“That’s what Paulette wanted to meet with you about.”
“Me? What does any of this have to do with me?”
Jack put his margarita aside and leaned into the table, pressing his point. “Paulette had a theory. She thinks you got the same message I got. An anonymous e-mail from someone who claims to have the power to make your father president.”
The mariachi band started to play, but not even the sudden blast of trumpets could make Elizabeth flinch.
“You’re only about half right,” she said.
“Which half do I have wrong?”
“I did get an e-mail about President Keyes. Something similar to what you got. But it didn’t come straight from the source.”
“How did you get it?”
“It was delivered by an old friend.”
“Does this friend have a name?”
“Chloe Sparks.”
Jack checked his surprise. “Okay, let me break this down. First of all, you’re saying that Chloe Sparks was an ‘old friend’ of yours?”
“I should say former friend. I met all the White House interns assigned to my father. Most were ambitious ass-kissers, but Chloe was cool. I liked her. We started to hang out-dinners, movies, the clubs. We even came here a few times. Chloe liked to party. So do I.”
Things were starting to click for Jack. “Let me guess: You and Chloe were out partying the night before she got fired from her internship for drug possession.”
She tasted her drink again. “You add up two plus two pretty quickly.”
“You planted drugs on her.”
“That’s what you say.”
“That wasn’t a very nice thing to do to a friend.”
“Fucking my father wasn’t a very nice thing for my friend to do to me.”
Jack couldn’t argue with that, but this was not the time to cut her any slack. “Obviously there were some hard feelings there.”
“You think?” she said, scoffing.
“So how was it that, a year or so later, Chloe called to give you the message from her anonymous source about bringing down President Keyes?”
“That was out of the blue,” said Elizabeth.
“How do you mean?”
“Chloe and I didn’t speak after she got fired. At that point, she had probably figured out that I knew all about her and my father. I never told her that I had set her up, but I think she accepted the fact that she got what she deserved.”
“That brings me back to the same question: Why did she call you about the message she got from her source?”
“I can only guess. In her head, I honestly think she believed that this would make up for what she had done, that things would be good between us. She told me that she was working on a huge story, and that the information from her confidential source could put my father in the White House.”
“Did Chloe give you any specifics?”
“Just someone claiming to have the power to bring down President Keyes.”
Elizabeth looked past Jack and waved. He turned around and saw a young woman checking her coat at the entrance.
“That’s my friend,” said Elizabeth.
“One more question before she gets here,” said Jack.
“Better make it quick.”
“When Chloe shared her message with you, what did you do with it?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nope. Not a thing. Because here’s the deal,” she said, as she leaned on her forearms and came closer, her glare cutting right through him. “My father didn’t deserve to be president.”
Her delivery was so cold that Jack actually felt it down his spine.
“Hey, girl,” said Elizabeth as she rose to greet her friend.
Jack watched the two young women embrace, and he wondered if Elizabeth had used a similar maneuver to reach into Chloe’s pocket or purse and plant the joint that had gotten her fired. The women launched into conversation, and Jack suddenly felt invisible.
“I’ll see you around,” he said, more than ready to leave.
Chapter 29
The Greek chose a sentimental spot for his Friday-morning meeting: Greek Taverna in the Old Post Office Pavilion.
Built in 1899, the pavilion’s twelve-story tower had once made it Washington’s tallest government building and first skyscraper. Its conversion to a shopping mall in 1978 helped to revitalize Pennsylvania Avenue between the Capitol and the White House, to the point that the shopping mall-with Abercrombie, Victoria’s Secret, and Limited Too-was nearly as popular among tourists as the National Mall, no slight to Washington, Jefferson, and the Lincoln Memorial. The doors opened at 10:00 A.M., and by ten thirty the place was bustling with shoppers, diners, and people who just wanted to walk around and soak up the confluence of nineteenth-century architecture and twenty-first-century atmosphere. The Greek had chosen the pavilion for one reason only: a highly public place with hundreds of potential witnesses made it that much harder for someone to put a bullet in his head.
The hostess escorted him to a table outside the restaurant in the cafe area. He was still indoors, however, seated beneath the skylight in the mall’s three-story atrium. The pavilion had three levels, and from his vantage point he could keep an eye on just about everyone, whether they strolled past the Taverna on the first level or looked down toward him from the upper levels. If the need arose, he could even make a run for it.
The thought triggered a memory, and as his gaze drifted up toward the skylight overhead, he could almost see himself falling from the rooftop to the stone floor below. He shook it off. That was the past. He had been young and stupid back then. He was in control now, not them.
Stay strong, he told himself. You are stronger than ever.
“Will it be just you, sir?” asked the server.
“No,” said the Greek. “I’m meeting someone.”
The server placed two mugs on the table and filled one with decaffeinated coffee, black. The Greek got a bottle of spring water as well, and when the server was gone, he pulled a sack full of tablets and capsules from his coat pocket. In it was literally everything from A to Z-as in vitamin A to zinc. He laid each supplement on the table in a neat row before him, methodically popped one at a time into his mouth, and washed it down with a sip of water. He’d been mega-dosing vitamins and minerals since his fiftieth birthday. No one knew for sure if it did any good, but it had been about five years since his last bout with the common cold, and the Greek was convinced that the supplements were at least in part responsible for his high stamina, quick reactions, and sharp mind. All were essential for his line of work, though his exact profession was open to some debate.
The Greek was not a hit man. He had never liked the label, never thought it applied to him. Yes, he had killed people. Yes, he had gotten paid to do it. But he was more like a sniper in wartime. His kills were highly personal, but they were essential to the overall mission. The Greek had never “offed” anyone unless it was absolutely essential. Sometimes, the assignments were easy. Most of the bastards on his list had deserved far worse. Other times, however, the jobs were more difficult. On occasion, it was necessary to kill someone you liked.
Maybe even someone you loved.
The Greek noticed a man with a beard, glasses, and a broad-rimmed hat coming toward him. He didn’t recognize the man, but that seemed to be the point. A Secret Service agent couldn’t be seen meeting someone with the Greek’s past.
“How are you, Frank?” he said.
Agent Madera took a seat at the cafe table. “Don’t use my name, idiot. And let’s make this quick.”
The Greek had rehearsed his pitch for an hour last night, and if he spoke slowly he could deliver it coolly and with almost no accent. Madera’s edginess made him want to slow down even more, just to tweak the bastard.
“I know your boy’s in trouble, and I can help.”
“You don’t know squat.”