Gospel (58 page)

‘Not the same room but close. And wait, it gets better. The Presidential Suite itself was apparently reserved by the CIA. In fact, according to my sources, Dick Ryan personally booked the room, giving orders they were not to be disturbed. I sent a mole over there about an hour ago and he says the place is crawling in suits. But he did get a personal view of a hurried Ryan and Bryant getting into the elevator together. Something's going down, dude, and I thought you might know what.'

‘Thanks, Marc,'

‘What? Hold on, David, I was calling
you
for info. My editor's on my back. I
need
this story. I know you, and you know something. Come on, man, I gave you the tip off, you have to help me out here.'

‘Seriously, Marc,' said David, rising from his chair. ‘I really appreciate the call and I promise I'll ring you back soon.' And then he hung up before Rigotti could say another word, and switched off his phone.

‘What is it?' said Joe. ‘Where the hell are you going?'

‘Back to the scene of the crime,' said David.

‘What?' asked Sara. ‘What did Marc say? What does he know?'

‘Nothing – but he gave me a lead on Ryan.'

‘Jesus, Cavanaugh,' said Croker, now up out of his chair. ‘I want in on this. I
deserve
in on this.'

‘No,' said David, the rest of the room shocked by the sharpness in his voice.

‘I'm sorry, Sam, I know what you're going through but enough is enough. It is much smarter if I do this solo.'

‘No way, David,' began Joe. ‘It's too dangerous.'

‘Come on, Joe. Think about it. I'm the only one with a chance of getting in there. You and Croker are law enforcement. I'm just a dumb ass lawyer representing a guy on his way to a lethal injection. Don't forget, Nancy Doyle was my client and they killed her – right under our noses.

‘No,' he said again, now grabbing his keys and heading towards the door. ‘We're running out of time. I'm doing this by myself, and I'm going to do it now.'

‘Is it done?' asked John.

‘Yes,' replied Matthew.

‘You took care of it personally?'

‘Yes.'

‘How in the hell did she survive the . . . ?'

‘My operative will be punished.'

‘You were careful?'

He did not bother answering.

‘How did they know she was still alive?' John went on.

‘My guess is they are
responsible
for her still being alive – and now they are responsible for her death.'

‘So that's the end of them then,' said John.

‘There is nothing else. We are expecting Cavanaugh's call to confirm he is changing his plea at any minute, and then, we'll have it in the bag.'

‘Then I should still plan on . . . ?'

‘Yes,' he interrupted. ‘You should be here Monday morning as planned. Is the President still set on a Monday announcement?'

John said nothing and for a second Ramirez felt a tinge of disquiet.

‘He's out of town,' said John. ‘I am told it is a matter of international security. I'll be privy to such matters soon but I can't push it – not just yet. In any case it is nothing to worry about. He called this afternoon and assured me the timing of the announcement should not be affected. I alluded to a breakthrough in the Montgomery case and he asked that I keep him informed. He said he understood my need to be in Boston if necessary and would fit around my needs.'

‘How accommodating of him.'

‘Indeed,' she said after another slight pause.

‘Plan your flight for early Monday,' said Ramirez. ‘So the press have an
opportunity to film you arriving. This is a very important moment for you. You deserve to make the most of it.'

‘As long as you are sure Cavanaugh has nothing that will . . .'

‘Nothing.'

‘You're sure?'

‘I'm sure.'

I
n the end they let him go. For there was no stopping him and when they cut to the chase they knew he was right. They had no chance fronting the Fairmont as a posse. Hell, David had little to no chance of making it to the hallowed penthouse floor alone, but at least a battalion of one could move between floors without causing too much suspicion. At least, that was the theory.

He contemplated calling Pieter Capon but in the end decided against it. Capon was a good man but he was also, no doubt, under strict orders from Ryan and his CIA cronies that they not be disturbed under any circumstances. David would be told ever so politely that the top floor was out of bounds and that would be that.

Maeve Barlow was another alternative and might be of assistance when it came to access to the penthouse floor. But she alone would not be enough – he needed something else.

And so, as he pulled into Trinity Place along the eastern boundary of the hotel, he tried to think of something, anything that would give him an edge.
What was it they taught us in survival school
? he asked himself, trying to remember the specifics of a wildlife endurance camp he and his older brother Sean had been to as teenagers.
Try to blend in with your surroundings, aim at losing yourself in commonality and become one with
your enemy, even if it meant walking into their camp right in front of their very eyes
.

And then he had it. In fact, he had had it all along, in his front shirt pocket to be exact. It was sitting there against his heart, rising and falling with his every breath, Dick Ryan's personal signature on David Cavanaugh's approval for temporary CIA Agent status. It was the fax Ryan had sent on Thursday night, before his trip to see James Bishop in DC. He was one of them, after all.

‘It's nice to see you again, Mr Cavanaugh,' said Maeve Barlow who David had called via front desk reception. ‘Is there anything I can help you with?'

‘Hi Maeve,' said David with a smile, trying to appear as relaxed as possible. ‘Nothing major. I just need to see CIA Director Ryan and I'm not sure what room he is in.'

‘That's easy,' she said. ‘He's up on five, one of the executive suites. Maybe I should call Mr Capon. I am sure he would enjoy accompanying you up there.'

‘No, that's fine. I really don't want to bother him. But maybe, if you don't mind, you could show me up, if that's okay.'

‘Sure. I was about to go on my break anyway. In fact it's lucky you caught me, I think Mr Ryan's security personnel have restricted the elevator access to the fifth floor. But we can use my master key. Do you want me to ring ahead to let him know you are on your way up?'

‘No thanks. He's expecting me.'

David hated lying to the helpful girl, but he knew there was no alternative. He had guessed the access to the upper floor would be restricted – and Maeve was his ‘free pass up'. From there on in, he would have to rely on his ‘Temporary CIA Status' fax and hope that he made it as far as Dick Ryan's door.

The interior of the ornately furnished elevators were mirrored. And David avoided looking at his own reflection for fear he would see the stifled panic in his eyes. He took a breath and released it slowly, trying to slow the beat of his heart, feeling suddenly hot despite the chill of the temperature controlled air-conditioning.

The lift climbed, slowly, David focusing on the red electronic numbers
which seemed to ascend, at least at first, at a ridiculously lethargic rate. But as they passed level two, three, four, the timing between floors seemed to compress as if some invisible lift driver had shoved his appropriately polished shoe on an indiscernible accelerator.

‘Don't you think so?' said Maeve. And David realised he had not heard a word of the young girl's chatter.

‘Sure,' he said. ‘Absolutely,' he confirmed, having no idea what he had just agreed with.

Ding!

‘Here we are then,' said Maeve. ‘Director Ryan is in 531, down the end of the corridor to your right, just beyond the Presidential Suite. I might pop down for a quick coffee before my break is up if that's okay? Do you think you'll be right from here?'

And then he saw them – eight, ten, maybe more dark-suited sentries lining the fifth floor corridor like a scene from Will Smith's
Men in Black
.

Storm Troopers
, he thought to himself, making the mental reference to his childhood obsession with
Star Wars . . . except they are in black, not white, guarding their own Dark Lord like their expendable lives depended on it
.

‘Sure,' he said, summoning all the confidence he could muster. ‘And thanks again, Maeve – Warrior Queen right?'

‘Yes, Mr Cavanaugh, you have a good memory.'

‘Maybe the name just fits,' he said, grateful for her help and knowing in a way it was true. ‘You go get that coffee. I am going to be fine.'

He stepped out of the lift and felt a sudden wave of loneliness as the slight breeze from behind indicated the elevator doors had closed and Maeve was no longer with him. He pulled the fax from his pocket in readiness, and then he began to walk. He passed the first two men, then the second, his feet feeling slow and heavy as if the plush pile carpet was absorbing his footfalls like a sponge. Somewhere in his subconscious he registered the piped muzak sound of some classical symphony. Vivaldi maybe?
Four Seasons
? No doubt Montgomery would know.

The third group was not so accommodating. Perhaps they, unlike their earlier counterparts, had not seen him in the lift with Maeve? Maybe the earlier four had assumed he worked for the hotel, but that cover had only got him so far. Six feet from the Presidential Suite he was stopped by an
agent who appeared vaguely familiar. The man had been standing guard outside the Presidential Suite door and David knew he had seen him before. He had a strong sense of déjà vu as if he had stepped back in time.
No
, more like he had stepped into a TV show or a movie and was now playing himself in some deadly reality fest from hell.

‘Who are you?' asked the man, his broad Texan drawl deep and confronting.

‘My name is David Cavanaugh and I am here to see Director Ryan.' David unfolded the fax. ‘I have been trying to contact the Director all morning. We have an appointment, with a man named Bishop.'

‘Who is it, Dan?' said the voice from inside the now opening Presidential Suite door and then David remembered where he had seen ‘Dan' before. He was the Secret Service agent on the video – the same agent standing sentry outside Tom Bradshaw's suite all those weeks ago.

These men weren't CIA, they were Secret Service
, he realised, t
he Vice President's detail . . . which means they were guarding the Vice President – or rather Dick Ryan the VP to be
.

It had been Ryan all along – this confirmed it. His ‘idealism' had been way off base. Sara had been right – Ryan was a traitor, a man who betrayed his best friend in the name of greed and ambition.

‘It's Mr Cavanaugh, Director,' said Dan Kovacs.

‘What?' David heard Ryan say as he opened the door.

‘You heard him, Ryan,' said David, unable to control his anger any longer. ‘We had an appointment, remember? But then maybe you have been busy over the past twenty-four hours, eliminating witnesses. Was it your idea for Ramirez to leave his calling card or are the thirty quarters his own personal specialty?'

‘Cavanaugh, I have no idea what the fuck you . . .'

‘Nancy Doyle is dead.'

‘What?'

‘That's right,' said David. ‘Just as you ordered. That brings the body count up to five and . . .'

‘
Fuck
,' said Ryan, just as Kovacs and his ‘friend' moved in to constrain David. ‘Let him go, boys,' he said, now grabbing David by the forearm. ‘Get in here, Cavanaugh. It's time you learned the truth.'

David found himself standing just inside the door of the luxuriously decorated Presidential Suite, the desk lamps on, the chintz curtains closed. At first Dick Ryan said nothing, preferring the presence of the two people in the room to speak for themselves.

‘David Cavanaugh, I'd like you to meet White House Chief of Staff Maxine Bryant,' he said and Bryant stood from the burgundy covered sofa to walk slowly across the suite towards him.

‘It's nice to meet you, Mr Cavanaugh,' she said, her handshake strong and determined.

‘And this,' said Ryan, referring to the second person in the suite. ‘This is . . .'

‘I know who you are, sir,' said David, now managing the two steps forward to meet President Bob Latham face to face. ‘It's an honour to meet you, Mr President.'

‘Nonsense,' said Latham. ‘Dick tells me great things about you, Mr Cavanaugh. I want to thank you for everything you are doing for us.'

For us!

‘And I can assure you that you have my full support and gratitude – and that of the American people.'

‘I . . .' David began.

‘Nancy Doyle is dead,' said Ryan to the other two in the room.

‘Dear God,' said President Latham. ‘So it was . . .'

‘Ramirez,' said Ryan.

And the President paused, looking down to shake his head before turning to David. ‘I'm sorry, Mr Cavanaugh, these are tough times and I am afraid you have found yourself in the thick of things. Unfortunately I am going to have to ask you to take this matter to its conclusion, which I need to warn you, is not going to be easy.'

‘Nancy Doyle was a brave woman, Mr President,' said David, not knowing where to start. ‘We have been trying to . . .'

But then he stopped to look at Ryan and Bryant – together, here with the President of the United States. They must have been wrong. It just seemed so hard to decipher between good and evil. His head was a maze, the adrenalin pumping through his veins making it impossible for him to focus.

‘I am not sure what you are asking me, Mr President. I'm not sure I . . .'