Separation of Power (39 page)

T
HE DOOR FLEW
open, thudded against the wall, and bounced back. Albert Rudin stood silhouetted in the light of the men’s locker room staring into the relative darkness of massage room number two. “Hank! Are you in there?”

Clark, startled by the interruption, pulled from a deep sleep in the wink of a second, bolted up onto his elbows and growled, “What the fuck?”

“Hank, I need to talk to you immediately!” He stepped into the room.

Through unfocused, sleepy eyes Clark said, “Albert, what in the hell are you doing?”

“I need to talk to you alone! I have something very important to show you.”

“I’m in the middle of a massage,” snarled Clark, still not quite awake.

“I don’t care.” Rudin stepped forward, thrusting the manila envelope in front of his face.

“Albert, whatever you have can wait until I have some clothes on. Now get the hell out of here!”

Rudin had never heard Clark so upset. Reluctantly, he retreated from the room and closed the door. He looked down at the envelope in his hand. He desperately wanted to show the contents to someone, and Hank Clark was the obvious choice. He’d been looking for him for the past two hours. He’d called his house, his office and his cell phone. No one at the house answered, no one at the office knew where he was and he didn’t answer his cell phone. The club was a lucky guess. Rudin saw the senator’s gleaming Jaguar in the parking lot and practically ran into the building. The locker room manager told him Clark was getting a massage. Without putting any further thought into it, Rudin had raced off through the maze of lockers like a rat in search of a piece of cheese.

Standing alone in the bright lights of the locker room Rudin now saw the error of his ways. He checked his watch. It was 9:55. Clark wouldn’t be that much longer. Rudin began walking. He’d waited
this long to destroy Irene Kennedy, he could wait a few more minutes.

T
HERE WAS A
small lounge in the men’s locker room; two couches, several chairs, a television and two phones. This was where Rudin had decided to wait. It was a good thirty minutes before Clark showed. His salt and pepper hair was slicked back and he was wearing a pair of dress corduroy pants, a button-down shirt and a cashmere sweater. Rudin popped out of his chair looking slightly low-rent in his wrinkled khakis, faded flannel shirt and overstuffed down coat.

Clark had decided to act as if the intrusion into his hypnotic massage had not happened. There was no sense in revisiting the issue. After all these years Rudin wasn’t about to change. Clark did not greet the congressman. He simply said, “Let’s grab a cup of coffee.”

Rudin shook his head emphatically. “Let’s talk outside. In your car.” He looked around the small lounge like the walls had ears.

Clark understood Rudin’s paranoia. He was the one who had encouraged it. “All right.”

They left the club and went to the parking lot without speaking. Rudin took every step like he was on point during a patrol behind enemy lines. Clark played along and kept his mouth shut. He’d anticipated Rudin’s behavior. From thirty feet away, he pressed the button on his keyless remote. The headlights flashed once. Clark climbed in behind the wheel and Rudin got in on the passenger side.

From the folds of his down coat Rudin extracted the envelope and said, “You’re not going to believe what is in here.” He offered the envelope to Clark.

Clark didn’t take it. He instead asked, “What’s in it?”

“The information I’ve been looking for,” replied Rudin with glee.

Impassively, Clark nodded for him to elaborate.

“Have you ever heard of an organization called the Orion Team?”

Clark just shook his head no.

“It’s a secret organization that was started by that bastard Thomas Stansfield, and headed by Irene Kennedy.” Rudin spoke their names with great hatred. “They’ve been running covert ops in the Middle East for over a decade, and they haven’t said shit to us.” Rudin stabbed his finger into his own chest. “They’ve fucking lied to us, Hank, and I have proof. Right here! Look!” Rudin pulled some papers from the envelope. “I have a list of people they’ve killed. There’s account numbers where legitimate money has been diverted to fund these operations. There’s even mention of Special Forces units being used to support these
fucking
antics.”

“This is absolutely shocking.”

“I told you she was no good. Just like her old boss Stansfield.”

“I can’t believe it,” said Clark. “Where did you get this?”

“From your guy,” said Rudin defensively. “That Steveken fellow.”

“And where did he get it?”

“That’s the best part,” said Rudin excitedly. “He got it from Jonathan Brown . . . Judge Fucking Brown. Can you believe it?”

That was not the answer Clark was expecting. “Have you talked to anybody else about this?”

“No! You’re the first person.”

“Well, do yourself and Brown a favor and don’t mention his name to anyone.” Clark was trying to figure out how in the hell Rudin had got Brown’s name.

“Why?”

“Because the second you mention his name they’ll destroy his reputation.” Clark was thinking quickly, trying to come up with a logical reason. “Think of his name as your ace in the hole. The longer you wait to show it, the more valuable it’ll be.”

“Or the longer you wait to play it.” Rudin tried to pass the envelope to Clark.

“No. I believe you. When you get a chance make copies for me and send me the whole thing.” Clark wasn’t about to put his fingerprints on classified documents.

Rudin was a little disappointed, but pleased to hear that Clark trusted him enough to take his word. “So what are you going to do on Monday?”

The senator placed a hand on his chin and looked out the front windshield. Quietly, he said, “I’m not sure.”

Rudin was sure. It’s all he’d been thinking about for the past three hours. Kennedy’s confirmation hearing was going to turn into an inquisition. “Hank, what do you mean you’re not sure? You’re going to
get her under oath, and you’re going to nail her ass to the wall!”

“Oh, don’t worry, if this information is as damaging as you say, that’ll happen,” he said reassuringly. “I’m just trying to make sure we have all of our bases covered first.” Clark looked at Rudin and asked, “Are you still scheduled to appear on
Meet the Press
tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

Clark paused briefly and said, “All right, here’s what we’re going to do.”

A
steady drizzle fell from the night’s black sky, and the cab’s headlights cut a perfect but limited swath through the darkness. In the backseat Anna Rielly sat feeling her determination wilt away. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to happen, but she knew she had to meet him face-to-face. She couldn’t run. She loved him too much; she’d poured too much of her heart into the relationship. There were too many things that needed to be said. And besides, as a matter of practicality she had to get her car.

The trip back from Milan had been a long one. Thankfully, the American Airlines ticket agent had been kind enough to honor Rielly’s first-class ticket without charging her for changing the return date. It probably helped that she recognized Rielly as the NBC White House correspondent. What made the flight so miserable was that she was seated next to a forty-some-year-old man from Baltimore who spent the majority of the flight trying to put the moves on her. She heard his life story at least once, and several chapters that he deemed extra important were repeated. The experience did nothing for her resolve. Like most people with any sense, she didn’t
like dating. If this was what life held for her, maybe she was better off spending a few fitful nights waiting for Mitch to come home. She knew that wasn’t true, but in the midst of the excruciating flight the thought occurred more than once.

With a few days to cool off, Anna had settled in on her main problem with Mitch. How well did she really know him? The question of course could be asked, how much did one really know anybody, but she didn’t buy into that esoteric philosophy. She knew her family and her friends very well, and she thought she knew Mitch well, but she would have never thought him capable of doing what he did in Milan.

Rielly knew why they went to Italy. They went there to get engaged. Mitch had a little business to take care of first, and then they were off to start the rest of their lives together. The big problem was, his business involved meeting with an ex-lover. She tried to put the shoe on the other foot. What would Mitch have done if she’d gone off to meet secretly with an ex while they were on vacation together? It didn’t take Rielly long to come up with an answer. He’d blow his top.

Then why should she be so understanding? She kept coming back to the same question and the same answer. Mitch lived a different life. Secrets were part of his existence, and what made this worse was that Anna was a reporter. She had an overwhelming need to find things out, to dig, to uncover the hidden, the forgotten and the neglected. She wanted to know things, while Mitch was content with just being
there. One of his favorite lines was that talking is overrated. She’d asked him about his previous lovers one night, and he had steadfastly avoided the discussion. She had finally said, “Don’t you want to know about the men I’ve dated?” and Rapp had claimed that he didn’t. This only served to arouse her curiosity more. There was no past with the man. It was an aspect of Mitch that drew her in and drove her nuts. He only wanted to talk about the present, and the future.

As the cab neared his house, the house that just a few days earlier she’d thought of as theirs, she felt butterflies in her stomach that rivaled the ones she’d had on her first live remote. Out of nervousness she hoped he wasn’t home, and out of hope she wished he was. The coward in her wanted to grab her stuff and leave. Not give him the satisfaction of showing that she cared enough to talk about it. She could sneak in, grab her stuff and avoid any confrontation whatsoever. There was another voice from within, though not quite as strong as the first, that was telling her she had overreacted. Telling her that she could trust Mitch, and that whatever had happened in Milan could be explained.

When the cab pulled into the driveway, Rielly spotted her car parked next to the garage and noticed that the front light was on as well as one upstairs. She paid the cabbie and stood in the rain as he got her bag from the trunk. After a moment of indecision she wheeled her bag over to her car and hefted it into the trunk. Then standing under the narrow eave in front of the garage she peered through the small
square window. Mitch’s car wasn’t there. Her heart fell and after a moment of melancholy thoughts she decided to go inside and see if there was a note.

Anna unlocked the front door and punched in the code for the alarm. The first thing she saw was Mitch’s large Travel Pro black-wheeled suitcase. The same one he’d taken to Milan. It was on the floor and open. He was home, or at least he’d been home. She closed the front door and went into the kitchen. The breakfast bar was bare and again she felt her heart shrink a little. This was the spot where he would have left a note. There was none. Next she checked the answering machine. All she got for her trouble was a red zero telling her she’d again come up empty. She felt a brief sense of panic.

Snatching the handset from the cradle she called her apartment and checked her messages. The first one was from the phone company, asking her if she’d like to take advantage of a new long-distance calling plan. That was it. With a lump in her throat she called her work number and quickly skipped through five messages, none of which were from Mitch. She slammed the handset down and started for the stairs. The first tear trickled down her cheek as she reached the bedroom, their bedroom.

The bed was unmade. She tried to remember if it was that way when they’d left for Italy. It wasn’t. She clearly remembered it had been made. In frustration she grabbed one of the pillows and threw it against the wall. Not even a note. It was bad enough that he didn’t leave her one in their hotel room, but this was inexcusable. She’d misjudged him. With salty tears
streaming down her face she went into the bathroom to gather her things. If he could be this cold and impersonal after all they’d been through, then so could she.

S
ENATOR
C
LARK WAS
in the kitchen of his mansion on Foxhall Road in the Wesley Heights neighborhood of Washington. The large château style home was the senator’s castle. The front of the house was covered with ivy that looked like it had been there for a century or more and the double front door looked big enough to drive a small car through. Four stone chimneys jutted above the hipped slate roof, two at each end. The 9,000-square-foot home sat on three perfectly landscaped acres, and was surrounded by an eight-foot, black wrought-iron fence.

On Sundays the help was off so he was on his own for breakfast. After popping an English muffin into the toaster he poured himself a tall glass of fresh squeezed orange juice and took several gulps before heading out to get the papers. In slippers and a silk robe he dared the November morning chill and walked the almost 200 feet from his front door to the large black wrought-iron gate that kept unwanted visitors out. Caesar and Brutus, the senator’s golden retrievers, joined him on the walk.

It promised to be a good morning. His two regular Sunday papers, the
New York Times
and the
Washington Post,
were waiting for him in plastic bags. Clark returned to the house in time to hear the bell
on the toaster announce that his muffin was done. He dropped the papers on the table and grabbed the muffin. He put raspberry jam on one half and peanut butter on the other. It was the same thing every Sunday, orange juice and a muffin first and then coffee with the paper. Rituals were a good thing.

Wife number three was never involved in this little ritual because she never got out of bed before ten on Sundays. And he doubted that he’d see her before noon today. She didn’t just have one too many glasses of wine last night; she’d had one too many bottles. He was going to have to talk to her about laying off the booze. The campaign for the presidency would be in full swing about a year from now, and it wouldn’t do to have her stumbling around making an ass out of herself. As he took a bite of the peanut butter-covered muffin, he asked himself what he was thinking when he married her. Unfortunately he knew the answer. She was very attractive, and in politics it never hurt to have a good-looking lady on your arm. If the boozing didn’t get better, though, he’d have to figure something out. Again he contemplated the idea of her having a little accident. It might drum up the sympathy vote. No, Clark decided, as tempting as it was they always blamed the husband when there was foul play.