and they had to run, this is what they’d do. They’d developed endless checklists of ifs, each of which carried its own solution. By careful planning, they’d taken some of the edge off their fear.
Now, he realized, by obliterating that edge, they’d inadvertently opened the door to complacency. It had been months since he’d serviced the escape van; nearly a year since he’d been to the safe house. For all he knew, both had burned up or been stolen. In the context of a plan governed by ifs, he’d been able to justify these lapses, rationalizing that he could always catch up.
Now, though, the ifs had blossomed into whens, and the weaknesses of their plan were startlingly clear. By rights, the feds should have nailed him already. But for a random act of inattention by some midlevel clerk on the other end of a modem, they’d have identified Jake for who he was an hour ago. How pitifully ironic. All the planning, all the contingencies, all the clandestine trips and purchases, came down to stupid luck, in a game where the odds were hopelessly stacked against him.
And here he was joyriding in a damn cop car!
Think, Jake. Think.
As Jason navigated the traffic circle at Maple Avenue and Tobacco Trail, Jake saw the five-story hospital in the distance, and a plan materialized out of nowhere.
CHAPTER FOUR
For roughly ten months out of the year, from noon till two, Monday through Friday, the center of power in Washington, D.C., shifted from the halls of the Capitol and the Executive Office Building to a handful of elite dining establishments. When meeting with charity organizers, industry leaders, or sports heroes, the natural choices for lunch were the Washington landmarks: The Palm, Old Ebbitt Grill, and the Hay-Adams Hotel. In these places, where the press mingled freely with their prey, the rules of engagement were clear. Anything said to anyone-from one’s entree to a request for directions to the men’s room-was always on the record.
Those public watering holes provided extended research opportunities for gossip columnists-a place to be seen-but matters of substance were rarely discussed there. The real business of politics required privacy: a place where security was more important than the quality of the food, and the maitre d’ knew who could be allowed to sit in sight of whom. Eddie Bartholomew ran such a place, the Smithville Restaurant, on Connecticut Avenue near Woodley Park. Everyone who was anyone had passed through Eddie’s place over the years, on their way toward greatness or obscurity. Yet, when pressed for a name, Eddie could never remember a single one. Maple paneling covered the walls of the Smithville, with gorgeous Constable landscapes occupying the spaces reserved in the high-profile restaurants for autographed glossies of the owner shaking hands with his celebrity guests.
In the whole world, only 278 people could make a reservation at the Smithville, each of whom ponied up $15,000 a year for the right, with the understanding that even they might occasionally be denied. It wouldn’t do, for example, for the Democratic White House chief of staff to be seen dining with his mistress at the same time the Republican Speaker of the House was entertaining his special male friends.
Eddie paid big bucks to have his place swept daily for listening devices, and everyone- everyone — submitted to screening by a metal detector. Guests with bodyguards had to make a choice at the front door: either their security detail checked their weapons at the desk, or their master would dine alone. Eddie had learned long ago that firearms brought trouble.
Reporters and cops were persona non grata; they simply never got reservations. A couple of years ago, in fact, a reporter from the Post had tried to force his way past the desk to get a glimpse of the diners. The maitre d’ stopped him, of course, but the reporter somehow broke both ankles and his wrist on his way down the front stairs.
Currently, Eddie found himself in a tough spot. Clayton Albricht, chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee, had been a very good customer for a very long time, and he knew the rules. In spite of this, the senator had invited Peter Frankel, deputy director of the FBI, to be his guest. When the news reached the kitchen that one of the top cops in the country was planning to dine in, several of Eddie’s staff took the day off. The owner tried to explain to the paranoid cooks and dishwashers what Albricht had explained on the telephone-that Frankel’s business was unofficial-but they refused to listen. Worse, following his own protocol when dealing with controversial guests of members, Eddie had informed everyone else who’d made a reservation that the heat would be there, and nearly a dozen had either canceled or postponed till after two.
Left with little choice, Eddie rationalized that Albricht’s years of faithful patronage probably earned him a break, just this once. Whatever the senator’s business was, though, Eddie hoped that it warranted all the inconvenience. Certainly, it would be the last time he’d permit such an intrusion.
If Clayton Albricht ever got around to dying-instead of just looking perpetually like he was on the brink-the parade of mourners would doubtless be led by a squadron of political cartoonists. The senator was a living caricature. With his drawn, pallid skin, his prominent hooked nose, and a widow’s peak that rivaled Dracula’s, he’d been depicted as every kind of bird imaginable, from eagle to vulture to canary. He was a staunch proponent of individual rights and responsibilities, and his five terms had been defined by his consistent and reliable vote against every handout program ever devised.
Painted by his opposition and the press as an anti-Semitic, gay-bashing misogynist, intent on watching children starve in the arms of their homeless grandparents, Albricht had long ago developed skin made of Kevlar and asbestos. He ignored the taunts of his enemies and focused on the needs of the only people who counted-the residents of Illinois. To them, he stood for the basic midwestern values of Christianity, patriotism, and fairness. That he could transfer billions of federal dollars into the pockets of his constituents was merely icing on the cake.
All politicians had enemies, but Albricht’s conservative leanings had earned him more than most. Having watched the senator consistently confound their plans, the special interests he opposed had tried every trick imaginable to knock him from his perch. All part of the game, he supposed.
Of all the persecutions he’d endured, none were more bothersome or disruptive than the three special prosecutor investigations. Like farmyard dogs pursuing a wounded kitten, those bastards had torn his life apart, looking for any petty crime or indiscretion which the gentlemen on the other side of the aisle could leverage to eject him from power. In the end, they were oh-for-three.
Never especially vindictive, Senator Albricht had never mustered the depth of character required to forgive those sons of bitches. Bending the Constitution to their own needs, his opposition had tried to hurt him and his family, for no better reason than to punish him for his beliefs. Of all the investigators, however, one stood out as the most aggressive, vitriolic, and unfair. On loan to the special prosecutor’s office from the FBI, this investigator had an agenda of his own and was every bit as committed to his own career as any of the spineless bastards he worked for.
His name was Peter Frankel, and he’d pounced on his assignment like a hungry wolf on raw meat. When the contents of the Albrichts’ house, their cars, and their underwear drawers proved benign, he’d changed tack and started leaking stories to the press: that Albricht’s daughter had been arrested for drugs; that his son was gay and HIV-positive. The tactic was as clear as it was cruel: to flush out the strong by hurting the weak.
Survivors by nature, the Albrichts got through it all with nary a punch thrown; but in the end, Frankel emerged as the big winner. He’d proved himself to be a committed team player and was ultimately rewarded with the title of deputy director-the highest nonpolitical job on the pyramid.
And now the president-himself a know-nothing poll-watcher from the Deep South-had seen fit to nominate Frankel for the director’s job effective January 1, when the incumbent would retire to breed horses somewhere. At last, Frankel was close enough to touch the brass ring.
And only one man stood in his way.
As chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee, Clayton Albricht intended to kill Frankel’s nomination in as public and as humiliating a way as he could. With the hearings still five weeks away, it was too early to know specifically how his vendetta would be played out, but men like Frankel collected enemies like a boy collects baseball cards. By the time Albricht was done, every single one of them would get an opportunity to testify in open session. Revenge was a dish to be savored. And what better place to begin the smorgasbord than at the Smithville?
