The Art of the Devil (12 page)

Betsy was sitting across the desk again, smiling.
Don't worry about Frank Isherwood, slugger. He can't hurt you. Nobody can, as long as you've got me.

The door leading out to the main atrium opened again.

Two Secret Service agents stepped into the reception area. Neither was on the Chief's docket for a morning appointment. ‘Lou,' said Max with false cheer. ‘Eddie. How's tricks?'

Lou Candless and Eddie Grieg just grunted, taking up position on either side of the door – preventing Max Whitman's escape.

‘Here to see the Chief?' Max lifted his phone. ‘He's in a meeting. But I'll see if he can make some room …'

When he rang Spooner's office, however, there was no reply. And in the next moment, two more agents had appeared inside the reception area.

‘Fellows.' Max strove to keep his tone light. ‘What's going on?'

No response. Then the door behind him opened, and the Chief stepped out of the inner sanctum. ‘Max,' he said, ‘go with these boys and answer a few questions, all right?'

Behind his desk again, the Chief let out a long, shaken breath. ‘You're sure about this?'

Somberly, Isherwood nodded.

‘But I've known him longer than I've known you.' The Chief gazed abstractedly up at the electric ormolu chandelier as he spoke. ‘Longer than I've worked for the Service. I've known him my entire life.'

Lighting a cigarette, Isherwood withheld comment.

‘Before we start on him,' Spooner went on tightly, ‘you'd better be absolutely certain you've got your ducks in a row. I mean one hundred per cent.'

‘If someone else knew we were meeting, Chief, clue me in. Otherwise …'

‘Maybe they had someone watching the farm. Maybe a signal was sent.'

‘But without inside information, they wouldn't even have noticed me. And they sure wouldn't have known when and where I'd be on that highway.' Isherwood let a beat pass before stating baldly: ‘Max sold us out.'

To Spooner, the office suddenly seemed too warm. He loosened his tie, unfastened his top button. ‘We're talking about my oldest friend, Ish. And I still have to sleep nights.'

‘And we both,' responded Isherwood evenly, ‘have to protect the President. And if they managed to penetrate this office … who knows where else they've infiltrated?'

The Chief shook his head. He clenched his fists, raised and then lowered them impotently. ‘Good Christ,' he said. ‘Good Christ. Who's supposed to run the fucking interrogation?'

‘Candless and Grieg.' Isherwood watched a coil of smoke work its way across the desk. ‘They're good men. And no matter how much you might want to play things close to the vest, we can't handle this alone – not any more. Way I see it, this attack by the highway tells us three things we didn't know yesterday. One, it's real. They're out there. Two, we're hitting a sore spot. We can't back off now. Three, Max knows something. We need to find out what.'

Spooner leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes.

‘And this tall bastard by Route Thirty,' Isherwood went on, ‘is another thread we can pull on. He left his rifle behind. Springfield M1903: standard issue during the Big One.'

Spooner's eyes opened. ‘So he's a vet.'

‘Ten to one.' Isherwood picked a flake of tobacco from his tongue. ‘Man his height stands out. Give me some wheels to replace the bullet nose, and I'll hit some standard haunts – VAs, Rotary Clubs, VFA, American Legion. See if I can find someone who matches the description.'

Spooner pooched out his lips. He drummed fingertips against the desk blotter. ‘And who guards Eisenhower while you're out playing gumshoe?'

‘Start with Phil Zane. Kid's got grit. Lefty Marato, Leo Wayne … all stand-up guys. They'll take a bullet without hesitating.'

‘You'll vouch for them?'

‘In a heartbeat.'

‘I'd have vouched for Max, too. To hell and back, I'd have vouched for him.'

Isherwood said nothing.

Spooner rubbed at his brow for fully half a minute. His Adam's apple leapt. He took out a cigarette and spent another thirty seconds studying it. At last he returned from his higher plane of thought and started patting chest and thighs, seeking matches. Isherwood leaned forward, offering his Zippo.

‘I don't care if you need to turn over every goddamned rock on the eastern seaboard.' The Chief exhaled a thrashing dragon of smoke. ‘Find that cocksucker.'

Isherwood nodded.

CHARLOTTESVILLE

Beneath Richard Hart's cast, the broken leg throbbed and itched. Even worse was the wounded shoulder, which below the bandage burned and seethed. Worst of all, however, was the wound to the pride.

For a long moment, Bolin looked at him critically. ‘Are you in pain?'

‘I'll manage.'

‘The doctor who worked on you …'

‘A friend of the movement. Completely discreet.'

But Bolin hesitated – doubting Hart's judgment. And who could blame him? ‘Well,' said the senator at last. ‘
Bois tortu fait feu droit.
Crooked logs make straight fires. Instead of being frustrated by a bad situation, the wise man finds a way to improve it.'

Hart nodded.

‘The failed attack has doubtless made our friend Isherwood aware that he is a target. So there's no longer any need for his death to look circumstantial.' Insouciantly, Bolin inspected one manicured cuticle. ‘You have no shortage of … unsavory … contacts, I take it, from your years on the street …?'

‘I'll take care of him.'

‘And the rifle in New York?'

‘Not ready until Sunday.'

‘That gives you time to finish what you've started.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Mister Hart: no more failures. Or I might begin to question my judgment of character.'

Hart squared his shoulders, setting his jaw. ‘Yes, sir.'

Bolin watched him go, listened to the disjointed echo of the crutches – click-CLACK, click-CLACK, click-CLACK – bouncing back from the tall ceilings.

Outwardly, the senator remained calm. Beneath the surface, he felt considerably less at ease. Presently, he sighed, moving back into the study. Falling into the chair behind his desk, he doffed his spectacles and rubbed at the bridge of his nose.

Lighting a Viceroy, he found himself looking at a framed photograph on the desk. From the faded photo, his dear departed wife gazed back at him with pointed eyes. Her sepia gaze seemed to smolder with contempt. The daughter of one of the most powerful landowners south of the Mason-Dixon, she had never hesitated to voice her criticisms … which may have been why Bolin so rarely mourned her passing.

But look what happens when I'm not around
,
those eyes seemed to say.
You've let this run away with you. And now it's all going to turn to ash in your hands.

Coolly, he smoked. There had been missteps, he acknowledged tacitly; there had been missed opportunities. But Vera was mistaken. In the important ways, things remained under control.

You should have cut Hart loose long ago.
Now he may have ruined everything.

But Vera was being uncharitable, as was her wont. The endgame was near. With the condition that Isherwood's death look accidental removed, it became a simple matter of attacking with overwhelming force. Hart could handle it. Then the only man in a position to interfere with the girl would be out of the way.

You try to put a good light on it
, sniffed Vera.
But facts are facts. Your pansy failed again, and now Spooner's guesses have been confirmed. They'll realize
that only one man could have betrayed Isherwood. Then they'll arrest and interrogate Max Whitman. And Whitman will turn on you, and you'll get just what you deserve for your incompetence.

Again, she was mistaken. Whatever his … complications … Hart could finish Isherwood. And Emil Spooner had already proven himself hesitant, overcautious. After Isherwood's death, he would not move decisively in time to change anything. In fact, the second brazen strike would send a clear message: nobody was beyond their reach.

Don't be a fool
,
said Vera
. Make provisions for the worst. Be prepared for any eventuality.

Sharp-tongued she may have been … but his wife had also been shrewd. It paid to prepare for worst-case scenarios.

Bolin grunted softly to himself.

Lifting the telephone, then, he made preparations: a car to the coast, steamship passage booked across the Atlantic, and a stateroom which would remain empty, creating confusion as to his true whereabouts – and another car to National Airport, where a twin-engine plane would spirit him to the Wulffs' allies in Argentina. He would remove himself from the equation until the deed was done, in case Max Whitman should crack. Only when it was finished would he return, to bask in his triumph. Any suspicion that fell his way then could be deflected by powerful allies newly ensconced in the White House. In the meantime, his staff would respond to inquiries with a simple statement concerning an unexpected personal issue.

After placing his calls, he moved to a Sergeant & Greenleaf safe hidden behind a landscape on the wall. From inside he withdrew two rolls of bills, which he pocketed, and various papers which could ruin the reputation his family had spent generations building. He carried the papers to the fireplace. Setting aside the brass screen, he reached for a platinum-encased poker and stirred the coals until the small, hot center was revealed. Trading poker for bellows, he coaxed the small center into a lick of flame. He then selected slivers of kindling, dry and brittle, which he used to encourage the lick of flame into a lapping tongue. One by one he fed papers into the fire.

From the Rolodex on his desk he chose several cards, which he also brought to the fireplace. These were followed by documents removed from drawers, cabinets, and leaves of books. The pages burned quickly, sometimes lifting on a slight updraft before crumbling to ash. When all had crumbled, he replaced the brass screen.

He filled a snifter with brandy, lit another Viceroy, and summoned his butler. Young William arrived seconds later, with buttons on his red vest glimmering. His family had served Bolin's for generations, and Bolin trusted him implicitly to perform certain tasks.

William listened attentively to his instructions. Bowing from the waist, he departed to pack a suitcase as ordered.

Awaiting the arrival of his car, Bolin swished cognac around his mouth. His remote gaze returned to the photograph of his wife. Surely it was only his imagination, he thought, that she seemed now to smirk with satisfaction.

GETTYSBURG

E
vening found Elisabeth and Josette together in Josette's room: Elisabeth sitting on the bed, paging through a recent copy of
Life
magazine and listening with half an ear to Fats Domino's
‘
Ain't That a Shame', while Josette preened in front of the mirror, inspecting from every angle the effect her new brassiere had on her figure. Outside frost-rimed windows, a cold wind rattled the panes in their frames.

As Elisabeth licked her finger to turn another page, Josette suddenly whirled from the mirror. ‘I can't bear it any longer,' she said. ‘I've got something to tell you.'

Nonplussed, Elisabeth looked up.

‘Libby: I'm in love!'

Elisabeth forced a smile. ‘Why, that's wonderful!'

‘His name is James. Isn't that regal? People call him Jim – sometimes even Jimmy – but to me, he's always been James. And if we have a son and name it after him, I'll insist everyone use the proper form of the name: James, Junior.' Unselfconscious of her half-nudity, Josette sat down beside Elisabeth. ‘I was trying not to say anything because I didn't want to sound foolish; I know how it might sound. “Oh, there's scatterbrained Josie, in love again. Hasn't she already been engaged? Say it ain't so, Jo!” But this time is different, Libby. It's different because
he's
different. And now I realize for the first time what love really is.'

James, it transpired, was employed on the farm as a handyman. Quite possibly Elisabeth had even seen him – he lived on the first floor and worked mostly in the barns. Josette described an Adonis straight out of Greek mythology, broad of shoulder and chest, narrow of waist, strong of heart and mind. Not only was he good with his hands (here Josette manufactured a studied little blush), but he was ambitious; he had gone to college for half a year on the GI Bill before dropping out. At some point, he might even go back and finish his education. But responsibilities had intervened, in the form of his first wife, whom he had knocked up and then, conscientiously, married – until reality had intruded, and recognizing his own limitations, he had wisely filed for divorce. This development, as Josette presented it, was proof of his depth of character. Although they had known each other for ten months, their love had been consummated only the week before, most unexpectedly. She had been dispatched to deliver a dipperful of buttermilk to the aptly-named Maternity Barn—

Elisabeth refrained from commenting. The girl had taken a roll in the hay – quite literally, from the sound of it – with a self-admitted cad. If she had
truly
known how it sounded, she would not be congratulating herself.

‘His kisses tasted like buttermilk. But then I found myself in a quandary, Libby; you can imagine. You don't want to make things too easy for a man, because nothing turns off an experienced fellow like a girl who goes all the way too fast.' Bending over, showing Elisabeth unsightly rolls of fat bunching up beneath the strap of her brassiere, she reached beneath the bed, pawing around – the guitar down there shifted in its case – and coming up with a bottle of schnapps. ‘But you also don't want to play too hard to get and make him think you're not interested. So it was a matter of finding the right balance: encouraging him just enough, but not too much …'