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Kennedy corrected him. “It was Hamburg, sir.”
“Hamburg. Thank you. This break in was part of an elaborate plan by the count and Khatami to ensure that Khatami got what he needed for Saddam.” Hayes shook his fist and added in an icy tone, “Before you come in here and start accusing me and my people of assassination, I think you should start looking for answers within your own government. And while you’re at it, you might want to ask the Iraqis what they were up to last night.” The president stood. “Now, I have a very busy schedule today, Mr. Ambassador, so if you’ll excuse me, I have to get some work done.”
The ambassador rose slowly and kept his eyes averted from the president’s. “My apologies if I’ve upset you, sir. In my position I am not always given the full picture.”
“I know you aren’t, Gustav. Don’t blame yourself. But do me a favor and tell the diplomats back in Berlin to do some checking with the BKA before they send you in here to toss wild accusations about.”
“I will, Mr. President.”
The two men shook hands, and then the German ambassador started for the door. Secretary Midleton rose to follow, but President Hayes cut him off. “Mr. Ambassador, I need a few minutes of Secretary Midleton’s time. Would you please wait for him outside?” The ambassador left, and Hayes turned back to Midleton. “Sit.”
Midleton reluctantly returned to his seat. The president took off his suit coat and threw it over the chair he had been sitting in. With his hands planted firmly on his hips, he studied his secretary of state. Hayes had known Midleton from his time in the Senate. He liked him well enough, but the man had not been his first choice for the top job at the State Department. In truth, Hayes found him to be a bit of an elitist snob. To make matters worse, there had been a recent spate of foreign policy statements released from the secretary’s office that were not in line with the White House’s official position.
“Chuck, whose side are you on?” Hayes intentionally called him Chuck instead of Charles.
Midleton rolled his eyes. “I won’t dignify that question with an answer.”
“Please,” baited the president, “lower yourself to my level.”
Midleton took the offense. “Count Hagenmiller was a good man. I don’t buy this story the CIA has concocted. My people in Berlin are telling me this looks very bad for us.”
“Concocted!” shouted Hayes. “You haven’t seen one-tenth of what she has on him.” The president pointed at Kennedy.
“Why was the CIA watching him?” snapped Midleton.
Hayes folded his arms across his chest. He had a temper but rarely let it be seen. If he had an issue with someone, he usually took them behind closed doors and had it out. This was now beyond that. Midleton’s arrogance was insufferable. Hayes speculated that the man had never gotten it into his head that they were no longer equals. Hayes had been junior to him in the Senate, and now with Midleton holding the glamour post in the administration, it appeared the man thought he was untouchable. Hayes stared him down and thought, You’ve challenged me in front of three other cabinet members. You’ve left me no choice.
“Chuck, let me get a few things straight. First of all, it’s none of your damn business why the CIA had Hagenmiller under
surveillance, and, more importantly, I’d like to know how in the hell you ever found out about it.”
Midleton hesitated. Hayes was as angry as he’d ever seen him. Sidestepping the question didn’t appear to be an option. He looked across at General Flood and Secretary Culbertson. Neither looked as if he would intervene on his behalf. “Jonathan Brown told me, but,” Midleton cautioned, “it was perfectly legitimate. I spoke with him on Saturday morning when I found out that the count had been assassinated.”
Jonathan Brown was the deputy director of Central Intelligence, Thomas Stansfield’s number two man. Hayes looked at Kennedy briefly and then went back to Midleton. “Let’s get something straight, Chuck. In the future, if you would like to get any information from Langley, you are to go through this man right here.” Hayes pointed to Michael Haik. “As national security advisor, that is Michael’s job. And more importantly, the next time you feel like sharing sensitive intelligence information with a foreign diplomat…check with me first.”
The large chateau-style home was located in the prestigious Wesley Heights neighborhood just off Foxhall Road. Ivy covered the entire front of the house with the exception of the windows and main entrance. Four chimneys jutted above the hipped slate roof, two at each end. The estate sat on three perfectly landscaped acres and was surrounded by an eight-foot black wrought-iron fence.
In the study, located in the southern wing of the house, Senator Hank Clark was relaxing in a well-worn leather chair, his shoes off, his necktie loosened, and a drink in his hand. In his other hand was the remote control for the TV. It was eight in the evening, and Hardball with Chris Matthews was about to start. Clark enjoyed watching the blond Irishman run at the mouth. He had a knack for pinning down people and making them take a position. Sitting on the floor next to Clark were Caesar and Brutus, the senator’s golden retrievers. The names had raised more than a few of his colleagues’ eyebrows over the years. Clark, of course, loved the names. The assassin and the assassinated. The dogs were a daily reminder of the importance of keeping tabs on friends and foes alike.
Clark’s study was filled with expensive western art and antiques. Balanced on two pegs above the fireplace mantel was an 1886 Winchester .45—70 lever-action rifle with not a scratch or a smudge. It had been given to President Grover Cleveland as a wedding present. On top of the mantel were two Frederic Remington sculptures, the Bronco Buster on one side and the Buffalo on the other. And above it all was one of Albert Bierstadt’s breathtaking originals depicting a group of Indians on horseback riding across the plain. Across the room, the top shelf of the glass bookcase contained a first edition of each of Ernest Hemingway’s novels, all of them signed by the old salt himself. Clark admired Hemingway greatly. He lived life hard. He saw and did things that all but a few only dreamed about. Rather than live as a fallen angel, as a shadow of his former self, he decided to check out. Not a bad way to go when you considered his life in its entirety.
The room was Clark’s favorite in the house. It was where he went at the end of each day to unwind. Wife number three was not allowed to enter before knocking, and even then, she was not encouraged to stay long. Clark loved to collect beautiful objects. He had grown up in trailer parks and slept in the same bed with his brother until the morning he left for college. He would never again be deprived of the finer things in life.
Over the intro music for Hardball, the senator heard the doorbell. Caesar and Brutus didn’t even bat an eye. They had grown soft over the years and were no longer interested in finding out who was entering the castle. Clark, however, was. He turned down the volume and slid his feet back into his shoes. He was very interested in talking to his visitor. With more effort than he would have liked, he slid his aged athlete’s body to the edge of the chair and pushed his two-hundred-sixty-pound frame up. One of the other things Clark liked was good food. He’d have to head down to his compound in the Bahamas and spend a week eating nothing but fresh fruit and fish. He’d take hikes, swim in the clear blue water, and do some deep-sea fishing, just like Papa. With any luck, he’d shed some weight.
The door to the study opened, and the butler showed Peter Cameron into the room. The senator met him halfway across the parquet wood floor. Sticking out his hand, he said, “Good evening, Professor. May I get you a drink?”
“Please.”
Clark turned for the bar. He wished Cameron would shave his ridiculous-looking beard. It made him look unkempt.
Cameron walked over to the fireplace, and his eyes fell on the Winchester rifle as they did every time he entered the room. The gun was beautiful. A real piece of craftsmanship and, at the time, cuttingedge technology.
The senator returned with a drink in each hand. “Here you go.”
“Thank you.” Cameron grabbed the drink.
“I was expecting to hear from you this morning. What happened?”
