Gospel (35 page)

‘
Dear Hal
,' it read. ‘
If I would have known the independence, the thrill, the romance that would have befallen me upon Arnold's death I would have done it sooner. I am even thinking of running for his old position as Club President – sympathy vote and all!! So let's make up for lost time, big boy. I'm going to strike your ‘Pins' like no one has ever stroked them before. Hee, hee! Your sweetheart V.'

A warrant for Mrs Mulch's arrest was issued and actioned before she had a chance to test drive her new satin red sandals at the Bridge Club's Ladies Auxiliary afternoon tea. Her bracelets were exchanged for handcuffs and justice was done.

David's new position as defense counsel for accused assassin Professor Stuart Ignatius Montgomery was put on twenty-four hour hold – at least publicly. A deal was struck with Caroline Croft to air the
Newsline
interview in its entirety at 10pm that night – one hour later than the normal
Newsline
telecast. Croft was not happy with the delay into audience-rich prime time, but in the end she knew it was a ‘deal breaker' which could play to her benefit. For starters the network agreed to airing a two-hour
Newsline
‘special' – the first hour from 9pm summarising the Montgomery case, and the second featuring the exclusive interview. In short, the first was a one-hour promo for the second, and Croft knew not one American ass would move from their suburban couch for the full two hours of breathtaking TV. Her only regret was that it was summer and as such out of TV's hallowed ratings period known as ‘sweeps'. But even this had an upside; news was slow, and
Newsline
would soon be the most talked about news magazine program in the country.

David's 10pm ‘deal breaker' had been negotiated for a number of reasons. First, it would give him time to brief his friend and
Boston Tribune
deputy editor Marc Rigotti who had resisted all recommendations from his editor to run a piece on
‘prominent Boston attorney David Cavanaugh's marital link to the wife of the most “hated” prisoner in the country'
. Rigotti was an old friend and David knew he might need his support in the weeks to come. He had called Rigotti and arranged to give him a copy of the interview at 8pm – two hours before it went to air – so that he could report on it in tomorrow's
Tribune
, giving him the scoop on other national dailies.

David would not meet his new client until the following day; this was Croft's deal breaker. She knew if any one of those ‘unscrupulous leeches' who camped outside Suffolk County Jail saw someone – anyone – of interest coming to or from the local lock-up, they may be able to string enough brain cells together to scuttle her breathtaking scoop. They agreed David would make one phone call to his recently signed client to confirm his representation prior to the interview broadcast but would ‘not set foot within ten miles of SCJ until tomorrow morning at the very earliest'.
David, who knew meeting with his client was a major priority, outwardly yet reluctantly agreed, but silently he was grateful for another day's grace before facing a man he had despised for over a decade.

The decision to allow the interview to run at all, particularly in its entirety, had been a significant one – one which at first seemed unthinkable. But, after consulting with Mannix, King, a quiet but focused Sara – and by the early hours of Friday morning, an understanding Arthur, who David had finally brought into the loop – they all agreed this may be the only way to both spook the Gospel trio out of their caves and give David a chance of starting his representation of this ‘
no win'
case with a positive – even if it was an outrageous one. They also believed, if they had any chance of getting to and ideally sharing information with CIA boss Dick Ryan, they had to provide him with a ‘catch' to let him know they were serious. Karin's public revelations would be the hook and hopefully, by tomorrow, they would get close enough for him to bite.

David had told Karin enough to make her aware of the dangers. Karin admitted, during their brief, private conversations during their late night negotiations with Croft, that her revelations regarding the
‘real'
murderers were fabrications, fabrications she soon discovered were based on terrifying facts. David explained the public broadcast of her accusations would ‘put her life in significant risk', to which his ex-wife smiled and replied, ‘What life?'

And so, as the moon made its late appearance, finally forcing the sun into a slovenly decline to the west, and as TBS were running ‘nexts' for the ‘exclusive
Newsline
two-hour special', the three remaining Gospel members were going about their business totally unaware of the repercussions the next 120 minutes would bring.

FBI Washington Field Office Assistant Director in Charge Antonio Ramirez – alias ‘Matthew' – had just arrived back in Washington for the weekend, grateful for the respite from what he referred to as the Boston B graders. He was picked up at Ronald Reagan by two of his deputies and headed straight to his large, familiar office at the Washington Metropolitan Field Office on 4th Street. He longed for the comfort of power that the FBI's head office brought with it, and was relieved to be back amongst his loyal elite.

‘John' was busy partaking in some appropriate personal PR. Her reputation had always been one which garnered respect and admiration from the American people but she knew better than anyone else that it could do with some softening.

She had met with the President late that afternoon, his responses being even better than she had hoped. While he said he needed some time to think them over, he basically embraced her proposals – especially after she eased his concerns by assuring him that her family would stand behind her 100 per cent.

She now had no doubt that when Latham exercised his right to execute the twenty-fifth amendment and announce her nomination as the new VP, that the mandatory majority vote from both Houses of Congress would follow smoothly – thanks largely to the previously planned ‘pressure' Ramirez would apply to their select group of narcotics clients and their relatives – and winning and securing the confidence of the American people in this new role would be something she would continue to build on each and every day.

Thus tonight she found herself at a photo call for Tommy Bradshaw Jnr, who had just won the state spelling bee championships despite the strain of having lost his father under such tragic and unexpected circumstances less than four months ago. Her press advisor had suggested a three-generational family photo in the White House East Room, next to a plaque and portrait that had been mounted two months previously in the late Vice President's honour. The hour was late, and Tommy Jnr was tired, but she also knew the piece would get good coverage on a Saturday morning and she could not, at this crucial stage, waste any opportunity for a ‘feel good' publicity boost.

At exactly 9.15pm, Assistant Director of the Bureau of Customs and Border Protection's Office of Intelligence Travis Toovey – alias ‘Mark' – was enjoying his third martini with a man named Alistair at a discreet up-market gay bar in Northwest Washington. It was his second ‘date' with Alistair, a respected political correspondent for the
San Francisco Chronicle
, and Toovey was at last starting to relax, the dry gin slowly washing away the worries that had been steadily building over the past few months.

He recognised the feeling for what it was and revelled in the joy of
‘relief'. For the fear of exposure from Bradshaw's death was now diminishing – thanks to the press' ‘guilty until proven innocent' approach towards Professor Stuart Montgomery – and John's position all but a fait accompli. Of course his new silver Mercedes SL class convertible didn't hurt either. It was his own personal reward following the months of clandestine activity which had eaten away at his nerves and plumped up his bank account. He knew the other two would not approve; it was ostentatious and perhaps a little risky, but he only drove it on weekends and, he surmised, what they did not know would not hurt them.

At 10.03pm Alistair's cell phone, which he had placed on the small polished blackwood bar table between them, vibrated silently in a small unwelcome dance, interrupting their conversation on the variances between east and west coast homosexual acceptability.

‘That was my boss,' said Alistair. ‘I have to run. There's a photo op with the Bryant/Bradshaw clan at the White House, something about the kid winning a spelling bee. Anyway, I sent a photographer but the boss wants me to hightail it down there fast. Seems
Newsline
are running some big exclusive on the Bradshaw murder and the chief wants me down there to confront the family as it goes to air.'

‘Exclusive?' said Toovey. ‘I don't understand.' His heart was exploding like an automatic rifle in his chest.

‘An interview,' said Alistair pocketing his cell. ‘With the wife.'

‘Melissa Bryant Bradshaw?'

‘No, the other wife – Montgomery's wife.'

Toovey could not believe his ears and did not respond when Alistair grabbed his suitcase and placed his right hand over Mark's in their very first gesture of physical contact. ‘I'm sorry,' he said.

Alistair turned to go, leaving Toovey with the bill and an instant migraine he knew would only be cured with the security of knowing how bad this could be – how bad this already was. He had to find out what was going on – and talk to the others . . .
now
.

‘Wait,' he said, throwing a fifty on the table and grabbing his bag and keys. ‘I have my car. I'll drive you.'

He knew Alistair had arrived in a taxi and, better still, was headed to the one place he knew he would find those answers – 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Alistair looked confused, the drive was totally out of his way. But
then he smiled, thinking his new ‘boyfriend' wanted the extra time with him, even if it was on a busy Pennsylvania Avenue traffic jam on a sweaty summer night.

‘Thanks, Travis,' said Alistair, opening the bar door and standing back for his date to follow. ‘You know, at first I thought you were kind of self-obsessed, and a little highly strung. But I was wrong, Travis. You're actually a very considerate guy, and full of surprises.'

‘That's me, Alistair,' said Toovey, forcing a smile. ‘Full of surprises, the master of disguise.'

‘Grandmother, I'm tired,' said seven-year-old Tommy Bradshaw Jnr, squinting under the lights of the East Room's bohemian cut-glass chandeliers. Tommy Jnr was the spitting image of his late father; strawberry blond hair, dark blue eyes.

‘Not much longer dear,' said Maxine Bryant, maintaining the smile for the flashing bulbs, her arm stretched proudly over her grandson's shoulders, her daughter Melissa completing the threesome (or foursome if you included Tom's portrait in the background) – the perfect picture of wholesome, all-American achievement.

It was a good turn out, just as John knew it would be. In fact, she was confident this picture would run front page across all the metropolitan dailies tomorrow – for the Bryant/Bradshaw clan were still very big news; their dignity in loss, patience for justice and determination to fight for a better America. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed, photogenic perfection.

And then she saw him. He entered behind another man, a reporter. He stood at the back of the room, staring straight at her, the unmistakable glint of fear in his eyes.

Stupid, stupid Mark
, she thought to herself, knowing his position at Customs and Border Protection gave him access to many areas of the White House but wondering what the hell the press would think if they turned to notice the Head of Intelligence from CBP at a photo call for a kid who just won a spelling bee.

‘Tommy Jnr is tired,' she whispered to her press secretary. ‘Let's wrap this up.'

But it was too late, the reporter that Toovey had followed was calling
a question from the back of the room and the entire gallery turned to face him.

‘Mrs Bryant, Alistair Gorton from the
San Francisco Chronicle
.'

‘Mr Gorton,' interrupted press secretary Lindsay Lowell. ‘This is a photo call, not a press conference. All the information you need on Tom Jnr's stellar achievement is in the release at the back of the room.'

‘Forgive me, Lindsay,' said Alistair who knew Lowell from his daily rounds at the House. ‘But this has nothing to do with young Thomas' award – as terrific as it may be.' Alistair smiled at the boy before going on.

‘Mrs Bryant,' Alistair turned his attention to the White House Chief of Staff, ‘would you or your daughter like to comment on the fact that Dr Karin Montgomery has just given an exclusive interview to TBS's
Newsline
program claiming her husband is innocent of the late Vice President's murder?'

Alistair did not stop there, obviously realising his question would propel this sweet little soiree into unexpected hostile territory. Maxine flashed a look at Press Secretary Lowell whose now red face indicated she had no intention of having her ‘feel good' photo session hijacked by a ‘seriously out of line' reporter.

‘It is going to air as we speak, Mrs Bryant,' said Gorton. ‘Dr Montgomery is claiming her husband has been framed by a group of individuals. She also says she knows the identity of said individuals and has revealed them to her lawyer under attorney client privilege.'

The room erupted in a buzz of disbelief, the flashbulbs started up again, catching the controlled horror on Maxine Bryant's face. Lowell, a tall, light-skinned, African-American woman with a forceful confidence and the physical strength to match, moved across the Fontainebleau parquetry oak floor to put an end to all questioning – but Maxine gestured her away.

‘I am sorry, Mr Gorton, as you can see I have been busy with my grandson this evening and have not had time to . . .'