Gospel (15 page)

‘So,' Matthew began, and Mark knew what was coming. ‘We have a problem.'

Silence.

‘Tell me, Mark, how is it that you can manipulate the import of tonnes of “A” grade narcotics but you cannot take care of one very simple instruction. Perhaps it is true what they say, after all, and the CBP's Office of Intelligence is a misnomer, for there is no one of any great intelligence in the whole God-damned Bureau.'

There would be no platitudes today. That, in the very least, was obvious.

Matthew was referring to Mark's position as Assistant Director of the Bureau of Customs and Border Protection's (CBP's) Office of Intelligence. His job, amongst other things, was to gather intelligence regarding the smuggling of narcotics across American borders. It was the perfect front for a man whose ‘duty', according to the Gospel, was to do the exact opposite.

‘The boy is dead,' said Mark.

‘Which means the job is incomplete,' responded Matthew.

‘Then I am not the one to blame. You were the one who recommended the . . . ah . . .' Mark had no idea what to call the hired assassin. The word ‘hitman' sounded too melodramatic and the thought of calling him what he truly was – a renegade FBI Agent under Matthew's control – was even more terrifying. In the end he settled for the best euphemism he could think of. ‘He was your operative. I simply gave him the instructions.'

‘He is one of my best. Perhaps your orders were not made clear.'

‘I told him to kill them, for God's sake.' Mark took a deep breath, willing the internal banging to the recesses of his brain. ‘How much clearer could I be?'

Matthew said nothing, just sat there, watching, as Mark pushed his glasses back up the slippery slope that was the bridge of his boyish freckled nose. Mark was being tested, and this was a test he could not afford to fail.

‘Mark,' said Matthew. ‘I gave you the responsibility of instructing my operative as a favour. A gift even. This was your opportunity to prove your loyalty to our cause.

‘Luke betrayed us,' Matthew went on, now rising from his seat and circling the table as Mark knew he liked to do in moments that required an assertion of his power. ‘He broke his silence and paid for his indiscretion. Now his wife is bleeding potentially dangerous information and she must be silenced immediately.'

Mark felt the large man's breath on the back of his neck. He smelt sterile, like antiseptic or ammonia or the disinfected lifelessness you inhaled at the city morgue.

‘If this task is beyond you, Mark, I can deal with the matter myself. But I would like to give you another chance to prove you are . . .'

‘I'll take care of it,' said Mark, sick of Matthew's arrogance and tired of his poorly disguised threats. Mark was a small, bright man who had learned from an early age that intelligence and foresight could win out over brute strength and muscle
if
you had the balls to back up your brain . . . or in the very least, gave the impression of having them.

He turned in his chair, the metal legs screeching in protest against the hard polished concrete floor, got to his feet, and squared up against his olive-skinned adversary. The top of his head may have only met Matthew's chin but if he stretched a little and arched his feet . . .

‘You have no need to doubt me, Matthew. And in all honesty, I find your tone both hostile and insulting. Luke was expendable, I understand that. But I am an essential part of this business. The flow of product, so pure and reliable, only continues because of me. I bring it in and more importantly, protect us from detection.

‘Our clients are not used to disappointment,' Mark went on, hitting his stride. ‘They pay a high price for our service and demand the utmost in quality and discretion. We lose them and we lose our hold on their connections. You and John may be able to protect our political interests, but I am the one who makes it all happen – all within the auspices of the most vigilant customs operation on the face of the whole fucking planet. I bring in the stuff, and with the stuff comes the collateral, the collateral buys us the power and the power is what this whole fucking deal is all about, and without me you're screwed.'

Mark knew the smile on Matthew's face was meant to display his amusement at what he would no doubt class as a ‘pathetic display of muscle flexing', but that slight tick in his left eye betrayed his true concerns.

‘Enough,' said John – the first word from their leader since the meeting began. ‘Sit down, both of you.'

Matthew and Mark looked at each other and returned to their seats. John had spoken and their chairman was not to be ignored.

‘This does not need to be a problem,' John went on. ‘Mark, you must contact Matthew's operative and complete your mission. The woman is a liability. I trust you can deal with it quickly.' John turned to Matthew. ‘Matthew, you need to concentrate on Montgomery. Your latest report suggested all was going to plan.'

‘Our case is bullet proof. His lawyer is an idiot. There will not be a problem.'

‘Good. We must be well on the way to a conviction to consolidate phase two.'

John removed a pair of frameless glasses from cool blue eyes and reached across the table to grab the forearms of the two men with a grip that was both consolatory and intimidating.

‘Time is short. The election is less than six months away. The President will choose his new running mate soon. We are a team on the verge of greatness. The monies we have accumulated continue to grow, as does
our sphere of influence. Our power now reaches into the crevasse of every major political region in this country and provides us an opportunity to lead with a unity never before afforded an administration in the political history of the United States. We are so close, gentlemen, I will not allow petty arguments to divert our efforts.'

Matthew, sensing it was time to join his superior in reiterating their ‘noble' company line, reached across the table to link his free arm with Mark's in a symbolic gesture of camaraderie. Despite their conflict, Mark was obviously rallied by John's words and encouraged by his leader's vision.

‘Every war comes at a price,' John went on. ‘But such sacrifices are insignificant to the opportunity we have to consolidate America's position as both a national icon and a world leader.' John stole a glance at Matthew, and Matthew gave the slightest of nods in acknowledgement. ‘We will undo the damage created by fragmented, indecisive former governments and ultimately provide every American – man, woman and child – with the comfort of knowing they are citizens of the greatest nation on earth. Anything less is unacceptable.'

U
S Chief of Staff Maxine Bryant could not believe it. She had agreed to her press secretary's suggestion that she be met at the front doors of Boston's John Joseph Moakley Courthouse by a courthouse official, but she certainly had
not
agreed to this impromptu guided tour. She was here for the arraignment for her son-in-law's ‘killer' for God's sake. Not to play show pony for the gawking masses.

‘The newly constructed John Joseph Moakley Courthouse is a contemporary building loaded with references to Boston's historical character, or as others have put it, her “soul”,' said the official guide, whatever he was.

‘Situated on Fan Pier in South Boston, the Federal building overlooks the Downtown business district and the ever-changing, light-reflecting canvas that is Boston Harbour. Its water-struck brick frontage pays reverence to the buildings of the past while its cubist glass façade, which rises the full ten floors from the ground to the rotunda ceiling, symbolises a determination to seek clarity and justice in the future.'

Jesus
.

‘The building serves as headquarters for the First Circuit and the US Court for the District of Massachusetts and for the US Court of Appeals. It houses twenty-seven courtrooms, forty judges' chambers, a Circuit law library, the office of a US Congressman, extensive support facilities for the
US Marshals service, and a children's day-care centre with a view to die for!'

Cue smile.

‘It also contains several . . .'

But Maxine had had enough.

‘Mr . . . ?'

‘Bich.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Bich, Ma'am. My name is Edgar Bich.'

‘Well, Mr Bich. I am grateful for the escort but as you can appreciate I am anxious to be with my daughter who I believe is waiting for me in a private room next to courtroom number one.' Melissa Bryant Bradshaw had been on the same flight as her mother but had opted to take the courthouse's more discreet side entrance. ‘So, if you would not mind . . .'

‘Of course, Mrs Bryant. This way.'

And the Bich never uttered another word.

Maxine had not slept, finishing her final meeting at 3am, before catching the early flight to Logan. She would be back in DC by noon, but for now her presence was better served here in this modern, cubist, water, brick . . . whatever it was.

Her minder indicated the Judge had left his chambers and so she quickly pocketed the small bottle of Visine she had emptied in an effort to clear her bloodshot blue eyes, before slowing her step, tilting her chin slightly downwards and entering the back doors of courtroom one, supporting Melissa at the elbow.

She looked slowly about her, taking the room in, the cherry wood benches and rich green carpet, the colourful ornamental stencils and the four massive domed lights which hung centred at each corner of the double-heighted ceiling. She adjusted her simple black suit which said ‘elegance in mourning' and slowed her definite stride, indicating a faith in the judicial system at hand.

Twenty years in politics and another twenty prior to that in the media had taught her a thing or two about image, and she knew it was still the same old story – a picture spoke a thousand words. She knew exactly how they would appear as they made their way down the aisle of the brightly
lit courtroom, just before the courtroom clerk called the court to order. These two women with their perfectly proportioned faces carved from the same utopic gene pool: high foreheads, defined cheekbones, narrow noses, translucent eyes, full lips and slim jaw lines stretching down to long and elegant necks. They would appear strong but vulnerable, saddened but hopeful, shaken but resolute and above all else, Stuart Montgomery's worst nightmare.

And that was the key, wasn't it, the juxtaposition of their grief-stricken bond against the Professor's unashamed arrogance? For no matter how hard the Professor tried to look modest, humble, innocent, his demeanour oozed pomposity and his three-piece suited, English-accented lawyer clinched the deal in favour of conceit.

Maxine turned her head slightly to glance at her daughter – a contrived gesture, no doubt, but she also found herself wondering exactly what was going on in her stoic offspring's mind. She had taught Melissa so well that often she was not sure if her daughter was controlling her real emotions for the benefit of public appearances, or simply displaying her true nature of limitless resilience and strength.

She was truly remarkable, thought Maxine. So like her mother in so many ways. But there were times when she wondered if the years on the campaign trail had forced them into a relationship built on what should be rather than what was. Even now as her daughter turned her head and gave her mother a slight consolatory half smile which said to all in attendance that she was ‘
Okay'
, she could not help but wonder if the smile was genuine or, like her own gestures, just part of the required routine which came part and parcel with their existence in the world of public scrutiny.

They reached their seat. The White House Chief of Staff re-focused her train of thought and allowed herself one quick look behind her to make eye contact with Ramirez who sat between King and the Boston detective named Mannix.

Then her eyes drifted back towards the front of the room, stopping only briefly to look at the attractive, dark-haired woman immediately across from her, behind the defence table on her left. It was Montgomery's wife, the humanitarian heart surgeon, and as far as she was concerned the Professor's only asset.

There were ways around this of course, as there always were. Pluses
could be turned to minuses, positives to negatives and humanitarians to whores.

‘All rise,' said the clerk as District Court Judge Patrick Donovan entered stage left, his grey hair streaked with the ginger of his youth, his quick step belying a man of considerable girth.

The Judge took his seat and surveyed his audience. The gallery now hushed as they waited for the show to begin. He adjusted the wire-rimmed glasses on his wide red nose and glanced down at the prosecution to his right. He knew the heavies in DC would fly in a Department of Justice Trial Attorney and was amused to see it was Charles ‘Grizzly' Adams.

Adams was the latest Washington golden boy, who hadn't lost a case in three years. The Harvard grad was better known as ‘Grizzly' not just because of his last name or his broad, dark appearance but because his approach to law was compared to that of a bear's to his prey. First, he would sit back and observe the defence at work, find out as much information about their strategy as possible, refrain from objecting preferring to allow the defence to ‘dig their own holes' and then he would charge in for the kill, tearing their case to shreds, eliminating any possibility of reasonable doubt and leaving the jury no option but to return a guilty verdict.

Donovan then glanced towards the defence table on his right to see Montgomery seated next to a tall, lean man dressed like a bell hop. If ever there was a contrast to ‘Grizzly', Mr Howard Chilton-Smith was it. Adams ate more than him for breakfast.

Chilton-Smith had a fine reputation of his own in Washington, largely for winning his clients excessive amounts of money in civil suits. But his experience in murder trials was limited and Donovan could not help but think this trial was already stacked in favour of the prosecution. But that was not for him to ponder and he was experienced enough to know that assumptions were both misguided and dangerous. By all accounts, Montgomery was not stupid and if he chose Chilton-Smith as the man to represent him in the trial of the century then perhaps this stick-like figure had a few tricks up his perfectly tailored sleeve. Donovan hoped so, for there was nothing worse than a one-man race in a courtroom deciding the fate of a man's life – literally.