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“When? She was pretty adamant.”
Rap looked at his watch. It was almost noon. “This afternoon. I need to call an old contact at the KGB, and then I want to see just how full of shit this Milinkavich is.”
“What about Dr. Hornig?”
Rapp had already thought about getting her involved. She was a shrink the CIA used to interrogate high-value prisoners.
“This guy might be a pathological liar, Mitch.”
“Yeah, I know.” Pathological liars were the most difficult people to interrogate. Plus Rapp didn’t have the stomach to keep kicking the crap out of the guy. “I’ll talk to Irene about it this afternoon, and then I’ll let you know.”
38
WASHINGTON, DC
Mark Ross strolled down Peacock Alley, where Washingtonians and visitors went to see and be seen. The Willard Hotel had been a Washington landmark since before the Civil War. Ross basked in the recognition of the dozens of people who were enjoying afternoon tea. It was a walk that had been done by the likes of U.S. Grant, Mark Twain, and many other famous and infamous figures. Digital cameras snapped, people reached out just to touch him, and a few of the really brazen stopped him for a photo. The prize for sheer audacity, though, went to a woman in a blue dress with a ridiculous red hat topped with a white feather plume. She stepped in front of Ross, blocking his path and waving her cell phone. Her daughter was on the phone, and she was a huge fan of the soon-to-be vice president. Ross disguised his irritation and played along. His Secret Service detail looked on disapprovingly from fifteen feet away. Ross had been forced to give them another lecture after having already snapped at them earlier in the day. They needed to give him some freedom. No one was looking to assassinate a vice president–elect.
The party’s faithful were taking over the town. Planeloads, trainloads, and busloads were arriving by the hour. The first official function was tonight and then it was a whirlwind of breakfasts, lunches, and balls. The big affairs were reserved for Saturday night: eleven separate black-tie balls. There wasn’t a hotel room in town that wasn’t booked. It was really going to happen. He was going to be vice president of the United States of America. Ross could hardly believe it. He couldn’t remember the first time he’d dreamt of rising to such political heights but he’d been young. Usually the dream focused on the top job, but he did remember a time when he was away at boarding school and he read a book about Teddy Roosevelt. There was a man of destiny. T.R. was one of the greats. He remembered a fellow democrat criticizing the old Bull Moose president for being a bully. Ross responded by telling him, “Bully or not, his face is on Mount Rushmore.”
History favored the decisive. Those who weren’t afraid to grab power and use it. Ross had decided long ago that he would create his own opportunities and when the time came he would seize the reins of power without hesitation. Like the great Teddy Roosevelt he would leave little to chance. He would use the press to shape his image and dispose of his enemies, and just maybe he’d get lucky like T.R. and get promoted early. Josh Alexander was young and healthy, but stranger things had happened.
The possibility brought a smile to Ross’s face. He shook a few more hands and stopped briefly at the entrance to the Round Robin Bar, waving to the faithful who were well into happy hour. The crowd around the circular bar began whooping and hollering. Ross thought it would be fun to join them for a drink, but he needed to get upstairs for a meeting. He smiled and pumped his fist to the crowd and then retreated. Four agents joined him in the elevator. He’d cut Gordon loose to grab some downtime. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust him; it was simply that he didn’t want the right hand to know what the left hand was doing.
An agent was posted outside the door to the Oval Suite. The party had secured the room for him to do interviews, hold meetings, and stay there if he wanted, although Ross owned a 4,200-square-foot condo that overlooked the Potomac. Alexander was in the opulent Abraham Lincoln Suite and his father-in-law was in the spacious Capitol Suite. Without being consulted Ross had been forced to settle for the hotel’s third nicest suite. He was mildly irritated by the oversight, but there were more pressing issues at the moment.
Ross entered the suite and found Stu Garret sitting in the oval shaped living room with Tom Rich of the New York Times. Just like the real Oval Office, two couches faced each other with a small table in between. Rich was of average height and slender with the exception of a small pouch around his midsection. He had a youthful head of brown hair that he liked to show off by avoiding regular visits to the barber. He looked close to forty but in truth he was actually fifty-one. National security was his beat and he had a reputation for being very critical of the CIA and the way they waged the war on terror.
Rich stood. Garret didn’t. Ross extended his hand. “Tom, thank you for coming to see me.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
“Please, call me Mark when we’re in an informal setting like this.”
Rich nodded but kept his game face on. He was wearing a blue, button-down oxford, a gray and black tweed sport coat, a pair of jeans, and brown Timberland boots. He looked at Ross in his expensive blue suit and tie. “I apologize for my appearance. I was at home working on a story when Stu called. He told me to get down here right away. He said he had something that couldn’t be discussed on the phone.”
Ross nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid he’s right. Before we get started, may I get you something to drink?”
“No, thank you.”
“Well, have a seat.” Ross unbuttoned his suit coat and sat on the couch across from Garret and Rich. “I assume you’ve been following the story about the arrest that was made in connection to the motorcade attack.”
Rich nodded enthusiastically while reaching in to his sport coat and retrieving a notebook and pen. “I’ve got a piece running in the morning.”
“What’s your angle?”
“Angle?” Rich looked either surprised or offended.
“What’s your story about?” Garret asked in his typical no-nonsense way.
Rich hesitated and then said, “I’m hearing rumors. Grumblings…really.”
“About?” Ross asked.
“That the case against this guy isn’t as strong as the FBI claims.”
Ross and Garret shared a knowing look and then Ross said, “Off the record.”
“Of course.” Rich wrote the word Off across the top of the page.
