Frey called his own driver, then joined Rubens in the backseat of Admiral Brown’s Lincoln.
Rubens liked Frey; he was consistently honest and unpretentious. He also tended toward the laconic, a quality Rubens shared. In nearly every other way, however, the men were exact opposites. Frey’s father had been a policeman in Detroit, and Jed had grown up in one of the city’s tougher neighborhoods. The street still clung to him; though he was short and relatively thin, Frey had a way of dominating a space and did so now, shoulders squared and head pushed forward.
His biceps bulged in his shirtsleeves as he folded his arms in front of his chest. The light gray hair on his forearms matched the color on his head.
“This involves one of my agents, a man named Gerald Forester. You know about him?”
Rubens shook his head.
Frey’s entire body rose and fell as he took a deep breath.
“Supposedly it’s suicide. But I don’t buy it.”
7
Senator McSweeney ducked out of the committee room and began looking for his aide and driver.
“Jimmy Fingers, where the hell are you?” McSweeney’s voice boomed in the hallway.
“Behind you, Senator. Watching your back. As always.”
“We’re late.”
“Yes, sir.”
James Fahey — alias Jimmy Fingers — caught up to his boss and began walking beside him. Fahey had earned his nickname as a young political aide in the state capital; a rival had claimed he had his fingers in everything. The nickname hinted of connections to the old-line Irish political machine as well as the Mob; it was meant as a slur, but Fahey took it as a compliment and somehow it stuck.
“Quick stop at the Swedish embassy, fund-raiser at Brown’s Hotel, meeting at the Savoy, followed by dinner with Dr. and Mrs. Fox. Heavy rollers.”
“You don’t have to tell me who Dr. Fox is, Jimmy. I’ve been at this almost as long as you have now.” political columnists liked to style Jimmy Fingers and his boss as the “Original Odd Couple of Politics.” Born to a family of what the commentators politely termed “in de pen dent means,” McSweeney had rugged good looks augmented by impeccable tailoring and lightly moussed hair. Jimmy Fingers, about the same height but far more slender, looked frumpy and wrinkled no matter how fresh or expensive his suit. His hair, thinning rapidly, made a haystack look neatly ordered. And those who said he had a face only a mother could love were being far too kind.
But the men were a matched set where it mattered — politics. Jimmy Fingers was often called the senator’s hatchet man, and one writer had even declared Fingers was the “dark genius behind the throne.” It was true that in local races Jimmy Fingers had generally favored tactics suited to X-Treme Box-ing. But he could be subtle as well, just as McSweeney could use the knife when necessary.
Both men were equally committed to one goal: furthering McSweeney’s political career. And they had shared that goal for more than twenty years, since Jimmy Fingers had taught McSweeney how to use direct mail to attack his opponent in an assembly race.
McSweeney’s Secret Service bodyguard edged a little closer as they walked outside. The protection was optional, but since the campaign had received an e-mail death threat, McSweeney had opted for it.
“When’s Wilson meeting me?” said McSweeney as they walked toward his car.
“He’ll be upstairs at Brown’s Hotel.”
“Let’s blow off the Swedish embassy reception,” said McSweeney. “I’d like more time to talk to Wilson.”
“Svorn Jenson is going to be at the embassy. He and his pals will be good for a hundred thousand in the campaign. All you have to do is smile at him and leave. He’ll be thrilled.”
“Oh, all right. What’s Wilson going to tell me, anyway?”
“What he always does. The numbers are bad, but they’re improving. He needs to justify the money you’re spending on him.”
“The numbers better start moving soon,” said the senator.
“Or he’s going to have to find a real job.”
“Worry about the primaries, not the polls,” said Jimmy Fingers. He opened the door but didn’t get in.
“Aren’t you coming?” asked McSweeney.
“I have to pick up some dry cleaning before we head back to the district. I figured this would be a good time — the Swedes didn’t invite me to the reception.”
“You could go in my place,” said McSweeney.
“Maybe next time, Senator,” said Jimmy Fingers, pushing the door closed.
One thing Gideon McSweeney had to give Jimmy Fingers — the guy was never wrong when it came to potential donors.
Svorn Jenson’s face lit up the second he saw McSweeney enter the reception; McSweeney pumped his hand, then went off to pump a few more before ducking out the side door. Even though he was in the embassy for no more than five minutes, he had made a friend — and campaign donor — for life.
Brown’s Hotel, his next stop, was located in suburban Virginia, a few miles from the Beltway. McSweeney spent the ride there calling potential campaign donors. Running for President took an incredible amount of money, and raising it took an incredible amount of time, especially when you were the second or third favorite candidate in the upcoming Super Tuesday primary. Despite his upset victory in New Hampshire and his efforts since, McSweeney’s campaign was faltering, and privately he felt he’d need a miracle to make it through the next month.
He was about a quarter of the way through his list of calls when they reached the hotel. McSweeney took his time getting out of the car. A knot of people gathered on the opposite sidewalk. They were gawkers rather than well-wishers; McSweeney could tell from their expressions that they didn’t recognize him. That was a disappointment — his television spots had been in heavy rotation in the state for a week — but he didn’t let on, waving enthusiastically and urging them to remember him in the upcoming primary.
Turning back toward the building, he began striding toward the lobby door. Each step stoked his confidence, and by the time he reached the edge of the red carpet in front of the glass, he felt invincible.
Number three? Two? No way. He was going to surprise everyone. It was New Hampshire all over again.
Something caught his attention and McSweeney turned his head to the right. He saw a figure in black clothes standing beyond a knot of tourists.
The man had a gun.
“Get down!” yelled someone. In the next moment, McSweeney felt himself falling to the ground.
8
There was nothing in Frey’s description of the agent’s death that convinced Rubens it was anything but a suicide. The man was going through a painful divorce that promised to separate him from his children. Even Frey admitted that Forester could occasionally be moody and was most likely disappointed that he hadn’t advanced rapidly up the Secret Service hierarchy, despite early promise. And while Forester had handled literally hundreds of investigations during his career, he didn’t seem to have generated any enemies from them. The cases he had been working on before his death were typical ones as far as the Secret Service was concerned. The most serious involved an e-mailed death threat against a candidate for President — ironically, the candidate was Senator McSweeney, who had just finished grilling Rubens. Forester hadn’t closed out the inquiry, but Frey’s cursory review of the case made it appear there wasn’t much there.
The state police and the local prosecuting attorney had made it clear that, as far as they were concerned, the agent had killed himself. But Frey had ordered the Ser vice to conduct its own investigation.
