“How is this homicide a matter of national security?” Saunderson looked put out.
“That’s a matter of national security,” Jack said.
“But the body—”
“I’ll take care of the body.”
The ME looked alarmed. “This is highly irregular.”
Ignoring him, Jack turned to Alli. “Uncuff her,” he said.
O’Banion took out the manacle key. “We won’t be forgetting this.”
Keeping his eyes on Alli, Jack beckoned to her the instant she was free. But before she could get to him, Jenkins intervened and, taking her by the elbow, steered her away from Jack, toward her uncle.
“What the hell are you doing?” Jack said.
“Taking my niece to a place of safety,” Carson said.
“You have no—”
“Leave it this way, Mr. McClure,” Jenkins said in a low voice. “If you take Ms. Carson into custody it will look bad for her when I go before a federal judge tomorrow.”
“But—”
“Henry is family. He’s got power and influence, which is what she needs right now.” Jenkins caught Jack’s eye. “You can see this is the best course for Ms. Carson.” He cast a glance at the departing cops and ME. “In any event, you’re needed here. If you’re taking over the case, you need to examine the crime scene as well as interview Detectives Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-Dee before they can get together and cook up a story.” Seeing Jack’s gaze wandering to Alli, he added, “Besides, you heard what O’Banion said: ‘We won’t be forgetting this.’ I need you to ride herd on him, make sure he doesn’t make good on that threat.” He smiled. “That’s what you folks do best, isn’t it, deflect threats. So do it.”
DENNIS PAULL passed through the six layers of security to reach the West Wing, then was vetted one more time, though in a totally different way, by Alix, the president’s press secretary. Paull liked her far more than he did the president. Arlen Crawford, a big, rangy, sun-scarred Texan, had been Edward’s vice president, a marriage of political convenience that had pleased neither man. Each was strong where the other was weak, but their political ideas, and, worse, ideals, had worked at cross-purposes.
“Morning, Dennis,” Alix said cheerfully, “I see we’re all up early today.”
“Duty calls.”
She nodded. “So I heard.”
They began to walk together toward the Oval Office.
“How are things with your daughter and grandson?”
“Claire and Aaron are settling down nicely, thanks.”
“It was fun meeting them.”
“Aaron hasn’t stopped talking about you.” He laughed. “I don’t know what you did to impress him—”
“I let him wear Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Rider hat.”
Paull nodded. “That would do it, all right.”
They were now nearing the door to the Oval Office and Alix stopped, her face suddenly grave. “Dennis, you know I’m a loyal person. I work for the Old Man, but…”
He paused, waiting and suddenly on edge.
“I just … well, I just wanted to say watch your back.”
Before he could formulate an answer, she had stepped forward, planted a kiss on his cheek, and was heading back down the red-carpeted hallway. He turned. It was deathly still. Even the faint whisper of air from the hidden vents seemed ominous.
Nestling Alix’s nugget of intel in the forefront of his mind, he rapped sharply on the thick double doors, turned the knob, and entered.
Dawn had come, seeping through the thick-curtained windows. The president was alone, which surprised Paull. He was sitting on one of the matching sofas that faced each other in the area in front of his desk. On the low glass-topped table was a chased silver tray and an antique silver service from which Crawford was pouring himself a cup of coffee. Significantly, beside the tray lay a black dossier with the yellow EYES ONLY stripe across its cover.
“Dennis, come on in.” He gestured. “Good of you to join me.”
In his soft, West Texas accent he made it seem as if Paull had had a choice.
“Help yourself,” the president said, stirring in a tablespoonful of sugar. “The tarts and hot cross buns are just out of the oven.”
Seating himself across from the president, Paull poured a cup of coffee and took a hot cross bun on a small china plate. Fully concentrated on Crawford, he neither drank nor ate. Crawford had proved himself the kind of man who takes to the presidency the way a chef takes to the cutting board. In the space of the ten months since he had ascended to the highest office, he had quietly but methodically dismantled all of his predecessor’s initiatives, replacing them with others that conformed to his conservative agenda.
“Sorry to get you out of bed at this hour.”
“I was already up,” Paull said. “Your call caught me at Walter Reed.”
“You’re not ill, are you, Dennis?”
“No, sir. Lyn Carson died.”
“Ah.” The president put down his cup and stared up at the ceiling, as if watching out for Lyn in heaven. “Sad business, Dennis. My condolences. I know how close you were with the family.”
Paull couldn’t help but ponder the question of a double meaning. When he was with Crawford he was always aware that he had been one of Edward Carson’s closest friends and advisors, even though in his first meeting with Crawford after he’d been sworn in as president, he said to Paull, “I just want you to know, Dennis, that I value loyalty above all other traits.”
Leaning forward, Crawford refilled his cup. As he sat back, he gestured at the dossier. “We have one helluva problem.”
Paull took the file onto his lap and opened it. On top of a significant pile of papers was a black-and-white photo, a head shot of a man who Paull judged to be somewhere between forty and forty-five. It was impossible to see the face clearly or even to make out particular features, other than a full beard. It could be anyone.
“Who the hell is this?” he said.
“It’s not so much who,” the president said, “as what.” He cleared his throat, watching as Paull began to leaf through the intel that lay below the image. “His name, as you can see, is Arian Xhafa.” He pronounced the last word “Shafa.”
“He’s Albanian,” Paull said. “Why should we care about him?”
“That’s what I thought,” Crawford said. “Read on.”
Paull did, rustling pages as he scanned them. Xhafa was the kingpin of the Albanian Mafia, of which there were at least twenty competing clans. That is, before Xhafa’s rise to power. Like Mao or Ieyasu Tokugawa, the first shogun of feudal Japan, Xhafa had vision—more than that he had the muscle to cajole, bully, extort, murder, and maim his way to the top of the heap by uniting all the clans.
“He calls his men freedom fighters,” the president said, “and I suppose in some respects they are—fighting for Albanian freedom in Macedonia. But their true business is smuggling, though by the evidence in your hands, they’re not averse to a bit of murder-for-hire. There.” He pointed. “Read the particulars on that page.”
Paull ran his finger down the sheet. Three hundred Macedonian soldiers slaughtered in Bitola, almost the same number in a pitched battle on the outskirts of Resen. The text was punctuated by highly graphic photos of mass graves, gaping pits filled with bodies, exposed to the photographer’s lens like raw wounds. Firefights in the mountain villages around Struga, resulting in ruins, cindered, smoking as if just leveled. Scattered around were charred bodies, warped and curled, barely recognizable as being human. The next page held more horrors, a series of photos showing the victims of assassinations, both inside Macedonia and in more far-flung places, such as Greece, southern Italy, even Turkey and Russia, that Xhafa or his people were suspected of carrying out. These areas were so remote, the countries involved of so little interest to Americans, that the atrocities barely made any of the papers and certainly were not rating fodder for CNN or FOX, let alone the three legacy networks.
“This fucker’s a real live monster,” the president said with obvious distaste. “No one’s going to give a crap
