The South Lawn Plot (22 page)

S
AM J. HOCHBERG
considered himself to be fit, at least for his age. But he was having a hard time keeping up with the long striding Secret Service agent who was escorting him to Cleo Conway's office.

“Son,” he said, trying not to sound too winded, “slow down a mite. It's been a few years since I led fixed bayonet charges.”

The agent stopped abruptly and turned to face the senior senator from North Dakota.

“Sorry, Senator. We're here now anyway, sir,” he said, pointing to a door on the left side of the corridor.

The agent tapped lightly and then opened the door. Hochberg's eyes rested on the slim, athletic frame of Cleo Conway who was standing behind her desk in the cramped cubbyhole that somebody had decided to call an office. Conway nodded to the agent who closed the door quietly.

“Good to see you Cleo. How was Alaska?”

“Oh, it was great, Senator. Just what the doctor ordered and all that, but I'm glad to be back. I have a new assignment.”

“Yes, I know. Congratulations. The president will be in good hands. And for God's sake don't bother with ‘Senator.' I was a friend of your father's, and he called me names I couldn't repeat in any company, polite or otherwise.”

Conway half smiled. She motioned to Hochberg to sit in the only other chair in the room apart from her own.

“Coffee? Tea? Juice? Water?”

Hochberg frowned. “I gave up coffee, tea is for wimps, I get more than enough juice on the Hill and water will only have me limping to the bathroom. Anything stronger? Only half joking.”

“You haven't changed,” said Conway, her smile widening. “Dad always said you were impossible.”

“It's the only qualification I needed for this job. Keeps the damn lobbyists at bay. Nice that you have an office. Last time I was here you were in a cubicle
beside some guy who looked like he had seen one too many Clint Eastwood movies.”

“That would be Special Agent Davis,” said Conway. “He's traveling overseas at the moment, with the Secretary of State.”

“Ah, yes, the Vietnam visit. That's a big one, especially given what the Chinese are up to. Your father and I loved that country, even when we were destroying it in order to save it.”

“Yes, I remember the stories,” Conway replied. “The two of you seemed to have had your own private war over there.”

“Nothing private about it at all,” Hochberg snorted. “Everybody was welcome, even Charlie, though we could never guarantee the warmest of welcomes. Your dad was one hell of a soldier, Cleo. Never saw the like in my life. He couldn't even spell fear.”

“Yeah, so I've heard.”

“Anyway,” Hochberg continued, “I'm sorry it's taken so long for me to get over here and see this little operation you've been running, and I guess I'm just glad to have made it before you hand it over to someone else. I assume your successor agrees with you that Globe, Globe, whatever you call it…”

“Globescan,” Conway interjected.

“Okay, Globescan. Who the hell dreams up these names? Anyway, well, I believe the question is whether or not he thinks it's worth another round of funding from my committee.”

“Yes, he does, and he's very hopeful that I'll be able to twist your arm a little and perhaps pony up a million or two more,” Conway said, drumming her fingers on the desk for emphasis.

“Does he now?” said Hochberg, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair. “Lucky for you it's an off year or we would have some nit-picking congressman roaring about earmarks and special funding and how to save the taxpayer's dime. Anyway, I'm sure we can lay hands on your money. It can be your parting gift to Globespin.”

Conway laughed. “I think they're over at the FBI,” she said. “Anyway do you want to meet the wunderkinds? I believe they have been fed and won't be dangerous for another couple of hours.”

“That's while I'm here,” said Hochberg. “I've heard a bit about these guys but remind me. My mind forgets a lot these days.”

“Certainly,” said Conway, rising from her chair. “As everybody knows,
the United States enjoyed the services of sixteen various intelligence agencies on September 11, but not one of them saw those specific attacks coming even though there were clues in abundance.

“Indeed, it had taken years before anyone had even suspected the existence of a group called al Qaeda. After the attacks, and as the war on terrorism gathered momentum, it was felt that we had to look at the world through a different lens, in fact a number of different lenses. Money was no object, of course, and various agencies revamped their intelligence gathering operations. One or two, the Secret Service included, were allowed to start up new projects. Homeland Security grew money on trees so it was simply a matter of matching ideas with dollars.

“Given that we in the service are very much in the front line when it comes to protecting our leaders from attacks by assassins and terrorists, it was felt that we had to get ahead of the game. So we set up this unit manned by, well, geeks I suppose you could call them. They are computer nerds, linguists and others of varied background who like nothing more than trawling the internet for chatter, hacking into websites, that kind of thing”

Hochberg nodded. “Some of them have records for that kind of thing,” he said.

“Yes, they do,” Conway replied. “But this is not a time to be too fussy. Anyway, some of them do speak foreign languages, including Arabic, Pashto and Farsi. They would be doing this sort of thing anyway so it was felt that for a relatively small outlay we could bring them in here, give them a decent level of security clearance and set them to work. We have had moderate success thus far and have been able to intercept, or have intercepted, a couple of radical groups who might have done harm to some of our people.

“By the way, they don't like to be called geeks or nerds or anything like that. Their name for themselves is ‘the plot patrol.'”

“Gimme a break,” Hochberg responded. “How many of them are there?”

“Thirty-two. They work in teams of four in overlapping shifts, and at least one team is on duty at all times. It's a twenty four seven operation.”

Hochberg rose from his chair. “Can I have a peek at the, eh, ‘plot patrol?'”

“Of course,” said Conway. “Please follow me.”

“I have to say,” Hochberg said moments later as the two walked down a brightly lit interior hallway, “you took a risk with this job. National Security is one of those absolutes. If things go badly wrong, they look for scapegoats.
It isn't very fair, but that's the way it works. Did you ever think that this little plot patrol was a setup?

“We do indeed have sixteen intelligence agencies at last count and each one of them expert in passing the buck. Your operation here looks like a ripe target to me. Just as well you're moving on to a comparatively simple job. At least when you're protecting the president you have a chance of taking a bullet, surviving it and being hailed as a national hero. It's a lot simpler.”

“I'll bear that in mind,” Conway replied.

“I'm being serious,” said Hochberg, “and I have your best interests at heart. But some of these computer lunatics spend their every waking hour digging into everyone else's business on those machines and planting viruses all over the place just for the hell of it. So no sense in them stopping now just because Uncle Sam is signing the paycheck. Are you sure they are working for us and not someone else?”

Conway stopped, turned and faced Hochberg. “Go on,” she said.

“I will,” said Hochberg, frowning. “Sure, we might learn something new about some bunch of terrorists in an asshole corner of the world the American people never heard of because your people can speak the local lingo. But the way it's going to go, maybe not now, but when they get bored, is that your plot people will be scanning my bank records to make sure that I'm not up to my ass in bribes from the feed industry, or the league of chicken farmers. That's the beauty of this set up, Cleo. A bunch of crazies in the back room who can be denied and thrown to the wolves if the press manages to run around the very smart and very beautiful agent in the front office.”

“Oh, please, Senator,” Conway said, her face flushing.

“Don't you see?” said Hochberg. “That's why that old buzzard in the director's office picked you. You are one of the brightest agents to grace this building in years; your qualifications are top dollar. But you're also young, inexperienced and gorgeous on camera. He covered himself every which way. I am aware that Homeland Security wasn't particularly enthusiastic about Globescan to begin with. But the prevailing view was that your operation could be a convenient foil. That's the way the process operates in our lousy post-9/11 world. Homeland Security isn't being entirely malicious, but everyone's ass is on the line now.

“It was easier dealing with the Soviets in the old days. By God it will be easier dealing with the Chinese if this Taiwan mess gets really out of hand. At least they present a big fat target.”

“I appreciate your honesty with me, Senator,” Conway replied. “I guess I had a feeling all along that this could turn into Mission Impossible. But it is water under the bridge now. And you know, I'm glad I took the job, this one and the upcoming one.”

“I understand,” said Hochberg, softly. “Your father always had to go for it, too, and most of the time he hit the target. Now tell me, what is your assessment of your situation here, and what's the worst and best that we can expect of Globescan? Jesus, what genius thought up a name like that anyway, sounds about as exciting as a Georgetown fundraising tea party.”

Conway smiled.

“I wouldn't know much about Georgetown parties, but I do have an idea of the politics behind law enforcement, and I am under no illusions as to the potential for problems with Globescan. As you know, and I'm assuming you've read all the briefing papers, even if we tumble the biggest terrorist plot of the century so far we don't get any of the public credit. That goes back into the Homeland Security mainstream to be shared by all the major league intelligence agencies.

“Okay, maybe we get a pat on the back, but there's going to be no fame and glory, no glowing reports in
The Washington Post
and
New York Times.
Nothing. That, I hope, is appreciated on the Hill, in the relevant government departments, and in the White House.”

Hochberg lowered his head slightly but did not indicate agreement or disagreement.

“We depend heavily here on intuition and hunches,” Conway continued. “On the surface, we are not doing anything really differently than the FBI, CIA or NSA. If anything, we are just replicating their gathering and sifting of data, only we tend to go a bit beyond the normal parameters. And we look at things in a different way, from outside the box.

“I see us being more like one of those old time big city police departments, but one staffed by the kind of people who would be laughed out of a precinct house for being too jittery and spooked all the time. We combine technology and a gut sense of the big bad world as it funnels itself through cyberspace. As one of the guys here put it, we're more giga savvy than street smart.

“Anyway, we have had no problem remaining in the background, and we've been dutifully dull and boring to the point where the press has long since lost interest. That suits us fine. But it must be understood that we might
just come with the goods in a way that no other agency could. I like to think of Globescan's work being like the discovery of penicillin.”

“I know what you're saying,” Hochberg cut in. “But if you somehow actually hit on something, or think you've found something, and it's prevented by virtue of our people simply taking precautions or changing procedures, how do we really know that US interests were a target in the first place?”

“Exactly, Senator. We're an intelligence agency in the purest sense. We're dealing in intangibles. We might never know the effects of our work. Unlike politicians, we can't quote statistics or take credit for a new factory in a district. We can't arrest people and get our name on the evening news. And unlike, say, the CIA, we can't be at least partly our own judges. We have neither the power nor the independence for that. We are hostages to fortune and misfortune. We are almost like a religion. People are going to have to accept our little miracles as a matter of faith. We don't see God, we just assume, we hope and we pray. And like God, we won't be coming down to earth to have everyone bow at our feet just because we've parted the ocean to reveal some nasty bunch of bad guys with America in their crosshairs.”

Conway took a deep breath. She had delivered more or less verbatim what she had rehearsed for Hochberg's visit.

“You want somebody to speak for your guys,” said Hochberg. “You want someone to explain to, well, members of my committee for example, the nature of the work done here, its importance and its results, even if it sounds wacky and there are no obvious results to see.”

“Most especially now that I'm packing my bags, Senator.”

“That's a tall order, Special Agent Conway.”

“My father specialized in them.”

Hochberg smiled and shook his head. “
Touché
,” he said. And then, in a deadpan pose. “Let me mull it over.”

“Okay, Senator, but first you can look it over. Behind this door is our national intelligence version of the petri dish.”

“Lead on,” said Hochberg. “This should be interesting. And stop calling me Senator.”

B
AILEY AND WALSH
had stopped short of London. Before being sucked back into the city's maw they had spotted an inn called The Ruff and Reeve. All it had taken to make the decision to stop and stay was a single, mutual glance.

After checking in, they had settled into a formidable country style dinner, washed down with local ale.

They had just started their main course when Bailey got a phone call. Putting down his knife and fork with an annoyed look on his face, he spoke one word grumpily into his sliver of a phone: “yes.”

But his annoyance evaporated in a couple of seconds. Walsh caught her companion's raised eyebrows and the look of surprise and satisfaction on his face as the person at the other end of the line continued to speak of something that was clearly of interest. After about a full minute during which he had not spoken at all, Bailey snapped his phone shut.

“Well, well,” he said.

“Well, what?”

“Remember that report in the Italian paper about Murray, Cardinal Murray, the one that suggested his demise wasn't entirely an act of God? Well, the same paper has come out with another report claiming his eminence was knocked off. No hard facts, but claiming a knowledgeable source.”

“Who told you that? Who was on the phone?” said Walsh, her knife and fork now resting on a side plate.

“Old Roger Cheese,” said Bailey.

“Who?”

“Not quite his real name,” Bailey continued. “It's actually Cheesman or Cheesborough or something, but he's been known as Roger Cheese for eons. And that's about how long he's been at the
Post
. He's our religious affairs man, and don't laugh, we do have one, even if we are godless. He works a lot from home these days but he has come up with a few good ones over the years. I
think Henderson and he are old friends so that's how he's been able to hang on. Christ, he's nearly as old as Christianity.”

“And what did he say?” said Walsh.

“Nothing in detail, but he did say that he would make a few calls. He has a gut sense that there might be something to this Murray theory after all. He said he would come into the office next week and let me know what he has dug up. Old Roger Cheese. I thought he had popped his cork.”

Walsh smiled. “Eat your dinner or you will,” she said.

But before Bailey could again attack his steak and kidney pie, Walsh reached across the table and placed her hand on his left arm.

“But right after you do clean your plate,” he said, “I want you spit out what has been going through your mind ever since we left Ayvebury. You saw something there, I can tell.”

Bailey, his mouth full, began to speak but Walsh shook her head. “Eat,” she commanded.

And he did; she, too. They splurged, ordered a bottle of wine to follow the ale, had desserts, and traded stories from each other's childhood.

To anyone's gaze they were lovers but in truth they were both still holding back. Each, however, could sense the other's growing confidence while a sense of trust, though still in its infancy, was opening doors to other things.

“Aren't you going to have a cigarette?” said Walsh as they finished the last of the wine.

“Gave them up,” replied Bailey, examining the wine bottle label.

“Since when?”

“Today.”

“Oh, Christ,” said Walsh, “I'm spending the night with a junkie going through cold turkey. Maybe we should get a second room.”

It was a little after ten when they adjourned to a room that was modestly furnished, clean and warm. It had a television but they ignored it. Both were exhausted and it was a race into bed. They lay in each other's arms, saying nothing and forgoing lovemaking by a silent agreement that was almost as intimate.

It was well after midnight when he heard it. Bailey shot up in the bed. Walsh, her back to him, was sleeping soundly. He gave her a nudge, then more of a Push, and she stirred.

“Somebody's in trouble,” Bailey said. “Jesus, someone's being murdered.”

“Relax for God's sake,” said Walsh, turning and half sitting up. “It's a fox.”

“What?”

“A fox,” Walsh repeated. “I used to spend time in the country when I was a child. My mother's cousin had a farm. They make noises like that, and you're right, sounds like someone is being murdered, but trust me, it's a fox.”

The sound pierced the night again. “Are you sure?” Sounds like someone is giving up the ghost.”

“Go back to sleep, Nick. We're not going to have much time for any when we get back to London.”

Bailey tried, but even after the fox wandered off into a more distant corner of its territory and could not be heard again, he lay awake, his mind turning over various versions of a story beginning with four dead priests, an equally deceased prince of the church, and a rambling old house in the country in which, he was certain, there were answers. The only problem was, he was still only at the stage of formulating the questions.

He had not been in the least surprised to discover Sydney Small in one of the framed photographs in the part of Ayvebury that served as a wood-paneled gallery of yesteryear filled with pictures of old boys, now much older in life or long gone. Small had told him about his flirtation with Holy Orders during their meeting at the pub. In the photo, which was of a cricket eleven, Small had been seated on the left of the front row. The quality of the photograph had not been great to begin with, and it had faded as a result of years of direct sunlight through a nearby window.

Bailey wondered if Small might be in mortal danger, like the priests clearly were up until the moment that death snuffed out all things mortal. Perhaps, he thought, Small was already dead. Apart from the letters, there had not been any word from the man since they had talked over drinks. Bailey shuddered at the idea. Unlike his companion, now apparently asleep, he was not a police officer, a paid professional investigator of murderous deeds. Investigating homicidal deaths could, sooner or later, bring a reporter into close proximity to killers.

Nevertheless, he wasn't a danger freak, and the idea of being a gangland or war correspondent had never appealed. When it came to reporting death, Bailey preferred the accidental kind, better again the celebrity version, obituary writing and the like. Murder most foul was quite something else. He was, he easily admitted to himself in the fox-free stillness, a bit of a coward.

Walsh stirred and her hand fell across Bailey's face. Gently, he lifted her
arm and folded it across her stomach. She was asleep on her back. There was an outdoor light over the door of the inn that had two wings at right angles to one another. It was at the far end of the other wing but it cast its light far enough to penetrate the bedroom through a gap where the window curtains failed to quite meet. It was just enough to make out Samantha Walsh's form. He could hear her breathing. It was slow-paced and rather deep.

She was physically fit, in far better shape than he was. Already, he was feeling a little self-conscious about his physique, or lack of it. It had been the reason that he had decided to give up the smokes, though right now he was craving one.

Nicotine craving, was, as much as the mysteries of Ayvebury, the reason why he was now wide awake, his mind turning over hard questions, crazy theories and some scary possible answers. And as he turned them all over, Bailey finally managed to turn the real world into dreams. But those dreams were all too like the real world again, and, when he woke up with a start, it was still dark, though less silent. The wind had picked up and a hard rain was beating against the window.

“Get up,” Bailey said in a loud whisper. He was shaking Walsh who had turned on her side, her back now turned towards him.

She protested with a groan and a muttered question about the time. Bailey persisted.

“We've got to get back,” he said, this time with full voice.

“But it's still the middle of the night,” Walsh replied, emphasizing the last word.

Bailey, sitting up, rubbed his eyes and tried to make sense of it. He wasn't sure if it had come to him in a dream, or as he lay awake. But the idea was holding firm now that he was most assuredly awake. He was thinking back to the day before, to Ayvebury. He was seeing the photo again. The face, not quite in full view because the photographer had badly framed the shot, was still there. He could see it when he shut his eyes, indeed more clearly when he did so.

He looked at the bedside digital clock, its numbers illuminated. It was just gone four. Dawn was still an hour away at least, and the room was just a blend of dark and darker. He closed his eyes and saw the face again.

Walsh was sitting up now, waiting for him to insist that she get dressed. Bailey said nothing but dropped his feet to the floor and stood up, tense and rigid.

He turned.

Walsh, too, was now standing and reaching for clothes that she had tossed on the floor in her hurry to get into bed. The light was sufficient to illuminate her taut physique. It was a figure for the beach as much as the beat, Bailey thought.

Bailey busied himself getting dressed. He had precipitated the end of the night's slumber but already it was clear that Walsh would be ready to vacate The Ruff and Reeve before he would be.

“Jesus,” he muttered. He could not find one of his socks.

Ten minutes later the two, both clutching coffees from the all night pot in the entrance lobby, threw themselves and their overnight bags into the car. The landlady, apparently an insomniac, had been up and sitting at the front desk. She seemed unsurprised that another young couple had suddenly reawakened to the fact that the reality of a new day was entirely different to the fuzzy romance of the evening before.

She took the sudden departure in her stride. “Mind yourselves,” she said, as Walsh and Bailey bundled out the door. She sighed and returned her gaze to the pages of a well-thumbed cookery magazine.

“Are you sure?” Walsh demanded of Bailey as she turned the key in the ignition, switched on the headlights and wipers and turned the car to exit the forecourt.

“I'm sure. And I'm sure that it's the reason that Sydney Small wanted to see me. The man was afraid. He tried to hide it but he was afraid of something, or someone. And now I think I know who it was, though not what it was all about.”

“Yes, but how does it all fit together? How does he fit into this?”

“I don't know,” said Bailey. They had reached the end of the narrow lane leading from the inn to the junction with the road that would take them to the motorway. The rain was by now close to torrential.

“Ayvebury or London?” said Walsh. She was revving the engine, trying to rid it of the pre-dawn dampness even as she took large gulps of black coffee from her plastic cup.

“Save me yours,” she said, pointing at Bailey's cup. “Where to?”

“London,” Bailey commanded. “And drive like a bloody copper!”