Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder (25 page)

“How long is the Reagan Building booked for?” a staffer asked, not bothering to disguise the cynicism in his voice. “There's how many people on the invite list, five hundred?”

“Four hundred and forty,” Meg Whitson replied. “The Wilson plaza can accommodate eight hundred.”

“And he's going to shake hands with four hundred and forty people?” the aide asked, his cynicism even more pronounced. “And have pictures taken with them?”

Whitson laughed. “Senator Mortinson is the fastest handshaker in the business,” she said. “Besides, he feels that because many of the invited guests will have come great distances, the least they can go home with is a photograph. Governor Thomas is good at photo ops and handshakes, too. The gathered will get to press the flesh of the next president of the United States and spend a few days in D.C. visiting the monuments and seeing how Congress runs.”

Someone at the meeting laughed. “They take one look at how Congress runs and they'll renounce their citizenship and won't be able to vote anyway.”

“Do I sense a skeptic in the room?” Whitson said.

No one answered, and she turned to the Secret Service agent who was indulging in a habit whenever he was dismayed at something—rubbing his shaved head. “I know this puts a strain on your people,” Whitson said.

“That's a lot of people getting close to him,” the agent replied.

“True,” said Whitson, “but the guests have been carefully selected.”

The agent was tempted to challenge that—he'd heard it too many times before and seen the results—but he didn't say what he was thinking. “We'll do our best,” was what he settled for.

Everyone in the room knew that he and his people would. Anything less would be disastrous. Everyone also knew that the Secret Service was the best, the most efficient and loyal security detail in the world. Still, bad things could happen, and had. There was never a moment when Mortinson was on the campaign trail, out in public shaking hands and schmoozing with the voters, that concern about his safety wasn't on everyone's mind.

“Okay,” Whitson said, eager to end the meeting and get on with other items on the agenda,” the senator leaves three hours from now for San Francisco and the fund-raiser out there. He'll stay overnight and be back in D.C. tomorrow.” She read off a list of names of those who would accompany the candidate, which included her. “Let's move,” she said. “We're that close, so no mistakes.”

*   *   *

Three hours later, as the charted jet carried Senator George Mortinson, members of his staff, and a cadre of reporters to San Francisco, another jet landed in Washington. Puhlman led Itani and Gibbons from the terminal to a black SUV with deeply tinted windows. The driver said nothing as they loaded their carry-on bags into the back and got in. There was no need for him to say anything. He knew what the plan called for.

He drove into the District and pulled up in front of the Allen Lee Hotel on F Street in Foggy Bottom, where two rooms had been reserved for Puhlman and Gibbons using their false identities. They checked in, went to their rooms, waited what they considered a decent amount of time, and walked out to the waiting SUV.

The next stop was the JW Marriott on Pennsylvania. Puhlman, carrying an overnight bag that had been in the SUV, accompanied Itani inside, where he checked in using a credit card bearing his name that had been provided by Colin Landow. They went to the room, and Puhlman emptied the bag of its contents—a few items of clothing that he put on hangers in the closet, underwear and socks that were placed in a dresser drawer, and a kit containing toiletries that was hung on the back of the bathroom door.

“This is my room?” Itani asked.

“Later,” Puhlman replied. “We have to go someplace else for a while.”

Itani looked puzzled but didn't press. Part of his conditioning by Borger involved doing whatever Puhlman instructed.

Back in the SUV, they headed for a nondescript house in a Virginia suburb that had been rented by Colin Landow through a front organization. The Central Intelligence Agency also had such safe houses, but Landow didn't dare use any of them for this mission.

Itani had grown visibly agitated during the flight despite being fed a series of Puhlman's answer to a Tom Collins. He'd squirmed in his seat and uttered some almost unintelligible four-letter words; at one point Puhlman thought it might be necessary to physically restrain him. The in-flight movie was a silly comedy that did nothing to ease Itani's obvious discomfort at being strapped in a seat and wedged between two large men for more than six hours.

Now he huddled in the backseat of the SUV, again between the two men, as it headed for the safe house.

“You okay, Iskander?” Puhlman asked at one point during the drive.

“No, I am not okay.”

“What's the matter?”

“I want to see my brothers and my mother.” He'd expressed the same desire during the flight.

“Look, Iskander,” Puhlman said, “Dr. Borger told you that once you had a few bouts under your belt, your brothers and mother would be brought to see you fight. Now isn't the time.”

“When do I fight?”

“Soon.” He leaned across Itani and said to Gibbons, “Isn't that right, Jake?”

“Yeah, that's right. I've got to get you licensed in D.C. before you can get in the ring.”

“My opponent,” Itani said. “Who is he?”

Borger had prepped Gibbons about how to answer such questions, and the former leg breaker for San Francisco's loan sharks grappled with remembering what Borger had said.

“There's a couple of possibilities,” Gibbons said. “You might be filling in for a fighter who flunked his physical.”

“Who is he?”

Gibbons wanted to smack Itani in the mouth. He was fed up with the questions and couldn't wait to reach their destination and get out of the car. Instead he patted Itani on the leg and said, “Hey, kid, just be patient. Doc Borger has invested a hell of a lot in you, so don't get antsy, okay?”

Itani looked angrily at Gibbons. He'd grown to dislike the gruff-talking man and his short temper. Puhlman, too, had gotten on his nerves. He wished Dr. Borger was with them. Borger was a wise and kindly gentleman who had his, Itani's, best interests at heart. And Elena was his friend—his girlfriend. He missed her as much as he missed Borger and wondered how long it would be before he again saw her, held her, breathed in her perfume, and luxuriated in her soft skin.

As they drew closer to the house, Itani wanted to call off the trip and return to San Francisco. Why did they have to travel all the way to Washington, D.C., for him to fight? By the time they pulled into a driveway shielded from the street by a row of high, thick hedges, he'd decided that he wanted to talk with Borger and told Puhlman this.

“He's pretty busy,” Puhlman said.

“I want to talk with him,” Itani insisted.

Puhlman looked at Gibbons, whose expression reflected his displeasure.

“All right,” Puhlman said. “We'll call him once we're settled inside.”

The three-bedroom house was a nondescript cape, white with black shutters. The small patch of lawn in front was in need of mowing, and flowers in a narrow bed now competed with weeds.

“Who owns this place?” Gibbons asked Puhlman as they carried their suitcases in through the front door.

“It doesn't matter,” was Puhlman's grumbled reply. The trip had tired him and he wanted to nap. But that would have to be later. He looked into each of the bedrooms and assigned Itani the middle one; Puhlman and Gibbons would take the rooms on either side. Gibbons opened the refrigerator and saw that it was fairly well stocked. Nonperishable groceries in brown paper bags sat on the red-and-white Formica counter. Landow had done a good job of anticipating their needs for the few days that they'd be there.

Heavy maroon drapes covered all the windows. A small television set sat in a corner of the living room, whose furniture was worn and drab; a cushion on a tan love seat was torn. The only telephone, tethered to a landline, sat on a table next to the love seat.

A door from the kitchen led to a flight of crude wooden stairs leading down to the unfinished basement. Puhlman whispered to Gibbons, “I'll be right back,” as he opened the door. Using a flashlight he'd retrieved off the kitchen counter, he slowly went down the stairs. He trained the flashlight's beam into a corner of the dirt floor where a table was covered with a bright blue plastic tarp. Puhlman removed the cover. Beneath it was a gray metal box with a padlock. He took a key from his pocket that Borger had given him and undid the lock. The hinged top opened easily, revealing the box's contents, a Smith & Wesson 638 Airweight revolver that held five rounds of .38 special ammunition, and a box of those bullets. The third item was an ID tag encased in plastic with a blue ribbon with which to hang it from the neck. The ID read I
SKANDER
I
TANI—
W
ESTSIDE
B
OXING
C
LUB,
S
AN
M
ATEO,
CA.

He returned everything to the box with the exception of the ID tag, but before rejoining the others he placed a call on a special cell phone he'd been supplied.

“The items are here,” he told the man who answered.

“Good. Put them on the front step.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now.”

Puhlman carried the box up the stairs and deposited it on the front steps of the house. The man who'd taken his call was parked at the corner, lights off, his vantage point allowing him to see the house. After Puhlman had left the box and disappeared inside, the man drove to the front of the house, got out, retrieved the box, placed it in the backseat, and drove off.

When Puhlman walked into the kitchen, Itani and Gibbons were arguing.

“What's going on?” Puhlman asked.

“He wants to call the doc. That's all he keeps saying,” Gibbons replied angrily.

Puhlman motioned for Itani to follow him into the living room. “I'll place the call for you,” Puhlman said. Using the same cell phone he'd used in the basement, he dialed a number that connected to a separate cell phone carried by Borger.

“Sheldon, it's Peter. Iskander wants very much to speak with you. What? No, I think you should, Sheldon.”

He handed the phone to Itani.

“Hello, Iskander,” Borger said pleasantly. “Did you have a good flight?”

Itani ignored the question and said, “When can I talk to my brothers?”

“Very soon, Iskander,” Borger said in a soothing voice. “Very soon.”

“But I want to—”

“Iskander, the golden chalice will soon be yours,” Borger said.

Puhlman, who sat on the love seat, observed the change in Itani. Up until that moment he'd been visibly angry, bordering on belligerent. But his face softened and he looked across the room, and seemingly beyond, as he held the phone to his ear.

Borger had used the phrase he'd implanted in Itani during their many sessions.
The golden chalice will soon be yours.
The moment Itani heard it, he entered a deep trance and would do whatever Borger told him to do.

Borger had used key phrases with Sheila Klaus and to bring out Carla Rasmussen:
The red sage Lantana are blooming
would induce a trance state in her. When he was readying her to kill Mark Sedgwick, he'd used the phrase
It's a beautiful day for a cruise
to prompt Carla to follow through on the instructions Sheila had received while under hypnosis, and the accompanying amnesia.

“I want you to go deeper and deeper into the pleasant thoughts you're having,” Borger said to Itani over the phone. “Deeper and deeper. That's it. Where are you now?”

“In Washington.”

“Who's with you?”

“Mr. Puhlman and Mr. Gibbons.”

“They are your friends, Iskander. They want only the best for you. You must listen to what they say and follow their instructions. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me what it is that you understand.”

Itani repeated what Borger had said.

“I'll be coming to see you in Washington in a few days,” Borger said. “Until I do, Peter and Jake will take care of everything you need. Jake will be working on getting you licensed to fight in Washington and setting up your matches. That takes time and you must be patient. There are some events you'll be attending, large events that will give you the opportunity to right some wrongs. I'll tell you more about that later.”

“Elena,” Itani said.

“What?”

“Elena.”

“Oh, yes, Elena is fine. She called to tell me that she misses you and is looking forward to seeing you fight. I'll make sure that she does.”

“All right.”

“Okay,” Borger said. “I'm going to count backward from ten to one. When I reach one, you'll be out of your pleasant trance state and will forget we ever had this conversation. When I reach one, you'll hand the phone back to Peter. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Borger started counting. He reached one, but Itani had snapped out of his trance by the count of six and had handed the phone to Puhlman.

“He should be fine,” Borger said.

“I hope so,” Puhlman said.

“Is everything going as planned?”

“Yes. The materials were here, including the ID tag.”

“That's good. If everyone just stays calm and follows the plan, there won't be any problems. I'll be here at the house tonight and all day tomorrow. Call anytime. Use this phone. Good night, Peter.”

Gibbons made dinner for them. To be more accurate, he heated frozen packages of chicken marsala and tossed a salad from a bag of prewashed lettuce. Itani's conversation with Borger had calmed him considerably. Although he ate in silence, he occasionally smiled, or even laughed, at something Puhlman or Gibbons had said. Puhlman had made him a Tom Collins (Borger had told Landow of Itani's preference for the drink, and arrangements had been made for the ingredients to be on hand.) Later, they sat in the living room. Gibbons, who'd consumed multiple cans of beer, nodded off in a chair. Puhlman and Itani sat on the love seat and watched television, one of the
Godfather
films. During a commercial break, Puhlman switched channels to CNN to see what was going on in the world. A report on the recovery of Virginia senator Marshall Holtz from his gunshot wounds—“The senator is making a good recovery and is expected to leave the hospital within days,” a hospital spokesperson said into the camera—was immediately followed by a statement from presidential candidate George Mortinson: “Senator Holtz's recovery is heartening,” said Mortinson. “I only hope that those who defend the rights of people like his assailant to easily purchase lethal weapons will face the reality that our gun laws desperately need to be changed.”