Close Quarters

FORTY-NINE

After a lifetime of almost unqualified success and achievement, where the tang of anything approaching disappointment had been limited to political ups and downs, Senator Howard Benson was undergoing an emotion he had not experienced before: a feeling of dread. Twenty minutes ago he’d had a call from the number calling himself Two-One. The news was about as bad as it could get.

Walter Conkley had turned into considerably more than just a minor irritant.

‘The subject has had two meetings with a white female identified as Marcella Cready,’ Two-One informed him, his voice flat with the tone of a minor news briefing. ‘She’s a well-known investigative hack around town.’

‘I know damn well who she is,’ Benson growled. He’d crossed swords with Cready on more than one occasion. She had twice tried to tie his name to unauthorized payments made to opposition campaign staff in what was effectively vote-rigging, and had mentioned him in connection with the suppression of secret transcripts related to extraordinary rendition flights out of Iraq and Afghanistan. ‘You said two meetings?’

‘I did.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me after the first one? This is disastrous.’

‘Because the first one was a sniffing exercise; each was seeing what the other had before they committed. I knew pretty quickly that they were lining up for another so I figured it would be better to wait until I had something more concrete to tell you.’

Benson bit down on his anger, knowing the other man would see it as fear. He took a deep breath to calm his voice. ‘What were they talking about?’

‘You. And the Dupont Circle Group. Names, dates and details — and some digital media. Cell phone recordings.’

‘What?’ Benson swore long and loud. The little bastard had been recording them?

‘I’m pretty certain you don’t want me to read them out here and now,’ Two-One continued, ‘so I’m sending the material across to you by special messenger. Should be with you any minute.’

That had been twenty minutes ago, and now Benson had heard the first ten minutes of the second meeting his gut was killing him. The sound quality of the recording was too clear to leave any misunderstanding, and he could picture Cready in living detail as she gently prised the story out of Conkley with all the expertise of the interrogator that she was. She was good. Very good.

And the biggest danger was that everybody knew it and fed on it. Such was her record in exposing the underbelly of administrative failure and corruption, when she turned her attention on something — or more often than not, someone — the associated target was already deemed by news watchers as probably guilty anyway, otherwise why else would Cready bother looking?

All the eager readers had to do was simply wait for her to bring the story home and prove it in her usual way — with pictures, transcripts, witness evidence and, more often than not, sworn affidavits to back up her claims.

The recording was painful listening. According to Two-One’s surveillance notes, the weasel Conkley had met with her twice in a six-hour period; once at a bar on 7th Street, the second time at an apartment she leased as a place of work while in Washington. Two-One had made a notation with the recording that he had been able to get inside and place a recording device when he’d heard her giving Conkley the address and arranging the time of the second meeting.

‘Bitch,’ Benson swore. He didn’t ask Two-One how he’d managed to record Cready, nor did he want to know. The man was an expert in surveillance and covert operations, and had clearly been trained by the best. He’d been using his services for some time now and the man had never failed him yet. The fact that Benson still didn’t know his true identity was a matter of choice; it was better to keep his distance and his hands clean where this kind of dirty work was involved.

He stared out of his office window, the famous landmarks of Washington glinting in the sun as he chewed over the bitter facts. He should have foreseen Conkley going to a hack like Marcella Cready; she’d have gone on heat the moment she’d been approached by him. Known White House staffers like Conkley did not talk to gutter journalists like her unless they had something official they wanted broadcast … or they wanted to speak strictly off the record. Either way it would have told her that there was a story in the air — a possible scoop. She had clearly decided against meeting with Conkley where she might be known, especially by other journalists. Opportunities like Conkley didn’t come along every day and she wasn’t going to share him with anyone else or allow herself to be outbid by a rival hack.

His gut churned at the thought that even as he was sitting here she would be verifying facts and details, timings and dates, prior to writing a summary proposal for an anxious editor.

The shit, Benson decided, was going to hit the fan long and loud, and there was only one thing to do about it. He swore again. From that first moment when Teller had exposed his venal nature at the possibilities coming from the social upheavals in Eastern Europe, he’d sensed Conkley was a problem. Benson had gone against his own instincts and allowed the matter to drop, trusting in Conkley’s greed and his instincts for self-preservation in the face of exposure to keep him from talking. But it hadn’t been enough.

Now the situation had undergone a seismic change and he had to do something about it. He took out his cell phone and dialled a number. It rang twice.

‘Two-One.’

‘Thank you for the material. It’s good work. Very good.’

‘Thank you. Anything else?’

Benson had been chewing over what he knew he had to do. He’d known it would come to this, but had been putting it off in the hope it would simply go away. Now that hope was right off the board.

‘Yes. I want you to arrange an accident. Effective immediately.’

‘As you wish. It will cost you.’

‘Of course. Just do it.’

‘Very well. I’ll be in touch.’

‘Wait.’ Benson hadn’t finished. His mind was leaping ahead, contemplating the enormity of what he’d just arranged … and thinking that maybe, just maybe it wouldn’t be enough. After all, there would still be another source of information out there. ‘Make it two.’

There was a short silence. ‘Are you serious?’ The voice was utterly calm, simply posing a question. But the words and tone carried a hint of censure, even of faint disbelief.

And if there was anything Benson hated more it was censure of any kind, especially of his own actions or decisions.

‘Do you have a problem with that?’ he snarled. ‘Or should I go elsewhere?’

‘No. But it increases the element of risk.’

‘Christ. OK — how much?’

Two-One gave him a figure, and Benson’s instinct was to refuse. But he realized that the fee for getting rid of both people would be chicken feed compared with what he and the others would make on the energy markets if everything worked out and their plans weren’t ruined at the last minute.

‘Very well.’ He closed his eyes and felt a moment of almost sexual excitement go through him. His instinct had been to deal with Conkley, to stop him talking further and to teach the gutless little creep a lesson. But there was a survival aspect to this, too. Take out the disaffected and treacherous civil servant and there would be no case, no matter how persuasive Cready might be. Allegations were just that and without living proof the story would wither and die. But there would always be lingering suspicions in the minds of some in this city, where seeking advantage through rumour was almost an Olympic sport. And he had too much to lose to risk coming under the microscope that was insider talk.

‘Are you certain?’ Two-One’s voice again, probing and soft, wanting confirmation.

‘I’m certain.’ And indeed he was. Why not wipe the board completely clean? Dealing with Marcella Cready would be payback for all the grief she had caused him and others in the past by her allegations and suggestions. More than one person in the administration had dismissed her at their cost, and he knew her passing would be met with quiet smiles and raised glasses all over town. Elegant. Clinical. Final.

‘Both,’ he confirmed. ‘And wipe out any records.’

‘Of course. I’ll be in touch. Keep your eye on Fox News.’