As he continued to look at the President it occurred to Burton that the sonofabitch was proud of himself. He had seen such calmness before amidst extreme and calculated violence. No remorse because a human being’s existence had just been sacrificed. Instead, a rush of euphoria. Of triumph. Burton thought back to the marks on Christine Sullivan’s neck. To the busted jaw. To the ominous sounds he had heard from behind other bedroom doors. The Man of the People.
Burton thought back to the meeting with Richmond where he had filled in his boss on all the facts. Other than seeing Russell squirm it had not been a pleasant experience.
Richmond had stared at each of them. Burton and Russell sat side by side. Collin hovered next to the door. They were clustered in the First Family’s private quarters. A component of the White House the eager public was never permitted to see. The rest of the First Family was on a brief holiday visiting relatives. It was best that way. The most important member of that family was not in a pleasant mood.
The President was, finally, fully cognizant of the facts, the most remarkable of which had been a letter opener bearing some particularly incriminating evidence, and which had ended up in the hands of their intrepid and felonious eyewitness. The blood had almost frozen in the President’s veins when Burton had told him. As the words fell out of the agent’s mouth, the President had swiveled his head in Russell’s direction.
When Collin recounted Russell’s instructions not to wipe the blade and handle clean, the President had stood up and hovered over his Chief of Staff, who had pushed herself so far back in her chair that she seemed to have become part of the fabric. His stare was crushing. She finally covered her eyes with her hand. The underarms of her blouse were soaked in perspiration. Her throat was devoid of saliva.
Richmond had sat back down and slowly crunched the ice from his cocktail and finally turned his gaze out the window. He was still dressed in a monkey suit from yet another en gagement but the tie was undone. He was still looking out to nowhere when he spoke.
“How long, Burton?”
Burton stopped looking at the floor. “Who knows? Maybe forever.”
“You know better than that. I want your professional assessment.”
“Sooner than later. He’s got a lawyer now. Somehow, some way the guy’s gonna pop to somebody.”
“Do we have any idea where ‘it’ is?”
Burton rubbed his hands together uneasily. “No sir. The police searched his house, his car. If they had found the letter opener, I would’ve heard.”
“But they know it’s missing from Sullivan’s house?”
Burton nodded. “The police realize it has significance. If it turns up they’ll know what to do with it.”
The President stood up and played his fingers across a particularly ugly gothic crystal collection of his wife’s that was displayed on one of the tables. Next to them were photos of his family. He never actually registered on their countenances. All he saw in their faces were the flames of his administration. His face seemed to redden before the invisible conflagration. History was in jeopardy of being rewritten and all because of a little K mart bimbo and an overly ambitious and incredibly stupid Chief of Staff.
“Any idea who Sullivan employed?”
Burton again answered. Russell was no longer an equal. Collin was there only to be told what to do. “Could be one of twenty or thirty high-priced hit men. Whoever it is he’s long gone by now.”
“But you’ve laid the mental trail with our friend the detective?”
“He knows that you ‘innocently’ told Walter Sullivan where and when. The guy’s plenty smart enough to follow up on that.”
The President abruptly picked up one of the crystal pieces and hurled it against the wall where it shattered, sending fragments all across the room; his face contorted into a mass of hate and anger that made even Burton shudder. “Dammit, if he hadn’t missed, it would’ve been perfect.”
Russell looked at the tiny shards of crystal on the carpet. That was her life. All those years of education, toiling, hundred-hour weeks. For this.
“The police are going to follow up with Sullivan. I made sure the detective on the case understood Sullivan’s possible involvement.” Burton continued, “But even though he’s the most likely suspect, he’ll deny everything. They won’t be able to prove anything. I’m not sure where that gets us, sir.”
Richmond strolled around the room. He could’ve been preparing for a speech or getting ready to shake hands with a troop of Boy Scouts from a Midwestern state. He was actually contemplating how to murder someone in a way that absolutely no blame, not even a hint of suspicion, would ever fall his way.
“What if he tried again? And this time succeeded.”
Burton looked puzzled. “How do we control what Sullivan does?”
“By doing it ourselves.”
No one said anything for a couple of minutes. Russell glanced incredulously at her boss. Her entire life had just gone straight to hell and now she was compelled to participate in a conspiracy to commit murder. She had felt emotionally numb since all of this had started. She had been absolutely certain her situation could not get any worse. And she had been absolutely wrong about that.
Finally Burton ventured an analysis. “I’m not sure the police would believe Sullivan would be that crazy. He’s gotta know they’re on to him, but can’t prove anything. If we pop Whitney, I’m not sure they’d look Sullivan’s way.”
The President stopped strolling. He stood directly in front of Burton. “So let the police reach that conclusion themselves, if they ever do.”
The reality was that Richmond no longer needed Walter Sullivan to regain the White House. Perhaps more important, this was a perfect way to rid himself of the obligation to back Sullivan’s Ukraine deal over Russia; a decision that was growing into more and more of a potential liability. If Sullivan were even remotely implicated in the death of his wife’s killer, he would be doing no more global deals. Richmond’s support would be discreetly withdrawn. Everyone who counted would understand that silent retreat.
“Alan, you want to set Sullivan up for a murder?” These were the first words Russell had spoken. Her face betrayed her complete astonishment.
He looked at her, with unconcealed contempt in his eyes.
“Alan, think about what you’re saying. This is Walter Sullivan, this is not some two-bit crook no one gives a damn about.”
Richmond smiled. Her stupidity amused him. She had seemed so bright, so incredibly capable when he first brought her on board. He had been wrong.
The President did some rough calculations. At best Sullivan had perhaps a twenty percent chance of going down for the killing. Given similar circumstances, Richmond would take those odds. Sullivan was a big boy, he could take care of himself. And if he faltered? Well, that was why they had prisons. He looked at Burton.
“Burton, do you understand?”
Burton didn’t answer.
The President said sharply, “You were certainly prepared to kill the man before, Burton. As far as I can determine, the stakes haven’t changed. In fact they’re probably higher. For all of us. Do you understand, Burton?” Richmond paused for a moment, then repeated his question.
Burton finally looked up and said quietly, “I understand.”
For the next two hours they laid their plans.
As the two Secret Service agents and Russell rose to leave, the President looked at her. “So tell me, Gloria, what happened to the money?”
Russell looked straight at him. “It was donated, anonymously, to the American Red Cross. I understand it was one of their biggest single contributions ever.”
The door closed and the President had smiled. Nice part ing shot. Enjoy it, Luther Whitney. Enjoy it while you can, you insignificant little nothing.