Gospel (48 page)

‘No, sir. I was trying not to say anything given ADIC Ramirez was hanging off my every word. Luckily,' Perez went on, ‘the conversation was pretty much one way on Mrs Caspian's part. She was kind of distressed and very keen to tell you the information herself.'

‘What was it, Carlos?' said an anxious King, looking at his watch. It was now just after nine. ‘What did she say?'

‘She said she found a repeat – for the prescription.'

‘Jesus,' said King, now up from his desk. ‘Tell me something, Carlos, I don't fill many prescriptions, but you only get a repeat when you fill the original, right?'

‘That's right, sir.'

‘Which means Caspian
did
fill the OxyContin script after all. He may not have taken the pills, but he definitely filled the script.'

Dear God
, thought King to himself.
The existence of the repeat proves Montgomery didn't fill the original script in the first place, which removes his access to the ‘murder weapon', which pretty much shoots Ramirez's case against the Professor to hell, and if Ramirez knows this then
. . .

King stood and moved around his desk before lowering his voice to a whisper, now paranoid Ramirez could hear through the wall. ‘Carlos, did you tell Ramirez any of this? Did you tell him about the repeat?'

‘No, sir. He asked plenty of questions but I'm pretty good at saying nothing when I want to. I just gave him the phone number, and that was it.'

King looked at his assistant and smiled, giving him a quick slap on the shoulder. ‘Well done, Carlos. But do you think Ramirez called her, did you hear him return the call?'

‘I'm afraid so. As soon as he walked in to his office he shut the door and dialled international – I could tell by the number of dial out beeps on his phone. He spoke for about three minutes, give or take. After that
he made another call – long distance by the sound of it – most likely DC. Anyway,' Carlos went on, obviously anxious to be of help, ‘that call only lasted a minute at most. He did all the talking, sounded like he was giving someone instructions. Then someone else calls his direct line and he says one word into the telephone. “
Good
.” And then he hangs up.'

‘Shit,' said King, moving back around his desk and picking up the phone. That was over two hours ago. ‘Shut the door, Carlos.'

King dialled the ten digit number, hoping, praying,
willing
Eleanor Caspian to pick up on the other end.

‘Hello,' King heard at last.

‘Mrs Caspian?'

‘This is Kate Caspian Cole. Can I help you?'

‘Forgive me, Ma'am, but this is FBI Special Agent Leo King calling from Boston. I was actually after your mother, Mrs Eleanor Caspian. Is she . . .'

‘Well, it's lucky you called when you did Special Agent King, we were just about to head into the city for our rendezvous with your representative. She has the repeat with her.'

‘
Damn it
,' thought King. The daughter knows as well. Ramirez will have to get rid of them both.

‘Mrs Caspian Cole,' said King, knowing there was no way of saying what he had to say, without scaring the hell out of her. ‘Did your mother tell anyone else about the repeat – your husband perhaps? Any friends, other relatives?'

‘No, Special Agent. We did as Assistant Director Ramirez requested and told no one, and I can assure you we will keep our promise and continue to keep this information quiet. Mother told me Assistant Director Ramirez stressed how important this was, although I must admit, I was a little confused as to why his representative could not come here to collect the repeat.'

King knew exactly why. Taking control of the two women in their home would be risky, considering neighbours and so forth, whereas picking them up off a busy city street would be . . . ‘Mrs Caspian Cole.'

‘It's Kate, Special Agent. Call me Kate.'

‘Kate, listen to me. This is very,
very
important. I want you and your mother to go to your rooms and pack what you can for the next few days. Then I want you both to check into the Conrad Brussels Hotel, and
wait there until I call you. What was the name of the first street you ever lived in?'

‘What . . . I . . . it was Brown Street.'

‘Okay then. There will be a reservation for a suite under the name of Katherine Brown. You got that?'

‘Yes.'

‘And do not tell anyone where you are, including your husband.'

‘My husband is on a UNICEF mission outside of Sudan and I am afraid he is not contactable for at least . . .'

‘Good.'

‘Wait, I don't understand. We will miss the rendezvous. Why would one FBI agent be telling us to . . . ?'

‘Kate, listen to me. You said it yourself. The Assistant Director's instructions were unusual. If he was following normal procedure he would have had the repeat picked up at your house. Think about it, Kate,' said King, desperate to win her confidence. ‘Why would he want you to meet in a busy public area unless he planned to . . . ?'

‘I don't know,' said a now anxious Kate Caspian. ‘He certainly was determined. When I suggested the house he . . .'

‘Did everything to persuade you otherwise,' interrupted King. ‘Please Kate, there is no time. You
have
to trust me. Your lives are in danger. When you get to the hotel you can call Lieutenant Joe Mannix of the Boston PD. He's Chief of Homicide. He can vouch for me and what I am saying. But right now, I need you to get out and take your passports with you. My plan is to have you out of Europe and safe under my protection on US soil within the next forty-eight hours.'

‘Dear God, I . . .'

‘Please . . . Kate.'

‘All right . . . I . . .'

‘Thank you. I promise I'll call you at the hotel shortly and explain everything. Right now you just have to get out. Right now, you just have to
move
.'

King rang off and looked up to see Carlos Perez standing there in wonder, a mixture of adrenalin producing confusion and excitement showing on his young and eager face. Part of him didn't want to draw the bright young agent into this quagmire of crap, but he knew he would need him
to keep an eye on Ramirez, and if necessary run interference for him over the next few days.

‘Carlos,' said King. ‘I need you to do a few things for me. First, I know you understand what just happened here remains between us.'

‘Yes, sir,' said Carlos, bursting with enthusiasm.

‘Second, I need you to make a reservation at the Conrad Brussels for . . .'

‘Twin suite under the name of Brown. I got it,' said Carlos.

‘Finally I want you to keep an eye on Ramirez for me – let me know who he is calling, who is calling him. You seem to have a knack for it, after all,' smiled King.

‘Thanks. Sure, okay,' Carlos returned the smile. ‘That it?'

‘I think so. Actually, no, there is one other thing.' King placed both palms on the edge of his desk and pushed his chair backwards – the weight of the movement causing an audible squeak from the four plastic castors which swivelled across the blue office carpet. Once clear of the desk he bent down to retrieve his worn leather briefcase from underneath the side set of drawers. He opened the case and reached in to pull out a plastic evidence bag which looked to contain a pile of coins.

‘I need you to run this down to Evidence Response,' said King, handing the bag to Carlos. ‘And give it to Hackenbacker, personally. Tell him I need them sent to the Lab in Quantico – on the QT, to someone he can trust, someone discreet. I want them tested within an inch of their life – prints, fibres, any other bodily fluids. Tell him I suspect they're clean but anything is worth a shot at this point. Tell him this is payback – his chance at the
real
deal, he will understand.'

‘Done,' said Perez, a look of confused determination on this face, taking the bag and seeing the silver coins inside. ‘This looks like a stack of quarters.'

‘Thirty to be exact.'

‘Someone raid a piggy bank, boss?'

‘Not exactly. This was more like a deposit – a calling card, so to speak.'

‘You want to find Ramirez's prints on these, don't you, Chief?'

‘More than anything, Carlos. More than anything.'

‘T
his your idea of getting lost in a crowd?' asked David as he finally found Joe Mannix seated in the far corner of one of the many outdoor cafés that litter the grounds of Faneuil Hall Marketplace in Downtown Boston.

Mannix gave his customary shrug to which David replied, ‘Well, I guess if you're gonna choose a place to be anonymous, this has to be it.'

And he was right. Faneuil Hall Marketplace, built on the foundations of the original meeting hall of Samuel Adams and his fellow revolutionaries, was one of the world's Top 20 tourist spots – a central hive of restaurants, cafés, bars and shops bordered by Boston's busy financial district, picturesque waterfront, historical North End and famous Government Center.

At any one time as you strolled through the main hall and back out into the frenetic open air surrounds, you got the feeling you were one of thousands determined to see, eat, buy, do as much as possible in as short a time as possible, if for no other reason than that this was what everyone else around you seemed to be trying to do, all at the very same time.

Joe looked up from his coffee, his dark shades hiding his similarly dark brown eyes to gesture at what appeared to be a large crowd circling one of the many regular outdoor performers.

‘What are they watching?' asked David.

‘A contortionist, you know, one of those guys who can bend themselves into a pretzel.'

‘They freak me out,' said David signalling the waiter for a black coffee of his own. ‘I wonder what Samuel Adams and his patriot friends would have thought if they could have looked into the future to see a rubber guy tying himself in knots outside the window of their hallowed meeting place.'

‘They probably would have thrown him a penny or two,' said Joe.

‘Unless he was British,' said David. ‘Then they would've told him to go screw himself – which, when you think about it, he already was.'

Mannix laughed then, removing his glasses and turning to his friend.

‘You look like shit.'

‘I feel like shit.'

‘Crowds make me nervous. You wanna walk?'

‘Sure,' said David. ‘Let's grab a sandwich from Myrtle's and head down to the Harbour. I could use a little salt air.'

‘You and your salt air.'

‘What can I say? It clears my head.'

Two hours later they had finally stopped at Christopher Columbus Park, taking a seat on the unseasonably green grass and looking out over the northern shores of Boston Harbour. Mannix had told David all about his two-day briefing with CIA Director Ryan while David finished by telling Mannix of Montgomery's hotel tape/sedative theory. Mannix had even forced David to go over what he remembered of the shooting – which David repeated was zero – apart from the sharp pain and the blacking out. They were both exhausted – from talking, listening, deducing, analysing and wondering how they could put an end to this whole bloody mess and secure some form of justice, or more accurately, retribution, in the process.

‘Doyle and Toovey are dead,' said Joe as he took a seat on the freshly mown grass. ‘Which means Matthew – or Ramirez – and John are the two drivers of this sickening scheme, probably have been from the very beginning. Our guess is John is the ‘orchestrator' but Ramirez is the ‘doer'. Nothing happens without him so he holds the physical advantage. John relies on him because he delivers, and when John assumes power there is
no doubt Ramirez will be right in the thick of it, claiming his position as the new Director of the FBI.'

David looked out at the now flat blue waters, wondering how such a beautiful, peace-loving country, built on the sacrifices made by those dedicated to the establishment of democracy, could produce men such as Ramirez and his boss John, driven by greed and obsessed by power with no regard for any of the principles their forefathers had died to defend.

‘You know who he is, don't you?' he said at last.

‘Yeah,' said Mannix looking up at his friend, his dark eyes squinting in the afternoon sun. ‘In fact Ryan has known for some time, just couldn't put it all together.

‘It was Simba who confirmed it when he told us about John's determination to control the events surrounding Bradshaw's death from the get go. He and Ramirez have been running this show from day one . . . or should I say
she
and Ramirez . . .'

David turned to look at Joe, the reality of it finally sinking in, the simplicity of it all, the cold, horrible truth.

‘John is a woman,' said David.

‘Yes, and not any ordinary woman. She is in fact the most powerful female in the US of A – White House Chief of Staff, Maxine Bryant.'

‘Bryant,' said David, understanding as it all fell into place. ‘The woman killed her own son-in-law, the father of her grandchildren, so that she would get her own unrivalled shot at the Presidency.'

‘Not just a shot,' said Mannix, ‘but a sure thing with a guaranteed majority in Congress. We're talking manipulation of government at the highest level; a dictator dressed up as lady liberty, the ultimate traitor, a democratic despot. And the worst part is, we still can't prove it's her. She and Ramirez are smart – hell, they are running the fucking country behind the President's back. The woman told Ryan she was going to be named Vice Presidential nominee within the week – and we all know, after that, it is just a matter of time.'

‘This is insane,' said David. ‘I mean, the woman is an elected representative of the people – her face is on the cover of
Time
. How can she justify this?'