Vice President-elect Richard Young called Mark Dailey, determined to show Warner that he’d declared war on the wrong man. “I’ve got some bad news, Mark. Warner bumped you out of a Cabinet post.”
“Are you kidding me?” Mark’s voice was filled with disappointment.
“I know, I know,” Richard said, his tone low and soothing. “I tried to get him to rethink it, but he was against the idea from the start. You’ll be named as a White House advisor. I had to push hard just to get you that position. Carolyn was in on it, too.”
“Carolyn? Carolyn cut my throat?”
“I know you thought you had her under your thumb, but she really stabbed you in the back, buddy. It was ugly.” Richard knew Mark would never discover his lie. Divide and conquer, he thought.
“Son of a bitch,” Mark hissed.
“They’ve already forgotten who their friends are,” Richard said.
“Maybe they need a reminder.” Mark hung up.
Mark Dailey sprawled in an upholstered chair, his long legs stretched in front of him, a crystal glass full of Glenlivet in his right hand. One of many glasses of scotch that night, he took a big sip, holding the burning fluid in his mouth before swallowing.
Through the windows of his suite at the Mark Hopkins Hotel, he took in the glory of the San Francisco skyline. Fog threatened to blanket the city from the west, but remained a thick bank hovering over the Golden Gate Bridge.
All he could think of was Carolyn. He thought he could count on her, that she’d champion him for a Cabinet post in the White House. Shit, he’d been kissing her ass for years. He realized how foolish he’d been, how wrong. Her devotion was to Warner, and only Warner. She didn’t even
He’d sold his soul for his career, and came up empty handed. Now the country would suffer.
What kind of man had he become? What kind of men were running the country? How could he have helped the Council to create such a loathsome situation?
Men were dead. Good men.
“Fuck it,” Mark said aloud. “Fuck Carolyn. Fuck Warner and Edmund Lane, fuck all of them.” And he knew just the man to do it. Mark looked at the telephone. Did he dare? The thought of calling Jack Rudly sobered him.
Mark stared at the phone, and the phone number he had written on a scrap of paper beside it. Rudly, like most of the press, was in town for the trade conference. It was now or never, Mark realized. He dialed.
“What’s deadlier to a country than war?” Mark slurred.
“Who is this?” Rudly asked.
“What’s deadlier to a country than war?”
“I don’t do riddles.” Jack snarled.
Mark blinked as the sound of the phone being slammed down jarred his alcohol-dulled senses.
“Fucker.” He dialed again. He was sick of being ignored, pushed aside. Damn it, someone was going to listen to him for once.
Jack answered more quickly this time. “What do you want?”
“Does 202-555-1416 sound familiar?”
“Are you calling from the White House?”
“Very good. Mr. Rudly. You know the private White House lines. Don’t bother checking it out. It’s not mine.”
“Who is this?”
“What do murder and the White House have in common?”
“Murder? That’s a bit far-fetched, isn’t it?”
“Only if I were making it up,” Mark hiccupped.
“Look, you got my attention by using a White House phone number,” Jack said, “and that bought you about a minute of my time. Tell me who you are, or I’m hanging up.”
“Your father would understand the mess I’m in.”
“What does this have to do with my father?”
“An honorable man, your father. The last of the honorable politicians. A great senator. He understood the link between murder and the White House. Too bad he had to pay the highest price.” Mark looked toward the window. A light rain hit the glass. “He’s not the only one.”
“What’re you talking about? My father died of a coronary. He wasn’t into games, and neither am I. So cut the crap.”
‘They’re going to kill me now. It’ll be headline news.“ A lump formed in Mark’s throat. Good men were dead. Maybe he deserved to die, too. ”Is he the reason you became a journalist?“
“Who’s going to kill you?”
“Scotch is a man’s drink, you know. Your father and I shared a love of scotch, especially Glenlivet.” Mark took a sip.
“A lot of people drink Glenlivet. That doesn’t prove you knew my father.”
“Not with three twists, they don’t. Boy, did your dad know how to ruin perfectly good scotch with too much lemon.” Mark laughed. “You’re talking to a dead man. We’ve deceived an entire nation, you know. Your father would never have done that. He’s still a legend on the Hill.”
“Leave my father out of this. Why’d you call me?”
“You’ve got to stop the murders,” Mark said.
“What murders? You’re not making any sense.”
“Goddamn it. You’re not listening. Men are dead. I’m next.”
