Gospel (31 page)

‘Don't blame yourself,' he said, knowing he was the one who should have discovered this information earlier. ‘This is my case as much as yours. I've been a little, um, distracted of late and . . .'

‘It's okay, David,' she said moving towards him, sitting on the edge of his desk. ‘It's been a difficult time. Karin showing up, the Montgomery thing, the press . . . you are . . .'

‘I am . . . ,' he said, interrupting her, pulling her off the desk and onto his lap, ‘. . . the luckiest guy in the world.'

And then he kissed her, slowly at first and then deeper, faster. He pulled her jacket from her shoulders and ran his fingers up her back, she fiddled with his tie trying to release it and unbutton his shirt. For days they had skirted around each other like two disjointed lovers trying to gauge where the other one stood. He had neglected her and had no intention of doing it again.

‘Wait,' she said, her breaths short and fast. ‘What about Nora? She . . .'

‘. . . has gone home. It's past eight. I told her to leave half an hour ago.'

‘Then what are we waiting for,' she smiled, getting up from his lap and pulling him towards the couch.

‘Nothing,' he said. ‘Absolutely . . .'

Just then David heard a knock on his office door and felt a wave of frustration wash over him. He knew it wasn't Nora. She had a habit of tapping three times before she entered and this was more like a single solid bang.

Sara immediately leapt from the couch, buttoning her blouse and tidying her hair.

‘Who?' she asked as David tucked in his shirt.

‘I have no idea,' he said before calling, ‘Who is it?'

‘It's me,' said Mannix, and by the shadows now decipherable outside the frosted glass door, David was guessing Joe was not alone.

‘What's Joe doing here?' asked Sara, and he could have been mistaken but he thought he detected a trace of concern in her eyes.

He knew he could not answer the question without lying so he chose simply to ignore it. Time was up, he knew. He had been a fool to think he could play this thing and not involve the woman he loved most in the world.

‘Come on in,' he said. And then he waited for it all to come crashing down around him.

‘Hi,' said Joe. ‘How are you, Sara?'

‘Fine thanks, Joe,' she said, her voice slightly hesitant. ‘Let me pull you up a seat.'

‘Better make that two,' said Mannix, stepping aside to allow a second man into the room.

David recognised him immediately but saw the confusion on Sara's face as she turned to look at him.

‘Simba,' said David, who had worked with the local FBI chief across a number of cases over the past decade.

‘How's it hangin', Cavanaugh?'

King looked at Sara – the only person he did not know in the room – and then David saw him glance quickly at Joe as if to say, ‘Is she okay?'

Joe gave a slight nod and said, ‘Sara, this is Boston FBI Special Agent in Charge Leo King.'

‘Hi,' said Sara, not knowing what else to say. And then she turned towards David, a look of confusion and perhaps a trace of resentment on her face. ‘Maybe we should all sit down,' she said, her gaze not shifting from her boyfriend's face. ‘And then you can tell me what the hell is going on.'

And so they began.

Joe, having vouched for Sara's trustworthiness and eased King's initial concerns in involving another civilian in this mess – ‘She is straight up, Leo,' he had said. ‘And she is Cavanaugh's partner, personally and professionally, so she is involved no matter what.' – He started at the beginning for Sara's benefit, somehow sensing, at least at this early state, that he should downplay David's role to date.

He let the story unfold layer upon layer, starting with Nancy Doyle's initial mention of the Gospel Four and finally getting to Susan Leigh's theory regarding the saints' identities, and the possible parallels between their original and current day personas. He told them about the Bible riddle and Capon's confirmed belief that the marking next to John's name was not the letter ‘I' as they had first thought, but the number one . . . and he finished with his belief that CIA Director Richard Ryan was the key to it all, perhaps the only one besides the late Tom Bradshaw who could put this whole thing together.

‘You actually think someone, or rather some small group, is planning to infiltrate the US government by placing one of their own as the new Vice President of the United States?' asked Sara.

‘I know it sounds crazy,' said Joe. ‘But we already know these people have the resources to murder the second most powerful man in the country under the noses of one of the biggest gatherings of top security forces in US history. These guys are not some small band of terrorists
forcing their way in, wearing balaclavas with machine guns blazing, they are
already
on the inside.'

Up until this point Leo King had sat silently listening to Joe's story for the second time in twenty-four hours. He still could not believe what he was hearing, and was still beating himself up for not suspecting something sooner. Perhaps more terrifying was what he was about to say himself – that he suspected the man in the running to be the next Director of the FBI of being a cold blooded assassin.

‘We know the identity of two of the four,' said King who, after two sleepless nights, had called Joe Mannix, the only person he knew would believe what he suspected. ‘After making several discreet investigations, I believe one of the four – most likely the one known as Matthew – to be my boss, FBI Washington Bureau Assistant Director in Charge Antonio Ramirez.'

‘
What?
' said Sara. ‘How? What makes you think that . . . ?'

‘I know, Ms Davis. Like Joe says, it's as crazy as all hell, but in the very least I can prove Ramirez is building a case against Stuart Montgomery based on lies and misinformation. The more I discover, the more I am convinced the Professor didn't do it, Ms Davis. And fortunately or unfortunately, I think we are getting closer to finding out who did.'

King went on to tell them his side of the story – explaining how Ramirez had been controlling the case from day one.

‘Basically, if Ramirez has manufactured evidence, particularly that relating to Montgomery's access to the drugs, our case is shot to hell. Montgomery and Bradshaw may not have been on the best of terms, but no jury is going to convict without the physical evidence. Ramirez knows that as well as I do, that's why he had to come up with the proof, real or not.'

‘But wasn't there something else?' asked Sara, her normally smooth brow now tensed in concentration. ‘Something about a print on the syringe or . . .'

‘On the syringe packaging, yes, a partial print which looks to belong to Montgomery. But if the Professor was being framed from the very beginning, any defence attorney with half a brain could argue any number of people could have stolen syringes from his surgery and then made sure the wrapper left behind in the hotel suite was one that contained his prints.'

King noticed that his reference to Montgomery's defence counsel, or lack thereof, made David shift in his chair. Joe had told him of Karin Montgomery's request – mainly so that Simba would choose his words carefully in front of Sara. But as Simba pointed out to Joe, this was way beyond girlfriend and boyfriend Tic-Tac-Toe. They were talking about a national conspiracy to ‘overthrow' the current administration which meant there was no time for pleasantries.

‘So Ryan is the key,' said David and King wondered if he was instinctively changing the subject.

‘Yes,' said Joe. ‘But the man is impossible to reach. I have left at least ten messages for him over the past couple of days. He is either very busy or outright avoiding me.'

‘Ryan is a hard one to nail down,' said Simba. ‘Ramirez hates his guts, but he and Bradshaw were tight. Rumour has it Ryan was the one who convinced his Harvard buddy to shake the drugs way back when. The guy never talks about it, but I've heard stories about Ryan having nursed Bradshaw through withdrawals. Besides his wife and family, I'd say Dick Ryan was Bradshaw's closest ally.'

‘All the more reason we make contact with him,' said Joe.

Just then King saw David look across at Sara. He saw the confusion on her face and the indecision on that of her partner.

It was as if, King thought, David was making the decision whether or not to take the next step, and perhaps was searching for some sign of approval from the girl he obviously adored. But in the end, her face still set in an expression of bewilderment, with perhaps a trace of fear, he made the decision himself, by picking up the phone.

He dialled a local number but it obviously went straight to voicemail, so then he tried a cell which also went to a recording so he left a short message: ‘
It's DC. I'm at work. Call me.'

‘And that was?' asked Simba, suspicious of any further outside contact from this point.

‘Tony Bishop. An old law school buddy. He's a blue chip lawyer who moves in Washington circles and he's discreet. His brother is . . .'

‘Congressman James Bishop,' guessed Simba.

‘In one. He or James might know where Ryan spends his time out of office hours.'

‘It's Thursday night,' said Mannix. ‘Maybe we can track Ryan down over the weekend.'

‘Wait a minute,' said Sara. ‘We're forgetting something here. If the aim of the real killers was to prevent exposition and remove Bradshaw from office, why not stick to the original story that it was accidental death or suicide. Why did they need Montgomery at all?'

‘Because,' said King, ‘Montgomery gave the American people someone to hate and the government a cause to ride into the next election. The public loved Tom Bradshaw – and the main reason they loved him was because he fought his battle with drugs and won. A self-administered overdose would have sullied his reputation and his administration's credibility. Murder is a much rosier political scenario than suicide. Suicide was giving up, murder was martyrdom.'

‘But wasn't this Ramirez all for self-infliction in the first place,' argued Sara. ‘Didn't he release a statement confirming the death was . . .'

‘Sure,' said King. ‘Accusing Montgomery straight off the bat would have been too obvious and the delay bought him some much needed time. Think about it. They announce the overdose – accidental or otherwise – allow the American people time to grieve, and as soon as the masses are registering that their beloved leader was not so perfect after all, and that their favoured government is now without a decent Vice President . . .
Wham
. . . the FBI produces Montgomery and the people now have someone to blame in the form of the arrogant, ambitious English Professor, and their faith in the late Saint Tom is renewed.

‘That's why, from the very beginning, Ramirez refused to entertain the theory of foul play. In fact, he wasn't the only one who . . .' King paused here, as if registering something else, something more troubling, something unimaginable. ‘That first night, immediately after Bradshaw's death,' King went on, ‘Ramirez was not the only one who . . .'

Ring
. . .

David snatched up the phone, immediately registering the background noise of a crowded bar beyond Tony's greeting. The others listened as David began with the usual law school buddy banter, and then asked Bishop if he knew Dick Ryan, or more specifically how the CIA Chief liked to spend his spare time.

‘I don't want to know why you're asking me this, right DC?' said Tony.

‘Right,' said David.

‘Okay, well, from what my brother tells me, Ryan is a workaholic, but when he does get a free morning he likes to hit the Congressional Country Club in Bethesda. He plays a mean 18, handicap is 9. Used to play a regular Saturday morning game with the late Vice President, apparently the two of them made an unbeatable team.'

‘Congressional Country Club. Thanks, Tony, and thank James for me too.'

‘No problem, DC. But keep in mind this place is super exclusive – members and their guests only. And from what I hear the standard is pretty high, in other words, there is no way on earth they're gonna let a sloppy hack like you onto their hallowed greens.'

‘Thanks a lot, Bishop,' said David.

‘Don't mention it,' laughed Tony, who was just about to sign off before mentioning one more thing. ‘By the way DC, I just saw your ex, Karin, and it looked like she was on her way to . . . you know, the land of alcoholic bliss.'

‘What?' asked David. ‘Where?'

‘Here at the Regency Park bar. I'm taking in a few Thursday night drinks with clients and I turn around to see her sitting on her own across the room, downing what looks to be double vodkas on the rocks. Guys were hitting on her left, right and centre, but she just blew them off. I was just about to go over and say “hi” when that reporter comes in – you know, the peppermint steamroller lady, Caroline Croft, and Karin leaves with her. They hit the elevators, I guess going up to her room.'

‘Why would she . . . ?'

‘Who knows? But word has it Croft has a thick cheque book, maybe Karin's selling her story to the networks. Montgomery's defence is gonna cost a packet after all. They can probably use the extra dough. Anyways . . .'

‘Anyways,' said David, unsure of what to make of this latest piece of information. ‘Thanks, Tony. Thanks a lot.'

‘No sweat. Catch you later.'

David collected his thoughts and told them about James Bishop's tip on the Congressional Country Club and they all agreed that approaching
Ryan on the course may be the only way to get to see him in an environment where he wasn't surrounded by fellow government officials. How they'd get in to the exclusive Bethesda Club, they weren't too sure. They sat quietly, each lost in their own thoughts until Sara broke the silence, finally asking the question David knew she would.