“Maybe Pittsburgh is too close to Cleveland,” Gallo said.
“If he was going there, he could have driven. That would be harder to trace.”
“Ha!” said Johnny Bib.
“I give up,” said Gallo, completely baffled by his boss.
“He… knows… we… are… watching,” said Johnny Bib, pausing between each word.
“He never left LA!” said Gallo, finally getting it. “He just wants us to think he did.”
Rubens listened quietly as Gallo laid out what he had found and surmised from the FAA passenger lists. The security tapes at Los Angeles International Airport were being scruti-nized; Chief Ball had not been spotted yet.
“It’s possible that we’re overthinking this,” Telach said.
“One of the other candidates is in Florida this weekend. I think it’s Winkler.”
“No, it’s Dalton,” said Gallo. “And, like, there hasn’t been one attempt on another candidate, despite the threats.”
“Maybe Ball made the threats to throw us off the trail,” said Jackson over the phone speaker. He was with the FBI liaison in Washington.
“I very much doubt that it was Ball who made the threats,” said Rubens. “I don’t believe Ball had anything to do with the assassination attempt, either.”
“It doesn’t fit the pattern,” explained Gallo. “It’s an anomaly.”
“You mean there’s another killer?” said Jackson.
“A would-be killer, Mr. Ambassador,” said Rubens. “The question is whether he will attempt to improve on that status.”
“Ball may know who it is,” said Gallo.
“Yes,” said Rubens. “Unfortunately, we’re going to have to find Chief Ball before we can find out.” 1 4 1
“what do you think, Jimmy Fingers? Can we blow off Paley?”
“Sure, if you’d like to kiss off about $350,000 worth of donations. That’s what he’ll be worth in general.”
“All right,” said McSweeney wearily. “All right. And who’s after the Paleys?”
“That would be Mr. and Mrs. Davis. They gave a lot of money to the last campaign. They’re going to try talking you out of going to the Getty tomorrow.”
“Why would they care? No, wait, that’s fine. I don’t really need to know. Tell me again what movies Paley has produced.”
142
Lia had just turned into the parking lot at LaGuardia Airport in New York City when her sat phone rang. It was Sandy Chafetz, confirming that they had reserved her flight to Baltimore Washington International Airport. A car would meet her there and take her back to Crypto City to be debriefed. Rubens hadn’t decided whether she should join the search for Ball — or, if she did, what she would do.
“Great,” said Lia. “I’ll talk to you after I clear security.”
“There’s one other thing I think you’d like to know,” said Chafetz. “Gerald Forester’s divorce attorney got a letter from him a few days after he died. The attorney had it authenticated before contacting the Ser vice and sending a copy to his ex-wife. It’s an apology — a suicide note. He explained that he just couldn’t go on.”
Lia fought back an urge to argue. Instead, she pushed the button on her phone to kill the transmission, and felt a tear run down the side of her cheek. Wondering why she felt so bad about Forester’s death, she locked the rental car and walked into the terminal to find her flight.
143
Shadowing the president was a revelation for Dean. He’d never imagined that so many people would want—
Briefing papers piled up; summaries and reports were passed from assistant to assistant. Ted Cohen, the chief of staff, had two telephones constantly pressed to his ear, and more often than not was speaking to someone nearby as well.
Marcke seemed unfazed by it all. He seemed to give whomever he was speaking to at the moment his undivided attention, and it was only after they had moved on that Dean realized the President must have been thinking about a dozen other things. If anything, Marcke seemed to want
Every so often, President Marcke glanced over and found Dean. Marcke smirked at him, as if they were co- conspirators on a private joke.
“So, Mr. Dean, enjoying yourself?” asked the President as they rode to his next stop, a new biology lab four miles south of the city.
“It’s interesting.”
“Boring as hell, huh?” Marcke smiled at him. “George Hadash used to call these sorts of swings ‘orchestrated time chewers.’ He hated traveling with me, but he did have a way with words.”
“Yup.”
“You never took one of his classes, did you?”
“No, sir.” Dean had met Hadash in Vietnam when he’d been detailed to give the then-congressional aide a “ground— level” view of Vietnam. Hadash had impressed him not so much because he insisted on going into the field — plenty of civilian suits from the States did that — but because he actually listened to what Dean said.
“He was a good teacher. And a friend. I miss him.” The President paused. “He was working on a new theory of the Vietnam War when he died, you know. He was writing a book. He thought the war was due a reevaluation. He was going to call the book
“Really?” Dean had never heard anyone say that Vietnam was anything but a waste.
“He thought if it hadn’t been for Vietnam, the rapproche-ment with China would have been delayed at least ten years.
And he believed there would have been another armed clash between the Soviets and ourselves, perhaps in the Middle East. We might never have become involved in helping the Afghan rebels, which at least indirectly led to the end of the Soviet Union. I doubt I’m doing his ideas justice,” added the President. “They were quite extensive.” Dean nodded.
“What do you think, Mr. Dean?”
“A lot of good people died,” said Dean.
“True. It’s a difficult thing, sending people to die. But that’s not really the question.”
“Vietnam shaped my life,” said Dean. It was a statement he wouldn’t have made before going back, as true as it was, because he hadn’t realized it.
“It shaped mine as well,” said Marcke. “But again, that wasn’t the question.”
The car stopped. The Secret Service agents began to swarm outside.
“I think it was an important event,” said Dean. “But I don’t know if it was necessary. Most things that happen, we don’t have the luxury of knowing if they’re necessary or not.
Even for ourselves.”
“Well put, Mr. Dean,” said the President, pulling himself out of the car.
