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Rivera stared at the photo in shock, unable to speak.
44
T he lobby at the Willard was coming to life. It was 11:28 a.m. and no one was checking out. There were only arrivals and guests moving about to find food and shop. Garret was actually trying to get work done, and if one more person came up and congratulated him, he swore he was going to bash them over the head with his BlackBerry. Garret sat in an oversized mohair chair facing the door. He assumed the man he was meeting for lunch knew what he looked like because he hadn’t the faintest idea what the guy looked like.
Garret focused on the small screen of his BlackBerry with the aid of a pair of bifocals. His thumb spun the black wheel on the side of the device and clicked on the weather icon. The five-day forecast popped up after a few seconds. For months he’d been dreading the inauguration. Every time he thought about it he imagined himself sitting on the West Capitol steps freezing his ass off. A warm front was moving in. The afternoon’s high was supposed to be fifty-two degrees and they were forecasting a balmy fifty-eight for the big event on Saturday. Garret smiled. Fucking weather idiots, he thought to himself. They had no idea what they were doing. Only two days ago they’d been forecasting low thirties for the weekend.
Satisfied with the current forecast he spun the wheel and clicked on one of his saved Web sites. It was an online auction site that specialized in old motorcycles. Garret had a couple of bids he needed to check. One of them was going to shut down the bidding at 10:00 p.m. this evening. As he was looking at the most recent bid the BlackBerry beeped and then a number one appeared in his in-box. Suddenly, three more messages appeared. Garret opened the in-box and saw that the first message was a news alert from the Drudge Report. The other three were from other news services. Something was brewing. Garret clicked on the link and a moment later was staring at the bare bones home page of the Drudge Report. The headline across the top read, “President to Hold Noon Press Conference. CIA Director Expected to Step Down.”
Garret pumped his fist up and down and hit the speed dial button for Mark Ross.
Ross answered on the second ring. “Yes?”
“How did it go at Langley?”
“She’s dead and she doesn’t even know it.”
“I think she does now.”
“What’s going on?”
“Drudge is reporting that the president is going to hold a noon press conference.”
“About?”
“He says Kennedy is going to resign.”
“You’re kidding!” Ross’s voice was filled with excitement.
“Nope. Can you believe it? It took less than a day and you barely had to lift a finger.”
“Where are you?”
“At the hotel. I’m meeting some clown from Indiana who thinks he’s going to be their next governor.”
“Keep it short. I’ll meet you in the bar at noon. We’ll watch it together. I can’t wait to see the dejected look on Kennedy’s face.”
“See you there.” Garret hung up just as his 11:30 came strolling into the lobby. The guy had to be six foot six. That was the first thing he noticed. The second was that he had the most pronounced Adam’s apple he’d ever seen. Unless the people of Indiana wanted a governor who looked like a stork, this guy didn’t stand a chance.
45
WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, DC
P resident Hayes was as relieved as Kennedy had ever seen him. After she’d finished the PowerPoint presentation, he admitted that he’d feared the worst when he’d read the piece in the Times. For obvious reasons he did not want his administration to end with a scandal. Instead, he was going to leave on a high note. Gazich was guilty. There was no doubt about it. The Greek government had just this morning filed their official protest at the U.N. They’d jumped the gun and were about to find that out in a very public manner and, best of all, his critics and foes were going to have to eat crow.
Rapp’s idea to hold a press conference had been an easy sell for Kennedy. The president couldn’t wait to turn the tables on The New York Times. Not only was he going out on a high note, he was going to be able to do what few presidents got the chance to do, and that was rub the press’s face in their own mistake. Rapp had been right when he’d told Kennedy that this was going to be fun. Her amusement, however, had been brief. Kennedy was filled with dread over how far-reaching the scandal might be, and she’d decided to share none of her deeper suspicions with the president. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him, it was that she needed some proof. So far all she had were some very embarrassing photos, a theory, a deep distrust of Mark Ross and the fear that Josh Alexander was so power hungry he’d had his own wife killed to win the election.
Kennedy stood in the small hallway just outside the White House Press Room with Juarez at her side. She wanted him there so she could give the Clandestine Service some much deserved positive publicity. For Kennedy there was no time to celebrate. She was worried about the larger picture. Worried about the truth that Rapp might discover. A truth that would destroy a nation’s confidence in its elected officials and damage for decades to come America’s international standing. Kennedy needed to be absolutely sure of what had happened and she needed to find out before Alexander and Ross took their oaths.
Kennedy’s phone rang. She looked at the caller ID and saw it was Rapp. She pressed the talk button and asked, “How did it go?”
“She had no idea they were having an affair.”
“You believe her?”
“Yes.”
“Did she confirm that she was the one who ordered him to ride in the second car?”
