Dark Ambition (17 page)

Two hours later, she woke up ahead of the alarm. Before leaving for LaGuardia and the seven o'clock shuttle, she left Paul a note on the kitchen table. "I had to go for a couple of days for business—Love, Gwen."

Paul wouldn't complain. And he wouldn't ask her any questions. That, too, was part of their agreement. He knew that she would be back.

* * *

Believing that Cunningham was too soft on the Chinese, Chip Donovan persuaded Margaret Joyner, the director of the CIA, to invite Admiral Hawkins, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, to the meeting dealing with Chinese troop movements. Donovan also knew that there was no love lost between Hawkins and Secretary of Defense Cunningham. When Cunningham had been passed over for chairman of the Joint Chiefs by Brewster's predecessor in favor of Hawkins, Cunningham had resigned from his position as a general in the army to become CEO of Blue Point Industries. The four of them were gathered around a table in the back of Cunningham's office.

With a silver-tipped pointer in his right hand, Donovan, dressed in his usual black suit and black turtle-neck, was pointing at a map of China on the wall and explaining what the agency's spotters, including Sherman, had observed on the ground in China, what Peng had reported, and what satellite pictures showed. "The conclusions from all of these are the same," Donovan said. "This is the largest Chinese military buildup toward Taiwan that we've ever seen."

"And you think that Beijing is getting ready to launch an attack?" Hawkins asked.

"That's the conclusion I would draw. I think—"

Cunningham interrupted Donovan in midsentence and turned to Joyner. "You don't share that view. Do you, Margaret?"

She took off her glasses and tossed them on the table. "I can never predict what they're up to. If it's a bluff, toward what end? Unless..." She hesitated, uncertain whether she wanted to complete her thought. In the dispute between Winthrop and Cunningham about the President's decision on the Taiwan arms package, she had supported Winthrop when asked by the President. Now she didn't want to give Cunningham the satisfaction of conceding that the Taiwan arms package might be producing the result he had predicted. A month ago, she had believed that Beijing would move on Taiwan when they were ready to do so, regardless of what Washington did, and at least Taipei should be in a position to defend itself. She was no longer sure.

"Unless what?" Cunningham pressed.

She wiggled out of presenting her thoughts. "Unless Beijing's trying to create a foreign policy diversion to take the focus away from another round of domestic unrest."

"What's Taiwan doing in response?" Cunningham asked.

"Mobilizing their forces. Acting as if there will be war this time."

Cunningham grimaced. He hated to see both sides go down this path. One spark could ignite the whole thing.

"I think we'd better take the issue to the President," Joyner said.

"Not without a detailed recommendation from this group," Cunningham responded, unwilling to take a chance that Brewster, who sometimes shot from the hip, would call Beijing's bluff and start a war in Asia. "He's absorbed by economic matters, putting together the tax-cut package and the upcoming European economic summit. Also, he's only operating at half speed these days. He hasn't recovered fully from Robert's death. You should know that. If we leave him on his own, there's no telling which way he'll jump."

"Fine," Joyner said. "Then my suggestion is that we recommend to the President that he call Ambassador Liu. Tell him what we have seen and demand that Beijing pull back their forces."

Donovan looked at Hawkins, egging him on with his eyes. The admiral took the cue. "At the same time, we should begin moving our own forces in the Pacific toward Taiwan, letting Beijing know that we take our commitments to Taiwan seriously. We have three aircraft carriers in the region. I say we put them on a course for the Strait of Taiwan."

Cunningham raised his eyebrows. "You're ready to go to war for Taiwan?" he asked, sounding incredulous. His intention was to make Hawkins feel like a fool, but it didn't work. The admiral wasn't intimidated.

"I wouldn't put it that way."

"Then how would you put it?"

"I want the Chinese to know that we honor our commitments. With your West Point and military background, you of all people should understand that sometimes we have to resort to force in support of principle."

Cunningham held his ground. "I also understand the horrible toll on those involved. And"—he raised his voice for emphasis—"the limits of American military power in Asia. By making the military moves you suggested, we're playing a dangerous game."

Joyner interjected. "It's a dangerous part of the world. Now, do we have a recommendation to take to the President, based on what Admiral Hawkins and I proposed?"

Cunningham was afraid to disagree. He didn't like the Joyner-Hawkins position, which the President would accept if it came from this group. But he was worried that opening up the issue before Brewster would produce an even more militant decision.

With a sly smile on his face, Donovan watched Cunningham squirm. You can suck up to Liu all you want, he thought. When Beijing sees those aircraft carriers moving toward the Strait of Taiwan, they'll get the picture. And at the same time we'll hit them with Operation Matchstick. Boom. Boom.

* * *

Gwen parked the battered dark blue Honda Civic on the street about two blocks from the D.C. jail. Before getting out of the car, she paused to check herself in the rearview mirror. The brown contact lenses masked her blue eyes. The long brown wig, aided by facial makeup, made her a brunette. She had rounded off her face with large tortoiseshell glasses, with plain glass, to complete the bookish, serious look that she wanted.

Her clothes matched that image. Under her old cloth coat she wore a simple gray suit and white blouse. The top two buttons were left undone. A little of her lacy bra showed through, and some cleavage as well. She put on pale lipstick and looked at herself again.

Satisfied with what she saw, she picked up the worn leather briefcase from the car seat, slung it over her shoulder, and headed out of the car. The sky was dark and threatening. Rain was predicted, but that wouldn't come until this afternoon.

A few blocks away she saw the outline of RFK Stadium, its charcoal-colored light towers rising to blend into the dense gray sky. It was cold, and she walked quickly. Approaching a twenty-foot fence, she looked up at the coiled barbed wire on top, running around the perimeter of the old redbrick building. Just above the main gate was a guardhouse, and two men, one gripping a machine gun, watched her carefully.

She stopped at the gate and rang the bell.

"Identify yourself," a man's voice announced through an intercom.

"Estelle Marino, public defender. I'm here to see Clyde Gillis."

There was a long silence while whoever was in the charge studied the list of approved visitors for the day. Gwen maintained a confident look. She had been assured that her name would be on that list.

She could feel a slight moisture under her arms. Jails did that to her. It was the one thing in life she feared. Not just the confinement, but the torture that went with it almost everywhere in the world. And you were helpless, so damned helpless. She had Saddam Hussein to thank for her fear of jails. The bastard. If she had her way, he'd have been rotting in the ground long ago.

A buzzer sounded, and the gate opened by remote control.

"Proceed to the front door of the building, Miss Marino," the voice said.

She walked slowly across the deserted path that led to the front door, knowing that countless eyes were watching her from the barred windows that made up the top three floors of the building. Her walk wasn't provocative or sensual. It was professional, that of a harried, overworked, and underpaid public defender.

Inside the front door, a heavyset white man of about fifty with red hair, cut short, and a grizzled, pockmarked face sat behind a thick piece of plate glass. The badge on his khaki prison guard's uniform said Harvey "Red" Dougherty.

"Your ID," he barked into a microphone. She passed him the photo ID that showed her as an attorney with the District of Columbia Public Defender's Office.

He studied it for a moment, then looked at a computer printout resting on the desk in front of him. He nodded and slid it back to her. "Pass through the metal detector," he said, pointing.

She met with Clyde Gillis in a small interview room near cell block four. They made her wait alone for fifteen minutes before they brought him into the room in handcuffs. A different guard—not Dougherty—was with him. Gillis looked weak and tired. His eyes were bloodshot and unfocused as he sat down across the table from her. In the center of the table, her briefcase sat open with the row of six identical-looking pens arranged on top of a yellow legal pad.

Gwen waited until the guard left the room and slammed the door.

"I'm with the Public Defender's Office," Gwen said. "I'm helping your lawyer, Jennifer Moore. Estelle Marino's my name."

"I already told my story to Miss Moore."

"She wanted me to hear it again. To see if there are any inconsistencies."

Gillis studied Gwen for a moment. It didn't sound right to him, but he didn't know how lawyers operated. So he summarized his discussion Sunday evening with Ben. While he talked, she listened intently. There was no need to take notes. Her mind had been trained for total recall if she simply listened carefully enough. She felt no emotion for Clyde's plight. He was a small fish who happened to be in the wrong place when a predator had dropped a net. Life was like that. It happened to people like Clyde Gillis all the time. Still, when he was finished talking, she feigned the sympathy she didn't feel. She glanced down at her hands, pretending to be weighing his words.

Then she looked up abruptly. "You're not going to like what I have to tell you."

He stared at her through those bloodshot eyes.

"Jennifer's right," Gwen said.

"Right about what?"

"Before I came over today, she said that you should do what Ben Hartwell told you to do. Plead guilty." She sounded like a doctor recommending surgery to cure a condition. "With the evidence they have, we'll never be able to beat the death penalty if we go to trial. If you plead, we can get you off with five years max. You'll be out in twelve months with good behavior." She reached into the briefcase and pulled out the yellow pad and one of her pens, making sure she had an unarmed one. Then she handed it to him along with the pad. "I think you should write out a confession, then ask the guards to deliver it to Hartwell. Don't tell him I told you to do it. Pretend that you thought some more about what he said, and that now you agree he's right. Jennifer and I know him. You're lucky you drew Ben Hartwell. Once he has your confession, he'll settle for a light sentence."

He picked up the pen but didn't go any further. "I didn't kill Mr. Winthrop," he said stubbornly.

"You can't beat the system."

He thought about his daddy being beaten nearly to death in that Mississippi prison. Yet with all of that, he'd refused to confess to a crime he hadn't committed. Clyde wouldn't either.

He shook his head.

She studied him carefully and decided that this tactic wouldn't work. She shifted her approach.

"There are powerful people," she said pleasantly, "who would like you to confess. They're prepared to pay you two million dollars if you do that. It'll be deposited in a bank in Switzerland. The interest on the money, ten thousand a month, will be deposited in your bank account here in Washington. With this money, you'll have enough to pay for your little boy's dialysis even if you lose your insurance, which will happen before long."

Clyde pulled back with a start. "Please say that again."

She repeated her words.

When she was finished, he said, "You're not my lawyer. Who are you?"

She wondered why it had taken him so long to catch on. "That's not important. If you don't trust me, I'll be able to give you proof that the first ten thousand dollars has been deposited into your Washington bank before you write out your confession."

He didn't respond, eyeing her distrustfully.

"Two million dollars," she said, "for one year in prison. That works out to more than five thousand dollars a day. Not a bad deal, I'd say, considering that if you don't take it, you're certain to end up in the electric chair."

"But I didn't kill Mr. Winthrop. God knows that. He won't let me be convicted." He nodded.

"Since you believe in God, let me quote you a passage from the Bible: 'And, behold, there came a great wind from across the wilderness, and smote the four corners of the house, and it fell upon the young people and they are dead.' That's from the book of Job, chapter one, verse nineteen. Those were the messenger's words when he told Job that all of his children had been killed. It's very relevant to you—because if you don't confess and take the two million dollars, I'm going to kill your children one by one."

She reached over to the briefcase and pulled out another ballpoint pen. She pressed down with her thumb and a stiletto blade sprang out through the bottom. Gwen picked up the yellow pad, held the blade against it, and sliced clean through the paper.

Clyde shrank back, trembling with fear.

"I'm going to kill them one by one," she repeated calmly. "And then your wife. And each time a typed note's going to arrive in your prison mail quoting that passage from the book of Job."

Terrified, he sat motionless and watched her.

She stood up, still with the stiletto in her hand, and shrugged her shoulders. "It's all the same to me. You decide."

When he didn't respond, she closed up the stiletto, put the pens and paper in her briefcase, and slammed it shut.

"Think about everything I've said," she told him. "You'll never see me again, but if I hear that you've confessed in the next two days, the money will be deposited in that Swiss bank. If not, I'll have to take the other approach to get what I want. God help you and your family, Clyde Gillis."