“Most would like to shoot me.”
Carl gave a wary look over at the pistol.
“I can’t worry about that,” Backman continued. “Sure, I’d like to go back and change some things, but I don’t have that luxury. I’m running for my life now, Carl, and I need some help.”
“Maybe I don’t want to get involved.”
“I can’t blame you. But I need a favor, a big one. Help me now, and I promise I’ll never show up on your doorstep again.”
“I’ll shoot the next time.”
“Where’s Senator Clayburn? Tell me he’s still alive.”
“Yes, very much so. And you caught some luck.”
“What?”
“He’s here, in D.C.”
“Why?”
“Hollis Maples is retiring, after a hundred years in the Senate. They had a bash for him tonight. All the old boys are in town.”
“Maples? He was drooling in his soup ten years ago.”
“Well, now he can’t see his soup. He and Clayburn were as tight as ticks.”
“Have you talked to Clayburn?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“It might be a tough one, Joel. He didn’t like the sound of your name. Something about being shot for treason.”
“Whatever. Tell him he can broker a deal that will make him feel like a real patriot.”
“What’s the deal?”
“I have the software, Carl. The whole package. Picked it up this morning from a vault in a bank in Zurich where it’s been sitting for more than six years. You and Clayburn come to my room in the morning, and I’ll show it to you.”
“I really don’t want to see it.”
“Yes you do.”
Pratt sucked down two ounces of scotch. He walked back to the bar and refilled his glass, took another toxic dose, then said, “When and where?”
“The Marriott on Twenty-second Street. Room five-twenty Nine in the morning.”
“Why Joel? Why should I get involved?”
“A favor to an old friend.”
“I don’t owe you any favors. And the old friend left a long time ago.”
“Please, Carl. Bring in Clayburn, and you’ll be out of the picture by noon tomorrow. I promise you’ll never see me again.”
“That is very tempting.”
He asked the driver to take his time. They cruised through Georgetown, along K Street, with its late-night restaurants and bars and college hangouts all packed with people living the good life. It was March 22 and spring was coming. The temperature was around sixty-five and the students were anxious to be outside, even at midnight.
The cab slowed at the intersection of I Street and 14th and Joel could see his old office building in the distance on New York Avenue. Somewhere in there, on the top floor, he’d once ruled his own little kingdom, with his minions running behind him, jumping at every command. It was not a nostalgic moment. Instead he was filled with regret for a worthless life spent chasing money and buying friends and women and all the toys a serious big shot could want. They drove on, past the countless office buildings, government on one side, lobbyists on the other.
He asked the driver to change streets, to move on to more pleasant sights. They turned onto Constitution and drove along the Mall, past the Washington Monument. His youngest child, Anna Lee, had begged him for years to take her for a springtime walk along the Mall, like the other kids in her class. She wanted to see Mr. Lincoln and spend a day at the Smithsonian. He’d promised and promised until she was gone. Anna Lee was in Denver now, he thought, with a child he’d never seen.
As the dome of the Capitol drew nearer, Joel suddenly had enough. This little trip down memory lane was depressing. The memories in his life were too unpleasant.
“Take me to the hotel,” he said.
33
Neal made the first pot of coffee, then stepped outside onto the cool bricks of the patio and admired the beauty of an early-spring daybreak.
If his father had indeed arrived back in D.C., he would not be asleep at six-thirty in the morning. The night before, Neal had coded his new phone with the numbers of the Washington hotels, and as the sun came up he started with the Sheraton. No Giovanni Ferro. Then the Marriott.
“One moment, please,” the operator said, then the phone to the room began ringing. “Hello,” came a familiar voice.
“Marco, please,” Neal said.
“Marco here. Is this the Grinch?”
“It is.”
“Where are you right now?”
“Standing on my patio, waiting for the sun.”
“And what type of phone are you using?”
“It’s a brand-new Motorola that I’ve kept in my pocket since I bought it yesterday.”
“You’re sure it’s secure.”
“Yes.”
A pause as Joel breathed deeply. “It’s good to hear your voice, son.”
“And yours as well. How was your trip?”
“Very eventful. Can you come to Washington?”
“When?”
“Today, this morning.”
“Sure, everybody thinks I have the flu. I’m covered at the office. When and where?”
“Come to the Marriott on Twenty-second Street. Walk in the lobby at eight forty-five, take the elevator to the sixth floor, then the stairs down to the fifth. Room five-twenty.”
“Is all this necessary?”
“Trust me. Can you use another car?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure who—”
“Lisa’s mother. Borrow her car, make sure no one is following you. When you get to the city, park it at the garage on Sixteenth then walk to the Marriott. Watch your rear at all times. If you see anything suspicious, then call me and we’ll abort.”
Neal glanced around his backyard, half expecting to see agents dressed in black moving in on him. Where did his father pick up the cloak-and-dagger stuff? Six years in solitary maybe? A thousand spy novels?
“Are you with me?” Joel snapped.
“Yeah, sure. I’m on my way.”
Ira Clayburn looked like a man who’d spent his life on a fishing boat, as opposed to one who’d served thirty-four years in the U.S. Senate. His ancestors had fished the Outer Banks of North Carolina, around their home at Ocracoke, for a hundred years. Ira would’ve done the same, except for a sixth-grade math teacher who discovered his exceptional IQ. A scholarship to Chapel Hill pulled him away from home. Another one to Yale got him a master’s. A third, to Stanford, placed the title of “Doctor” before his name. He was happily teaching economics at Davidson when a compromise appointment sent him to the Senate to fill an unexpired term. He reluctantly ran for a full term, and for the next three decades tried his best to leave Washington. At the age of seventy-one he finally walked away. When he left the Senate, he took with him a mastery of U.S. intelligence that no politician could equal.
He agreed to go to the Marriott with Carl Pratt, an old friend from a tennis club, only out of curiosity. The Neptune mystery had never been solved, as far as he knew. But then he’d been out of the loop for the last five years, during which time he’d been fishing almost every day, happily taking his boat out and trolling the waters from Hatteras to Cape Lookout.
During the twilight of his Senate career, he had watched Joel Backman become the latest in a long line of hotshot lobbyists who perfected the art of twisting arms for huge fees. He was leaving Washington when Jacy Hubbard, another cobra who got what he deserved, was found dead.
He had no use for their ilk.
When the door to room 520 opened, he stepped inside behind Carl Pratt and came face-to-face with the devil himself.