The White House July 1
“We were told to notify Mr. Grayton and Mr. Kelly immediately if you showed up.” The uniformed guard at the Pennsylvania Avenue gate had an apologetic expression on his face.
“So notify them,” Addis said.
“I think they’d probably want me to have you wait here.”
“Did they order you to detain me on sight?”
The guard shook his head.
“Then tell them I am heading toward an unscheduled meeting with the President.”
Several limousines, towncars, and sports utility vehicles—all obligatory dark blue, all with dark windows—lined the driveway that led to the front portico. Camera crews and technicians were hustling across the compound. Correspondents were filing live remotes. Like the old days, Addis thought. The security restrictions had been eased to facilitate media coverage of the President’s departure. Of course.
Media uber alles, he said to himself. Besides, Grayton was aware that no threat existed. Not now. They all were dead. All the remnants of the covert action unit—Grayton’s unit?—were dead. They had been trained, at taxpayer expense, to kill foreign enemies. Then they came home. And one had … Addis recalled a line from the letter. I hope you ain’t got no twitches yet. And what else had the father written to his son? That the governor’s aide talks like your momma did. What did this say about the man who had killed Hanover? His mother stuttered. His father worried he might develop “twitches.”
Shit, Addis thought, Huntington’s disease? He knew the symptoms. He remembered accompanying his own father to see a specialist on Huntington’s years ago when his father was writing the Woody Guthrie book. Jerking movements. Speech problems. Mental deterioration. The
child of a parent with Huntington’s has a fifty-fifty chance. They wait years for that first “twitch.” Had Matthew Morrison felt a “spasm” and realized what lay ahead? Pissed-off, cheated, little to lose—the classic profile.
Two reporters spotted Addis and rushed toward him. One of Byrd’s assistants cut them off. Addis was off-limits. Not right before the big send-off. The assistant press secretary stood in front of the reporters, while Addis headed toward the West Wing.
“You can decide.” Margaret had said that to him. She had not revealed what she knew. Not about the deal. Not about Griffith’s death. Had she approved Chasie’s scheme for her family? Been in on the planning? Realized that her father had maneuvered Matthew Morrison’s family off their land? Was Addis right to assume Jordan had been dispatched to New Orleans to tend to Griffith? Or had Jordan done this on his own, as a gift to Margaret?
“What do you know?” she had asked him. That was the question for her.
But, then, did it matter if she knew all the details, all the history? Allison Meade was dead. So was Gillian Silva. That reporter, too. And the guy who ran that bizarre escort service. What did the adult services ads in the alternative weekly call it? “Private viewings,” didn’t they? Some CIA shrink was in deep shit in Africa. And, and … Damnit, was it better to try to remember what Julia Lancette had looked like, felt like, smelled like … or better to let it go?
“She knows.” That’s what Morrison had said. Was that what he meant? A guess on his part, or a wish? Did it matter what Margaret knew?
Not to the dead.
But it should matter—particularly to Margaret. In her name or at her hand—was there any difference? What had been done had been done for her. The deal-rigging. The fixing. The god-knows-what. For her and for Bob Hanover. Had the sheriff of Opelousas been one of those who had been of help to the Hanovers? Or had a lying psychopath had the decency to commit suicide and save the judicial system a few bucks?
“This is not about me.” Margaret’s eyes had searched for acknowledgment—for agreement—from Addis in the elevator. Yes, it was about more.
Pink trails on her face.
Hands floating as the water reached her breasts.
“You can decide.”
He certainly could. Margaret or Mumfries.
He walked past a Marine in the lobby of the West Wing. Cabinet members milled in the waiting area. Labor talked to Health and Human Services. Defense huddled with Education. Alter and Wenner were on a couch
talking, waiting for the meaningless, photo-op predeparture Cabinet meeting. Everyone stared at Addis when he entered. He walked toward the couch. Wenner got up; Alter remained seated, his hands folded atop his wooden cane.
“What happened at the Mayflower?” Wenner asked.
“Everyone’s fine,” Addis answered. “Margaret’s fine.”
“But it was close?” Alter asked.
“Yes,” Addis said.
“We’re going to have to turn this damn city into an armed camp,” Alter said.
No, just stop the games.
“And he’s dead?” Wenner asked.
“As dead as Bob Hanover,” Addis said.
“Good,” Alter blurted out. He then smiled weakly. “Though it would have been preferable to have taken him alive. For questioning and all that.”
“If anyone was curious,” Addis said.
Alter and Wenner exchanged glances.
“About Ms. Lancette—” Wenner began to ask.
“She worked with you directly?” Addis interrupted.
“She was a good officer, and I promise we’re—”
“Fuck you, director,” Addis said. “And fuck you, Mr. Secretary.”
Wenner’s eyes widened. Alter stared at his wing-tip shoes. Other Cabinet officials shied away. Addis straightened his tie.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I have to see a man about a dog.”
Grayton and Kelly intercepted Addis in the anteroom outside the Oval Office. “Whoa, cowboy,” Grayton said and placed a heavy hand on Addis’s shoulder.
“Got to go,” Kelly said into his cellular phone. He snapped it shut and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket.
Addis ignored them and looked at Mumfries’s startled secretary: “Please tell the President that I need to speak to him for a minute.”
Grayton stiffened his arm and held Addis in place. Kelly shook his head at the secretary. Two Secret Service officers at the door to the Oval Office stepped forward.
“Sorry, Nick, the President is busy,” Grayton said.
“I think he’d want to see me,” Addis replied.
“Now’s not a good time; he’s occupied with more pressing matters,” Kelly said. His thin lips barely moved when he spoke.
Addis pushed Grayton’s arm away. He turned toward Kelly.
“Actually, Ham, now’s the most appropriate time ever.”
Grayton positioned himself inches in front of Addis.
“And now is not going to happen,” Grayton said.
Protecting yourselves? Protecting him? One and the same?
Would talking to Mumfries change anything? Addis had pondered that question as he had walked past the Roosevelt Room, where aides and media technicians were preparing, where Brew McGreer was barking at underlings—fucking this, fucking that—as a flustered Ken Byrd looked on.
There were two possibilities: Mumfries was an honest sleazeball, or he was a dishonest sleazeball. Maybe he didn’t know that the plan to run an off-the-books hit team had led to the murder of Bob Hanover. Or perhaps he was aware of the ripples and now was encouraging Grayton—depending on Grayton—to run cleanup. Or maybe this was a Kelly and Grayton operation, with Kelly following Washington rules and keeping the bad news from his boss. Was it crazy to give Mumfries a chance to explain? To give Mumfries the opportunity to claim that he was merely a run-of-the-mill shitbag pol, not a murderous conspirator? If so, what then? Only Margaret would have to pay?
“You can decide.” But how much did he want to decide? To determine who would be the next President of the United States?
“I noticed you’re not beefing up security here after the attack at the Mayflower,” Addis said to Grayton. “Someone takes a shot at Margaret and you’re not sweating … . Think the President might be concerned about that? Or do you have reason to believe that the threat has been … neutralized?”
“What the fuck do you want, Nick?” Kelly asked with a sneer.
“Not to deal.”
Grayton jabbed a finger into Addis’s sternum. Addis jumped back with the pain. Grayton moved close to him. Addis breathed in his cologne.
“Let’s keep it simple,” Grayton said so only Addis could hear. “You turn and leave now, and you have a nice life ahead. Sure, there’s shit to deal with. But that’s what lawyers are for. And you got the best. You’ll get through it. Then you have book deals, TV appearances, job offers. Fuck, go teach at some overpriced college and grab all the peach-bottomed coeds you can find. Hop a flight to California, buy a convertible, and score in Hollywood. Yeah, L.A. bimbos. Or, be a master-of-the-universe at some investment house. But you push now, with your stories, her unconfirmed speculation, and …”
Do you know about the backpack?
“And what?” Addis asked. “One big happy game of make-believe?”
Grayton squinted at Addis and said nothing for a few seconds.
The sound of a decision being made.
“No, thank you,” Addis said. “I’d like to see what happens here when all the bullshit runs out.”
Grayton nodded at the Secret Service men. They moved closer to Addis.
Shit, they’re not going to let me leave, Addis thought.
Grayton looked at Kelly, and Mumfries’s chief of staff entered the conversation. “Nick,” he said. “We got a call from Metro. Unofficial, you know. Did some lab tests. Turns out—well, it’s just preliminary—Julia Lancette was all coked up—”
Fucking perfect.
Addis grabbed Kelly by the collar of his jacket. “You fuckers—”
He started shaking Kelly, who struggled to break free. The two tussled, and Addis pulled Kelly closer. The Secret Service men looked at Grayton, awaiting an order. Addis tightened his hold on Kelly. Grayton slid his arms between the two and pushed Addis back. Addis breathed hard and stared at Grayton. He held his right hand inside his jacket, as if he were clutching his side.
“Nick Addis the tough guy—that was not very characteristic,” Grayton said.
Addis said nothing. He dropped his arms to his side. Don’t move too much, he told himself.
“Yeah,” Kelly said, straightening his tie, “they found traces in her blood. So there are people thinking, like, maybe, she could’ve gotten out of the car, if it weren’t for that. Since you two were seen at this club before the incident, well then, maybe, somehow, you might be … I don’t know, responsible or something. I’m no lawyer, but there’s manslaughter. I know that. And other things when drugs are involved. Now, as I said, this is all unofficial. We just got a heads-up. From friends on the force. So, maybe … And, damn, Nick, think how shitty her folks are going to feel. That maybe, maybe, if it weren’t for that shit, she might have … well, you know.”
What god-damn assholes. Can they pull off some stunt like this? Who the fuck knows?
“And,” Grayton added. “That other lady friend of yours. The lawyer. On-again, off-again. One of the partners in her firm has been backdooring funds between a prominent union and your party. Right, Ham?”
Kelly shrugged: “It’s too bad some of our people get so wrapped up in winning.”
“The Bureau’s been looking into this,” Grayton said. “There’s a union informant telling stories. And the agent handling him—well, he’s not certain if the informant has mentioned a Ms. Holly Rudd. There have been
hours of interrogation. But he’s going to ask the informant about her. Sometimes asking the right question at the right time jogs a memory.”
“A memory,” Kelly repeated.
“Dead or alive, reputations do matter, Nick,” Grayton said. “Don’t they? In the end, that’s all one has, isn’t it?”
You fuckheads give me no choice. And you don’t know it.
“Henry, see Mr. Addis back to his office,” Grayton said to one of the Secret Service men. He kept his hand on Addis’s arm. “We’ll talk more after the President leaves.”
The door to the Oval Office opened, and Mumfries walked out. He was reading a document. “Mrs. Dee, can you explain where—”
He looked up at the people gathered outside his office.
“Holding a meeting?” he asked. “Nick, is Margaret okay? You were there, right?”
“Yes, Mr. President—”
“Didn’t even come close,” Grayton interrupted. He squeezed Addis’s arm.
“Good,” Mumfries said. “It’s turning into a god-damn free-fire zone.”
“Mr. President,” Addis said quickly, “could I speak to you a minute?”
Mumfries looked at Kelly. His expression asked, what’s this about? “Don’t think there’s time, sir,” Kelly said to Mumfries. “The networks will carry the send-off, but they asked that we don’t go too far into the slots for the soaps.”
“Later, then, Nick.” He returned to the document and headed back toward the Oval Office.
“But—”
Addis felt a jab. He looked down. Grayton had drawn a gun and shoved the barrel into Addis’s side. Because Grayton had moved closer toward Addis, no one else could see it.
No fucking way. Here in the White House? In front of the President? You’re not that stupid.
Then Addis realized Grayton was no fool. In the time that Addis had processed Grayton’s threat, Mumfries had entered his office and shut the door. Grayton returned the gun to the holster inside his jacket. He stepped away from Addis.
“It does distract,” Grayton said. He turned to the Secret Service agent: “Henry …”
The burly officer took Addis by the arm. Grayton whispered into the Secret Service man’s ear.
“Sorry, sir,” the officer said to Addis and led him away.
Addis stood by his desk. The door to the office was closed. Henry was standing guard at the other side of the door. Addis took Kelly’s cell phone—the one he had pickpocketed during their struggle—out of his inside jacket pocket. He stared at the phone on the desk. Monitored or dead, he thought. The smart move would be for them to keep it alive to see whom he called. He picked up the handset: no dial tone. Addis flipped open the cell phone and punched the buttons.
Please, Ham, don’t need to make a call. Not now.
“It’s me.” He spoke in a low tone. “Is he there? … Good. And he’s got it? … Keep him there. I’m going to have someone come by … . You’ll know. It’ll be a surprise. Show him what’s in the bag. Point out Clarence’s notebook. Make copies. Lots of copies. Give him the originals … . Yes, the originals. He’ll need them to make people believe him. And hide the other copies everywhere. Around your office. Give them to friends. To strangers … . Can’t get into it now, got to go … . Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. Thanks for asking. And thanks for helping more than you had to. I’ll explain everything real soon. Everything. Promise.”
He pulled a directory of Washington reporters from his shelf and found the right page. He dialed the number.
Be there. Be there. Be there … .
“Hulloh.” It was that unctuous British accent. “Hynes-Pierce here.”
“Evan, listen good. This is Nick Addis. I am about to make your life. Pulitzer. Money. Fame. A movie with god-knows-who playing you. This is it: The Blue Ridge deal is just part of it. There’s more. It runs into the assassination. Check out who owned the land first. See if her nickname was Happy … . Yes, that Happy … . Anyway, there are documents. And they’re all yours … . No, this isn’t some fucking joke … . Yes, this is an exclusive but only for one day. You don’t get the story out in tomorrow’s edition, and it’s everyone’s: CNN, the networks, the wires, you name it … . You better put it all out, no games with your publisher—or you’re going to look like an ass afterward … . Yeah, yeah, the Blue Ridge deal and the assassination … . Don’t have time to go over it. I will vouch for the accuracy of the documents … . But there’s one other thing: Julia Lancette, the woman I was with last night, was trying to find out the truth, and that’s why she was killed. She never really got it all. But she tried … .”
Water covering her lips.
“She did. Came close, came … Quote me on that if you want, but I can’t get into it now … . And here’s some advice: Don’t call anyone for comment—not the White House, not Margaret, not anyone—until your story’s set and you’re in a safe place … . Yes, a safe place … . How the hell should I know where one is? I’m just telling you to be careful … .
Why you? I’m not sure. You want a simple explanation: You have the background. But do me one favor—don’t ask again.”
He gave Hynes-Pierce the address of Rudd’s office.
“I’ll try to meet you there. But start without me. In return, I want you to answer one question, okay? … Later on, but you’ll have to answer it, okay? … Trust me, for this, it’s not too much to ask … . You’ll see. You will. Good-bye.”
He hit the “end” button. Addis turned toward the door. How long did he have? No one had barged in yet. He found the phone number he had scribbled on his calendar.
“Mrs. Lancette, this is Nick Addis … . I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner … . There’s a few things I think you should know … .”
When he finished, he asked for the funeral information. He then turned off the cell phone and placed it on the desk. He noticed a sealed manila envelope with no markings on it. He opened the envelope. Inside was a set of the documents that Tracy Griffith had faxed to him. He examined the inside of the envelope and found a folded-up note. It was written in red Magic Marker on plain white paper.
My cuz’s boyfriend is an intern in the White House, so I think he can get this to you. I heard on the radio that papers were missing from your car. Must be heavy shit time, and figured these might be them. Fuck the State!
At the end of the note was a capital A enclosed within a circle. Anarchy, Addis thought. The kid at the copy shop. The little shit had kept a set for himself. “Fuckin’ A,” Addis muttered. All that’s missing is the ICEMAN report—what Julia Lancette had gone looking for.
He placed the papers back in the envelope. He hiked up a pant’s leg, wrapped the envelope around his leg, and taped it in place. He then pulled the pant’s leg over the envelope.
Addis turned on the television. The Roosevelt Room was crowded: Cabinet members, congressional leaders, including Senator Hugh Palmer. The message was clear: Mumfries is the favored, Margaret a far-shot. The President was talking. Addis kept the sound off. Grayton and Kelly were standing behind Mumfries. It seemed as if Kelly was patting the side of his jacket. Was he looking for the cell phone?
Addis called the Associated Press news desk and said that he would be holding a press conference outside the West Wing as soon as the President departs.
“What’s the subject?” the desk editor asked.
“I’m announcing my resignation.”
“Why?”
“Personal reasons.”
He noted that if he were late for the press conference, the service should contact Jake Grayton, deputy director of the FBI, and ask about Addis’s whereabouts. “At the moment, it seems, Mr. Grayton is attempting to detain me in my office.”
He called CNN and several newspapers and newsmagazines.
The President was now standing. People around him were clapping.
Addis wondered if this cell phone stored the numbers he had just called. He reached into the small refrigerator for the can of Coke that Amy from Computer Services had brought him earlier. From one of the boxes—
At least, I won’t have to unpack
—he grabbed the oversized commemorative beer stein he had received during the Berlin trip and poured the soda into the glass.
The President was leaving the Roosevelt Room. CNN switched to a shot of the helicopter on the White House lawn.
Addis turned on the cell phone. He dropped it into the stein. The soda fizzled and hissed.
“Ca-runk,” he said, recalling the term Kelly had used. Tossing armadillos to alligators.
He sat at his desk and realized this was the last time he would be in this office. Was there anything he wanted to keep? Next to him was the box containing the framed photographs he had not yet placed on the walls. A picture of him and Hanover riding in Jackson, Wyoming. A shot of him, O’Connor, and McGreer hugging in celebration on election night. Playing chess with Margaret on Air Force One. Standing two rows behind the Hanovers at the inaugural swearing-in at the Capitol. Being burned in effigy in front of the White House by members of a political cult who had accused him of masterminding a convoluted conspiracy, the details of which Addis had never understood.
Mumfries and his family were boarding the helicopter. The President waved to the crowd. Sally Mumfries threw kisses.
“You can decide.” And he had. But had he played it right? For the best results? The fairest for all concerned? And for the country, too?
Close enough for government work, he said to himself.
He returned the photographs to the box. No, he thought, he didn’t need any of these. But he picked up the framed postcard from LaTeenah Williams, one of the few students he had managed to reach and affect so long ago. She went on to college, social work school, and then hard work on hard turf in the Bronx. He hoped she was still out there setting off ripples in the right direction. “Thank you,” it read.
This I’ll keep.
He waited for the door to open.