The Legacy (6 page)

He moved his head and whistled softly as if enjoying a song playing on his Walkman, but a discerning eye would have noticed that the machines PLAY button wasnt depressed. There was no music blaring through the earphones because that would have been stupid. Music would have blocked out other sounds, and the young man needed all his senses in perfect working order right now because he was running a gauntlet.

The guard at the librarys front door motioned to the young man to open the backpack for inspection. The young man cheerfully complied, placing the pack on the counter and continuing to move to the imagined song. The guard peered inside the pack, then removed the cassette case and checked inside it carefully.

The young man grimaced. He wasnt concerned that the guard was going to appropriate the tape. Library videocassettes were clearly marked and this one wasnt. But now anyone watching would have seen the guard take the case out of the pack. The young man glanced around. He noticed nothing out of the ordinary.

The guard closed the cassette case and shoved it back into the young mans pack. The young man smiled beneath the brim of his Yankees cap, zipped up his green down jacket, grabbed the pack and moved out of the building. Once past the stone lions, he turned right onto Fifth Avenue, turned right again at Fortieth Street and continued walking until he reached Bryant Parka large rectangle of meticulously manicured grass surrounded by tall elm trees stretching from the back of the library all the way to Sixth Avenue. On a summer evening the park would have been crowded with people enjoying comedians or musicians performing on the stage erected at the west end, but in the darkness of the cold fall evening it was deserted. The young man jogged across the grass through the gloom as a raw drizzle began to fall. He was almost home.

As he reached the other side of the park, he took a shortcut over a patch of ivy and through a grove of trees. It was a terrible mistake. The solid metal pipe smashed into the back of his skull collapsing fragments of hair and skin and bone into his brain. He fell forward onto his chest, hands above his head grasping at the ivy. He managed to pull himself forward only a few inches before he moaned pitifully and his eyes rolled back in his head. Then Agent Graham lay motionless, his fingers still clutching wet leaves.

The blond man didnt bother removing the backpack from the young mans corpse. He simply bent down, ripped open the buckle, shoved his meaty hand inside the pack, extracted the cassette case and opened it. From his leather coat he took out a small flashlight, cavalierly unconcerned about the possibility of being caught standing over a fresh kill. He switched on the flashlight and inspected the tape in the dim light. He pushed his tongue into the opening made by his missing lower front tooth and a tight smile crossed his thin lips. Then he extinguished the flashlight, shoved it back in his coat, closed the cassette case, pulled it tightly against his chest, turned and disappeared into the mist.

AVERY ZAHN, two-star army general and deputy director of the Defense Intelligence Agency, sat outside the Oval Office door in what was for him an undersized chair. He was six-sevena former basketball pine-rider at the United States Military Academyand at fifty-one he still retained the rail-slender build of his playing days. He was gangly, with large ears that stuck almost straight out from the sides of his head. During his life hed endured an abundant amount of teasing about his ears, and as much as anything this mocking of his physical appearance was the basis for his stoic demeanor and the huge chips sitting squarely on each narrow shoulder.

The Oval Office door opened suddenly and Eric Walsh, the presidents chief of staff, poked his head out into the waiting area. Were ready for you, he said self-importantly.

Zahn nodded stiffly as he rose from the seat. Walsh was the yuppie type, a type Zahn detested. Walsh wore expensive suits and flashy ties and in the morning parked his BMW in the closest space to the door of the West Wing of the White House. He was short and slight, with perfectly combed dark hair, tortoise-shell glasses and a universe-size ego. As Zahn entered the Oval Office, he ducked, an automatic reaction after years of head bumps. He didnt care for Walsh at all, but no one saw the president without also seeing Walsh. They had been inseparable since the presidents days as governor of North Carolina.

Richard Jamison, president of the United States, was doing his best to terminate a telephone conversation and motioned for Zahn to sit in the chair positioned to the left side of the great desk. It was a black captains chairDuke Universitys motto etched into the back in gold letteringand was larger, though only slightly more comfortable, than the chair in which Zahn had been sitting outside the Oval Office.

Zahn eased into the chair while Walsh sat in the one on the right side of the presidents desk. Jamison stood behind the desk, gazing out through the large window into the night, charming someone at the other end of the phone. As much as Zahn disliked Walsh, he liked Jamison. Not because he wanted to, but because he had to. Jamison was personally responsible for Zahns appointment as deputy director of the DIA. It was an appointment that had revived a foundering military career. Zahn knew why Jamison had selected him over several more deserving candidates, but that was all right. You took what you could get in this world, any way you could get it.

Jamison was tall, tanned and graying slightly at the temples. He possessed movie-star good looks and a silver tongue Zahn knew was also forked. Zahn shrugged to himself. Maybe that was just something politicians were born with, and something they needed to possess in order to succeed.

We thank you for your support, Senator, Jamison said politely. My love to Alice and the girls. He nodded several times, smiling into the phones mouthpiece, trying to disengage. Right, goodbye. His smile evaporating, he replaced the receiver on its cradle and glanced at Walsh as he sat in the chair behind the huge desk. Eric, the good senator from Michigan is a pompous asshole.

Walsh put a hand to his face to hide a grin. Jamison used profanity liberally when he was conducting small meetings in the Oval Office. The habit amused Walsh because Jamison had managed to craft such a virtuous public image.

And his wifes as fucking ugly as the south end of a northbound wolverine. Jamison winked at Walsh. Quite a little slut in her college days, too, if our information is correct.

This time Walsh chuckled out loud.

Zahn had been absentmindedly fiddling with his military hat, which lay on his lap. At the sound of Walshs laughter, Zahn glanced up and saw the president staring at him.

Hello, General Zahn, Jamison said cordially.

Hello, Mr. President. Zahn could only imagine how Walsh and the president would joke about his ears after he left. When Walsh had leaned into the waiting area outside the Oval Office, Zahn had caught the young man looking at them. But if Walsh and Jamison wanted to have a little fun at his expense, that would have to be acceptable. After all, Jamison had caused his military stock to rise after a long slide. And there was that other matter as well.

How are you this evening, General? the president asked.

Fine.

And as talkative as ever, I see.

Walsh chuckled again.

Zahn shifted uncomfortably in his chair without saying anything. He felt the perspiration building beneath his uniform. He was too self-conscious to easily endure any kind of attention.

Right. Jamison folded his hands together atop the desk and cleared his throat. Zahn was as stiff as a board, and it was silly to think that he might all of a sudden become an interesting conversationalist. It was better to get down to the matter at hand than to try and drag any shred of personality out of the general.

In his peripheral vision Zahn noticed Walshs posture subtly stiffen as the presidents demeanor became serious.

Update me on Operation Snowfall, Jamison demanded abruptly. He was all business now. Specifically, what we talked about last week.

Yes, Mr. President. Zahn was happy. The idle chitchat, something for which he had never possessed an affinity, was over. Now they could get to work. We should acquire what we seek this evening, if we havent already, Zahn said, checking his watch. I have a report, from the man I told you about, that Cole Egan took something out of a safe-deposit box at the Chase Bank branch at Fifth Avenue and Forty-third Street in Manhattan this afternoon. We believe what he retrieved from the box is what were looking for.

The president reclined in the chair and chewed thoughtfully on the end of his gold Cross pen for a moment. Really? He was surprised that it could be over so quickly, but then Zahn was efficient. He wasnt someone youd spend more than a few seconds conversing with at an Embassy Row cocktail party or a state dinner, but he was coldly efficient, and therefore the perfect man to head this mission.

Yes, Mr. President.

The president leaned forward over the desk. You know how goddamn important this mission is to me.

Yes, Mr. President. Zahn was like a puppy dog in Jamisons presence.

A minute of silence ensued as the president took in this unexpectedly positive piece of information.

Zahn began rocking slightly in his chair. It was what he always did when he was about to address someone of superior rank without being prompted, and when he thought what he was about to say was humorous. Kind of ironic. Zahn cackled through his nose when he laughed. Isnt it, Mr. President? This whole thing, I mean. It was a feeble attempt at something other than his typically stoic demeanor, and it failed miserably.

The presidents eyes narrowed. It sure as shit is, he hissed. He had no desire to be reminded of the irony.

Walsh shook his head. What an idiot Zahn was.

Zahn nodded nervously, wishing he could have taken back his comment.

General Zahn, I hope for your sake everything works out well this evening. I informed my associate that you would acquire what we seek very soon. He was delighted to hear that. Jamison pointed a finger at Zahn. I dont want him to be disappointed, he said ominously. I cant have that.

I understand, Mr. President. It was all Zahn could do to speak.

Good. When you have procured the damn thing, I want to be informed immediately. You may call Mr. Walsh at any hour tonight. Jamison gestured in his chief of staffs direction. That will be all, General Zahn.

Yes, sir. Zahn rose and walked out the door, which clicked shut behind him.

What do you have on Zahn? Walsh asked, an impish grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. Why is he so petrified of you?

The president stood up, turned and gazed out through the window into the darkness beyond. General Zahn comes from a very old, very high-profile Southern family. A family that has called Charleston, South Carolina, home for two hundred years. Jamison loosened his bright red tie. A very traditional Southern family from a very traditional Southern town, where gentlemen are gentlemen and ladies are ladies, he said in his smooth North Carolina accent.

Whats your point? Walsh asked impatiently. He was the only one in Washington who could get away with so impertinent a tone.

My point is that General Zahn leaves his wife and children one night a month for his lover, which wouldnt be so bad in and of itself. Hell, weve all strayed at one time or another. But I doubt Zahns mother, father, sister and the rest of his extended family would want to hear that the generals lover is a nineteen-year-old male cadet enrolled at the Citadel. That might be cause for some explaining on the Charleston social circuit.

Walshs grin grew wider. Having that kind of information seems to make General Zahn fairly malleable.

Very malleable. Jamison turned away from the window.

So thats why you had no hesitation about informing Zahn of the circumstances. Jamison could be secretive about his motives sometimes, even with his chief of staff. Now Walsh was finally being shown the light on this issue.

Hell, thats why I promoted him to deputy director of the DIA, and why I gave him responsibility for the mission. Our associate will be monitoring our progress carefully. Whoever was leading the mission would have asked questions. I can be open with Zahn and answer any of his questions because I know hell take whatever I tell him to his grave without telling anyone else. Closet homosexuals are good that way, especially ones with wives and children.

Mmm. Walsh wanted to go over the bigger picture one more time. He had counseled the president against all of this many times over the last few days, and it seemed to him worth one more review. Do you really feel this whole thing is necessary?

Absolutely, the president answered forcefully. You know how much I want a second term, and I dont have the financial war chest for the campaign, not like the one you tell me my opponent will have, anyway. I dont have time for thousands of coffee meetings and dinners, either. And theres so much scrutiny on campaign finance these days, I dont want to have to count on a substantial amount of fundraising to win reelection. Jamison sat back down in his chair. I need votes, Eric, and what we are doing will ensure that I get them. As it did the first time around. As it did in 1960. Jamison thought back to Zahns comment about irony. The general had been right on the button in more ways than one.

But youre the incumbent, Walsh argued. Stay the course and youre a lock to be reelected next year.

Tell Jimmy Carter and George Bush that, Jamison said quietly, gazing down at his desktop. I cant change my mind now anyway. My associate wouldnt take kindly to that.