Praise for The Washington Lawyer
“The Washington Lawyer is a thrilling tale of intrigue and revenge at the highest levels in the American government—told from an insider’s point of view. The action is nonstop, from the gripping prologue to the satisfying end. Not to be missed!”
—Joan Johnston
New York Times best-selling author of Sinful
“Archeologist professor Allison Boyd doesn’t believe her beautiful twin sister, congressional aid Vanessa Boyd, drowned in the Caribbean while away for the weekend alone. Vanessa was many things but ‘alone’ was never one of them. Convinced Vanessa was murdered, Allison heads to Washington to uncover the truth. As she finds herself caught up in a tangled web of power players, she begins to realize how far some people will go to keep a secret. No matter the cost.
Fast paced and action-packed, Topol expertly weaves together power, murder, and intrigue to paint a chilling picture of the sinister underbelly of Washington politics. A thrill ride that doesn’t let up.”
—Beth McMullen
Author of Original Sin and Spy Mom
“Rich with international intrigue, The Washington Lawyer bristles with insider details, heart-stopping action, and memorable characters. This is Washington politics at its most revealing, told by a top attorney who knows where the truth—and the bodies—are buried.”
—Gayle Lynds
New York Times best-selling author of The Assassins
“Morals, ethics, values, and integrity often go out the window when temptations come your way. What happens when two men let their greed and desire for wealth and power overtake their moral compasses, and find that one simple indiscretion leading to one wrong choice can bring down your entire world? …
Once again author Allan Topol delivers a plot and storyline that will keep readers in suspense from start to finish … When the truth is revealed whose damage control wins out? Find out when you read this five-star novel.”
—Fran Lewis
Author, creator and editor of MJ magazine, and host on Red River Radio Show and World of Ink Network
Also by Allan Topol
FICTION
The Fourth of July War
A Woman of Valor
Spy Dance
Dark Ambition
Conspiracy
Enemy of My Enemy
The China Gambit
The Spanish Revenge
The Russian Endgame
The Argentine Triangle
NON-FICTION
Superfund Law and Procedure (coauthor)
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations within cities, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events and locales or persons described, either living or deceased, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Allan Topol
All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.
This edition is published by SelectBooks, Inc.
For information address SelectBooks, Inc., New York, New York.
First Edition
ISBN 978-1-59079-266-7
ISBN: 9781590792964
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Topol, Allan.
The Washington lawyer / Allan Topol. – First Edition.
p. cm.
Summary: “In the high-stakes world of Washington politics, hotshot lawyer Andrew Martin is put to the test. When longtime friend Senator Wesley Jasper calls, with explosive news–a sex tryst at Martin’s beach house in Anguilla has gone horribly awry–Martin must decide how far he’ll go to secure his nomination for chief justice”– Provided by publisher.
ISBN 978-1-59079-266-7 (pbk. : alk. paper)
1. Adultery–Fiction. 2. Scandals–Fiction.
3. Washington (D.C.)–Fiction. 4. Political fiction.
I. Title.
PS3570.O64W37 2015
813’.54–dc23
2014030930
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Dedicated to my wife, Barbara, my partner in this literary venture
Acknowledgments
I have enormous gratitude for my publisher, Kenzi Sugihara, who founded SelectBooks. Kenzi read The Washington Lawyer in a weekend, and his enthusiasm for the novel gave me a huge boost. This is our third novel together and it has been a pleasure working with Kenzi.
All of the people at SelectBooks have been wonderful: Nancy Sugihara and Molly Stern in the editing of my manuscript, and Kenichi Sugihara as the Marketing Director.
My agent, Pam Ahearn, added critical advice on key story elements as well as editorial insights. Again, it has been terrific working with Pam.
A special thanks to my wife Barbara, who added valuable insights and suggestions on draft after draft. She particularly helped me shape the characters as what was known in our house as “the sisters book” gradually became The Washington Lawyer.
Anguilla
Sunday, November 10
Life could never be better than this, Senator Wesley Jasper thought. He closed his eyes and leaned back in the chaise on the sand at Shoal’s Bay. It was eleven in the evening, and above the deserted Caribbean beach a full moon, in a cloudless star-laden sky, peered down on the island of Anguilla. What a way to spend the long Veteran’s Day weekend. He was sated from the food, wine, and most of all the mind-blowing sex with Vanessa Boyd. But then tomorrow … Oh well, all good things have to end.
“Hey, I’m not losing you, am I?” Vanessa said.
“Just relaxing,” he replied, opening his eyes, “after that wonderful dinner.”
“Don’t forget what happened before dinner.”
“Are you kidding. I could never forget that. I still have the taste of you in my mouth.”
“Wes, you’re an amazing lover.”
“You mean for a guy my age?”
“Nonsense. You’ve ruined all of the thirty-something-year-olds for me. After this weekend, why would I want one of them? They don’t know what it takes to satisfy a woman the way you do.”
Jasper wanted to believe that the gorgeous blonde—definitely natural—former runway model meant it, but deep down he knew she was flattering him. Still, he enjoyed hearing her say it. He felt younger with her. Maybe next week he’d color the gray starting to form at the temples of his coal-black hair.
He watched her reach into her purse on the small table that held a bottle of red wine and two glasses.
She pulled out a half full pack of cigarettes and fished around inside, cursing, “Dammit. I brought four for the weekend. There’s got to be one more joint in here somewhere. I did such a good job concealing them to avoid a customs search that I can’t find the sucker.”
He cringed at her words. In his position, the last thing he needed was to be busted for drugs; and Anguilla had a zero tolerance policy.
“Aha, success,” she said pulling out the joint carefully.
She crossed over to his chair. He moved his bare feet to give her room to sit between his legs, facing him. The only sound came from the gently lapping Caribbean against the beach. As she leaned over to light the joint and her long hair cascaded over her face, he saw the tops of her breasts and the protruding nipples beneath the thin yellow sundress with spaghetti straps. He felt himself becoming aroused again. God, he hadn’t been like this in twenty years.
She took a deep drag on the joint, closed her eyes, and blew out the smoke. Then she held it out to him.
“Sorry, I don’t do that.”
“Creep.”
With one hand she held the joint. With the other, she stroked the white cotton slacks covering his crotch. When she finally finished the cigarette, she lifted a wine glass and took a long sip.
“Great wine,” she said. “I intend to learn something about wine. That’s one of my projects for this fall. That and making a decision about graduate school or law school for next year.”
“Your hand feels so good. You’ve got a fabulous touch. To think you used that same hand to blast tennis balls at me this afternoon.”
“Very funny. Most of the time I was trying to get my racket on the ball and hang in there. You were doing all the blasting.”
“Well, I’ve been playing longer. A lot longer, I’m afraid.” He recalled being on the Yale tennis team. Despite their twenty-year age difference, he was in better physical shape from regular exercise. Unlike most men in their mid-fifties, Jasper didn’t have a protruding gut.
She moved her hand up to his face and caressed his cheek, then down to his left arm and to his hand. She fiddled with the gold band on his third finger. “Where does your wife think you are this weekend?”
He pulled back and sat up. For three days he had banished Linda from his mind. Now reality returned with acute clarity. He had a wife who was in Denver visiting her mother. He had a son, and a daughter in college almost Vanessa’s age. Ah well, they wouldn’t know. They wouldn’t be hurt.
“Argentina on business. Ever been there?” he asked, eager to change the subject.
“No, but I’d love to go. Will you take me someday?”
“Sure.”
“When will you leave your wife and marry me?”
She said it in a matter of fact tone. No intro or lead-in, as if she were calmly placing a live grenade on the chair. But her words hit him like a ton of bricks. He viewed Vanessa as a sexual play toy. Regardless of how good the sex was with Vanessa, he couldn’t possibly leave Linda for her. Wesley Jasper loved his position in the Senate as the powerful chairman of the Armed Services Committee. He was facing a tough reelection battle. Trading Linda for a committee staffer would finish his political career. Besides, he had his family, children whom he loved.
He carefully weighed his response. He had to play this carefully. By going public, Vanessa could make trouble for him. He’d seen it happen to other colleagues. He had to put this genie back into the bottle until after the election. He’d worry about it then.
When he didn’t respond, she added, “In May when we were in Paris, you said that you would marry me, but you wouldn’t say when.”
“That’s right. I will leave Linda, and we will get married. It’s just that the timing’s not good right now with my reelection coming up next year.”
Her face hardened. “I’ll wait another year. That’s all.”
Her words conveyed a veiled threat.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been lied to by other men about marriage. This time I have an insurance policy to make sure you keep your word.”
“An insurance policy?” He was stunned.
“When we were in Tokyo in July and sharing a suite in the Okura, I was in the bedroom when you held your top-secret late night meeting. You know what I mean?”
His heart began pounding. “You were asleep in the bedroom. I was reading in the living room. There was no meeting.”
“Don’t lie to me.” She sounded indignant. “I hate it when men do that.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Before the trip, I overheard you scheduling the meeting. So, I planted a recording device in the living room. I now have a CD with the recording of your meeting. I listened to it again a few days ago. I have no doubt that if I delivered it to the Washington Post you’d lose a lot more than your political career. You’d go to jail for a very long time.”
Jasper was furious. He couldn’t believe she’d done this. What an ungrateful little bitch! After all he’d done for her. He’d taken her to Paris and Tokyo. And the gifts he’d given her—a Chopard watch and a Bulgari bracelet. My God! Now this!
“So when are we getting married?” she asked again.
His heart was pounding. Keep control, he cautioned himself. He had to find a way to placate her.
“Right after the election, I’ll divorce Linda. I promise. We’ll be married before Christmas. We’ll come back here for a honeymoon or anywhere you’d like. In thirteen months you’ll be Mrs. Wesley Jasper.” He said it with conviction. Another false promise from a politician accustomed to making them.
She stared at him for a long moment, then added. “I can wait a year. But just so you know, and don’t forget, I have that recording.”
“I would do it even if you didn’t have it.”
She leaned over and kissed him. “I’ll be a good wife for you.”
“I’m sure of that.”
She stood up. “We’ll have great sex all the time. Now that we’ve settled that, I’m going for a swim.”
She sashayed toward the water, her feet bare. About ten yards away, she unzipped her sundress and let it fall to the sand. She wasn’t wearing any underwear. As she bent over to pick up the dress, she paused for a minute, her legs spread, letting him admire her from the rear, the way he had most enjoyed sex with her this weekend. Certain he was watching, she laughed easily, picked up the dress and threw it back over her head. It landed on his face. The scent of her still fresh.
He tossed it onto the sand. This wasn’t working out the way he had expected. He thought about that movie with Glenn Close—the one where she killed the bunny.
He watched her walk into the water. When it was up to her waist, she dove in and swam out in smooth strokes. He followed her blonde head, getting smaller and smaller under the moonlight. Then he stood up and walked along the beach. He saw his whole life crumbling and disintegrating. From the bluff above the beach, close to the villa they had been using for the weekend, he heard a noise. He pivoted and saw a small native boy, maybe ten or twelve, tossing a ball to a dog.
He shouted at the boy. “Get away.” The boy and the dog disappeared.
After another minute, Jasper pulled off his clothes, racing toward the water. He dove in and swam out to Vanessa.
Israel
At five on Monday morning, the sun was already beating down on the dig. Allison Boyd, dressed in khaki slacks and a pale blue polo shirt, with her brown hair up in a ponytail, stood with her hands on her hips watching backhoes excavate the stubborn, rocky soil. Three Israelis worked nearby with picks and shovels. Allison was extremely pleased.
The thirty-four-year-old archeology professor from Brown University had, with incredible persistence, overcome so many obstacles to get to this point. First, there were all those much older stuffed-shirt male professors, her peers in the United States, England, and Israel, who had dismissed the idea of discovering a town from King Solomon’s time in this location. But Allison’s development of a groundbreaking new dating technology that could establish relics were from Solomon’s time, not the Omride Dynasty, caught the attention of British philanthropist Moses Halpern. He traveled to Providence to tell Allison that he believed in her work and admired her persistence, and he was willing to fund her search for the town. She believed this would be a major breakthrough.
The site work had begun three months ago, and then was shut down for two weeks because an official in the Religious Ministry claimed they were digging on holy ground. Allison and her Israeli partner, Zahava, went over that official’s head and got the order reversed thanks to the intervention of a former general, now an archeologist, who told them, “I admire the commitment to the project the two of you have.”
That work stoppage order was now a distant memory. They had moved lots of earth. Allison was hopeful they would find something. If they didn’t … well, she hated to think about that possibility—the money and time wasted—the damage to her reputation and that of Zahava, whom she had dragged into this.
She and Zahava were chugging bottles of water and watching the backhoes when Zahava asked Allison, “How’d you happen to become an archeologist?”
“When I was a little girl my father told me I had too much curiosity. I always wanted to know what was happening. No, it was more than wanting to know. I had to know. If a family member was ill, I leaned on other relatives to tell me what was wrong and if they would recover. I’d press my parents about our family history and their backgrounds. Digging up facts excited me. In school I thought about being a journalist—an investigative reporter—because they dig up stories. But writing wasn’t my strong suit. The summer I was ten years old we took a trip to New Mexico, visiting the remains of indigenous communities. The guide told us how the people lived in caves on the sides of hills and how their society functioned. But what I saw in those caves spoke to me louder than the guide. I became hooked. I loved it,” she bubbled. “I still do. What about you?”
Before Zahava had a chance to answer, Allison’s assistant Jonathan raced up the rocky mound toward them. “Look at this,” he said bursting with excitement.
He was holding a black metal object. Allison placed it on a table and examined it under a microscope. The sun was reflecting off the metal. It might be a piece of a spear or other weapon from King Solomon’s time, she thought.
Although so many had argued against her, telling her she was stubborn and pigheaded, she was convinced they were in the right place. Now she had a substantial object. But she cautioned herself not to get too carried away. They would need a lot more study of this metal and much more digging before any definitive conclusions could be reached.
Zahava was looking over her shoulder. “What do you think?” Zahava asked.
“It’s too soon to draw a conclusion,” she responded.
Zahava turned to Jonathan. “Tell them to shut down the backhoes and use only shovels for now.” Jonathan raced off.
“This does look promising,” Zahava said to Allison.
“That’s a good way to put it. We still have a long way to go.”
“Let’s take a look for ourselves.”
Zahava walked quickly toward the location where Jonathan had found the object, with Allison two steps behind. Suddenly, Allison felt a powerful jolt in her body as if she were struck by electricity. She had an incredible pain in her stomach, causing her to double over, gasping for breath.
Zahava spun around. “What’s wrong?”
“It just hit me. A blow to my stomach.”
“You better sit down.” Zahava led Allison to a chair under an olive tree.
She bent over to ease the pain.
“We should get a doctor,” Zahava said. “Call one to come here. Or I can take you into town.”
The pain was easing. Allison gave a sigh of relief.
“Let me call a doctor.”
“No need to. I’m feeling better.”
“At least rest for a while.”
“Okay. I’ll sit here. You go to Jonathan and the others.”
Even as the pain abated, Allison had a sick feeling. She knew what caused it. Something terrible had happened to her twin sister, Vanessa.
Allison didn’t want to tell Zahava because her colleague, the quintessential rational scientist, would have laughed at her and told her she was being ridiculous. But Zahava wasn’t a twin. She didn’t understand about twins. Allison had gotten jolts like this twice before, precisely when something had happened to Vanessa.
The first time was when they were twenty-two. Allison was playing field hockey, in training for the US Olympic team during the year she took off from archeology, after getting her undergraduate degree from Maryland and beginning graduate school at Brown. She had to call time-out and go to the sidelines. An hour later, she received a call from a hospital in Switzerland, telling her that Vanessa had broken her leg skiing.
What was it now? Vanessa had to be in trouble.
It was 10:30 now, Sunday night in Washington, DC. Allison didn’t even know whether Vanessa was there. When they had spoken a few days ago, her sister was vague, no, evasive about her plans for the Veteran’s Day weekend. Allison replayed their conversation in her mind the last time they spoke. Allison had asked:
“So what are you doing this weekend?”
“A little of this and a little of that.”
“Will you be in Washington?”
“I don’t think so.”
“The weekend starts tomorrow.”
“I’m not as organized as you are.”
Vanessa plainly didn’t want to tell her. “Listen, I’m not judging you and I won’t. That’s not why I’m asking. I’m just worried about you.”
“Allison, you live the way you want, and I’ll do what I want. In Israel, you should hook up with an Israeli soldier. They’re tough. You could run each other ragged doing your judo and end up in bed. When I was on a shoot once in Tel Aviv I met this guy, a colonel or a captain. He stayed hard all night.”
They both laughed. Allison never pressed Vanessa about her weekend plans. She was sorry now. Vanessa could be anywhere in the world, and Allison had no idea with whom. Damn, damn, damn. I should keep better track of her. I can’t let her get into trouble again.
Frantic with worry, she took out her cell phone and dialed Vanessa’s cell. The call went into voice mail. She tried Vanessa’s apartment in Washington, but just received more voice mail.
She made up her mind to keep trying both numbers every half hour until she reached Vanessa.
Washington
Andrew Martin ate a piece of Saint-Nectaire on dark bread as he sipped some of the fabulous 1990 Clos de la Roche from Dujac, the third spectacular wine he had served this evening, and looked around the dining room of his Foxhall Road house. He could barely control his excitement. This was one of the best days of his life. This morning’s Sunday New York Times had reported that Chief Justice West had prostate cancer and was planning to retire shortly. While he felt sorry for West, Martin was thrilled that the article named him as one of the people being considered for chief justice.
It wasn’t official, but Martin, the powerful Washington lawyer, knew that when the Times carried an article beginning, “The New York Times has learned that … ” it was generally conveying information from an official leak by the Braddock Administration. This was a trial balloon to gauge public reaction. Being on the Supreme Court had been Martin’s dream from his first year at Yale Law School. Now it might be a reality. And being the chief justice certainly elevated the prize. He closed his eyes for a second and imagined himself sitting in the center of the bench with four black clad justices on each side of what would become known as the Martin court.
When he opened them, he turned his attention to the elegant dinner table. Martin was seated at one end; his wife, Francis, of thirty five years, looking lovely and radiant in a lavender Valentino sheath, sat the other end of the table of eight. The three other couples, no one sitting next to a spouse, were Secretary of State Jane Prosser and her husband, Philip; the Speaker of the House, Hugh Dawson, and his wife Louise; and Drew and Sally Thomas from New York. Martin’s friendship with Drew spanned more than thirty years, since the first day they’d both arrived at Queens College, Oxford, on a Rhodes scholarship. Drew now ran a successful private equity firm.
Drew tapped a spoon on a glass to gain everyone’s attention. “To enhance Andrew’s candidacy to be chief justice,” Drew said, “he needs a song. Now Andrew, you’ve argued in the Supreme Court forty-eight times and won forty of them.”
“Actually, only thirty-nine,” Martin said.
“Don’t nitpick. So when you enter the court to take your seat on the bench, the other justices will sing … ”
Taking the cue, Sally, Drew’s childhood sweetheart, a good-looking, vivacious gray-haired woman who had aged gracefully, began singing to the tune of Hello Dolly, “Well, hello, Andrew, it’s so good to have you back where you belong … ”
The others laughed. “Hey. That’s great,” Louise said. Then in good spirits from the free-flowing wine, they all joined Sally in the singing.
“You’re looking swell, Andrew …”
“Bear with me everybody,” Martin said after they finished the song. “I desperately want to talk about something else. That’s a prerogative of the host, to change the subject. Isn’t it, Drew?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good. Francis and I saw Verdi’s Luisa Miller at the Kennedy Center last evening. It was fantastic. Anybody else going?”
“We have tickets for Tuesday,” Jane said.
Hugh added, “Did you know that Verdi’s parents were dirt-poor peasant farmers?”
As the discussion about Verdi continued, Martin stole a quick look into the mirror along the side wall above the black marble topped credenza. He looked damn good for fifty-eight. Hadn’t gained a pound in the last thirty-five years. Still a hundred and seventy-five on his six-one frame, thanks to lots of exercise. And he had the same sandy brown hair.
“Wrong.” Drew spoke up. “They kept a little inn combined with a village shop. But what always struck me about Verdi was that he was rejected by the conservatory in Milan.”
“Ah, but with talent you always succeed,” Hugh said.
“Not always, unfortunately,” Philip retorted.
“Speaking of music,” Louise said, looking at Francis, “Andrew told me that you performed on the violin several summers at Aspen. What was it like?”
“It was so long ago.”
“Please tell us.”
Francis gave a tiny nod to a tuxedo-clad waiter in the corner of the room, who then began clearing the Limoges plates with the cheese and salad course. Next would be a cold Grand Mariner soufflé that Francis had made.
As Francis began talking, Martin felt a vibration in the vest pocket of the jacket of his Lanvin suit. What the hell? Then he remembered. Concerned that he’d miss a call from Arthur Larkin, the White House Counsel, about the chief justice nomination, Martin had broken his rule of never leaving his cell on during a meal. He yanked the phone out and glanced at caller ID. It was a number he didn’t recognize with a 202, Washington area code. It might be Arthur. He better take it.
Not wanting to interrupt Francis, he quietly left, walking rapidly toward the study. “Hello,” he said.
Expecting it to be Arthur, he was startled to hear another man shouting, shrill and hysterical. “She drowned. Goddamn it. She’s dead.”
He recognized Wes Jasper’s voice. But his brain was fuzzy with alcohol, his feelings caught up in the euphoria of the evening. Jasper … where was he? Why would he be calling?
“Andrew, it’s Wes. You’ve got to help me.”
Slowly, it came to him. Thursday Jasper had called and asked to use Andrew’s house in Anguilla for the weekend. “Just a short getaway, he had explained.” Andrew assumed Wes and Linda would be flying down. So he’d said, “Sure.” Now Jasper must be calling him on a cell phone with a Washington area code. What was Wes telling him now? Linda had drowned. “What happened?”
“Andrew, weren’t you listening. She’s dead. She drowned. And I’m fucked! Don’t you understand? Don’t you get it? Totally fucked.”
Martin felt in a fog. If Linda drowned, why was Jasper fucked? “Now calm down, Wes. Go back to the beginning. Tell me what happened to Linda.”
“It’s not Linda!” Jasper was shouting. He sounded delirious. “Linda’s in Denver visiting her mother. The woman’s name is Vanessa.”
“Who’s Vanessa?”
“She came down here with me.”
“Why’d she do that?”
“For Christ’s sake, Andrew. Why do you think? Focus.”
“Where is she now?”
“On the bed, in the master bedroom of your house. I carried her up from the beach.”
What in tarnation is this? “You’re sure she’s dead?”
“How stupid do you think I am?”
Martin took some deep breaths.
“You have to help me,” Jasper pleaded. “You’re my best friend. You have to help me.”
While Martin tried to think of what to say, Jasper kept ranting. “I’m screwed. If this comes out, my reelection is in the toilet. My marriage will be history. My kids will never talk to me. I might as well go out and drown myself.”
“Stop.” Martin commanded.
“Then you tell me what to do?”
“Call the Anguilla police. Tell them what happened. I assume it was an accident.”
“Of course it was an accident. She was swimming and went out too far. Stupid, crazy bitch. I almost drowned trying to save her.”
“Tell the police all that.”
“You don’t get it, do you? I can’t go to the police. I’m a senator. It’ll all be on TV. I’ll be ruined. You know that’s what’ll happen.”
Jasper, he was sure, had been drinking. “You have to do it, Wes. It’s the only way.”
But then as the mess sunk in, Martin began to see ramifications. Disclosure in the media, he realized, could have a devastating effect on his becoming chief justice. He could imagine the Post’s headline: “SUPREME COURT NOMINEE RUNS CARIBBEAN LOVE NEST FOR INFLUENTIAL SENATORS.”
No, there still was only one right way to handle this. “You must go to the police.”
“That is not an option. You have to find a way of making this go away. You’re my friend. You can’t let me be destroyed for one little indiscretion. You know I’m right. Friends help each other when one gets into trouble.”
Martin didn’t know what to do. If stone sober, he thought, finding a way around this would be almost impossible. But with his mind clouded with alcohol, he felt as if he’d been submerged into a tank.
“Please help me.” Jasper raved on. “We’ve been friends forever. Don’t let me go down.”
Hearing the sounds from the dining room, he wanted to tell Jasper he’d call him back. But he couldn’t do that. Wes had been his friend for decades, and Wes sounded too miserable. But should Martin be responsible for Jasper’s life going up in smoke? It was his own damn fault.
“You’ve got to do something.”
The only right thing was for Jasper to call the police and report the drowning. But that would ruin Jasper’s life and most likely derail Martin’s Supreme Court nomination.
Martin stopped dithering and decided. “I’ll help you. I’ll take care of it.”
“Oh my God, I’ll be grateful forever.”
“Does anyone else know what happened?”
“Not a soul.”
“Stay where you are. I’ll call Gorton. He’ll tell you what to do.”
“Thank you so much.”
Martin had to get back to the dinner, he realized. But first, he had to call Gorton, a mover and shaker on the island whom Martin had befriended over the years.
He called Gorton at home, waking him. “I need your help,” Martin told the groggy-sounding Gorton. “The man using my house is a good friend. The woman he’s with drowned tonight. And she’s not his wife.”
“Oh my.”
“Yeah. Right now they’re both in the house. This could be bad for him. And very bad for me.”
It was a blessing, Martin thought, that his closeness with Gorton enabled him to make this call.
“What do you want me to do?”
As if preparing to leap off a high diving board, Martin took a deep breath. “Move the woman’s body to another location. Make certain no one will be able to tie my friend or me to her death.”
There was no response.
“If this worries you and makes you too uncomfortable, you shouldn’t do it. Please tell me.”
Finally, Gorton said, “I’ll do it.”
“I’ll be seriously grateful. My friend’s waiting for you at the house with the body.”
Saying those last words made Martin cringe. Feeling lousy, he put away the phone, returned to the group and slipped into his chair, all shook up. Francis was staring at him.
Sally sitting next to the him, said, “No rest for the weary. The price of fame.”
Thank God Philip, on Sally’s other side, asked her, “Do you have children?”
She launched into a tale of her children and grandchildren. Martin tuned them out. On the table he noticed a glass of sauterne as well as the dessert. He had no appetite for the cold soufflé, and as he picked up the wine glass, his hand was trembling. Perspiration dotted his forehead. His striped shirt felt soaked under the arms. Why in hell did Wes use his house with another woman? Jasper certainly led Martin to believe he was going with Linda. Wes, he recalled, slept around at Yale. But that was thirty-five years ago. He put down the sauterne and drank ice water to steady himself.
At that moment, it was as if a cloud covering Martin’s eyes suddenly lifted. He could see clearly and understood what he had just done—committed the greatest blunder of his life!
He had an acute sense of right and wrong. The rationalization he had been feeding himself about his friendship with Jasper and helping a friend disintegrated. That couldn’t possibly justify what he had done. It was wrong! Wrong! Wrong!
As for the impact on his nomination to be chief justice, if he hadn’t agreed to help Jasper and instead had called the Anguilla police, the consequences for Martin might not be so bad. He had let a longtime friend use his house. Unknown to Martin, he took a woman there who accidentally drowned. Martin couldn’t be blamed for that, particularly if he had called the Anguilla police. Sure, Jasper would be hurt, but Wes had played a high-risk game, taking this Vanessa to Anguilla. In life there are no free fucks.
But if the story of what Martin had done, arranging for the movement of Vanessa’s body, came out in the press, then Martin’s chief justice nomination would sink faster than a heavy rock in a pond of water.
I made the wrong decision.
In his anguish, his legs shaking, Martin thought about trying to undo it. He could race into the study and call Gorton back to tell him not to do a thing. Then he’d call Jasper and tell him he changed his mind. Martin’s cell phone would show the number Jasper had used to call him. He’d give Wes the choice of calling the Anguilla police or doing it himself. Yes, that’s what he should do.
But he couldn’t get himself to move to undo what he had done. It’s too late, he told himself. Everything is already in motion. I’ll have to live with the consequences.
An hour later, their guests had gone. Francis came up to him with a huge smile. “Everybody was so complimentary. They all had a great time. Drew called it an evening he’d never forget.”
“The food was incredible. Especially the lamb.”
“You don’t think I overcooked it?”
“Nope. Perfect. And they loved hearing you talk about performing at Aspen.”
Isabella and Juan, he noticed, were picking up dishes and straightening furniture.
Francis kicked off her shoes. “Who called?”
Martin couldn’t bring himself to tell Francis about Jasper’s call. He was so ashamed of what he had done that he couldn’t possibly let anyone know about it. Not even Francis.
Their marriage was based on the mutual respect and admiration they had for each other. What he had done was so stupid that he was afraid she’d think far less of him. He couldn’t bear that. Not right now.
Looking away, he said, “A client from the Midwest. His son shot and killed someone. He wanted to know what to do.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Go to the police. I put him in touch with a local lawyer.”
He hated himself for lying to Francis, which he had never done before. But he had to. He felt like a boat pulled away from its mooring in a storm.
* * *
Though it was almost two in the morning, Xiang Shen was fully awake in his Connecticut Avenue apartment watching Seven Days in May, one of the endless in a stream of American movies that the insomniac, with the title of Assistant Economic Attaché at the Chinese Embassy, watched most nights.
Xiang particularly liked political thrillers, although he would watch just about any drama or action film. Hitchcock and James Bond were among his favorites. He couldn’t explain his obsession with American movies. Perhaps it was the forbidden fruit. Most of them would be blocked from showing in China. Or, more importantly, they portrayed the sense of freedom that Xiang longed for. And they also helped him pass the long and lonely night hours.
Five years ago, Xiang was assigned to the Chinese Embassy in Washington by Liu Guan, who was Deputy Director of the MSS, the Ministry of State Security, China’s premier intelligence agency. As part of his briefing, Liu told the thirty-year-old Xiang, “Your assignment in the United States is highly sensitive. You are prohibited from dating American or foreign women. You can only date women working at our embassy who have a security clearance equal to yours. The honey pot is the oldest trick in the book. I won’t risk you falling into it.”
At the time, Xiang thought that Liu’s edict was absurd. He was merely passing on to Beijing information about United States military plans and capabilities which appeared in the print or electronic media in the United States. There was nothing confidential about his work. He didn’t have access to secret information. What could he possibly pass along to a woman in bed?
Still, he had learned from instructors in training that disobeying any order of Liu meant certain and severe punishment. The deputy director was known for brutality in dealing with enemies of the state, a category he defined to include those who didn’t follow his orders.
When Xiang had arrived in Washington, a healthy thirty-year-old with strong sexual desires, he systematically went through the available pool of eligible embassy female employees in six months. Only four he decided were worth dating. Two he slept with, both unsatisfactory experiences. So he decided to wait for sex until he returned to China on periodic visits.
In Washington he spent time in the gym where he could press 250 pounds, and he ran four or five mornings a week. His six-foot frame had filled out. Xiang could have been on the cover of a men’s fitness magazine.
After two years, Liu gave Xiang his title of Assistant Economic Attaché and assigned him to cover the American Congress, obtaining information from any source, not merely the media, about actions in Congress that could affect China, either militarily or economically. As part of his work, Xiang attended a myriad of diplomatic receptions and cocktail parties where women often flirted with him. Occasionally Xiang was on the verge of asking one of them to come home with him. Before he uttered the words, Liu’s stern face and harsh voice appeared in his mind. He deflected their advances and went home where he took a cold shower and watched American movies. All the while cursing Liu. He wasn’t having any fun, his job was boring, and he didn’t believe anything he did was helping China, which was why he had originally joined the MSS.
All of that changed five months ago when Liu was appointed director of the MSS and summoned Xiang to Beijing where he informed him about Operation Trojan Horse. “You and our ambassador in Washington will be the only two in the United States who will know about Operation Trojan Horse. But you will have the critical role in this operation. Extreme secrecy is essential. Trojan Horse is the most important intelligence operation in our country at this time.”
Xiang had replied, “I’m honored to be a part of it.”
“If you do a good job in this assignment,” Liu had told Xiang, “the possibilities for you in Beijing are unlimited.”
Liu had also snarled, “I am concerned that you may be too young and immature for this assignment. But no one else has your knowledge of the United States and the nuances of American life. So I am forced to take a chance on you.”
“I appreciate your confidence.”
“I don’t have confidence. And I will tell you that if you fuck it up, I will personally direct the torture until you beg to die.”
Xiang was so terrified that he could barely walk out of Liu’s office.
However, after the next two days of briefing about Operation Trojan Horse and his role, Xiang realized Liu hadn’t been exaggerating. The Operation was critical for China. At thirty-five, Xiang was thrilled to be on the cutting edge of his country’s paramount intelligence operation.
Seven Days in May ended. Xiang glanced at his wristwatch. It was two fourteen in the morning. He’d order Vertigo and watch it for about the twentieth time. It was his favorite movie of all time. And he knew why. More than the brilliant screenplay and Hitchcock’s mastery of suspense, there was Kim Novak, who reminded Xiang of Kelly Cameron, his one and only love, fourteen years earlier when they were both students at Carnegie Mellon University. He could still remember every detail about the beautiful Kelly. He loved her long blonde hair, her warm smile, her perfectly rounded breasts, the way she walked—and her insatiable desire for sex. Beyond all that, she had a sharp, analytical mind. She challenged him intellectually as no one else had ever done. And she was fun to be with. He had been enraged when Liu had ordered him to break off his relationship with Kelly at the end of their junior year, but he had no choice.
From time to time over the years he had thought of Googling Kelly. She had been a brilliant computer major, easy to locate. But he had been too frightened to do it. Security officials at the embassy constantly monitored the Internet usage of employees and calls on office phones as well as embassy-supplied cell phones. And Kelly had told him that following graduation, she intended to utilize her computer expertise to enter a career in law enforcement. “I want to do something good for my country to safeguard our democracy.” If it reached Liu that Xiang had been trying to locate Kelly … there would be serious repercussions for Xiang and his parents in China. For only himself, Xiang might have been willing to risk it. But he loved his parents too much to put their lives at risk.
While Xiang was waiting for the movie to load, one of the cell phones on his desk rang. He recognized the distinctive “Ping … Ping … Ping.” That was the special phone dedicated to calls with Senator Jasper.
Xiang answered and said, “Yes.”
He hoped the senator remembered not to identify himself. And he did.
“Tu—Tu—Tuesday,” was all the senator said, sounding hysterical, and ended the call.
Xiang, who had created the code, knew exactly what the senator meant. Tuesday, at five in the morning, Jasper wanted to meet on a path in Rock Creek Park, which was generally deserted at that hour. If anyone passed by, Xiang and Jasper would look like two joggers who had a chance encounter in the park.
From Jasper’s urgent request for a meeting in the middle of the night and the sound of the senator’s voice, Xiang feared that Operation Trojan Horse had been compromised. Xiang pondered his options. Liu had told him that if there ever was a threat to Operation Trojan Horse, Xiang was to call him immediately and without explaining what happened on the phone, announce that he would be flying to Beijing for a briefing.
But until he spoke to Jasper, Xiang told himself that he had no idea what had happened or how serious it was. No point alarming Liu until after the Jasper meeting. For now, he’d have to operate on his own. Besides, notifying Liu was only a last resort. The spymaster didn’t tolerate failure, and he never took responsibility himself. Xiang had observed how savagely Liu dealt with underlings whom he charged with failing to perform up to his high standards. “We have a zero tolerance for failure,” Liu lectured agents. Those words, “A zero tolerance for failure … A zero tolerance for failure … ” reverberated in Xiang’s brain. They sent a shiver up and down Xiang’s spine.
His meeting with Jasper was twenty-seven hours away. He turned back to Vertigo. He doubted if he’d sleep at all until he learned what had happened to Jasper.
* * *
Lying in bed, Martin glanced at the illuminated clock on the bureau. It was 3:11 a.m. And he hadn’t slept at all. Francis was snoring softly, burrowed under the down comforter.
He never had trouble sleeping. But this night was like no other. He had been wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. The enormity of what he had done hit him like a wall crashing down on him.
He should have made Jasper go to the police. Or called them himself. Gorton? What the hell was he thinking? This went against his whole life. He counseled a million clients that you don’t try and cover up illegal or embarrassing situations with lies. You’ve got to play it straight—not just because it’s the right thing, but because in the end you’ll get caught.
Damp with perspiration and trying not to wake Francis, he got up, put on a robe and went downstairs. In the den he sat in the dark, staring into space. His body shook from time to time. He thought about other mistakes he’d made. Once during a lawsuit, he failed to produce a critical document, which a client had concealed. Another time, when relying upon an associate, he mischaracterized a legal precedent. Both times, as soon as he became aware of the error, he’d notified opposing counsel and the court and faced the unpleasant consequences. He could still call Anguilla to rectify this.
But then he’d be destroying the marriage and career of one of his best friends. And the death had been an accident.
No, c’mon. He realized he was kidding himself. This wasn’t merely about Jasper. Martin would have to pay, too. If the media got a hold of it, they’d crucify him. They would claim he didn’t merely lend his Anguilla house to a friend. He lent it to the powerful chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee which dealt with legislation affecting Martin’s clients. He was using his house to buy influence. Arthur and Braddock would cut him from the short list for chief justice at the first sign of trouble. Jasper and Vanessa were standing in his way. If he hadn’t asked Gorton to move the body, he’d have been doomed.
But he could be wrong. Maybe he’d have been alright if all he did was let Jasper use the house. Wes was his friend. Martin could honestly say he didn’t know Jasper would be with another woman. His big fuck-up was making that dumb ass call to Gorton. Jesus, what was he thinking?
Lights came on. He turned and noticed Francis, in the doorway, staring at him. “What’s wrong?”
He realized now that he had to tell her. She was his partner in everything. He couldn’t bear keeping it from her. And he needed to tell someone to get it out. As if that would somehow purge the wrong.
“I made a mistake before. A terrible mistake.”
“That phone call?”
“I wasn’t thinking. Too much wine. Later when you asked me about it, I was still shocked. But that’s no excuse for lying to you.”
“Who called?”
“Wes Jasper. Thursday he asked if he could use our house in Anguilla for the weekend. I assumed it was for a trip with Linda. With all this Supreme Court stuff and the dinner party going on, I forgot to tell you.”
“What happened?”
“He didn’t go with Linda. He went with another woman. Some Vanessa. I don’t know who she is.”
“Our house.” Francis sounded irate. “He used our house for screwing around.”
Then the name Vanessa clicked for Martin. He remembered at the office of the Senate Armed Services Committee Jasper introducing him to a drop-dead gorgeous woman, a Vanessa.
“She may have worked for Jasper’s committee. I’m not sure. Anyhow, she drowned.”
Francis seemed too stunned to speak.
“It was an accident. Jasper said he nearly drowned trying to save her.”
“Noble of him. Idiot! Is he so out to lunch he forgot about his wife, his children?”
“Thanks to me. They may not find out.”
“What’d you do?”
“Called Gorton and asked him to move Vanessa’s body. Then helped Jasper leave Anguilla. He shouldn’t be tied to her death.”
“You didn’t! You didn’t really do that, did you?”
“Honey, it’s our house. If it came out, I was afraid it would have destroyed my chance for an appointment to chief justice.”
“Oh Andrew, this is awful! It’s so unfair to have this happen to you with all of the great things you’ve accomplished. You just made an impulsive decision to help your best friend who put you in a terrible position. And the woman was already dead before you did anything.”
“I know, but …”
“Come to bed. There’s nothing we can do about it now.”
Israel
Allison and Zahava were watching three men and two women sifting through the dirt. “I found something!” Dora cried out in excitement. She clutched what looked to Allison like a pottery fragment, raising it high over her head.
“Let me have a look.”
Before Dora handed it over, the cell phone on the belt of Allison’s khaki pants rang. She checked caller ID. It was not a number she recognized. A 264 area code. Where’s that?
Allison walked away from the others.
“Is this Allison Boyd?” a man asked in a British accent.
“Yes it is. Who’s calling?”
“The name’s Har Stevens. I’m the police commissioner on the island of Anguilla in the Caribbean. I found your name and phone number in the wallet of a woman named Vanessa Boyd. Are you related to her?”
Oh my God. What happened? Her knees felt wobbly. She took two steps to a chair and sunk into it. “She’s my twin sister. Has something happened to her?”
“Unfortunately, Miss Boyd, I have to inform you that your sister drowned.”
“No!” Allison shrieked. “No! … No!”
Zahava rushed to her side.
“I’m very sorry. But, I didn’t have anyone else to call.”
“Oh, Vanessa. Oh, Vanessa,” Allison placed the phone in her lap and cried. When she picked it up again, tears were streaming down her cheeks. “What happened?”
“Your sister must have gone swimming at night. Her body washed up on the beach. People from her hotel called.”
“What about the man with her? Did he drown too?”
“As far as I can tell, she came to Anguilla herself. That’s what they told us at the hotel.”
Her face red with anger, Allison shot to her feet. “No way. Vanessa would never go to a Caribbean island for a vacation herself. And damn it, she’s an excellent swimmer. You made a mistake. It’s not my sister,” she screamed. “I should kill you for doing this.”