His first thought — and his last thought — was that the person Mr Lincoln had sent to kill him was very beautiful.
8
DeMarco figured the best way to get in to see the secretary of Homeland Security was to get up at 4:45 A.M. and be waiting outside the man’s office at 5:30.
DeMarco was not a willing early riser. Regardless of what time he went to bed the night before, he found that if he woke up any time before 7 A.M. his head felt as if it were stuffed with barley. His brain didn’t work; his fingers couldn’t button his shirt; he couldn’t find his wallet or watch or keys or anything else that he needed. And his stomach just recoiled at the thought of food.
But rise he did. He knew that General Andrew Banks, secretary of Homeland Security, arrived at work early, usually before 6 A.M., and once at work the man’s calendar would be completely full. DeMarco also knew he would never get an appointment to see Banks unless Mahoney made the appointment for him, and Mahoney had made it clear that he didn’t want to be connected with this assignment.
So DeMarco drove to Banks’s office and convinced the security guards that he was a messenger from Congress. He showed them his congressional ID, looked humble and messenger-like, and held up a manila envelope on which he’d written in Magic Marker: GENERAL BANKS, EYES ONLY. He had underlined eyes only. The guards made him walk through the metal detectors, copied down the information on his ID, and then allowed him to stand outside Banks’s office door.
At five-forty-five, DeMarco saw Banks striding down the hall like a man who could hardly wait to get to work and start kicking ass. He had a gray crew cut, a prominent nose, and wore wire-rimmed glasses over a pair of hostile gray eyes. He was tall and, though in his sixties, his stomach was still hard and flat. DeMarco suspected the maniac rose every morning at daybreak and performed those same masochistic exercises that he had once done as a midshipman at Annapolis. His first words of cheery greeting to DeMarco were, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
Banks wasn’t particularly fond of DeMarco, although DeMarco wasn’t sure why. It may have been because Banks was an ex-marine, a retired three-star general, and considered that DeMarco would never have met the marines’ few-good-men standard. Or it could have been because DeMarco had once done some work for Banks. The case had been a complicated one involving an assassination attempt on the president in which the Secret Service had been involved, and it had concluded with Banks, Mahoney, and DeMarco knowing a secret they should not have kept from the public but which they did. This, DeMarco figured, gave him a certain amount of leverage over the general, which was why he had decided to talk to him instead of to the FBI. He knew the FBI wouldn’t tell him anything unless Mahoney made them, but because the Zarif incident was terrorist-related, he figured Homeland Security would know almost as much as the Bureau.
‘I need a favor,’ DeMarco said, answering Banks’s question.
‘What kinda favor?’ Banks said, his eyes narrowing into suspicious slits. But then he would have been suspicious if DeMarco had asked him the date.
‘I need to talk to one of your guys about the Reza Zarif thing.’
‘Why?’ Banks asked.
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Are you out of your goddamn mind?’ Banks said. ‘Do you have any idea how much heat I’m under because of everything that’s happened lately?’
‘I think so,’ DeMarco said.
‘But you still think I’ll let you waltz in here and start poking around without telling me why?’
‘General, I swear I’m not going to do anything to cause you a problem,’ DeMarco said. ‘I just want-’
‘Forget it,’ Banks said, and started to unlock his office door. So much for prior association.
DeMarco had to say something to get Banks to help him, and he was pretty sure Banks wouldn’t talk to the press because he hated reporters. At least DeMarco hoped he still hated them.
‘Okay, look,’ DeMarco said. ‘Mahoney grew up with Reza Zarif’s father, and he’s known Reza since he was born. He just wants to know a little more about what happened, something so maybe he can understand why the guy did what he did, but he doesn’t want to ask the Bureau because they blab too much.’
Banks stopped turning the key in the lock and DeMarco watched as he mulled things over. He knew Banks didn’t particularly like Mahoney either, but he also knew that Mahoney had been helpful to Banks and his department in the past.
‘And I swear, General,’ DeMarco said, ‘if I learn anything that reflects poorly on Homeland Security, I’ll tell you and no one else.’
‘Shit,’ Banks said. ‘These days everything reflects poorly on Homeland Security: FEMA fuckin’ up recovery after those tornadoes in Kansas. Those two kids tryin’ to blow up the tunnel in Baltimore. That one-legged al-Qaeda bozo gettin’ into the country and then gettin’ away. I mean, Jesus — it’s like there’s no end to it. All I can say is I’m glad I’ve already got a pension from the corps, because it’s damn unlikely I’m gonna be in this job much longer.’ Banks felt sorry for himself a couple of seconds more and then said, ‘Okay. The guy you wanna talk to is Jerry Hansen. He’s my liaison guy with the Bureau for this kinda stuff. He’s not in this early — none of these goddamn people ever are — but I’ll leave a message on his voice mail telling him you’ll be dropping by.’
‘Thank you,’ DeMarco said.
‘Yeah, right. You fuck me over on this, DeMarco, and I’ll run you down with my car.’
The Homeland Security official that DeMarco was supposed to meet wouldn’t be in his office until 8 A.M. So since he had time to kill, he found a place to have breakfast and read the morning paper, and, as he usually did, he turned to the sports page first. The gloomy headlines on the front page could always wait.
The Redskins had lost five games, two games in their division. DeMarco couldn’t understand it. The team had three receivers that were faster than cheetahs, a quarterback with an arm like a rocket launcher, a decent offensive line, and a running back who could knock over tanks — and they couldn’t score. The Post’s sportswriters had already started doing playoff math scenarios. If the Redskins won all their remaining games, and if teams A, B, and C won the next five games, and if Teams D, E, and F lost the next five games, the Skins could get a wild-card spot. Yes, it was mathematically possible that Washington would make the playoffs — just like a hole-in-one and a basket from the half-court line are mathematically possible.
Sports news consumed and digested, he turned to the front page but gave up after a few minutes, unable to focus. He couldn’t stop thinking about his ex-wife and the conversation they’d had yesterday morning.
Marie DeMarco had been his first love. He’d met her when he was sixteen and she was fourteen. She’d been the first girl he’d kissed, the first woman he’d made love to. They’d dated throughout high school, broke up briefly when DeMarco went off to college, then connected again and married after he had completed law school.
He had wanted kids. She hadn’t.
Marie was, without a doubt, the sexiest woman he had ever known. She was pretty, of course, and an absolute knockout when she dressed up. She had big expressive eyes, large wonderful breasts, a trim little butt, and good legs — but it wasn’t just her looks that made her so desirable. Some women just ooze sex appeal. Take the young Elizabeth Taylor or Sharon Stone: There are dozens of Hollywood starlets just as beautiful as either woman, but nowhere near as sexy. Why? God only knew. Or maybe God had nothing to do with it.
Sex appeal aside, Marie DeMarco was hugely flawed: vain, selfish, shallow — and unfaithful. DeMarco suspected, after the fact, that his cousin wasn’t the only man she’d slept with while they were married, but it was the affair with Danny that had hurt the most. Danny had been his best friend when they were kids, and Marie’s infidelity had shredded his ego and pierced his heart and almost destroyed him financially — and yet here the damn woman was asking for his help. She was unbelievable.