Dark Ambition (9 page)

Cunningham sat impassively and let Brewster rattle on. He shared none of his leader's sentiments. As far as he was concerned, it was a miracle that Winthrop didn't die in the sack with some bimbo, setting off a major scandal that would have doomed Brewster's chances for reelection. It was a classic case of how badly things can turn out if a president appointed unqualified cronies to top-level jobs in the government. Family money and connections had been enough to get a partnership for Winthrop in a New York law firm. That was right where Brewster should have left him after being elected president—unless, of course, he wanted to name his friend to an ambassadorship in a nonsensitive country.

"What a shame," Brewster continued. "He was a good man. He had so much to offer the country and the world. I'm going to miss his counsel."

Jim Slater appeared in the doorway to the room. "I couldn't agree with you more," Slater said, "but we'll find out who did this horrible deed and bring him to justice. I promise you that, Philip."

"Have you spoken to Murtaugh?" Brewster asked.

"Several times. I'm on it myself, working with him and his best people at the FBI. We're going to catch the bastard fast and go for the death penalty."

"Robert deserves that much."

Slater nodded. "It's a real blow for all of us. How's Ann taking it?"

"Like a trooper. The funeral's in New York tomorrow. Their kids are on their way there now. Ann's flying up early this evening. Fortunately, the press left her house when I did. She should be able to get some rest."

Ignoring Cunningham, Slater continued talking as if he and Brewster were the only ones in the room. "Well, the reporters sure aren't leaving you alone. There are a shitload of them downstairs, and they want you to make a statement about the search for Robert's killer."

"What'd you tell them?"

"I didn't. I've got a tentative hold on network time tonight at eight o'clock, after the football games. My thought is that you would just make a short statement here in this room in front of the fireplace. No question-and-answers. I figure you can use Robert's death to blast the Republicans for holding up your crime bill in the Senate. You can gain some points politically by showing how we're on top of this investigation."

"You think that's smart?" Cunningham said. "Using Robert's death for political purposes?"

Slater glared at him. "That's not the point. People are worried about crime. If this could happen to the secretary of state, then they're not safe in their own homes. They've got to be reassured."

"What do I tell them?" the President asked.

Slater reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. "I've got two people working on a draft right now. Let me read you a paragraph I wrote for them to include."

Brewster nodded, and Slater began reading. " 'I want to assure each and every American that no effort will be spared to find the perpetrators of this heinous crime and to bring them to justice. It is but one more example of why the Congress should promptly enact the administration's crime bill, S.83. Violent crime is a plague gripping America. A cancer in the heart of our great country. We must strike back, declaring war on crime in a way that will finally eradicate it from our midst. What yesterday's tragic events demonstrate is that unfortunately no American citizen is safe in his own home—regardless of where he lives and even if he's the secretary of state. We must stop talking and act to ensure the most basic of all protections to all of the American people.' "

"That's not bad. When will you have the draft?"

"In about an hour. We'll describe how extensive the FBI search is. We'll tell them that we already have a number of leads, and we may even have an arrest within twenty-four hours."

Cunningham pulled back in surprise. "Is that true?"

"Absolutely. I've got a kid on my staff, Ed Fulton, working with one of the top guys in the FBI, who's reporting directly to Murtaugh. Fulton just called and told me it was a simple robbery gone wrong. An inside job. Not terrorists and not hardened criminals."

"Who was it?" Cunningham asked, pressing for more information.

"The gardener at the Winthrops' house. They're moving fast to build an airtight case and make an arrest."

"That would be good news," Brewster said.

"Very good."

Cunningham eyed Slater with hostility. "What's Ches say about the idea of the television statement?"

Slater was annoyed. Dealing with Winthrop's murder wasn't the purview of the secretary of defense. Cunningham was using his friendship with the President to gain a foothold on Slater's turf. "I haven't called yet. I figured we'd call him now."

The President glanced at his watch, then picked up the phone and told his secretary, "Get me Attorney General Hawthorne. Try the Okura Hotel in Tokyo."

A few minutes later, Ches Hawthorne was on the speakerphone. "Jim wants me to go on TV tonight to talk about Robert's death," Brewster said. "What do you think, Ches?"

It was the middle of the night in Tokyo. The call had awakened Hawthorne, who had had too much sake at dinner, out of a sound sleep. "What would you say?"

Slater repeated his summary of the proposed television address. There was a long silence while Hawthorne tried to think it through. "It's probably a good idea," he finally said, "How soon can I see a copy of the statement?"

"I'll fax it to you within the hour."

"I think I should come home tomorrow," Hawthorne said, "and personally take charge of the Winthrop investigation."

Slater decided he'd better jump in fast. He didn't want Hawthorne getting a lot of publicity and looking like a hero when there was an early arrest. "That's a terrible idea," he replied. "You're attending an international conference devoted to crime control and law enforcement. We'll look like idiots if you have to rush home because of a murder. Besides, Murtaugh has his top people involved. No offense, Ches, but what would you add being here that you can't contribute by phone and e-mail?"

"There may be legal decisions to be made."

Cunningham was amused by the infighting between Slater and Hawthorne. Pleased that the gardener's arrest was imminent, Cunningham didn't care who took credit for it.

"I got Al Hennessey to give us the best man in his office," Slater said.

"What do you think, Philip?" Hawthorne asked the President.

"It's your call, Ches, but I think Jim makes some good points."

"All right, I'm convinced. I'll have Sarah Van Buren, the head of the criminal division at Justice, keep me informed."

When they hung up the phone, Cunningham thought about telling the President about his meeting with the Chinese ambassador that morning, but decided against it. In Brewster's emotional state, his knee-jerk reaction would be to blow up at the Chinese and take some action against them. Maybe even increase Winthrop's proposed arms package for Taiwan. It would be a poor decision, because Cunningham was convinced that, if pushed, Beijing would attack Taiwan. No, he had to gamble that Winthrop hadn't told Brewster about the meeting at Winthrop's house on November first and the London video.

* * *

Free! Free at last! Ann thought as she leaned back in the warm bubble bath. Finally, the frenzied activity of the last twenty-four hours was over, and the house was empty. They all meant well, so genuine in their concern for the grieving widow. God, if they only knew how she felt.

And what about Matt and Gerry? How did they feel about their father's death? Neither of the children had been close with Robert. When they were young, she had tried to be both mother and father—making up for Robert's indifference that frequently descended into unreasonable commands and destructive criticism. The petty tyrant making arbitrary demands on his subjects. Of course, it was inevitable that neither of them would measure up to his standards, and so Matt had a job as the editor of a small literary magazine in San Francisco, about as far as he could go physically and spiritually to escape from his father without leaving the continental United States. And Gerry had set aside her Ph.D. in history to teach fourth grade in an inner-city school. Both drifted away, coming home as little as possible because of Robert, while blaming her for not giving them more support in battles with their father. It left her with a gaping hole that she had tried to fill with Jenny, her surrogate daughter, whose own mother had hit the road and left Jenny with her father when she was only four.

So why did you marry him? she thought to herself.

And the answer came out the same as it always did: Respectability, Dr. Freud... I was craving respectability once again.

But it was a futile hope. Like virginity, once lost, it couldn't be recaptured.

Ah, the world before Robert. Those were marvelous times. The late sixties, the early seventies. "Armies of the night," Norman Mailer had called them. We acted. We seized control. We shaped our country's path. The people ruled. Justice was on our side. After so many years, the embers from that conflagration still glowed deep inside of Ann. They were remnants from the greatest time of all for her.

God, she was happy.

Free! Free at last!

Suddenly, she was startled by a sound from downstairs. It was a short, muffled cough, coming from someone in the living room. She bolted upright in the tub and climbed out. Grabbing her white terry-cloth robe, she instinctively drew the belt tight around her waist. For an instant she thought of calling the police, but decided they would never arrive in time to help her. She looked around the bedroom for a weapon.

Nothing!

But in the closet of Matt's old bedroom there was a baseball bat he had used in Little League and refused to toss out.

Taking care not to make a sound, she retrieved the bat. Gripping it tightly in her right hand, she quietly descended the carpeted staircase. Halfway down, she stopped and peeked over the banister. The living room was empty, but a man had been there. The scent of a man's cheap cologne drifted up to her nose.

There was noise coming from the den, adjacent to the living room. The television was playing softly. Why on earth would a burglar be watching TV? She remained frozen to the spot and listened. He was inserting videotapes into the VCR, playing a little of each tape, then tossing it on the floor.

Continuing down the stairs, she trod softly, her damp, bare feet silent on the thick blue carpet. Then she raced across the living room and stopped behind the louvered door that connected the two rooms. A tape of a football game was playing. The man's back was facing her as he looked at the television screen. He was short and muscular—built like a tank, dressed in a gray sports jacket. His skin was dark and swarthy. A Spaniard or an Arab, she guessed. There was a bulge at his waist that might be a gun in a hip holster. She was about to sneak up on him when she realized that he would see her reflection in the television screen. So she waited. Finally, he ejected the football tape and squatted down, looking through their collection of a few dozen tapes in the cabinet below the television. That was when she made her move, stalking across the Oriental carpet, raising the baseball bat high.

She swung the bat forward with all the strength she could muster, aiming for his head to knock him out. At the last second he heard her and stood up. The bat struck him square in the rib cage. She heard his bones crack.

He screamed in pain and then fell to the ground, landing on his front with his face on the parquet floor beyond the edge of the Oriental. She let go of the baseball bat and jumped on his back. Ferociously, she grabbed his hair in both her hands and pulled his head back.

"What are you looking for? Who sent you?" she shouted at him. "You invaded my house. Who sent you?"

He didn't answer.

She smashed his head forward, driving his face against the hard wooden floor. His nose broke. Blood poured from his face, down through his thick, dark beard. She pulled his head back again.

"Who sent you?"

Suddenly, she felt a tremor under her. He had been holding his body still, summoning his reserves of energy. Now he pushed up off the floor with martial-arts force. He flipped her off his back, and she flew halfway across the room. In an instant, he was on his feet, dashing toward the living room and the front door. She gathered herself and grabbed the baseball bat. By the time she ran out of the house, though, he was driving away in a maroon Toyota Camry.

She spent several minutes cleaning the blood from the floor, the living room carpet, and the front of the house. All the while she thought about why he had come. He had been looking for a videotape. Finally she realized it must be the one that the Chinese ambassador had given to Robert. But who had sent this man? The ambassador? 0r someone else? It didn't matter for now. The critical fact was that he had left empty-handed. That meant he would be back.

Trembling from what had just happened, she sat in the living room, trying to decide what to do. After she calmed down, she picked up the phone and called the White House. Being the widow of the President's best friend had some advantages. She got through to President Brewster in record time. "Sorry to bother you, Philip, but you asked me to call if I needed anything."

"And I meant it. What can I do for you?"

"I may be imagining it, but I think some people are wandering around outside. Nothing to worry about. Just tourists, acting as if this house were the newest monument in town."

"People can be so cruel."

"Unfortunately, you're right. I was wondering if you could station a couple of Secret Service people here for about a week or so."

"Absolutely. I should have thought of it myself. They'll be there within thirty minutes. Also, the plane's waiting for you at Andrews. Whenever you're ready, let me know and I'll send a car and driver."

"I really appreciate it."

"Call me if you need anything else."

Ann's second call was to Jennifer. "I need a favor, Jenny. A big one. I hate to ask you, but—"

"I'd do anything for you. You know that."

"The funeral's in New York tomorrow morning. Matt and Gerry are already there. I needed time to pull myself together. Besides, they're in their own worlds, as you might expect, and of little help to me. Any chance you can go up with me this afternoon and stay over?"