Дэвид Балдаччи - Absolute Power

The men drove on in silence for a few minutes.

“Jack, I know this sounds funny coming from a policeman, but I think you might want to start considering getting the hell out of here. You got some bucks saved? Maybe you should retire early.”

“And what, leave Kate swinging in the wind? If we don’t nail these guys what is she looking at? Ten to fifteen as an accessory? I don’t think so, Seth, not in a million years. They can fry my ass before I let that happen.”

“You’re right. Sorry I brought it up.”

As Seth glanced in his mirror the car next to them tried to do a U-turn directly in front of them. Frank hit the brakes and his car spun sideways, crashing into the curb with a bone-crunching impact. The Kansas license plates on the vehicle that had nearly crashed into them quickly disappeared.

“Stupid tourists. Fucking bastards!” Frank gripped the steering wheel hard, his breath coming in gasps. The shoulder restraint had done its job, but it had dug deeply into his skin. His battered head pounded.

“Fucking bastard.” Frank yelled again to no one in particular. Then he remembered his passenger and looked anxiously in the back seat.

“Jack, Jack, you okay?”

Jack’s face was pressed up against the door glass. He was conscious; in fact, his eyes were staring at something with great intensity.

“Jack?” Frank undid his seat belt and gripped Jack by the shoulder. “You okay? Jack!”

Jack looked at Frank and then back out the window. Frank wondered if the impact had relieved his friend of his senses. He automatically searched Jack’s head for bruises until Jack’s hand stopped him and pointed out the window. Frank looked out.

Even his hardened nerves took a jolt. The rear view of the White House filled his entire line of vision.

Jack’s mind raced; images hurtled across like a video montage. The vision of the President pulling back from Jennifer Baldwin, complaining of tennis elbow. Only it had been inflicted with a certain letter opener that had started this whole crazy thing. The unusual interest taken by the President and the Secret Service in Christine Sullivan’s murder. Alan Richmond’s timely appearance at Luther’s arraignment. Led me right to him. That’s what the detective had said their videotaping citizen had reported. Led me right to him. It also explained killers who killed in the middle of an army of law enforcement officers and walked away. Who would stop a Secret Service agent protecting the President? No one. No wonder Luther felt no one would believe him. The President of the United States.

And there had been a significant event right before Luther had returned to the country. Alan Richmond had held a press conference where he had told the public how terrible he felt about the tragic murder of Christine Sullivan. He was probably fucking the man’s wife and somehow she had gotten killed and this slimeball was gaining political dollars showing what a sensitive and good friend he was; a man who would get tough on crime. It had been a tour de force performance. And that was truly what it had been. Nothing about it had been true. It had been broadcast to the world. What would Luther have thought, seeing that? Jack believed he knew. That was why Luther had come back. To settle the score.

All the pieces had been dangling inside Jack’s head just waiting for the right catalyst to come along.

Jack looked back once more at the catalyst.

Directly under the lamplight, Tim Collin again glanced down the street at the minor traffic mishap, but could make out no details in the oncoming swarm of car headlights. Next to him Bill Burton was also peering out. Collin shrugged, and then rolled the window back up on the black sedan. Burton threw his bubble light on top of the car, hit his siren, quickly drove the car through the rear White House gate and tore off in the direction of D.C. Superior Court in pursuit of Jack.

Jack looked at Seth Frank and smiled grimly as he reflected on the detective’s outburst. The same phrase had erupted from Luther’s mouth, right before his life had ended. Jack finally remembered where he had heard it before. The hurled newspaper at the jail. The smiling President on the front page.

Outside the courthouse, staring right at the man. Those same words had exploded out, with all the fury and venom the old man could muster.

“Fucking bastard,” Jack said.

Alan Richmond stood by the window and wondered if he was destined to be surrounded by incompetents. Gloria Russell sat dronelike in a chair across from him. He had bedded the woman a half-dozen times and now had completely lost interest. He would catapult her away when the time was right. His next administration would be comprised of a far more capable team. Underlings who would allow him to focus on his particular vision for the country. He had not sought the presidency to sweat the details.

“I see we haven’t gained an inch in the polls.” He didn’t look at her; he anticipated her response.

“Does it really matter so much whether you win by sixty percent or seventy percent?”

He whirled around. “Yes,” he hissed. “Yes, it goddamn does matter.”

She bit her lip and retreated. “I’ll step up the effort, Alan. Maybe we can pull a shutout in the Electoral College.”

“At a minimum, we should be able to do that, Gloria.”

She looked down. After the election, she would travel. Around the world. Where she knew no one and no one knew her. A fresh start. That was what she needed. Then everything would be okay.

“Well at least our little problem is cleared up.” He was looking at her, hands clasped behind his back. Tall, lean, impeccably dressed and groomed. He looked like the commander of an invincible armada. But then again history had proven that invincible armadas were far more vulnerable than people imagined.

“It’s been disposed of?”

“No, Gloria, I have it in my desk, would you like to see it? Perhaps you might wish to abscond with it again.” His air was so thick with condescension she felt the urgent need to bring their consultation to a close. She rose.

“Will there be anything else?”

He shook his head and returned to the window. She had just put her hand on the doorknob when it turned and opened.

“We’ve got a problem.” Bill Burton looked at each of them.

“So what does he want?” The President looked down at the photograph Burton had handed him.

Burton replied quickly. “Note doesn’t say. I can guess that the shape the guy’s in with cops on his ass he’s looking for some quick funds.”

The President looked pointedly at Russell. “I’m very puzzled as to how Jack Graham knew to send the photo here.”

Burton picked up on the look from the President, and while the last thing he wanted was to defend Russell they had no time to misanalyze the situation.

“It’s possible Whitney told him,” Burton answered.

“If that’s true, he waited a long time to dance with us,” the President fired back.

“Whitney may not have told him directly. Graham could’ve figured it out for himself. Pieced things together.”

The President tossed down the photo. Russell quickly averted her eyes. The mere sight of the letter opener had paralyzed her.

“Burton, how could this possibly be damaging to us?” The President stared at him, seemingly probing through the inner areas of the agent’s mind.

Burton sat down, rubbed his jaw with the palm of his hand. “I’ve been thinking about that. It could be Graham’s grasping at straws. He’s in a pretty tight fix himself. And his lady friend is cooling her heels in the lockup right now. I’d chalk it up to him being desperate. He gets a sudden inspiration, puts two and two together and takes a flyer on sending us this, hoping it’s worth it to us to pay his price, whatever it might be.”