Gospel (68 page)

‘No,' said Bradshaw, now shaking his head. ‘I am afraid my wife, and the true nature of GIV's maniacal motives are two pieces of information that must remain in this room indefinitely. The consequences of the public discovering my wife's plans – and how far she had gone to achieving them – would cause national chaos on an unprecedented scale. The slightly altered truth about Ramirez's plans are bad enough – but believe
it or not “extortion” is the
safe
story. The blackmail, the progression to achieving absolute power by controlling Congress and influencing government decisions, well, that is paramount to tyranny. I have no doubt the release of that information would trigger such a loss of confidence in everything our government represents that it may never recover.'

David looked at Bradshaw then and wondered how on earth to define him. Was he a political beast determined to do anything to advance to the Presidency, or was he a selfless public servant, willing to forgo any semblance of a happy existence so that he might ‘serve his people' and continue his fight against the greatest pestilence America had ever known.

‘Mr Vice President,' David began.

‘It's Tom.'

‘Tom. Forgive me, but I need to know. How can
you
go through with this? How can you go on living as husband and wife? How can you smile for the cameras and hold hands with the woman who plotted to end your life? That's a mighty big call, Tom, even for a man who they call a Saint.'

‘You're right,' said Bradshaw. ‘And truth be told, David, there are moments when I doubt I have the strength to pull it off myself. Logistically I will have help – Melissa will be under constant house arrest – discreetly of course, but she will be watched every second of every day by a team loyal to me. You also have to remember she is the mother of my two children, and while they will also be watched and supervised constantly while in her care, I cannot destroy them by telling them the truth of what their mother intended to do to me.'

David nodded then, seeing the tiredness in Bradshaw's eyes. The man looked older somehow and, not so much with age, but with burden and experience and disappointment and grief.

‘What about Maxine Bryant?' David asked.

‘My mother-in-law is a very clever woman,' said Bradshaw. ‘A few months ago she had every intention of asking – or, more to the point, demanding – that I consider her for the next Vice President. In fact she was on her way to my suite to make that request on the night of 30 April, when Ramirez prevented her from entering my room.

‘I've told her that the job is hers – but she has since declined. She has asked me to consider her for another role.'

‘What? The role of Vice President is not enough for her?'

‘No. She asked for a more important role as far as I am concerned – the role of grandmother to my children.'

‘I don't understand,' said David.

‘Neither did I at first. But she requested, considering my wife's . . . situation, that I allow her to take a greater hand in their upbringing. Maxine has never been the maternal type and perhaps there is part of her that blames herself for what her daughter has become. But it wasn't her fault, and to be honest, her request gave me new faith in the institution we call family. People can change, David, and in the case of Maxine even surprise you. Needless to say she got the job – and I could not have been more grateful.'

They stopped then, taking it all in. And despite the pretence of it all, David realised he had a newfound respect for this complex man before him.

‘You're forgetting one thing,' he said at last. ‘You may be able to convince me and my team to keep your secret, but there is nothing stopping Ramirez from . . .'

‘Ramirez is dead,' said Ryan, catching David off-guard.

David turned to meet the CIA Director's eye. But for whatever reason, he realised Ryan's words did not surprise him.

‘Unfortunately the Assistant Director was involved with an altercation with one of my agents when said agent went to collect him from his holding cell at Boston's FBI Office in the early hours of this morning,' Ryan went on. ‘We planned to extradite him to DC before sunrise to avoid a media circus. He went for the agent's gun. It was self defence.'

‘And, no doubt, Ramirez and your agent were alone at the time,' said David.

‘Afraid so,' said Ryan.

And David just nodded.

‘Sometimes these situations call for responses that are out of the ordinary,' said Ryan. ‘Call it reality – or justice. Whatever sits best.'

‘And so, that's it,' said David, not knowing if he was relieved or disgusted. ‘The entire Gospel mess tied up in one neat, discreet package – sanitised, deodorised and disinfected for squeaky clean mass consumption.'

Ryan just shrugged.

Bradshaw said nothing.

‘It is true what they say then,' said David at last.

‘What's that?' asked Bradshaw.

‘God bless America,' he said, shaking his head. ‘The land of the free.'

Two days after the hearing

‘W
hy didn't you tell me?' asked David at last.

‘Because I didn't think it had worked.'

Professor Stuart Montgomery sat across from him in Arthur's light-filled office, the late summer morning crisp and clear, the smell of salt drifting in from the Harbour. Not so long ago they had sat in these exact same chairs – adversaries despite their attorney/client relationship – but that was before a dead man came back to life and enemies became friends.

‘How does it work?' asked David.

‘The Naloxone?'

‘Yes.'

‘Naloxone, which is better known by its brand name of Narcan, is an opiate antagonist or blocker. It reverses the effects of narcotic drugs by acting as an antidote against respiratory depression. It is used in hospitals to insight swift detoxification by putting an overdose victim into rapid withdrawal. It has saved many lives.'

‘And you . . . ?'

‘As soon as I entered the suite and realised what had happened – as
soon as I saw Tom had been the victim of an overdose – I gave him an intravenous injection of five milligrams of Naloxone Hydrochloride, and massaged his heart to encourage circulation. The OxyContin dosage was high but the Naloxone must have blocked its absorption before it managed to kill him.'

‘Thus the plastic syringe cover with your print.'

‘Yes. Ironic, isn't it?'

‘Why didn't the ME note the drug?' asked David.

‘Because it was standard procedure. The coroner would have assumed he was given the Naloxone at the hospital, but to no effect.'

‘So he was dead, and you brought him back to life.'

‘It appears so.'

‘But you didn't know?'

‘The paramedics managed to get Tom breathing in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, but only with the assistance of a ventilator. More often than not one shot of Naloxone is insufficient. Usually you start with a smaller dose – say of one to two milligrams and repeat this every two to three minutes until the patient recovers. I gave him one hit of the five milligrams hoping this would be enough, but as I said, I thought he was dead and believed at the time that no amount of intervention could have saved his life.

‘As soon as we reached Massachusetts General he was rushed inside by the Secret Service and I . . . well, soon after, Dick Ryan came outside and told me he was gone. Ryan knew, of course, which explains the lack of autopsy and his spiriting the “body” to Virginia.'

‘Why didn't you say something – about the Naloxone injection, I mean. It would have shown you tried to save him. It would have eliminated you from suspicion and . . .'

‘. . . and given Tom's killers a dire need to terminate me as matter of urgency. Me and . . .'

‘Karin.'

‘Yes.'

A pause.

‘You love her, don't you?'

‘I suppose I do.'

They sat there in silence for a while, listening to the regular beat of
the antique grandfather clock on the far wall; their breathing calm, their posture relaxed.

‘So what next?' asked David.

‘Karin and I are flying back to Washington tomorrow. We have agreed to give Caroline Croft an exclusive interview within the hour, largely so that I can announce the establishment of a new drug rehabilitation centre Tom and I are setting up in DC – the first of many, we hope. Croft will run the help line number so we can get the scheme off the ground. We even have our first “patient” on board – Jimmy Bishop.'

‘Maybe some good will come from this after all,' said David.

‘As a wise man once said: “Tragedy is a tool for the living to gain wisdom”.'

‘Aristotle?'

‘No, another great leader who wasn't as lucky as Tom – Robert Kennedy.'

David nodded, his brow furrowed and Montgomery looked at him then, as if trying to read his mind.

‘I know what you are thinking,' he said. ‘At least Kennedy's killer was prosecuted and punished and rightly so. But nothing is ideal, David. Sometimes we have to live with “good enough”.'

‘If you can live with it, Professor,' he said, ‘then I guess I can too.'

‘I think it's about time you called me Stuart.'

‘We'll see,' he said. And the two men smiled.

Montgomery looked at his watch. It was time for him to go. And in that moment David realised he was one of the few people privileged enough to see the real man behind the ‘façade'. Montgomery had been through hell, and from day one had conducted himself with dignity. His pomposity was offensive, as was his arrogance and sense of self-importance but at closer inspection David suspected those traits were more tools of survival in the dog-eat-dog world of politics – or more to the point in recent months, mechanisms of camouflage so that others might not realise his fear.

‘Before we go,' said the Professor. ‘I have to say . . .'

‘There's no need to thank me, Professor. I was just . . .'

‘Doing your job, yes. And while I am grateful I was actually going to say, I had to apologise.'

‘Apologise? For what?'

‘For taking her from you. And for never realising what I had.'

‘Don't tell me. Tell her,' he said, and the Professor nodded in reply.

David stood to leave, moving towards the door just as Montgomery turned to shake his hand – a firm, strong gesture which said it all.

‘She wanted me to give you this,' he said, retrieving an envelope from his pocket. ‘According to Karin, goodbyes are not her forte.'

‘So I hear,' he said.

Three months after the hearing

‘J
esus, McKay, where the hell are you going?' yelled a frustrated Susan Leigh. ‘You're meant to run this way – towards the opposition's line not back to your own base for Christ's sake. Don't you listen, McKay? McKay,
come back!'

It was enough to send them all into fits of laughter – Frank McKay running in the wrong direction just moments after a very comprehensive lecture from David, Tony Bishop and Jay Negley as to how to play touch rugby. But if Frank heard his partner, who was now standing mid field, her hands on her hips and a big smile on her face, he did not respond. McKay just ran to the other end of the field and yelled ‘
touchdown
' which meant absolutely nothing in the game of rugby and not much more to Frank who had never played a game of American football in his whole entire life.

‘This was a great idea,' said David as he ran from the field for a much needed time out, heading straight for Nora Kelly who held several bottles of ice cold water in her arms. ‘Thanks, Nora.'

‘It's been a few months since the hearing and I thought it might be good for all of us to see each other in less stressful circumstances,' she said
taking in the warmth of the mid-Fall sun. ‘I'm just glad most of us could make it.'

‘Me too.'

It was early October and this Columbus Day long weekend make-shift picnic had turned out to be one high-spirited day of ‘amateur' sporting fun.

Joe and Marie had brought their four boys and Leo and Janet King were there with their twin daughters. Albert and Pippa Mahoney made the trip down from Philly and James Bishop and his son Jimmy – on weekend leave from the Bradshaw/Montgomery Drug Rehabilitation Centre – had turned out to be a lethal twosome on the rugby field. Sam Croker even made it across from LA – organising for his son Lucas to come up from Princeton for the long weekend.

Pieter Capon was perched under an umbrella with Arthur and Eleanor Caspian who had decided to stay in the United States, while Maeve Barlow, whose three Irish-American brothers had taught her a thing or two about rugby, was down the far end of the field trying to explain the rules to Frank McKay one last time.

And a dirty faced, messy haired, scuffed kneed Sara, who was now running towards David with a huge smile on her face, had never, he thought, looked more beautiful.

‘Thanks, Nora,' she said, accepting a water. ‘And thanks to you too.'

‘What for?' asked David, throwing his arm around her shoulders.

‘For not putting Frank on my team. The guy is . . .'

‘Trying his best,' finished Nora. ‘What he lacks in talent, he makes up for in enthusiasm.'

An hour later they all sat down under the oak trees bordering the southern end of the field for a picnic lunch of fresh chicken, green salads and some of Marie Mannix's famous cranberry pie.

David announced he was going back to his car to grab a cooler containing more drinks and Leo King volunteered to help.

‘Great day,' said King.

‘The best.'

‘Pity the Montgomerys couldn't make it.'

‘I gather the Professor is pretty busy,' said David.

‘Yeah,' replied Leo. ‘Word has it he'll be confirmed as the next US
Surgeon General straight after next month's election. Latham is a shoo-in, the people love him.'