“So then, as far you know, no one in the government, no one in the FBI, is looking into the possibility that President Constable, instead of dying of natural causes, was killed?”
The question, the simple stated possibility, seemed to give the director pause. He stroked his chin for a moment before he replied.
“No. Not that I know of.”
Hart pressed the point.
“And if they were, would you expect to be informed?”
Griswald did not hesitate.
“On a matter of that importance: yes, absolutely.”
“‘Yes, absolutely.’ Very good. Thank you.”
The chairman started to ask if anyone else had a question, but Hart interrupted.
“There is something else I would like to ask. There have been other rumors-not about the president’s death, but about certain dealings he may have had with foreign interests. Have you-has the CIA-any information, any intelligence, on any dealings President Constable may have had in which he received payment from sources overseas?”
The committee, almost equally divided between the two parties, started buzzing. The chairman quickly called them to order.
“Mr. Hart, do you have something specific in mind? That is a fairly broad allegation you’re making, and I would think that-”
“I’m not making an allegation, broad or otherwise, Mr. Chairman. I’m simply asking if the director knows of anything that would support the kind of rumors I’ve been hearing; the questions that I know for certain have become the subject of an investigation.”
“An investigation, Mr. Hart? I haven’t heard of anything like that.”
“Not a criminal investigation, Mr. Chairman. Not an investigation by the Justice Department. An investigation by reporters, one of which, from what I understand, might be published in the papers any time now.”
The chairman pressed his hands against his head. There was a bleak expression on his face.
“Even in death…,” he muttered, a reference to the character of the late Robert Constable that did not need to be explained. “Yes, yes, all right,” he added quickly, anxious to move on. “Go ahead. Ask the director what you were going to ask.”
“Have you, Mr. Griswald, learned of any improper dealings with foreign interests, whether these were foreign governments or foreign nationals?”
The director had begun to sense that there was more going on than a routine attempt to run down a rumor. Hart knew something, and that meant it was not safe to answer until he had a better idea exactly what it was. He took refuge in a bureaucratic excuse.
“I’m not prepared to answer that at the moment.”
“You’re not prepared to…?” Hart warned him with a look. “Are you sure that’s the answer you want to leave with this committee?”
“I can’t answer the question, Senator,” he replied, turning up the palms of his hands to show that it was out of his control. “What I’m trying to say is that I don’t have any personal knowledge of what you’re asking about, but the agency keeps track of a fairly large volume of financial transactions, so it’s possible that someone-”
“I didn’t say anything about financial transactions, the kind the agency tries to follow. I asked whether you had any intelligence about the possibility that the President of the United States had been bribed, bribed to do certain things that benefited certain foreign interests. I’ll ask you again, Mr. Griswald: Do you know anything about this?”
“As I said, I have no personal knowledge-”
“Does the agency have any intelligence on a French investment firm, The Four Sisters?”
“The Four Sisters? No, I don’t recall that name.”
“Would you mind checking into it and getting back to us?”
“Yes, of course, as soon as I can.”
“Immediately, if you don’t mind,” said Hart with an icy stare.
“Yes, Senator; right away.”
When the session ended, Charlie Finnegan caught up with Hart in the hallway outside.
“What’s going on, Bobby?”
Hart kept walking. He did not look at Finnegan. Their footsteps echoed in the empty marble corridor. Finnegan did not press the issue until they were outside the Capitol and starting down the steps.
“Something happened in that hotel room. You said ‘died of an apparent heart attack.’ Apparent? You think he was murdered, don’t you?”
Hart stopped on the first landing. The summer heat was still intolerable. Dark clouds marched in a long unbroken line across a broken, yellow sky. His mood, prisoner to the weather, became somber and almost fatalistic, a sense that things, however bad, would soon get worse. He turned to Finnegan, the closest friend he had, and with a rueful expression in his deep-set eyes confessed that it was not a question of suspicion.
“This is between us: the president was murdered. The woman who was with him was a hired killer, an assassin. The Secret Service thought she was just another one of the women he took to bed. The agent actually helped her get away. The poor bastard thought he was doing the right thing, what he had to do to protect the president’s reputation.”
Finnegan whistled between his teeth. Shoving his hands deep in his pockets, he kicked at the stone step. The questions Hart asked Griswald, the answers Griswald gave, took on a new and different meaning, a meaning Finnegan was not slow to grasp.
“Constable was murdered, but if Griswald was telling the truth, the CIA doesn’t know anything about it. And from what he said, neither does the FBI?”
“I was led to believe they did,” replied Hart. “Which means that, if Griswald is telling the truth, either the FBI has lied to him, or someone has lied to me.”
“Someone?”
Hart did not hesitate. He trusted Finnegan and he was getting nowhere on his own. He needed help.
“The Secret Service. Clarence Atwood told me two nights ago that he had kept the FBI informed and that the bureau had begun its own investigation.”
“An investigation?-Constable was murdered, and no one is talking about it? What in the world…?”
A group of schoolchildren, taken on a tour of the Capitol, were coming down the steps. Eager to get away from their dull history lesson and out into the open air, they drowned out everything with their cheerful, triumphant voices. Finnegan waited until they passed.
“Someone has put you in a box, haven’t they?” He searched Hart’s eyes, certain he was right. “Constable was murdered. You know it, but you can’t talk about it-can’t even ask about it except in this oblique way, raising every question with Griswald except the one that counts. But who, why would anyone…? She told you, didn’t she? She asked you to find out what you could.”
It was a point of some interest, how quickly those who knew something about her thought that whatever was going on Hillary Constable must be at the center of it. Hart, as he had gradually come to recognize, had been like everyone else in this regard. He had not been at all surprised, the day she had asked him for his help, to learn that the Secret Service had reported to her what had happened and then, for all intents and purposes, left it to her to decide what to do next.
“When did she do it-last week, after the funeral?”
“I said I would see what I could find out: if there were any rumors, any intelligence, about who might have wanted to do it. The concern is what happens when this goes public, when everyone finds out that it wasn’t a heart attack, it was murder.”
“It’s been a week,” objected Finnegan. “How long do you think you can keep something like this secret? And, for God’s sake, how long do you think you should? It’s going to come out, you know.”
Finnegan kicked at the step again, harder this time, more emphatically. He swung his head up, not all the way, just far enough to search Hart’s waiting eyes.
“It’s coming out soon, isn’t it? Quentin Burdick is on it, isn’t he? You asked Griswald about The Four Sisters; what Burdick was asking me. That’s the connection, isn’t it? What are they-The Four Sisters? What have you found out?”