Code 13 (32 page)

The cameras had obviously been prepositioned in multiple hiding places in the bedroom before she coaxed him under the sheets.

Now, sitting there staring at photographic evidence of the night he so foolishly compromised himself, thoughts of suicide danced through his head. Not only did the oil-and-gas lobbyist now own him forever, for he would always have to vote the way they told him to vote, but whoever possessed these photographs owned him too.

He couldn't bear to look at the third photograph. But when a morbid curiosity overcame him, he saw that it was as bad as the second, showing them embracing, compromised in multiple ways in the bedroom after the act.

The encounter had been ecstasy, at least for the time that the alcohol still controlled his faculties. But later that night, back at his apartment, he lay alone in his bed. The liquor's effects began to subside, yielding to the reality of his moral downfall, and an internal hell on earth besieged every inch of his body. The space from the pit of his stomach running all the way up to his heart and then his throat felt like someone was twisting his organs.

Why?

Why had he done this?

It haunted him in the dark of night. All the times he had condemned the political womanizers of the world, the Bill Clintons and the Johnny Edwardses and the Teddy Kennedys and the Mark Sanfords. He had often declared self-sanctimoniously, even to his wife, that he was “not like them.”

And now he had fallen from his high-and-mighty pedestal and, like them, entered into a world of moral sewerdom.

He was a tortured man that night, alone in his bed, two days before Molly Sue would return. Unable to sleep, he called out into the night, quoting the God-man he professed to follow: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

Rolling and twisting in the bed, he felt every bit the forsaken man, as if God had withdrawn himself from him.

Oh, he had known all about sin, at least in theory. Most Southern Baptists do. And as a deacon and a Sunday school teacher back
at his home church in Augusta, he had talked the talk and talked a good game.

So far his secret fall from purity had cost him only one vote—in favor of a pipeline he probably would have voted for anyway—and a ton of sleepless and restless nights in the three months since it happened.

But now this.

Now his sins were coming home to roost.

Now, sitting alone in the inner sanctums of his palatial office, with his chief of staff and his secretary waiting outside for him to call them back in, he experienced every physical flashback he had felt that night in the aftermath of his dalliance with the hot young model.

They had him where they wanted him.

DeKlerk.

DeKlerk was responsible for this. From start to finish. His lawyers knew every lobbyist in Washington. All Jack Patterson had to do was make a call to the oil-and-gas lobbyist, who made a call to Marla Moreno and offered her enough cash, and they had him where they wanted him. And he'd fallen for it like a rat tempted with a huge glob of sharp cheddar cheese.

But now, with the murder of the JAG officer, things became even less certain.

What if his staff was involved in the shooting of the JAG officer?

He'd asked himself this question a dozen times over the last few days. And truly, he didn't want to know the answer to the question.

Yes, he had told Tommy Mandela to “take care of the problem,” with the “problem” being, of course, the uncertainty as to which way the opinion would break.

“Back-channel sources,” in the words of Tommy Mandela—and Talmadge didn't want the details about that—had intercepted some emails and other messages signaling that MacDonald could break either way in his opinion.

Bobby's money-backer constituents couldn't risk that MacDonald might, at the end of the day, author a legal opinion that could undermine the project, or undermine a part of the project. So Bobby had told Mandela to “take care of the problem” and left it at that.

What if the revelation of this tryst led to an indictment for conspiracy to commit murder?

How had things gotten so out of control? Why had he not had the strength to hold on to his morals? Since his election, things had happened quickly for him.

Marla Moreno wasn't the first opportunity to fall in his lap. From the moment of his election to the senate, women had thrown themselves at him in droves.

He began to heave, certain that he was about to vomit on his desk.

Another thought hit him. Was his own chief of staff involved in this? Had Tommy Mandela been planted in his staff by the GPVF or by DeKlerk?

Who could he trust?

He had lost all hope. He had lost all trust. And what had happened to his joy? Where was his boyhood joy? Joy at the simplest things, like his grandfather taking him deep-sea fishing at Hilton Head, or the times spent duck hunting in the lowland marshes of the Georgia and South Carolina coasts?

It was all for naught. He would never recover the simple pleasures in life he once had known.

U.S. Senator Bobby Talmadge, in all his glory and splendor, and wielding the power and influence that few people would ever attain, felt like he had struck a deal with the devil as his price for it all. Indeed, perhaps he had done just that.

He opened his right bottom drawer.

The long silver barrel of the Taurus .357 revolver glistened in the light from the lamp on his desk.

He picked up the gun, closed his eyes, and jammed the barrel against his temple.

As a professing Christian, he knew intellectually that suicide was wrong. But what he had done was even more wrong. What choice did he have? Once those photos came out, if they came out, his marriage would be over, his career finished, his name scorned and ridiculed, and very likely he would be indicted, probably for conspiracy to commit murder of a U.S. Naval officer.

There was no hope, no way out.

His mind raced in uncontrollable fury. He took a deep breath, uttered a quick, final prayer—“Forgive me, God”—and pulled the trigger.

The revolver responded with a single
click
.

Bobby cursed. He had forgotten to load the gun.

He laid it down on his desk, reached to the right bottom drawer, pushed some papers around, and found the box of .357 hollow points he'd had shipped in from Atlanta.

He popped open the chamber, pulled out a single bullet, kissed it, and slid it into the first cylinder. This revolver was a seven-shooter, unlike most six-shooters, and the senator loaded every bullet into place.

He needed only one bullet, but there was no point in risking a misfire.

He put the gun in his mouth this time, but something told him a head shot would seem more ceremonious, in fact more courageous.

He brought the barrel back to his temple and again asked God to forgive him.

Something white appeared in the air in front of his desk.

“What?”

A message chirped on his cell phone.

Whatever appeared was gone.

Was he going crazy?

He picked up the cell phone. A text.

Hi, Daddy!
Whatcha doing?
Wanna grab a late dinner tonight?
Love you!
Marybeth

“Oh crap.”

He pulled the gun down.

Whatever he'd seen . . . Were his eyes playing tricks on him? There was no other explanation. He must be going mad!

Ah yes . . . the text . . .

He read the text again, then looked at the gun.

Maybe later.

Not now.

Maybe underneath it all, in some way, his kids still needed him.

He slipped the gun into the lower right drawer. Maybe later. The envelope with the pictures of Marla went into the same drawer.

He returned the text.

Sure Sweet Girl,
I'll call you when I leave the office.

He pressed the Send button and breathed out a sigh of relief, which did nothing to ease the turmoil in his stomach and chest and throat.

But he would fight a little longer. Perhaps he could deal with it in a way to minimize damage.

He hit the intercom on his desk.

“Maryanne?”

“Yes, Senator?”

“Send Tommy back in.”

“Yes, sir.”

A second later, Tommy reentered Bobby's office. “Are you okay, boss?” Bobby studied Mandela's face. Did Mandela know what the envelope contained? Bobby thought for a second about confronting him. But if Mandela didn't know, confronting him would simply give it away, and Bobby needed to play this close to the vest.

“Yes, I'm fine,” he said, though nothing was fine. “Just communicating with my daughter about dinner. That's all.” A half-truth following the lie. “Look, Tommy, we've got some powerful people breathing down my neck who want this contract out of the Pentagon and on the floor of Congress for a vote. So here's what I want you to do. I want a bill drafted, and I want it drafted by Monday, approving expenditures for Operation Blue Jay.

“Once it's drafted, I want you to send a draft copy to Richardson DeKlerk at AirFlite, and then I want it introduced on the floor of the
senate. We'll send a copy over to Congressman Jones's office and encourage them to introduce a concurrent bill containing the same language in the House. I want you to call in my legislative staff and get on this. Now! Is that clear? We've got to deliver, or the results will be disastrous. All around. Do you understand me?”

Mandela responded with an evil-looking grin. “I understand more than you know, Senator.”

LA MADELEINE COUNTRY FRENCH CAFÉ

500 KING STREET

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

SUNDAY MORNING

Caroline decided putting on her designer shades not only would block the bright early-morning rays from the sun but also might serve as a bit of a disguise to prevent her from being recognized.

Paul Kriete had been a perfect gentleman last night. He hadn't bothered her in the least, nor been suggestive that she had come to his apartment for anything other than chivalrous protection. For this she was grateful.

But, of course, hiding in the shelter of Paul's apartment-nest might work for a night or two, but she couldn't hide under his protective wing forever.

“So how well did you sleep last night?” Captain Kriete asked as he turned into the parking lot of la Madeleine.

“I had some trouble getting to sleep at first, but after an hour or so, I slept like a baby. Thank you.”

“You should have slept in my bed and let me take the sofa.” He parked his blue Suburban in a space just in front of the restaurant. “Tonight I'm going to insist on that.”

“I don't know, sir. You can't be my personal bodyguard forever.”

“Why not?”

“Sir, I—”

“Hang on. I'll get your door for you. We'll talk about this later.”

He got out, walked behind the Suburban, came up to the passenger side, and opened the door for her.

“Thank you.” She stepped out of the SUV just as a red Mercedes pulled into the parking space right beside them.

“You ready?” He closed her door and hit his remote clicker, causing the SUV to beep once as the doors locked.

“As ready as I'll ever be.”

He rested his hand in the middle of her back and rushed her at a brisk pace toward the front door of the restaurant.

How strange, she thought as they walked across the asphalt, that she didn't object to the feel of his hand touching her back. Not that she felt some sort of electricity or magical romantic magnetism—especially not so soon after P.J.'s death.

But the touch of his hand exuded a firm certainty, a sense of security and safety. What else could she expect from a strong, confident man who had commanded a U.S. Navy warship? She would never admit this to him, but right now, with her head spinning and her emotions swirling, Paul Kriete's masculine strength was exactly what she needed.

“Here ya go.” He opened the door for her just as a light breeze brought the scent of his cologne, distracting her in a way she had not expected.

“There they are.” She pointed across the restaurant. Victoria and Mark sat in the far corner, both waving at Caroline and Paul. They walked over to the table, and Victoria and Mark stood as they approached.

“Everybody okay?” Mark asked, waiting for them to sit.

“We're here,” Paul said as a server approached.

“Sir? Ma'am? Would you like coffee?”

“Yes, cream and sugar,” Caroline said.

“Black,” Paul said.

“Be right back.”

“So did you find out anything?” Paul asked.

“Our computer forensics folks were able to trace Commander MacDonald's emails, both personal and business.” Mark sipped his coffee. “Here's what we know. P.J. wrote two legal opinions: one
saying the proposed project is legal in its entirety, and one concluding that the project as proposed is not legal because of
posse comitatus
and Fourth Amendment issues.

“The email he sent to Simmons concluded that the project was legal, and he said he planned to send the second opinion to Simmons later, but he only sent the opinion that would have legally cleared the project for passage by Congress.”