Gospel (57 page)

‘Why didn't you test the body tissue?' asked Sara.

‘Not possible,' said Gus, his expression suggesting the question itself was ridiculous.

‘Why not?' asked David.

‘None to test,' said Gus. ‘No autopsy.'

‘
What?
' said David again, now even more confused.

‘No autopsy at family's request. Bloods and urine were taken at Mass General.'

‘What? Why didn't you tell us this earlier, Gus?' asked David, incredulous.

‘I thought you knew. It was in the original FBI report.'

Sara shot a look at David. ‘More editing, thanks to Ramirez.'

‘I protest about no autopsy,' Svenson went on. ‘But overruled. Vice President Bradshaw's body was signed for and taken home – to Virginia.'

‘He's right,' said Sara. ‘That's why there was no State funeral, because Bradshaw supposedly specified in his will that he wanted a quiet family burial in his home town.'

‘So Mrs Bradshaw took custody of the body and flew her husband back to Virginia?' asked David.

‘No,' said Gus. ‘Mrs Bradshaw consulted and agree to no autopsy because blood confirmed cause of death. She flew back to Washington to see children. The body was signed for by another individual, a friend who determined no autopsy and accompany Vice President's body home.'

‘What?' said David again, now feeling like a broken record. ‘Who, Gus? Who signed for Bradshaw's body, who put the kybosh on the autopsy and who took him home before any further tests could be conducted?'

‘Why his best friend, of course. CIA Director Richard Ryan.'

‘Y
ou sure you're okay then?' asked Sam Croker. It was late and Croker was just about to leave Nancy's room for his adjoining suite next door.

‘Sure I'm sure. In fact, to be honest, Detective Sam, I'm feeling kinda free. Giving that statement was good for my soul and helping nail those pricks will be downright liberating.'

‘Yeah,' said Croker. ‘You did good today, Nancy.'

‘Thanks, Detective Sam,' she said with a smile.

‘Well, I'm right next door if you need me,' said Croker moving to the door that linked their two suites. ‘I'll leave this door unlocked so you can come right on in if you're worried about anything. Detective Mannix has organised regular security patrols of our floor so . . .'

‘I know,' she said, walking towards him.

And then Nancy Doyle did something she had never done before, she took Croker by both of his hands, holding them firmly in her own. It was a small gesture of pure gratitude, a linking that symbolised her appreciation, like a child acknowledging a best friend who had made her feel safe at a time of ultimate vulnerability.

‘Detective Sam,' she said. ‘I just want to say . . .'

‘It's okay,' said Croker.

‘No, I need to say this,' she said squeezing both of his hands in her own. ‘You have been a good friend at a time when . . . come to think of it, you are probably the best friend I have ever had. I don't think I could have done this without you. Hell, I don't think I'd even
be
here without you.'

‘Really, Nancy, you don't need to . . .'

‘Yes,' she said cutting him short. ‘
Yes I do
! I know you think I got confidence, but believe it or not, I ain't that sure of myself. I may look the part but I ain't no Beverly Hills housewife. I'm just a girl from Tampa who knows what it's like to have a whole bunch of smarter, richer people look down at her. But you never did that, Detective Sam. You always showed me respect, even when I was coming off as crazy as a loon.'

Nancy looked into his eyes then and told him as plain as she could. ‘I love you for that, Detective Sam. I love you for treating me like a human being with feelings and worries and most of all with brains. I just needed you to know that before I go to sleep tonight. Okay?'

Croker said nothing, just looked at her before bending down to kiss her lightly on the forehead.

‘You're a good woman, Nancy. No, more than that, you're a
lady
, and don't let anyone ever tell you otherwise.'

T
hey had gone straight home after seeing Gus Svenson, needing some time to think it through. David knew Joe and Frank were still taking testimonies at the Fairmont, and Arthur and Nora were busy organising their own witnesses' statements. So David opted for some space, some time alone with Sara to try to put it all together.

They had spent the night trying to make sense of what Gus had told them until they decided it was best to sleep on it and wake in the morning with what they hoped would be clearer heads and perhaps a more palatable explanation. But Saturday morning brought no brainwaves of salvation, just the same horrifying conclusion that they had been wrong all along – that Dick Ryan was not a ‘good guy' after all – that he had been working with Ramirez from the very beginning.

‘It fits,' said David over their early morning coffee. ‘Ryan administered the succinylcholine and then put Bradshaw on some sort of portable ventilator to keep him breathing. Their plan was almost foiled when Bradshaw's wife entered briefly, but she was only there for a couple of minutes, just long enough to check her husband had made good on his promise to take a rest.'

‘The bedroom door was closed so she didn't disturb him,' said Sara. ‘She stayed in the outer suite for a minute or two, and as soon as she
left . . . Ramirez moved in at 8.03, just as the effects of the succinylcholine were wearing off. He took off the breathing apparatus, injected the OxyContin and sat with the VP for a few more minutes just to be sure he was halfway to heaven. Ramirez exited at 8.07, told everyone, including Maxine Bryant, that the Vice President could not be disturbed until ten minutes later, when Montgomery turned up only to find his famous friend was dead.

‘So Bradshaw was betrayed by his best friend who vetoed an autopsy because he knew what it would show,' Sara went on, ‘that he poisoned the Vice President with an evil narcotic that robbed him of his ability to fight back, so that Ramirez could silence him for good. Which means that,
Ryan is our John
.'

‘Yes . . . but . . . ,' said David.

‘But what?' she said.

‘I don't know. Somehow, it just doesn't sit right. The man saved his life all those years ago – so why would he kill him now?'

‘Greed, I guess,' she said. ‘I know it's hard to believe, especially for someone with your idealistic view of the world.' She paused then, and he knew what she was going to say. ‘Don't get me wrong here,' she went on. ‘I love you
because
of your idealism, and I'd like to believe that most of the time people's good intentions are just that. But there are some individuals in this world – like Ramirez and Ryan – whose credo is one of self-service.

‘Maybe Ryan was a good guy years ago, perhaps he grew older, more bitter, more ambitious. Maybe he was jealous of his popular friend. Who knows? But don't you see? In the end his motives don't matter. The fact is he is a murderer masquerading as an ally and we have to bring him down.'

She was right. And as much as the whole idea felt like lead in his stomach the evidence was indisputable. Ryan had means and opportunity, and his motive was obviously twofold – a need to prevent his friend from discovering his true role in GIV and a determination to eliminate him as the major obstacle in his intended ascension to the Presidency. George Bush Snr was an ex-Director of the CIA so the progression to President from that post was not an unfamiliar one. The nation knew him as Tom's best friend with similar visions for America, and they would milk this image for all it was worth.

‘What about Maxine Bryant?' asked Sara at last. ‘She may not be John, but somehow I still think she is connected to all of this.'

‘I agree,' said David. ‘Maeve Barlow might have sworn Ramirez was determined to keep her out of that suite but that doesn't necessarily mean she wasn't involved. She may not be one of the original Gospel Four, but that's not to say she didn't find out what was going on and was too ambitious to stop it. And if Ryan is as determined and unscrupulous as we suspect, maybe he threatened her? Maybe he promised her a political payoff when he became President. Maybe he threatened her daughter or her grandchildren? Maybe he . . .'

They were interrupted by the ring of David's phone.

‘That'll be Joe,' said David, springing from his kitchen chair to grab the phone from the dark granite counter. ‘We have to fill him and the others in ASAP. Joe,' he said.

‘Yeah, it's me.'

‘I was just about to call you. We need to talk. Sara and I need to . . .'

‘Jesus, David,' said Mannix, and David could hear the distress in his voice.

‘What is it?' asked David, now looking across at Sara who had obviously sensed his concern.

‘It's Nancy Doyle,' he said.

‘Nancy . . . what? What happened?' said David, now feeling the panic rise in his throat.

‘She's dead, David. Shot once, point blank between the eyes.'

‘Oh God.' David felt a chill of fear spread through his entire body, the blood rush to his face, a shiver slide down his spine.

Sara moved to his side. ‘What?' she said. ‘What is it?'

‘Where? How?' David went on.

‘In her suite at the Regency Park. Croker never heard a thing. It was Ramirez. He used a silencer – and left behind a calling card so that none of us would doubt who was responsible.

‘He wants to warn us, David,' Mannix went on. ‘He is telling us to back off or face the same fate. He left his thirty pieces of silver and my guess is, he has thirty, or sixty or maybe ninety more where that came from.'

I
t was quiet. The sun flooded through the southern windows in an expanding beam which formed a spotlight for the millions of dancing dust particles which only seem to allow themselves to be seen in rare moments such as these. David looked across Joe's living room at Croker, the beam passing right over his head, the particles floating around him in some random choreography predicted by the breeze which accompanied the sun through the half opened window. It was hot and humid and the air felt thick – a heaviness reflected in Croker's expression. His face told the story of a new depth of sorrow grounded in his loss and, worse still, the fact that he blamed himself for her death.

‘I should never have left her alone,' he said, his hazel eyes now awash in a pool of bloodshot red. ‘The funny thing is, I didn't sleep all night, and I
still
didn't hear a thing.'

‘There is nothing you could have done,' said Joe. ‘Ryan gave Ramirez Nancy's exact location. Unfortunately the hotel doesn't have security cameras covering every inch of the corridors. Our guys were on cycle, patrolling the upper floors at the time – checking on the Mahoneys, the Bishops and the Caspians. Ramirez must have kept watch, he's a professional Sam – quick, silent, untraceable.'

Croker just shook his head, the dust particles shuffling in the air around him.

They sat there then – David, Joe, Sara, Croker, Leo, Susan, Frank, Arthur and Nora – in a moment of stillness that bound them together. Joe's living room, so recently filled with hope and anticipation, now felt like the sitting room in a funeral parlour, smelling of loss and regret and death. Perhaps they knew this was the only moment they would get to mourn Nancy Doyle before they set about bringing down the two men responsible for it all. Perhaps this was the calm before the storm. The no-man's land from which there was no turning back.

They had spent the morning relocating their witnesses to various ‘safe-houses' around the city, and Karin had checked into a nondescript three star hotel in Cambridge. King had pulled in a lot of favours from some old FBI pals who agreed to do round-the-clock surveillance and he was confident they were all safe – at least for the time being.

‘Where the hell is Ryan?' said Croker at last, his sorrow now transforming to anger, his determination for revenge resolute.

‘We don't know,' said Joe. ‘He was due to contact David this morning, so that he could meet the Bishops and interview them personally. But he hasn't called.'

‘We have to find him,' said David. ‘We were right from the very beginning. Ryan is the key to it all – just not how we suspected. He had us fooled from day one.'

‘Fooled?' said Frank McKay. ‘The man deserves a God-damned Oscar. I am usually able to pick 'em, but this guy sold me good. Cavanaugh's right, we need to find the bastard and we need to find him now.'

And then, as if the gods had decided it was time to turn things their way, David's cell phone rang.

‘Cavanaugh,' he said.

‘It's Marc,' said Rigotti.

‘Marc,' said David with a sigh. ‘I know I promised we'd keep in touch on this thing, but I got nothing I can tell you right now.'

‘No? Well, maybe I got something for
you
. Maxine Bryant and the President have gone AWOL.'

‘I don't understand?'

‘AWOL, disappeared, on the eve of her supposed nomination for the
Vice Presidency. So I put out some feelers, made a few calls, checked with some friends at the airlines and . . .'

‘And . . .' said David, having no idea what this meant, if anything, to their cause.

‘And I found her. Bryant that is, right here in Boston at the Fairmont Copley Plaza, of all places. She's booked into a suite on the fifth floor. In fact, from what I know, the government have taken at least four rooms on that floor, including suite 533 – the Presidential Suite itself.'

‘Bryant is staying in the same room where her son-in-law was murdered?' asked David, looking up at the others in the room. ‘That's downright sick.'