House Justice (21 page)

Mahoney smiled. He could see LaFountaine losing his temper with the college kids. He would have done the same thing.

“After the speech, I was walking back to my car and this girl comes up to me. She was beautiful. She had eyes so big you could fall into them and disappear. I thought she had followed me out to give me a ration of shit, but the first thing she said was that she was born in Iran, that the Iranian government had killed her entire family, and she spoke four languages. And she wanted to work for the CIA.

“I brought her into the agency, John. Me. Personally. She was only twenty years old at the time, twenty-two when she finished her training and we inserted her into Iran. She was an incredible woman. Brave, smart, resourceful.” LaFountaine hesitated a beat, then added, “I loved that girl.”

Mahoney nodded his head but he was thinking that LaFountaine was being literal when he said he had loved Mahata. He didn’t know if LaFountaine had had an affair with her—maybe he did, maybe he didn’t—but he definitely felt about her in a way that went beyond a boss caring for one of his employees.

“So I want whoever killed her,” LaFountaine said. “I want them all. Somebody paid Acosta to impersonate one of my people and give the story to Whitmore. But now Acosta’s dead and the only lead we have to follow is that half-ass description of the killer that DeMarco gave the Myrtle Beach cops. And you may not have heard this yet, but Conrad Diller is missing. They found his car at LAX but nobody can find him.”

“He skipped the country?”

“Maybe, but he never entered the airport; if he had, one of the security cameras would have picked him up and none of them did.
The FBI’s got two dozen agents trying to find him, but one possibility is that Diller’s dead, and without his testimony we won’t be able to get Marty Taylor.

“I don’t know where this is going next, but there’s one thing I do know: I’m not going to sit around and wait for the FBI or the Department of Justice or the goddamn sheriffs in Myrtle Beach to do something. I’m going after these people myself.”

“Okay,” Mahoney said. “So what do you want from me?”

“I
know
one of your guys leaked what I told you at that briefing, and I think it was Ray Rudman. Rudman’s biggest backer is Rulon Tully and Tully benefits if something bad happens to Marty Taylor. And I know something else. Tully got a call from the Rayburn Building an hour after that committee meeting ended.”

“From Rudman’s office?”

“No. From Diane Frazer’s office.”

Frazer was a congresswoman from Utah.

“Frazer? She wasn’t at the meeting.”

“No, but her office is two doors down the hall from Rudman’s, and we found out from Frazer’s secretary that Rudman popped in unannounced to visit Frazer after the meeting. The secretary had an errand to run, so she didn’t see Rudman leave Frazer’s office, but the call to Tully was made from Frazer’s conference room. We think Rudman used the phone in the conference room after he talked to Frazer, and he used it because he didn’t want the call traced back to his office.”

“Did you have warrants to look at these phone records,” Mahoney asked.

“What do you think?” LaFountaine said. “But even if I could prove Rudman called Tully, I can’t prove that they talked about Diller’s meeting in Iran. Rudman will just…”

“Well, at least it’s good to know you’re not bugging every phone on Capitol Hill.”

LaFountaine ignored the jibe. “Rudman will just say that Tully is a big supporter and they talked about some bill going through the House. But I know Rudman talked to Tully about Diller.”

“Let’s say you’re right,” Mahoney said. “So what?”

“Tell me the truth, John. Do you want Rudman in Congress? Do you want a guy in
your
House who will pass classified dope to a constituent just to keep his seat?”

“No.”

“Then help me get him. Him and everybody else involved in this.”

“But how can I help?”

“You got this guy DeMarco, and—”

“DeMarco’s not
my
guy. He doesn’t work for me, at least not directly. He’s just sort of an odd-jobs guy the members use sometimes.”

“Fine,” LaFountaine said. “But I got a feeling he’ll do what you tell him, and I want you to tell him to help.”

“Why do you need him?”

“I don’t
need
him—I mean, I could live without him if I had to— but I want to minimize the number of people involved in this thing. And DeMarco’s already in it.”

“You mean you want to limit the number of CIA agents involved because you know if one of them gets caught, you’ll have a major problem.”

LaFountaine shrugged.

Mahoney didn’t say anything for a moment, but he was thinking,
Never try to bullshit a bullshitter
—and he knew LaFountaine was bullshitting him. He was lying about why he wanted DeMarco and Mahoney knew why he was lying.

“Okay,” Mahoney said. “You can have DeMarco but only on one condition: I don’t want it getting out that Rudman leaked the story. I want to find some other reason for getting him out of the House.”

“So you know Rudman did it.”

“I know it but, just like you, I can’t prove it. But what I don’t need is another congressional scandal. Our approval rating is already a negative number, so I don’t need the whole world knowing a guy in my own party can’t keep a secret.”

“Okay, I’ll agree to that condition.”

That was too easy, Mahoney thought.

“You have a plan of some kind?” Mahoney asked.

“Not really. Since there’s no way to prove Rudman talked to Tully about Diller, Rudman’s not going to jail for that unless he confesses. But maybe we can put him in jail for something else he’s done. Or maybe we can prove Tully was behind Acosta’s murder. Or maybe we can get Rudman and Tully to turn on each other for something not related to Mahata. I don’t know—and that’s why I want DeMarco. We’ve done a little research on him and we know he’s a tricky bastard. Maybe he can help us come up with something.”

LaFountaine left a few minutes later and Mahoney took out his flask, added a shot of bourbon to his coffee, and ordered a waffle from the waitress. And because the waitress was a good-looking gal in her forties, he spent a little time flirting with her.

While he was waiting for his breakfast, he sipped his laced coffee and tried to figure out exactly how many lies LaFountaine had told him.

He didn’t mind lending DeMarco to LaFountaine because he really did want Rudman out of Congress. But he knew that LaFountaine had lied to him about the reason why he wanted DeMarco. LaFountaine didn’t want DeMarco because he wanted to minimize the number of CIA agents involved, nor did he want DeMarco because DeMarco was a devious guy that could help him. LaFountaine employed several thousand devious people, and most of them were smarter than DeMarco. No, LaFountaine wanted DeMarco for a completely different reason: LaFountaine wanted a fall guy—a scapegoat to pin things on if something went wrong—and he wanted a fall guy who didn’t work for the CIA. But even though he realized what LaFountaine was doing, Mahoney had decided to let DeMarco get involved for one simple reason: he wanted DeMarco inside the CIA’s tent so he could keep Mahoney informed about what LaFountaine was doing. DeMarco was
his
spy—and Mahoney was going to use him to spy on the spies.

He figured that LaFountaine had also lied about not having some plan for getting Ray Rudman. LaFountaine wasn’t the type of guy who wouldn’t have a plan—and he sure as hell wouldn’t be relying on DeMarco to develop one. LaFountaine had also agreed too easily about not exposing Ray Rudman as the source of the leak. LaFountaine wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about whatever political problems he might cause Mahoney if Rudman’s part in Mahata’s death was revealed. But since LaFountaine couldn’t prove that Rudman was the leak, maybe that’s why he had agreed. Hmmm.

He also thought some more about LaFountaine’s plan for using Taylor’s equipment to control Iran’s missiles. He had no idea if such a thing was technically feasible. What he did know was that kind of tricky James Bond crap always seemed to backfire on the CIA. But had LaFountaine really wanted to delay arresting Diller until he had studied the concept? Maybe. His gut told him LaFountaine wasn’t lying about that. What he was less sure of was the part about LaFountaine telling Congress about Diller because Jean Negroni had made him.

He didn’t know Jean Negroni very well but there was one thing he did know: unlike John Mahoney and Jake LaFountaine, she was an absolute straight arrow. In fact, Mahoney had always thought she was
too
straight for the job she had. So Mahoney could see her insisting that LaFountaine tell Congress and the president about Diller but the big question was this: Did Negroni
really
know about Diller’s trip to Iran and did she
really
make LaFountaine inform Congress? All Mahoney had to do to determine this was call Negroni and ask her— but LaFountaine would have known that. So the bottom line was he believed LaFountaine not because he trusted LaFountaine, but because he didn’t believe LaFountaine would lie to him about something he could so easily verify.

Sheesh, things got complicated when you were dealing with a sneaky son of a bitch like Jake LaFountaine—and that’s why he knew he had made the right decision to keep DeMarco in the game.

“Here’s your waffle, sir,” the waitress said, sliding the plate onto the table.

Mahoney looked at the woman’s face—then at her chest—then into her eyes. “It’s just so unfair,” he said, shaking his head in mock dismay.

“I’m sorry,” she said, not understanding. “What’s unfair?”

“So many pretty women—so little time.”

DeMarco spent the day after he returned from Myrtle Beach loafing around his house, washing clothes, and paying a few bills. He even vacuumed and dusted, things he did about once a month whether the place needed it or not. By five p.m. he was hungry and, deciding he was too lazy to cook for himself, walked over to M Street in Georgetown for dinner.

He ended up at The Guards restaurant. He liked The Guards because it was usually quiet and not packed with a herd of drunken college kids like every other establishment on the M Street strip. He took a seat at the bar.

There were four other guys sitting at the bar, all wearing suits, all in their forties or fifties. They didn’t look alike, but there was a sameness to them: they all seemed tired and a little depressed, staring down into their drinks at the end of a long day, ignoring everyone else around them. And DeMarco had this feeling that they were all lonely, that they had no wives to go home to, or wives they didn’t want to go home to, and they were all in dead-end jobs they didn’t like. In other words, guys just like him. And now he was starting to get depressed.

And then
she
entered the bar.

She had long, dark hair framing a narrow face. A perfect nose, full lips, big dark eyes. She had an hourglass figure encased in a black suit,
the hem of the skirt stopping just above her knees. On her feet were four-inch stiletto heels.

She was every man’s fantasy, and every guy in the bar was thinking the same thing,
Please, please, Lord, let this woman sit down next to me
.

She stood in the doorway for a moment—and then walked straight to DeMarco.

“Joe,” she said, “why don’t we go sit in a booth where we can talk?”

“Do I know you?” he asked, knowing he didn’t, knowing there was no way that if he had ever met this woman he would have forgotten.

“No,” she confirmed.

“Then how do you know me?” he asked.

“Let’s get a booth,” she said and walked away, certain that he would follow.

“Hey, you wanna drink?” he called out to her.

“Diet Coke.”

As he was waiting for her drink he couldn’t help but look over at the guy sitting closest to him. The guy had a
Why you
? look on his face and DeMarco just gave him a small, smug smile, as if beautiful women picked him up in bars all the time.

Her Diet Coke and his martini in hand, he sat down across from her.

“How do you know me?”

She took a leather case out of her purse and flipped it open. “Angela DeCapria. CIA.”

“CIA?”

“Yeah.”

He figured the CIA had found out that he had met with Whitmore, was perturbed because he had, and now wanted to know what Whitmore had told him. All he knew for sure was just looking at Angela DeCapria was worth whatever aggravation she might cause him.

“So what can I do for you?” he asked.

“My boss and your boss have agreed that we’re going to work together.”

“My boss?” DeMarco said.

“Mahoney. The Speaker.”

“I don’t work for Mahoney,” DeMarco said.

“Yeah, whatever,” Angela said, and when she said it she reminded him of all those girls in Queens he’d known growing up. “All I know is that Speaker Mahoney and Director LaFountaine have decided we’re working together. You can call Mahoney later to confirm this.”

“What are we working together on?” DeMarco asked, but he was thinking that spending time with this woman would be better than any job Mahoney could possibly give him. And then she pulled the maraschino cherry from her drink and sucked the fruit off the stem— and DeMarco fell in love.

“We’re going to destroy the lives of all the people who were involved in getting Mahata Javadi killed.”

DeMarco shook his head. He imagined it was 1960, and sitting in a bar in Miami is a CIA agent and a Cuban, and the agent is telling the Cuban how the CIA is going to help him and his friends take down Castro. Later, the Cuban would be lying on the beach at the Bay of Pigs watching his friends die. There was no way DeMarco was going to get involved in some illegal, half-baked CIA scheme that could land him in jail—or maybe get him killed like Dale Acosta.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “But can I buy you dinner?”

“Joe, just so we don’t waste a lotta time here, go call this guy that you don’t work for right now. Then, after he tells you that you’re my new partner, we’ll have some dinner and talk. And dinner’s on the agency. We’re loaded.”