Gospel (30 page)

‘Forgive me,' Mrs Caspian went on. ‘But I really must go if I am to make my flight. My daughter is installing a telephone extension for my personal use at her home in Brussels, so I can ring you with it in a matter of days if you like.'

‘That would be great,' said King, who proceeded to give her his direct line so as to prevent the call going to Ramirez. ‘Thank you so much, Mrs Caspian. And I am so sorry for your loss.'

‘Thank you, Special Agent King. As am I.'

And with that she was gone.

King took no time in making his next call to the FBI Laboratory's toxicology expert in Quantico, a savvy young agent by the name of Samantha Brooks.

‘Hey Sam.'

‘Simba, how goes it? You still salivating over that trip to Miami?'

‘You bet. Counting the weeks.'

‘Send me a postcard and make me jealous.'

‘I promise.' But King was keen to get to the point. ‘Sam, just a quick one.'

‘Sure.'

‘OxyContin.'

‘What about it?'

‘From what I'm told, it comes in bottles that are green.'

‘Green. That's right.'

‘And the tablets themselves are also green – and round.'

‘Right.' King's theory that Ramirez was distorting evidence was crashing down around him and surprisingly (or not), he was disappointed.

‘Except for the 160mg variety,' said Brooks, interrupting his thoughts. ‘The dosage is high so the packaging and shape were altered to signify the potency of the concentration. The 160mg comes in blue bottles with the tablets inside also blue – and shaped like a capsule – you know, oblong.'

‘Blue?'

‘Blue. And oblong, not round.'

‘Samantha, anyone ever tell you you're amazing,' said King, realising he was actually pleased to have his suspicions about Ramirez confirmed. That arrogant prick was up to something and now King was determined to find out what it was.

‘If I am so amazing, why aren't you taking me to Miami?'

‘I'll check with my wife,' joked King. ‘If she says it's okay, you're on.'

‘R
ichard,' said Maxine Bryant, meeting him at her office door and leading him, not to the usual spot across from her expansive antique desk, but more casually towards the two emerald green upholstered armchairs, divided by a less threatening black oak coffee table. ‘Please, sit. Can I get you something to drink?'

‘No thank you, Mrs Bryant,' said Ryan, his gentlemanly Southern lilt not quite disguising the guardedness in his voice. ‘I apologise for not stopping by earlier but we have been . . .'

‘Busy, I know,' said Maxine Bryant, pouring herself a brandy from the Danish crystal decanter before taking a seat across from the country's most powerful intelligence operative. ‘Even us Chiefs of Staff have to wait when it comes to the priorities of Central Intelligence. Am I wrong?' she continued, with just a hint of a smile.

Ryan said nothing.

‘Look, Richard,' she said, deciding to abandon her attempted approach at conciliation and play it straight. ‘We are both experienced professionals and, forgive me for being blunt, but we are way beyond the need for time-consuming platitudes.'

Still nothing.

‘I have called – or rather invited – you here today to inform you of
an impending decision regarding the selection of a new Vice President. Of course this person will have to be ratified by the Senate but, discreet enquiries suggest we have the numbers and the nominee will be endorsed unanimously.'

‘I see,' said Ryan.

‘I know you and Tom were close. I realise you supported him through difficult times in his youth, and I also have the deepest respect for my son-in-law's continued support for your position as Director.'

It was no secret Ryan had not been the first choice for the top job at Langley, but Tom Bradshaw had eventually convinced the President that Dick Ryan was the right man for the job, despite Maxine's poorly veiled disapproval.

‘And therefore,' she went on. ‘I wanted to brief you on this decision prior to it, shall we say, becoming part of the rumour mill.'

Ryan did not speak straightaway, taking his time. She knew he was choosing his words carefully just as she knew he was fully aware of the significance of her increasing power base and equally conscious of her ability to strangle his resources and prevent him from ‘doing', or more to the point, ‘
keeping
' his job. However, he was also Dick Ryan – a man with a reputation for taking the direct route, a straight arrow who had no stomach for platitudes.

‘Mrs Bryant,' he began, ‘Vice President Bradshaw was a good man, and a friend. He gave me the opportunity to serve my country in a way I never dreamed possible. An opportunity I don't take for granted.'

‘Of course not, Richard.'

‘All he asked from me in return was hard work and a commitment to identify and protect this country from its enemies – both the obvious and the more dangerous kind, those who masquerade as friends and compatriots.'

Bryant let that one slide – at least for the time being.

‘That being the case, I need you to know that I . . .'

‘. . . that you are a great supporter of the administration that appointed you.' She forced a slight smile as she cut him off. ‘That is what you were going to say, wasn't it, Richard? And I know you will continue to support your government in return. In any case, while President Latham has not yet made the official offer, I have no doubt it will only be a matter of days
before the new Vice Presidential nominee will be announced and I am humbled to inform you that
I
will be that nominee, Richard. I shall be the new Vice President before the month is out.'

If Ryan was surprised, he did not show it. He remained completely still, observing her as he would a suspect, giving nothing away.

‘Congratulations,' he said at last.

‘Thank you, Richard. And I want you to know I will do my utmost to take over where Tom left off. Needless to say, I share his passion for eliminating the evils of the narcotics industry. As you know, I have two grandchildren and I would like to see them grow up in a drug free America.

‘Of course I would hope that you would continue to use the Vice President as a conduit to President Latham. My door is always open to you, Richard. In fact, I would prefer it if you included me in all of your intelligence briefings, at least for the first six months – both formally and on a more personal basis. This was the arrangement you had with my son-in-law, was it not?'

It was and she knew it. She also knew that Ryan trusted Tom Bradshaw with his life, and their sharing of information was based on a mutual respect he would never feel for her. Not that she cared.

‘Mind you, no disrespect intended,' Bryant went on. ‘But I must say the late Vice President was sometimes remiss in his failure to share what was no doubt important information discussed in your private briefings. I am sure the President would appreciate a more open flow of information. So if there is anything you want to share with me now, perhaps something you were discussing with Tom at the time of his death, then I . . .'

And then she saw it in his eyes. He had had enough.

‘Mrs Bryant,' began Ryan, now rising from his seat and forcing the White House Chief of Staff – who he knew refused to sit ‘beneath' anyone who entered her office, including President Latham – to rise with him. ‘I'll include you in my briefings, I'll copy you in on confidential reports, I'll even drown you with paperwork if that's what you want, but . . .' Ryan took a breath, unsure if what he was about to say was career suicide, but decided, in the end, that Tom Bradshaw's memory was too important to him and, long story short, he didn't give a shit. ‘. . . but you and I are different. I see what I see and call it, you see what you see and control it, or at
least try to. Something about you rubs me up the wrong way, and maybe it's the spook in me but when I feel that rub I stay on my toes. I'll respect your position of Vice President, if that's what the President decides, but don't ever think you and I will “share” any semblance of what I had with your late son-in-law, God rest his soul.'

Ryan waited for her to interrupt – but she didn't, just stared at him eye to eye, toe to toe, and so Ryan took up her challenge and moved a step closer, before finishing what he had to say.

‘Now I could stand here and try to come up with 101 ways to tap dance around the way I feel about you – or the way I
don't
feel about you, which is more to the point. But to me that would be a complete waste of time. So here it is, plain and simple so there is no confusion. I don't trust you, Mrs Bryant, never have, and as long as I hold the position your son-in-law trusted me to assume, I will be watching you like a hawk, you and your friend Ramirez, with both eyes, night and day.'

Bryant didn't blink, but rather shifted her feet to move a slight step forwards. He expected her to hold her ground but, he had to admit, was somewhat surprised by her outright defiance.

‘I don't like you either, Dick. In fact I think you are dangerous – a loose cannon that lacks the intelligence and the class your job requires. I humoured my son-in-law by not opposing your appointment, but in case you hadn't noticed, things have changed and to put it bluntly, your only supporter is now a fast drying portrait on the East Room Wall.'

She paused there, and he knew she saw him flinch, daring him to move even closer and give her cause to kick him out for good.

‘So here's the thing,' she said as she shifted back slightly, as if signalling the confrontation was over and the meeting nearing its end. ‘I am nothing if not realistic and for the time being at least, we are stuck with each other. So I would appreciate it if you would, in the very least, show me the respect my new office will afford.'

Ryan said nothing and she obviously took his silence as agreement – nodding her head and walking towards the door.

‘You know, Richard,' she said, as she reached the thick maple entrance way and turning to say one last thing before she saw him from her office. ‘Don't think that humble, small town, holier-than-thou attitude you carry around here like a sack of corn will ever wash with me. Your Castle
Rock . . . Little Rock . . . wherever it is you're from attitude, is just another form of snobbery and, to be honest with you, it really pisses me off.

‘Don't forget, I was once just a girl from Connersville, Indiana – still am, in fact, and I learned how to claw my way to the top leaving many a man like you cowering in my wake. The thing is, Dick, I
do
control people and I am, in fact, very good at it. I am just another woman who has a man by the balls, and considering yours balls are currently the pair in question, I suggest you climb down off your high horse and treat me with the God-damned respect that I deserve.'

‘D
avid,' said Sara, now obviously so excited by his latest discovery that she rose from the chair across from his desk and started pacing around his office. ‘I really think you have something here. I mean, when you think about it, it all makes sense.'

David was smiling too. At last he had made a breakthrough in the Gabbit case. For the past two days he had been selfishly distracted by the Bradshaw investigation, and Sara's recent display of affection, coupled with what he knew was his obligation to Gabbit as his client, had convinced him he would have to pull back from the Bradshaw thing and act more as a peripheral advisor. Joe would understand.

So he had spent the past twenty-four hours re-reading the Gabbit file and poring over reams of very dry wheelchair construction data. And then early this afternoon he had made a call to the manufacturer, and that's when it had finally started to come together.

‘It didn't make any sense until I rang Goldwell Manufacturing,' he said. ‘It was luck more than anything else. The service agent happened to mention mine was the third enquiry regarding the particular mechanical make-up of Mulch's chair. The second came from Katz a few weeks ago but the first was from Veronica Mulch, the victim's wife, made just before Christmas, only weeks before her husband's death. According to the agent,
Mrs Mulch asked for all the information on the chair's mechanics – and more importantly on its safety features.'

‘In other words, she wanted to know how to remove them,' said Sara.

‘I think so,' said David. ‘I knew you were down at County with Hector so I figured the best way to find out more about Mulch's widow was to hit the Bridge Club, order a beer and start asking questions. Katz may be painting Veronica Mulch as the poor, distressed widow but the woman I saw strutting her stuff at the Ladies Auxiliary Bridge Club luncheon this afternoon was no shrinking violet. The woman has dyed her hair red, bought a new wardrobe and according to George the barman, been hitting on every available and not so available man with a pack of cards in his hands.

‘George also says, word has it, that Alfred Mulch was a wealthy man with a six-figure life insurance policy, and that Mrs Mulch had been telling everyone how she had ordered a new Volvo, booked a Club Med Vacation for over-fifties to Barbados, and found a brilliant plastic surgeon who promised to make her look ten years younger.'

‘Lucky for us discretion is not one of her strong points,' smiled Sara.

‘Lucky for Hector, more like it,' said David returning the smile.

‘So what now?'

‘If all this checks out, we take it to Judge Stein who, in the very least, should order Katz to issue a search warrant on the Mulch home. Something tells me Veronica Mulch is the classic woman scorned – and, hopefully for us, one of the sloppiest murderers in Boston.'

‘I should have thought of this sooner,' said Sara, obviously angry with herself for not considering the victim's wife. ‘But when we saw her in court she looked like the classic elderly grieving widow – black dress, grey hair, comfortable shoes.'