Whirlwind (7 page)

“You’ll what?” Cold, hollow, a wind from a burnt-out star, Charlie’s voice was void of anger, void of any recognizable emotion. “What can you do to me, Sam? What can you do that you haven’t already done?” He whispered sharp as the Reaper’s sickle harvesting souls, “Dupe me into killing an innocent man? Turn me into a jailbird? Disgrace my good name? Fire me after more than thirty years of loyal service? Take away my pension? Keep me from my wife’s deathbed? Come on, you slug, tell me what you can do that’s any worse than what you’ve already done.”

Honest hate is diamond, crystal clear and incandescent. Charlie spilled his hoarded gems before Sam’s scheming eyes, and in this he was, at last, fulfilled.

Jam had three choices: lie, stonewall, or tell the truth.

Pick one of the above.

He’d been in politics long enough to know lying was a risky business. If the special prosecutor smelled an inconsistency, he’d be on you like a Dober-man. As a rule, stonewalling was better. Assert national security, executive privilege or, worse comes to worst, the Fifth Amendment, and he might get steamed, but he wouldn’t get an indictment. Sam stonewalled a lot. Hey, it worked.

But not this time. This time he had to tell it straight. Charlie was a thunderstorm, lightning in his heart, you could hear the electricity crackle. Back in the old days he’d hurt people, important people, there were stories about broken bones, and the fire in the dangerous bastard’s eyes chilled Sam’s blood.

Nonetheless, he couldn’t help taking a certain satisfaction in the fact that Charlie had showed his true sentiments the hallmark of an amateur negotiator.

I know my weaknesses, Charlie, do you? Yes, Sam was grimly aware that he had them worst of all a dangerously combustible temper. When he lost it,

his judgement suffered. Then, invariably, he made mistakes big ones, bad ones, the kind that would spell the end of any politician’s career. That’s where I’m vulnerable, Charlie. Now let’s talk about you. What’s your weakness, buddy? Easy answer: self-confidence. Charlie was the most cocksure sonofabitch Sam had ever met. It wasn’t arrogance or pride that made him so. It was… the word left a bad taste in his mouth … it was bravery bravery and its galling handmaiden, honor.

If there was a chink in Charlie’s armor, it was that he thought the angels were on his side, and behaved like he was under heaven’s protection.

But he wasn’t. A year and a half in prison proved that point. To say nothing of those other episodes in Charlie’s past, bodies buried deep in unmarked graves, no tombstone engraved: here lies yet another victim of Charles McKenzie’s gallant, albeit mule-headed, courage.

He’s right most of the time. No problem. He thinks he’s right all of the time. Big problem. So what’s the best way to bargain with a grandstander like that?

Obvious answer: make him believe you think he’s in the right. But don’t make it easy. Make it like pulling teeth. Turn it into Charlie’s personal victory. The only way to win was to make the self-righteous prick think Sam had lost.

Now, Sam smiled to himself, let the bargaining begin.

Dropping his shoulders submissively, he looked down as though unable to meet Charlie’s stare. “I suppose it wouldn’t do any good if I said I was sorry.”

A carnivore’s growl: “Not one damned bit.”

A moment’s shamefaced silence seemed called for. Charlie would be expecting it, and Sam was eager to please. He chewed his lips before murmuring, with apparent reluctance, “I believe I see the issue. You want a presidential pardon; that’s what this is about, correct?”

“For openers,” Charlie snapped, chin jutting and fists balled. “After that, I want an apology.”

Sam sighed all the sadness in the world. “Presidents don’t apologize. It fucks up their approval ratings.” To which, he wistfully added, “Always excepting Bill Clinton.”

“It doesn’t have to be public, Sam. Just a private word from the White House to make me feel “

Behold! Sam crowed silently, a negotiating position!

“Oh, Charlie,” he shook his head with artful sorrow, “everyone knows the official story. Drugs and drink. The voters like the story, the voters believe the story, so that is the story. Take my advice: let it lie, just put it behind you, and let it lie.”

Charlie seemed distracted. He squinted at his watch, then flicked his eye toward his bookcase. Sam asked himself, He’s worried about the time; why the hell is that?

“You know me well enough to know I’ll never let it lie.”

“I’m afraid I do.” He tilted his double chin at the ceiling, his face a mask of premeditated hesitation. “So then,” he whispered, “you won’t settle for anything else?”

God’s voice on judgement day, “No, I will not.”

Relishing the moment, Sam played his high card. “You want a pardon, very well then, you’ll receive a pardon. Guaranteed.” Charlie blinked in confusion. Sam was delighted. He’d found the soft spot in his opponent’s defenses, and he could drive a big fat wedge straight through it. “But there are terms. There are conditions. You’re going to have to compromise.”

“I am not a compromising man.”

Ain’t it the truth. “Sorry, Charlie, but this is not a negotiation.” Of course it is. “My first offer and my last offer are the same offer. No wheeling and dealing, take it or leave it. Understand?”

“Speak your piece. I’ll listen. That’s the only promise I’ll make.”

Puffing out his cheeks and blowing as though resigned to an inevitable and unwelcome fate, Sam did what he did only when there was no alternative: sucker-punched his opponent with the truth. “The president won’t pardon you because he thinks you’re guilty as sin. He thinks the whole Kahlid Hassan mess was exactly what the spin doctors said it was a rogue agent gone berserk.” Sam waited for the light to dawn. It only took seconds. “Hell, Charlie, what can I say? The orders I gave you the president didn’t know about them. When he found out, he went ballistic. So … Jesus, I’m sorry … when I said the White House would back you every step of the way…” Sam let his voice trail off into silence.

“You lied?” Ancient war drums in those two words, an armored legion on the march.

“Uh, no.” All his years of practiced dissimulation went into his phrasing. No actor upon the stage could sound more sincerely ashamed. “Not exactly.

It’s more like I goofed. You see… Christ, I hate this … the boss said something, and I took it the wrong way.”

“”Who will rid me of this turbulent priest?” Is it one of those deals, Sam?”

Charlie was buying the story. Sam heaved an inner sigh of relief. “Don’t I wish. The thing is I had a few drinks under my belt…” Three stiff ones, although there was no need to mention that. “.. . and simply got it wrong. I blew it, and I admit it. I hope you can accept that maybe not forgive me, but at least understand. Nobody’s perfect, and “

Between clenched teeth, and savagely slow: “I went to jail because you misinterpreted the president?”

Tell the truth. The truth is the only thing that will convince him he’s in the right. “You went to jail to cover my butt. If you want to kill me for that, go ahead.” Sonofabitch! The homicidal prick was taking him seriously! He raised his voice, speaking more rapidly. “But the pardon, Charlie, I can promise it to you free and clear. Hell, I’ll even get your pension reinstated.”

“I thought you said the president won’t “

“Correct. But I will.” Charlie gave him a narrow, cagey look. Sam hated it when he did that. “The thing is… Charlie, understand this is one hundred and ten percent off the record … the thing is, the veep’s ticker’s worn out. He barely survived the reelection campaign. The docs give him a year unless he slows down. So…” Deep breath, make him think it’s really hard to confess. “This fall, after congress’s summer recess, he’s resigning. The president plans to appoint me as his replacement.”

Charlie was dead quiet. Sam had expected him to say something. At a minimum he should have insulted him. “So, ah, Charlie, what do you think about that?”

“Mostly that vice presidents don’t get to sign pardons.”

“But presidents do. Three years from now the boss’s term is up. Then, who’s the party’s logical nominee? The vice president, that’s who. In other words: me. And as soon as I’m elected, you get a pardon. I swear on my mother’s “

“Hogwash,” Charlie shot back. “The public doesn’t know you. You’ve never held elected office. You’ve got no organization. You’ve got no campaign chest. You’re too damned fat!”

Sam smiled a perfect smile. “Three years as vice president. A lot can change in three years.”

“Not enough. There are a dozen hungry senators waiting for the primary, and there’s not a one of them who isn’t better funded than you. It takes what sixty or seventy million bucks to win the primaries. And to get elected, hell, then you’re talking about real money. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe your boss spent something in excess of three hundred million to buy his chair in the Oval Office.”

“I can spend more.” Ha! Just look at the expression on your face. “I’ve got friends, friends you don’t know about. We’re talking major muscle and major money, enough to steam roll the other candidates. Make no mistake, I am going to be the next president.” Sam showed his teeth. “Anyone who gets in my way is roadkill!” He started to rise from his chair.

“Sit down!” Charlie snapped.

Somewhere in Sam’s mind a faint alarm bell rang.

“Sam, either we finish this conversation now or we don’t finish it at all.”

What was the fossilized old dinosaur up to? He sure as hell couldn’t have bugged the room. Sam’s NSA team carried equipment tuned to detect the most advanced high-tech recording gear. It’s just an act, he told himself, Charlie being Charlie, thumping his chest like a goddamned alpha-male gorilla.

Choosing to obey the order of a man who was losing (although he did not know it) this particular bargaining session, Sam slumped back into his seat. Then spreading his palms in a well-rehearsed gesture of candor, he spoke intimately, a hushed secret shared between two friends. “Look, the president is behind me. Even back before the reelection campaign, he knew the veep was sick. Two years ago, he picked three of us me, a congressman from Southern California, and the secretary of state. He explained what’s what with the vice president, and then he gave each of us a couple of balls to run with. I was assigned Whirlwind and diplomatic relations with China “

“The most treacherous sonsofbitches I know. Present company excepted.”

“They’re eating out of the palm of my hand. Things have never been more cordial.” He stopped himself short. Boasting about the Chinese was a mistake. Charlie was the last person Sam wanted to know about his little diplomatic coup.

“Just give me the bottom line, Sam. I don’t have much time here.” Charlie’s eyes darted toward his bookcases again. Why the hell was he looking at it? Nothing there but dog-eared books, a couple of cameras, and some crap souvenirs.

“China and Whirlwind were my babies. If I managed them right, then I’d get the nod when the vice president retired. Which I did. Come this fall, I’ll be vice president of the United States.”

“Except that Whirlwind has gone lost, stolen, or strayed.”

“Which you will handle for me. Otherwise, I’m toast.” Honesty, honesty who says it doesn’t pay? Every now and then. “If I’m toast, I don’t get to be president. If I don’t get to be president “

“I don’t get pardoned.”

“But you will.” Sam felt good. Sam felt fine. Sam felt like he always did when he’d brokered a winning trade. “Find that Russian bitch, find Whirlwind, and your name gets cleared.”

“The only thing that will clear my name is you admitting that Kahlid Hassan was your fault.”

“Not in a million years.” The negotiation is over, Charlie. Give it up.

“But it was, right?”

“Of course it was. I already said that, didn’t I?” Charlie smiled the smile of a profoundly satisfied man. Sam wondered why.

“Sam, under normal circumstances I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could throw you. However, these are not normal circumstances. I’m going to accept your offer.”

Charlie held out his hand. Sam stood and shook it.

Done deal, sucker.

Uisappointed that he hadn’t succeeded in detonating Sam’s volcanic temper, Charlie shepherded the security advisor out of his house. As they walked down the porch steps, Sam said, “Once I’m airborne, I’ll order the equipment you asked for. There’ll be a chopper on your lawn in two hours. Agency Falcon at “

“I’d prefer a Gulfstream. A GV actually.”

“Tour wish is my command. It will be waiting for you at Boiling. Fully equipped with onboard secure radio, secure cellular, secure network access from anywhere, all that technology crap.”

“Which you will bug.”

“Correct. Also you get temporary credentials with your old rank back and a renewed security clearance. Full-time Agency librarian. Four squeaky-clean credit cards, one in each flavor. Twenty grand in walking-around money.”

Charlie glanced over his shoulder. Jason and Molly had their faces pressed to the window. Carly, hands on her hips, stood at the screen door. “All in twenties and fifties. I presume it will be marked.”

“Of course. If you cut and run, I want a way to track you down.”

“Don’t you wish.”

Sam shrugged, continuing to read from Charlie’s neatly printed shopping list. “A Steyr sniper rifle with a Trijicon scope… whatever that may be… and two FBI-accurized .40 calibers. That’s everything you asked for. Anything else you want?”

Sam’s Marine Corps pilot had fired up the helicopter’s engine. Its blades were high above both men’s head’s. Neither Sam nor Charlie could keep himself from instinctively ducking.

“The father.”

“Excuse me? What father?”

“The girl’s. The Russian navy guy. I want his full dossier. Digitize it, and send it to me once I’m in my Gulfstream.”

“It’s been looked at. There’s nothing useful in it.”

“Send it to me anyway.”

“It’s your ballgame, Charlie. Ask, and you shall receive.” Sam lumbered toward the helicopter’s boarding steps. He did not, Charlie observed, offer to shake hands again.

“One other thing, Sam. I want your promise that you won’t be bringing anyone else into this business.”