“We don’t have time to argue—”
“We’re going to Georgetown, and I’m coming with you. Do you fucking understand what I’m saying?”
The attendant opened his mouth to argue, but then nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Georgetown.”
TWO
Ever since he was a boy growing up in war-torn Formosa at the end of World War II, Joseph Lee had wanted to make his mark on the world. Dressing in the Lincoln bedroom for cocktails with President Lindsay and the boorish first lady, his dream was nearing fruition. His ambition then, as now, was the same as the Japanese goal in the thirties: an East-Asian co-prosperity sphere. One hemisphere, one power. He was one of its new architects, and he would be one of its major players.
His San Francisco-born wife, Miriam, came from the bathroom as he struggled with his bow tie in the gilded mirror above the dresser.
“You’re all thumbs,” she said, her voice and movements like a little bird’s. At five feet she was only four inches shorter than her husband. In Taiwan, where they maintained one of their half-dozen homes, they were normal-sized. But here, in the land of giants, and especially next to President Lindsay, whom the press described as “Lincolnesque,” they were practically midgets. She was fond of telling her husband this as often as he would listen to her. His response was always the same: A true measure of people is their net worth in assets, influence and friends, not in inches above the soles of their shoes.
“We treat our guests considerably better than this,” he said. The bedroom was shabby.
“But this is the White House,” she replied, finishing with his tie. She looked up into his face. “I’m just so darn proud of you, Joseph. Not even an American citizen and you have brought me here like this.” She let her eyes stray around the room with obvious happiness. “My parents would have been so proud.”
Lee cracked a narrow, thin-lipped smile. “So would mine,” he said. “But for different reasons.”
She gave her husband a shrewd look. “They wanted to have this by force. You’ve gotten it by finesse.”
Outwardly his wife was a diffident Chinese-American of the old school. In actuality she was as astute in business as her husband, and she helped manage their nearly four-billion-dollar ventures with an iron fist. After thirty-five years of childless marriage they were extensions of each other.
It was a few minutes before six when he put on his tuxedo jacket and helped his wife with the corsage the staff had sent up an hour ago. The house was shopworn, but the service under this administration was good.
“What do you suppose they’ll want to talk about?” his wife asked. “Money for the vice president’s campaign?”
“I would think they’ll want to know our reaction to the business in North Korea.”
“It’s not made the news yet.”
“That won’t last much longer.”
Her eyes crinkled at the corners, as they did when she was figuring the odds. Her favorite event was the Hong Kong horse racing season, from which she always came away a big winner. “There could be an advantage to be gained by the correct timing.”
“Or disadvantage,” Joseph Lee said.
“Yes, that too, but profit can be found in the most unlikely of places.” She let her eyes stray around the bedroom again, mentally rearranging, redecorating. “I’ll speak with Mrs. Lindsay. It’s time that I get to know her.” She smiled. “Waterloo, Iowa. What a strange place to be from.”
McGarvey cleaned up and went down to the hospital cafeteria a few minutes after ten, unable to get the vision of what he had done on the bridge out of his mind. The few people seated at the tables did not object when he switched off the television, though the networks were running specials on the terrorist attack. Fifty-eight people had been hurt, and eighteen had been killed. But it would be days, perhaps weeks before all the bodies were identified. Some of them had been so badly torn apart it would take DNA analysis to make sure who they were.
Jacqueline was dead, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. Nor could he turn back the clock on his daughter’s injuries because that would have taken him all the way back to the day he’d joined the CIA.
He got a cup of coffee and went to a corner table. His hand shook a little. He’d been close to death before, but this time the people he’d most wanted to protect had gotten hurt despite his best efforts. He hadn’t been good enough, fast enough, and in the end he had lost all control. Nothing had mattered to him on that bridge except destroying the monsters. He lowered his head and closed his eyes, a deep depression threatening to block out his sanity. Three more dead men and a city street filled with broken glass and blood. God almighty, when would it stop?
He looked up as the chief surgeon Dr. Edwin Magnuson, still dressed in his scrubs, came in, spotted McGarvey and walked over. He was in his forties, tall and heavily built. He looked tired but satisfied.
“Your daughter is going to be fine,” he said. “It’ll be some time before she gets back to one hundred percent, but it’ll happen.”
McGarvey let out his pent-up breath, the veil of depression lifting a little. “Thank you,” he said. “May I see her?”
“I’m keeping her in the ICU at least through tonight, so I want you to wait until we move her.” The doctor gave him a serious smile. “There’s not a whole hell of a lot you can do for her. She’ll be fine. She just needs time to heal.”
The relief was sweet. “Will there be any permanent damage? Any disability?”
“Too early to say, but I think she’ll come out of this with nothing more than some scars, which a competent plastic surgeon can all but eliminate. I’ll give you the name of a colleague of mine. One of the best in the business.”
“How are the others?”
A dark look crossed the doctor’s face. “Let’s just say that your daughter is a lucky young woman to be alive and back in one piece.”
The vise around McGarvey’s heart closed again. He had almost lost her twice in three months, but now that he knew his daughter was going to be okay he came back to Jacqueline. There was nothing left of her to repair. What pieces they found would probably fit in a very small rubberized bag for transport back to Paris.
McGarvey lowered his head, not sure if he wanted to weep or lash out at somebody or something. The killers were dead, but they had been directed by someone.
“Time for you to get some rest,” the doctor said sympathetically. “You look as if you could use it.”
“You’re right,” McGarvey mumbled, but there wasn’t going to be much time for rest now. Or for Milford and his job as a teacher, or for the book on Voltaire Jacqueline had wanted him to finish. No time even to mourn Jacqueline, no time to walk away from a twenty-five-year history that had once again caught up with him.
Once Liz had been stabilized and taken into the operating room McGarvey had telephoned his ex-wife at her Chevy Chase home, but she wasn’t there, nor did the message on her answering machine say where she was or how long she’d be gone. He left a message for her to call the hospital as soon as possible. It was all he could do for the moment, all he was prepared to do. He needed to work this out for himself first.
Meeting with the general at Langley bothered him more than he wanted to admit. And seeing Liz at the Farm hadn’t done much for his already morose mood either. He had gone over the sequence of events a dozen times, looking for something, anything that might give him a clearer understanding. It was possible that the attack has been nothing more than a random act of terrorism. Many of Washington’s brightest and best could have been expected to be there at that moment. He wanted to believe that scenario with all of his heart, because it was the least complicated for him. But he was having trouble with the timing. And with the fact the killers had been Asians.