The Hearing Page 20

  Even if Larry knew everything, how could he help? Gus wanted to tell Rothman about Samantha.

  “Concerning what you just said about this phone, what if I had something critical to say?”

  “How critical?”

  My daughter’s a killer. Is that critical enough?

  “Immediately, not very. But overall, extremely.”

  “Don’t say any more. Let me talk to the technicians.”

  Carl hung up, and Gus put the phone back between the armrests.

  Half an hour later, when Samantha awoke, they each had a swallow from a half-bottle of Evian mineral water they’d found in the bar. Five minutes later they were thirsty again. He should have saved all the water for Samantha, taken whiskey for himself. He wondered how much alcohol he could handle in this heat. He didn’t want to face a choice of drunkenness or dehydration.

  Perspiration poured from him. He had tremendous admiration for Samantha’s courage. She appeared to have made a vow not to complain.

  He said, “How are you?”

  “Okay.”

  “Thirsty?”

  “Just a little. It’s okay.”

  She had the cards out, laying them down on the seat between them for a game of solitaire.

  The phone buzzed.

  “Gus, it’s Phil.”

  Rothman. “Give us some good news.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t, Gus. In fact …”

  Rothman’s voice broke.

  “What is it, Phil? Is Michelle all right? What’s happened?”

  “I’m sorry, Gus. It’s your father. I’m sorry.”

  What Rothman had to say was obviously worth the risk of someone unscrambling the conversation.

  “The maid found him in his bedroom this morning. He’s dead. I’m sorry, Gus.”

  Samantha’s eyes were on him. She knew it was bad news.

  “How did it happen?” He tried to hide his shock. He didn’t want to upset Samantha. He’d been with his father yesterday morning, listening to an incredible tale of disastrous judgment and attempted blackmail. He should have guessed, he should have done something.

  “We just received a copy of a two-sentence note the police found with the body. You want me to read it to you?”

  “Please.” The limo seemed even hotter now. The poor man. What a life—all that money and nothing else, just lies and misery.

  “Here it is. ‘Please forgive me for the trouble I am causing. I saw Gus this morning and he will be able to explain.’”

  “Who’s it addressed to?”

  “No one. It was handwritten on a piece of notepaper lying on the bed next to the body.”

  “How did he do it?”

  “The coroner thinks pills. There were four empty prescription containers in the bathroom sink. Barbiturates. They’ll do an autopsy.”

  There was a long silence while Rothman waited for Gus to say something. Finally, Rothman asked, “What do you think happened?”

  “I know what happened.” Gus held the phone, not speaking, then he said, “Give me a minute, Phil. I’m going to put the phone down, but don’t hang up.”

  Gus lowered the instrument to his lap and put his head back and closed his eyes.

  Samantha didn’t say a word. She had picked up the cards, held them in her hand. After a couple of minutes Gus said, “It’s about my father, Samantha. He killed himself last night.”

  He heard her breathe, a tiny gasp, a little girl’s shock, disbelief dissolving into sadness. She knew about sudden death, and she was wise enough to say nothing. He felt her hand touch his forearm. Her grip made him want to cry. He opened his eyes and put the phone to his lips.

  “You’d better prepare yourself, Phil. This is going to be a big one.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Are you worried about decryption?”

  “Screw decryption. We’ll risk it.”

  “You want it all now? It’ll take a few minutes.”

  “Let’s do it now.”

  “Two days ago my father called and said he had to see me immediately. Wouldn’t tell me what it was about, but he had to see me. So yesterday morning I flew up to Connecticut, and we had coffee in his study. He said he had something to tell me that was shameful and humiliating and that he hoped I might somehow be able to forgive him for.”

  Gus glanced at Samantha. She had released his arm, and her eyes were filled with fear and curiosity.

  “He told me that when he was serving on the board of directors of a tobacco company nineteen years ago—I don’t know how much you know about my father, Phil.”

  “Not much.”

  “He’s an attorney, was an attorney, worked eleven years for an investment bank on Wall Street, had lots of friends in that world and lots of money. He was always terrified of losing his money, of somehow not having enough money. He called it security. He never had a minute’s peace in his life, Phil. He never talked about anything but money, business, and security. I couldn’t’ve cared less. I should have tried harder to understand. He was on a lot of boards over the years and I wasn’t surprised when he told me that one of them had been this tobacco company, Briggs & Paulman.

  “He said nineteen years ago, when he was associated with Briggs & Paulman, a Colombian businessman he knew came to him with an idea. The guy was talking about all the bad press the tobacco industry was getting over what he called the cancer business, and that none of it had really been proved, and it was basically a lot of lies. So they talked about that, and then the guy said something like, ‘Yeah, just like all the lies people tell about marijuana and cocaine,’ how natives in the Andes have been using coke for centuries and it’s just a cultural thing, never did any of them any harm. And it turns out this guy is an expert because he’s in the timber business and his forests are in Peru, Bolivia, and Colombia and he knows all about the coca trade.

  “My father told me that back then he didn’t know much about the subject at all, didn’t care much either, and then the guy started talking about how much money there was in the marijuana and coke business and someday when it’s not illegal anymore how someone’s going to make a killing. The guy tells him that when those drugs are legal and you don’t have to pay millions in bribes and commissions, all that money will be profit. The guy said it would be a hundred times what tobacco produces.

  “I was sitting there in my father’s study, drinking coffee with him, and I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My father told me he started asking questions and the guy answered them and they decided to meet again. They met three or four more times and finally some lawyers brokered an agreement between my father, Briggs & Paulman, and this guy’s forestry company. I asked my father, ‘What kind of agreement,’ and he squirmed and looked into his cup and the next time he looked up, where I could see his eyes, he was crying.

  “I’d never seen my father cry before. It embarrassed the hell out of me. He said they signed an agreement that if someday marijuana or cocaine was no longer illegal, Briggs & Paulman and my father and this timber guy would become partners in the growing, production, marketing, and distribution of the legal drug. He said he knew that today it sounded crazy that anyone would sign an agreement like that, but that back then cocaine wasn’t the big thing it is now, and no one knew much about it, and he thought tobacco and alcohol were a lot worse and nobody cared about them, so he didn’t think that much about it.

  “I asked him who this guy was, and he said his name was Roberto Vicaro-Garza. Roberto is the father of Ernesto, and the forestry company is now a wholly owned subsidiary of Translnter. My father had been talking to the biggest coke dealer in the world—I mean Roberto Vicaro was in the forestry business, but he was in lots of other businesses besides, including drugs—and I guess my father must have known who he was. But it was money, it was business, and they were talking about if and when it ever became legal. And I met this guy, Phil. I took a trip to Colombia with my father the summer before law school, and I actually met the guy.
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br />   “So what happened, three days ago John Harrington came to see my father. He told him he knew about the agreement—Ernesto Vicaro was a client of his and had a copy of it. It was clear that if marijuana or cocaine were decriminalized, Briggs & Paulman and my father would be in a position to make a fortune. Harrington said he was concerned that people would think the reason I wanted to be on the Supreme Court was so I could speed the repeal of anti-drug laws and make a lot of money from the legalization. Harrington said the best way to avoid that scandal, of course, would be for me to withdraw, and if I did that Har rington could assure my father that the existence of that agreement would remain secret.

  “So my father wanted me to withdraw. He begged me. He was in tears.”

  Gus stopped talking, and Rothman had the good sense not to interrupt the silence. Samantha was staring at the seat back.

  In a minute Gus said, “There was no way I could tell my father what he wanted to hear. He kept saying, ‘But the family, the family, think of the scandal.’ He said, ‘They’ll call me a dope dealer. The newspapers will say I’m a drug trafficker. There’ll be investigations, the police will get into it, I might be indicted.’

  “I tried to convince him that he hadn’t done anything even remotely criminal, but he wouldn’t listen. ‘Think of the family, think of the scandal.’ I’d never seen him like that. He was sobbing, really, just coming apart.

  “Then I guess it got through to him that I was not going to let this make me withdraw, and he stopped crying and said he understood, of course I couldn’t withdraw, he was sorry to make such a scene, please forgive him, forget the whole thing, he hoped I wouldn’t find it necessary to talk about the conversation with anyone else. I really thought he’d come to his senses and everything was more or less all right. I was going to talk to you and Dutweiler about it, what he’d said, Harrington’s threat. Then I ended up in this limo and I never had the chance.”

  Gus felt he’d said enough—too much maybe.

  Rothman said, “A call from Harrington came in a few minutes before the cops telephoned about your father. I haven’t returned it yet. What do you think I should tell him?”

  Gus took a couple of deep breaths.

  “Phil, I do not want to withdraw, and neither will Michelle. The nastier they get, the more I want to stay. And frankly they can say whatever they want about my motives, that I want the job to legalize drugs and make money, or I want it to uphold abortion and murder babies, or I want it to repeal abortion and subjugate women, or anything else they want to say. Right now, Phil, the way I see it now, we’re fighting a bunch of thugs, and I don’t care if they’re wearing three-piece suits or what schools they went to. They’re thugs, Phil, and I will not submit to them. Period. Car bombs, blackmail, suicides—this is not the way this country needs to pick Supreme Court justices. If they get away with this, Phil, there’ll be no end.”

  Gus stopped, inhaled deeply, and his lungs filled with the hot, foul air in the limo. Samantha was on the edge of her seat now, hands balled into fists. Why are children so ready for a fight?

  Phil said, “When I’ve spoken to Harrington I should have a better picture of what the options are.”

  Gus hung up.

  Almost immediately, the phone buzzed, and it was Michelle.

  “Gus, how are you? How is Samantha? It’s just—I’m so sorry, Gus. I don’t know what to say.”

  He didn’t want to talk about his father now. They’d have to wait until they were alone.

  She said, “Is Samantha all right?”

  “She’s fine, taking everything better than I am, I think.” Samantha was tugging on his arm. “She wants to talk to you. Here she is.”

  He handed the phone to Samantha. “Hi.” Her voice was soft, almost shy, not matching the excitement on her face. She listened to Michelle, then smiled widely. “He’s okay. I’m trying to take care of him.” More silence. “Yeah, it’s really hot in here. But we’ll be out soon. Don’t worry about us. We’re fine. We just miss you a lot. Okay. Right. Me too. Here he is.”

  She handed the phone back.

  “Gus?” Carl’s voice.

  “We’ve gotta cut this short, Gus. The technicians are on us to save power on your phone. We’ll call later.”

  They hung up, and in two hours Rothman called back. He’d picked Harrington up in his car and they’d driven around Washington and talked. Harrington, looking tired, bags under his eyes, had offered to suppress the agreement between Gus’s father, the tobacco company, and Vicaro’s father if Gus’s name were withdrawn from the confirmation process. He said he had to have an answer by four that afternoon. Rothman said he’d see what reaction there was “from the others.”

  Gus said, “What are you going to tell him?”

  The limo clock was at ten past one.

  Rothman said, “What do you want me to tell him?”

  “No go. No withdrawal.”

  “Are you sure, Gus? You don’t have to do this, you know. You never signed up for car bombs.”

  “Phil, you know as well as I do that withdrawing would not change anything with this bomb. If we said I was withdrawing they’d just say, ‘Oh, fine, we believe you, we’ll disconnect the bomb right now.’ And we come out, and they blow us up. They know the minute they let us out of here I’d un-withdraw myself. They want me dead, Phil, withdrawal or no withdrawal. Bargain with these guys, get an agreement, walk us out of here, and we’re dead, Phil. These are Colombians. Ask Carl. He’ll tell you.”

  “I understand what you’re saying, Gus.”

  “Let me know what the President says, Phil. Let me know what happens with Harrington.”

  They hung up, and Samantha said, “Game of cards?”

  “No, thanks, Samantha. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  “It’ll help. My dad taught me. Whenever we had problems, we got out the cards. Play and talk.”

  “What do you want to play?”

  “Five-card stud.”

  She took a sheet of notepaper from a side pocket in the door and tore it into pieces.

  “These are postage stamps. I always play for stamps.”

  She dealt.

  Carl left Michelle in the FBI command truck and walked outside.

  Max Iverson, who’d asked to talk to him, was waiting. Carl said, “Take a walk?”

  They strolled past a barrier and continued about thirty feet up the deserted, tree-lined sidewalk toward Blossom and the Mercedes.

  When they were well out of earshot of other agents and police, Iverson said, “Interesting development.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Some of our tech people were over the Trade Commission in a chopper last night with infrared thermal imagers. They can see bodies inside the building. It’s occupied.”

  “Can they tell how many?”

  “They say two. There was warm body radiation concentrated at the front of the building, a sitting room.”

  “How do they know it’s a sitting room?”

  “Architects’ drawings from the city records office. Inside the back door, there’s a stairway to the second floor. At the top of the stairs, there’s a corridor to a sitting room at the front of the building. That’s where the tech people say the personnel are gathered.”

  “Keep going.”

  “We’re developing a contingency plan for an intrusion. Just in case.”

  Carl led Iverson a couple of steps farther up the block away from the command truck. “What’s State think about that?”

  The State Department had sent over a deputy assistant to keep an eye on the enforcement people. State had already let it be known that if anyone was even thinking of requesting permission to enter the Colombian Trade Commission, they could save their breath. The Trade Commission was viewed as an extension of the Colombian embassy and therefore sovereign Colombian property, inviolable. Of course State had been known to change its mind. Changing your mind was what diplomats did for a living.

  “I haven’t yet seen a need to
discuss it with them.”

  Carl said, “What’s the plan?”

  “First step, put someone inside, up the stairs, down the hall, insert voice sensors. We’ll hear everything said in the front sitting room. Cover the rear door with a TV, tell us if anyone comes or goes.”

  “Put someone inside. Just like that.”

  “The spooks do it all the time. Stick a black box in the alarm line, read the current, duplicate it, feed it in, cut the line, the system can’t tell the difference. In and out, no one’s the wiser.”

  “Happy little band of burglars, you guys are.”

  “Not burglars. Burglars take things. We leave things behind.”

  “So you get in, leave your stuff. Then what?”

  “We have the option of picking our moment, enter an intrusion team, take everyone out.”

  “Before they could set off the bomb?”

  “The intrusion people say yes. They’ve got—they call them incentive inhibitors. Special ordnance. Grenades. Blast, light, sound. Flatten those guys, blind them, deafen them, scare them out of their minds, totally immobilize their will. It’s thirty seconds before they even begin to think about thinking. No problem.”

  “No problem? Come on, Iverson. Nothing’s that easy.”

  “These guys aren’t amateurs, Carl. They went into a Delta Airbus in Italy, hit it through two doors, knocked out six terrorists, released a hundred and thirty-seven passengers and crew—elapsed time, six and a half minutes, casualties zero. The guys in that Trade Commission they could do before breakfast, not even get real awake.”

  “How long would they be out?”

  “Recovery from the entry ordnance—blast, gas—about ten minutes. If they behave themselves.”

  “We need them cooperating.”

  “Oh, they’ll cooperate. The entry operation leaves targets in a highly cooperative frame of mind. A whole personality change. Please and thank you all the way.”

  “I want to know about the device, Max. It’s on a remote detonator, but there’s a timer, too. I want to know when the timer’s set for.”

  “If they know, they’ll tell us.”

  Carl took a few more steps toward Blossom. He stood thinking, turned, and walked back.