Gospel (49 page)

‘These people don't think that way. They are arrogant enough to believe they can control the government and the scary thing is, they are well on
their way to doing it. Our problem is getting all our ducks lined up in time to blow her nomination out of the water. Bottom line, we need solid proof, and we need it fast.'

‘Is there any way we can link Ramirez to Toovey's death?' asked David.

‘No. We went to his apartment after the cops had left, late on Sunday night. The place was clean – no prints, no sign of a struggle, nothing.'

‘What about Toovey's stuff – his computer, his diary, anything to bind them as a group of conspirators?'

‘Nothing. According to his colleagues he kept an electronic diary but his laptop was missing. His place was spotless, antiseptic almost. The only scuff marks on the carpet were at the back of the bedroom door where he supposedly hung himself by accident while he was trying to . . .'

‘I get the picture,' said David.

‘Yeah, so did I. And I can tell you it wasn't pretty. The only thing out of place in the whole joint was the quarters in a stack on the dresser.'

‘Let me guess – there were thirty of them.'

‘Yeah,' said Mannix. ‘I guess Ramirez couldn't resist. Thirty pieces of silver, a traitor's wage. Just like his good friend “Luke”. Simba is having them tested for prints as we speak, but I am pretty sure they'll be clean. Ramirez must have thought it was some fitting send off – a final message to their two dead disciples that shooting their mouths off, betraying their leader with their weakness, their fear, just wasn't part of the plan.'

‘Not to mention getting rid of their henchmen when they are no longer of any use,' said David.

‘Like we say in Homicide, death is the ultimate silencer, my friend,' said Mannix. ‘No one can speak from the grave, not even saints like the late Tom Bradshaw. Which reminds me, the cops looking for the bullet intended to silence you came up empty.'

It was the first time Joe had expressed his view that the shooter was aiming at David and not at the Professor – a truth David had been avoiding.

‘There was no sign of a bullet or casing which means the shooter was either very efficient, or that piece of celebrity shrapnel will turn up on eBay.'

‘I'm not a celebrity, Joe,' was all David could think of to say.

‘Modesty will get you nowhere,' said his friend.

They sat there in silence for a minute, listening to the sounds of the
Harbour, Mannix kicking out at a pack of greedy seagulls circling in anticipation of being thrown a few luncheon leftovers.

‘The Hotel tape tells us nothing,' said David, finally breaking the silence. ‘Ramirez was only in the room once – and that was to check out the security before Bradshaw arrived. Bradshaw's wife moved in and out – and there was the housemaid, and Ryan, and Montgomery. But as for your alleged John – Maxine Bryant, she wasn't even in the building until after the President was dead or close to it. I'm afraid if our sedative theory is gonna hold up, we need to be able to both prove there was an undetected depressant in his system and then point the finger at the person who gave it to him, but right now, we're coming up empty.'

David had explained to Mannix how he had left Montgomery early this morning and spent the better part of three hours poring over the Medical Examiner's report before telephoning said ME, Gus Svenson, and questioning him on the initial blood results. Svenson, a Swedish ex-pat and straight shooter who David had worked with and admired for many years, said he had tested Bradshaw's blood for every chemical substance known to man, and in his opinion, the only non-post mortem narcotic in his system was the OxyContin that killed him.

‘This request for new test makes things difficult,' Svenson had told David in his stilted Scandinavian English. ‘Blood tests are specific. You think something missed it must be a substance that needs special test for detection. Better start with possibilities – you suspect something, you tell me look for this.' In other words David and Sara needed to narrow the field and work with Montgomery on possible undetectable sedatives before going back to Gus with test recommendations. And they had to do it fast.

Despite the frustration of the delay, David knew this was probably the safer option for the time being. For the defence were bound, under the same discovery obligations David called to the Judge's attention following their release of the ‘letter', to inform the prosecution of any new tests they ordered. This meant they had to be as close to sure as possible that their sedative theory was correct, otherwise they would achieve nothing – and tip off Ramirez to their suspicions in the process.

‘I've just got this horrible feeling,' said David, turning to Joe. ‘That we're close but not close enough. It was the same with the Martin trial last year,
that sensation that no matter how hard we try, we're gonna get knocked down before we take our mark. We just need a break, Joe.'

With that Mannix reached into his coat pocket to retrieve two envelopes; one thick and square, the other regular sized and flat.

‘What are these?' asked David.

‘This one is a client list,' said Joe, handing him the flat envelope. ‘It's the list Ryan got when he hacked into GIV's computers. I believe there might be someone on it who can help us. And this,' he said handing David the thicker envelope, ‘this is a present from Pieter Capon.'

‘Capon?' asked David, anxiously unfolding the larger envelope first.

‘It's a video tape,' said Joe. ‘In fact it's the original security tape from the corridor outside the Hotel's Presidential Suite on the night of Saturday 30 April.'

‘What? But I already have a copy of the tape. It was given to me as part of the prosecution's discovery. They must have got the tape from Capon – so why would he . . . ?'

‘You met him. The guy is smart, organised, fastidious. I had a hunch he might have kept an original copy at the Hotel – and luckily for us, I was right. I haven't watched it yet, but according to the timer, it's four minutes longer than the one given to me by the FBI, the same one you have no doubt watched a zillion times over. Which means . . .'

‘
They edited the tape
,' said David.

‘You better believe it. So we have to pull those four minutes apart – see what they have to hide. But before we do . . .' Joe pointed at the other thinner envelope in David's hand, and David, who was still in shock from the revelations of the first package, quickly tore the seal from the A4 standard and pulled out the two sheets of white paper, each with a column of neatly typed names, in alphabetical order, justified against the margin on the far left hand side of each page.

It took him all of three seconds to see it, for the man's name was close to the top – the sixth on the list sandwiched between ‘Congresswoman Gretchen Bird' and ‘Senator Christine Byrne'.

‘
Shit!
' said David. ‘James Bishop. Tony's older brother, he's a client, a drug user.'

‘He's an opportunity, David. No offence to your pal Tony but if this James can help us, we need to pull him in.'

‘Tony will be . . . I mean . . . James was always the straight one, ultra conservative, super smart. He has two teenage kids, for God's sake, he was . . . he
is
. . . a nice guy, from what I remember.'

‘So does that mean you think he'll help us?' asked Joe.

‘I don't know. But let's face it, Joe, we don't have squat to go on so we're in no position to play nice. I'll talk to Tony but whether he wants to cooperate or not, James Bishop will
have
to help us – and if he doesn't, we'll make him – because in the end, we don't have any other choice.'

Antonio Ramirez rarely found himself in a position of indecision. No, he
never
experienced what all those lesser, feeble individuals did – pathetic periods of hesitancy and procrastination and repetition. And that was probably why this wasted moment unnerved him so. Here he was, FBI Washington Field Office Assistant Director in Charge Antonio Ramirez having reservations, misgivings and qualms . . . and in that moment other verbs entered his mind too such as dithering, dawdling and dilly-dallying. That was when he shut off the panic and reached for the phone.

His first mistake, he had to admit, was failing to call John the moment he had hung up from the Caspian woman. He honestly believed . . . no, he
knew
he could control the situation and delay sharing the information with her until it was neatly contained.

So, why had he still not dialled the number? Because he knew she would be irritated . . . no, more incensed, livid, irate.

This was the first time he had let her down, the
first time
one of his brilliantly conceived plans had gone awry and, worse still, he was not 100 per cent sure exactly what had gone wrong or how he could contain it. He suspected King, of course, but this was fast work, even for him, and he was hoping beyond all hope that there was another explanation for the failure of the Caspian woman and her daughter to make their scheduled appointment.

His more primal urges wanted to cut a swathe through the adjoining office wall, grab King by the neck and demand to know what meddling piece of crap he had put into action. He knew King was a traitor, his phone log told him as much – why else would he be receiving calls from Sara Davis, the defence counsel's second chair? His only comfort came from the knowledge that as soon he was established as the leading law
enforcement official in the country, he would banish the man to the dungeons of FBI hell, and he wasn't just thinking demotion, more entrapment, dismissal and a fucking iron clad strategy of frame him up and shoot him down – going, going, gone.

But he was getting ahead of himself. Right now he had to concentrate, not hesitate, on locating the Caspians and their God-damned prescription repeat, before they had a chance to communicate with anyone else. And before he did that, he had to call her.

He took a deep breath and forced his large strong fingers to punch in the number, and had to wait only three rings before she picked up.

Maxine Bryant was furious. How could this have happened? She honestly believed she was on a road that guaranteed her the power she had always craved. Now, an unlikely adversary – a peripheral ‘character' she never dreamed would be a problem – had threatened to take it all away. And perhaps it had all gone too far for her to stop?

No, Maxine was many things but she had never been a quitter. There was too much at stake – personally, professionally, patriotically. Perhaps it was time to reassess who were her friends and who were her enemies. She could make some initial enquiries herself and . . . then perhaps . . .

Call him
, she said to herself.
In the very least, track him down, keep him on notice. He may be your only chance
. There was no other solution, she told herself, for the consequences of leaving this to fate could be catastrophic.

Without further hesitation she buzzed her personal assistant who was at her door within seconds. ‘Gina, I need you to find someone for me. I need to schedule an urgent meeting, quickly, quietly.'

‘Certainly, Mrs Bryant,' said the efficient Gina. ‘Whose office do you want me to call?'

‘CIA Director Ryan's.'

‘All right – and will the President be involved in the meeting also?' asked Gina, assuming the ‘issue' was of national significance.

‘No. No, Gina,' said Maxine. ‘In fact, the meeting may have to be after hours – late tonight, after everyone else has gone home. If the Director has a problem with that, tell him it's urgent and it is in his best interests to attend.'

Gina Corso did not bat an eyelid, she was used to all the cloak and
dagger stuff that went on in the White House and smart enough not to ask questions. ‘Sure, Mrs Bryant. Just let me know if there is anyone else you want to include.'

‘Thanks, but that won't be necessary, Gina. This one is just for me.'

Ironically, three minutes later, just as Gina Corso picked up her phone to try the CIA Director's list of contact numbers, Dick Ryan, muted cell phone in pocket, was sitting mere metres away in a private conference with the most powerful man in the country. Ryan had deliberately delayed this meeting, wanting to be sure of his information before he took it to his exhausted superior. But now he knew what he knew, and with time running short, he had made the call and requested the utmost of security for this top secret rendezvous.

There they sat – in the seclusion of the President's residence, Latham's cigar soon forgotten and spilling dense grey ash on the thick pile carpet of his private library floor, as Ryan told his story from beginning to end. But if Ryan thought he was the only bearer of surprises that evening, then he was sorely mistaken. For President Latham, now dry-eyed and ashen-faced following Ryan's shocking disclosures, had a revelation of his own, one that took Ryan's theory – the same one shared by Mannix and McKay and their team back in Boston – and shattered it into a million tiny pieces.

‘How could I have been so wrong?' said Ryan at last.

‘How could I have been so selfish?' replied Latham.

They looked at each other then, two men fooled by a woman driven by an insatiable hunger for personal advancement.

‘She tricked us all, Dick,' said Latham. ‘She played it like a true professional – right under our politically experienced noses.' Latham stopped then, finally taking a draw of his seriously diminished Cuban. ‘But enough is enough, she wanted into this game so now she has to play it. It's time we gave her a run for her money, Dick, and showed her that perhaps she isn't as clever as thinks.'

‘Yes, Mr President,' said Ryan, feeling a new level of respect for his elderly but spirited leader.