The Presidential limo glided up the stately drive of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, where a cluster of Secret Service agents waited. Buttoning jackets and straightening ties, they quickly converged to greet the returning Secretary of State. A tall, rangy man, with silver hair and commanding blue eyes, he emerged to shake hands and nod politely before being ushered inside for his Presidential briefing. There was much on his mind, far more than the trade agreement he’d just negotiated.
Minutes later, he was escorted into the Oval Office, where an anxious Longbridge warmly embraced him and said, “Welcome home, Travis!”
“It’s good to be back, sir,” he said, dropping into his customary chair as Longbridge returned behind the desk. Arnold Westbrook had disdained such formality. His successor insisted upon it.
“No one thought Tokyo would budge,” Longbridge marveled. “Seoul, either. So how did you manage it?”
“It’s no great mystery,” he modestly explained. “Negotiation is the same whether you’re working a real estate deal, foreign trade pact or buying a car. You just probe for the weakness.”
“In this case, cheaper raw materials?”
“Steel and textiles,” he nodded.
“So we not only get our trade pact but new markets for our surplus raw materials,” Longbridge gloated. “If I played poker, Travis, it certainly wouldn’t be with you. But how do we position ourselves for the European trade summit next spring? We’ve ruffled more than a few feathers over there lately.”
“We’ll find vulnerability in Europe just as in the Far East,” he predicted. “The rules never change. No matter how strong an adversary appears, there’ll always be a weakness to exploit.”
“I’d say you’ve proven that splendidly.”
Yet would he be forced to again? He studied his boss. With his gaunt face and dark, solemn eyes, Longbridge looked like a burdened Moses, a most appealing effect for a nation that hungered more for a religious leader than another self-interested politician. He and his Rasputin-like mentor, Harrington, were riding the wave of a massive, Neo-Christian resurgence. America was born again and Longbridge was its Preacher President. His popularity was enormous, brilliantly choreographed by Harrington, a public relations genius. “I see a lot has happened in my absence,” he said quietly.
“The Corelli-Waddill affair, you mean.”
“Betsy and I have been deeply disturbed over it, naturally. And the Waddills are suffering terribly.”
“I’m sure of that,” Longbridge nodded. “To have an ungrateful son like Waddill is inexcusable.”
“And even more incomprehensible,” Travis replied.
“I understand your skepticism, Travis, but I’m afraid I can’t share it. There’s obviously good reason to believe Waddill is a criminal. Otherwise the Bureau and Justice wouldn’t be hunting him so intensely. Larry and Thomas are good men - law enforcement professionals. I wouldn’t have brought them to Washington unless they were fully qualified for their positions.”
Qualified? Travis scoffed to himself. They were utter fools. They’d demonstrated it numerous times in this very office. The only question was whether they were corrupt fools. Would Longbridge grant him the opportunity to find out? Hadn’t he earned that much, not by negotiating trade agreements but by offering valuable insight the others seemed incapable of?
“I need a devil’s advocate,” Longbridge had confided in the first weeks of his administration. “You’re courageous enough to speak your mind, Travis, even if it happens to diverge from mine. The others are sycophants.” Indeed. But also corrupt sycophants?
Longbridge now asked, “So what, besides this great friendship, leads you to believe Waddill isn’t involved in this conspiracy? You have my ear for the moment. Take advantage of it.”
He fully intended to. “Schuyler Waddill, Blane Randolph and I grew up together. We were classmates at the Tidewater Academy, then college. We married girls in the same crowd and raised our families together. I was at the hospital the morning Tyler Waddill was born and then again a few hours later when Blair Randolph gave birth to her daughter, Kara. A beautiful girl,” he sighed. “She and Tyler left the hospital together and never really parted, at least not until her death from cancer twenty years later. Her death shattered him.”
“He and Kara were in love?” Longbridge asked.
“I guess that’s what you’d call it. Betsy and I used to say they were soul mates. Born under the same moon, in the same delivery room, just hours apart. We laugh at astrology but having seen those two together, it makes you wonder if there isn’t something to it. We had a party for Matt’s sixth birthday at our York estate,” he said. “The middle of August; hot as the dickens that afternoon. All Matt’s friends were there, either rolling in the surf or tumbling on the lawn. Everyone except Kara and Tyler. She was scooping colored glass off the beach, and he was right behind with that damn bucket of his. ‘Don’t you ever leave her shadow?’ I asked him. He just squinted at me like I’d lost my marbles.
“Betsy and I were at Castlewood one Saturday night, shortly after Kara died. We’d been at the William and Mary football game that day. Tyler was a helluva quarterback. He’d rallied the Indians with a pair of touchdown passes in the final minutes. It was a sensational victory, one he should’ve been celebrating. Yet instead, he was there at Castlewood. After dinner I found him behind the mansion, gazing up at the dark tree house where he and Kara had played as children. When I gripped his shoulder, he turned, his eyes filled with tears. ‘Uncle Travis,’ he said. ‘Do you remember Matt’s birthday party when you asked if I’d ever been outside Kara’s shadow? Well, I am now.’ He hasn’t been the same since. His parents have expressed great concern over his indiscretions with women. He’s done well in law but I can’t help wondering if he isn’t just drifting through it, like he does women.”
Longbridge rose to the window. “That’s a tragic story. But how does it address his criminal propensities? If anything, doesn’t his emotional instability perhaps explains his involvement in this conspiracy?”
“If Tyler’s emotionally unstable,” Travis joined him now, “then nothing I’ve said places his character at issue. He’s honorable to a fault – a Waddill. I don’t need to know anything else to appreciate that he didn’t commit these crimes.”
“Unfortunately I do,” Longbridge frowned. “Isn’t there something beyond your personal allegiance to support his innocence?”
“Well for one thing, Tyler doesn’t need money. His family’s wealth is well known.”
Longbridge nodded. “We pay Waddill Shipbuilding millions each year in Navy contracts. He stands to inherit this fortune?”
“He and his sister, Stafford, will split it. And they already enjoy income from the family’s trust funds. My point being, why with all this wealth would he risk prison, and possibly his life, for money he doesn’t need?”
Longbridge gazed pensively out the window. He’d asked himself this same question. But didn’t people often become criminals for illogical reasons?
“I suspect Tyler’s been framed for these crimes and I want to know who’s responsible,” Travis finally revealed.
“If that’s true, then the FBI and Justice must either be involved or else qualify as fools of the century.”
But which? Travis needed to know. Still, as an experienced negotiator, he never bit off more than he could chew. Weaken resistance, then advance slowly. Never get reckless. “Sir, I don’t make accusations beyond what I’m convinced is fact. And I won’t compromise my principles based solely on my personal feelings. Nevertheless, I have certain suspicions which beg scrutiny.”
“Get it out, Travis. What do you want from me?”
“Proof of Tyler’s participation in this crime. Certainly that’s not an unreasonable request, and an easy one to satisfy.”
“You’re asking me to interfere in a confidential Bureau investigation?”
“Sir, you are the President of the United States.”
“I know damn well who I am! I also appreciate my responsibilities, without you or anyone else reminding me.”
“Then you’re refusing my request. I’m sorry to have burdened you with it. I won’t again.”
“Travis, you’re asking too much.”
“I can see that. Enjoy your triumph today.” He started out. “I’m honored to have been the one to bring it to you.”
“Damnit, Travis.” Longbridge grabbed the phone. “You’ll get your proof — just as soon as I get it myself.”
“Thank you, sir.” He smiled graciously, then slipped out.
Within minutes, sirens were shrieking at the Bureau and Justice. An urgent call was placed to Georgetown. “Culpepper,” Streeter groaned inside the Flavin Courthouse war room. “Why else would Longbridge demand another briefing?”
The blood of frustration rose in Harrington’s cheeks. Would this crisis ever end? “How soon does he want it?”
“Larry and I are supposed to return for a meeting tonight.”
“Have there been any developments since your bloodhound report?”
Chapman had earlier reported the discovery of an unconscious tracking dog in a mountain gorge, where it was assumed the fugitives had spent the night. “That gorge has been scoured,” Streeter said. “But for suspicious limb damage, it was clean.”
“Suspicious limb damage?”
“Possibly the fugitives used the tree as a lookout. Or fell from it. Either way they’re gone now.”
“How could two people climb from a gorge under the nose of six hundred police officers?” he growled. “Thomas, I want them found! They are still on that mountain, aren’t they?”
“Of course, sir; it’s sealed tight.”
“Then have Nicholas grab them while you and Larry return to Washington.”
Harrington watched the afternoon press conference as a beaming Longbridge announced his new Far Eastern Trade Agreement. The mere sight of Culpepper — the large, silver-haired Secretary of State at his side — brought an angry gleam to Harrington’s eyes.
Switching off the TV, he called Leopold to discuss Lamp’s confirmation and the tactics to be employed. “Arch, I want you to digest Chapman’s dossiers on those liberal Senators, just like you have in the past — and their key aides as well, this time. If they have skeletons in their closets, we’ll find them. Chapman’s also composed a list of potential informants in each Senator’s camp, but be careful whom you approach.” He revealed the latest threat.
Leopold sighed. “Not everyone’s happy with that new trade deal Culpepper negotiated with the Japs. Some Detroit autoworkers may soon be without jobs. And you know how riled up those labor unions get. Enough maybe to seek revenge against the man responsible.”
“Let’s pray it doesn’t come to that, Arch.”
Chapman and Streeter arrived later that afternoon.
“Two days is a long time without food and water while dodging men, dogs and choppers,” Harrington said. “Don’t you think if the fugitives were still on that mountain, someone would’ve spotted them by now?”
“The mountain’s sealed tight,” Streeter insisted.
“And it’s enormous,” Chapman added. “It takes time to cover that much ground.”
He was sick of their excuses. The operation was taking much too long. “All right, let’s have your story for tonight. And it better be good. If Longbridge doesn’t buy it, we’re all going down.”
Chapman presented their joint briefing. “Swanson and Harvey establish the Bureau connection. It’s the easiest piece, since they’re not here to dispute it. Next, the Bertolucci connection, thanks to Corelli’s brother, Santino The Lips. When he was arrested for knocking off Manny Lugosa, The Lips was the most feared Bertolucci capo on New York’s West Side. Personally, I think he deserved a medal instead of life for knocking Manny off. It was a real public service.
“Manny worked for the powerful Servose brothers, who were moving in on the Bertolucci drug trade. After his murder, however, the Servoses backed off. And for The Lips’ faithful service, especially his willingness to take the rap for the hit, the family considers itself deeply indebted. Despite his life sentence, a strong bond remains.”
“One that extends to his sister?” Harrington asked.
“It’s what makes her the point person between the family and the Bureau.”
“But how was the connection between Corelli and the Bureau established? Did she go to them?”
“She would’ve known how to approach them, either through her law practice or the family.”
Streeter added, “We have memos covering critical family meetings in which the conspiracy was discussed - dates, times, locations, participants.” He smiled. “The beauty is that we were investigating the Bertoluccis anyway. All we had to do was doctor a few files. Our key family witness is Louie Venecchio, who’ll sing to whatever we say. Louie was under our thumb before this mess. If needed to testify, we’ll grant him immunity then stick him in the Witness Protection Program.”
“How does Waddill fit into all this?” Harrington asked.
“It’s a big job. Corelli needed a partner.”
The story was both consistent and credible: provable if necessary. Streeter assured him it wouldn’t be. “Don’t worry, they can’t get off that mountain.”
“They couldn’t get out of Naples or the Eagle’s Nest Camp, either. So far they’ve made complete fools of us. If they’re still on that mountain, get them. If not, find them. Otherwise, prepare to prosecute the most fantastic, make-believe crime of the century.”
Chapman and Streeter met with Longbridge that evening. No details were spared as they unveiled the manufactured conspiracy and brought him up to date on the operation. At the end he asked, “Then you’re satisfied the evidence is sufficient to indict both Corelli and Waddill?”
“Yes sir,” they chorused.
“This informant in the Bertolucci family...”
“Louie Venecchio,” Chapman replied. “He establishes the conspiracy and connects the principal players. His identity must be protected to preserve both the evidence and his life.”
“I understand. And this Special Agent Nicholas will testify about his discovery of the conspiracy?”
Streeter glanced at Chapman, his veins pulsating with dangerous excitement. They were lying to the President of the United States and pulling it off. “As we’ve said, Nicholas uncovered the conspiracy quite by accident, during his audit of the Bertolucci investigation. You’re welcome to examine the records and talk to the witnesses, of course.”
“That’s not necessary,” Longbridge replied. “Nicholas reported the conspiracy to you, Larry. That’s when Lamp was recruited to help expose the conspirators inside his law firm?”
“Correct. Lamp then recruited Mendelsohn and we all know what happened after that.”
“Those seized records prove the fugitives’ receipt of money for the stolen Bureau documents?”
Chapman nodded. “They contain confidential bank accounts traced directly to them.”
“How much did they receive?” Longbridge asked.
They looked at each other blankly. This question hadn’t been anticipated. “A hundred thousand each,” Streeter replied.
“Waddill is a multimillionaire. Why would he take such a risk for one hundred thousand dollars?”
“Because he expected to receive much more.”
“These payments were merely initial installments,” Chapman quickly echoed. “And Thomas’s estimate is a bit low anyway. Actually, they received closer to a hundred-fifty thousand each.”
“Even so,” Longbridge wrestled with this fresh detail. “Have you considered that it wasn’t money, but perhaps an attraction for Corelli, that drew Waddill into this conspiracy?”
“The romantic angle,” Streeter nodded. “That’s certainly a possibility.”
“And Corelli’s a beautiful young woman,” Chapman added.
“Well, whatever his motive, I expect you, gentlemen, to prove it when the time comes. How close are they to capture?”
“We expect a report any moment,” Streeter replied.
“I’ve heard that for days. Just get them soon — and alive. I want them brought to trial so this mess is explained to the satisfaction of the American people.”
“We’ll do our best,” Streeter assured him. “But you must realize, sir, the fugitives are extremely desperate. We can’t risk the lives of our men.”
“I understand.” He frowned over another concern. “How will Lamp be perceived? The timing couldn’t be more sensitive, with his confirmation starting Monday.”
“As a hero,” Chapman predicted. “An ordinary citizen rising gallantly to the service of justice.”
“Greg Lamp is no ordinary citizen.”
“No sir,” they agreed.
Streeter’s midnight call bolstered Harrington’s fading confidence. If the shrewd ex-prosecutor, Longbridge, had bought the fabricated records conspiracy, certainly the nation would, too. Now if they could just catch the fugitives. Hopefully the news would arrive by morning.
Chapman’s call at dawn confirmed that it wouldn’t. “How can they possibly still be on that mountain?” he demanded.
“Because it’s been sealed off, sir.”
“Then find them!” He slammed the phone down.
The President’s limo soon arrived to carry him to the White House for a private worship service, a practice frequently followed when business brought him to D.C. Strategically, it was important to meet with Longbridge now. Lamp’s confirmation began in the morning and thanks to Travis Culpepper, his interest in the fugitive operation had peaked once again.
The service was well received by Longbridge and his dour-faced First Lady. Revelations had always been the President’s favorite biblical book, its symbolism especially satisfying to his intellectual tastes, and its urgent message the perfect inspiration for his zealous spirit. And on this Sunday, it couldn’t have been more appropriate to remind them of what was at stake. “If Greg is confirmed and proves all we hope,” Longbridge ruminated over a lunch of New England clam chowder, “then I’d say we’re on the eve of this Great Christian Renaissance you’ve promised, Seth.”
“I have no doubt Greg will be confirmed. And I assure you, Tom, he’s all we’ve hoped for.”
“I’m not worried.” Longbridge sipped his tea. “Greg’s credentials are impeccable, his character beyond question. Once again, Seth, I find myself in your debt for delivering a candidate perfectly suited for a position I have to fill.”
“Then you’re not worried about Senator Adamley and his liberal pack?”
“Adamley’s an atheist,” Marge Longbridge snapped.
“Agnostic, dear,” her husband gently corrected.
“But they have identical views on abortion, pornography, school prayer,” she insisted. “And both question the very existence of Almighty God.”
Had Eve been as homely as Marge Longbridge, Harrington often marveled, most likely there wouldn’t have been a human race to save. How had his friend suffered her colorless, desiccated face all these years; her shapeless figure? What greater testament to his piety than his devotion to this aging wallflower? “Adamley and his bunch will spar with Greg as they did the others. And he’ll handle himself just as well.”
The First Lady dipped her spoon daintily into the chowder. “What’s important is that the three men share our views on the critical spring cases. Their solidarity is vital.”
“They’re cut from the same cloth, Marge, I assure you.”
A zealous gleam brightened Longbridge’s eyes now. “Our new court will deliver us from the clutches of godless politicians like Adamley, who will no longer have grounds to debate the disturbing issues that so bitterly divide us. And if it’s not ready to abolish the separation between Church and State, perhaps our court will give its constitutional blessing to an agency dedicated to Christian values. Candidly Seth, I don’t believe there’s anyone more qualified than you to head that agency. You’re the spiritual leader for millions of Americans. Would you consider joining my administration as the spiritual architect of a new Christian America?”
“I’d be deeply honored,” he nodded. “And of course pleased to dedicate myself to the noble mission you’ve described.”
The First Lady sighed rapturously. “After so much wickedness, to at last be on the threshold of the Lord’s Kingdom! We’ve been truly blessed!”
“Praise the Lord!” Longbridge refrained. “Now we must prepare for His arrival.”
“And provide the leadership necessary to govern His Kingdom,” Harrington added.
The First Lady excused herself as the two men ventured out to the balcony to enjoy the crisp autumn air and a view of the world’s most powerful city: one that for the moment was under their control. Only Harrington knew how precarious that control was. “Our court will provide the legal means to do the Lord’s work, Tom, but without our leadership secure and unencumbered by time constraints, how can we be assured it’ll get done? Aren’t we forced to ask the court to lift those constraints and allow us the time necessary?”
Longbridge studied him solemnly. They’d had this discussion before, only then its relevance had seemed so remote, almost academic. Despite their political strength, it had been too dangerous to attempt a repeal of the amendment standing in their way. However, repeal seemed unnecessary now that they had, or soon would have, a sympathetic Court majority capable of finding a legal precedent for removing the amendment restricting a President to two terms and allowing him a lifetime, if necessary, to fulfill the nation’s destiny. “We’ll need a case to get the issue before the Court.”
“Are there any with suitable potential?” Harrington asked.
“One should reach the Court next summer,” he nodded. “At the moment, however, I’m more concerned with this fugitive operation. The longer it drags on, the sharper public criticism becomes.”
“What will you do?”
“What can I do? Other than carefully monitor the situation and pray it’s soon resolved?”
“Perhaps, in desperation, the fugitives will choose another way out. One never knows. The Lord works in such mysterious ways sometimes.”
“Granted, only in this case I want the fugitives captured. The country wants justice, Seth. And we can’t have it until the truth comes out —all of it.”
Lord help us if that should ever happen, Harrington prayed.