Gospel (55 page)

‘You're right,' said Ryan. ‘That would be a “no can do” but you're missing one piece of the puzzle, Mr Cavanaugh. James Bishop is no dope addict. From what I have learned over the past twenty-four hours, Mr Bishop has never touched an illegal narcotic in his whole entire life, marijuana included, inhale or not. His teenage son Jimmy, however, is another matter entirely.'

‘Jimmy . . .' David began, thinking aloud. ‘Jimmy is a diminutive of James. It was the kid's name on the list.'

‘Right again,' said Ryan. ‘And according to my sources young Jimmy graduated from joints to speed about the same time he graduated from high school to college. And knowing what I do about watching the people you care for drown in the swamp of addiction, my guess is, James Bishop will jump at the chance to help him, especially if it means crucifying his suppliers all at the very same time.'

By 6pm their strategy was in place. They had decided that while identifying John was a major priority, they had to be smart with their time, and focusing on the ‘who' instead of on the ‘how' at this point was simply a luxury they could not afford. They figured the next three days were best spent lining up their evidence, which included everything from confirming the mechanics of the clandestine operation that was GIV, establishing exactly how Tom Bradshaw's ‘assassination' was carried out, and finally proving Professor Stuart Montgomery was being framed for a murder he did not commit. All of their ‘witnesses' would be in Boston by tomorrow evening – which means they could take their statements and, if necessary, have them on standby for personal appearances in front of the US Federal Court on Monday.

Next they hoped to build their proof against Ramirez by using the physical evidence supplied by Boston Medical Examiner Gus Svenson. Svenson would soon be re-testing Bradshaw's ‘bloods' using a list of ‘undetectable' sedatives supplied by Sara and Montgomery. When all of this information was in hand, they aimed at compiling all discovery and documentation by Sunday evening at which time they would call Trial Attorney Adams and announce their intention to change their plea. They hoped that in his
excitement, his brain would make the obvious but wrong assumption that they intended to plead ‘guilty', which would result in him failing to ask exactly what they intended to change their plea to.

Once in court they intended to announce their motion to dismiss all charges against their client and issue a formal recommendation the US Attorney's office serve an arrest warrant on one Assistant Director in Charge Antonio Ramirez – and, ideally, the yet to be identified ‘John'.

By that stage they hoped John, by the very nature of his insatiable political ambition, would have revealed himself as the next Vice Presidential nominee – and that the rest of it would, at least in theory, fall neatly into place.

It was that simple. And that impossible.

‘His name is Ivan . . . ah . . .' A dishevelled-looking Leo King put down what looked to be a fizzy green soda aimed at a demographic of males below the age of ten before fishing into his top jacket pocket to retrieve a hand scrawled note.

‘. . . Schowdoski. Ivan Schowdoski. Mr Schowdoski owns a small pharmacy near Dupont Circle which was not Oliver Caspian's usual drug store but not far from the National Zoo where, according to Eleanor Caspian, her husband liked to spend his better days.

‘Anyway, the repeat script was issued at Schowdoski's Drug Store on the same Saturday Caspian saw Montgomery – 16 April. And while Mr Schowdoski doesn't tend the store on weekends his daughter-in-law Mischa, who is also a qualified pharmacist, does.' King picked up the drink and took a big swig of the bright green liquid before squinting his eyes and screwing up his face in a reaction to the overload of sugar and bubbles before going on.

‘So it turns out this Mischa Schowdoski, who I had the pleasure of speaking with on the phone this afternoon, is one very nice lady with one even nicer memory. Ms Schowdoski not only recalls Mr Caspian filling the original script for 160mg of OxyContin and taking the repeat, but also remembers the conversation they had about a new panda bear at the zoo. The bear was visiting from China, still is in fact. His name is Ping Ping and he had only just arrived in DC three days before said Saturday, which not only gives us proof of purchase of the drug which
was supposedly used to kill Tom Bradshaw but also gives us a confirmation of timing.'

‘God bless Ping Ping,' said Sara with a smile.

‘Amen to that,' said Arthur.

Maybe it was deluge of green soda – or pink or red or orange for that matter – but the gang were on a high this evening, buoyed by their new strategy, King's good news and David's imminent trip to DC. By eight Leo and David were on their way to pick up Tony Bishop and head for the airport where they would part ways at arrivals and departures as the clock ticked on and the unstoppable force that was time continued to squeeze them into the inevitable position that was universally known as ‘make or break'.

‘C
an I have the window seat?' asked Nancy Doyle of Detective Sam Croker who, despite having been assured by Mannix that he was being shadowed by some of Ryan's loyal CIA buddies, still surveyed the passengers as they boarded the United Airlines direct flight from LA to Boston.

‘I
love
the window seat,' Nancy continued. ‘If you press your nose against the glass you can block out the window frames and it feels like you're out there with the clouds, you know, floating free.'

‘Sure,' said Croker with a half smile. That was Nancy, on one hand so tough and resilient, on the other so naïve and childlike.

They were an odd couple, thrown together at a time of mutual loneliness and grief. He a recent widower with a son miles away, she a women who had lost everything, her entire family, her entire
life
as she knew it, within a space of weeks, in circumstances many would find impossible to deal with. And somehow, despite her fanatical behaviour, her constant emotional highs and lows and desperate need for attention, Croker had come to respect her – admire her even, as he watched her fight her way back to health, shoulder her sorrow with determination and vow never to cower from the ‘low-life scum' who brutally murdered the only two people in the world that she loved.

‘I don't know a lot of words,' she had said to him one night after they had watched yet another brainless DVD in the sisters' resident common room. ‘So maybe I use the four letter ones a little more than I should. But just because I didn't swallow a dictionary at fifteen doesn't mean I ain't smart. In fact, I'm more than smart, Detective Sam – I got smarts, which is a totally different thing altogether.'

She had turned to him then, shifting herself on the couch so she could face him in his armchair across the other side of the room.

‘You may not believe this, Detective Sam, I know I look like a pampered woman, but I've been around the block a few times.' But he did believe it and he could see it and, in truth, it made him respect her even more.

‘And one thing I learned through all of this is to never take things – people – for granted. Money's nice, Detective Sam, but it don't bring you happiness. My mom was wrong about that.'

And now it had come to this, the pair of them, locked together in some unconventional friendship, heading from one side of the country to the other to face off with a pair of ruthless assassins. As Sam fastened his seat-belt he saw that other familiar look, of uncertainty and then perhaps of resolution – shift across her face.

‘What is it?' he asked, reading her expression.

‘I was just thinking, you know, how excited I was to become Rita Walker. I always wanted to be a “Rita”, just like Rita Hayworth, living in LA, driving a convertible, shopping on Rodeo Drive. And then I got what I wanted and realised Nancy wasn't such a doofus name after all.' She stopped there, a pool of tears now resting on the lower lids of her large blue eyes.

‘I liked being Nancy Lilycrap, Detective Sam, and liked it even better when I married Robert and became Nancy Doyle. “
Rita
” was just a fantasy, and not a very happy one at that. It didn't work for Miss Hayworth – with that crazy Howard Hughes messing her around and that playboy Prince Ali Khan never realising how lucky he was. She died with Alzheimer's and most likely forgot who the hell she was in any case – which wasn't Rita by the way, her real name was Margarita Carmen Cansino. Bet you didn't know that, Detective Sam,' she said. ‘Me and Margarita, two sorry peas in a pod.'

Croker said nothing, just nodded his head in response.

‘I ain't gonna have to change my name again am I, Detective Sam?' she
said after a while. ‘After all this is over, I can be plain old Nancy Doyle again, can't I?' She looked at him then as if searching his face for some confirmation that everything was going to be all right.

‘Don't worry, Nancy,' said Croker, giving her the most reassuring smile he could muster. ‘You're gonna be fine. We'll catch these guys and then you can be Nancy and stay Nancy for as long as you damned well please.'

It was quiet
, thought
Boston Tribune
Deputy Editor Marc Rigotti.
Too quiet
.

Two days ago the journalistic world was in a frenzy over what at last appeared to be confirmation of the new Vice Presidential nominee. It was one of those rare and wonderful times for the dedicated men and women of the press when they knew they were on the verge of a story that would not only last from here until the elections in November, but also assure a solid boost to their publications' circulation figures beyond said elections when the country's first female Vice President took office, with the strong possibility of one day, running the country.

But that was two days ago and since then there had been nothing – no press releases, no scuttlebutt, no rumour-mongering, nothing, which would explain why everything was just so . . . quiet.

‘What the hell is going on?' Rigotti's boss
Boston Tribune
editor Bud Wiseman had asked at this morning's editorial briefing.

‘Nothing,' Rigotti had replied. ‘I mean, if there is something going down, I have no idea what it is.'

‘Well we're fucked if you don't,' Wiseman had countered. Rigotti's boss was an editorial cliché – grey hair, low-slung trousers, cigar-stained fingers. ‘What does Sussman say?' Eric Sussman was the
Tribune
's political correspondent who, like all other White House hacks, was coming up blank.

‘Same. Seems Bryant has gone to ground. Rumour has it she may not even be in DC. The President seems to be missing too.'

‘A falling out?'

‘No idea.'

‘Fuck.'

‘Yeah. Fuck.'

‘Come on, Rigotti, you got connections. Why the hell do you think
I made you deputy editor of this God-damned rag in the first place? It certainly wasn't so you would kiss my ass.' Wiseman had opened his cluttered fourth floor window with a jerk so that he could light up a stogie and blow smoke out of the strictly ‘no smoking' institution.

‘It's Friday for God's sake,' he had said, waving the errant fumes which, due to a strong easterly breeze, had blown straight back at him rather than out the open window. ‘I want something for Monday so start digging. I don't care what the hell it is as long as it's true, it's front page and it's exclusive.'

‘Okay, so here's the deal,' said David as he carried Jimmy Bishop's overnight bag into a double suite at the Regency Park Hotel. ‘This is your home for the next few days. I know you could stay at Tony's but we have a security set-up here which is, well, let's just say it's safe. Tony will be back to see you after work. He has never missed a day's potential billing in his life, and took yesterday afternoon off without notifying his boss so I sent him to the office. The less suspicion we raise the better.'

‘What about Jimmy's medical needs?' asked James Bishop. The man was astute, and incredibly calm, given the whirlwind of events which had so recently turned his seemingly organised life upside down. If David thought highly of the Congressman before, his respect had doubled over the past twelve hours as he watched James totally disregard his own political future to focus on his son's physical and legal protection.

‘Here,' said David, writing a series of numbers on the back of his business card and handing it to James. ‘My sister Lisa is a trained nurse. Here's her home, cell and work numbers. I'll give her the heads up that you might call. She's smart and discreet. Hell, she's my sister,' David smiled in an attempt to lighten the mood. ‘She got so used to having her questions go unanswered that she gave up bothering to ask.'

James Bishop took the card and managed a half smile. ‘When do I meet with Director Ryan?'

‘Soon. I spoke to him this morning and he's planning to make it to Boston by tomorrow. No offence intended but we got lucky when Ramirez called you yesterday morning. It means he is starting his blackmailing stage which gives us additional proof of his intentions.'

‘Maybe,' said Bishop. ‘But as I already explained, he did not give details
as to what he required me to do. He said my son was in trouble, that Jimmy's name had come up in the course of a new FBI investigation into an exclusive narcotics cartel and that, out of respect for me, he wanted to discuss the situation in private.'

‘He was setting you up, Congressman,' said David. ‘Come next week he would have been demanding your support for the new Vice Presidential nominee in return for protecting your and your son's reputations.'

David looked at Bishop's troubled expression, realising how difficult this must be.

‘James, I know how hard this is – for you and your son and your family – but your statements will go a long way to nailing these guys. And I promise you, if I have anything to do with it, the people that have taken advantage of your boy will pay.'