Stella Maris
just after midnight in his suite at the Savoy. It was all over Sky News by the time Amanda Harrington reached the fifth floor. The river and the lights of the South Bank held no charm either for her or her boss at this moment. “Mr. Skorzeny,” she began. “I'm so—”

Skorzeny gave her his best basilisk glare. “This is war,” he said, “Someone is at war with us, Miss Harrington.”

“Sir, there's no evidence—”

“Evidence is for lawyers. I am interested in reality. And the reality is, someone is waging war against me, and I want something done about it.”

“Yes, sir.” As usual, she was juggling a brace of cell phones. “I've already—”

“Please sit down. Turn those things off and put them away. Sit here, by me.” He patted the empty space on the sofa next to him. Lying on the coffee table was one of the Savoy's Victorian signatures: a three-button panel with which one could summon the maid, room service, or the valet. The help.

Warily, she crossed the room and sat. The TV was still on, flashing its silent images. “I gather they're saying it was some kind of accident, an explosion in the ship's—”

“Let me be blunt. I believe the U.S. government was involved in this. In fact, I am certain of it. I want my protestations to reach the ear of the president, with the understanding that I will go public with them if I do not receive some sort of satisfaction. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We have many people in Washington on our payroll, including several congressmen and senators. I am thinking of one senator in particular who has long been a friend to us and, I am given to believe, is now even more sympathetic. Despite their political differences, he is a friend to the current president and has his ear. He is the chairman of a powerful committee. He knows things.”

Amanda wasn't quite sure where Skorzeny was going with this. “What is it, exactly, that you wish me to do, Mr. Skorzeny?” she asked.

Skorzeny leveled his gaze at her. It always made her flesh crawl, they way he looked at her. “I want the man behind this punished.”

How she was supposed to accomplish that was beyond her. “Sir, the United States is a sovereign country. Even assuming that you're right and for some reason an American operative was involved, what can we do about it?”

“This American operative,” said Skorzeny levelly, “is a devil, whose very existence is an affront to me and everything I hold dear. He must be terminated.”

Amanda gasped. “Are you asking me to kill him? You…I don't—”

Skorzeny waved away her objection. “No. I am saying
they
can kill him. And that is what I want Senator Hartley to effect.”

“And just how am I supposed to convince him to do that?”

“You aren't. That is a job for your boyfriend. Your job is to make sure he carries it out.”

Her heart nearly stopped. Had he been following them? Monitoring them? Had Milverton blabbed? They had been as discreet as possible, which was to say very. Or was he just guessing?

“Boyfriend? I'm sure I don't know what you mean, sir. My duties as a mother preclude…”

He reached out and stroked her hair. “There, there,” he purred. “You look tired, stressed out.”

She tried to relax a little. “It's been a very bad day all around.”

“I should say so. I was nearly killed.” Another dig, another suspicion?

“Mr. Skorzeny,” she said. “Milverton calibrated the missile strike exactly, to the second. As we all agreed. It was meant to be close, to make you look good. Heroic. A victim, in the modern fashion.” She was glad that Milverton had already prepped her.

“I've already been a victim,” he said, “many times over…and yet something went wrong.”

“Nothing went wrong, Mr. Skorzeny. You are here.” She reached out and took his hand away from her hair, but continued to hold it.
“We
are here. Together.”

That was all the encouragement he needed. He tugged her hand closer, pulling her toward him. And then he lunged for her, throwing his arms around her, kissing her, his mouth seeking hers.

She knew that to pull away now was to risk everything. She had seen, so often, the side of Emanuel Skorzeny few others had: the Caligula-side, in which the slightest frustration of his will to power was met with instant punishment. The uncontrollable, raging man-child, bearing the hurt of generations in his breast and the vengeance of centuries in his heart.

And so, despite her loathing, she kissed him back, stroked him, and kept stroking him. At this moment she wished him dead, wished the missile strike had hit him, that they had gone ahead and done the deed and rid themselves and the world of this monster. But now it was too late.

At last, she felt him softening, relaxing, withdrawing. When at last he subsided, she pulled herself away, smoothing her skirt. “There,” she said soothingly. “There…”

Gradually, his breathing returned to normal. If he felt any shame, it was not reflected in his face. “Do you know what Blake said, Miss Harrington? He said, ‘Those who restrain desire do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained.' I could not agree more.”

He looked at her with that reptilian, penetrating, blinkless gaze he could always muster when he needed to stare down an opponent. There was no way to beat him, no way to insult him, no way to fight back. He was impervious to normal human emotions. All except one.

“Are
you
my enemy, Amanda?” he said. It was the first time he had used her Christian name.

“No, sir. I am not your enemy.”

“Then carry out my wishes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You do love me, don't you, Miss Harrington?” he said as he reached for her again. She had just enough time to be amazed that he could recover this quickly when he was on her again, like an old tiger leaping upon a piece of helpless prey and tearing it limb from limb.

I hate you
, she thought as he ripped her clothes away.
I hate you and I wish you were dead.

As she fell backward on the couch, her eye caught the three-button panel lying on the coffee table, and thought about reaching out, pressing, calling for help. But she knew if she did that, she'd never leave the Savoy alive. And there was a little girl at home who needed her.

“Do not fail me,” he said as she closed her eyes and thought of England.

E
ASTERN
S
HORE OF
M
ARYLAND

President Jeb Tyler looked toward the west over the Chesapeake Bay and took a deep breath. Either this gamble would pay off or it wouldn't. It wasn't just his job on the line, it was the fate of the entire country. Even for an experienced and avid poker player like himself, this was the biggest gamble of his life.

Nothing—no advisors, no campaign managers, no public relations assholes—prepared you for this. All his life he'd been a politician, and to him “politician” wasn't a dirty word. Sure it was sometimes mean, sure you had to associate with some pretty unsavory characters and, most of all, you had to forgo the notion that the ends never justified the means. That was for sissies and nuns: in politics, the ends were the only thing that could possibly justify the means. And if you believed in those ends, believed in the rightness and the justice of them, then you were in it to win it by any means necessary short of murder. And, sometimes, not even that, if some of the tales told of his predecessors were to be believed.

Still, Jeb Tyler never thought it would happen to him. He'd led a charmed life, a golden boy life, a life too good to willingly change. When he'd first announced that he was running for president, his friends told him he was insane to subject his life to the kind of scrutiny he had been able to avoid during his single term as a senator. Politics, he reflected, was like a love affair, and at the right time, he had been Mr. Right.

But this…this was different. He had never expected to be a war president, not like his predecessors, never expected to have an atrocity like this happen on his watch. And while Louisiana's politics were plenty dirty, they were nothing like what he was about to go through. What he was about to do.

Betray his only friend in the capital. Not “betray” exactly—the betrayal had already occurred—but certainly destroy. At last he understood the old joke; if you want a friend in Washington, get a dog.

“May I get you something, sir?” asked his orderly, Manuel. Manuel Concepcion was a Filipino, like many of the servants in the White House. Twenty years ago, he would have been black.

“What about a Labrador Retriever?”

Manuel was used to the president's jokes, but he didn't get this one. “Excuse me, sir?”

“A joke, Manny…how's the market doing?” He knew the answer was going to be bad, the only question was how bad.

Manuel glanced away. “Down another six hundred points or so,” he said.

After three straight incidents, the shock to the world's stock markets had been devastating. He might have to shut the markets down by early this afternoon.

“On second thought, I'll have a gin and tonic. And a whiskey neat for my guest.”

“Yes, sir,” said Manuel, withdrawing for real this time.

Jeb Tyler sighed. He'd only been president for three years and already the demands of the office were wearing him down. He hated looking in the mirror any more; every year in the White House added at least four years to his face and took a decade off his ticker. Nobody got out alive from this gilded cage, nobody's reputation survived unsavaged, and, as he often did, he wondered why he had spent so much time and money and love and friendship attaining the office. Far better, he sometimes thought, to just…

To just what? This is what he lived for. Elections. Campaigns. Votes. He really didn't want to do anything else, but he was surprised when he walked into the Oval Office on the first day and realized he didn't have the slightest idea what to do. Somehow, it looked easier from the outside. He felt like Robert Redford in
The Candidate
, at the end, just after he wins the senate race, asking his strategist, “What do we do now?”

So not only was it time for results, it was time for a political play, a game-changer. It was time for him to start acting like a president instead of a politician.

In the distance, he could hear the car pulling up, doors opening, feet hitting the gravel; for him, the rubber meeting the road.

Manuel materialized at his side, the drinks ready on a silver tray, which he set down on a small table. “Would you kindly ask the senator to meet me down here, at the dock. No SS either. I cannot think with their earpieces up my ass. Besides, this is just between us girls.”

Manuel looked dubious. “But, sir, Mr. Willson—”

“Works for me and the American people, Manuel,” said the president. “So, if he gives you any shit, tell him to go fuck himself and tell him I said so.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” said Manuel.

Jeb Tyler plucked a skimmer out of his pocket and sent it sailing across the water on a six-bounce on the Chesapeake. A minor river suddenly turned into a mighty bay, surging its way toward the Atlantic. Nothing, abruptly becoming something. Just like a politician. Just like a president.

The Senate, on the other hand, had become a hotbed of blow-dried, Botoxed seditionists, each one plotting to succeed him, if and when they got their chance. His visitor was no exception—friend or no friend.

“Hello, Bob,” he said, turning around at the footfalls. “You look like shit.”

Hartley was a mess. There was blood all over his shirtfront and the lapels of his suit. His hair was mussed. He looked like he hadn't slept for a month. He was dazed, disoriented, and right where Tyler wanted him.

Hartley tried to speak, but couldn't. He couldn't believe what was happening to him. In just a couple of days his entire world had been turned upside down. And now here he was, at the president's private retreat on Maryland's eastern shore. Tyler liked to come here to crab and fish and be alone. Even members of his inner circle rarely got an invitation.

Tyler took one of the drinks and, tantalizingly, left the other sitting on the tray.

Hartley wanted a drink. Even more, he wanted a hot shower and a change of clothes, but that apparently was not on the agenda today. “I gather you're thinking of running against me,” said Tyler. “Even for an opportunistic asshole like you, Bob, the audacity is breathtaking. But I guess that's what I get for reaching across the aisle. I guess that's what I get for considering you a friend.”

He sipped, savoring his gin and tonic. “But what the hell, go ahead. Run. I want you to do it. I want you to give me the fight of my life. I want you to tear me a new one. In fact, let's drink to it.”

Tyler handed Hartley his whiskey: “To an honorable campaign,” the president said. They didn't clink glasses.

Hartley took a long draught of his whiskey. He was trying to wrap his mind around what the president was saying to him, and why. There was no way Jeb Tyler didn't still want to be president. It had to be a trap.

Hartley wiped his bloody nose on his sleeve and mustered as much dignity as possible. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Good question. I could ask you the same thing. Complicated answers to both. Right?” Tyler looked at the steward, who hovered back into view. “Manuel?”

Carefully, Manuel laid two dossiers on the table. Even in his condition, Hartley could see that one was marked
HARTLEY
and the other,
SCI
.

“Which one am I supposed to look at?”

“You're the guest—you choose.”

Gingerly, Hartley set his drink down and took the one marked SCI. He knew it had to be dynamite. “I want you to make a big stink about this—a very big stink,” the president said. “About how I haven't been fully leveling with the American people in this time of crisis. That you have somehow gotten your hands on this explosive information and, given this grave threat to our national security, you feel compelled to share it with your fellow citizens. And you'll do it exactly when I tell you.”

This was crazy. Hartley's mind reeled as he tried to glean Tyler's angle. “But, Jeb—Mr. President—this doesn't make any sense. I can't. This is a matter of national security. I won't.”

“Have it your way, Bob,” said Tyler, pushing the other dossier toward him.

Somehow, Hartley knew what was in there even before he opened it. Probably the photos of himself and the dead boy. Probably the photos that awful man had taken of him, after he'd knocked Hartley out. Not just career-ending pictures, but life-ending pictures. If these ever got out, he'd just have to kill himself. “Where did you get these?” he stammered.

Tyler laughed. “Over the e-transom, as it were. They were delivered embedded in the Paris Hilton blowjob video. I guess somebody out there has a sense of humor, eh?”

“And you'll release these if I don't—”

“Ain't bipartisanship grand?”

A new thought hit Hartley just before a wave of nausea swept over him. Suddenly, the whiskey didn't taste so great any more and he just had time to turn away from the president and his valet before he hurled. Neither of them made a move to help him or offer him a towel. Hartley wiped his frothing mouth on his sleeve and tried to compose himself as much as possible under the circumstances. “What if I win?” he croaked

The president didn't have to answer that question and, after a moment, even Hartley understood: he was damned if he did and damned if he didn't and finished politically either way. Tyler would take a scurrilous beating while he presented himself to the American people as their savior. And then this stuff would come out, and Tyler would win in a walk. It was brilliant politics. Hartley nodded mutely, defeated.

Tyler slapped him, hard, on the back. A cold, hard slap, with the none of the affectionate bonhomie he was used to. Jeb Tyler had changed.

“I'm glad that's settled, Bob. Here—take your file with you. There's plenty of copies where that came from.” He turned to the Filipino steward. “Manuel, burn the other one.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” said Manuel.

He motioned toward the house and a few seconds later Hartley could see the Whippet and the Refrigerator marching toward them. He'd never liked Augie Willson, the head of the Secret Service presidential detail, and assumed they were Willson's way of telling him the feeling was mutual.

Hartley had nothing left to lose. “Why Jeb?” he asked. “Why are you doing this to me? I've always been your—”

“My what?” Tyler shot back. “You've always been your own best friend, Bob, until you got yourself a new little playmate. Well, we found out about him, and now I'm going to fuck him up and fuck up everybody else involved with this…with this clusterfuck.” Hartley couldn't help but thinking that, for the first time in his presidency, Jeb Tyler was actually acting like a president. Even if it was at his expense.

“The other day, a very wise and brave man said something to me. Okay, not said. He texted it to me. Wanna know what he said?”

The Whippet and the Refrigerator were almost upon them now.

“THANK YOU FOR BLOWING ME BEFORE YOU FUCKED ME.” That's what he said to me. What do you supposed he meant by that, Bob? I mean, I figured you might be able to translate.”

The two goons flanked him, side by side. “I believe you've already made the acquaintance of two of the best members of my Secret Service detail,” said Tyler. “They're going to be your new best friends for the duration of this situation. They're going to make sure you do exactly as you're told. And if you don't, they're going to help you meet with a very unfortunate and painful accident. Are we clear about this, Bob?”

“Yes, sir.” Hartley started to add something, but Tyler cut him off.

“And don't even think about asking me if you can clean up. You're going to stay in those clothes until you get back to the Watergate and then, if you're a good boy, your new roomies may think about letting you have some shower time before you announce. Which, by the way, will be when you drop your first bombshell about that rogue intelligence operation that the American people need to know about. Understood?”

Hartley nodded, but his eyes were vacant.

“Good. Now get out of here. You disgust me.” Tyler signaled to Hartley's babysitters. As they led him away—

“Oh, and Bob—one more thing.” He paused for effect, then fired. “Don't drop the soap.” Tyler watched as the two Secret Service men led Hartley away. One chess piece in motion, another couple to go.

“Did you catch most of that, Army?” said Tyler to General Seelye, emerging from the woods.

“Yes, sir,” Seelye had never been here before, to the president's private retreat, so close to the White House and yet worlds away.

“Army, what I'm doing may seem strange, but I need you to trust me.” Usually, Tyler indulged in some small talk, especially after a snort, but today he was all business. “I know you and some of the others think I'm weak, that I'm a sob sister, a weenie—hell, I know half the country does too. And these last three days haven't been good ones, to say the least. But now I need you to do something for me, even if it doesn't seem at first glance the right thing to do.”

Seelye studied Tyler carefully. For the first time since he became president, Tyler actually seemed like a human being instead of a politician. “You're the president. You give me an order, my job is to execute.” He decided not to say a word about Hartley's appearance, or what the president had just asked him to do. It was none of his business unless Tyler brought it up.