The President's Assassin Part 35

I think Bill was tired of playing the good cop, which wasn't a particularly comfortable fit for him anyway. Ticking off fingers, he said, "As we reviewed the activities of that day, Drummond, you're the sore thumb. Wizner asked for you, and you eagerly volunteered. You tried to refuse a tracking device. Later you tried to get rid of it. You lied about the bomb and tried to get the coverage eliminated." He paused and then, with half-a.s.sed melodrama, pointed a finger at my chest. "Where's the money, Drummond?"

Larry, Bob, and Bill sat back in their chairs and studied me. Now I knew what they thought, and I knew why they thought it. Nor did it escape my notice that they hadn't read me my rights or formally charged me. Ergo, they lacked evidence. They had a strong suspicion backed up by a strong circ.u.mstantial construction. Period.

Also they suspected that the moment they initiated the rights process, I would clam up and demand representation, and around and around we would go. Smart guys.

So I looked at Larry, Bob, and Bill and, speaking clearly into their recorder, I said, "Sean Drummond has the right to remain silent. . ." and they sat quietly and watched dumbly as I gave myself a Miranda warning.

When I finished, Bill, with a disappointed pout, said, "That's not helpful."

"It's very helpful, Bill. If I had twelve and a half million bucks salted away, would I confess?"

Bob said, "We know it's not in your possession yet."

"How?"

n.o.body answered. n.o.body needed to answer. They had staked out my apartment, probably tapped my phones, and surely accessed my minuscule checking and savings account. That meant they had a court order, and that meant I had at least one foot in the c.r.a.pper.

No further good was going to come from this conversation, so I stood and, directing my words at Larry, announced, "Unless you have a warrant, I'm outta here."

Larry replied, "We don't have a warrantyet."

Phyllis said to the three gentlemen, "Actually, he works here, and he's not leaving. You are."

Larry nodded. He reached into his pocket, withdrew a business card, and flipped it at me. He said, "If you rediscover your conscience, give me a call." Then Larry and Bob and Bill collected their notepads and recorder, and with nasty expressions filed out the door.

The door closed and there was a moment of silence. Phyllis finally said, "Sean, look me in the eye and tell me you don't have the money."

I looked Phyllis in the eye. "It's mine, all mine. You're not getting a dime of it."

I thought I heard a sigh of relief.

She said, "It's preposterous. I a.s.signed you this case. How could you have arranged this when you had no intimation you would become involved?" She confessed, "I now feel a certain burden of guilt for involving you in this."

I made no reply to that. However, I did make a note in my mental chitpad that she thought she owed me one. I said, "Well... I'm not worried."

"You should worry."

"I'd be very worried if they made me meet them across the river, rather than here. I'm a lawyer, Phyllis. Trust me."

She did not comment on that oxymoron. She said, "They presented a very convincing case, Sean."

"A pile of dough's missing, and the accountants in the bas.e.m.e.nt are demanding a pa.s.s from internal investigations. Standard procedure. They have to shake the bushes."

"You're missing something."

"Am I?"

"George Meany He was fired this week. Of course, 'fired' wasn't the expression used, because it seldom is. But you know how it works. A lot of people are dead, and somebody had to take the blame. It was announced that George is the new a.s.sistant to the Bureau's spokesperson."

This was news to me. "I had nothing to do with it. George was in charge, and rank and responsibility are a double-edged sword. And at the end he chose to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and ended up without any helpings of glory."

"I believe that what matters is not what you think, what matters is what Meany thinks."

Good point. She continued, "He has a vindictive streak, Sean, and he's not without connections within the Bureau." She added, "Incidentally, Mark Townsend submitted his resignation as Director this morning. The President is going to accept it.

Also, your friend Jennie is now the acting ADIC, and I hear there's a good chance that'll be made permanent."

"She earned it. I'm sorry about Townsend."

"Me too. And about Margold, yes, she did earn it. She did better on this case than anybody" After a moment she added, "As did you."

I had turned toward the door, and I spun around and faced Phyllis. Had I been seated this unexpected praise would've caused me to fall out of my chair. "Thank you."

"Think nothing of it." She added, "I'll give you two days to get your professional and personal affairs sorted out. The Agency doesn't need this messiness, nor do you. Fix it."

"Yes ma'am."

Actually, I did have a big problem. It was even possible I had two big problems, one personal and one professional. Worse, there was a chance my personal problems were my professional problems. But I wasn't ready to say that yet.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE.

The FBI's Was.h.i.+ngton Metropolitan Field Office is among the four largest and busiest field offices in the country.

I located a place to park near the corner of 4th Street, NW, crossed the street, and pa.s.sed through the surprisingly nondescript entrance. I flashed my CIA credentials and was allowed by the nice front-desk guard to sign a form and wiggle through the metal detector directly into the inner sanctum. His directions were good and I had no trouble locating the office with the plaque that read, "Senior Agent in Charge, National Security." At least, very little.

I opened the door and entered the office, which turned out to be an outer office with a door leading to the boss's office. Elizabeth, Jennie's nosy, chatty executive a.s.sistant, looked up and was surprised, though not delighted, to see me. She said, a little uncertainly "It's nice to see you again, Mr. Drummond."

I smiled back. "Nice to see you, too, Elizabeth. That's a . . . lovely dress you're wearing."

"Oh . . . well. . ." Actually, her dress was surprisingly ugly, a pink paisley top with a bright red skirt, and I wondered if Elizabeth was color-blind, or, these days, I guess, "chromatically challenged." She giggled self-consciously and confessed, "I made it myself."

"Well. . . who would ever have guessed?"

"Do you think?"

"I think you should open a business . . . start a line. You'll be the talk of Was.h.i.+ngton in no time," I informed her with some insight. "So is her ladys.h.i.+p in?"

"I'm . . . well, you should have called ahead. She's in a meeting downtown."

"I see." Actually, only forty minutes before I had called ahead, though Elizabeth could be forgiven for her faulty recall, as I think I might have been a little confused and identified myself incorrectly. So I knew that Jennie had left the building twenty minutes before, and I knew she would not return till one, which was fine. I said, "I wanted to surprise her. Take her to lunch." I leaned against Elizabeth's desk and complained, "Now that the case is over, we're experiencing a little trouble connecting. Her schedule . . . my schedule . . ."

Apparently something on Elizabeth's computer screen suddenly became very absorbing, because she avoided my eyes. "Yes, it's certainly gotten . . . hectic . . . around here. Miss Margold is now carrying two very demanding jobs." Just in the event her boss's b.u.t.t wasn't covered enough, she pointed at a stack of message slips and added, "She doesn't even have time to return her calls."

"Of course. I just wanted to be sure she's okay. Considering what's going on."

"She's fine. Very busy as I said."

"Good. I'm glad the internal investigation's not weighing on her. I mean, if I had something like that hanging over my head, I'd be a wreck ... I couldn't sleep or"

"Investigation?"

"Yeah . . . about the missing money"

"I don't think I know what you're talking about."

I withdrew from my pocket Larry Boswels business card, which I displayed for Elizabeth's benefit. "This guy dropped by to see me this morning. What nonsense. Twelve million in bounty money's missing. Do you believe they suspect Jennie has it?"

Oops, there I went again, getting my ident.i.ties confused. The thing is, this Lady was very protective of Jennie and, given the sensitive nature of this office, was not likely to be forthcoming with me. Sometimes it takes a lie to get truth; the point is, I needed to know if Jennie had spoken with Larry, and I needed to know whose side she was on.

Elizabeth eyed the name on the card, and I detected a note of recognition. I said, "I mean, in the event Jennie didn't know they were interviewing people behind her back, I thought. . . you know, I'd give her a heads-up."

"I. . . well, I think she must already know."

"You think?"

She hesitated momentarily before she pointed at the card. "He's been here. Last week. Several times, with two other agents."

This was the last thing I wanted to hear, though I obviously wouldn't be going through this charade had I not suspected something. Of course, the topic Larry came to discuss with Jennie was not her, but me. So I could now put a motive behind Jennie's repeated failures to return my calls. Either she had a guilty conscience because she had dumped on me to Larry or Larry had ordered her to withhold contact until I was clearedor on my way to Leavenworth. Oh, there was, I suppose, a third possibility, but being irresistible, I completely ruled that out. The point is, my personal problems were becoming my professional problems.

Regarding me, I was sure Jennie told Larry to p.i.s.s off, that Sean Drummond was one of the good guys, pure in mind, body, and soul, that obviously I had nothing to do with the disappearance of the money. Partners help each other out in a jam, right? But by the same token, don't partners also call each other when somebody's a.s.s is hanging out?

Elizabeth misinterpreted the worried expression on my face and asked, "Do you think this is serious? Is she in trouble?"

"Nah. A waste of everybody's time. She's a hero."

Elizabeth was proud of her boss and said, "She is amazing. Her intuition is extraordinary. I sometimes think she can read minds and predict the future."

"Well... I wouldn't go that far."

"Oh, I would. Do you know that three months ago, she studied our file on that Jason Barnes character? Almost as if she foresaw this coming."

I looked at Elizabeth.

She said, "What were the chances of that?"

What were the chances of that? "Elizabeth . . . what file?"

"Jason Barnes's clearance packet. As I recall, Barnes's Top Secret clearance was nearly five years old. They expire at that point. A complete new background investigation had to be completed."

"I think you're mistaken."

"Oh, no, I'm not mistaken. So many clearance requests come through here, I'm sure I wouldn't remember, except. . . well, afterward, Miss Margold asked me to retrieve another file ... a background investigation on Jason Barnes's father."

I was staring at Elizabeth, or perhaps past her.

"It was quite sensitive. I had to go through a lot of trouble to get my hands on it."

Elizabeth was now looking at me a little oddly. She said, "Are you all right?"

Was I? NoI was two beats short of a heart attack. I could not keep the shock and amazement from my face. I felt a numbness beginning in my chest, working its way up to my throat.

"Can I get you some water?" Elizabeth asked, peering at me closely "No . . . I'm ... I just remembered . . ."

"Remembered what, Mr. Drummond?"

It was none of Elizabeth's business what I remembered. Without another word, I left.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR.

A quick call to Phyllis disclosed the address and directions to Mark Townsend's home in Vienna, a stone's throw from where Joan was blown to pieces at Tysons Corner.

I slid the radio dial to a golden oldies station and listened to Fleetwood Mac and Heart, zoned out the whole way.

Townsend's home was on Bois Avenue, a French word, I believe, for "woods." True to the appellation, the neighborhood was filled with tall, leafy oaks and well-manicured, unostentatious middle-cla.s.s homes. I pulled into the driveway, parked, and made my way to a front door neatly wreathed in black velvet. I pushed the buzzer, and after a moment a young lady opened the door.

I said, "Good afternoon. My name's Drummond. You must be . . . ?"

"Janice Townsend."

Obviously this was the daughter we rushed home from college. She was quite pretty, pet.i.te, and thin, and I a.s.sumed the good looks and svelteness came from Joan. I said, "I'm very sorry about your mother, Janice. I worked with your father. Is he in?"

"Is this important?"

"I'm afraid it is."

"All right. Follow me."

So I did. The house was not at all stiff and formal like its master, probably reflecting the taste of its mistress; it was homey and furnished fairly tastefully, which is as much as you can hope for on Uncle Sam's paychecks. We pa.s.sed by a living room on the right, a dining room and kitchen on the left, and she and I ended up at a small study in the rear. Janice asked me to wait, then pushed open the door and entered alone. She emerged a moment later, stepped aside, and I went in.

Her father sat leadenly in a heavily worn leather chair beside a small fireplace, with a fire roaring, and the newspaper resting in his lap was unopened and unread. I was surprised to note that Mark Townsend, a man who probably slept in starched PJs, was unshaven, uncombed, and sloppily dressed in jeans and a T-s.h.i.+rt. He had aged at least ten years.

I said, "Good afternoon, sir. Allow me to start with my condolences."

"Yes . . . thank you." He said, sort of absently, "Would you . . . uh . . ."

I thought he was offering me a seat, and I fell into the cozy cloth easy chair directly across from him, uncomfortably aware that this was probably Joan's chair, and this was probably the room where Mark and Joan had spent their Sunday mornings, and I was intruding on his reveries.