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Rapp studied him for a moment, trying to detect a lie. “Who was this other group?”
“I don’t know.” Coleman shook his head. “There were four of them. Three men and a woman. They were very professional. Quick and thorough.”
“You honestly have no idea who they were?”
“No.”
“That’s bullshit, Scott.” Rapp raised his voice. He looked to Kennedy. “And you?”
“We were discussing this very matter when you burst in here,” Kennedy said a little testily.
“Well, excuse me if I forgot to knock, but I hope you understand if I’m just a little pissed off. You send me on a mission that only a handful of people are supposed to know about, and right after I take care of the count, I turn around and that bitch you sent to assist me pumps two rounds into my chest.” Rapp pointed at himself. “From where I’m sitting, it’s pretty clear that someone set me up. You”—Rapp pointed the gun at Kennedy—“had the method and the means, and now I’m trying to figure out what your motivation was.”
Kennedy stood abruptly. “If you think…”
“Sit back down!” shouted Rapp.
“No, I’m not going to sit back down! And stop pointing that gun at me!”
“Sit back down, Irene, or I swear I’ll…”
“What? Shoot me?” Kennedy said defiantly as she took a step closer to him. “I know you well enough, Mitch, to know that you would never do such a thing. Not to me, and you know damn well I would never give an order to have you killed.” She took a deep breath and stared at him.
Rapp studied her. Her face was flushed, and her fists were clenched tight. He had never seen Kennedy raise her voice, let alone yell. In the end, he believed her because, more than anything, it was what he wanted to believe. Slowly, he retracted the pistol and pointed it at the ground. Nodding to Kennedy, he said, “Okay. So let’s try to figure out who did.”
The colonial grandfather clock in the corner announced the arrival of the day’s twenty-second hour. Senator Clark was sitting behind an expansive hand-carved oak executive desk in his study. A glass of cabernet sauvignon was in his left hand. It was the last of a sixty dollar bottle from McLaren Vale, Australia. Clark never bought French wine. It was overpriced and, more importantly, was made by a bunch of snobs. The man who had literally come from the wrong side of the tracks was a little sensitive when it came to elitists. For the most part, Clark kept these opinions to himself. No sense in announcing your hot buttons to a potential adversary. Secretary of State Midleton was a perfect example. The man was a full-blown cultural elitist. As a senator, he had voted for every liberal pet project that came down the aisle, just so long as it didn’t affect the gentry in his blue-blood neighborhood. Midleton didn’t know it, but Hank Clark wasn’t his friend. Clark not only didn’t like his former colleague in the Senate, he could barely tolerate the man, but he was willing to put up a front until the time was right.
Clark studied a memo that one of his senior staffers had prepared at the senator’s request. It summarized the lack of affordable housing for military personnel. It was a sad state of affairs. The men and women in the military were getting the short end of the stick, living in conditions comparable to those of people on welfare. As could be predicted, morale was suffering, and readiness was way down. The cuts in military spending had gone too deep. This was going to be his issue. The issue he would run on. A newly commissioned officer in the armed forces made less than a new city bus driver in Washington. He made less than your average federal government administrative assistant, and he made far less than a teacher. That was another thing the senator was planning to exploit. He was sick of hearing the NEA gripe about teachers’ salaries. When you factored in their personal days, sick days, workshops, holidays, and summers
off, they barely worked two-thirds of the year. The men and women of the armed services were getting screwed.
The NEA was in bed with the Democrats; there was nothing he or any other Republican could do about that. He wasn’t going to get their votes regardless of what he did, so he might as well make hay of it. The plan was to go into California, Texas, and Florida—all states with huge blocks of electoral votes and loaded with military bases. He would run on a ten-percent pay increase for all military personnel. The states would salivate over the potential boost to their economies. In addition to that, he’d demand that the brave men and women of the armed services be given the same health benefits as all other federal employees. The HMOs, pharmaceuticals, medical device manufacturers, and insurance companies would throw cash at his campaign. They would line up to get a piece of the action. That combined with the other backers he already had would give him a substantial war chest.
The sound of the doorbell made him turn his attention to some more immediate issues. A lot of different factors were involved in getting elected president. But no two were more important than money and name recognition. No one was going to vote for you if they didn’t know who you were. Hell, right now he’d be hard pressed to get his own party’s nomination. Outside his home state, Clark was relatively unknown. Most people knew him only as “that big senator.” At six foot five, he was a full head taller than most of his colleagues. Clark was hoping to change all of that. There was nothing in Washington like a few months of televised Senate hearings to raise one’s profile.
There was a knock on the study door, and the senator said, “Come in.”
Peter Cameron entered the office scratching his black beard. Clark made no effort to get up. Instead, he gestured to the chair sitting in front of the desk. Normally, Clark would have offered him a drink, but from the tone Cameron had used on the phone earlier, Clark was waiting until he heard why his minion was rattled. Clark took a sip of his wine and leaned back in his chair.
“Did you watch the news tonight?”
“I caught a bit of it earlier.”
“Did you happen to see the local story about the man gunned down in College Park?”
Clark leaned forward and set down the wine glass. The murder in College Park had been the lead news story on every local station and appeared to be headed for the front page of the Post in the morning. More than fifty rounds had been fired. Most of them from silenced weapons, and most directed at the lone fatality. There were several eyewitness reports that a woman also had been shot, but the police had yet to confirm her existence. They were monitoring local hospitals for gunshot victims.
“I saw the story.”
Cameron shifted uncomfortably in his chair and finally said, “I was there.”
“Why?”
“I was keeping an eye on things.”
Clark said nothing for a moment. He just stared at Cameron and his unkempt beard. Finally, he asked, “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
Cameron started with an apology for not doing a better job of controlling Duser and his people. From there, Cameron went into the play-by-play of events. He verified that the woman mentioned in the story had been shot—killed, as a matter of fact—and that her body had been disposed of, as well as all of the weapons and vehicles that had been used. On a positive note, the muscle behind Gus Villaume, namely Mario Lukas, was no longer a threat.