With so many lying around, why would the Iranians buy an old one?Yes, it's safe to assume it's fully operational.'
'Is it the first?'
'There've been some spare parts and plutonium, to Iran and Iraq and India and others, but I think this is the first fully assembled, ready-to-shoot missile.'
'Are they anxious to use it?'
'We don't think so. It appears as if the transaction was instigated by Chenkov. He needs the money to buy other kinds of weapons. He's shopping his wares, things he doesn't need.'
'Do the Israelis know it?'
'No. Not yet. You have to be careful with them. Everything is give and take. Someday, if we need something from them, then we might tell them about this transaction.'
For a moment, Lake longed to be President, and immediately. He wanted to know everything Teddy knew, then he realized he probably never would. There was, after all, a sitting President right then, at that moment, albeit a lame duck, and Teddy wasn't chatting with him about Chenkov and his missiles.
'What do the Russians think about my campaign?' he asked.
'At first, they weren't concerned. Now they're watching closely. But you have to remember, there is no such thing as a Russian voice anymore. The free marketers speak favorably of you because they fear the Communists. The hard-liners are scared of you. It's very complex.'
'And Chenkov?'
'I'm ashamed to say we're not that close to him, yet. But we're working on it. We should have some ears in the vicinity soon.'
Teddy tossed his papers onto his desk, and rolled himself closer to Lake. The many wrinkles in his forehead pinched closer together, downward. His bushy eyebrows fell hard on his sad eyes. 'Listen to me, Mr. Lake.' he said, his voice much more somber. 'You have this thing won. There will be a bump or two in the road, things we cannot foresee, and even if we could we'd be powerless to prevent them. We'll ride them out together. The damage will be slight. You're something brand new and the people like you.You're doing a marvelous job and communicating. Keep the message simple-our security is at risk, the world is not as safe as it looks. I'll take care of the money, and I'll certainly keep the country firightened.That missile in the Khyber Pass, we could've detonated it. Five thousand people would've been killed, five thousand Pakistanis. Nuclear bombs exploding in the mountains.You think we'd wake up and worry about the stock market? Not a chance. I'll take care of the fear, Mr. Lake.You keep your nose dean and run hard.'
'I'm running as hard as I can.'
'Run harder, and no surprises, okay?'
'Certainly not.'
Lake wasn't sure what he meant by surprises, but he let it pass. Just a bit of grandfatherly wisdom, perhaps.
Teddy lolled away again. He found his buttons and a screen dropped from the ceiling. They spent twenty minutes viewing rough cuts of the next series of Lake ads, then said their good-byes.
Lake sped away from Langley, two vans in front and one behind, all racing to Reagan National Airport, where the jet was waiting. He wanted a quiet night in Georgetown, at home where the world was held at bay, where he could read a book in solitude, with no one watching or listening. He longed for the anonymity of the streets, the nameless faces, the Arab baker on M Street who made a perfect bagel, the used-book dealer on Wisconsin, the coffeehouse where they roasted beans from Africa. Would he ever be able to walk the streets again, like a normal person, doing whatever he pleased? Something told him no, that those days were gone, probably forever.
When Lake was airborne, Deville entered the bunker and announced to Teddy that Lake had come and gone without trying to check the mailbox. It was time for the daily briefing on the Lake mess. Teddy was spending more time than he'd planned worrying about what his candidate might do next.
The five letters Klockner and his group intercepted from Trevor had been thoroughly researched. Two had been written by Yarber as Percy; the other three by Beech as Ricky. The five pen pals were in different states. Four were using fictitious names; one was bold enough not to hide behind an alias. The letters were basically the same: Percy and Ricky were troubled young men in rehab, trying desperately to pull their lives together, both talented and still able to dream big dreams, but in need of moral and physical support from new friends because the old ones were dangerous. They freely divulged their sins and foibles, their weaknesses and heartaches. They rambled about their lives after rehab, their hopes and dreams of all the things they wanted to do. They were proud of their tans and their muscles, and seemed anxious to show their new hardened bodies to their pen pals.
Only one letter asked for money Ricky wanted a loan of $1,000 from a correspondent named Peter in Spokane, Washington. He said the money was needed to cover some expenses his uncle was refusing to pay.
Teddy had read the letters more than once. The request for money was important because it began to shed light on the Brethren's little game. Perhaps it was just a two-bit enterprise someone taught them, some other con who'd finished his time at Trumble and was now roaming at large stealing anew.
But the size of the stakes was not the issue. It was a flesh game--thinner waists and bronze skin and firm biceps-and their candidate was in the middle of it.
There were still questions, but Teddy was patient. They would watch the mail. The pieces would fall into place.
With Spicer guarding the door to the conference room, and daring anyone to use the law library, Beech and Yarber labored away with their mail. To Al Konyers, Beech wrote:
Dear Al,
Thanks for your last letter. It means so much to me to hear from you. I feel like I've been living in a cage for months, and I'm slowly seeing daylight. Your letters help to open the door. Please don't stop writing. I'm sorry if I've bored you with too much personal stuff: I respect your privacy and hope I haven't asked too many questions.You seem like a very sensitive man who enjoys solitude and the finer things of life. I thought about you last night when I watched Key Largo, the old Bogart and Bacall film. I could almost taste the Chinese carryout. The food here is pretty good, I guess, but they simply can't do Chinese.
I have a great idea. In two months when I get out of here, let's rent Casablanca and African Queen, get the carry-out, get a bottle of nonalcoholic wine, and spend a quiet evening on the sofa. God, I get excited just thinking about life on the outside and doing real things again.
Forgive me if I'm going too fast, Al. It's just that I've done without a lot of things here, and not just booze and good food. Know what I mean?
The halfway house in Baltimore is willing to take me if I can find a part-time job of some type. You said you had some interests there. I know I'm asking a lot because you don't know me, but can you arrange this? I will be forever grateful.
Please write me soon, Al. Your letters, and the hopes and dreams of leaving here in two months with a job on the outside, sustain me in my darkest hours.
Thanks, friend.
Love,
Ricky
The one to Quince Garbe had a very different tone. Beech and Yarber had kicked it around for several days. The final draft read:
Dear Quince,
Your father owns a bank, yet you say you can only raise another $10,000. I think you're lying, Quince, and it really ticks me off. I'm tempted to send the file to your father and wife anyway.
I'll settle for $25,000, immediately, same wiring instructions.And don't threaten suicide. I really don't care what you do. We'll never meet, and I think you're a sicko anyway.
