“What’s deadlier to a country than war?”
“I don’t do riddles.” Jack snarled.
Mark blinked as the sound of the phone being slammed down jarred his alcohol-dulled senses.
“Fucker.” He dialed again. He was sick of being ignored, pushed aside. Damn it, someone was going to listen to him for once.
Jack answered more quickly this time. “What do you want?”
“Does 202-555-1416 sound familiar?”
“Are you calling from the White House?”
“Very good. Mr. Rudly. You know the private White House lines. Don’t bother checking it out. It’s not mine.”
“Who is this?”
“What do murder and the White House have in common?”
“Murder? That’s a bit far-fetched, isn’t it?”
“Only if I were making it up,” Mark hiccupped.
“Look, you got my attention by using a White House phone number,” Jack said, “and that bought you about a minute of my time. Tell me who you are, or I’m hanging up.”
“Your father would understand the mess I’m in.”
“What does this have to do with my father?”
“An honorable man, your father. The last of the honorable politicians. A great senator. He understood the link between murder and the White House. Too bad he had to pay the highest price.” Mark looked toward the window. A light rain hit the glass. “He’s not the only one.”
“What’re you talking about? My father died of a coronary. He wasn’t into games, and neither am I. So cut the crap.”
‘They’re going to kill me now. It’ll be headline news.“ A lump formed in Mark’s throat. Good men were dead. Maybe he deserved to die, too. ”Is he the reason you became a journalist?“
“Who’s going to kill you?”
“Scotch is a man’s drink, you know. Your father and I shared a love of scotch, especially Glenlivet.” Mark took a sip.
“A lot of people drink Glenlivet. That doesn’t prove you knew my father.”
“Not with three twists, they don’t. Boy, did your dad know how to ruin perfectly good scotch with too much lemon.” Mark laughed. “You’re talking to a dead man. We’ve deceived an entire nation, you know. Your father would never have done that. He’s still a legend on the Hill.”
“Leave my father out of this. Why’d you call me?”
“You’ve got to stop the murders,” Mark said.
“What murders? You’re not making any sense.”
“Goddamn it. You’re not listening. Men are dead. I’m next.”
“I can’t help you, if I don’t know who you are. I need facts from a credible source, not lame ramblings from a drunk and disgruntled government employee.”
“This was a mistake,” Mark whispered, his voice low and raspy. “You make a lousy last option. I thought you’d understand. For God’s sake, you’re his son! I know he taught you better than this. He cared, he truly cared. How can you dishonor his memory?”
“Fu-” Jack paused. “If this is so damned important, then meet with me.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Why not?”
“I’ll be dead soon.”
“Then meet me now.”
“Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? It’s not safe. You’d be at risk. Serious risk. Hell, you’re already in the cross hairs. Meeting with me would pull the trigger.”
“Then call the next guy on your list. Good night.”
“Wait!” Mark said. “You know the lookout on the north end of the Golden Gate Bridge?”
“I can find it.”
“Thirty minutes.” Mark paused “Be careful, they’re watching you. Try to stay alive, Jack Rudly. You’ve got a job to do. And revealing your father’s murderer is only part of it.”
Mark heard Jack’s sharp intake of breath, and continued. “You want to know how I know? I’m one of them. I helped. I’m a killer. But I’m not helping any more.”
Mark hung up.
FIFTY-FOUR
The moon had long since disappeared in the fog. From where Jack stood, the Golden Gate Bridge should have been a glorious sight but dense tendrils of mist obscured the looming structure, leaving only a milky whiteness in its place.
Jack leaned against his rental car. Three-thirty in the morning and thirty minutes since the phone call that had compelled him to the bridge.
His father, murdered? My God, it made sense. It fit with his investigation, but just the thought caused him a sharp ache in his chest.
He peered up at the sky, noting that the stars were lost to the marine layer that shrouded everything above a couple hundred feet. He listened to the waves pounding the shore, and to the periodic moans of a distant foghorn.
Jack dug into the pocket of his worn leather jacket and retrieved his pack of cigarettes. Strange city. Desolate place. Probably not one of his brighter moves.
He sucked on his cigarette. The tip glowed orange-red in the murky darkness. The moist air grew still, eerie and oppressive. He shivered in the dampness and turned to get back inside his car.
Headlights suddenly blinded him as a car rolled to a stop directly in front of his vehicle.
The car door opened, but the interior light did not go on. A tall figure exited on the driver’s side, then paused near the open door. He remained a vague silhouette behind the headlights. “State your name,” he ordered.
Jack couldn’t make out the man’s features or what he was wearing. “Jack Rudly.”
“Good of you to come. You’ll understand if I ask you to remain where you are.”
Jack recognized the voice from the telephone call. “It’s damn cold out here. Let’s go get a drink somewhere and talk?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then at least tell me who you are.”
“Someday that will be evident, but for now, you’ll just have to trust me.”
“It’s almost four in the morning, and you obviously want to talk to me, but I can’t trust you as a source if I don’t know your identity.” Jack backhanded the moisture weeping out of the dense fog from his forehead.
The man grunted. “There aren’t any easy answers to this one, so you can take it or leave it. But I promise you, if you walk away now, you’ll regret it. And so will a lot of other unsuspecting people.”
Jack tossed the butt of his cigarette on the ground. “Tell me about my father. Or did you just mention his name to get my attention?”
“Use your head. Think. Mr. Rudly… murder and the presidency.”
“I told you. I don’t like riddles.”
“Sure you do. You’re a journalist.”
“I’m out of here.” Jack reached for his car door handle.
“Okay, okay, I’ll give you a break,” the man said quickly. “I know you went digging in Missouri during the campaign.”
“How do you know that?”
“You’re not the only one with contacts. Something was bothering you, Mr. Rudly, or you wouldn’t have gone snooping around. You asked me why I picked you? Your background had something to do with it, but mainly I picked you because you weren’t wrong. Listen to your gut. That something you were searching for is still there. And it started before the death of your father.”
Jack’s heart pounded. “What does my dad have to do with anything? And what’s all this shit about murder? All I got in Missouri was a lot of conjecture and a handful of air. Nothing I could verify.”
“You haven’t looked in the right places. Neither did your father.”
“You keep bringing up my dad. Tell me how this involved him?”
“If I had all the answers, I wouldn’t need you.” An anguished note crept into the man’s voice. “God, maybe this was a mistake. I’ve probably misjudged you. I shouldn’t be doing this. I’m in too deep… it’s too late. Fuck it. Never mind.” He got back into the driver’s seat of the car.
“Wait.” Jack stepped fonvard.
“Stop.” A hand rose above the door.
Jack saw the Athene of a gun. He extended his arms, palms turned outward. “Relax, man. You obviously thought I could help, but you’re not giving me much to go on. What did you mean when you said the press was allowing this to happen?”