Free Fall (51 page)

"And Tristan Newberry?"

"Darby killed one of theirs one of Hallorin's men. Did she tell you that? We'd have had to call it even. Of course, I knew you wouldn't make it that easy on me."

Sherman picked up the photograph of himself and Hoover, turning it over carefully in his hands.

"You'd think it would be hard to remember being this young. But I can.

I can remember it all what it was like to be starting life instead of winding it down, what it was like to have one of the most powerful men in the world think you walked on water. I would have done anything for him. And I did."

Beamon's discomfort was growing exponentially as the conversation continued. He'd planned exactly how this confrontation would play out.

He would start with the upper hand, thanks to some explosive theatrics, self-pity, and the fact that he was on the moral high ground for once.

Then Tom would explain the entire thing how there was a bigger picture that he didn't see, how it had all been necessary. Then he'd let Beamon in on the master plan. With Sherman there was always a master plan.

Complex, subtle, and infallible. But none of that was materializing.

Beamon found himself completely unprepared for what he was seeing.

Tom Sherman, hopelessly weakened by guilt and uncertainty.

"J. Edgar Hoover was a nut, Tommy."

Sherman shook his head.

"No. People try to judge him based on the current context. You can't take a person out of their time. In many ways, he was a great man. In many ways, he wasn't. But I couldn't see his faults, I let myself get blinded."

"How old were you?" Beamon said, suddenly feeling an overwhelming urge to come to his friend's defense.

"Twenty-eight? Twenty-nine?"

Sherman shrugged.

"When the old man died, the Prodigy project landed in my lap. No one in senior management wanted anything to do with it. Times were changing.

No one had the stomach for the political blackmail anymore. No one had Hoover's ... conviction." "Conviction?" Beamon said in a sarcastic tone.

"The people in it were Democrat and Republican, rich and poor, liberal and conservative. It had the potential to hurt everyone. I had to make a decision."

"Why didn't you just burn the fucking thing, Tommy? Or at least put it in a safe deposit box somewhere?"

He looked up from the photograph, finally meeting Beamon's eye.

"I'm surprised you'd ask me that question. Aren't you about to be prosecuted on a trumped-up charge of destroying evidence?"

Beamon leaned back in his chair.

"I see your point."

"No, as long as the file existed, no one was going to get divisive and try to come back at the FBI for assembling it. The stakes were too high for both sides. And if it ever came out that the file did exist, it could eventually be produced from a government archive horribly misfiled, of course. And then I would simply say that the FBI had determined that the evidence in the file was obtained illegally and therefore decided not to pursue indictment." "All the angles," Beamon said.

"You had all the angles even back then."

"I thought I did."

"You hadn't anticipated a viable third-party candidate."

Sherman shook his head.

"Why would I? It wasn't in the realm of possibility at the time. When Hallorin came out with his comprehensive declassification plan, I didn't think anything of it too many years had passed. When I found out that he was using that piece of legislation as cover to search for Prodigy, he was already three steps ahead of me."

Sherman put his glass on the desk and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"So now, during one of the most fragile times in American history, the political process has been completely subverted. And innocent people have died. All because of me."

Sherman walked over to the sideboard to refill his glass. He actually looked as if he'd shrunk, as if he was physically smaller than he had been last time they'd seen each other. It seemed impossible, but Tom Sherman, the man who had always been absolutely unshakable, looked like he was on the verge of collapse.

"Why didn't you just come to me, Tommy? Why would you send me into this blind?"

Sherman couldn't seem to find it in himself to turn around and face him.

"I told myself that it was because I didn't want you any more involved than necessary, that you wouldn't be able to handle knowing the file existed as delicately as it needed to be. I told myself all kinds of things.

The truth is simpler, though. I was ashamed. I just wanted it to all go away. I told myself that you'd find the girl, the way you always do, before anyone ever knew you were involved. You'd have the money to pay for your defense and I'd have ..." His voice trailed off as he finished pouring the drink.

"What, Tommy? A clear conscience?"

Sherman turned and started out of the office.

"It was already too late for that. I just wanted an end to it, Mark.

I'm sorry." Take this exit," Beamon said.

"This is nuts, Mark. The Dulles Airport exit is just ahead. That's the one we should be taking."

Beamon adjusted the sleeping bag, which was protecting his new suit from the truck's grimy seats. Three thousand dollars. It hadn't been easy to find a suit that expensive with the economy where it was, but he'd managed it. All neatly charged to Reynolds, Trent, and Layman, or more precisely, what was left of his best friend Tom Sherman.

"What are you trying to accomplish here?" Darby pressed, easing onto the ramp and aiming the truck through northern Virginia's light afternoon traffic.

"This is a trap and you're walking right into it. You know you can't trust that son of a bitch."

Beamon had been more than a little surprised when he'd answered his cell phone the day before and heard David Hallorin's voice on the other end.

The offer of a meeting and a truce was strained, but had sounded strangely sincere.

"But we can trust him. Darby. We can trust him to do what's in his self-interest. Right now, it might suit him to make a deal. And if that's true, we've got to take advantage of his mood."

"I'm not sure I want a deal anymore."

"Look, Darby, we've got nothing to work with, here. We aren't going to win this thing--the best we can hope for is not to lose. If he wants to talk I'm ready to listen."

She shook her head.

"This isn't going to work, we both know it. And we can't just let them--"

"Let them what? We can't bring your friends back. I'm sorry, but we can't. We talked about this. If we were on a mountain instead of the out skirts of D. C. you'd put them out of your head and try to save yourself.

Right?"

Her knuckles had turned white around the steering wheel as her frustration became nearly unbearable.

"I thought you said your friend was going to help us?" Beamon hadn't told her about Sherman's involvement she had enough to worry about without going there.

"I honestly don't know if he can anymore."

Her face softened a little.

"Is he okay? I mean, I don't know him, but he looks " "He'll be fine,"

Beamon said, though he didn't really believe it. He'd lain awake most of the night replaying his conversation with Sherman, trying to figure out what had happened to his friend.

Much of Sherman's meteoric rise through the ranks of the FBI could be traced back to Hoover's admiration of him as a young man. And much of that admiration, it now turned out, could probably be traced back to Sherman's handling of the Prodigy operation. That seemed to be more than his friend could bear. Right now, he was wallowing in the thought that his entire career which, for him, pretty much translated into his entire life was built on an illegal operation that he was ashamed of and now had blown up in his face. He'd be thinking that everything he was his honor, morality, empathy, accomplishments was a lie. That he, and not Hallorin, was responsible for the death of Tristan Newberry and the others. And all that self-flagellation had left him completely paralyzed Darby took her eyes from the road and looked over at Beamon not a particularly dangerous act, since her truck couldn't break forty-five miles an hour anymore.

"This smells like desperation, Mark. Take it from me, desperate acts get people killed. Let's just get out of here. See the world with that credit card of yours for a few years. They'll forget about us."

"They won't. And you know from experience, staying ahead of them is easier said than done. Besides, I'm not prepared to live the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. And neither are you."

"Let's make a damn stand, then," she said, turning her attention back toward the road.

"I mean, if we're going to do something desperate and stupid, why not make it count?"

"I'm with you. What are you proposing?"

"I don't know. There's got to be something."

"This is it, Darby. Our best shot." She sighed loudly and yanked repeatedly on the wheel, bouncing herself up and down in the seat.

"Okay. But at least let me go in with you."

"And do what?"

"I don't know. What do you macho types say? Watch your back?"

Beamon laughed.

"There are some pretty stringent rules in the macho type club that you may not be aware of. One of the most heavily enforced is that you don't let a skirt watch your back. I'm afraid I can't make an exception, even for you."

"I could help."

"I know you could. But they want us both. As long as they don't know where you are, my chances of walking out of there are about ten times better."

"Better than what?"

"I wish I knew."

"It seems that our fortunes have changed since we last met, Mr. Mine for the better and yours for the worse. I understand that you decided not to take the deal the FBI offered?"

Beamon stood in the middle of the office and stared at the wall behind David Hallorin. He could feel Roland Peck, the only other person in the room, studying him.

Hallorin's observation was, of course, accurate. Following Taylor's announcement that he was pulling out of the race, the Republican machine had blown itself apart. Half its leadership was hopelessly scrambling to find a precedent that would allow them to postpone the election, and the other half just seemed to be running in circles talking to themselves.

The Democrats had taken a surprising amount of Taylor's support--skillfully nurturing the fears of those conservative voters who were smart enough to see David Hallorin for the scary son of a bitch he was. It hadn't been nearly enough, though. Hallorin's lead looked like it was going to settle in around the nine-point range, and tomorrow he was going to be voted the next president of the United States.

Hallorin didn't seem at all disconcerted by Beamon's silence and waved at one of the chairs in front of his desk. Beamon sat down in it without thinking and immediately regretted the act. He probably looked like an obedient sheepdog--not the way to gain standing over a man like Hallorin.

"I have to admit, for a while, we were under the impression you were dead," Hallorin said through a thin smile. The air of superiority the man wore was so thick it was almost opaque as he fed off his position of dominance over Beamon. It was like a drug to him.

"I think you must have me confused with the man you hired, Senator.

I'm curious. Who was he?"

It was Hallorin's turn to fall silent.

"They'll find him when the snow thaws. I assume that he was a cop at some point in his life, so his prints will be on record."

It was Peck who spoke up.

"His name was Frank Sorvino."

Beamon had heard it before. LAPD, retired. By all reports an investigator of exceptional ability and almost limitless moral flexibility.

"I'm a rather busy man, Mr. Beamon, so let me get to the point. I called you here to see if we can come to an understanding."

Beamon didn't answer right away, concentrating on staying perfectly calm. This was his and Darby's last chance. As slim as it was, he couldn't afford to blow it by letting this meeting degenerate like the one he'd had with Taylor.

"About the Prodigy file?"

Hallorin's face remained an emotionless mask.

"I assume that if you had any proof that this file actually exists or of wrongdoing by me, you'd be using it."

"I'm apolitical, Senator. I don't even vote. It's not my job to protect the American people from themselves. That's the beauty of a democracy.

The people get exactly what they deserve." He silently admonished him self for tagging on that last piece of personal philosophy. Control.

For once in his life, he had to maintain control.

"Your point, Mr. Beamon?"

"My point is that I don't want to spend the rest of my life waiting for the other shoe to drop."

Hallorin folded his arms across his chest and stared at the floor for what seemed like a long time but probably wasn't.