Hassan Zarif left Mahoney’s office a few minutes later, after extracting from the speaker a promise that he would look into Reza’s death. As Hassan was departing to fly back to Boston, Mahoney tried desperately to think of something to say to comfort the man. The best he could come up with was, ‘If that hospital’s not treating your dad right, you let me know.’
And Hassan’s response had been, ‘The doctors can’t do anything for my father, sir. He’s lost his will to live. You’re the only one who can help him.’
After the door had closed behind Hassan, DeMarco said, ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Shit, I don’t know,’ Mahoney said. He poured more bourbon into his glass and took a deep swallow. ‘But I sorta agree with him on a couple things.’
‘Like what?’ DeMarco said.
‘Reza was always a hothead, but I can’t imagine him getting hooked up with terrorists. So I’d like to know myself what this supposed connection is between him and al-Qaeda. And as for killing his family — I mean, you read all the time about some fruitcake deciding he wants to end it all but instead of just shooting himself he takes his whole family or a bunch of strangers with him. Like that wacko down at Virginia Tech. But those kind of people, they usually have a history of mental illness or they’re loners and losers. Reza wasn’t like that.’
DeMarco wasn’t too sure about Reza Zarif’s sanity, but he didn’t say so. Instead he said, ‘But he did kill his family, boss. And it’s like you told Hassan. The FBI’s not staffed with fools, and from everything I’ve read they did a pretty thorough-’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know,’ Mahoney said, sounding tired.
‘So what do you want me to do?’ DeMarco asked again. ‘Go talk to somebody at the Bureau?’
‘I guess. Poke around a little, but keep my name out of it.’
‘Aw, come on,’ DeMarco said. ‘You know the Bureau’s not going to talk to me unless you tell them to.’
Mahoney shook his big head. ‘I go back a long way with Hassan’s father, but the press doesn’t know that yet — and I don’t want ’em to know. I don’t feel like dealing with a bunch of goddamn reporters asking me how come I’m such good pals with a guy whose kid tried to park a plane on the president’s desk. And if I talk to the Bureau, the press’ll find out. So you do some diggin’, but keep my name out of it.’
‘Just how am I supposed to-’
But Mahoney wasn’t listening. He’d already picked up the phone and was punching buttons. It was time for him to make someone else’s life miserable.
4
Mahoney tried to get back to work, to get everybody moving in the right direction on the damn transportation bill, but he couldn’t concentrate. He couldn’t stop thinking about Hassan Zarif’s visit. The other thing nagging at him was he couldn’t help but wonder what impact Reza Zarif’s act would have on Bill Broderick’s cockamamie bill. He finally decided he had to get out of the office to clear his head.
He put on his topcoat, muttered something to his secretary that she didn’t hear, and left the Capitol. He’d been thinking about going for a walk on the National Mall, but when he got outside he realized it was way too cold to be doing that. He’d freeze his fat ass off. Then he saw a U.S. Capitol police car, the cop inside it drinking coffee and reading the Post.
Mahoney rapped a big knuckle on the passenger-side window of the patrol car and the cop jerked in surprise, almost spilling his coffee. Then he saw it was Mahoney, and his lips moved in a silent Oh, shit!
The cop powered down the window. ‘Yes, sir, Mr Speaker,’ he said.
‘Hey,’ Mahoney said, ‘how ’bout givin’ me a lift someplace?’
Now the cop knew he wasn’t supposed to be Mahoney’s chauffeur, and Mahoney knew he wasn’t supposed to ask the cop to drive him — but the cop was afraid to say no and Mahoney wasn’t afraid to impose on anyone.
‘Uh, sure,’ the cop said, and Mahoney got into the front seat of the patrol car.
‘Where to, sir?’ the cop asked, transitioning effortlessly into his new job.
‘Tell you what,’ Mahoney said. ‘How ’bout takin’ a slow spin around the Mall? I just gotta clear my head. Politicians … shit, they make my brain ache some days.’
‘You got it, sir,’ the cop said.
Mahoney lit a cigar, was kind enough to crack a window in deference to the other man’s lungs, and then sat back and reflected on the political phenomenon named William Broderick.
A year ago, it would have been difficult to find a dozen Americans outside the state of Virginia who’d ever heard of the damn guy. And even three months ago, only 23 percent of all Virginians could name their newly elected representative to the U.S. Senate. But in the last two months, since Broderick had introduced his dumb-ass bill on the Senate floor, his name had become known to virtually every American who could read a paper or turn on a television.
It was a fluke that Broderick was even in the Senate. His predecessor had been a flamboyant egomaniac by the name of John Wingate whom Mahoney had sometimes admired but more frequently detested. Wingate had served in the Senate for forty-one years and then died suddenly and unexpectedly six weeks before the last election. At the time of Wingate’s death, Broderick had been running for a seat in the House, and there was considerable doubt that he would have been able to beat the incumbent. But when God created a senate vacancy by way of a well-timed stroke, the Republican bosses put Broderick’s name on the ballot — and he won. As there had been little time for his constituents to get to know him, all Mahoney could figure was that the majority of Virginians preferred a Republican they’d barely heard of to any Democrat running.
Mahoney glanced out the window to his right, at the Federal Court House, and saw two cameras pointed at a guy in a suit. Someone was holding a press conference. He wondered which lawyer, prosecutor or defender, was telling lies today.
Why Broderick had been chosen by his party was not totally clear to Mahoney. He knew Broderick had served briefly as an aide to that gasbag Wingate, he’d spent some time in the Virginia state legislature, and eight years ago he’d been a largely invisible one-term lieutenant governor. But that was about it, as far as Mahoney knew. The man certainly hadn’t cast an impressive shadow on the political landscape.
But Broderick did have money, and quite a bit of it. His granddaddy had owned coal mines at a time when those pesky unions hadn’t been strong enough to insist that miners be paid a living wage for their dangerous labors. When Grandpa died he passed on his loot to his only son, and then Broderick’s father died at an early age and passed it on to Bill and his two brothers.
The car was passing the National Archives. Mahoney was aware that on the other side of the building was a statue of a lady seated in a chair, and chiseled into stone at the base of the statue were the words WHAT IS PAST IS PROLOGUE. The sentiment was Shakespeare’s, from The Tempest. Mahoney had no idea what the words meant in relationship to the play, but they were certainly appropriate to the seat of government.
Broderick had gotten considerable ink the last couple of months, so Mahoney knew something about the man’s family, and he concluded that Bill Broderick had been the runt of the litter. He was the middle brother. Brother number one was a doctor, a neurosurgeon, no less, and brother number three was a real estate baron on the West Coast whose net worth would soon surpass Grandpa’s. Bill, by compari son, was just a minor party hack, a guy trying and largely failing to ascend the political ladder. Until recently, nobody had even noticed that he was on the ladder.
So maybe it was his money that caused the Republican czars to place Broderick in the Senate, but the cynics on the Hill, Mahoney included, didn’t think that was the whole story. The cynics thought Broderick had been chosen because of his malleability, meaning that the Republican pooh-bahs would be able to make young Bill dance to whatever tune they felt like playing. Well, it looked like they’d all been wrong about that.