Дэвид Балдаччи - Absolute Power

Richmond had sat back down and slowly crunched the ice from his cocktail and finally turned his gaze out the window. He was still dressed in a monkey suit from yet another en gagement but the tie was undone. He was still looking out to nowhere when he spoke.

“How long, Burton?”

Burton stopped looking at the floor. “Who knows? Maybe forever.”

“You know better than that. I want your professional assessment.”

“Sooner than later. He’s got a lawyer now. Somehow, some way the guy’s gonna pop to somebody.”

“Do we have any idea where ‘it’ is?”

Burton rubbed his hands together uneasily. “No sir. The police searched his house, his car. If they had found the letter opener, I would’ve heard.”

“But they know it’s missing from Sullivan’s house?”

Burton nodded. “The police realize it has significance. If it turns up they’ll know what to do with it.”

The President stood up and played his fingers across a particularly ugly gothic crystal collection of his wife’s that was displayed on one of the tables. Next to them were photos of his family. He never actually registered on their countenances. All he saw in their faces were the flames of his administration. His face seemed to redden before the invisible conflagration. History was in jeopardy of being rewritten and all because of a little K mart bimbo and an overly ambitious and incredibly stupid Chief of Staff.

“Any idea who Sullivan employed?”

Burton again answered. Russell was no longer an equal. Collin was there only to be told what to do. “Could be one of twenty or thirty high-priced hit men. Whoever it is he’s long gone by now.”

“But you’ve laid the mental trail with our friend the detective?”

“He knows that you ‘innocently’ told Walter Sullivan where and when. The guy’s plenty smart enough to follow up on that.”

The President abruptly picked up one of the crystal pieces and hurled it against the wall where it shattered, sending fragments all across the room; his face contorted into a mass of hate and anger that made even Burton shudder. “Dammit, if he hadn’t missed, it would’ve been perfect.”

Russell looked at the tiny shards of crystal on the carpet. That was her life. All those years of education, toiling, hundred-hour weeks. For this.

“The police are going to follow up with Sullivan. I made sure the detective on the case understood Sullivan’s possible involvement.” Burton continued, “But even though he’s the most likely suspect, he’ll deny everything. They won’t be able to prove anything. I’m not sure where that gets us, sir.”

Richmond strolled around the room. He could’ve been preparing for a speech or getting ready to shake hands with a troop of Boy Scouts from a Midwestern state. He was actually contemplating how to murder someone in a way that absolutely no blame, not even a hint of suspicion, would ever fall his way.

“What if he tried again? And this time succeeded.”

Burton looked puzzled. “How do we control what Sullivan does?”

“By doing it ourselves.”

No one said anything for a couple of minutes. Russell glanced incredulously at her boss. Her entire life had just gone straight to hell and now she was compelled to participate in a conspiracy to commit murder. She had felt emotionally numb since all of this had started. She had been absolutely certain her situation could not get any worse. And she had been absolutely wrong about that.

Finally Burton ventured an analysis. “I’m not sure the police would believe Sullivan would be that crazy. He’s gotta know they’re on to him, but can’t prove anything. If we pop Whitney, I’m not sure they’d look Sullivan’s way.”

The President stopped strolling. He stood directly in front of Burton. “So let the police reach that conclusion themselves, if they ever do.”

The reality was that Richmond no longer needed Walter Sullivan to regain the White House. Perhaps more important, this was a perfect way to rid himself of the obligation to back Sullivan’s Ukraine deal over Russia; a decision that was growing into more and more of a potential liability. If Sullivan were even remotely implicated in the death of his wife’s killer, he would be doing no more global deals. Richmond’s support would be discreetly withdrawn. Everyone who counted would understand that silent retreat.

“Alan, you want to set Sullivan up for a murder?” These were the first words Russell had spoken. Her face betrayed her complete astonishment.

He looked at her, with unconcealed contempt in his eyes.

“Alan, think about what you’re saying. This is Walter Sullivan, this is not some two-bit crook no one gives a damn about.”

Richmond smiled. Her stupidity amused him. She had seemed so bright, so incredibly capable when he first brought her on board. He had been wrong.

The President did some rough calculations. At best Sullivan had perhaps a twenty percent chance of going down for the killing. Given similar circumstances, Richmond would take those odds. Sullivan was a big boy, he could take care of himself. And if he faltered? Well, that was why they had prisons. He looked at Burton.

“Burton, do you understand?”

Burton didn’t answer.

The President said sharply, “You were certainly prepared to kill the man before, Burton. As far as I can determine, the stakes haven’t changed. In fact they’re probably higher. For all of us. Do you understand, Burton?” Richmond paused for a moment, then repeated his question.

Burton finally looked up and said quietly, “I understand.”

For the next two hours they laid their plans.

As the two Secret Service agents and Russell rose to leave, the President looked at her. “So tell me, Gloria, what happened to the money?”

Russell looked straight at him. “It was donated, anonymously, to the American Red Cross. I understand it was one of their biggest single contributions ever.”

The door closed and the President had smiled. Nice part ing shot. Enjoy it, Luther Whitney. Enjoy it while you can, you insignificant little nothing.

Walter Sullivan settled into his chair with a book but never opened it. His mind wandered back. Back to events that seemed more ethereal, more wholly unconnected to his person than anything else that had ever happened in his life. He had hired a man to kill. To kill someone who stood accused of murdering his wife. The job had been botched. A fact for which Sullivan was quietly thankful. For his grief had subsided enough to where he knew what he had attempted to do was wrong. A civilized society must follow certain procedures unless it were to become uncivilized. And no matter how painful it would be to him, he was a civilized man. He would follow the rules.

It was then that he looked down at the newspaper. Many days old now, its contents continued to beat incessantly into his head. The thick, dark headlines shone back at him on the white background of the page. As he turned his attention to it, distant suspicions in his mind were starting to crystallize. Walter Sullivan was not only a billionaire, he possessed a brilliant and perceptive mind. One that saw every detail along with every landscape.

Luther Whitney was dead. The police had no suspects. Sullivan had checked the obvious solution. McCarty had been in Hong Kong on the day in question. Sullivan’s last directive to the man had indeed been heeded. Walter Sullivan had called off his hunt. But someone else had taken up the chase in his place.

And Walter Sullivan was the only person who knew that for a fact other than his bungling assassin.

Sullivan looked at his old timepiece. It was barely seven in the morning and he had been up for four hours already. The twenty-four hours in a day meant little to him anymore. The older he grew, the less important became the parameters of time. Four o’clock in the morning could find him wide awake on a plane over the Pacific while two in the afternoon might be the halfway point in his sleep for the day.