Edith Baxter had three homes: an oceanfront mansion in Carmel, a four-thousand-square-foot “cabin” at Lake Tahoe, and a penthouse apartment in Manhattan. Fortunately for Emma, Edith was currently in New York. The other two places sounded more fun to visit, but Manhattan was closer.
Emma didn’t call ahead. She showed up at Edith’s building and gave the doorman her name. Edith at first refused to see her. She spoke to Emma over the doorman’s phone, said she remembered her fondly but wasn’t feeling well enough for company. Emma hated to do it, but she told Edith the reason she wanted to see her had to do with her son, which in a way it did, but the half-truth bothered her.
The elevator doors opened into Edith’s home—her apartment occupied the entire floor—and she was standing in the foyer waiting for Emma. She was shoeless, wearing faded jeans and a long-sleeved blue blouse. The last time Emma had seen the woman, Edith had been slim, but in the way that a person who eats a healthy diet and has a personal trainer is slim. Now she looked gaunt: hollow cheeks, corded neck, her jeans riding low on narrow, bony hips. The skin beneath her eyes was smudged gray from sleepless nights, and her hair—which had always been carefully styled and shaded an attractive honey-blond—was streaked with gray, the ends brittle and split, as if she hadn’t visited her hairdresser in a couple of months. Her eyes, though, seemed the same. The strength was still there, the indomitable will, the extraordinary intellect.
Edith didn’t waste time on small talk. She didn’t even invite Emma farther into her home, beyond the foyer. She immediately said, “What do you have to say about my son?”
“I wanted to say how sorry I was for you and that I wish there was something I could do to take away your pain.”
“Thank you, but I don’t think you came here just to express your sympathy. You sent me a card. Why are you really here?”
“Edith, when I first met you, you struck me as being fairly liberal, or at least as liberal as someone can be who’s held the sort of jobs you’ve held. You were particularly sensitive when it came to discrimination.”
“What’s this have to do with—”
“This week I found out that you’re a major contributor to Senator Broderick. I’d like to know why.”
Emma expected Edith to tell her it was none of her business, but she didn’t. She said, “Because he’s the only politician in Washington who understands that we must act, that we must do something to fight those people. Is that why you’re here? To try to convince me to stop supporting Broderick?”
“Not exactly,” Emma said. She paused before adding, “Edith, I have reason to believe that the Muslims who committed these recent terrorists acts were forced to do what they did, and they were not forced by al-Qaeda or some other group of Islamic fanatics. I think these so-called terrorist attacks have been engineered to help Broderick’s bill pass.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
Edith looked confused, but was she? During her career Edith Baxter had played boardroom poker for billions of dollars.
“What I’m saying is that Reza Zarif was forced to fly his Cessna at the White House because someone made him. And whoever made him was doing so, at least in part, to advance Bill Broderick’s agenda. An agenda that you support.”
Edith studied Emma’s face for a moment. “Are you still with the DIA?” she asked. “The last time I saw you, you told me you were retiring.”
Why had she asked that? Emma wondered. Was she trying to figure out if the government was investigating her activities? Emma opted for the truth. “I am retired,” she said. “I’m not employed by anyone.” Sorta, she added mentally, as Mahoney would have done.
“Then I don’t understand. What authority do you have for questioning me?”
“None. I’m here because I’ve always admired you and I want to make sure that you’re not involved in any way with what’s been happening lately.”
“That’s absurd!”
Behind Edith, Emma could see a formal dining room table that would seat twelve. The table was piled with books and magazines and manila file folders. Emma assumed that Edith must have some sort of home office in her spacious apartment, probably a library too, and could only imagine that whatever Edith was working on had overflowed those spaces. But Emma was standing too far away to see the titles of the books on the table. She took a step toward Edith, hoping the woman would back farther into her apartment so Emma could get closer to the table, but Edith wasn’t the sort to back up.
“Reza Zarif’s children were killed, Edith. An eight-year-old boy. An eleven-year-old girl.”
“My child was killed!” Edith screamed. “Do you think I give a damn if some terrorist killed his own children? I don’t know what you’re playing at here, but whatever it is, it’s a dangerous game. If you were ever to say publicly that you think I’m doing something illegal, my lawyers would destroy you. And the fact that I support Bill Broderick shouldn’t surprise anyone. Those people mutilated my son. They butchered his family and they drove him to despair and they killed him.”
“Which people, Edith? Your son’s family died in Spain. No one in this country had anything to do with it.”
“You don’t know that! We’re at war with these people, all of them, everywhere. They’d kill us all if they could. They’re all responsible, every last one of them. Now get out of my house!”
Emma refused the doorman’s offer to get her a cab. She walked for half a block and then stopped and waited. Twenty minutes later a narrow-shouldered young black man wearing dreadlocks came in her direction. He was carrying a toolbox and wearing the cap and uniform of an AT&T employee. The young man’s name was Bobby, and he worked for Fat Neil.
When Bobby reached Emma, she looked at him, and he nodded his head and continued on his way.
Emma took out her cell phone and made a call. Someone answered.
“Pictures of everyone going in and out of the building for the next twenty-four hours. If she leaves, follow her, but I don’t think she’ll leave.” Then she made a second call and gave Fat Neil another assignment.