Damascus Road (4 page)

“Having you show up here today, wouldn’t be ideal,” Isaac
went on.

“Not ideal?” I asked.

Before Isaac could respond, I walked into traffic. The funny
thing about being in a car accident is that there’s a bit of gun shyness that
goes along with it. You can’t shake the sound of shrieking metal in your ears.
Your bones still rattle from the impact. I didn’t have any of those feelings. I
couldn’t explain why not, except that things were different.

I stepped into the road. I didn’t hear the honks or the
screech of tires. It was as if I had a path across the street made for me. A
parting of the Red Sea of traffic. I could feel the vehicles move around me,
front and back, but I did not flinch. Once I reached the other side of the
road, I looked back and saw Isaac Carter across the street, cars flowing
between us. His mouth was open, unable to speak. I had no explanation to give
and turned away.

The crowd of media was thick and impenetrable. I did not want
to be lost in the crowd the first time I saw my father after all these years. I
would not be the lone voice calling from the crowd, begging for his attention.
I would be more than that to him.

I found a gap between two buildings adjoining his campaign
headquarters and followed the narrow gap. A fence blocked my way, but I climbed
it, dropping easily onto the other side.

The rear of the buildings opened onto an alleyway, lined
with dumpsters, trash cans and garages. I found the back of the campaign headquarters
and let myself in. All eyes were focused on the front of the house. I could see
tables, folding chairs, banners and...

The Secret Service agent appeared from my peripheral vision.
He wore sunglasses and a dark suit, an earpiece clung to his ear. He held
something up his right sleeve.

“May I help you?” he asked. His tone said otherwise. More
like, you don’t belong here. Or don’t let the door hit you in the ass.

“I’m here for the General,” I said.

“The General?” A smile played over his lips. He thought I
was a loon.

“Two Star General Ellis Marlowe,” I said and jabbed a finger
toward the front of the house. A second agent was approaching.

“Oh, the Senator…” he said, clear now. He looked and saw his
partner approaching quickly. “I’m afraid you can’t…”

The agent tried to grab my forearm, but I pulled away. It
was all the provocation he needed. I heard his collapsible ASP baton drop into
his hand and snap open with a sharp thump. He swung the baton in a short arc
aimed in a cross-body strike. I knew the move well and ducked under it. His
partner was not so lucky and took the blow to the gut. He folded in half. I
pushed the dazed partner into the armed agent, bulldozing the two together,
mashing them into the wall. I jumped back and pulled the adjoining door closed
between us. I snapped the lock shut a second before the door was assaulted with
pounding hands and kicking feet, shouts of anger and vicious curses.

My window of time was short. I turned and headed for the
front of the headquarters. Volunteers in shirt sleeves, wearing buttons were
cheering and slapping high fives with one another. Secretaries and office
managers were gathered and celebrating. I put a smile on my face and applauded,
blending into the crowd, pushing through, angling for the door.

I saw him then. Ellis Patrick Marlowe. The General. The
Senator.

“And I’m announcing to you today…” Ellis was saying, “That I
am running for President of the United States!”

Aww, shit.

Ellis waved his hands to the crowd, soaking in the adoration
and the media focus. He was scanning the crowd, smiling, his teeth white,
perfect, and even. His face was handsome, framed by salt and pepper hair.

I wanted to retreat, to get away. This was everything I had
feared and fled from. That was when he saw me.

“Well now,” he said, playing for the crowd and the cameras
as much as for me, “Look who we have here!”

He beckoned me out, like I was part of the announcement. I
hesitated, but remembered what Bob Beck had told me. How I needed to reach out
to my father. I stepped out and stood by his side.

“The prodigal son returns,” he said to me. There was a
twinkle in his eye that I admired. I hated myself for it, but I missed the old
bull.

The crowd burst into a sea of flashbulbs as pictures were
clicked. I put my arm around him, and we waved at the crowd together. Father
and son, side by side. The two Secret Service agents appeared at the door,
glaring at my back. Ellis saw them and laughed.

“Some things never change, Jim,” Ellis said.

“Everything’s changed, General,” I replied. “We need to
talk.”

He nodded.

“That we do,” he agreed.

Ellis Marlowe apologized to the Secret Service agents. Their
names were Hauser and Truman. Hauser had attacked me. Truman had been pummeled
in the crossfire. They didn’t like me. I could tell from having a long,
grueling history of not being liked. They scowled at me, and I smiled back.

Ellis offered to buy dinner. I had no other plans, no other
place to be, so I took him up on it. I offered to drive and he accepted. He
waved off the Secret Service escort, but I had a feeling they wouldn’t take a
dive that easily.

I showed him to the Hemicuda.

“Are you kidding me?” he said. I couldn’t tell if he was in
awe or incredulous.

“It was a gift,” I said. I was fidgeting with the keys,
avoiding his eyes. He made me feel like a kid again, frustrated that he didn’t
appreciate the car.

“From a girl?” he asked.

Ellis Marlowe had a way of calling me out. He did it with
guile and guilt. Nothing was sacred. He could tear down beliefs and dictums as
fast as you could put them up.

I shook my head and looked at him, more than a little hurt.

“It belonged to Chris Beck,” I said. “His father gave me the
keys at the funeral.”

Ellis smiled and opened his mouth to say something smug,
some belittling remark to cut the gravity of the situation.

“Get in the car,” I said. “We need to talk.”

He got in and buckled without another word. I fired up the
engine and let it prowl and growl. Ellis nodded, conceding the point.

“It’s a ’71?” he asked.

I nodded. We rode in silence.

“Nice ride,” he said.

“Thank you.”

Silence.

“It’s yellow, though,” he pointed out, in case I hadn’t
noticed.

“Sunburst yellow,” I replied.

I checked the rearview mirror and saw the Secret Service
agents behind us. I turned left without the benefit of using my signal, then
bailed down an alley behind the businesses. At the far end of the alley, I took
a left. Up two blocks, then a right. Up and back, up and back I angled over and
over again.

I pulled to a stop under a maple tree and waited. When I
checked my mirror, the Secret Service car was nowhere to be found.

“Are they gone?” Ellis asked.

“Yep.”

“Dinner?” he asked.

“Yep.”

I let out the clutch, pressed the gas and pulled away from
the curb. It was not difficult for me to let the feel of the road take me where
I needed to go. With blacktop under me and traffic lights marking my progress,
I navigated my way through the city.

“Have you been here before?” Ellis asked.

I shook my head.

“I’ve been to this kind of place before,” I said. “I know
where they keep them.”

I cruised past the chic and the shameful. Past sandwich
shops and sushi bars, ethnic restaurants of every color and creed from Chicago
style pizza to Chinese in every flavor from Mandarin to Peking Duck. At last, I
found it.

The steakhouse was brick and mortar. Low profile, it only
had a name above the door.

Murphy’s Law.

I pulled to the curb and we got out.

“How did you know about Murphy’s?” Ellis asked.

I tapped my nose and pointed at the door. The air was filled
with the savory sweet fragrance of applewood smoke, seared beef and caramelized
onions.

“Can’t argue with that,” he said.

We walked inside and caught the eye of our greeter. I gave
her two fingers, either offering the peace sign, V for victory or that we
wanted a table for two.

She grabbed two menus and led us to a table. We sat and
buried ourselves in reading the entrees.

“So, what do you want to talk about?” Ellis asked.

“You heard what happened with Chris Beck?” I asked.

“Ooh, filet mignon…” Ellis mused. “Hmm? Oh, yes, Chris Beck.
Sad situation that was. You’re lucky I was able to help.”

“Help?” I said.

“You didn’t actually think that the State Police and Officer
Tyrell released you out of the goodness of their hearts, did you?” Ellis asked.

Shame rose in my chest, choking me. I shook my head.

“I think I’ll have a baked potato,” he continued. “I buried
your blood alcohol results. You were nearly twice the legal limit.”

The news crushed me. The reality of it not surprising.

The waiter returned and took Ellis’ order. I sat there
stunned.

“And for you, sir?” the waiter asked.

I gestured at Ellis, muttering.

“He’ll have the same,” he said.

“Wine?”

“I don’t drink,” I said, staring at my plate.

“Since when?” Ellis laughed. He ordered a bottle of
something expensive and French.

“I’ve changed, Dad,” I began.

“So, I’ve heard,” he said, all humor gone from his voice.
“Obviously word got to me about your stunt in that diner.”

“It wasn’t a stunt,” I said.

“Quoting Scripture and pummeling criminals…” He shook his
head. “I’m running a campaign here, Jim. I can’t afford to have loose cannons
rolling around on my deck.”

“Is that why I’m here?” I asked. “Because I’m an
embarrassment to you?”

Ellis was serious, almost pensive. His eyes scanned the
room, quick and guarded. He rearranged his silverware, straightening,
adjusting.

“I know you, son,” Ellis said. He was agonizing over what he
was about to say. I was more than willing not to let him off the hook.

“Not anymore,” I said.

“Things are just different for me,” I said. “I have to ask
you a question.”

“Go ahead,” he said.

“If you died today, where would you go?”

“Hell.”

I was shocked by his honesty.

“Jim, I have led men into combat on four continents,” he
said. “I have taken lives since I was 17 years old in the Mekong Delta. I’ve
carpet-bombed villages. I’ve patrolled deserts and jungles and cities. I’ve
done some horrible things in my life to my fellow man and perhaps worse, I’ve
ordered others to do the same. Call it patriotism. Call it the call of duty.
Call it whatever you want, but a man doesn’t see that much death and have it
not change him.

“Forty years later and I’m a politician. If anyone deserves
Hell, it’s probably me,” he said this last without pride or glory. It was a
fact to be stated.

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” I said.

“Listen, Jim,” Ellis cut in. “I have a proposition for you.
I have a problem. I think you can help me; and if you can, I would be more than
happy to have that discussion with you about the good book.”

It was my turn to sit and stare at him.

“You have a problem?” I asked.

Dinner arrived, so I mulled my next question. Platters of
beef with baked potatoes and sour cream. Ellis received his glass of wine with
great fervor and showmanship. I sipped ice water and waited. The waiter told us
to enjoy our meal and vanished.

“What sort of problem?” I asked.

“A delicate one,” he answered and cut a piece of meat.

“Is this how we’re going to play this game?” I said. “Forget
it.”

I turned my attention to my plate. I tried the steak. It was
better than I expected and more than I wanted to say. The potato was perfectly
cooked, the sour cream whipped and cool in contrast. I sipped my water.

“My, that’s a lovely bouquet,” I said. I tried more, “Ah,
and just a hint of lemon. How delicious.”

“Fine,” Ellis said in defeat. “So, you haven’t forgotten
your time at the Officer’s Club.”

“Or the country club,” I replied, smiling at his strategic
defeat.

“I have a problem,” Ellis said.

“So I’ve heard,” I replied.

“It’s a personal protection issue,” he said. His eyes were
locked on mine again in that bombardier way that he had.

“It’s a good thing you have Secret Service agents, then,” I
said. “I assume they arrived with the news of your bid to run for President?”

Ellis leaned close.

“I had a special conference with the chairman of the party,”
Ellis said. “Considering the state of the union, I am the preferred choice to
receive the nomination. They want me. That’s why the Secret Service was here.”

“So, why the protection issue?” I asked.

“Somebody who knows me, knows my past military operations,
has been sending me threatening letters,” Ellis said.

“What has the Secret Service said about this?” I asked.
“They must have some geek in a basement somewhere who analyzes handwriting and
crazies with grudges.”

“I can’t tell the Secret Service,” Ellis replied.

“Why not?”

“Aside from the aspect of bad publicity, we have the issue
of containing intel. Keeping it from getting public,” Ellis said.

“Intelligence?” I asked. “On what?”

“During Desert Storm and Iraqi Freedom I had oversight of a
number of covert operations that involved civilian personnel,” Ellis said. His
voice barely loud enough to be heard.

I ate more steak while I listened. I stopped with my fork
halfway to my mouth.

“Civilians?” I asked. “Spooks? CIA? What are we talking
about?”

Ellis didn’t answer. He sat back and watched the room again,
tapping his West Point ring on the table. I pinched the bridge of my nose,
suddenly feeling exhausted.

“Black sites? Is that what this is about?” I asked.