Gospel (53 page)

Ramirez pressed the barrel of his handgun further and further into David's wound until David heard it ‘click' against the outside of his skull. The pain was so great that David saw flashes of white, the blood now pouring freely down his face into his eyes, as the weapon reached further inside his head.

‘This is your lucky day, Cavanaugh,' said Ramirez at last. ‘It's now 1am Thursday and, considering I am in a rather uncharacteristically generous mood, I am giving you until Monday. That's four days. In other words I expect to see you and your client before Judge Donovan Monday morning, for a change of plea hearing at 9am sharp, with the legal documentation submitted and your confessional hat grasped tightly in your hand. You miss that appointment and you are going down.'

And with that, he pulled the gun from David's forehead, the squelching sound of skin being suctioned slowly from the wound playing loud and sickeningly in David's ears.

David's immediate response was to roll over. His anger was so great, his need to get to his feet all encompassing, but his head was spinning and his legs unresponsive, and in the end all he could manage was a small gesture of defiance. He reached into his pants pocket, hoping to find at least one of what he was looking for, and then he found it, judging its denomination by its size and shape. He retrieved the quarter and threw it at Ramirez just as the FBI agent was turning to leave.

‘You're a traitor, Ramirez,' he said as the coin missed his mark completely, landing flat on the tar-covered walkway. ‘I promise you I'll find
twenty-nine more pieces like that one for you before this is over – and let the world know exactly what a Judas you really are.'

Ramirez turned to pick up the coin with his handkerchief and deposit it in his pocket. ‘You amuse me, Cavanaugh, which is a compliment by the way, because believe it or not, I am not easily entertained. But I warn you. Watch your back. Next time, my gun leaves a calling card in your brain and then you and Bradshaw can talk justice for all eternity and beyond.'

Less than a year before, a former CIA counter intelligence officer gave an interview with a major British news magazine. In it he gave detailed information on the various technological advancements intelligence organisations such as the CIA and MI5 had made in regards to electronic surveillance. The man, a renegade ex-CIA agent who was interviewed under the code name ‘Zebra 1', talked about anything and everything from the hi-tech advances in microscopic bugs to the use of mobile phones as sophisticated listening devices picking up signals and conversations from distances of miles.

He said US intelligence organisations had been using powerful unidirectional microphones to pick up conversations behind glass windows for decades, with new technology applying radio waves and laser beams that would bounce off the glass and turn the vibrations into speech – a system not unlike the infra-red device employed by Ramirez outside Myrtle McGee's earlier that evening.

‘Zebra 1' gave details on developments in personal and automobile tracking systems, wireless computer interception gear, cell phone interceptors and blockers. He spoke of advancements in room bug and phone tap detectors, computer key stroke detectors, state-of-the-art covert transmitters and shattered the myth that ‘white noise', such as a running shower, could make any listening device defunct. The new technology was now so advanced that even the faintest of conversations could be isolated and enhanced to crisp and comprehensible perfection.

He did say, however, that there was still one place where a man could feel reasonably safe to speak freely without fear of precise and relatable detection – in the great outdoors.

‘It remains the case today as it has always been, that probably the
best way to avoid being eavesdropped is to pass information during a long, unpredictable and unannounced walk in the park,' he told the reporter. ‘Unless there is a pre-arranged satellite surveillance link trained on said individuals at that specific stroke of time, it is highly unlikely that a conversation can be recorded with any definition or legitimate guarantee.'

Unfortunately, for the unlikely pair in the nondescript gunmetal grey van parked in Park Street directly across from the northern entrance of Boston Common, ‘Zebra 1' was right.

‘This is useless,' said the technician to CIA Director Richard Ryan. ‘The space is too big. We have nothing to bounce off.'

‘Quiet,' said Ryan. ‘Did you hear that?' He turned to his companion. ‘Cavanaugh mentioned John.
Shit
, he's saying too much.'

‘For God's sake,' said his companion. ‘This is insane. We can't hear them, let alone see them from here. Cavanaugh could be in serious trouble. Perhaps you should . . . ?'

‘Ramirez won't kill him. The bastard is too smart. He knows the risk is too high.'

‘That's four days to change your plea,' they heard Ramirez say, this time the signal a little stronger. ‘. . . Judge Donovan Monday morning, 9am . . . legal . . . confessional . . .'

‘Jesus Christ,' said the companion. ‘He wants him to change his plea!'

More static and then another voice – Cavanaugh's. ‘You're a traitor, Ramirez. I promise you I'll find twenty-nine more pieces of silver like that one for you before this is over – and let the world know exactly what a Judas you really are.'

Then Ramirez again: ‘. . . watch your back . . . gun . . . calling card in your brain . . . you and Bradshaw can talk justice for all eternity and beyond.'

‘Richard,' said the companion. ‘This has gone too far. How could it have come to this? How could I not have seen it? You have to stop this now. You have to bring him in.'

‘Not yet. You heard Ramirez. Cavanaugh has four days. He and his friends are smart. They're good people. Their hearts are in this. Give them the time, see what they can come up with.'

‘But they think
I
am the one who . . .'

‘Don't you see? If you don't play this out, there will always be doubt, always a way for John and Ramirez to point the finger at someone else – at Montgomery, at me, and more to the point, at
you
.'

‘I am many things, Ryan, but I am not a coward,' she said. ‘I have been betrayed. They want to take me on, then let them.'

‘No,' said Ryan. ‘I understand your anger but the minute you get involved it becomes political. If we make this anything more than an independent, agenda-free investigation, Ramirez and John can claim they were set up – and could appeal on grounds of entrapment.'

Ryan could see his companion looked unconvinced.

‘We have to control this from a distance. They've come this far without our help. Let's see what else they can do.'

‘First subject is back in his car,' interrupted the technician. ‘Second subject is on the move – slowly.'

‘See,' said Ryan. ‘Cavanaugh's a tough bastard. He's okay.'

‘No thanks to us.'

And then they sat there in silence, listening to the distant fuzz of the technician's surveillance equipment.

‘So what do we do now?' began the companion. ‘Let's say Cavanaugh and his friends are smart enough to uncover the truth, how do we play this without it looking like “he said/she said”?'

‘By giving Ramirez what he wants,' said Ryan.

‘
Excuse me?'

‘We get Cavanaugh to change his plea – or at least feign that as his intent. Then we make a show of it. Pull them all into court. Give them their hallowed day in the sun.'

‘You can't be serious.'

‘I've never been more serious in my life. Don't you see? This has been a political set-up from the very beginning. It is no coincidence Ramirez has given Cavanaugh and his friends until Monday to change their plea. John will see to it that the real Vice Presidential recommendation will be announced to sync in with the hearing – what better way to announce a prospective new VP than to claim triumph over the killer who took the life of their much beloved predecessor?'

Ryan looked at her then, and saw she was coming around.

‘You're right,' she said at last. ‘They'll be there, parading in front of the
cameras. And the frightening thing is, the people will embrace them like they have never embraced anyone before.'

Ryan said nothing – but he could see the disappointment in her eyes and registered just how hard this must be for her.

‘Look,' he said, feeling the need to offer her some form of apology. ‘I am sorry for assuming it was you who . . .'

‘It's all right, Richard,' she said shaking her head, the burden of what she had learned over the past twenty-four hours written clearly on her now forlorn features. ‘Considering I told you I was going to be the next Vice President, I can see how you made the leap. But I must tell you, I
need
you to know, that I have done many things in the name of ambition, many things I am not proud of – but I could never take another life in order to reach my own selfish objectives.

‘Believe it or not, Richard,' she went on, her normally cool eyes now filling with tears, ‘I respect the principles of democracy – even feel humbled to be of service to them. So the thought that I could . . . that I would sink to such depths.'

Ryan nodded, realising there was nothing else he could say to comfort her now. ‘Don't worry, Cavanaugh and his friends can pull this off,' he said.

‘You think so?' she said, wiping her tears.

‘I hope so – and besides, there is no other option. We've run out of time.'

‘They'll need our help. It is unfair to ask them to do this without . . .'

‘I'll be with them every step of the way,' said Ryan, ‘steering them in the right direction, monitoring their progress. And if . . .
when
, they work it out, we'll call them in, tell them how this has to be played.'

‘I'm not sure they are going to like that.'

‘They won't have any choice.'

Just then, Ryan was interrupted by the ring of his private cell and one look at the incoming number sent a chill of anticipation up his spine.

‘Mr President,' he said.

The companion made no attempt to hide her astonishment; the short, sharp intake of breath was accompanied by a tiny high pitched squeal.

President Latham
, she thought.
He was in on this too
.

The past day had seen her try to come to terms with more surprises than she had encountered in her entire career – which was certainly saying something considering she thought she had become immune to the shocks of her chosen profession. For years she had taken pride in her ability to dodge the bullets, deflect the damage and even weather the occasional jolts of a ‘direct hit' from a savvy opponent. But today was something else – today the knife cut
deep
, and while she had faith in her professional ability to endure this national cataclysm, she was not so sure about her personal survival, and if she would ever recover from . . .

The companion released her breath and tried to maintain some essence of composure. She sat straight, stock-still, despite the cramp in her left leg which had been squashed against the side panel of the less than accommodating van for the past half hour. She studied Ryan – her enemy turned ally – steeling herself, listening for some word, looking for some indication of what this latest revelation might mean, for him, for her, and for the world as they knew it.

But if she thought herself impregnable to further surprise, she was in effect, fooled again. For Ryan's next reaction was completely unexpected. The CIA Director hung up the phone without saying another word – and then he began to cry.

D
avid felt like he was drifting, slowly at first as if he was oblivious to the direction he was floating and did not have the energy to care. He felt thick, sluggish, the pain a distant throb, his limbs heavy and lifeless, the need for sleep overwhelming. But then there was something else, some persistent obligation which seemed determined to pull him from the abyss and call him back into action. And then the obligation had a voice and then, as he dragged his eyelids open, it had a face and for a brief second he thought he might have died and gone to heaven.

‘David,' she said. ‘Can you hear me? David, it's me, Sara, and Joe's here too.'

‘Hey buddy,' said Joe.

‘Sara,' said David, reaching for her hand.

‘It's okay. You're okay. Lisa re-stitched your wound. She gave you a strong painkiller and a sedative.'

‘How did I . . . ?'

‘I called Joe the minute you left the apartment. Then I ran out into the street looking for you. I couldn't find you anywhere, but then you found me – and Joe, who helped me get you upstairs. Your wound is deep. Lisa wanted to have you admitted but you wouldn't let her, so she stitched you up right here. Do you remember any of this, David?'

‘Yes. Some.' David looked around his bedroom, as if sensing someone else should be there.

‘Joe drove Karin back to the Regency Park,' said Sara, reading his mind.

‘The press won't bother her there,' said Mannix. ‘There's no way they'd figure her returning to the place where they kept her a virtual prisoner. I spoke to the manager, they have good security, and I put some extra uniforms on the detail.'

‘Thanks, Joe,' said David, looking at Sara to check his concern was okay. Sara gave him a half smile, but he noted the furrow in her brow. Life was short, that much he knew for sure, and right now, more than anything else, he needed to make things right with her – once and for all.

‘Sara, I am so sorry. For beating you up over that call to Simba, for not telling you about Karin, for going to meet Ramirez when you begged me not to, for dragging you into this whole God-damned mess without once even asking you if . . .'

‘David,' she said, shaking her head as she looked into his eyes. ‘You're right, you had no right to do any of those things. You are a stubborn ass who thinks he can play Good Samaritan to everyone he meets. But it doesn't work that way, David. You try to protect the masses and you end up forgetting about the ones that matter most.' She took a breath then, obviously reading the regret on his face. And then she reached out and covered his hand in hers, her tensed features replaced by a consolatory smile of understanding.