The South Lawn Plot (23 page)

A
T ABOUT THE SAME MOMENT
that Walsh and Bailey were grinding to a halt on a rain soaked London outer ring road, Cleo Conway punched a selection of numbered buttons that opened the door into the petri dish.

As he stepped into the room behind Conway, Hochberg glanced around and made some quick calculations.

“It's a good thing that we have the CIA after all,” he muttered.

Conway ignored him.

“Senator, welcome to Globescan. I know it's not much to look at but there's a lot in here that can't be seen, or immediately assessed in the usual way.”

“Like a clean desktop,” Hochberg growled.

Conway was already walking towards a long desk where two of the room's five occupants were seated. One was staring at a screen, the other at a newspaper that looked like it had been used as the lining for an old packing trunk. The room was dominated in its center by a four rectangular tables pulled together. It was covered in books and sheets of paper. An extension cord running from the table to the floor indicated the presence, somewhere, of a telephone.

The walls of the room, which was lit by irregularly spaced desk lamps, were fronted by additional desks which were covered with more books, loose document sheets and discarded paper cups and plates.

“Senator, I would like you to meet Greg and Steve, while over there we have Lynn, Dave and Josh.”

Lynn, Dave and Josh, all staring intently at monitors, simply raised their hands. Greg and Steve, by contrast, stood and offered theirs.

“Welcome, Senator. Must be finally getting warmer in North Dakota,” said Greg.

“Depends on what you mean by warm, son,” Hochberg replied.

“Never been there myself but I've always wanted to see the Badlands,” said Steve, a wide smile on his boyish face.

“That's South Dakota,”
Hochberg responded in a tone suggesting that this was not the first time he had to straighten people out on their Dakotas geography.

Steve continued smiling. He seemed oblivious to the correction. In fact he knew exactly where the Badlands were but he had been curious to see how, or if, the big wheel from the Hill would pounce on his error.

“Greg and Steve specialize in South Asia senator,” said Conway. “That newspaper Steve is reading is in Urdu, I believe. And that website, looks like some sort of jihad hothouse, am I right, Greg?”

“Absolutely,” said Greg. “If the wish list on this baby was to come true none of us would be standing here.”

“Sorry about the mess, Senator,” Conway interjected. “I know it doesn't give a great first impression.”

“Not that big a deal,” Hochberg replied. “When our country's security is the business of the day I don't care too much about appearances. No windows, views, distractions. Question is, though, how good is the view of the world in here?”

“Well, Senator,” said Conway, “we didn't have much choice on location. We set up where the powers put us, not that we were exactly expecting a view of the Potomac. But the perspective on global events is pretty good. We've been able to predict a couple. In one recent case we beat the CIA to the punch by at least a week.”

“That's great, Cleo, but it's no guarantee of continued funding. Beating the CIA to something can just as easily piss off people who have friends on Appropriations. You might be able to stay in business for a little longer, but unless you pull of something spectacular you won't be able to simply hide behind a wall of jihad bullshit.”

“Hiding's not our business, Senator,” Conway retorted, a sharper edge to her voice. “I have the fullest confidence in the people working here. I know we're going to come up with results, big results.”

Hochberg lowered his eyes and looked directly at Conway. He smiled.

“Again, I just heard your father speak,” he said.

“But as I said, national security is one of those absolutes, and the safety of the president is a super-duper absolute. The hawks and doves alike will not hesitate in loading it on your little menagerie if something happens. That said, you, and I mean all of you, are relatively unknown, almost innocent compared to the rest of them. Right now your best chance of keeping this little operation
on the go is not being noticed. The money might just pass this way in one of those lines that slip in to bills at the last minute.”

Hochberg winked to make his point, but did not wait for a response.

“Sure, we might learn something new about the nefarious affairs of terrorists in faraway places because your people can speak the local lingo. Just make sure they don't get bored, and for Pete's sake don't send the big boys on any wild goose chases. That's the beauty of this set-up, Cleo; a bunch of crazies in a back office who can be thrown to the wolves if there's another September Eleven.

“I don't believe that is why Globescan was set up, Senator,” Conway said, folding her arms.

“I wouldn't necessarily use the term set-up,” Hochberg said.

“I'm relieved that you're moving out of here, but I understand that this, well, operation, has been your baby and you want it to keep ticking over after you head for the big show. But from where I'm standing, you're going to need a big scoop.

Conway smiled now. Hochberg had said his piece, and now she could say hers. She was aware that Greg and Steve were merely pretending to go about their business and were listening intently to the senator. The same was true for the other three on the far side of the tables. The rule of thumb inside their little world door was find secrets, share secrets, no secrets.

Nodding towards her colleagues, Conway allowed the smile to fade and be replaced by a more serious, almost conspiratorial look.

“We predict rather than react, Senator, and we won't be afraid to stick our necks out. We have no problem remaining in the background, and we'll be dull and boring if need be, but it must be understood that we might just come with something really big that all the others miss. These guys have what it takes.”

“I understand what you're saying, Cleo,” Hochberg cut in.

“I'm happy you do, Senator. As I said before, we're an intelligence agency in the purest sense. We're dealing in the most rarified intangibles. We might never know the effects of our work. 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. But I sincerely believe that everyone working here can make a real contribution to the safety of our country and our president.”

“Okay, Hochberg responded. “You want someone to explain to the unenlightened, the dull and the ignorant the nature of your service, its importance
and its results, even if there are no obvious results to see. And you're in a hurry because your bag is packed.”

“That's about it.”

“All right,” said Hochberg, “So you have come up with some interesting predictions and so far haven't made fools of yourselves. But, and I'll reiterate, you need a big score, lady.”

Conway said nothing. She was staring around the walls of the room. Her eyes came to rest on a map of the United States with colored pins stuck in it. One pin, a green one, was in North Carolina, where the helicopter carrying her father had crashed.

Hochberg sensed her thoughts. “Let's go,” he said, “I have a few people to meet. Let me mull this over.”

The farewells were as perfunctory as the greetings. This time, however, Lynn, Dave and Josh stood. They had spotted Conway's thumb making the upwards motion.

Outside in the hallway Hochberg stopped and tapped his foot on the floor.

“Usually when I walk into a room people sit up and take notice,” he said. “This crowd, Chip and Dale and the gruesome threesome didn't seem to be especially bothered that the ranking member of their lifeline committee had come for a visit. I guess I can only assume that they are deep into their work, and that's fine by me. Look, Cleo, I'm sure your people are dedicated, but up on the Hill this place will, over time, become a harder sell. The budget is being squeezed from all angles. But with solid results we can hold back all your competitors and those that would see you go the way of Custer. At least for a while and until you're totally immersed in protecting the president.”

“Doesn't sound like much time, Senator. I'm out of here in a couple of weeks,” Conway said.

“It's no time at all. I don't have to tell you that these days, even now, every day is September Tenth. Anyway, I've got to get back for a vote, but I'll try to keep you up on what's coming your way, good, bad and indifferent. Just try to keep cover for the moment, okay? Like I said, I owe your dad, but he's not around to collect. You are.”

“Thank you, Senator,” Conway said. “These guys, the ones here today and the rest of them, might not look the part but they are good. Trust me.”

“I'll see myself out,” Hochberg replied.

A full minute after Hochberg had left, Conway had not moved. Her head turned slightly as Dave came out of the office with a single sheet of paper.

“Got some goodies here,” he said. “Oh, is the big guy gone? Pity. I could have given him a hot-off-the-presses briefing on the next civil war in central Africa, about three days away now, I'd guess. Not to mention a few other odds and ends other than Taiwan, but I know we've been told to keep our noses out of that one.

“Oh, and there is this. Not particularly important for us, I reckon, but it seems that the good Christians of Europe have been at it again. There are reports in an Italian paper that the cardinal prince of all the Catholics in England, God bless them, may have died from something other than celibacy.”

“File it under medieval mishaps,” Conway said sharply. “And come and see me in my office in fifteen minutes. Bring the others. I have a bone to pick with all of you.”

A
S CLEO CONWAY WALKED
quickly back to her office, three thousand miles to the east Nick Bailey was stepping gingerly through the almost soundproof door and into the
Post
newsroom.

Despite making it back to London later than they had planned, Samantha had decided that there was still time for shopping. She needed a few new work outfits with just a little extra room to conceal a firearm. They had parted with a kiss, a lame joke from Bailey about having to frisk her for more than guns, and a promise to call each other the following day.

The afternoon was well advanced and much of what was to fill the website and the following morning's hard copy edition had already been put to bed. Bailey was pleased with himself, but also wary. He was not listed for duty but Henderson could be like a press ganger in the old Royal Navy.

So Bailey walked quickly past the cluttered desks, most of them occupied by people either coming off day shifts or starting evening ones. He glanced at a monitor. The lead story seemed to have something to do with British warships moving closer to Taiwan.

“Wow, real news,” Bailey said, more or less
sotto voce
.

The
Post
, he reminded himself, was serious enough to pay due attention to a potential war on page one, and light enough to get quickly bored with the story if the shooting didn't start in a hurry. Bombings, boobs and bondage could be found cheek by jowl in most editions. It wasn't the first of these that had lately given the
Post
a modest circulation boost, but a real war's positive effect on street sales and web hits could never be denied.

Bailey, now at a faster clip, made for a door in a far corner of the newsroom. He reached it apparently unnoticed. On the far side was a dimly lit corridor with a partition wall on one side and a line of glass fronted cubicle offices on the other. One of them, he knew, was Roger Cheese's den.

Bailey slowly walked along the line, peering into each office. A couple were empty, and the others were occupied by people who were vaguely familiar.
The man he was seeking was in the very last cubicle, at the edge of the newsroom's known world. As he reached the door, Bailey furrowed his brow trying to remember the man's face, even his byline. It was not Cheese of course but what, Chesby, Chesterton, Cheshire?

The scene that presented itself to Bailey was out of Dickens. The small office was piled high with books, magazines and papers. Astonishingly, there was no computer in sight, but there was a battered typewriter, a Remington. At least, Bailey laughed to himself, the phone wasn't a rotary dial.

The door was open, and Bailey knocked gently. Roger Cheese was home. He was sitting, or more precisely sprawling, in a swivel chair reading a magazine. On his desk was a beer glass filled with water and a paper towel with an enormous meat pie on it. Cheese did not look up but motioned with his hand, pointing to a creaky looking wooden chair.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Bailey?” he said, his accent carrying a faint hint of London's East End.

“Oh,” said, Bailey, taken aback by the fact that his name had been uttered by this man who, to the best of his memory, had never appeared in the newsroom while he himself had been working in it.

“Bloody London water,” said Cheese, picking up his glass and staring at its contents. “It's already been drunk and pissed out ten times, you know.”

“I try to stay off it,” Bailey responded. “Stick to the bottled stuff.”

“An outright ripoff,” said Cheese, now turning to fully face his visitor. “Though I wish I had thought of the idea thirty years ago. I suppose you're here about the dearly departed cardinal and those unfortunate fathers.”

“Well, yes, that would be it,” Bailey replied as he eased himself into the suspect chair.

“I've been reading your stuff,” said the man across the desk. Bailey estimated his age at anywhere between fifty and seventy. He defied a precise estimate.

“Good work, I have to say, but of course you've only been scratching the surface.”

“Really?”

“Really,” said Roger Cheese. “It's usually the case in church affairs, not just Roman Catholic, mind you. Simply put, the basis for events can run rather deep under the apparent surface. Obviously, I've been making a few calls. Henderson has asked be to do a backgrounder, dig up any dirt I can,
connect some dots. I'm not competing with you of course, but you're in the general reporting pool and cover all sorts of stories, though I suspect this one has grabbed your interest a little more than most. I can see it in your, well, prose.”

“Thanks,” said Bailey. “It is a little more than run of the mill, and, well, it's been, ah, interesting. Yes, interesting.”

He was thinking of Samantha more than the story, but Cheese seemed pleased. He lifted the meat pie to his mouth, took an enormous bite and proceeded to speak with his mouth full. Bailey winced, but weathered the storm. After taking another slug of the objectionable water, Cheese leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.

“Okay,” he said, “I was curious about the line you had in one of your stories about the prime minister looking tense when he answered your question outside Number Ten. Are you sure of that, or were you just pumping things up a bit?”

Bailey shook his head.

“I was looking at him hard when I asked the question. I knew he would just kick for touch no matter what, so the only real answer I would get was in the look on his face. And he did tense up. Just for a moment. But I'm sure the question landed as much on his balls as in his ears. And that bugger Golding was in like a sweeper in extra time before Spencer could even get the words out. I reckon there's something dodgy about all this.”

“You're sure?”

Bailey shrugged. “Sure enough for another story.”

“Interesting,” said Cheese, as much to himself as Bailey.

Bailey's eyes were scanning the room for hints as to his host's mindset and interests. It was plainly evident by way of the books and publications that the man was seriously attached to religion and royalty. Bailey's browsing was interrupted as Cheese rose from his chair and stretched himself. He was a big man, probably twice the size that the tiny office could comfortably accommodate. Cheese sat down again, heavily, and stared straight at Bailey.

“Now here's the thing, Mr. Bailey,” he said. “Somebody, somewhere, tipped off the Italian fellow who has been throwing out the murder conspiracy stuff. That sort of thing is par for the course with the Italians, needless to say, but I know of this particular Italian chap and he's usually reliable.

“Obviously, once the story broke over there our embassy in Rome would have been on to the Foreign Office. From there it went to Downing Street.
Spencer was likely aware of the story despite his huffing and puffing. The story, by the way, is now running in
La Repubblica
. Not a bad rag, sensible, if a bit of a snooze. Anyway, you don't mess around with stuff like this. I've been making a few calls, and I'm waiting for answers. I have no problems sharing what I lay my hands on but I also want to keep enough in reserve for a good Sunday piece. Is that all right with you, Mr. Bailey, Nick?”

“Sound as a pound, Roger,” Bailey replied, nodding for emphasis.

“Splendid,” said Cheese, reaching again for his meat pie. He hesitated and instead drummed his fingers on the desk.

“Nick, can you keep a secret?”

“Only when I have to,” Bailey responded, a tad too quickly perhaps.

“You will have to because if you don't Henderson will have your job and I'll have your life. I can't yet confirm it, but I believe the cardinal and all these dead priests had contact at one time or another with the heir to the throne. I believe, and I have no confirmation, or right now even a way to confirm it, but I think the prince was in the process of flipping, that is if he hasn't done so already.”

Cheese paused, allowing his words to settle.

“I don't quite understand,” said Bailey. “Flipping, flipping what?”

“Flipping, flopping,” said Cheese. “From one faith to another, Church of England to Roman Catholicism. Our future king is an apostate, or is about to be, and if I can firm this up it will be the biggest royal story since Henry the Eighth said up yours to the pope.”

“Jesus Christ, that's a story all right,” said Bailey sitting upright in the wobbly chair so quickly that it indeed wobbled. “Does anybody else have a sniff of it?”

“Not that I can tell, but that isn't going to last so we're going to have to work very quickly and very carefully. We have to be absolutely certain or we will be go down in flames big time.”

“We?” said Bailey.

Cheese looked at Bailey, his eyes narrowing a little. “Me, you, Henderson, the Post,” he said.

Bailey began to say something but stopped. Bringing Samantha into it would only be a complication.

“So you reckon that all these dead holy men are connected with his highness kissing up with the Vatican? Sounds kind of medieval, dark ages stuff,” Bailey said.

Cheese laughed. It was sound that seemed to come from the bottom of a deep well.

“You might not believe it,” he said, “but history will judge us and our times very harshly, I suspect. We talk about medieval and automatically look backwards into history. Who's to say that a few hundred years from now that we won't be seen as the second medieval age, the age of high wattage but low light, the age of un-enlightenment? Look around, Mr. Bailey. Half the world thinks it's modern and progressive but is really fooling itself. The other half is in a new dark age and reveling in it.”

Cheese lowered his head slightly and glared across the desk. He seemed to be staring right through Bailey.

“Very little changes,” he said in a near whisper. “People still kill other people thinking they are carrying out God's will. We are up to our eyes in medieval shit, my friend.
Plus ca
bloody
change
.”

Bailey found himself nodding. “Yes, well,” he said glancing at his watch. “I have some catching up to do and should get out of here before Henderson sees me as a target of opportunity.”

Bailey rose and almost bounded for the door.

“I'll get back to you as soon as I dig up more,” he said as he reached it.

Cheese, however, was already reading his magazine.

“By the way,” said Bailey, half turning. “I have a question. How did you get the nickname Cheese?”

Roger Cheese turned and looked at Bailey for a few seconds.

“It's not a nickname,” he said. “It's my real name. My parents were Jews from Eastern Europe. My father was a cheesemaker. The name was not so much adopted by him as imposed by our English hosts.”

“Ah, silly me,” said Bailey. “That's your name, your byline indeed. I just thought the name was a little longer. In my mind's eye, know what I mean?”

“Mind how you go,” said Cheese. “Remember, it's still Anno Domini fifteen hundred out there.”

The warning trailed away to silence as Bailey beat his hasty retreat.