Джозеф Хеллер - Maximum Impact

“I want the letter back,” Helmutsen said. “I don’t want any evidence of Arch’s involvement to leave this office. But I included it for you to read so you could verify the authenticity of the document.”

Pace nodded. The letter was perfunctory, but it did allude to the attached results of an investigation of Harold Marshall’s April 19th transaction in Converse common stock. When Pace finished reading the letter, he handed it back to Helmutsen.

The report contained a breakdown of both the purchase and the sale of the Converse stock. The figures given were much more precise than those Pace had had to work with, although he was cheered to see his imprecise calculations hadn’t been far off the mark.

It got a little complicated from there. It noted that most people who buy and sell stock regularly have accounts with brokerage firms. Stock purchases are paid for out of those accounts, and profits are returned to them. Generally, the report said, it would take ten days to two weeks for the proceeds from a sale to show up in the owner’s account, and the owner would have to wait that long to get his hands on his cash.

But in the case of Marshall’s sale of 50,000 Converse shares, the proceeds were wired by his broker on the same day to Marshall’s checking account in Washington at the Riggs National Bank, across the street from the Treasury Department.

“Nearly four million dollars to a checking account?” Pace asked.

“Read on. The best part lies ahead,” Helmutsen said.

Minutes before the bank closed, according to the report, Marshall went in and withdrew one million dollars in cash. Bank officials told the FBI he put 10,000 one-hundred-dollar bills in a briefcase and walked out of the bank with it. No security guards, no qualms, no nothing. He left as though he’d cashed a $50 check.

On the date the FBI report was written—the previous day, Pace recalled from the covering letter—the balance of the funds remained in the checking account.

Pace looked at Helmutsen in disbelief. He could feel his mouth open. “Ten thousand hundred-dollar bills?” he asked. “I wouldn’t have thought banks kept that many.”

“They don’t as a rule,” Helmutsen said. “I got clarification. Marshall called ahead to let Riggs know what he wanted. They had to scramble, but they put it together for him.”

Pace continued to read.

Acting on an FBI request, the federal banking officials conducted a search and found a new account opened in the name of Ernest Peters in an Alexandria, Virginia, savings bank early the next morning in the amount of $750,000. Peters brought in cash. By comparing handwriting and through a description of Peters given by bank officials, the FBI was able to conclude that Ernest Peters was, in fact, Elliott Parkhall, the man in charge of the investigation of the C-Fan at Dulles.

“So Parkhall was paid off to fake the bird strike?” Pace asked.

“Supposition,” Helmutsen said.

“What happened to the other quarter-million?”

“No word, and the FBI won’t speculate,” Helmutsen replied. “I don’t mind, though. Maybe Marshall held it back to cover future expenses. Or maybe he gave the whole million to Parkhall, and Parkhall kept $250,000 for immediate payoffs. Find Parkhall, find out.”

“Parkhall’s dead,” Pace said matter-of-factly. “His body’s been recovered.”

Helmutsen heaved a sigh and shook his head. “What a fucked-up mess,” he said.

“It was good of you to see me, Hugh. I know you didn’t have to.”

“I had no reason to refuse.”

Harold Marshall and Hugh Green faced each other across the big old mahogany desk in Green’s Senate office. It was late. The office staff was gone for the day. Marshall asked expressly for the privacy. He refused to walk the halls of Capitol Hill, absorbing the looks of anger or pity or contempt from those who recognized him. For a person who read the papers these days, with his photograph everywhere, recognition would come easily.

He dressed casually for the meeting: slacks and loafers, a sport shirt, and one of those old-style cardigan V-neck sweaters Perry Como popularized. The sweaters were functional and comfortable, and Marshall took care to preserve his collection.

“I want to testify at the earliest possible date, and I want the hearing to be public—press, radio, television, C-Span—the works,” Marshall said.

“I don’t know if there’s going to be a hearing, Harold,” Green said. “The committee is split right along partisan lines. Unless one of us or one of them relents, we’re deadlocked.”

“And if you get a Republican to vote with you?”

“Then we’ll have a hearing, and we will gladly hear you, although I imagine the plans would call for your testimony to be taken behind closed doors.”

“There’s no need for that. I have nothing to hide.” Marshall’s clear blue eyes never wavered. Green wondered if he thought he was telling the truth.

“Harold, the big stock sale the Chronicle wrote about—was the story accurate?”

“More or less,” Marshall conceded. “I don’t see what’s wrong with that. Isn’t it reasonable to assume, given the initial reports of the events surrounding the accident, that any prudent Converse stockholder would have sold out?”

“Perhaps so, yes,” said Green. “Then what did you do with all the cash?”

“I’m not prepared to say.”

“And where did a civil lawyer from Ohio, with modest family means, get the funds to acquire all that stock in the first place?”

“I’m also not prepared to answer that.”

“Now? Or ever?”

“Ever.”

Green ducked his head in frustration. “Harold, for God’s sake, you know that answer won’t wash.”

“It will have to suffice.”

“They’ll crucify you.”

Marshall shrugged. “I’m willing to take the chance. And if I’m willing to risk it, why aren’t you willing to allow me to assume the risk? Surely you aren’t going to claim you’re looking out for my best interests.” Marshall’s voice oozed sarcasm.

Green sighed deeply. “No, you’ve always been very capable of looking out for yourself. But I don’t want the hearing turned into a sideshow. I won’t have it used as a soapbox for you.”

“Then you don’t want me to have my say?”

“Of course you can have your say. But I don’t even know if there’ll be a hearing.”

“And if there is a hearing, you’ll put forth my request to appear at a public session?”

“Yes.”

“Without objection?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

After Marshall left—neither man had offered to shake the other’s hand—Green sank back into his chair.

“You’ve got something up your sleeve, you crafty old bastard,” he said to the empty office. “But I’m damned if I can figure what it is.”

The ConPac accident investigation was now well into its seventh week, and Steve Pace felt as though it must be the seventh year. He’d been running nonstop on adrenaline, and his body’s ability to manufacture a new supply was ebbing. Or maybe it was his increasingly wonderful relationship with Kathy that was causing the problem. He cherished every moment they had together, and with days off tenuous at best, he tried to cram everything he could into the hours that circumstance and deadlines gave them. Maybe he wasn’t burning out on the story so much as he wasn’t giving his body the time it needed to recharge during his rare off-hours.

The end of the previous week cost him an enormous amount of emotional energy.

When Pace returned to the office Friday afternoon with the FBI report supplied by Garrison Helmutsen, his editors were stunned. Avery Schaeffer actually called Helmutsen to hear for himself the circumstance under which the senator had come to possess the document. He didn’t mistrust his reporter; he simply wanted to hear it from the source.