Rebecca York (2 page)

"I can't be on your payroll, if I'm going to be free to write an honest book," he said, keeping his voice even. "I'll get my money from a publisher's advance. One of the big publishers should be willing to pay top dollar for a candid, authorized bio of you."

Hamilton smiled. "Good. Because if you'd jumped at my largesse, you'd be out the door before you could take another sip of water."

"So you were testing me with that offer?" Jordan clarified.

"I want to know what a man will do for money before I make a deal with him. You can work it any way you like. I'll cooperate fully. But I'm asking something in return."

Ah, the punch line.

"In exchange I want you to find out what happened to my son."

Although Jordan had a talent for throwing an interview subject off balance, he could take lessons from Hamilton. After a moment he said, "He and a friend ... died in a boating accident recently, didn't they?

On the Chesapeake Bay."

The gnarled old man studied him from across the table. "According to the official report, he and Glenn Barrow took out a boat in unsafe conditions. I think that's bull."

Jordan sat forward. He felt it then, that edge of awareness that grabbed him when he knew he was on the trail of something hot—something startling. "You have evidence to the contrary?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"They told me there was an autopsy at the office of the Maryland State Medical Examiner. But when Todd's body was brought back from Baltimore, I had additional tests performed. I have the results."

"Why did you go to all that trouble?"

"My son was afraid of the water. He wouldn't have been in any boating accident. Not unless somebody dragged him out to the middle of the bay kicking and screaming."

The old man sounded tired as he continued. "At first I thought some of his lowlife friends could have killed him."

"He was a disappointment to you?" Jordan asked, unable to keep thoughts of his own disappointing father-son relationship out of his mind. If he were dead, his dad would probably just shrug and go on.

"I loved him. I tried to understand him. But I could never... connect with him. Do you know what I mean?"

Jordan nodded, identifying with the sentiment all too well. He'd always felt out of place in his own family—like a baby bird accidentally dropped in the wrong nest.

The billionaire's face turned sad, then relaxed again. "I invested a lot of money in my son. But it didn't turn out the way we expected. Todd never fit in with other kids."

Again, Jordan flashed on his own memories, then ruthlessly drove the thoughts from his mind, wondering why he was letting this interview get so personal. He wasn't here for a self-analysis session.

Hamilton was still speaking, his voice thickened by emotion. "As you pointed out a while ago, Todd got into trouble with the law. And other trouble, too. I wanted to find out if there was some medical reason for his strange behavior. And I wanted to know if his death was drug-related."

"Was it?"

"Not in the way I imagined."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

The old man gave him a direct look. "Why don't you read the pathology report. Then, if you think it's worth the time, find out what the hell he was up to that got him killed."

"He was a homosexual, right?"

Hamilton glared at him. "And you're supposed to be straight, but you haven't had a lot of relationships with women. You've never even come close to marriage. You've never lived with anyone. You've plowed most of your energy into your career." He looked like he might be about to say something else but refrained.

"How is my personal life relevant?" Jordan asked carefully.

"How is my son's sexuality relevant?" the multimillionaire countered.

"It may have something to do with his death."

"I doubt it," Hamilton snapped.

Jordan waited for several seconds before saying, "Let me understand. You'll cooperate with me on a no-holds-barred biography of you, if I investigate your son's death. Are we supposed to include what I uncover in the biography?"

"It depends on how dangerous you think the information is."

Jordan was still digesting that as the old man reached into a canvas bag that was attached to a carrier on the side of the go-cart. "Here's a copy of the pathology report. The original's in my safe-deposit box.

And I had the computer files at the hospital where the tests were done altered."

"Oh, yeah? By whom?"

"Never mind that. The important point is that the request can't be traced back to me."

Jordan didn't bother saying that computer files could be recovered—if you had the skill and the time.

"Do some digging into the material. If you accept the assignment, I'll talk to you about my son. About the circumstances of his birth."

"Which are?"

"We'll get to that later. We'll talk about anything you want. Let me know by the end of next week what you decide."

"And if I don't want to take the job?"

Hamilton's eyes turned crafty. "I'll contact somebody else. Someone not too chicken to find out why Todd Hamilton had to die."

RETURNING FROM A meeting at the Pentagon, Kurt MacArthur strode inside the converted mansion that housed the Crandall Consortium.

Until a few years ago, his office had been in downtown D.C., but he'd scooped up an old estate on the Virginia bluffs above the Potomac River and had it converted at taxpayers' expense.

At fifty-eight Kurt was still lean and trim, thanks to sensible eating and daily sessions at the state-of-the-art gym in the basement. But the liberal sprinkling of silver in his once-dark hair and the lines etched in his face testified to the rigors of his thirty-five-year career.

He'd met Calvin Crandall when he'd taken a night class in Political Ideology at The George Washington University. He hadn't known at the time that the adjunct professor was recruiting operatives for his own private power base. When the older man had invited him for drinks at the Cosmos Club, he'd been flattered. And he'd been eager to join Crandall's team, once he'd learned something about his organization.

Until then, Kurt had never gotten-close to power. Not in the backwater western Maryland town where he'd grown up. Not in his unexciting years at Shepherd College where he'd waited tables to make up the tuition money his parents couldn't afford. And not in his lowly job answering mail for a nothing congressman from Oklahoma.

The "can do" atmosphere at the Crandall Consortium had energized him. He'd lapped up lunches and dinners with his boss at the capital's power spots. And he'd been eager to please. Which was why he'd taken on clandestine assignments that might have raised doubts in the minds of other men.

When the news media mentioned the Crandall Consortium, they called it a think tank. Insiders knew the agency was as much about murder, torture, and blackmail as about policy papers.

Getting your hands dirty changed a man, of course. Either you cracked under the pressure or you grew stronger.

Kurt had become an expert at rationalizing his activities as he acquired the trappings of power and prestige. There was always a reason why the American people needed a man on their team who was willing to make the hard choices. In the seventies and eighties all he'd needed to stay on the right course was to visualize a mushroom cloud rising over the U.S. Capitol or the San Francisco Bay Bridge. Lately he energized himself with mental pictures of airplanes crashing into skyscrapers or anthrax spores wafting through the New York City subway system.

Over the years he'd learned that doing the hard jobs gave him power and prestige. He'd also learned enough about Calvin Crandall to put him in jail.

He never would have betrayed his mentor to the legal system. But three years after Kurt stepped into the number-two spot, Calvin balked at sending operatives into Iraq on a suicide mission. Kurt had realized then that his boss had lost his nerve. So Kurt arranged for the older man to have a fatal heart attack while on a skiing vacation in Switzerland.

After he'd moved into Calvin's dark-paneled office, he'd made damn sure that nobody could get the jump on him.

As he strode into the reception area, Mary Ann, his executive assistant, looked up. "Good afternoon, sir."

She was a stunning blond, in her mid-twenties, not one of those skinny-assed model types who were in fashion now. He'd picked her because she had excellent secretarial skills and because she had enough meat on her bones to make her a comfortable bed partner. But at work they always observed the proprieties.

"Any calls?" he asked.

"Senator Borton wants to talk to you. He wouldn't leave a message."

"He's probably trying to wangle a job for one of his constituents. If he calls back, tell him I'm tied up."

He paused for a moment. "Did Jim Swift call?"

"No, sir."

"Okay. Thanks."

For ten years Kurt had been absolutely secure in his position of power. Like J. Edgar Hoover before him, he had enough dirt on the right people to stay at the top until he died. Today he was fighting a queasy feeling as he strode into his own office and closed the door.

Once he'd settled into his custom-made chair, he tapped in the password—Jehovah 101—on his computer keyboard, then scanned the e-mail that had arrived in his absence. When he found nothing from his senior field officer, he drummed his fingers on the broad walnut desk, then reached for the secure phone.

"Swift here," his man answered after three rings.

"Where the hell are you?" he barked in response to the fuzzy transmission.

"Still in Wilmington, Delaware. I've just been talking to some of Todd Hamilton's former teachers from his fancy prep school," he answered.

"I was hoping for a report by now," Kurt said, modifying his tone.

"As you know, since Hamilton was carrying no ID, we lost time figuring out who he was."

Kurt sighed. "Yeah. Right."

"I'm proceeding as fast as I can, but a thorough background check takes time. You don't want a half-baked job, do you?"

"Of course not," he answered, controlling his impatience. Swift was a good man. Some would have called him a psychopath. Kurt preferred to think of him as devoted, dogged, effective, technologically savvy. And he understood the adage that the ends justified the means.

"There won't be any problem collecting his grades and other pertinent information from his permanent record."

Translation: Swift had checked the burglar alarm at the school and was confident that he could get in after hours to photocopy the records.

Kurt tightened his hold on the phone and asked, "Have you found anything that might explain what happened in March?"

"Nothing yet. I'll try to get a report together as soon as I can."

Kurt hung up and rocked back in his chair, staring out the window at his panoramic view of the river, feeling like he was working in the dark. All he knew was that Todd Hamilton and his friend Glenn Barrow had somehow broken into Maple Creek and caused a fucking mess.

So who the hell was Todd Hamilton, really? Besides the son of a billionaire, for Christ's sake.

Were he and his boyfriend working for a foreign terrorist organization? Did they belong to some homegrown protest group? And why had they targeted Maple Creek?

* * *

Today she was too nervous to sit still. An odd state of affairs for her.

Martha Rinker, the receptionist at the front desk, raised an eyebrow when Lindsay marched past. But she knew better than to comment.

And Lindsay refrained from saying, "I'll make up the time in the morning."

She didn't have to justify herself. Instead she took the elevator to the first floor of the Dirksen Office Building, then walked down the hill to the Union Station metro stop, thinking that her early departure was an affirmation.

She'd finally made up her mind. She was going to Senator Sam Conroy's reception. Because she wanted to pay her respects to the man who had tutored her as a wet-behind-the-ears intern.

That was what she told herself. But she knew deep down it wasn't the real reason she was going to his farewell party. Something else was tugging at her. And if she didn't find out what it was, she'd go crazy.

She reached the station, already crowded with Capitol Hill staffers on their way home, and waited for a Red Line train to Tenleytown.

In actual distance her McLean Gardens apartment wasn't far from her ultimate destination this evening-Chevy Chase Village.

But there was all the difference in the world between her chosen lifestyle and the old money affluence just across the District line.

She picked up her own groceries at Whole Foods and used the washing machine and dryer in the remodeled kitchen of her apartment. As often as not, the society matrons just across the District line had their orders delivered from Magruder's upscale grocery emporium and had the maid do the laundry. That was her mother's lifestyle.

Lindsay enjoyed the challenge of living on her congressional staffer's income, although she had dipped into her trust fund to buy her apartment.

Eight years ago she'd felt compelled to live down her reputation as a spoiled rich kid who'd gotten her first job on the Hill as a favor to her politically connected stepfather.

Now she attended few of the power events laid on by the rich and famous—because she had the guts to admit that parties tied her stomach in knots. She hated the crush of people, the noise swirling around her, and the buzzing undercurrent that was always below the surface, making her nerves jangle, making her feel like she was catching snatches of people's thoughts.

But when she'd opened Senator Sam Conroy's invitation, she'd felt oddly compelled to attend the party.

As the ranking member of the House Judiciary Committee, Con-roy had gone out of his way to praise her work and give her pointers. Though she hadn't worked with him in years, she'd been disappointed when he'd lost his long-held senatorial seat to a brash young neocon. And she wanted to tell him so.