Presidential Deal (30 page)

“You think she recognized me?” Linda asked.

Deal looked her over. “A couple of days, it’ll all come to her.” There was a brief silence interrupted by the sound of a pickup speeding down the highway past the restaurant. After a bit, they heard heavy truck tires singing on the bridge approach, and finally there was silence once again.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” she said finally. “I hope this is going to work.”

He stared back at her. “I’m doing the only thing I can think of,” he said, and stood to go for the phone.

***

Driscoll had been
half asleep when the ringing began again. He came out of his daze with his heart pounding, his hand going automatically for the holster beneath his shoulder.

He blinked in the dim light, peering across the room at his friend Osvaldo, who had not only taken them in but had also overseen the rerouting of Driscoll’s phone lines to his own condo. Osvaldo sat in a swivel chair, surrounded by banks of computer equipment stacked on old doors supported by plastic milk cases bearing the logo of the Publix supermarket chain. In another office chair beside him sat Ray Brisa, who watched Osvaldo’s movements with fascination.

“That’s Driscoll’s phone,” Brisa said, with some excitement.

“You’re catching on,” Osvaldo said.

“The feds again?” Driscoll called from his place on the couch.

Osvaldo shook his head, his hands flying over the keyboard. “They’ll be listening in, though.” he said. He sounded as enthused as Ray Brisa, but it was hard to tell for sure because his eyes were hidden behind the reflection of the monitors on his glasses. “Let’s give them the sales pitch for the nursing homes, what do you say?”

“Works for me,” Driscoll said, struggling to his feet. Osvaldo had helped him leave a series of untraceable messages for some of his old contacts within the department, but so far none had been returned. He was beginning to doubt they ever would, was beginning to feel very much alone.

Osvaldo punched a series of commands on a keyboard while Driscoll approached. “Who is it?” he said to Osvaldo. If he could get to Bailey’s assistant Martinez, or Pete Rogier…

“One more ring,” Osvaldo said, holding up a finger. “We’ve got the number now…”

He broke off, tapping more keys.

“A pay phone…” Osvaldo said as the next ring came.

“You believe this shit?” Ray Brisa asked, peering over Osvaldo’s shoulder. Osvaldo was hammering a mouse button with the heel of his hand.

“…on Card Sound Road,” Osvaldo said, his eyes still on the monitor.

“Give me the phone,” Driscoll said.

“Let the machine do it,” Osvaldo said. “You don’t know who it is.”

“Fucking unbelievable,” Brisa was saying. “The cops think they’re listening, this guy’s tracing the real call. He can do anything.”

“Of course he can,” Driscoll said. “Now shut up.”

“What’s with the volume here?” Osvaldo said, fiddling with a switch.

Suddenly the room was alive with static, the sound of a plaintive voice: “Don’t tell me it’s a machine, Vernon. Don’t tell me…”

John Deal’s voice. Driscoll stared about as if the sounds were coming from within the room itself. “Give me the phone, Osvaldo.”

“It could be a setup,” Osvaldo said.

“Right fucking now!” Driscoll said, extending his meaty palm. And the connection was made.

***

When he got back
from the pay phone, the waitress was standing with Linda at the pilings where the Cigarette was tied off, a grease-spotted paper bag under her arm, her head bent in earnest conversation with Linda. Maybe she’d reconsidered her generous impulses, Deal thought.

She turned at his approach, gave him an appraising glance, shoved the bag toward him. “Keep your Bahamas money,” she said. “Next time you’re over this way, you can settle your tab in American.”

Deal nodded, put the wad he’d withdrawn back into his pocket. “I can’t tell you how much how much we appreciate this,” he began.

“Oh, fuck off,” Iris said mildly. “When it comes right down to it, you’re just another man, okay?”

Deal stared at her. Linda smiled and put her hand on Iris’s brawny arm. “Thanks, Iris,” she said simply.

“You take care now,” Iris said.

“We will,” Linda said. She gave Deal a look.

“We need to hurry along.” He nodded toward the boat. “Uncle Vernon’s going to meet us.”

Linda gave Iris a quick hug, then turned to follow Deal over the gunwale.

“Say, what’s all that noise?” Iris said as Deal busied himself at the console.

A series of muffled thumps seemed to issue from somewhere in the hold of the Cigarette. Deal glanced up at her. “Fuel pump,” he called, watching as Linda made her way into the boat. “It’s been giving us some trouble.”

The thumps seemed louder now, seemed to vibrate the deck beneath his feet. He flipped on the power, turned the ignition over while Linda struggled with the lines and Iris watched uncertainly.

“Thanks again, now,” he called to Iris over the growl of the wakening engines. Moments later, they were gone.

Chapter 50

“I’m getting a tremendous amount of pressure from the media, Mr. President,” John Groshner was saying.

The President nodded distractedly. He turned from Groshner, looked vacantly at Chappelear, who’d been sitting silently at his side, the three of them the only ones in the parlor of the hotel suite where they were awaiting the start of the news conference to be televised from one of the ballrooms downstairs. “How’s my tie, Larry?” he said.

It was an old joke between them. Frank Sheldon, then a candidate for governor, had gone on live television for his first-ever political debate with the knot of his tie fallen loose. It had dangled a good inch below his collar button for his entire presentation while Chappelear had danced about behind the cameras, making frantic gestures for his boss to straighten himself, until the producers had finally had him removed. Sheldon, the people’s candidate, won the debate overwhelmingly, the election in a landslide.

“Your tie’s fine, sir.” Chappelear said glumly. “
You
look terrible.” All his color gone, his eyes empty, his movements listless. A hollow man, Chappelear thought. A shadow wearing a thousand-dollar suit, a tie as perfectly knotted as a noose.

“Thanks, Larry,” the President said, reaching to pat Chappelear softly on the knee. Something like a smile crossed his gaunt features. Chappelear wasn’t sure when he’d last seen the man eat. Or sleep. He’d been awake for every meaningless update, taking calls from his counterparts on the other side of the globe around the clock.

“They’re going crazy, sir,” Groshner insisted. “Everyone’s assuming you’re going to announce some major development. Half of them are betting on the announcement of a suspect. The others are suggesting…” he broke off, threw his hands up. “Well, the worst.”

The President glanced up at him. “Then nothing much has changed, has it, John?”

Groshner stared at him helplessly. “If you could just give me some cue, sir. You brought me on to manage a campaign. I’d like to think that my input could be valuable in an instance where…”

“There isn’t going to be any more campaign,” the President said, his voice firm, if uninflected.

“Excuse me, sir,” Groshner said.

Chappelear leaned forward. “Frank…?”

The President turned from the empty maw of the fireplace. A huge fireplace, Chappelear thought. Absurd for a hotel room in the tropics. But it was hewn from rugged coral rock and gave a kind of cavelike appearance just now. Maybe it seemed like the entrance to a lair where one might crawl to hide, lick the wounds, wait for another season, another life in which to emerge.

“That’s what I’m going to tell the country, gentlemen.” His eyes had taken on that vacant, faraway cast once again. “I’m sorry,” he added, though he didn’t seem to be directing his words to Groshner and Chappelear any longer. “But there just isn’t anything else to give.”

Chappelear glanced up at Groshner, who was staring open-mouthed at the President.

Sheldon had been holding his hands on the arms of his chair in stiff, Lincoln-chiseled-in-his-monument style. Now he folded them together in his lap. “I’d prefer to make this announcement myself, John,” he said. He glanced at his watch. “Besides, there’s not that much longer to wait.”

He pushed himself stiffly up from the chair and Groshner took a backward step, his face a mask of confusion. “I’m not sure you’re in the proper frame of mind, Mr. President. I understand the impact of these events…”

“I don’t think you understand diddly, John,” the President broke in. He put a hand on Groshner’s shoulder. “But don’t worry, there’ll be another campaign to manage one of these days. I wouldn’t be surprised if Senator Hollingsworth himself couldn’t make a place for you.”

“But, Mr. President,” Groshner protested.

“That’s enough,” the President said, silencing Groshner with a wave. He turned to Chappelear then.

“I’ll let you do the intro, Larry. Whatever you want to say is fine, just make it short and sweet.”

He was striding toward the door, and in his movements, Chappelear had a glimpse of the old Frank Sheldon, the man who, once he’d made his mind up, would let nothing stand in his way. Almost enough to make him call the President back, beg him to reconsider, explain why things would not have to work out this way…

He dismissed those thoughts and stood to follow the President. He was nearly out of the room when an aide caught his arm. The young man held a cell phone toward him.

“General Williams calling from the command center, sir.”

Chappelear shook his head. “It’ll have to wait,” he told the aide.

The aide held Chappelear’s arm. “He says it’s important, sir.”

Chappelear sighed and took the phone. “This isn’t the time…” he began, then stopped as the general’s words sunk in.

Chapter 51

“The first reports came in through customs, sir,” the general was saying as he guided Chappelear through the crowded command center. The place was jammed with busy technicians and monitoring consoles, most of them displaying images of the ballroom and the empty podium where Chappelear should have been, where the President was about to make his speech.

Several others held stationary angles of the crowded public rooms of the hotel. A few, receiving imagery from tiny cameras clipped to the lapels of agents, reflected the urgency of cinema verité, the pictures waving and bobbing wildly as the agents moved about.

“Then we got confirmation from the DEA. The Bureau has a boat out there, too.” He gave Chappelear a hapless glance, steering him into a glass-enclosed area with its own monitoring console. “I’ve ordered one of our cutters out and informed the agencies that we’re in control, but I’m not sure I can order them from the scene.”

“This is your bailiwick, General,” Chappelear said. “I don’t see why I…”

“Have a look,” the general said, directing Chappelear to the monitor, where a technician sat. The technician had one hand clamped over his earpiece, shielding it from the hubbub in the outer room.

The monitor displayed a wavering exterior shot, from a plane or a helicopter swooping over the dark waters of Biscayne Bay. The helicopter swung about as Chappelear stared, its powerful searchlight focusing on something down below.

The image sharpened, and Chappelear saw a Cigarette cleaving the bay waters steadily, its nose pointed toward the glittering Miami skyline in the distance. In the vague nimbus cast by the beam, he saw other craft paralleling the Cigarette, presumably those of the agencies the general had mentioned. Between this convoy and the skyline, he could make out the search beams of the cutter, its lights sweeping over the dark waters as it approached.

“What the hell is this?” Chappelear said to the general. “I’m about to introduce the President on national television…”

The general held up a hand to stop him. He turned to the technician. “The chopper pilot’s on the line?” The technician nodded and handed over his headset. The general made a motion and the technician stood, snatching up another headset for Chappelear.

“…repeat, to the unidentified Cigarette, you are to cut your engines now,” Chappelear heard as he clamped the set to his ear. “You are approaching restricted waters. Repeat…”

Chappelear impatiently checked the readout on the large digital clock hanging on a distant wall. Fifteen minutes to airtime, allow a few minutes for the President to get to the point. Inside half an hour, his life would be transformed.

“This is Williams,” the general barked into the headset. “I have Lawrence Chappelear with me. Give us the rundown.”

“Say again?” It was the pilot’s voice, nearly obliterated by the roar of the helicopter’s engines.

“This is Lawrence Chappelear,” he blurted in exasperation. “What the hell’s going on out there?”

The technician tapped Chappelear on the shoulder, directing his attention to a second monitor. The visage of the chopper pilot swam into view, bloating in fish-eye distortion as he leaned toward the lens.

“Sorry, sir, it’s difficult to hear…”

“Goddammit, soldier…”

“This bogey down below,” the pilot said. “We’ve got a man on board, identifies himself as…” There was a wave of static then, and Chappelear found his gaze drawn to the first monitor, where the image had tightened down on the open cockpit of the Cigarette. There was a tall sandy-haired man in tattered clothes at the controls of the boat, and a young Hispanic-looking man behind him, holding a pair of large plastic bags aloft in the search beams.

“…apparently he called the DEA, Customs, the Bureau, told them he was bringing a boatload of drugs into the Port…”

“You think I should be concerned about some drug runner at a time like this?” Chappelear cried.

“It’s not that, sir,” the pilot insisted. “This man Deal got back on line, claiming to have information concerning the disappearance of the First Lady.”

Chappelear paused. “You said this man’s name is
Deal
?”

“John Deal, that’s how he’s identified himself, sir.”

Chappelear stared at the general, who nodded glumly. Yes, that was peacetime for you, his expression read. Lull you, dull your senses, the moment things seem under control, chaos rears its head. Not like good old predictable war at all.

Chappelear stared at him meaningfully, then leaned to whisper something in his ear.

The general stood back. “You’re certain.”

“It is imperative.”

The general turned to the technician, pointed at the monitor. “Whose cutter is that working the intercept?”

“Lieutenant Anderson, sir.”

The general nodded. “Put me through to Anderson,” he said to the startled technician, his voice the apotheosis of calm. “We have a national emergency on our hands.”

***

Deal banged
on the unresponsive cell phone, tossed it onto the Cigarette’s console. No one was talking to him now. The boats that had initially zoomed out to intercept them had pulled back now, giving them a wide berth as they drew closer to the main channel leading to the port.

“Check out
that
big mother,” Brisa said, pointing into the distance. He’d tossed aside their phonied-up “contraband” and was staring at the cutter steaming out the channel toward them.

Deal shook his head. What would they send out next, a destroyer? Any one of the boats that were escorting them had sufficient personnel to subdue a couple of drug-runners. He glanced at his watch. Driscoll and Osvaldo had had more than the allotted hour to get their part rolling. Plenty of time, Osvaldo had assured him as he and Driscoll took charge of their precious cargo, loading that bundle into the back of the equipment-laden van.

There was a Southern Bell relay station not far from the tiny Gables marina where they’d made the switch. “Nobody there at this time of night,” Osvaldo assured them. “I got cameras, everything I need with me. Once I’m inside, if I can’t get it done in an hour, then it ain’t gonna work at all.”

Osvaldo had said it cheerily, but by all appearances, he had not gotten it done, Deal thought. Time to pull his trump card. He was about to call down the hatchway when he saw the first muzzle flash from the big guns on the cutter.

“Whoa…” Brisa cried.

The shot was high and well forward of them, but the explosion was thunderous, sending a geyser of water high into the air off to port. He jerked the wheel hard right just as a second flash lit up the bow of the cutter.

This shot was lower, but trailed them by fifty feet. The shell tore through the hull of a Bayliner carrying a half-dozen Customs agents and exploded, erasing that craft and its passengers in a flash that sent fragments raining down on the deck of the Cigarette.

The force of the blast sent Deal to his knees, but he was up again, steadying himself against the wild rocking of the boat. He was back at the hatchway of the Cigarette, staring down at the frightened face of Linda Sheldon, then ahead at the cutter, now a hundred yards away, now seventy-five. All their efforts, all their desperate planning, he thought.

“Time to try plan B,” Deal cried out, urging her up the steps.

“Whatever that might be,” she called back, grasping his hand tightly.

***

“Good God,”
someone breathed as the image on the monitor wavered, then came back into focus.

The helicopter had swooped upward as the firing commenced, and the view was from a greater distance now. The Cigarette had clearly changed its course, was arrowing itself straight at the cutter.

“What’s he doing?” someone else cried.

“He’s a madman,” the general said quietly, watching the drama unfold. “A terrorist.”

The image soared away then as the chopper fought for altitude and all the close detail was gone.

The Cigarette might have been a toy boat now, closing in on a somewhat larger toy boat, all this laid out against dark waters with a horizon that might have been fairy-tale lights behind.

The command center had gone quiet. All of the monitors reflected the pair of distant boats, the Cigarette bearing down on the cutter, the cutter trying, at the last moment, to turn away…

…but the Cigarette launched itself off a swell like a missile: It hit the cutter squarely amidships and exploded. Then came the second blast, which sent a fireball high into the air, and wiped the dark seas clean.