Дэвид Балдаччи - Absolute Power

“Walter, will you please tell me where you are? You are obviously not feeling well.”

“Would you like me to play the tape for you, Alan? The one from the press conference where you gave me that particularly moving line about things that happen that have no meaning. It was quite a nice thing to say. A private comment between old friends that was picked up by several TV and radio stations in the area but that never made the light of day. It’s a tribute to your popularity, I suppose, that no one picked up on it. You were being so charming, so supportive, who cared if you said Christy was sick. And you did say that, Alan. You told me that if Christy hadn’t gotten sick she wouldn’t have been murdered. She would’ve gone with me to the island and she would be alive today.

“I was the only one Christy told about being sick, Alan. And as I said, I never even told the police. So how did you know?”

“You must have told me.”

“I neither met nor spoke with you prior to the press conference. That much is easily confirmed. My schedule is monitored by the minute. As President your whereabouts and communications are pretty much known at all times. I say pretty much, because on the night Christy was killed you were certainly not among your usual haunts. You happened to be in my house, and more to the point, in my bedroom. At the press conference we were surrounded by dozens of people at all times. Everything we said to each other is on tape somewhere. You didn’t learn it from me.”

“Walter, please tell me where you are. I want to help you through this.”

“Christy was never really good at keeping things straight. She must have been so proud of her subterfuge with me. She probably bragged to you, didn’t she? How she had snookered the old man? Because in fact my late wife was the only person in the world who could’ve told you that she had feigned illness. And you carelessly uttered those words to me. I don’t know why it took me so long to arrive at the truth. I suppose I was so obsessed with finding Christy’s killer that I accepted the burglary theory without question. Perhaps it was also subconscious self-denial. Because I was never wholly ignorant of Christy’s desires for you. But I guess I just didn’t want to believe you could do that to me. I should have assumed the worst in human nature and I would not have found myself disappointed. But as they say, better late than never.”

“Walter, why did you call me?”

Sullivan’s voice grew more quiet but lost none of its force, none of its intensity. “Because, you bastard, I wanted to be the one to tell you of your new future. It will involve lawyers and courts and more public exposure than even as President you ever dreamed was possible. Because I didn’t want you to be wholly surprised when the police presented themselves on your doorstep. And most of all, I wanted you to know exactly who to thank for all of it.”

The President’s voice became tense. “Walter, if you want me to help you, I will. But I am the President of the United States. And although you are one of my oldest friends, I will not tolerate this type of accusation from you or anyone else.”

“That’s good, Alan. Very good. You discerned that I would be taping the conversation. Not that it matters.” Sullivan paused for a moment, then continued. “My protégé, Alan. Taught you everything I knew, and you learned well. Well enough to hold the highest office in the land. Fortunately, your fall will also be the steepest.”

“Walter, you’ve been under a lot of stress. For the last time, please get some help.”

“Funny, Alan, that’s precisely my advice to you.”

Sullivan clicked off the phone and turned off the recorder. His heart was beating abnormally fast. He put one hand against his chest, forced himself to relax. A coronary was not going to be allowed. He was going to be around to see this one.

He looked out the window and then at the inside of the room. His little homestead. His father had died in this very room. Somehow, that thought was comforting to him.

He lay back in the chair and closed his eyes. In the morning he would call the police. He would tell them everything and he would give them the tape. Then he would sit back and watch. Even if they didn’t convict Richmond, his career was over. Which was to say the man was as good as dead, professionally, spiritually, mentally. Who cared if his physical carcass lingered? So much the better. Sullivan smiled. He had sworn that he would avenge his wife’s killer. And he had.

It was the sudden sensation of his hand rising from his side that brought his eyes open. And then his hand was being closed around a cold, hard object. It wasn’t until the barrel touched the side of his head that he really reacted. And by then it was too late.

As the President looked at the phone receiver, he checked his watch. It would be over right about now. Sullivan had taught him well. Too well, as it had turned out, for the teacher. He had been almost certain Sullivan would contact him directly prior to announcing the President’s culpability to the world. That had made it relatively simple. Richmond rose and headed upstairs to his private quarters. The thought of the late Walter Sullivan had already passed from his mind. It was not efficient or productive to linger over a vanquished foe. It only set you back for your next challenge. Sullivan had also taught him that.

In the twilight the younger man stared at the house. He had heard the shot, but his eyes never stopped staring at the dim light in the window.

Bill Burton rejoined Collin in a few seconds. He could not even look at his partner. Two trained and dedicated Secret Service agents, killers of young women and old men.

On the drive back, Burton sank back in his seat. It was finally over. Three people dead, counting Christine Sullivan. And why not count her? That’s what had started this whole nightmare.

Burton looked down at his hand, still barely able to comprehend that it had just curled around the grip of a gun, forced a trigger back and ended a man’s life. With his other hand Burton had taken the cassette recorder and the tape. They were in his pocket headed for the incinerator.

When he had checked the telephone tap and listened to Sullivan’s phone conversation with Seth Frank, Burton had no idea what the old man was getting at with Christine Sullivan’s “illness.” But when he reported the information to the President, Richmond had looked out the window for some minutes, a shade paler than he had been when Burton had entered the room. Then he had phoned the White House Media Department. A few minutes later they had both listened to the tape from the first press conference on the Middleton Courthouse steps. To the President commiserating with his old friend, about the whimsical nature of life; how Christine Sullivan would still be alive if she hadn’t taken ill. Having forgotten that Christine Sullivan had told him that on the day of her death. A fact that could be proven. A fact that could possibly topple all of them.

Burton had slumped back in his chair, stared at his boss, who silently looked at the tape as if he were trying to erase its words with his thoughts. Burton shook his head incredulously. Caught up in his own mushy rhetoric, just like a politician.

“What do we do now, Chief? Make a run for it on Air Force One?” Burton was only half-joking as he studied the carpet. He was too numb to even think anymore.

He looked up to find the President’s eyes full upon him. “Walter Sullivan is the only living person, other than ourselves, who knows the significance of this information.”

Burton rose from his chair and returned the stare. “My job doesn’t include popping people just because you tell me to.”

The President would not take his eyes from Burton’s face. “Walter Sullivan is now a direct threat to us. He is also fucking with us and I don’t like people fucking with me. Do you?”