Eight

Hugh Drummond was not a sentimental man, and there were those who said he was incapable of any sentiment whatsoever, but they had never seen him with his dogs. He loved dogs passionately, British bulldogs, one of which now slept comfortably in a big leather armchair in his office. The dog’s name was Churchill, and a large inscribed portrait of Mr. Churchill—the man, not the dog—hung on one of the walls of his office. On his desk were two other inscribed portraits, Ronald Reagan and George Bush. Drummond had once been Colonel Drummond, but that was in the past.

He now stood facing the big window, through which he could see the Capitol Building, gleaming in the June sunshine, his back to the two other men in the room. He always felt a quiver of personal pride when he looked through the window at the Capitol. If someone had the temerity to ask him what was his line of work, he might well have nodded at the big building, which would pose a conundrum he had no desire to explain.

One of the two other men in the room, Curtis by name, said, breaking a rather long silence, “That’s a magnificent rug. Where did you buy it?”

“Lisbon.”

“I would have thought Marrakech.”

“No, Lisbon.”

The third man in the room held his silence, wondering why in hell they were talking about a rug; there were more important things to discuss. Nevertheless, the talk about the rug turned his attention to other things in the big office, the glass case of flintlock muskets, the huge leather-covered couch—well, Drummond was a big man, at least two hundred and fifty pounds—and seeing the bulldog, he said to himself, Of course, Bulldog Drummond, and then searched his memory as to who Bulldog Drummond was. Well, someone, he decided, and returned to the problem at hand.

“Colonel?”

Drummond turned slowly. “You got an itch, Larry?”

“Call it that.”

“What itches you?”

“Castle.”

Drummond looked inquiringly at Curtis, who shrugged. Curtis was a fat old man with white hair. He had once been a handsome young man with blond hair, but that was all long ago.

“Congress,” Curtis said, as if that single word explained everything.

“I am aware of that,” Drummond said.

Larry spoke quietly, trying to contain his anger. You couldn’t really argue with Drummond, much less actually get angry at him. “I’m on a very hot seat. Did you see the Post today? Or the New York Times?”

“You’re worried about the press conference that little pisspot from Massachusetts held today? It’s bullshit, and no one’s going to think it’s anything else than bullshit. Ramoz assassinated? He walked into a speeding car, plain as day.”

“The little pisspot from Massachusetts says he was pushed.”

“Oh? Who pushed him?”

Larry shrugged.

“This room is not wired,” Drummond said. “I made sure of that.”

“Shit,” said Larry, “The whole fuckin’ world is wired.”

“That’s no way to look at things,” Drummond said gently.

The fat old man, Curtis, spread his hands. “Of course it’s not wired, Hugh. But Larry’s not trusting. He wouldn’t trust his own father.” And turning to Larry, “That’s a compliment, Larry,” he said. “Turn on the radio, Hugh.”

Larry nodded. Drummond turned on the radio. He preferred classical music and kept it tuned to WETA. The three men moved closer together and spoke softly.

“Larry, who did Ramoz?”

“Finnegan.”

“Well, no one identified him. Where is he now?”

“Poor chap, he drowned.”

“A sort of blessing,” Curtis said. “You don’t rat on the IRA and live happily ever after. But Larry, it was so long ago. The only thing anyone cares about today is Clinton and Monica. Maybe it will even satisfy some public opinion, at least those who knew about Ramoz living like a pasha down in Miami.”

“This, thank God,” Drummond said, “is a land with a twenty-four-hour memory. A year from now, they won’t even remember Monica. I was against the killing of the nuns and the lay workers, but the goddamned Jesuits, they had to be taught a lesson, and that goes for the bishop as well. But as Curtis says, nobody remembers and nobody gives a damn. And nobody’s left but the three of us.”

“And Castle,” Larry said. “He was with State. He put it down on paper—and those papers are still somewhere in the archives.”

“Fuck Castle!” Curtis exclaimed. “He’s a little shithead and he’ll never open his mouth. He’s an investment banker in Greenwich, Connecticut. I had dinner with him once. Lives in a big house with a new wife and he brings in two million a year. He’s a happy man. Why should he do himself in?”

“I don’t know why. But he knows. His signature is on soon-to-be-public documents—and to save his ass, he’ll talk.”

“Who was driving the car?” Drummond asked suddenly.

“I told you, Finnegan.”

“Where did you get it?” Curtis demanded.

“It was Finnegan’s car. That’s how Finnegan drowned. He’s in the car at the bottom of the bay in Florida.”

“You were a congressman—and you’re valuable. Don’t you ever think of that, Larry?”

“All the time. That’s why I’m clean.”

For a minute or so, the three men were silent, while Beethoven’s Third Symphony filled the room with its magnificent sound. Drummond regarded Larry thoughtfully, and finally he said, “Someday I may want you to run again, Larry, and I want to keep it with the three of us. I agree with Curtis. Castle will keep his mouth shut. If we do Castle, we have the contract man, and it begins to spread.”

“I’ll do it,” Larry said.

“No. It’s too damn dangerous—you’re no mechanic!”

“Let me worry about that.”

Drummond continued to stare at Larry as if he had never seen him before. Neither Larry nor Curtis spoke. Then Drummond nodded slightly, walked across the room, and clicked off the thunderous sound. “Meeting’s over.”

Larry excused himself for a prior engagement. He had to leave immediately. Curtis and Drummond sat in silence for a few minutes, both of them staring through the big window at the Capitol. Finally, Drummond opened a humidor on his desk and took out a cigar.

“Do you want one?” he asked Curtis.

“I’d like a shot of scotch.”

Drummond went to the bar at one side of the room. It had been built as an eighteenth-century highboy, a fine reproduction and a handsome piece. He poured bourbon for himself and scotch for Curtis.

“Straight or with ice?”

“Straight.”

Curtis swallowed it like water. Drummond sipped the bourbon while he cut the end of the cigar. “Curt,” he said, “we’re both of us older than we ever expected to be. There are just a few things in life that remain viable, and a Cuban Cohiba and good bourbon are two of them.”

The British bulldog stirred.

Curtis sighed and said, “How did you ever come to pick Larry?”

“He looked like a congressman,” Drummond said.

“He’s a psychopath.”

“Maybe. But that can be an advantage in his line of work. He started out as a sheriff in a small southern town. Killed a couple of bank robbers, and it gave him a charge. Then he shot a nigger. The man was unarmed, but snotty. Larry enjoyed it. I needed a congressman, and I picked Larry and gave him a short course in civil rights. I think he has a law degree. He’s a thug, but he’s obedient. Like that bulldog.”

He snapped his fingers, and the bulldog waddled over to him.