“May, may, might, might. Are you crazy?” Ford’s voice rose to a roar. “They could have killed me anytime in the last ten months. I’ve been living on borrowed time, you asshole.”
Silence greeted that outburst. Eventually Freddy got up from his chair and went over to sit on the bed.
Hooper took the chair and dragged it even closer to Ford, less than two feet away.
Hooper spoke softly: “Why do you want to go back?”
“Because I’m scared. I’ve been getting more and more scared every day.”
“You’re burning out,” Freddy said. “Happens to everyone. That’s normal. You’re not Superman.”
“Freeman McNally ain’t gonna die or get religion when you arrest him, Freddy. Even in jail, he’s gonna continue to be the same old asshole. And sooner or later, his lawyer is going to tell him my real name. I have to learn to live with that or I’m done.”
Hooper sighed. “Look. If killing you would let Freeman walk, he’d do it in the blink of an eye. But when he finally finds out he’s been had, he’s done regardless. And your real name will never come out. That I can promise.”
The undercover man didn’t seem very impressed. “Used to be, I got over the fear after a shift,” he muttered. “Did a crossword puzzle or two, got some sleep, maybe had a drink, I’d get back to normal. Doesn’t happen now. I’m scared all the time. Had to give up whiskey or I’d get stinking drunk and stay that way.”
“There’s no need to go back.”
“I need to. Don’t you see that? I’m fucking scared shitless. If I don’t go back I’ll be scared all my life. Don’t you see? How am I ever going to sit in a patrol car by myself in downtown Evansville at night? How am I gonna stop a speeder and walk up on his car? They send me in to arrest some drunk with a gun, how am I gonna do that? I am fucking scared shitless and I got to get a handle on it or I ain’t gonna be able to keep going, man. It’s that simple.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
President Bush left for Camp David in the mountains northwest of Frederick, Maryland, around nine a.m. for a weekend retreat to hash out foreign policy issues with the secretary of state and the national security adviser. Before he boarded the helicopter, however, he had another session with Dorfman and Attorney General Gideon Cohen.
“What does this Zaba character know?”
“More than enough to convict Chano Aldana,” Cohen told the President. “He had at least half a dozen personal meetings with Aldana that we know of — four in Cuba and two in Colombia. He gave orders to his subordinates to assist in shipping cocaine from Colombia to Cuba. He personally supervised at least four transshipments on to the United States.”
“Is he talking?” Dorfman asked, a little annoyed that Cohen, as usual, was putting the cart before the horse.
“Not yet. Judge Snyder appointed him a lawyer yesterday. Guy named Szymanski from New York.”
“The shyster that got those S&L thieves acquitted last week?”
“Yes. David Szymanski. He’s got a national reputation and Judge Snyder called him and asked if he would serve. He agreed.”
“Szymanski could dry up Niagara,” Dorfman said acidly. “If Szymanski can’t shut him up, this Zaba has a terminal case of motormouth.”
“I talked to the secretary of state about this matter. He felt it was important that we get top-notch counsel for Zaba. We may well want Cuba to send us some more of these people to try, and we need to show the Cubans that anyone extradited will get quality counsel and a fair trial. That’s critical. I personally asked Judge Snyder—”
“Okay, okay,” George Bush said, breaking in. “Will Zaba talk or won’t he?”
“I think he will,” Cohen told him. “The Cubans put it to him this way: If he cooperated with us he could eventually return to Cuba a free man. When he gets back there he can always blame Castro.”
“Who’s conveniently dead,” Dorfman remarked.
“No doubt Cuba will publicize his testimony as an example of the corruption of the old regime.”
“No doubt,” George Bush said. “You going to let him cop a plea?”
“If Szymanski asks, yes. Zaba will have to agree to testify against Chano Aldana. His sentencing hearing will be delayed until after the Aldana trial.”
“Won’t that give Aldana’s lawyer something to squawk about?” Dorfman asked.
“Yes.”
“How about this drug bust on Monday night? Is that on schedule?”
“Yessir.”
“You and I and the director of the FBI will have a press conference Tuesday morning. Schedule that, please, Will.”
“Yessir.”
“And Will, go see that the reporters are moved back far enough so that I don’t have to hear any questions on the way out to the chopper.”
Dorfman departed. When they were alone, George Bush said, “Gid, I know that you and Dorfman strike sparks, but I need you both.”
“The asshole thinks he was born in a manger,” Cohen said hotly.
The President was taken aback. He had never heard Cohen blow off steam before — apparently lawyers at blue-chip New York firms didn’t often indulge themselves. “That’s true,” the President replied with a wry grin, “but he’s my asshole.”
Cohen’s eyebrows rose and fell.
“There’s no way in the world I can please everyone. Dorfman attracts the criticism. He takes the blame. He takes the heat I can’t afford to take. That’s his job.”
The attorney general nodded.
“This drug thing … We have to just keep plugging at it. We’re trying and the voters will understand that. Only pundits and TV preachers expect miracles. And I don’t want anybody railroaded. Our job is to make the damn system work.”
Harrison Ronald got back to his apartment around noon. He locked and bolted the door and fell into bed with the .45 automatic in his hand. He was instantly asleep.
At five o’clock he awoke with a start. Someone upstairs had slammed a door. The pistol was still in his hand. He flexed his fingers around it, felt its heft, and lay awake listening to the sounds of the building.
When this was over he would go home. Home to Evansville and spend Christmas with his grandmother. He hadn’t talked to her in five or six months. She didn’t even know where he was. Tough on her, but better for him. She was getting on and liked to share confidences with her friends and minister.
Oh well. It would soon be over. One more night. When he walked out of this dump in three hours, he was never coming back. The landlord could have it — the worn-out TV, the clothes, the bargain-basement dinnerware and pots and pans, all of it. Harrison Ronald was going straight back to the real world.
He had leveled with Hooper about why he wanted to go back. He was going to have to learn how to live with fear — not just the fear of Freeman McNally — but fear itself. He had learned in the Marines that the only way to conquer this poison called fear was to face it.
Ah me. Ten months in a sewage pond. Ten months in hell. And this time tomorrow he would be out of it.
He lay in bed listening to the sounds and thinking about the life he was going back to.
Thanos Liarakos was in the den when he heard the kids shouting. “Mommy, Mommy, you’re home!”
She was standing there in the front hallway with the kids around her, looking at him. Her hair and clothes were a mess. She just stood there looking at him as the girls squealed and pranced and tugged at her hands.
“Hug them, Elizabeth.”
Now she looked at their upturned faces. She ran her hands through her hair, then bent and kissed them.
“Okay, girls,” he said. “Run upstairs a while and let Mommy and Daddy visit. No, why don’t you go out to the kitchen and help Mrs. Hamner fix dinner. Mommy will stay for dinner.”