T.C. began by congratulating everyone (too numerous to mention) who had been involved. But even though he named a few people, it was clear he was taking full credit.
A veteran network newsman, a tall, narrow-shouldered man with acne scars and hair like a black tortilla glued to his head, raised his hand and stood when T.C. pointed to him. “Sam?”
“Mr. Director, are we to believe that all of this, including the bombs that killed”-he looked at his paper-“let’s see… twenty-two people-civilians in New Orleans, members of the New Orleans police, DEA personnel, the United States Coast Guard, twelve dead civilians in Dallas-that all this was the work of just two men? The same two men, Mr. Martin Fletcher and Mr. Kurt Steiner, responsible for up to some thirty other homicides over the past six years? And any number of other crimes, including drug trafficking, bombings, and contract killings, and-well, the list is staggering.”
“That’s correct, Sam. We’re not sure of the exact number in all related cases, but I’d guess that estimate is low, if anything. Martin Fletcher was the most dangerous terrorist we”-he looked at the attorney general, who stood smiling uneasily with her assistants on one side of the riser, and nodded at her-“at the Justice Department have ever taken out of action. And let me say that every effort was made to take Martin Fletcher alive.”
Robertson smiled. He felt the hero-hell, he was a hero. He had managed to capture most of the credit for taking a nightmare terrorist out. Inviting the attorney general to join him was an ass-kissing exercise, since she had not been in on the loop. The operation had been expensive in lives, but the public loved the drama of it. He was certain that no one could keep him out of the director’s chair now. Maybe there would be an even bigger payoff. He had been thinking that he could actually be President, or at least attorney general, in the not too distant future.
“Mr. Robertson,” Sam went on, “I have had certain information brought to my attention that you also hired a man by the name of George Spivey, known to sources in the CIA as a cleaner, or hit man, to help in the capture of these two admittedly dangerous men. He was killed aboard the Shadowfax, a boat owned by the DEA.”
T.C. wondered how much Sam knew. He couldn’t risk stonewalling. “True. I can’t discuss this sensitive…” The boat’s ownership traced back to us?
“Isn’t it true that he was put in place in New Orleans over a year ago and you paid him with DEA funds?”
“Mr. George Spivey was a military-trained professional and a patriotic American. These men he was after were”-he smiled-“terrorists. I have done nothing illegal, Sam. Sometimes it takes tough, not altogether palatable men to catch the sort of monsters who are threats to our national security, our citizens. I hired him as soon as I had identified these men, and paid his expenses. He was the best available to us.”
T.C. noticed the attorney general was fidgeting.
For the first time since the floor was opened for questions, no other hands were up in the room. All eyes were riveted on the veteran newsman and the acting director. The pros smelled blood.
The attorney general was physically moving away from Robertson-distancing herself. She seemed to spot someone in the wings, raised her hand, and then walked off the riser, followed down the hall by her assistants.
“Sir?”
T.C. tugged at his collar and smiled nervously. “Sam, maybe we should let someone else ask-”
“One more question, sir. Can you explain why, when you knew these two men were killing the family members of former agents of the DEA, you neither alerted them, specifically Special Agent in Charge Rainey Lee or the recently reactivated Special Agent in Charge Paul Masterson, nor any members of their families, that they were targets of these two maniacs who you yourself have described as the most dangerous men on the face of the earth? Maniacs who, after you had identified them, still killed the entire family of Rainey Lee and a Cub Scout leader and mother of three. Didn’t you, in effect, sentence a large number of innocent people to death by your actions?”
“Sam…” T.C.’s face suddenly looked like bleached bone. “I… I… I resent that insinuation! You have no proof for this allegation and I resent the implications.”
His assistant, a young attorney with a glued-on smile, covered the microphone with his hand, and he and T.C. had a few words.
“Sir,” T.C. said, “on the advice of counsel, and considering the question of national security, I must respectfully refuse to answer that question.”
“On what grounds?” Sam asked incredulously.
“On the grounds that… on the… because,” he stuttered, and wiped at his brow. Then he said, “Gentle… ladies and men, this press conference is over.”
The room exploded; flashes illuminated the dais, a hundred voices were raised in an attempt to get another question answered, and print reporters went running from the room to capture a telephone as T.C. Robertson bolted.
64
The early-morning sky was filled with soft, billowing clouds. An eagle, her wing tips splayed like fingers, flew effortlessly just above the stream’s surface where the cold water was rushing over the smooth rocks. Above the cabin, patches of snow clung to the sides of the mountains, seemingly anchored by the quill-like trees.
Paul stood on the grassy slope in the blue shadow of the mountain with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. His unlaced boots were planted as he stood watching a great bird at hunt over the rushing water. On the right side of his head there were delicate rose-colored lines etched where the stitches had been removed. The black leather patch had been retired when Paul’s damaged skull plate had been corrected. The socket had been perfected and fitted with a glass eye, which, except for an inability to track, was a perfect match with the left.
Paul turned toward the porch where Reb sat on the railing with his back against the upright support, spooling green line onto the fly-fishing reel. Wolf sat and watched him anxiously. Reb, his young face illuminated by a shaft of sunlight, turned and beamed at his father.
“There’s your eagle on her morning run, Reb,” Paul yelled, and he pointed at the bird as it dived, flared for a split second over the stream where the water roiled white against the rock, and plucked a trout from the water. Wolf barked and watched cock-headed as the majestic bird soared off over the trees with the gleaming curve of gray locked in her talons.
Reb waved that he’d seen it. Paul waved back. He could see motion through the kitchen window as Laura busied herself with breakfast and Erin watched. Laura had joined them the day before for the final two days of their children’s visit. Paul hoped the kids would spend more time in Montana and grow to love it as he did. Laura, too.
To say her paintings had been a hit in Germany was an understatement. The German critics had embraced her, the show had sold out, and she was anxious to start another series. In fact, it seemed the most important thing in her life, aside from the children. Whatever hope he had held that they might pick up where they had left off before his accident six years earlier had been put on hold. He was welcome to visit New Orleans as much as he liked, but whether or not he and Laura would share the master bedroom was up in the air. That move, if it ever came to pass, would take time.
In the shadow of danger, during the days waiting for Martin to move, and in the glow after it was all over, both had seemed to believe that they could start up again. But with the sense of crisis gone there had been a shift. Now she had had several months to reflect, to think about her life. They had talked it over in the hospital as he was going through the surgeries and the recovery. Before, he had been her protector. Now she didn’t need him in that role. Truth was she didn’t know where he would fit in within the parameters of her life. She realized that she didn’t truly know him anymore. Laura was independent, certain. Defining a relationship would take time, he decided. If there was to be a relationship, a commitment for a future as a family, their connection had to be built on new ground. After six years alone he had learned to be patient.