Phillip Margolin - Ties That Bind

"What do you want?" Whipple asked, genuinely puzzled and anxious for Northwood to leave before Jerry arrived.

Whipple's visitor looked grim. "I'm afraid that I'm the bearer of bad news. May I come in?"

Whipple hesitated, then led Northwood into the living room and motioned him into a seat. The lawyer leaned back, crossing his right leg over his left to expose freshly polished wingtips.

"It's Mr. Freemont," Northwood said. "He's not coming."

Whipple was confused. The lawyer looked solemn. "He was a fine investigator, Senator. He found the memo proving that several biotech companies contributed millions to a secret slush fund that Harold Travis is using to defeat the anti-cloning bill. Mr. Freemont also had pictorial and audio evidence that would have made a very persuasive case for criminal charges against Senator Travis and others. Unfortunately for you, he no longer has this evidence--we do."

Whipple was truly bewildered. He had no idea how Northwood knew about Jerry Freemont's assignment.

"It's all very perplexing, isn't it?" Northwood said. "You're expecting your investigator to bring you the key to your presidential nomination, and I show up instead." He dipped his head in mock sympathy. "But surely you didn't think that my principals would just stand by quietly while you put us out of business?"

The lawyer's condescension sparked Whipple's anger. He was a powerful man, feared by many, and he was not going to be patronized.

"Where is Jerry Freemont?" he demanded, rising to his full height so that he towered over the lawyer. Northwood was not fazed.

"I advise you to sit down," Whipple's visitor said. "You're in for a fairly strong shock."

"Listen, you two-bit shyster, you've got ten seconds to tell me where Jerry is before I beat it out of you."

"Let me show you," Northwood said as he pulled a snapshot out of his pocket and set it on the coffee table that separated him from the senator. "He was very brave. I want you to know that. It took several hours to convince him to tell us where he was hiding the evidence."

Whipple was stunned. The photograph showed a man, barely recognizable as Jerry Freemont, suspended in air by a length of chain that bound his wrists. It was impossible to tell where the shot had been taken, but the bare beams and peaked roof suggested a barn. Only Freemont's torso and head were visible in the shot, but the cuts and burns on his body could be seen clearly.

"Not a pretty sight," Northwood sighed. "But you need to know that my clients are very serious when they say that they will stop at nothing to achieve their ends."

Whipple could not tear his eyes from the photograph. Jerry Freemont was a tough ex-state trooper, a dear friend who had been with the senator since his first run at political office twenty years earlier. Whipple's features suffused with rage, and his muscles bunched for action. Then he froze. Northwood was pointing a gun at his heart.

"Sit," he said. Whipple hesitated for a moment. Northwood dropped two more photographs on the coffee table. The blood drained from the senator's face.

"Your wife is a very handsome woman, and your granddaughter looks charming. She's five, isn't she?"

"What have you . . . ?"

"No, no. They're perfectly fine. If you cooperate, there will be absolutely nothing to worry about."

Whipple's hands curled into fists but he stayed where he was, seething with impotent fury.

"Please don't force me to shoot you, Senator. That wouldn't be good for you or my principals. And it certainly wouldn't save your family. If you think we'll forget about them once you're dead, you're mistaken."

Whipple felt his strength and anger drain out of him. He slumped back onto his chair.

"If you do as we say, you and your family will be safe."

"What do you want?" Whipple asked. He sounded completely defeated.

Northwood stood up. "Twenty years is a long time to be in politics, Senator. Maybe this would be a good time to retire so you can spend more time with your family. And you can do something for mankind as well by making certain that the anti-cloning bill doesn't make it out of your committee. There are some very fine companies trying to develop cures for disease through the use of cloning technology. When you think about how many sick people those companies can help I'm sure you'll see that your previous position on the bill was a mistake."

Northwood pocketed the photographs. "Do we understand each other, Senator?"

Whipple stared at the top of the coffee table. After a moment he nodded.

"I'm glad," Northwood said, sounding genuinely pleased. "Good evening."

Whipple listened to the clack of Northwood's shoes as he crossed the parquet floor of the foyer, undid the latch, and stepped outside. He heard the front door swing shut--a sound that signaled the end of a lifelong dream.

Chapter Two.

Amanda Jaffe stroked hard and felt her body rise as she cut through the water in the YMCA pool. This was the final fifty of a two hundred-meter workout leg, and she was going as hard as she could. For a moment, she felt like she was flying instead of swimming, then the far wall appeared and she jackknifed her body into a flip turn. Amanda came out of it perfectly and dug in for the final twenty-five meters. She was a tall woman with broad shoulders and well-muscled arms that moved her forward with grace and speed. Seconds later, she crashed against the wall and came up gasping for air.

"Not bad."

Amanda looked up, startled. A man crouched on the edge of the pool with a stopwatch in his hand. He had messy auburn hair and looked to be in his early thirties--somewhere around her age. His build marked him as a competitive swimmer. Despite his cheery grin and pleasant features, Amanda backed away from the wall to put space between them.

"Want to know your time?"

Amanda tried to ignore the sliver of fear that cut through her gut. She was still too winded to speak, so she nodded warily. When the man told her the time, Amanda couldn't believe it. She hadn't swum that fast in years.

"I'm Toby Brooks." He motioned toward the first two lanes where several men and women of various ages were churning the water. "I'm with the Masters swim team."

"Amanda Jaffe," she managed, fighting to tamp down her fear.

"Nice to meet you." Suddenly Brooks looked puzzled. Then he snapped his fingers. "Jaffe. Right!" Amanda was certain he was going to mention one of her cases. "UC Berkeley about 1993?"

Amanda's eyes widened from surprise, relieved that Brooks was not going to make her relive the recent past. "'92, but that's pretty good. How'd you know?"

"I swam for UCLA. You won the two hundred free at the Pac-10s, right?"

Amanda smiled despite herself. "You have some memory."

"My girlfriend at the time was one of the women you beat. She was really upset. You sure ruined my plans for the evening."

"Sorry," Amanda said. She felt uncomfortable with Brooks so close.

Brooks grinned. "No need to be. We weren't getting on that well, anyway. So, what happened after the Pac-10s?"

"Nationals. Then I quit. I was pretty burned out by my senior year. I stayed away from pools for about five years after I graduated."

"Me, too. I ran for a while until my joints started to ache. I just got back into competitive swimming."

Brooks stopped talking and Amanda knew he was waiting for her to continue the conversation.

"So, do you work at the Y?" she asked for something to say.

"No. I'm an investment banker."

"Oh," Amanda said, embarrassed. "I thought you were coaching the team."

"I swim on the team and help out. Our coach is out sick today. Which reminds me. I put the clock on you for a reason. Ever thought about competing again? The Masters program is pretty low-key. We've got a good spread in our age groups--late twenties to three swimmers in their eighties. We could use someone with your experience."