Try Try Again (27 page)

She knew the cough was a false scent. Who had coughed, and
when, didn’t matter – but the sound could be used as a reference point, like
the clackers used in filming a movie.

Leaving the Camera One file at the point of the cough, she
carefully inched forward in the Camera Three file until she heard a cough that
sounded the same. Then, noting the elapsed time on Camera One, she moved forward
in the file second by second until she could see Charley’s startle, which
appeared in a little over a minute. She moved forward in the Camera Three file
the exact same amount of time, looking out for any gaps in time that could
throw her efforts off.

Stopping the image there, she studied the frame. Nothing out
of the ordinary; just your typical courtroom. She moved the Camera Three file
forward a half second, then one second. Nothing. Then another half-second.

There! One of the spectators, a woman, had suddenly jerked
her head upward and widened her eyes. Forward a little more. The woman’s face calmed
and resumed its original pose, although her expression now seemed strained.

Liv studied the face in freeze-frame. Yes, she could be ‘Stephanie
Bloomberg’, as Frankie had described her to Hub: about fifty-five years old,
slim face, dark complexion but definitely white with an expression ,that seemed
to Liv, to connote impatience and a certain cruelty. But now, Liv realized she
was doing amateur psychology, and she shouldn’t.

Excited, she printed the grainy frame and then tried to
enhance it with PhotoShop. Knowing little about the software, she had to call a
friend, and then another friend, before a technician at her firm talked her
through the process. After a few minutes there it was: enhanced, vivid, stark
shadows mellowed, washed-out whites detailed.

Not wanting to make too much out of something that might be
a false lead, Liv emailed the photo to Hub, asking him to check with Frankie or
Stan and see if it was the same woman.

Five hours later, Hub replied to Liv cc Jill: “THAT WOMAN IS
STEPHANIE BLOOMBERG. CONFERENCE CALL 8PM TODAY MY TIME,” followed by a dial-in
number and access code.

Just after eleven o’clock Eastern time, Liv dialed in. Hub
and Jill were already on the call. She explained how she’d got the photo. Hub
said he’d checked with Stan at WizWhiz and the photo indeed matched the mystery
woman. Stan had been positive enough, Hub hadn’t bothered Frankie for a confirming
ID.

“Now,” said Jill, “all we have to do is let the FBI or the
cops match her face and we’ve got her. She has to know about Barnes’ death and
who ‘George’ is.”

“Piece of cake?” asked Hub.

“Sure; why not?” asked Jill.

“You’ve been watching too many of Frankie’s movies,” said
Hub. “Face-matching is pretty chancy, as we discussed previously. And because
of the camera angle it’s a three-quarter shot in the courtroom, while law
enforcement databases contain mostly full-face or profile. Besides, we don’t
know for sure that she’s done anything illegal, and can’t even make a plausible
case for it. It would be difficult to mobilize the FBI to face-match here; and
I don’t think your friend Brent could do much for you.” He thought a minute.
“But Frankie has pull in this town, and he can probably get the L.A. police to
get into all those face-match databases and see what they can find.”

“Great!” said Jill and Liv in unison.

“But you’ve got to remember,” Hub continued, “even if her
face is a bunch of electrons in cyberspace somewhere, we’re not apt to get a
match. So don’t get your hopes up.”

“We’d know her by sight,” said Liv. “We could match her face
to that trial screen-grab, just by looking.” There was silence on the line as Liv
understood how unlikely the opportunity to see “Stephanie Bloomberg” in person
really was.

The conversation ended on that note.

And indeed, the Los Angeles police, even with great
enthusiasm to make Hub Landon happy since he’d wrecked so many police cars in
his movies, were unable to come up with a name, a location, or any associates
from their own resources or those of the FBI.

“Whoever she is,” Hub explained to Jill and Liv on a call
the following week, “she’s a mystery, and it looks like she’ll remain a
mystery.”

“Wait,” said Jill, “I’ll do it. I don’t want to give up
now.”

“Do what?” asked Hub and Liv, almost in unison.

“I’ll spend some money here. If you, Liv, can do some
research and give me the names of the top handful of PI firms in the U.S., I’ll
pay one to investigate. We have a face now, a photo. All those investigators
network with each other, so maybe there’s a chance.”

“Y’know,” said Hub, “I think we’ll get farther sooner if I’m
the contact point for a PI – Hollywood director and all that. They’ll be
thinking immortality in film. But of course I appreciate your offer to pay for
it, Jill.”

Jill was annoyed. No, pissed off. She’d just been conned out
of what? One or two hundred thousand dollars and some glory? But she didn’t
object out loud. “Fine,” was all she said.

“I’ll get on it tomorrow,” said Hub, “said PI to report to
the three of us once a week or whenever there’s any news.”

On a snowy January 20th, Thomas James Conning was
inaugurated President of the United States. He gave a speech that news sources
referred to as “cautious and guarded, but optimistic.”

Some sixteen days previously, Brent Nielsen had been sworn
in as Member of Congress for the seventeenth district of Pennsylvania. He was
too busy orienting himself to the arcana of Congress to think deeply about
Thomas James Conning.

As arranged, Malcolm Chukash of Chukash Associates, the Los
Angeles PI Liv recommended and Hub hired, reported every Monday afternoon via
conference call. Amid Chukash’s recitation of his efforts, no results were
apparent. One by one, he had queried his contacts in the underworld,
international criminal gangs, spy networks, foreign governments, insurgent
movements, and so on. The ‘Stephanie Bloomberg’ photo had been spread far and
wide. No one had claimed to recognize it.

Liv told Malcolm to watch out. “You know, I think this woman
was mixed up in at least one murder.”

“Cheer up,” Malcolm said, “If I’m killed, it means I was on
to something – just take a look at my last report.”

After four weeks, Malcolm reported failure. “But,” he said,
“What I’m looking for is out there. I think that if your mystery woman turns
up, someone might call me. They’ll ask for money, so be prepared.”

Jill felt her bank account silently draining just at the
moment Hub said, “Money’s no problem.”

“So that’s it for now,” said Malcolm. “If anything turns up,
I’ll call you.”

Jill sent Malcom a final check, and that was that. The next
day, she received a call from a number she didn’t know. Her pulse heating up,
she answered; but the call didn’t have anything to do with the mystery.

“Hi,” a voice said. “It’s Roger.”

Coldly, Jill answered “What’s ‘it’?”

There was a moment of silence on the line. Jill imagined Roger’s
traditional furrowed brow.

“Ah –,” said Roger, “I’ve been talking to my lawyer and I
think we can settle for one million. You keep two thirds of the three million.
I think that’s fair.”

“And if I say no?”

“Make me an offer.”

“I’ll offer to have you arrested for extortion and wire
fraud.”

More silence. Then “Ah – what wire?”

“The one you’re speaking to me on.”

“There isn’t any wire, Jill, we’re on cellular.”

“It’s still a crime to harass someone on the phone, wire or
no, Roger. And what counts as harassment is up to the harassed, not the
harasser.”

“What?”

“That means if I say it happened, it happened. Ear of the
beholder. Guilty until proven innocent. So let’s say I won’t do that, and you
send me a thousand dollars right now to keep me from turning you in.”

Jill heard Roger’s breathing becoming faster.

“Aw, Jill, I’m just trying to get back together with you!”

“Funny way to show it,” she said, hanging up.

Jill laughed. She’d just made up her own new civil code, and
Roger had swallowed it. “For now,” she said, thinking that maybe she’d eventually
have to pay him something to go away – but nowhere near a million bucks.

Amid the swirl of a White House reception for the president
of Angola, few noticed the slim, mature woman in black who disappeared with the
President into a small anteroom, and asked him why the administration’s
Mid-East policy had shown no major initiatives, no change of direction.

“I’ve made up my mind,” Thomas Conning blurted, “I don’t
care what you do; I’m not going to risk American lives or American power.
They’re my responsibility now.”

To Conning’s surprise, Sybille Haskin didn’t frown or even
blink. “I appreciate that,” she said. “We have no wish for you to take any
actions against your country. To do so, of course, would endanger your power to
do what we want you to do. So you can relax about that.”

Thomas Conning did not relax.

“I don’t expect to see you again,” she continued, “for
obvious reasons of keeping my face away from any more lurking cameras or Secret
Service questions. And I certainly didn’t want to be here today. But I will appear
if I need to – if there is some hesitation on your part.

“What we require is action on our goals via the State and
Defense departments, your influence in Congress, and your ability to persuade or
threaten countries around the world to do your bidding. And in the UN, of
course, where the US veto will be wielded if needed. To meet our objectives in
the Mideast, that is.”

“Israel!” gasped Conning.

Haskin smiled. “Not Israel. No matter how much my employers
would like to see the last of the Israelis and all their ways, any move to do
so would rain destruction on – my employers. And you couldn’t stop it.”

“So then…?”

“We are re-establishing the Islamic Caliphate, and you will
help us by working for our aims in the Middle East and North Africa.

“One: you will not assist Russia in maintaining control of
its majority-Muslim regions, as we increasingly support their national
rebellions and suicide bombings.

“Two: Before the end of your second term, there will be one
great Islamic nation reaching from Morocco to Pakistan, and you will not oppose
its formation and growth. In fact, you will welcome this sign of the kind of
long-overdue unity that has proved itself in Europe.

“Three: And speaking of Pakistan, we will of course
commandeer their nuclear weapons for Caliphate use against – others, and you
will raise no objection.

“America will use its influence throughout the world to
further the cause of the Caliphate. In none of this will Americans be harmed, unless
you foolishly choose to send troops, planes, drones, or missiles into Islamic
territory.”

Haskin smiled. Conning had a slight feeling of relief.
Perhaps he could actually pull this off without being discovered and impeached.
Fine.

“Fine,” he said.

“You need to get back to the Angolans now,” said Haskin. “We
may occasionally send you words of encouragement, but I hope that your actions
as President will accomplish our goals without my having to contact you further
and put you at risk of exposure.

“If you fail to follow our proposals, a few documents sent
to
The Washington Post
will end your career and ensure your place
– not a highly favorable one – in history. Especially seeing you attained the
Presidency by having Ezra Barnes killed.”

Conning turned pale and opened his mouth, but nothing came
out.

“Oh, come on, Mr. President. Didn’t you at least suspect
Barnes was killed so you could keep your Senate seat?”

“Well…,” he hesitated. “But it wasn’t on my orders.”

“Not even a wink and a nod?”

“No!”

“I have a very good collection of circumstantial evidence
that would take a long time to disprove, if ever.”

“No one will believe I had Barnes killed!”

“You might be believed, yes, by some people; perhaps even by
most people. But your presidency would be over, and you would be shamed or
worse.”

Conning’s face showed a mixture of hope and terror.

Sybille Haskin smiled, then turned and left.

Unknown to both Conning and Haskin, a junior aide of the
Senator’s had noticed the two going into the anteroom and closing the door.
“More of that hush-hush defense stuff,” she thought, appreciating the air of
mystery. An unusual honor to meet with the Pres without any staff present, not
even the photographer.

On her way back to her desk, she remarked to an intern “I’ll
bet Sally Netherton’s company is going to get a lot more defense contracts now,”
to which the intern nodded, as if sagely.

Marie Conning, waiting for her husband in an outer office
and hearing the aide’s remark, looked around just in time to catch a glimpse of
the departing Sybille Haskin, known to her as “Sally Netherton.” Jesus, she
thought, he’s still seeing her! Visions of Clinton and Kennedy and FDR and
several other Presidents and their sexual adventures in office slithered
through her mind.

Marie was a jealous woman, but she had grudgingly put up
with her Senator husband’s indiscretions. But President! He just couldn’t do
that anymore, or he’d be ruined. And not some flirty reporter or intern, but an
older woman. And he’s been seeing her for – what? – two years now, at least.

That could be serious. Marie felt a deep threat. Divorced or
shamed, laughed at. Marie didn’t immediately know what she was going to do, but
she was going to do something. A First Spouse had certain powers that a
Senator’s wife would never even know existed.

Sybille Haskin noticed Marie Conning while leaving the
suite. It was obvious to her what Marie had been thinking. What a laugh! Going
to bed with that overweight coward? Or any other man. Sybille was glad to know
that, if everything went well, she’d never have to see him again and once more
have a slight risk of exposure.

That evening, Marie had a long talk with herself about what
she should do about her unfaithful husband who was putting them both at risk of
shame, laughter. Would the Secret Service help out by warning that woman off?
Not likely. They were just as apt to be enablers.

Should she confront Sally Netherton herself? That might not
work. Might be dangerous. Just taking that kind of action would be a scandal if
it ever got out. What if she visited Netherton and then Netherton called the
Post
?
Very bad. Anyway, she had no idea where Netherton lived, or in which of the
many ConDyne facilities she worked. And making enquiries would itself be risky.

Perhaps she could hire a private detective. Yes, why not?
Not giving her name, of course, or her reasons, just say a Sally Netherton had
occasionally visited ex-Senator Thomas Conning’s office, and Marie wanted Netherton’
home and business addresses, telephone number, email address, police record if
any, and so on (she’d already tried Facebook – no listing). That sounded
innocent enough as a first step.

Marie looked online for local PI firms that seemed
reputable, and picked J.P. Portney almost at random. She bought a burn-phone
and called him. A brief conversation resulted in a deal, and Marie sent the
agency the agreed retainer of five thousand dollars by means of an anonymous
stored-value card.

She told Portney what she wanted to know about a woman named
Sally Netherton, a ConDyne employee, and provided a description of the woman in
question, and mentioned she’d been seen in five specific different places
(where she had probably never been), and also around the Russell SOB,
especially near the office of then-Senator Conning. Marie would try to get a
photo of Netherton if she could. Her requests were granted, because the card was
legit and Portney’s business was scarce these days, and the mystery client
hadn’t asked the firm to do anything illegal. That would have cost more.

There had been a number of photographers covering the
President when he was meeting with the Angolan leader. As herself, Marie
Conning called
The
Post
and asked if she could look
through the photos their own photogs had taken that day. Her husband, she said,
wanted to have a few printed for his future memoirs.

After one and a half minutes of serious consideration of her
request, Marie Conning was invited to the
The
Post
to
view the hundreds of digital images from that event, only five of which had
been used in the paper or its online edition.

After just short of two hours, Marie found three photos that
included Sally Netherton in the background, one of them more in-focus than the
other two. She asked for jpgs of both, and got them, along with thirty-five
others she had no interest in. Back home, she fumbled around on her computer
trying to crop out her husband and others, leaving only Netherton’s severe
face. Finally she succeeded, and phone-mailed them to J.P Portney.

Portney now had more leads than he needed. Why had his
mystery-client not done some of the legwork him/her/themselves? He located
Sally Netherton easily, by finding some of Conning’s former Senate staff and
then asking them outright about her. One aide had a contact number for
Netherton; Portney traced it down and camped outside a rather stately but
stodgy apartment building on Connecticut Avenue until a woman who seemed to fit
Netherton’s description was seen leaving and entering. He began following her,
but found out very little except her habits were very habitual, and boring.

Initiating a parallel inquiry, Portney sent images of the
woman to a dozen other PI firms he’d worked with in the past. Getting no
results, he solicited a few more, and then sent out a general emailing to the
database of PI firms registered with various local authorities. Gaining no
intelligence from tailing her, he thought she might have come to the attention
of other investigators, and he could discover what she might really be up to,
and then bill his unknown client more, perhaps a lot more.

Now Sybille Haskin was cautious by nature, and had spotted
Portney the second day he followed her. She placed Portney as a detective, not
a sexual predator on cruise control, by his demeanor and taste in apparel.

Haskin was greatly concerned about the detective, not
because he might discover her business (which she carefully disguised), but
because of who had been concerned enough to put a tail on her. Who could that
be? Some possibilities crossed her mind:

The President? But that would risk exposing his own
complicity, whether or not the surveillance was being done by the Secret
Service.

The FBI? They might suspect she was working for a foreign
power owing to various calls and shipments to and from Europe and Asia. No
matter how innocent and arguably legal, this would be of interest to the
government. So the FBI was a possibility.

Her employer, Al-Ma‘raka? The thought made Haskin catch her
breath and abruptly sit down. They didn’t trust her. They suspected she knew
more about them than was tolerable. They thought she might be double-dealing,
informing the U.S. government of every move. Any or all of those things. But
the fact she’d been followed and not yet killed reassured her somewhat.
Al-Ma‘raka was known for deleting any of their agents who’d completed their
missions and hence “knew too much for their own good”. A phrase the Arabs had
picked up from a Dashiell Hammett novel and liked to quote.