The Lie (38 page)

Paulie had been out of the hospital for the past several hours, but things seemed to be going on in the president’s room when
he returned.

“What’s happening?” he asked Tommy Cortlandt.

“Someone from Mainz just phoned the president to set up the money exchange. I’m about to run a tape of the call. Sit down
and listen.”

Moments later Paulie heard a curiously familiar voice saying, “For the record, Mr. President, my name is Beatrice. I’m only
a messenger for Professor Mainz…”

Because Paulie knew that what he was hearing could not be possible, he had the sense of not hearing anything at all. Then
the full shock set in.

D
ANIEL
A
RCHER CAME INTO
W
ASHINGTON’S
D
ULLES
A
IRPORT
at 8:07
A.M.
on Alitalia flight 16 from Rome. It was an unusually bumpy descent and he checked his pulse all the way to touchdown. The
beat never wavered.

Going through customs, he presented a passport under the name of Howard Beatty. The attached photograph showed an elderly
man with a gray moustache and beard, dark shadows under his eyes, and ravaged cheeks, all of which matched his current disguise.

At the Hertz counter, he rented a Ford using an American Express card under the name of Howard Beatty and headed for Alexandria,
Virginia.

It felt ugly being back in his own country as a fugitive, but Archer knew exactly how lucky he was to be back at all. He had
a comfortable apartment in Bethesda, an agreeable, good-looking woman he had been seeing from time to time in Arlington, and
he could not go near either one of them.

That fucking Harris
.

Archer had no real ties here or any other place, yet the prospect of having to spend the rest of his life wearing disguises
and looking over his shoulder had no great appeal either. Using a small portion of his carefully rationed malice for the deputy
CIA director, Archer considered what, if anything, he should do about him.

No point in taking foolish risks, he thought. Yet if he did
decide to do something, how convenient that Nicko Vorelli had chosen Washington as his next bombing target.

For a while, the choice had wavered between Washington and Tokyo, with the American capitol finally getting the nod because
of the psychological impact of hitting God where He lived. Not that either Vorelli or Archer believed it would ever come to
that. After the fear struck by the demonstration blast in Rome, who would want to force Professor Mainz’s hand with hundreds
of lives at stake?

But since there was no figuring such things, not even that could be taken for granted. There were fools at every level. So
the cached explosives still had to be fused and set to go by deadline time.

Daniel Archer had been driving for about forty minutes when he reached a neat, well-trimmed farmhouse that stood at the edge
of a clearing a few miles south of Alexandria. He had been here many times before over the years and nothing ever seemed to
change.

Archer found that in itself reassuring.

He parked beside a shiny pickup truck that appeared as lovingly cared for as the house. Then he got out of his rented Ford,
knocked on the front door of the house, and waited.

A moment later the door opened and a spare, middle-aged man looked at him with watery blue eyes.

“Mr. Wilson?” he said, pitching his voice high and quavering, a dry, old man’s voice. “Mr. Angus Wilson?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m a friend of Danny Archer’s.”

The thin, tightly drawn face showed nothing. “So?”

“Danny said he thought you might be able to help me out with a few things I need.”

“A few things you need for what?”

“To goddamn blow people’s heads off. What else?”

Angus Wilson grinned and shook his head. “You sure had me fooled, Danny. You’re still the best there is at that shit.”

Both of them grinning now, they went inside.

“It’s been a long time,” said Wilson. “What are you up to these days?”

“Little of this, little of that. In Europe mostly. But I’m back now and can use some inventory.”

“That’s what I’m here for, Danny.”

They talked for a while, trading inside gossip and lies. You never stayed too close to the truth in this line of work. Not
if you wanted to stay in business and live.

Then Daniel Archer took out his shopping list and they went up into a windowless attic crowded floor to ceiling with shelves
and drawers.

Archer read off what he needed and Angus Wilson filled a large, fine-looking piece of Samsonite luggage with a master bomb-maker’s
assortment of wires, cables, detonators, fuses, clocks, and remotes. For added measure, Archer tossed in a five-inch, razor-sharp
switchblade and a 9-millimeter automatic with a shoulder holster, attached silencer, and two full clips of ammunition.

Back downstairs, they sipped Jack Daniels and talked some more. While Angus Wilson figured out the bill, Archer adjusted his
shoulder holster and got the feel of the new automatic.

“I see you’re still living alone,” said Archer. “You’re getting as bad as me. A nonfucking hermit.”

Wilson shrugged. His wife had died long and hard of cancer a few years before, and he had never really known what to say to
a woman anyway. “I’m too old to start all over again with that kind of crap.”

“I know what you mean. I didn’t have the patience for it even when I was young.” Archer hefted the weight of the automatic,
flicked the safety off, on, then off and on again. “You seen old Ken Harris lately? Or heard anything from him?”

“Nah. Nothing.”

“Didn’t he used to keep in touch?”

“Not for a long while. He’s too big and important to waste time on me these days.”

Archer slowly nodded. He aimed the 9-millimeter through a window at a bird swaying on a low branch.

Wilson licked the point of his pencil and scribbled a final figure. “The bad news is a grand total of seven thousand, five
hundred and forty bucks. That’s including the genuine Samsonite suitcase.” He paused consideringly. “For you, let’s call it
an even seven thousand. How does that sound?”

“Like one of the last great bargains around,” said Archer.

He paid Angus Wilson in cash and they walked out to

Archer’s car together and shook hands.

“Always a pleasure to do business with you, Angus,” said Archer. “You and your place are about the last things around that
haven’t changed.”

“Anyone tells you I’ve changed, you’ll know I’m dead.”

“I believe you,” said Archer.

Wilson looked at him. “So when Ken Harris comes asking about you, what do I tell him?”

“Only the truth. That you haven’t seen or heard from me in years.”

P
AULIE
W
ALTERS WAS GRATEFUL
simply to be part of setting up the president’s conference call. The fuss—the busywork alone—helped to keep his head straight.
With any break in the action, his thoughts turned darkly to Kate.

What had happened?

How had she become involved with Mainz at this point?

Where did Nicko Vorelli fit into all this?

How much of what Kate was doing was with a loaded gun at her head?

The questions kept coming, kept working through him, and he had no answers.

Then the communications officer signaled for quiet and said they would begin in exactly two minutes.

While Jimmy Dunster’s doctors fussed at all the activity, room 561 had been converted into a small but sophisticated telephonic
nerve center. Cables snaked across the floor. Everyone involved wore headphones. And instant translations were available in
English, French, Italian, German, or Japanese.

The president himself was stretched out in bed with only about half of his earlier tubes still attached. In the room, too,
were Paulie, Cortlandt, and the chief communications officer. Outside in the corridor, other technicians sat at a computer
consul with four security agents shuffling around them.

The two doctors in the room left and a moment later the president received his signal.

“This is Jimmy Dunster,” he said. “Before we move ahead, I just want to thank you all for your warm expressions of sympathy
and concern. They mean everything to me.”

Then the president got right down to the business at hand. He described the call from Professor Mainz’s messenger and the
terms put forth and discussed. Some of the other leaders began offering their own suggestions, but the American president
quickly cut them short.

“Gentlemen, please indulge me,” he said. “Whatever we’ve been asked to do, we must do. This man is serious. And I’m sure none
of us want to put uncounted lives at risk.”

Jimmy Dunster paused to take a deep breath. Paulie saw how little he had in the way of reserves.

“This money has to be paid,” the president told his group of six. “Whatever comes later, we’ll talk about then. For now, I
just want to call this messenger back as soon as possible and stop the clock on that bomb.”

Cortlandt took over for the president in working out the details while Jimmy Dunster lay there with his eyes closed.

Paulie made it back to Anna’s apartment by 2:45 that afternoon, close to the time when Ken Harris had said he would call each
day.

With two agents keeping her under virtual house arrest and with no hint yet of her promised five million, Anna was growing
increasingly restive.

“I don’t see any suitcases of money,” she said when Paulie arrived empty-handed.

“We’re good for it. You don’t have to worry.”

“I’m not worried. I’m bored to death sitting around all day with those two retarded watchdogs you’ve stuck me with.”

“You’re very easily bored.”

“That’s true.” Anna looked at Paulie. “Want to fuck?”

“That’s how you keep from being bored?” Paulie said.

“Sometimes. If I’m lucky and happen to stumble over the rare man who seems slightly more interesting than a good vibrator.”

“And other times?”

“I try to shoot the president of the United States.”

“There has to be something in between, Anna.”

“I do keep looking.”

“I hope you find it soon,” he said. “For all our sakes.”

Then the telephone rang and Paulie put on a set of headphones and glanced at his watch. It was a bit past three o’clock. He
nodded to Anna and she picked up the receiver on the third ring, which set the recording tape rolling.

“It’s Walter,” Ken Harris said.

“I’m glad you called. We have some serious talking to do.”

Listening, Paulie felt himself tense up at just the sound of the deputy director’s voice.

“Is something wrong?” asked Harris.

“A lot is wrong. And it’s time we stopped playing this silly little name game.” Anna paused. “You see, I know who you are,
Mr. Harris.”

The deputy director was silent for a long stretch.

“How did you find out?” he finally asked.

“About a year ago, I recognized your voice during a TV interview.”

Harris said nothing.

“You don’t have to worry,” said Anna. “I’ve never said a word to anyone. And I won’t.”

“Then why are you telling me now?” said Ken Harris.

“Because you’ve just compromised my security and endangered my life,” said Anna.

“How have I done that?”

“By telling your friend Jayson Fleming who I am.”

There was more silence from the other end and Paulie could all but feel the deputy director sniffing around the bait.

“That’s not true,” said Ken Harris at last. “I never did say who you were.”

“Then how was he able to warn your boss that I’d be coming to the hospital?”

“He never knew you by name. All he knew was that another try was being made.”

“That in itself could have been enough to finish me,” said Anna. “It almost did.”

“I apologize. You have every right to be furious. I never expected the poor fool to unravel enough to blow the whistle on
you.”

Neither of them spoke for several moments.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” said Ken Harris. “Forget the whole operation. I promise to make it up to you. In the meantime,
if you stop by the dead drop tomorrow, you’ll find an extra hundred thousand waiting.”

Anna looked at Paulie as she hung up.

“All right?” she asked.

“Better than all right,” he said. “Now just pack a bag and we’ll get you to a safe house. Your generous friend will have someone
here to blow your brains out in less than forty minutes.”

Paulie brought Anna to a secure apartment on Hutten Strasse and personally checked out the three agents he had arranged to
stay with her.

“Just be patient a while longer,” he said. “If you try not to lay them all, I promise you’ll be walking out of here rich and
free in a few days.”

Anna’s golden, animal eyes considered him. “I don’t want
them
. I want
you
.”

“Only because I punched you in the jaw and you know you can’t have me.”

“How about after I get my five million?”

“Mail me a signed contract and we’ll see.”

“Where do I send it?”

“The White House,” he said. “Care of the president.”

An hour later, Paulie was back at Holy Cross General with Anna’s recording of her conversation with Ken Harris.

In room 561, Jimmy Dunster was struggling to get his first dose of nonintravenous nourishment down into his stomach. Director
Cortlandt was busy on the telephone. Secretary of State Green, who still knew Paulie only as John Hendricks,
was just leaving the room and stopped to shake his hand and congratulate him for saving the president’s life.

Then Green was gone, the president lay exhausted from his feeding, Cortlandt finished with the telephone, and the room took
back its own field of force and silence.

“What did you get out of Little Orphan Annie?” asked Cortlandt. “Did Ken Harris call her back as promised?”

“Right on schedule,” said Paulie. “And I have it all on tape.”

“How bad is it?” asked Jimmy Dunster.