Fatal Conceit (18 page)

He looked at her curiously, but they both put it out of their minds that first night over a bottle of pinot grigio as they sat on the front porch of the cabin watching the moon rise beyond the little lake. Nor did it come up again when she woke in his arms the next morning with the light pouring in the master bedroom's window.

As promised, he'd spent most of Saturday morning and the early afternoon in his office with the door closed. At about one o'clock, she made lunch and came to let him know it was ready. She knocked but didn't wait for him to answer before walking in. He was standing in front of an open wall safe that had been built behind the bookshelf. Her sudden appearance startled him; he didn't want her to see what was in his hand, so he quickly put it in the vault and closed the safe.

“Oh, sorry,” she said. “I made tuna sandwiches and I . . . well, I didn't mean to intrude.”

“No, that's okay, Jen,” he said, and nodded at the safe. “Come on over, let me show you how this works.” He swung a set of faux book covers over the safe to hide it.

“Just like in the movies!” she'd said.

They both laughed. It was an inside joke from the night on the beach that they used often. “Yeah, just like in the movies,” he repeated. He showed her how pulling out the faux copy of
The
Last of the Mohicans
produced a clicking sound and then the phony books swung out again. “Great-grandpa Ben Allen built this; he was a fan of James Fenimore Cooper; it's where I keep all my important papers.”

“I love that book and the movie with Daniel Day-Lewis. But that's your business. I didn't mean to barge in.”

“I don't mind. In fact, I was planning on showing you.”

She looked at him quizzically. “I'm glad you want me to know all the family secrets,” she said, then she bit her lip. “I have a secret that I need to share with you, too.”

Allen studied her face for a minute and then put a finger beneath her chin and tilted her mouth up toward his. “Can it wait until Monday night?” he asked, and then kissed her. “We do need to talk, but after I see Pete Oatman. We can spend the night at the Casablanca and pour our guts out before making wild passionate love; then I'll catch an early flight down to D.C. How's that sound?”

Her eyes clouded by tears, Jenna nodded. “Yes. It can wait until Monday.”

That night he'd been particularly melancholy as he sat in the big chair in front of the fireplace with Jenna cuddled up on his lap like a cat, closing her eyes and even purring as he stroked her hair. They'd been quiet for several minutes when he cleared his throat and shifted a little so he could see her face.

“You know, I'd give it all up for you, Jen,” he said. “Maybe I should forget about the job. We could get married and live here. I could open a fly-fishing shop and you could hang your shingle in town and practice law. Or just knock around here with me and the kids.”

“Kids?” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“Only if you want them, of course,” he said, hugging her closer.

They were quiet for a moment, then she said, “It sounds nice, but you wouldn't be happy.”

“I'd be happy if I was with you. What if I decided to write a book instead of going to Washington?” he said. “Would you be willing to give up the exciting and glamorous life as the spy chief's wife in D.C.?”

“In a heartbeat.”

“Think of all the intrigue and fancy black-and-white parties you'd miss.”

She snuggled in closer to his chest. “I do look great in black. But I have all the intrigue I need right here.” More silence, then, “You're not ready to open a fly-shop or sit in an old cabin writing a book with a bunch of toddlers running around. Maybe at first you'd be okay, and maybe we'd be okay because we love each other so much. But you'd always wonder if you could have made a difference at the agency. You'll always be a soldier, Sam.” She sighed. “Besides, the next president will probably kick you out and then we can retire to our little piece of heaven on the lake.”

He laughed and hugged her closer. “You're right,” he said. “I don't think I'm cut out for the politics surrounding the job. I probably won't even make it through this president's next term,
if
there is a next term.”

They drove back to New York City early Sunday afternoon. He dropped her off at her Chelsea apartment and said he was going to stay at the Casablanca. “I'm probably going to be up all night working on my testimony, then I need to get a copy printed for my visit with Pete. And you are far too distracting to have in a hotel room.”

She pouted for a moment, then kissed him. “I'm tired anyway,” she said. “I don't have class tomorrow, but I have some things to think about before our talk.” She started to get out of the car and then turned back to him. “No matter what happens tomorrow, no matter what you need to tell me, or what I have to say to you, I will always love you, Sam.”

“I love you, too, Jen. Nothing's going to happen tomorrow that
we can't deal with. I'll get on the computer later this evening to say good night.”

He worked all day on his testimony and then went to the hotel's business office to print a copy. As he was walking past the front desk, the clerk smiled. “A friend of yours dropped something off for you. He said his name was Peter.” She set a bottle of twenty-five-year-old Macallan scotch on the counter.

Allen laughed and picked up the bottle. “Just what the doctor ordered. I think I'll go to my room and give this baby a trial run.”

Back in the room, he ordered room service and then poured himself a healthy tumbler of the scotch. He took a sip and furrowed his brow; there was just the slightest medicinal aftertaste that he wasn't used to, but he shrugged.
Probably something I ate earlier throwing my palate off a bit.
He was working on putting the finishing touches on a letter to his sons when there was a knock on the door.

“Room service,” said a male voice.

“Let yourself in,” Allen called out as he typed in a revision. He hardly glanced at the room service waiter who came in and placed the tray on the coffee table.

“Anything else, sir?”

“No . . . I see by the tat that you were in the Corps.”

“Semper Fi, sir.”

“Booya. Airborne here.”

“Brothers in arms no matter what branch.”

“Damn straight, soldier. Care for a drink?”

“I'd love to, sir, but I'm on duty and they frown on that sort of thing. Some other time.”

“You bet. Do me a favor, put 20 percent on your tip and let yourself out.”

“Yes, sir. Have a good night, sir.”

“You, too,” Allen said, and turned back to his computer.
Ten o'clock, time to check in with Jenna,
he thought as he took another sip of scotch. He wrinkled his nose; it still seemed a little bitter,
but he decided the lasagna he'd ordered would round it out. He turned on his computer's video cam and dialed her up.

“Are you saying I'm too much?” she asked.

“No, not at all. I'm flattered and grateful that you find me attractive, and happily satiated every time we see each other. Forgive me, honey, I didn't mean that.”

“That's better. I'm in love, Sam. I can't get enough of you.” She pouted. “I can't believe we're in the same city and we're not going to sleep together.”

“Is what you do called ‘sleep'?” he said with a chuckle, then yawned himself. “Excuse me, don't know where that came from, I guess I am tired.”

“You're not getting old on me, are you?”

“Never. I just ordered room service—lasagna—and my old buddy, Pete, sent a bottle of Macallan to keep me company. Should be just the thing to put me to sleep,” he said and took another sip.

He frowned. “I don't know why you'd want to record this.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Because I'm going to blackmail you with it someday.”

Allen yawned again. “You want to talk now about what you said at the cabin?”

Jenna shook her head. “No. I'm going to go hop in the shower. I think you need time to think about this, so I'll wait until Monday for your answer.”

Allen watched as she stood and then dropped her robe, displaying the body he enjoyed so much. He shook his head and poured himself another tumbler's worth of scotch and took another sip. He sloshed a little as he attempted to put the glass back on the desk. He shook his head.
Man, time to hit the sack
.

He tried to stand but suddenly his legs felt weak and he sat back down.
No way two drinks puts me away like that,
he thought. He looked at the bottle and recalled the bitter aftertaste. Suddenly, he knew what was happening.

“I'd love to, sir, but I'm on duty and they frown on that sort of thing. Some other time.”

Barely able to keep his eyes open, his mind growing fuzzy, Allen willed his hands back to the keyboard and typed a short email. He sent it and then reached forward so that only a blank page showed. His hands fell to his sides and he slumped back into the chair just as he heard the door open.

“Room service . . .”

B
Y THE TIME
K
ARP GOT
back to his office after leaving the Casablanca and the body of Lt. Gen. Sam Allen, he knew he had his hands full with a high-profile homicide case. In spite of the killer's efforts to make it look like a suicide, it didn't take Fulton's “intuition flu,” or Assistant Medical Examiner Gail Manning's remark about how a scotch aficionado would have avoided the bitter taste by not emptying the pills into the drink, to recognize the deception.

Suicide simply didn't make sense. For one thing, it just didn't mesh with what he knew of Allen's character—a decorated soldier who'd retired at the pinnacle of his career and was embarking on another that at least publicly he seemed to covet. While anything was possible, nothing about the man indicated he was the sort to kill himself even if he was “sorry for everything”—whatever that meant.
A man like him would “face the music,”
Karp thought. And even if for some inexplicable reason Allen had decided to take his life, he wouldn't have chosen to do it in such a public manner, in a hotel room in New York City, putting his family and friends through the media storm that would follow.

The question then became who killed the general and why. Over the course of his military career and in his position as the
acting director of the CIA, Allen would have made enemies, as well as been a prime target for assassination. However, it was reasonable to rule out a terrorist action, as they would have wanted the publicity of killing such an important individual.

Poison, if that was indeed the cause of Allen's death, had been a tool of the spy trade for eons. Somehow Karp doubted that the general had been induced to swallow enough Valium to kill him—after all, there'd been no sign of a struggle—and thought it likely to have been used to cover up the real cause of death.
Gail will find it in the toxicology,
he thought,
especially now that I've asked her to look beyond the obvious
.

So who then? Why? He was supposed to testify before the congressional committee tomorrow. Could it be related to that? And who would have the arrogance to think that they could murder the acting director of the CIA and get away with it?
The questions raced through his mind as Officer J. P. Murphy drove him south toward the Criminal Courts Building. He tried to call Marlene to tell her about Allen; she'd been out for a run when Fulton gave him the news that morning. But she didn't answer her cell phone.

The news outlets had reported that there were no female bodies identified and several males were unaccounted for in Chechnya after the attack. The absence of “bad news” had lifted Marlene's spirits at least for the moment. She was convinced that Lucy and Ned were alive. “They were probably together doing something outside the compound,” she explained. “Maybe they've been captured or are on the run, but I can feel they're alive . . . I don't know how I know, maybe it's the mom in me, but I know.”

Karp didn't want to dash her faith; he hoped she was right. But he knew that in what the administration kept referring to as the “fog of war,” the information that Jaxon was getting was agonizingly incomplete. And since the initial report, the fact that there'd been nothing new was demoralizing. Believing that their daughter needed her, but unable to do anything, Marlene reverted to a darkened mood. He didn't know what she'd make of the news
about Allen and what, if anything, it had to do with the compound being overrun in Chechnya—and Lucy's disappearance. He didn't know what to make of it himself.

When he got to his office and was settled in behind his desk, he reached for a yellow legal pad. Whether it was for a trial or just to help him think through a problem, he always found that jotting down notes on a pad helped his thought process. He listed the chronology of events since the attack in Chechnya, such as he knew them from either the media—meaning the administration—or Jaxon, leading up to Allen's death the day before he was scheduled to testify. Up to this point, as far as he knew, the general had refrained from making any comments other than to say that the CIA was continuing to assess what happened as information became available. He refused to be baited by the growing criticism, particularly from the president's opponents, that “once again” American intelligence gathering had failed to identify and deal with a threat.

Most of the administration's statements had come through Rosemary Hilb, the irascible press secretary, and Helene Vonu, the assistant secretary of state specializing in the Northern Caucasus and Russia. Vonu, in particular, had been the public face of the administration on television and in newspaper reports. But she mostly stuck with the administration's talking points: the attack occurred without warning, was over swiftly, and was carried out by Chechen separatists in a “brutal act of terror.” She and others like Fauhomme had lauded the president's “close cooperation” with Russian authorities as proof of his fitness to lead “in the international arena.”