Removal (23 page)

‘I know, Phil,’ Ted Lazenby said. ‘Please believe me, we’re doing our best.’

There was a silence. Hammond seemed exasperated.

‘What’s the problem?’ he asked. ‘I thought our people had the goods on every type of encryption there was.’

‘That’s what we thought, too,’ Lazenby said. ‘The analysts are pulling their hair out over it. They’re putting in a lot of time. Something will give eventually. There’s some speculation it may be some kind of older military code, perhaps something Carlson and his associates may have used during their mercenary days in Africa.’

Lazenby looked down at his desk.

‘Actually, Phil, to be honest, they told me to tell you that it would really help to have more material from Fox. They don’t have a lot to go on. They need more volume. I know it’s dangerous for you…’

‘It’s not that, Director,’ Hammond said. ‘You already have everything that’s come in. There’s just not much volume from Fox. It’s almost as if he doesn’t speak unless there’s a good reason for it. You get the feeling he, or she, is very conscious of the risks involved. And Carlson’s replies are minimal.’

‘Phil,’ Kelly asked, ‘are you close enough to Carlson to know whether he speaks any foreign languages? Maybe he and Fox don’t communicate in English. It would really help to know whether we’re dealing with encrypted English or encrypted something else.’

‘I don’t know,’ Hammond replied. ‘I’ll try to think of a way to ask without arousing suspicion.’

‘Don’t take any chances,’ Lazenby said firmly. ‘Are you confident your cover is still intact?’

‘Yes, Sir, as far as I know.’

‘All right,’ Lazenby said, nodding thoughtfully. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes, Sir, actually there is. Yesterday, the Portland police recovered the body of a white male, mid-thirties, in a ditch a little way out of town. He had been shot to death, single bullet in the back of the head. Some guy’s dog found it.’

‘Anyone we’re interested in?’ Lazenby asked.

‘I think I know,’ Kelly said quietly.

‘Yes, Sir. The body was not in good shape, so we can’t do any kind of visual ID, but their forensic people got a pretty tight match of a print to the ones recovered from the scene of the Marfrela killing.’

Lazenby’s eyes opened wide, as he looked at Kelly Smith.

‘Our mountain man?’

‘Yes, Sir. Looks like it.’

‘No ID on the body, driver’s licence, credit card, whatever?’

‘Not a thing. We have a provisional make on him under the name of Janner. The Los Angeles police have him as a suspect for a bank robbery down there the year before last. We may or may not be able to confirm that in a couple of days.’

‘Any hard evidence linking the body to the Sons of the Flag?’

‘No, Sir. The police think he was killed somewhere else and dumped there, so it could have been done at the compound. But if my associates did it, they didn’t tell me about it. Do you want me to…?’

Lazenby looked at Kelly, shaking his head vigorously.

‘No, Phil, no way,’ Kelly said. ‘No point. Those cases are closed. Don’t take any risks for that. If you happen to hear something unsolicited, fine. Otherwise, don’t go there.’

‘OK,’ Hammond said. ‘I think that’s about it. Talk to you tomorrow, Kelly. Good night, Director.’

* * *

‘God, I wish that were true,’ Lazenby said almost to himself, as he pressed the button to cut off Hammond’s call.

Kelly looked up. ‘Excuse me, Sir?’

Lazenby turned to look directly at her.

‘What you said to Phil. That the Benoni and Marfrela cases were closed. I said I wish it were true.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘You tell me.’

‘Well, there’s no one left to prosecute,’ Kelly smiled. ‘Both suspects got rather rough justice, which I can’t officially approve of, but it isn’t going to make me lose any sleep. And it saved us from having to deal with a couple of really messy cases.’

Lazenby drummed his fingers on the top of his desk.

‘I spoke to a friend on the Hill this morning,’ he said. ‘This is off the record right now, though it won’t be for long. The House Intelligence Committee is going to hold hearings. There will be an announcement tomorrow.’

Kelly sat up in her chair. ‘Hearings about what?’

‘What do you think? About the relationship, if any, between Lucia Benoni, Hamid Marfrela, and the President. It seems we weren’t the only ones worrying about the national security implications.’

Kelly bit her lip, and was silent for a time. ‘
The Washington Post
article,’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘Which means that you and I…’

‘…are potential witnesses, yes.’

Lazenby ground his teeth in irritation. ‘And we’ll have to give them whatever we have. There’s no way to protect it.’

‘What about compromising an ongoing criminal investigation?’ Kelly suggested.

‘You said it yourself, Kelly. There’s nothing ongoing any more.’

‘We haven’t formally closed the cases. We could make an argument.’

Lazenby shook his head.

‘They’d see straight through it. Anyway, it wouldn’t wash if there are national security issues involved. There’s only so much I can say with a straight face to protect a murder inquiry with two dead suspects. It might even look as though this Office were trying to protect the President. I can’t take that risk.’

‘Oh, what the hell,’ Kelly said, trying her best to sound off-hand. ‘They probably already know more than we do.’

‘Well,
The Washington Post
certainly does,’ Lazenby said. There was frustration in his voice. ‘How in the hell do they come up with this stuff?’

Kelly looked up, suddenly very concerned.

‘Director, do you think they know about the Oregon connection?’

‘The
Post
? I don’t think so. I’m sure we would have read about it by now.’

‘What about the House Intelligence Committee?’

‘I don’t know,’ Lazenby said. ‘It’s possible.’

‘Because, if they start getting into that…’

‘It will blow our whole operation. I know, Kelly. I’m going to tell them something off the record myself. I have to have some kind of understanding with the Committee Chair that they will give us some warning before they go down that road. He can’t give me that assurance if he doesn’t know about it. We can’t take the risk of it coming out accidentally. Obviously, if I tell them off the record, there’s ultimately no way to prevent them from going into it on the record. All I can do is rely on their judgment.’

‘What can I do, Sir?’ Kelly asked after some time.

‘For now, nothing. I’ll let you know when I hear more.’

Ted Lazenby looked back at her and suddenly smiled. ‘Oh, there is one more thing I should tell you.’

‘Sir?’

‘It seemed to me that Lieutenant Morris is in more or less the same position as we are. I mean as a likely witness. He’s as good as been on our team for some time. So today I called Chief Bryson and asked him to release Morris to us on temporary assignment for the duration of this situation. The Chief agreed, but of course I wanted to run it by you. If you have any objection…’

Kelly somehow managed to keep a perfectly straight face.

‘No objection at all, Sir, not if you think it best…’

She stood and made her way to the door of Ted Lazenby’s office, turned, and looked at Lazenby very seriously.

‘Director, if there should be any chance of the Marfrela-Oregon connection becoming public record…’

‘I’ll pull Phil out of there faster than you can say ‘Hamid Marfrela’. I promise.’

The relief showed in Kelly’s face as she turned to leave.

‘Thank you, Director. Good night.’

* * *

Kelly drove absent-mindedly through the early evening traffic to the Indian restaurant where she was to meet Jeff and Linda for dinner. As ever, parking in Georgetown was a challenge but, after circling for a short while, she got lucky, and pulled gratefully into a space in a residential street not too far from the restaurant. As she entered, she saw Jeff sitting at a corner table. Miniature statues of Shiva and the elephant-god, Ganesh, stood in small alcoves built into the walls to each side of his chair, and a photograph of the Taj Mahal at sunrise hung above Jeff’s head. The lighting was subdued, with flickering candles in burgundy glass holders on the tables, giving barely enough light to read the menu. A woman’s voice, accompanied on the sitar, filtered unobtrusively through the room, effortlessly finding the mysterious quarter notes so characteristic of eastern music, as it intoned a Hindu hymn. There was no sign of Linda. Kelly walked over to the table. Jeff stood and pulled out a chair for her as they kissed.

‘Hi, sweetheart, been waiting long?’ Kelly asked.

‘No. Just arrived.’

Kelly took a drink from the glass of iced water in front of her. She grinned mischievously.

‘Jeff, have you been keeping something back from me?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘So, you don’t have any news to tell me?’

He laughed. ‘Oh, you mean about turning my hobby into a paying gig?’

Kelly stuck her tongue out at him. He laughed.

‘I only found out myself this afternoon. Chief Bryson told me. I tried calling you but you were already in your meeting with Lazenby. It was nice of him to arrange it.’

‘Yeah,’ Kelly said. ‘Did Bryson tell you why?’

‘Only that Lazenby thought I should be on the team until the Marfrela killing is finally resolved.’

Kelly shook her head.

‘The Marfrela case is resolved, as of today,’ she said. ‘The assassin’s body turned up in Oregon. No, this has nothing to do with the criminal aspects of the case. It’s about the stuff
The Washington Post
published. The President’s opponents are out to get him, and they see this as the perfect issue. There are going to be hearings in the House.’

‘I see,’ Jeff Morris said slowly. ‘And I take it the House is going to be interested in what we know about the case?’

‘That’s what Lazenby is assuming,’ Kelly replied. ‘And I’m sure he’s right. There’s been no official announcement, by the way, so keep this to yourself.’

A waiter appeared silently behind Kelly. He placed a plate of poppadoms on the table, but did not withdraw.

‘Excuse me, Mem’Sahib, you are Kelly Smith?’

‘Yes,’ Kelly said, turning towards him.

‘A message has come for you, Miss Smith, it is coming by the telephone. It is coming from the party who was going to join you for dinner, Miss…’

‘Miss Samuels?’

The waiter was reading hesitantly from a note.

‘Yes, Mem’Sahib. Actually, Miss Samuels was calling and asking me to say she cannot join you as she had hoped. Actually, the case is, she is to be having to be working late, and she will be obliged if you will be calling her later.’

Kelly and Jeff looked at each other.

‘You’re sure that’s what she said? She was working late?’

‘Quite sure, Mem’Sahib. I am making the note of it myself, personally,’ the waiter said, offering the piece of paper to her.

Kelly shook her head.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘We’ll be ready to order in a couple of minutes.’

‘Very good, Mem’Sahib,’ the waiter said.

He withdrew as silently as he had come.

Jeff picked up the plate of poppadoms, offered one to Kelly, took one himself, and broke a piece off.

‘Maybe Julia Wade wants a rematch.’

Kelly smiled.

‘I hope it’s not to do with Bob,’ she said quietly.

‘I’d have thought she would have had it with him by now,’ Jeff said, munching on his poppadom. ‘Why hasn’t she just told him once and for all to shove it?’

‘You don’t know Linda well enough yet,’ Kelly replied. ‘That would be far too simple.’

M
ARTHA
G
RAYLOR
GRITTED
her teeth.

‘Come on, Conrad,’ she said into the phone as assertively as she dared. ‘You owe us one. The President gave you an exclusive in Paris last year. He handed you NATO’s position on the Balkans, the whole nine yards, before the ink was even dry on the official communiqué. No one else had that.’

‘That was in return for my being nice to him during the election,’ Conrad Beckers smiled on the other end of the line.

The voice was deep, reassuring, self-confident. It belonged to a man whose hour-long news show on Public Television commanded more respect than any other television news program in the country. Beckers had spent years as a political columnist before a perceptive producer realized how good he would look and sound on television. He came with all the skills which had brought him success as a writer. He was a shrewd reader of people as well as politics. It was said that he could converse fluently in three languages besides English. It was whispered that he was consulted confidentially at the highest levels. His show was meticulously researched, and presented with a thoroughness and objectivity which was the envy of the sound-bite slaves who plied their trade on the networks. Anyone who was anyone in Washington aspired to be the next victim of Conrad Beckers’ incisive cross-examination. Uncomfortable as it was to be publicly dissected, it was a sign that one mattered in politics, that one had arrived. When Martha Graylor called unexpectedly, Beckers was in make-up, preparing to tape an interview. He talked while an assistant unobtrusively applied foundation, and just a hint of black pencil around the temples.

‘Nice to him, my ass,’ Martha replied.

Beckers laughed.

‘I was too. All right, Paris was a good story. I was grateful then, and I’m grateful now. And I’m telling you, the President is welcome to come on the program as often as he likes. All I’m saying is, we need a little notice. We can’t do it tomorrow. We have a major time-sensitive piece already recorded.’

‘What about?’

‘The likely consequences of the Fed raising the interest rate. And a background piece on market fluctuations.’

‘Big deal.’

‘It is a big deal. If we don’t run it tomorrow, it’s history.’

Martha snorted.

‘History? You want to talk history? Conrad, I’m offering you the President’s first word on his opponents’ efforts to assassinate him. What more history do you want than that?’