“It’s me. Michael O’Connell,” he whispered.
Nothing. He inched closer. “O’Connell. You needed to see me.”
The man’s eyes widened. He managed a glimpse of recognition that seemed to say, I know.
O’Connell glanced over to the store. He saw that the policeman was engaged in a heated conversation with the man who had tackled him. He produced a badge.
With more urgency, O’Connell asked, “Please, what can you tell me?”
“Move out of the way,” the policeman called out in Russian. Those who could understand him moved. Others didn’t.
The old man grimaced with pain. He blinked once, uttered just one word, then closed his eyes. Even through his thick Russian accent it was distinctive enough to be understood. But it made no sense.
As the man awkwardly rose to his feet, Roarke got a better, closer look. The features were slightly different. His eyes were bluer. He had a thin, but unmistakable scar above his lip. Most importantly, the man didn’t show a hint of recognition of Roarke. Not a glimmer of the defiance he expected. It wasn’t just good acting.
“Who are you?” the man asked.
“FBI,” Davis said, which kept Roarke quiet. A crowd was beginning to draw around. Someone had called the Shawnee Mission police; a siren sounded from a few blocks away.
“Why?”
“Are you Charles Corbett?” Davis said, coming around front now.
“Yes,” he managed.
“Former Army Special Forces.”
“Yes.”
“You’re wanted for questioning for—”
“No,” Roarke said under his breath.
Davis quickly glanced over, still keeping his gun on Corbett. “He’s not Depp,” Roarke said. “Are you certain?”
Roarke gave him an almost disappointed, “Yes.” He holstered his pistol, then stooped down and picked up the man’s shopping bag. “I’m sorry.”
“Are you sure?” Davis asked again. His gun was still on the man. “Absolutely.”
The local police car rolled into the Town Center Plaza parking lot. Davis returned his Colt to his shoulder holster. “We’re going to have some explaining to do.”
“Yes, I know.” The song Corbett had been humming finally came to him. A Broadway tune, not an oldie. He must have been practicing for a play. The Impossible Dream.
O’Connell quickly drifted back in with a group of people making for an exit. Once clear, he decided not to return to his hotel. Instead, he went to St. Basil’s Cathedral to do something he hadn’t done in years — pray. He prayed that he would get out safely, and he prayed that he could figure out what the old man meant.
Chapter 53
O’Connell IM’d the international desk for any news on a shooting at GUM. The editor pulled up an extract. “Something. Not much.”
“What?”
The New York Times editor copied the text and sent it. According to a carefully worded Izvestia report, a Chetchnian terrorist was tracked by Russian security from Red Square to the GUM department store, where he was shot.
O’Connell IM’d another question. “Was he killed?”
The response. “No mention.” Then a question from the editor, who’d suddenly become curious. “Why?”
O’Connell quickly typed in, “Just checking.” He shut his laptop down and packed it in his attaché case. He hailed a cab for the airport, anxious to leave Russia. One word played in his mind the entire ride. It echoed through the long wait at the terminal, and it was with him as he finally fell asleep on the nonstop flight home.
Elliott Strong chastised his listeners. “I’m telling you right now, you better book your hotel. Three weeks. If you wait much longer, you’ll be sleeping on the Mall…which wouldn’t be so bad,” the talkshow host offered with a half laugh. “George Washington’s troops camped out there. So did Lincoln’s Union forces. The Bonus Army in the 1930s.”
Every night he nudged his audience more. The printouts on his desk, sent to him by a friend on the Hill, confirmed the point. Hardly a hotel room was left within the Beltway. General Bridgeman’s army was taking form. The networks estimated as many as two-and-half-million protestors were making travel plans for August 18. Strong was right. They were running out of beds.
He switched tones. “Now I just want to hear from people who are going.” He gave the call-in phone numbers. “Open lines tonight. Hello, you’re on the air.”
“My wife and I are,” the first caller said.
“Where are you coming in from?” The accent should have been enough to give it away, but the host loved letting people say where they lived. It reinforced the national reach of his show.
“Outside of Mobile.”
Strong acknowledged the affiliate station the caller listened to. He didn’t have to memorize them. They were always on-screen.
“What’s the schedule, Elliott? I haven’t heard much about that.”
“It’s online. We have the link to General Bridgeman’s website. It starts with a prayer at 10 A.M, the Pledge of Allegiance, ‘The Star Spangled Banner,’ a rock concert until noon, and then the general speaks.”
“You’re introducing him, right?” A perfect question.
Strong looked at his watch and smiled to himself. “Oh, thank you, but I think General Bridgeman deserves someone far more worthy than me.”
They met for dinner at Washington’s Hotel Tabard Inn, a quaint Victorian watering hole and eatery made famous long before novelists like John Grisham wrote about it. The maitre’d placed them in a discreet room up a short flight of tin-lined stairs. Many secretive meetings had been held in this room with presidents and men who would be presidents, political enemies who broke bread together, and allies who broke their promises to one another. If only these walls could talk. So many conversations, so much strategizing, and so much lying over Grilled Hereford Ribeye, Marinated Ostrich Steak, and Rack of Lamb.
Duke Patrick wasn’t sure what it would be tonight. Still, the invitation intrigued him.
Patrick, the Speaker of the House, was the first to arrive. He passed the time with a vodka martini. Normally he could pack away a half dozen and not slur a line of speech. Tonight, he would make one last.
The general arrived with no fanfare. He was quietly led up the stairs by the owner, assured that they would not be bothered except for the food order, which he would personally handle.
“Well, well, Congressman Patrick, it’s so good to see you,” General Bridgeman said. He opened his arms to the speaker, who stood to greet him.
“General,” Patrick said tentatively. He rejected the bear hug and opted for a handshake.
“No, please. First names. I never want to hear you say ‘General’ again.” He let out a laugh. “Unless it’s in public.”
Duke Patrick didn’t find the comment humorous. “If you don’t mind, let’s keep it at the general and congressman level for awhile,” Patrick said, not giving into the cordiality.
“Well, that would be fine, but I’m sure we’re going to find we have a lot in common before the evening is out.” Bridgeman motioned to the owner, who had stayed at the door. “Scotch on the rocks, please.” Once they were alone, Bridgeman took his seat. Patrick joined him, trying to figure out what political advantage he could garner from the unexpected meeting.
The chief of staff asked to have dinner with the president. He had a good deal to go over, and there never seemed to be enough time during the day. They were hardly into their first course, a simple arugula and pear salad, when Bernsie launched into his agenda.