Читать книгу Kennedy’s Ghost - Gordon Stevens - Страница 11

Cath was curled beside him.

It was a long time since they’d met at Harvard, since they’d got to know each other in their final year. Then they’d gone their separate ways, she to law school and he, when his number had been drawn, to Vietnam. And that would have been the end of it. Except that once, during R and R, he’d written her; when he finally came home he’d found her number and called, and she’d visited him in hospital. Halfway through his own spell at law school they’d married; the night he’d got his first job she’d cooked him a candlelit dinner. Two years later she’d stood at his side when he’d run for his first public office.

Donaghue swung out of the bed, switched off the alarm before it woke her, and went to the bathroom. When he returned the bed was empty and the smell of breakfast was drifting up from the kitchen.

It was five-thirty. He started the Lincoln, waved back as she watched him from the front door, and drove to National airport. Twenty minutes later he was on the shuttle to La Guardia.

Pearson woke at six-thirty, showered, shaved and dressed. Evie was still asleep, her legs sticking out from under the duvet and her hair across the pillow.

The house was on 6th SE, half a block from Independence Avenue and ten minutes’ walk from the Hill. They’d bought it for a knock-down price, then sweated God knows how many weekends and holidays to get it as they wanted, had somehow squeezed the renovation between her professorship at Georgetown and his job on the Hill.

When he went upstairs she was still half asleep.

‘See you tonight.’

She rolled over so he could kiss her.

‘Be good.’

The morning was already warm; he left the house, crossed Independence, and turned left on East Capitol Street. In front of him the white dome of the Hill glistened in the early light. By seven thirty-five he had collected a coffee and doughnut from the basement canteen and was at his desk checking his electronic mail. At eight-thirty he briefed the morning meeting.

‘Senator Donaghue’s in New York for a fund-raising breakfast. He’ll be back at ten. Terry to collect him from National. Ten-thirty he meets a business delegation, Jonathan has the details. At eleven he’s in the Senate; Barbara in charge of TV and radio interviews after. Eleven forty-five he’s at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial; family paying their respects.’

For years now the families of the MIAs, the servicemen missing in action in Vietnam, had been campaigning in the hope that some of them might still be alive. Donaghue had championed their rights for greater information on reported sightings whilst cautioning against excessive hope. Six months earlier photographic evidence had been produced supposedly showing MIAs in a village in North Vietnam. One week ago they had been proven to be forgeries. Now the family of one of the men was coming to pay their respects at the polished black granite memorial in Constitution Gardens, and had asked Donaghue to join them, even though they were not from Donaghue’s state.

One of the lawyers raised his hand. ‘What chance of some coverage?’

‘ABC, CBS and NBC feeding to local affiliates,’ the press secretary told them. ‘CNN there as well unless something else breaks, plus radio and newspapers.’

Pearson nodded, then continued.

‘Twelve-thirty, Senate vote, Maureen accompanying him. One o’clock lunch at the National Democratic Club.’

There was a similar list of engagements for the afternoon and early evening, the final one at seven and lasting half an hour. And after that the meeting that wasn’t on any schedule. The one they called the war council.

Mitchell woke at seven, the sun streaming through the windows of the houseboat and the sound of a helicopter beating up the Potomac. It was a Gangplank joke that you could always tell when something was up and running by the number of choppers coming up the river and banking left for the Pentagon and right for the White House. Just as you could tell how much communication traffic was going out of the Pentagon – and therefore whether something was going down – by the television interference, and whether the White House was working overtime by the number of late-night pizza deliveries.

The photographs were by the upturned steel helmet next to the Marine Corps badge, more by the television.

Don’t forget, he told himself.

He showered, dressed, had breakfast on the sun deck, then took the metro rail to Union Station and walked to Dirksen Building.

The staff rooms of the Senate Banking Committee were on the fifth floor: three secretaries and a cluster of offices, some staffers having their own rooms and others sharing, computers and telephones on the desks, and the computers linked to the various databases to which the committee had access.

The desk he had been assigned was in a corner of one of the open plan areas, beneath a window. It was slightly cramped, but that was standard on the Hill, despite what people thought, and at least he could look out of the window. It was a pity he didn’t have more privacy, but everyone in the office was on the same side, and if he needed to make any really secure calls he could do them from somewhere else.

He fetched himself a coffee from the cafeteria and settled down.

Money laundering or banking, Pearson had said, as long as it was something with which the ordinary man or woman in the street would identify. And nothing too official yet, by which Pearson had meant nothing too obvious. Just a trawl, see what there was around. More than just a trawl, though; make sure he had enough evidence so that when Donaghue officially launched the enquiry he already knew it would produce results. The announcement of the enquiry timed to give Donaghue extra publicity once he’d thrown his hat into the presidential ring, and the results ready for when he and his advisers decided to use them. Everything planned, nothing left to chance.

Mitchell sat forward in the chair and began the calls.

‘Dick, this is Mitch Mitchell. Doing a job for the Senate Banking Committee and wondered if we should get together …’

To a lawyer at the Fed.

‘Angelina, this is Mitch Mitchell. Assigned to Senate Banking for a while and thought I should give you a call …’

A banker in Detroit.

‘Jay, this is Mitch Mitchell. Yeah, good to talk with you. How’re you doing … ?’

To a journalist on Wall Street.

Look for his own investigation, try to find something that nobody else had, and he’d spend light years on it and get nowhere. Pick up on something somebody else was already working, though, take it beyond where their expertise or resources could go but offer to cut them in on the final play, and he might make it.

‘Andie.’ Drug Enforcement Administration in Tampa, Florida. ‘Mitch Mitchell, long time no see. How’d you mean, you knew I was going to call. Why, what you got going?’

It would have to be good, though, have to be right. And he wouldn’t mention Donaghue unless someone asked, because Donaghue was money in the bank and only to be used when necessary.

By lunchtime he had spoken to ten contacts, by mid-afternoon another three, two more phoning him back. Tomorrow it would be the same, the day after the same again. And after he’d talked to them he’d hit the road, get hunched up over a beer with those who might have a runner. Sometimes it would be coffee, sometimes dinner, sometimes twenty minutes behind closed doors. And not all the contacts male, some of the best would be female.

‘Jim Anderton, please.’ Anderton was an Assistant District Attorney in Manhattan, smart waistcoats and friendly manner. When it suited. Political ambitions and on the make.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Anderton’s in court. Can he call you back?’

Mitchell gave the receptionist his name and new office number. Anderton would call back even if he didn’t have anything, because assistant DAs with political ambitions always did.

Tampa and Detroit seemed front runners at the moment, he decided, plenty of other options already emerging, though. He switched on the computer, built in a personal security code, and opened the first file of the investigation.

The armoured Chevrolet collected Brettlaw at seven. The family were seated round the breakfast table. Great house, great wife, great kids – he always appreciated being told. Great barbecues in the summer, great hiking trips in the fall, great skiing in the winter. When he’d had the time.

Fifteen minutes later the driver swung through the gates at Langley and turned under the main building. Brettlaw collected his briefcase and took the executive lift to the seventh floor. By nine, shortly before his meeting with the DCI, he was on his third coffee and his fourth Gauloise.

Costaine telephoned at eleven, via Brettlaw’s secretary, asking if the DDO had ten minutes. If Costaine, as his Deputy Director for Policy, asked for ten minutes, it was Costaine’s code for saying something was wrong. Not necessarily something that would change the world, just something which the DDO should know about, perhaps something which it would take the DDO to sort out. Besides, Costaine was Inner Circle; not Inner Circle of Inner Circle, but still part of the black projects.

Brettlaw told him to come up, and asked Maggie to put the remainder of his morning’s engagements back ten minutes.

Costaine arrived three minutes later.

‘There’s a slight problem with Red River.’

He was seated in the leather armchair in front of Brettlaw’s desk.

‘What exactly?’

Red River was a worn-out mining town turned ski resort eight thousand feet up in the Southern Rockies. Apparently run down, apparently redneck. Great people and great snow. Red River was also the code for one of the black projects.

‘Certain funds which should have been in place two days haven’t arrived.’

‘Important?’

Costaine ran his fingers through his crewcut. ‘Delicate rather than important, but we should get it sorted out.’ But he couldn’t, because he was operations, not finance.

‘Leave it with me. If it’s not sorted by tomorrow let me know.’

He waited till Costaine left then telephoned for Myerscough to come up.

‘The Nebulus accounts. Apparently some of the funds which were scheduled for transfer two days ago haven’t made it.’

‘No problem.’

Almost certainly it would be something as obvious as a bank clerk transposing two digits, Myerscough thought. It had happened before and would happen again. It was probably better to start in the middle rather than at the beginning or end of the chain – that way he’d reduce the work. Therefore he’d contact the fixer and get him to check that the funds had passed through the switch account in London. That way they could narrow down the problem area. And if the funds hadn’t reached London he’d go back to First Commercial and ask why the money hadn’t exited the US.

It was eleven Eastern Time, therefore he might just catch Europe before it closed down for the night. He left the seventh floor and returned to his own department on the fourth.

His office was in one corner, the rest of the section open plan, desks and computers, the technological whizz kids bent over them, sometimes fetching a coffee or iced water and leaning over someone else’s shoulder, cross-fertilizing ideas and statistics or just talking. It was a good department with good people. He closed the door, called the first number before he’d even sat down, and looked through the glass.

Bekki Lansbridge was in her late twenties, an economist by training, and had been with the Agency five years and his department for the past eight months. She was five-seven, he guessed, almost five-eight, blond hair and long face. And there his description of her slipped in to the vernacular. Great ass, great chassis, great mover. Probably moving it for someone, except that it wasn’t him. Perhaps one day she would.

The ringing stopped and he heard the voice of the personal assistant. Swiss and efficient.

‘Is he there?’ he asked.

‘I’m afraid not.’

No enquiring who was calling and no suggestion he might like to leave a message. If he wished either then he would say so.

‘When will he be back?’

‘Probably tomorrow.’

He called Milan.

‘Good afternoon. Is he there?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘When could I speak to him?’

‘Possibly tomorrow.’

There was the slightest hesitation, he thought. Certainly the day after … it was implied, but without conviction, as if the secretary was unsure herself.

It was unlike the fixer. The contact was often away setting things up and meeting people like Myerscough. The two of them tried to meet at least twice a year and to talk at least once a month, even when there was nothing much to discuss, because the two of them had set up the system, and set it up good. So it wasn’t unusual for the Italian to be out and about – that was his job. What was unusual was for him to be out of touch – not phoning his office at least twice a day, even if he couldn’t tell his people where he was and who he was with.

‘Thank you.’

There was no problem, though. All he had to do was check with the bank which would have made the wire transfer to BCI in London, and if the problem had come up before London there’d be no reason to worry about Europe. He glanced at Bekki Lansbridge again and punched the number.

‘Good morning,’ the switchboard operator answered immediately. ‘First Commercial Bank of Santa Fe.’

‘Good morning, may I speak to the president?’

The lawyers were waiting. For forty minutes Brettlaw checked with them the testimony he would deliver to the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence that afternoon, then took a working lunch of coffee and Gauloises. The committee was at two. At one-thirty the Chevrolet pulled out the main gate and turned on to Route 123.

At any other time, perhaps, on any other day, he might have sat back and allowed himself thirty seconds to think about Nebulus, about the money going into and through it. Perhaps he was about to. Perhaps he would have told himself there was no need, that it was Myerscough’s job.

The secure telephone rang. The sky above was crystal blue, he would remember later, and the trees were a peaceful green.

‘Red Man.’ The code – even on the encryptor – for Operations. ‘Bonn’s hit the panic button. Nothing more yet. Will keep you informed.’

Nobody hit the panic button for nothing; Ops didn’t inform the DDO unless it was five-star. His mind was calm and ordered. There were two things he could do: order his driver back to Langley, or tell Ops to keep him informed and continue with his schedule. He had been in crises before, that was his job. Had worked out – in the dark of the night, when a man was alone with himself or his Maker – what he would do in certain scenarios. It was how he had survived Moscow, how he had made himself the man he was.

‘Keep me informed.’

The Chevrolet crossed Theodore Roosevelt Bridge and headed east up Constitution Avenue, the crowds in the parks and the bands playing. So why had Bonn hit the panic button, what was happening?

The secure phone rang again.

‘Bonn Chief of Station down. Repeat. Bonn CoS down. No more details.’

Oh Christ, he thought.

Zev Bartolski was Chief of Station in Bonn, and Zev Bartolski was his friend. More than that. Zev Bartolski was his point man in the black projects. Zev Bartolski was Inner Circle of Inner Circle, Zev Bartolski was Wise Man of Wise Men.

‘The DCI knows?’ He sliced through the disbelief and the shock.

‘Yes.’

‘Keep me informed.’

He raised the partition between himself and the driver, and considered what might be happening. Shut his eyes and tried to work out the connections. Sealed off the image of the man, wiped out every trace of Zev’s wife and children, and focused on what the hell might be going down.

Who? Why? How? What was Bonn working on that connected to anything else? At least the CoS hadn’t been kidnapped, at least they wouldn’t have to worry as they had worried over poor Bill Buckley in Beirut. At least Zev wasn’t going to be tortured for what he knew.

The logic divided, separated Zev Bartolski as Bonn CoS from Zev Bartolski in his role in the black projects. The position of Chief of Station almost a cover. For the other side, even for his own people.

A problem with Red River, Costaine had said that morning, certain monies not through on time. Now Zev taken out. The link screamed at him. Except that the two were separate – in personnel and region, in objectives and functions. No connection at all, different and distinct parts. Except they were both black ops.

He keyed in the DCI’s number and activated the Gold Code.

‘This is Tom. I’ve just heard. I’m on my way to the Hill but will return if necessary.’

There was no panic in his voice, not even an edge of excitement or adrenalin.

‘What do you think?’ The DCI had a Texan drawl.

‘No need at the moment. Perhaps the best thing is an even keel, show everyone we’re not panicking.’

‘Agreed.’

The Chevrolet passed by the Washington Memorial. The phone rang again. In Europe it was early evening.

‘Red Man. Bonn CoS was killed when the car in which he was travelling was blown up.’

‘His car?’ Brettlaw asked. ‘How was it blown up? Where was he going and what was he doing?’

Zev’s car was armoured, but even the best armoured cars were vulnerable to a bomb or land mine exploding beneath them.

‘Unclear. The First Secretary has also been killed.’

Brettlaw was still calm, still almost cold. He could speak to Bonn direct, but everyone would be speaking to Bonn. Bonn would be so jammed with communications that they’d be snowed under. Even so he was tempted to call off the session that afternoon and return to Langley.

‘Check on the vehicle the CoS was travelling in,’ he issued the orders. ‘Check whether the First Secretary was killed in the same incident or a separate one. Find out what they were doing and why. Get some indication why the CoS might have been targeted.’

The Chevrolet passed Senate Russell Building and approached Senate Hart. He keyed his secretary’s number and activated the encryptor. Maggie Dubovski was mid-forties, career Agency like himself. One of the warhorses, one of the reliables. When he made DCI Maggie would go with him, would consider it the pinnacle of her career as he would consider it the pinnacle of his.

‘You’ve heard?’ he asked her.

‘Yes.’

He named those officers to be placed on standby. ‘Meeting in my office at five, unless you hear from me before.’

There was one other thing.

‘Find out where Martha Bartolski and the kids are. Make sure they’re okay.’

The driver showed his pass to the policeman on duty at the entrance to the parking area below Senate Hart and drove down into the half-light. The Director of Security for the Intelligence Committee was already waiting. Brettlaw shook his hand and was escorted to the set of rooms known simply as SH 219.

SH 219 housed the most secure room on Capitol Hill. The lift from the parking area was connected to it by series of other internal lifts, therefore no member of the public was able to see who was entering or leaving. The room itself was on the second floor of Hart Building, the hallway outside overlooking the courtyard round which Hart was built. The reception desk was opposite a set of double doors, but the doors themselves were opaque so that no one could see inside, and there were imitation doors along the rest of the wall on to the walkway. The committee room proper was entered through steel doors, the walls of the isolation area in which the committee held its deliberations were lead-lined, and further protection against electronic surveillance was provided by white noise.

Brettlaw smiled at the receptionist, signed the register, including the time he was entering the isolation area, and went inside.

The members were already waiting in the semicircle of seats on the platform in front of him. Today was the bad one, today the bastards would be after his blood. He took his place, and the doors were closed and locked, sealing off the committee. Then, and only then, did the chairman call the meeting to order and ask Brettlaw for his opening remarks.

‘Before I begin, I have an announcement to make.’ It would soon be public anyway, but there were certain members who would remember that the DDO had seen fit to brief them first. ‘I have just been informed that the CoS Bonn has been assassinated.’ He waited for the room to settle. ‘This information was passed to me on my way here, as yet no other details are available. If any do become available during this session I will, of course, inform you immediately.’

The senior Republican rose. ‘Mr Chairman, may I put on record the committee’s horror at the news, and its appreciation of the Deputy Director’s decision to attend despite it.’

‘Noted.’

Even the liberals were shocked, Brettlaw thought wryly. Zev serving the Agency in death as in life.

The questioning began, slightly less ferocious than on previous occasions, but barbed anyway.

There were tricks, of course, almost tradecraft. Never tell a lie, because one day they might come back at you on it. But never tell the truth. Unless, of course, it suited you. Make what the politicians call lawyer’s answers, play one committee against another, the Senate against the House of Representatives. And if they had you, if you were really up against it, run a dangle, either to them or the press, lay a bait that would make them think they were on to something but which would take them so far off course they were the other side of the globe from what you wanted to protect. But never make enemies, because one day you might be sitting in front of them at a confirmation hearing for the job at the top.

‘Item 12d in budget document 4.’ The committee man was like a buzzard, Brettlaw thought, hungry eyes and hooked nose.

So what the hell was running in Bonn? Why in Christ’s name did Zev have to die? How was it connected to the black projects? Was it connected to them? What about the financial discrepancy on the Red River project?

‘Perhaps we could look at paragraph 10 …’

Don’t patronize me, you bastard. Don’t try your smooth perhaps we could look at … Don’t try to sucker me. Today of all days. With Zev Bartolski splattered across some fucking street in some foreign fucking country.

‘Yes, Senator.’ His voice was calm and controlled.

‘This is a major item of expenditure.’

He checked the relevant document. ‘Yes.’

‘Then could you explain how it relates to item 3, subitem 9, on document 8 …’

The ass-hole was off course and out of sight. If he was anyway near the truth he’d be so far off the wall he’d be in the next room.

‘If you insist, Senator …’

At three-thirty, and at Brettlaw’s request, the committee broke early. By ten minutes past four he was receiving an overview briefing on Bonn in his office at Langley. At four twenty-five he met with the DCI, at five o’clock, according to the log which was kept, he received a fuller briefing on Bonn station, the men he had summoned seated round the conference table of his office.

‘Zev and the First Secretary were travelling together.’ Costaine led the briefing. ‘They were killed when a bomb exploded near or below the car. They were on their way to an aeronautical exhibition. The explosion took place as they were nearing the location. The car was the First Secretary’s, not Zev’s. Detonation of the charge was probably by remote control.’

It was logical that Zev should be with the First Secretary and that he should be doing something public, Brettlaw was aware. Everyone knew who was Station Chief. In places like Bonn it was almost a public appointment.

‘What was Zev doing there?’ he asked.

‘How’d you mean?’

‘Was it in his diary for the day?’

‘I’ll get it checked.’

Brettlaw nodded and allowed him to continue.

‘A team is already airborne in case Bonn needs extra cover. All operations from Bonn have been iced. The analysts are backtracking to see if they can pick up anything.’

‘Any idea yet who’s responsible?’ He chainlit another Gauloise.

‘No.’

‘Where’s Cranlow?’

Cranlow was Zev’s number two.

‘On his way back from Hamburg.’

‘Effective as of now he’s Chief of Station.’ Brettlaw had already cleared it with the DCI; there was no point in showing indecision, every point in acting quickly and decisively, and being seen to do so. ‘Samuelson transfers from Berlin as his point man. Don …’ He turned to the man on his left. ‘You fly to Bonn tonight, oversee things till the shit stops flying.’ Not to get in the new CoS’s way, just to be on hand to cover everyone’s back. Good decision, they knew, the DDO reacting the way they knew he would. ‘Sep, you’re in charge of family arrangements. Fly out with Don; make sure Martha and the boys are properly taken care of.’ Because Zev was family, and family takes care of its own. Thank Christ Brettlaw was the man in the big office, the feeling was already permeating round the table, would seep its inextricable way through the rest of the building. Thank Christ it was Brettlaw who was DDO.

The meeting broke shortly after six Washington time, midnight in Bonn. Brettlaw closed the door, told Maggie he was not to be disturbed, and made two telephone calls. The first was to a house on the outskirts of Bonn. He identified himself and was put through.

‘Martha, it’s Tom. I’m phoning from my office but I don’t know what to say. Sep’s on his way to take care of things, you and the boys, that sort of thing.’ He allowed her to talk: about the barbecues the families had shared, the morning Brettlaw and Bartolski had rolled home drunk and she’d locked them out; about the boys. Sometimes he simply listened to her silence.

The second call, twenty minutes later, was to Milton Cranlow in the secure room at the embassy. For three minutes Cranlow briefed Brettlaw with his account of events, plus the possibilities which spun from them, then waited for the DDO’s reaction.

‘It’s your show now, Milt.’ Brettlaw was hard, factual. ‘You’re Chief of Station. I want the fuckers. I want their balls.’

No matter how long it takes and no matter where you have to go or what you have to do to find them.

He ended the call, tilted back in his chair, swivelled round and peered at the tree tops outside through the slatted blind. It would be another late night; he could sleep in the bedroom attached to his office, or make the usual arrangements for his stays at the University Club. Not tonight, he almost decided, knew what Zev would have said. Big boys’ games, big boys’ rules. So what the fuck, Tom, have one on me.

He swung back to his desk and telephoned home.

‘Mary, it’s me. There’s some bad news.’ He gave her time to prepare herself. ‘Zev’s dead.’ He imagined the images flashing through her mind: the trips, so long ago now, when they had all been young and new to the Agency; the family holidays together; the photographs of the kids growing up together.

‘How?’

‘He was blown up in Bonn this afternoon.’

Therefore we’ve hit the panic button, therefore I have to stay on.

‘What about Martha and the boys?’

‘I’ve spoken to them, they’re being taken care of.’

‘Should I phone?’

‘It would be better in the morning. She’ll appreciate it.’

‘Thanks for letting me know.’ Because I know that tonight you won’t be home.

Costaine called just before eleven. ‘You want some good news?’

‘I could do with some,’ Brettlaw told him.

‘The missing Red River payment.’

Their conversation that morning was already a lifetime ago.

‘Yeah.’

‘It’s turned up. Someone transposed a couple of digits in the account number.’

Therefore no connection with Zev’s death, Brettlaw thought; thank Christ for small mercies. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’ Myerscough would already have begun checking, he remembered. Myerscough would be in early to catch Europe as soon as it opened. Time to tell him tomorrow. He checked his watch and saw that tomorrow had begun more than an hour ago.

When his driver dropped him at the club it was fifteen minutes past midnight.