The Inside Ring Page 8

  Mahoney waited until the waitress left before taking a flask from the inside pocket of his suit. He tipped an ounce of bourbon into his coffee cup, sipped loudly, then said, “Donnelly ain’t gonna do shit. He knows if he tries something now, I’ll leak all this warning-note crap to the media.”

  “He also implied he might torpedo my security clearance.”

  “Yeah, I guess he could do that. His guys could make you look like Osama’s understudy if they put their minds to it.”

  “That’s just great,” DeMarco said. “And if he does?”

  Mahoney ignored DeMarco’s question. He lit a cigar stub sitting cold in the ashtray next to him, blew smoke skyward, and studied the smog he had created. No one seated at nearby tables reminded the Speaker that the restaurant was nonsmoking.

  “So what’s happenin’ with this Mattis guy?” he asked.

  DeMarco told him what he’d done to date: records and financial checks under way, the surveillance on Mattis, his discussion with Frank Engles in Middleburg. Mahoney was particularly intrigued by the rumor that Donnelly had personally assigned Mattis to the President’s security detail but was otherwise unimpressed by DeMarco’s efforts.

  “Any connection between Mattis and this guy Edwards?” Mahoney said.

  “Nothing so far but I’m still waiting to hear back from one of Emma’s friends.”

  Mahoney took another puff on his cigar and brooded, engaging the gears of his Machiavellian mind. “Donnelly’s worried big-time about something,” he said. “Comin’ to visit you was unnecessary, an act of desperation.”

  Exactly the conclusion Emma had come to, DeMarco thought.

  Mahoney smiled and waved to a White House staffer who was passing by. He muttered “Little cocksucker” then said to DeMarco, “Put some pressure on this agent, Joe. Get in his face, as the kids say.”

  “Get in his face how?” DeMarco asked.

  “I dunno. Think of something.”

  14

  DeMarco’s eyelids felt coated on the inside with a layer of sand and he suspected only the odd-numbered cells in his brain were firing. It was five thirty a.m. He was with Emma in a rented car, a model suitable for a staid law enforcement agency, and they were waiting for Billy Mattis to leave for work. DeMarco concluded, sitting there with his eyes closed, his head braced uncomfortably against the passenger-side window, that only swineherds, milkmaids, and other rural labor should be up at such a ghastly hour.

  Emma sat impassively behind the wheel, preoccupied with her own thoughts. Emma’s typically aloof, slightly amused view of her fellow human beings was missing again today. It may have been the hour but DeMarco suspected her daughter’s troubles were still on her mind.

  He was surprised that Emma was here at all; she typically considered surveillance chores beneath her. When he asked why she had come this morning instead of sending Mike, Emma had said, “Oh, just curious about Billy, I guess.”

  And she could have been telling the truth. Emma may have owed DeMarco for saving her life, but he suspected the reason she sometimes helped him was boredom rather than obligation. She loved the thrill of the hunt, even though the game DeMarco hunted was pussycat tame compared to what she had chased in her former life. Then there was the gossip factor. DeMarco’s assignments quite often garnered juicy information about the city’s elite, information they hoped would never, ever make the morning papers. Not only did Emma take an all too human delight in some of the things DeMarco told her, he also suspected that she fed some tidbits back to her previous employers, the dark, ever watchful gnomes at the DIA. But the real reason he suspected she was here this particular dawn was not curiosity or boredom or gossip—it was patriotism. Emma may have considered herself the nation’s preeminent cynic, but if Mattis or anyone else had tried to kill the President, and if she could help stop them from trying again, she felt she had an obligation to do so.

  Whatever her motive, DeMarco was glad to have her and he thought she looked perfect for her role. Her lean body was clad in a practical-looking dark pantsuit, a white blouse open at the throat, and shoes made for both creeping and running. To complete her ensemble she had a gun—a very big gun—in a holster on her hip. She looked official, efficient, and deadly.

  DeMarco had thought the gun a bit much and had said so. Her response had been: “I like to have at least as much firepower as the person I’m tailing, particularly when he’s a potential accomplice to murder.” DeMarco still didn’t think Billy Mattis was an accomplice to anything but it was too early to argue with Emma. Her wit would slice him open like soft fruit. Or she might shoot him.

  DeMarco opened one eye and glanced over at Billy’s house. They were parked across the street from it, making no attempt to hide. When Billy left for work he would see a Jack-and-Jill team in what appeared to be a government vehicle parked on his doorstep. And when he drove off they would follow, practically touching his bumper.

  DeMarco’s objective was to comply with the Speaker’s command to put some pressure on Billy and see what happened. If Billy had nothing to hide, he should eventually ask them what the hell they were up to. They’d say Billy was confused, that they were just a couple who happened to be going the same direction all day. As plans went, DeMarco realized, this one lacked definition.

  At six fifteen, a lean six-footer with short blond hair exited Mattis’s house. The man was wearing sunglasses and dressed in a blue suit, a short-sleeved white shirt, and a solid blue tie. The suit jacket was draped over his arm. When he saw DeMarco and Emma parked on the street in front of his house, he stopped and stared at them. He might have thought they were journalists, but he would have quickly dismissed that idea because journalists would have charged across the street to question him.

  Mattis stood a minute longer, clearly thinking about coming over to speak to them, then changed his mind and opened the door to his car. After he backed down his driveway, he looked over at Emma and DeMarco one more time before driving away; they both stared straight ahead, pointedly ignoring him.

  Emma stayed no more than two car lengths behind Billy all the way from Annandale into the District. When Billy reached the lot where he parked, Emma parked in a position where Billy would see them as he walked to the entrance of his building. Billy again looked over at them as he walked by, and again hesitated, still trying to decide if he should challenge them.

  Billy entered his building and Emma directed DeMarco to a spot where he could see two of the building’s exits. When DeMarco worked with Emma he noted that she immediately assumed command. Emma took up her post on the other side of the building so she could watch other doors. In the next three and a half hours, DeMarco was asked for spare change five times, cigarettes twice, and directions once. He found it hard to distinguish the tourists from the bums.

  A few minutes before noon Billy emerged from his building. He stood on the steps, scanned the area, and immediately saw DeMarco. And as Billy stared at DeMarco, DeMarco stared back and pulled a cell phone from his pocket and called Emma.

  Billy descended the steps and began walking in the direction of the National Mall. DeMarco followed and Emma joined DeMarco at the next corner, falling into step beside him.

  At Constitution Avenue, the street running parallel to the Mall on its north side, Billy turned left, in the direction of the Capitol. He looked over his shoulder once at the man and woman behind him, but from that point on kept his head rigidly fixed in the direction he was walking.

  DeMarco had lived in D.C. more than a decade but continued to be as impressed by the panorama of the Mall as any first-time visitor. It was a vast plain where battles had been waged and history forged. The area between the Capitol and the Lincoln Memorial—almost three miles long and half a mile wide—had been for years the site of people coming together like armies, protesting wars, defending civil rights, rallying against the insensitivity of the ruling class. On both sides of the Mall were majestic buildings housing government agencies and the Smithsonian Institution—inflexible
, granite bastions of power standing beside marble sanctuaries of art and history. Unfortunately, the proximity of art and history has little influence on those who govern, and hence the protests.

  Billy walked a quarter of a mile before stopping at a street vendor’s stand in front of the National Gallery of Art. He ordered a hot dog from the vendor, looking over at Emma and DeMarco again as he waited for his change.

  The East Wing of the National Gallery was designed by I. M. Pei and seemed out of place with the more traditional structures surrounding the Mall. Its walls came together at impossibly sharp angles, particularly the southern face, which always made DeMarco think of the bow of a stone ship sailing through a concrete-and-asphalt urban sea.

  In the atrium, suspended from the ceiling, was a large Alexander Calder mobile. The mobile was constructed of steel and aluminum and painted black and blue and red. It had a wingspan of nearly eighty feet and weighed almost a thousand pounds. Lying on the ground the mobile would have appeared as aerodynamic as an anvil, but suspended it was an object of the skies, born for flight, and the smallest air currents caused it to flutter and twist. DeMarco could see the mobile gently turning as Billy took his hot dog from the vendor.

  As Billy slathered mustard on his hot dog, Emma took up a position under a nearby tree, aiming her cold blue eyes at Billy’s broad back. With an imperial jerk of her head she directed DeMarco to another tree twenty feet away. Emma’s strategy was to surround Billy psychologically if not physically.

  Billy finished putting relish on his hot dog. He walked a few steps, dropped the wrapper from the hot dog in a nearby waste can, and took a seat on a bench a few feet away. From the bench, his head turned first to look at Emma, then over to DeMarco. He took an uncertain bite of the hot dog and chewed it slowly. DeMarco watched Billy’s Adam’s apple bob; he was so nervous he was having a hard time swallowing.

  Emma then made a move that DeMarco thought was both inspired and ridiculous. She walked up to the hot dog vendor, obtained a paper sack from him, and went over to the trash can where Billy had thrown the wrapper from his hot dog. She reached inside the trash can and delicately picked up the wax paper using only two fingers, then looked Billy in the eye as she placed the wrapper in the sack as if she were collecting evidence from a crime scene.

  Billy stared at Emma for a moment and attempted to resume his lunch. He raised the hot dog toward his mouth to take a second bite but stopped with it an inch from his lips. Suddenly he threw the hot dog on the ground and strode aggressively toward Emma. DeMarco quickly moved to stand next to his partner.

  “Why are you followin’ me?” Billy asked. His body was rigid with anger and his fists were clenched. DeMarco could hear the South in his speech and figured that Billy’s voice was normally low pitched and gentle. Behind the display of righteous outrage, DeMarco could also sense his fear.

  DeMarco had seen Mattis in the video and pictures of him in the papers, but the video and the photos hadn’t prepared him for the impression the man made up close and in person. He did look like Mickey Mantle as Mike had said, and the resemblance was more than physical: he projected the same all-American, country-boy innocence that Mantle had at the beginning of his career. Billy’s face, his voice, his clear blue eyes all conveyed exactly what he was alleged to be: simple but honest, dutiful son, faithful servant to his nation’s masters. He looked exactly like the kind of man who would take a bullet for a politician.

  Speaking to Emma, Billy repeated, “Lady, I asked you: Why are you followin’ me?” For some reason Billy assumed Emma was in charge, a small point which annoyed DeMarco.

  Emma, uncharacteristically, glanced over at DeMarco to see how he wanted to play it. DeMarco thought of giving Billy the runaround: telling him they weren’t following him, while making it apparent he was lying through his teeth—but he didn’t.

  He didn’t know what made him say it. He’d like to claim he had made some gigantic, intuitive leap, but he hadn’t. The first thing that popped out of DeMarco’s mouth was completely unfiltered by his brain.

  “You were just an agent in the wrong place, weren’t you, Billy?” DeMarco said softly.

  When DeMarco quoted from the warning letter, Billy, who had been staring belligerently at Emma, shut his eyes. He kept his eyes closed for several heartbeats, hoping the two “agents” would be gone when he opened them, then turned his head slowly to face DeMarco.

  “What . . . what the hell’s that supposed to mean?” he said.

  “I think you know, Billy,” DeMarco said.

  “Damnit, who are you guys? FBI?”

  “Billy,” Emma said, “you sent a note to General Banks telling him to cancel the President’s trip to Chattooga River. How did you know what was going to happen that day?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Billy said.

  Unlike Patrick Donnelly—or for that matter, Joe DeMarco—Billy Mattis was not a professional liar. He was blinking so rapidly his eyelashes seemed like butterflies trying to reach escape velocity.

  “Billy,” DeMarco said gently, “I think you’ve been sucked into something ugly. Maybe we can help you.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Billy repeated. “Look, I wanna see some ID from you guys.”

  “Why did you duck Billy?”

  “Duck?”

  “At the river that morning. You dropped your sunglasses to give the shooter a clear shot at the President. You ducked right before the shot was fired. You can see it on the tape.”

  Billy’s face flushed crimson. He took an aggressive stride toward DeMarco and jabbed him hard in the chest with his index finger. “That’s a goddamn lie,” he said. His anger was genuine and for the first time DeMarco could hear truth ring in the agent’s voice and could see it in his face.

  “You can see it on the film, Billy,” DeMarco persisted. “You were as nervous as a cat on a griddle walking toward the helicopter that morning. Your eyes were bouncing all over the place. You—”

  “My eyes were moving, damnit, because I was scanning the area like I was supposed to.”

  “I don’t think so, Billy. I think you knew what was going to happen and at just the right moment you dropped your glasses. Did you give Harold Edwards the President’s itinerary, Billy?”

  Beads of sweat popped out on Billy’s forehead, and DeMarco could see rings of perspiration began to form in the armpits of his short-sleeved white shirt. Billy opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it, his lips becoming a hard line barricading a tongue he couldn’t trust. Finally he said, “I said I want to see some ID. Now!”

  Ignoring the agent’s demand again, DeMarco said, “How did you get by the polygraph, Billy?”

  Mattis looked confused. “What polygraph? Nobody gave me a polygraph.”

  Now it was DeMarco’s turn to hesitate because again it sounded as if Billy was telling the truth. Then DeMarco remembered it was Patrick Donnelly who had told Banks and the FBI and DeMarco that Billy had been given a polygraph test.

  “Then let’s talk about how you were assigned to the President’s security detail, Billy.”

  Shaking his head adamantly, Billy said, “No. We’re not talkin’ about anything else. I’m not saying another word to you two.”

  He started to walk away, then stopped and turned. There were tears glazing the surface of his blue eyes, making them sparkle like wet gems. “I did my job that day. I did everything I could to protect him.” His voice caught when he added, “I would have died for him.”

  And DeMarco believed him.

  As Billy walked away, DeMarco thought again of Calder’s mobile as it slowly turned in the atrium of the museum. Calder’s mobile: a substantial object balanced so delicately that the current created by a single door opening could set it in motion.

  Like Billy Ray Mattis—one small push and he began to spin.

  15

  I’ll be damned,” Emma said softly.

  “Son of a bitch,” DeMarco said at the same time.


  “When you quoted from that note, Joe, I thought that sweet boy was going to lose his lunch.”

  “Yeah, he definitely knew about the warning letter. No doubt about it. But when I accused him of ducking during the shooting, he almost took my head off. He was telling the truth when he said he’d die to protect the President.”

  “Yes,” Emma said, “but he’s involved and I would certainly like to know how. And I’ll tell you something else, Joe: I don’t think the FBI or anyone else has really questioned that lad very hard. I think Donnelly’s been shielding him, somehow, from the FBI’s interrogators.”

  “That fuckin’ Donnelly. I’m gonna go see Banks. Right now. I’ve gotta convince that stubborn shit to talk to the Bureau.”

  Emma looked at DeMarco in surprise. “I thought the Speaker said to wait and see what Donnelly does next.”

  “Screw the Speaker,” DeMarco said with more conviction than he felt.

  Emma smiled, the first sign of humor he’d see from her all day. “So what would you like me to do, sweetie, while you’re talking to the good secretary?”

  “Can you stick with Billy?”

  “No, but I’ll call someone.”

  AS WOULD BE expected, the secretary of Homeland Security was not sitting in his office, twiddling his big thumbs, just waiting for lowly Joe DeMarco to pay him a visit. DeMarco sat in Banks’s waiting room for two and a half hours watching important folk come and go. He noticed during that time that all who entered Banks’s office were happier when they arrived than when they left, and by five o’clock DeMarco was becoming quite unhappy himself. He’d missed lunch and his stomach was beginning to rumble.

  At five thirty he was finally allowed in to see Banks. Taped around the walls of Banks’s office were poster-board organizational charts. The general was moving from chart to chart with a red felt-tipped marker making big X’s through rectangles representing divisions or departments. Every time he crossed out a box he would say “Gotcha” like a man swatting a fly. Now DeMarco could see why those who had visited him had left not smiling.