Roarke moved closer. “Who knows, maybe the clock got adjusted back correctly every time except for the last. Something happened. The person got spooked. Maybe he got tipped off she was coming home early. I’d want to check that if I were you. Maybe he just fucked up.”
“And maybe you should realize we’ve uncovered a stinking spy cell.”
“Like someone wants you to think!” Roarke shot back. “Look, Roy,” he said without an ounce of gentility. “It’s a simple thing, but it makes sense. The girl was killed, not because someone was trying to rape her. There was never a rape. It wasn’t dark yet. She was killed. The path led you right to her apartment, and you found what you were supposed to find.”
For once, Bessolo didn’t lob back a quick and asinine retort.
Roarke continued. “And the story broke. I take it nobody on your team leaked it.”
Bessolo delivered his conclusive answer through an ice-cold stare.
“Another part of the plan. It’s all choreographed.”
“But she did send classified information,” Bessolo maintained.
“Did she? You tell me if anything really worthwhile got out, or whether it’s old news, or a rewrite of a Popular Science article, or a grab from a Clancy novel. Like they say, it’s not my job. Why don’t you check it?”
Bessolo couldn’t argue the point any longer. Roarke was right. Something wasn’t adding up. “Across the street,” Bessolo stated. “Let’s get some coffee.”
They waited a moment for the traffic to open up, then jaywalked to a coffee shop. As they reached the curb, Bessolo stopped again. He had a knot in the pit of his stomach. “Assuming for half a second that your cockamamie theory is partially right, why go through all of this?”
“I don’t know. I’m not the political science major, but just off the top of my head?”
“That’ll do.”
“Embarrass the hell out of the president?” Then it came to him. “No, bigger than that.”
“What?” Bessolo asked.
“Complete an unfinished job. Undermine our relations with Israel and bring the administration down.”
They walked by a bank before coming to the coffee shop. It was a small mom-and-pop establishment that somehow carved out a loyal customer base in an otherwise-Starbucks world. Bessolo and Roarke both ordered black coffees. While they waited for their drinks, Bessolo scored a metal table outside the shop, diagonally across the street from Meyerson’s apartment building. Roarke brought over the cups and took the seat facing the storefront. They spoke softly.
“So, do I take it you’re willing to consider the possibility?” Roarke asked.
“You can assume anything you want. I just work with the evidence.”
“Never beyond the evidence, Bessolo? You never wonder about things? Come on, this is Washington. There are at least two reasons for every action.”
“Hard evidence, Roarke. Rock solid,” Bessolo replied.
Roarke looked away, surprised he was even trying to have a conversation. That’s when he noticed the bank a few feet away. He leaned to the left to get an unobstructed view, then shifted his glance to Meyerson’s building. Then he studied the front of the bank again.
“Excuse me for a second.”
Roarke stood up and walked to the front, stopping at the outdoor ATM. From there, he looked over his shoulder one more time. Right across the street.
“Bessolo!” he called. “I need you for a second.”
“Forget it. I’ll cover the coffee.” The FBI man figured Roarke had forgotten his ATM card. Then he grasped what the Secret Service agent had already realized. Shit. The ATM camera!
Michael O’Connell retrieved a message on his voicemail from an anonymous caller. The man described himself as someone who had special information regarding a story in The Washington Post. “It is 12:20 P.M. now. I will call back every ten minutes. Pick up on the first ring. I’ll hang up by the second. If by six calls you have not answered, I will take what I have to The Washington Post.”
“Oh, shit!” he cursed aloud, catching the time. 1:12. Sources were manipulative bastards, and this one seemed to have a special agenda. One more chance, he said to himself.
At 5:20 exactly, the reporter’s phone rang. O’Connell grabbed the headset, nearly knocking his phone over.
“O’Connell. Who is this?”
“Never mind. I have some new information.”
“What kind of information?”
“The kind that you like, Mr. O’Connell. Deeply troubling. About Israel.”
Morgan Taylor wished he had done what he originally intended after the inauguration: retire to some secluded fishing hole. But in the moments following Lodge’s death, the man next in line to be president — Henry Lamden — asked him to stay. He appealed to Taylor’s sense of duty, arguing the country needed him. With the smell of gunfire still in the Capitol, Taylor agreed. Now he questioned the whole bloody decision.
Taylor hated babysitting the Senate. He hated being number two. He hated being viewed as a functionary. And he hated being a desk jockey. Ever since flying sorties off the deck of a nuclear carrier, he was used to being in control. Always. Until now.
So when Scott Roarke said he needed to see him immediately, he welcomed the excuse to skip out on the Senate.
Roarke had already phoned Katie to say he’d be at least two hours late. He still expected he’d make it for a late dinner. When she asked why, he cryptically offered, “Allergies. My nose is itching again.”
They had worked out a variety of codes between them. This was one of the important flags. I’m onto something.
“Boss,” Roarke said, barging into the vice president’s office as if it were his own, “I need to run something important by you.”
“The floor’s yours,” Taylor said. There was no offer of coffee.
“A little Q and A, boss.”
“Go,” Taylor said. He settled into another of his favorite chairs. This one, a 19th-century captain’s chair, which had belonged to Admiral Halsey when he served aboard the USS Enterprise. Roarke did the pacing for everybody this time.
“The killing of Mrs. Lodge, the act that launched Teddy Lodge’s bid for the White House. What was that called?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“How did reporters describe it?”
The vice president was not pleased with Roarke’s dialectic approach. “Just get to it, Scott.”
Roarke noted his objection. “The press called it a bungled assassination. Everyone thought the killer was out to get Lodge. They said it was bungled.”
“And?”
“Lynn Meyerson.”
“Yes?”
“Sexually assaulted. In broad daylight. In a public park. Below a jogging path. Maybe somebody broke it up, made a noise, shouted. But guess what?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I don’t believe it. No one’s come forward to confirm it. And you’ve heard what they’re calling it?”
Roarke had his mentor’s undivided attention. Taylor thought the word as Roarke stated it. “Bungled!”
“Where are you going with this?” Roarke told him.
“So it was a busy day,” Katie began on their nightly phone call. “Very.” He couldn’t explain how busy. “Is the weekend out?” she asked.
“No, still planning on coming up. Seemed like you need a little TLC.” He was obliquely asking about her manner earlier on the telephone.
“Listen, I’ve got to feed the cat. Can we talk later?” Katie asked hurriedly.
“Sure,” Roarke said, aware of an undercurrent of tension. “Love you.”