“So that explains all the US military munitions at Saint Stephen’s,” Jonathan said, connecting the dots.
Irene poured another two fingers.
“So, when are you arresting Winters?” Jonathan asked.
Irene’s answer came without hesitation. “We’re not.” It clearly was the money shot that she’d been preparing for.
“You can’t be serious,” Jonathan said.
Irene said, “What would be the point? All that stuff we told you on the first meeting — the fragility of the world economy, and the devastation that a crisis of confidence could do — that’s all real, Dig. The threat of further damage went away when the cache of weapons was destroyed. In the opinion of the attorney general, more harm than good would be done by prosecuting Winters.”
“What about the victims at O’Hare? Their blood is on his hands.”
“Only if you look ridiculously closely,” Becky said.
“Come again?” Jonathan had sort of forgotten that she was even there.
“He was acting to protect his only child,” she said.
Hot blood rose in Jonathan’s face. “He murdered over a hundred people.”
“No, he didn’t,” David said. “The Movement did that. I guarantee you that’s the editorial slant the Enquirer would give it. Sure, there’d be a clamoring for Winters’s head, and he’d get fired, but at the end of the day, the editorial board of the Enquirer and every network would see this as a human interest story, and Winters as a benevolent scapegoat.”
“Even as the financial markets tumbled,” Irene added. “This isn’t without consequence,” she continued. “Tomorrow, Doug Winters will announce his retirement from the Darmond administration.”
“No doubt to ‘spend more time with his family’,” Jonathan mocked.
“Or something like that,” Irene confirmed.
“And then he’ll pull in a million-five a year on K Street,” Jonathan said, referring to the home of the major lobbyists.
“Or something like that.” Irene paused for the words to sink in. “You know, Digger, justice isn’t always about the individual. Sometimes, it really is about the commonweal. If a threat is eliminated, it’s not necessary to find someone to blame it on. It’s not as if he were personally ordering the murder of individual people.”
Jonathan thought through everything that had been told to him, and he marveled at how limited his options were. They’d constructed a box around him. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked.
“Because you’ll find out, one way or the other,” Irene explained. “You’re that inquisitive, and you’re that good. I drove all the way down here with David and Becky to make sure all of you understand the consequence of individual retaliation. It is not to happen.”
Jonathan regarded his longtime friend with a cocked head. “Have you been drinking the Darmond Kool-Aid, Wolverine?”
“Don’t you dare go there with me,” she said. “My oath is to the Constitution, not to petty politics. I swore to protect this country from all enemies, foreign and domestic. I’m not happy with the twist that phrase has taken over the past few years, but I’m not going to oversee a global collapse based on a high-horse ‘gotcha.’ Not on my watch.”
“So he walks on a murder charge,” Jonathan said. The words tasted like acid.
“Is that really the line that you of all people are going to walk?” Irene fired back.
Under a strict interpretation of the laws of the land, Jonathan had committed multiple murders on his own. “I do what I do in service to the innocent,” he said. Even as the words left his mouth, he realized that they sounded like they came from a Superman movie poster.
“Then do it again,” Irene said. “Let this go.” Jonathan turned to the others in the room. “How are you guys doing?”
“I killed people,” Becky said.
“They were all bad guys,” Jonathan replied.
“But they were people. I need to find my way on that.” She looked at her lap. “I’ll get there.”
“I don’t think I can continue to do journalism,” David said. “I like the investigation, but I don’t like the politics.”
“So, what’s the alternative?” Jonathan asked.
“There’s always a spot for you at the FBI academy,” Irene said.
Jonathan laughed. “No politics there.”
“That’s an interesting option,” David said. “But I’ve also been thinking about becoming a private investigator.”
Jonathan smiled and took a sip. “Is that so?” he said.
“Yeah, that’s so. In fact, between you and Wolverine, I’d like to set up a bidding war. Who wants to go first?”
At eight-thirty the next morning, a jogger in Burke Lake Park saw a shadow behind a tree. As she moved closer to investigate, she saw the blood and she screamed. A panicked 911 call brought the Fairfax County Police and Fire and Rescue Departments in force.
It took the White House two hours to make the formal announcement that Douglas Winters, chief of staff to the president, had committed suicide by firing a single bullet into his brain.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My beloved bride Joy continues to be a source of strength, inspiration and sanity, making every day worth waking up to.
Thank you, Chris, for being who you are. I couldn’t be more proud.
David Kirk did a brave thing through his generous donation to the Recycling Research Foundation and therefore earning his fictional namesake, as did Becky Beckeman with her donation to Living Word Lutheran School in Rochester, Michigan. I’m not sure either realizes how rarely stories end up well for characters whose names are so earned, but in this case they lucked out. I assure everyone who reads these words that the David and Becky who appear in this book are truly works of fiction, and bear no similarity to their namesakes.
My Canadian buddy and single malt sensei, Len Shaw, is neither a terrorist nor a former resident of the Soviet Union. Instead, he is a respected colleague whom I am honored to call my friend. He, too, shares no traits with his fictional namesake.
I owe a great thanks to Michelle Gagnon and John Ramsey Miller for reading an early draft of High Treason and giving me some excellent advice. If there are any mistakes in the book, blame them because they should have told me. Thanks also to The Rumpi — Art Taylor, Ellen Crosby, Donna Andrews, and Alan Orloff — for their ongoing advice and enduring friendship.
The team at Kensington Publishing continues to amaze me with their overwhelming support and guidance. Special thanks go to my editor, Michaela Hamilton, production editor Arthur Maisel, and my publisher, Laurie Parkin, and the guy who runs the whole shebang, Steve Zacharius. Adeola Saul is the best publicist in the business, and Alexandra Nicolajsen is my mistress of the Internet. Thanks to all.
But none of it would happen without my good friend and agent, Anne Hawkins.
Special Bonus
Turn the page to enjoy an exclusive short story that provides surprising insights into the character of hostage rescue specialist Jonathan Grave…
First time in print!
DISCIPLINE
Dr. Marvin Eugene Applewaite, Ed.D., had no idea what drew him to open his eyes in the middle of the night, but when he did, and he saw the child’s battered face staring at him, he screamed. His body jerked like a grounded fish as he struggled to flip from his stomach to his back to defend himself. His legs tangled in the covers, rendering him momentarily defenseless.