'We can accept that for now,' the president interjected. 'When do you expect to hear from him?'
'I'll call him on the drive back. If he is finished with the interview, I will call the senator immediately.'
'Sounds good,' the president said. He offered his hand to Hood. 'Paul, I know this is not easy. But I believe we all want the same thing. A prosperous and secure United States of America.'
'We do,' Hood agreed. He wanted to add, With the Bill of Rights intact. But he did not. And he knew, then, that he had agreed to help them.
Hood left the Oval Office in something of a daze. Debenport was right.
The men did have an understanding. Not that this plan was perfect or legal, only that it would go forward. Maybe it would move by inches at first, but it would proceed because there was no clearly defined ethic.
In an ideal world, men would fight ideas with other ideas, Hood told himself. But this was far from a perfect world. Every weapon in the sociopolitical arsenal had to be used.
Including rationalization? Hood asked himself.
Is that what this was?
On one level, what the senator and the president had asked him to do was wrong. They wanted him to broaden a legitimate but still very young investigation. They wanted him to pepper it with innuendo, to create gossip and not justice. Yet on another level, while their reasons were political, their argument was not wrong. It did not matter whether Donald Orr's vision was heartfelt or manipulative. It was impractical at best, dangerous at worst.
Hood reached his car. It was hot from sitting in the sun. In a way that was fitting. He had just made a pact with the devil.
Hood had been seduced intellectually and professionally. Though he hated himself for succumbing, he had to be honest: he was not surprised. Hood had felt distant from Op-Center, from friends, from his family for so long that it was nice to be plugged into something.
And there was something else, something the one-time golden boy mayor of Los Angeles did not like to admit. Idealism was great in theory but unwieldy in practice. In the end, Hood was like the world itself: a compromise; a surface of attractive, sun-hungry green and inviting blue concealing a hot, muddy interior; an imperfect paradox.
Hood turned on the car, cranked up the air-conditioning, and set the secure cell phone in its dashboard holder. He slipped on the headset and auto dialed Darrell McCaskey's number. As he pulled from the parking area, Hood did one thing more.
He prayed that McCaskey found just one reason to continue the investigation.
TWENTY-FIVE
Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 10:44 a.m.
'How did it go, Darrell?'
After punching in the number, Hood grabbed a can of Coke from a cooler under the glove compartment. He always kept one there for emergencies, beside an ice pack he replaced each morning. The caffeine helped him focus. Once in a while he also reached for the ice pack. That was for meetings that ran too long, got too loud, and went nowhere.
Presidential meetings were invariably very direct.
'The interview went all right,' McCaskey said. 'Mike was there, which was rough. He is not happy.'
'No one is,' Hood said. He could not concern himself with Mike Rodgers right now. 'What about Link?'
'I have to say, Paul, the admiral was pretty forthcoming. The nutshell: Link did not like William Wilson and does not care that he's gone.'
'Not a surprise but also not damning,' Hood said. He took a long swallow of Coke. Motives could be elusive and misleading. He wanted to stick to the mechanics of the assassination itself. 'Is there any evidence that Link has the assets to carry off these kinds of missions?'
'Evidence? No. Potential? Yes. Link has two former Company people on staff. One is a guy named Eric Stone,
