Slowly, the cattle prod made its way toward his mouth. When at last it was inside, the General activated it.
There was no way Loving could describe what he experienced. It was as if he had been turned inside out, electrocuted from within. He couldn’t even scream with the damn thing gagging him. And the General did not relent. He did not remove the prod, even as the cold electricity burned Loving’s tongue and loosened his teeth. When at last oblivion did come, he was glad. Even though he knew it was only a temporary respite, he was glad for this one small mercy.
46
D irector Lehman stared out the window of his limousine, his eyes hidden by dark black sunglasses.
“Zimmer’s talking to Kincaid,” he announced.
If he had expected this revelation to provoke a dramatic response, he was sorely disappointed. Silence prevailed in the backseat.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“I heard,” Nichole Muldoon said. “And as your deputy director let me say this: Who cares?”
“Kincaid’s the president’s point man on the amendment. The main man, now that DeMouy’s gone.”
“And again I say: Who cares?”
“Zimmer’s obviously trying to pollute the stream. Screw up the passage of the amendment.”
“You don’t know that,” she replied. She opened the side cabinet, checking to see if the brandy snifter was filled. It wasn’t. “They could be talking about anything. Zimmer could be expressing his regrets that Kincaid lost his close comrade.”
“No way. Zimmer’s against the amendment.”
“Is that a crime now?” Muldoon asked, arching a perfectly plucked eyebrow.
“No, but it should be.” Lehman continued staring as the limo pulled away from the gravesite. “Damn. I hate having this thing left in the hands of that cluck from Oklahoma. DeMouy, I trusted. I’ve worked with him for a long time. I knew him well.”
“I knew him pretty well myself,” Muldoon replied. “But that doesn’t mean Kincaid can’t get the job done. Look what he accomplished at the subcommittee hearing.”
“Yeah, but that sob sister stuff won’t work twice. The opposition will be ready for it. He’ll have to connect with their brains and their pollsters, not just their guilt.”
“Well, maybe DeMouy taught him a few tricks before he kicked off,” Muldoon said dryly. “He certainly had lots of them.”
Lehman slowly removed his shades. “You know, Nichole-I’m not entirely sure you’re taking this matter as seriously as you should.”
“You mean, as seriously as you want me to.”
“I mean, I’m your boss and I want this damn thing passed.”
“Really? At the press conference you said it was important that you remain out of the advocacy process.”
He gave her a withering look. “This isn’t some damn press conference trumped up to appease the president. This is me, the boss, talking to you, the underling. And me, the boss, is sick of feeling that you’re not pitching for the right team.”
“Carl, you know I’ve always done my job well. Better than anyone else you’ve ever worked with. But you can’t force me to support a law that I don’t, that I think is an extremely dangerous, bad idea.”
“How can you say that? Did you not see the expression on the face of DeMouy’s poor grieving widow? How long are you willing to let the terrorists walk all over us?”
Muldoon unbuttoned the top of her blouse and fanned herself. “Is the air conditioner on? Are you as hot as I am?”
“Don’t even think about trying that sexpot crap. That might work on some pansy-ass FBI guy like Joel Salter, but it will not work on me. Answer the question. How long are you willing to let the terrorists take potshots at our senators?”
“Actually,” she said, ignoring the suggestion regarding her sexuality, “I’m not convinced this had anything to do with terrorists. Or political advocacy of any sort.”
“What are you talking about? What else could it be?”
“There are a million things it could be. And I see no evidence that it’s terrorists. That’s just a conclusion everyone is jumping to. A conclusion that is very convenient for your cause, I might add.”
Lehman gave her a look that could chill Hades. “Muldoon-I am getting very concerned here.”
“Does that mean you want me to undo another button?”
“No. It means I can’t work with someone who opposes my directives.”
“I have never opposed your directives. I have always done everything you wanted done, with great efficiency and effectiveness. That’s why I’m the deputy director.”
“A fact that could change very quickly.”
Now Muldoon was the one conveying the harsh look. “You can’t fire me because I don’t share your political views.”
“No, I would have to come up with some other excuse. But I can fire you. And I will. If you don’t stay quiet and stay out of the way.” His voice dropped. “I don’t like obstacles.”
“I would never do anything that stupid. I’m a career girl, you know. Career comes before politics. Or anything else.”
Lehman gave her a long look, then sighed. “Yes, that part I believe. Just remember-I will not tolerate obstacles. I want no trouble-not from you or Special Agent Zimmer.” His eyes narrowed. “Or Senator Benjamin Kincaid. I want you to keep a very close watch on him and report anything that might indicate he’s not the staunchest advocate this amendment could have. Because if I get any sense he’s wavering-he will have to be dealt with. Immediately.”
“Dealt with?” Muldoon asked.
“You heard me. And you know what I mean.” He paused. “I can think of a lot of approaches more direct than incriminating photos or a poison envelope.”
At the opposite end of the cemetery, a newly minted Cadillac One was motoring the President of the United States back to the White House. But the president was not traveling alone.
Special Agent Gatwick had often ridden in Cadillac One, usually when it was transporting the late first lady. Sitting in the front passenger seat, riding shotgun-literally-watching in all directions for any possible threats. But today was different. This was the first time he had ever ridden in the back of the car with the president. At the president’s request.
“Thank you for joining me, Tom. Is it all right if I call you Tom?”
“Whatever you like, Mr. President.” Gatwick was nervous, and not just because he was riding in an unaccustomed seat.
“Something to drink?” The president opened a side cabinet and withdrew a brandy snifter. It was full. “I’m having one. Just a little one. It’s early yet.”
“Nothing for me, sir. Thank you,” Gatwick replied, although he would dearly love a drink right now. Anything to settle his nerves.
The president poured a drink, then downed it in a single gulp. “Excellent. Imported, you know. Perhaps I can manage one more. Sure you won’t have anything? You seem a little…on edge. Might help.”
“I’m sure.” Was it Gatwick’s fevered imagination, he wondered, or was Blake deliberately playing with him?
