Blood Testament

13

Cameron Cartwright killed the Porsche's engine, listening to it tick for several moments as it cooled in the night. It was not cold outside, but he could feel the gooseflesh rising on his arms, betraying agitation as it did each time he was compelled to meet with Gianelli. So much at risk, so much to lose, and still he had no choice. When Gianelli called a meeting, Cartwright would be there with hat in hand.

It galled him, catering to common criminals this way, but, then again, there had been nothing common in the threat from Gianelli. At a single stroke, the mafioso could erase a quarter century of faithful service to the government, leave Cartwright's long career at the CIA in smoking ruins. Gianelli could destroy him if he chose to, and until he found a way to break the mobster's stranglehold, Cartwright was at his beck and call.

The Watergate Hotel provided anonymity, though Cartwright scarcely would have chosen it with tight security in mind. He still remembered Hunt and Liddy, the deliberate shambles of a burglary, the months of hearings that had toppled Nixon. It had been a foolish stunt from the beginning, amateurish, pointless, and the analysts at the CIA had recognized a shaky hand behind the half-baked plot. It wasn't burglary that put them off, but rather wasted effort, risking personnel to gather information that was readily available from countless other outlets. Farnsworth had been quick to sense the shifting winds and, with Cartwright's help, had moved to blow the silly scheme wide open. They had weathered out the shitstorm side by side, emerging with the scent of roses while so many others fell around them.

Even Gianelli didn't know of Cartwright's secret meetings with Bob Woodward, from the Post, although the mobster might have guessed that Cameron's sense of humor, coupled with his fondness for pornography, had prompted him to choose the contact code name of Deep Throat.

So long ago, but he could not approach the Watergate, could not drive by it in the Company's armored limousine without the images and memories returning, just as if it all had happened yesterday. You're getting old, he thought, and knew it wasn't true. Still vigorous at fifty-one, the CIA agent could hold his own against the best — he'd proved that much when he outlived Lee Farnsworth — but the carelessness of others placed him under Nicky Gianelli's thumb, and Cartwright ruminated constantly on methods of escape. If it had not required such careful planning, so damned much finesse...

As always, he had parked the Porsche himself, avoiding the valets who might remember faces, license plates, if anyone should ask about him later. Cartwright's passion for selective anonymity had marked him as a bit of an eccentric with the Agency, so many years beyond his final field assignment, but the up-and-coming staffers had no inkling of his background, everything he stood to lose through indiscretion and exposure.

In the wake of Farnsworth's death, the bloody business in Virginia, he had spent a frenzied weekend purging records, reaching back across the years to Southeast Asia, Cuba, the Dominican Republic, Chile, shredding anything and everything that might incriminate him. It was simpler now than in the old days, with computers to assist him in the search, and Cartwright hadn't missed a thing — except for Gianelli's copies, secretly collected since the sixties, stored against the day when Nicky needed extra weight to throw around in Washington. The bastard had it all, in triplicate, complete with names and dates, securely tucked away where Cartwright couldn't reach it.

Yet.

A quarter-century in the clandestine services had taught him that no secret was eternally secure. It had only taken one professor to reveal the Pentagon's most treasured secrets in the early seventies, and whistle-blowers were a dime a dozen in official Washington. The kind of information Cartwright needed from inside the syndicate would be more difficult to come by, but where there was a will...

The doorman nodded courteously to the suit, ignoring Cartwright's face. The man had seen him here before as he saw thousands every night five days a week, but Cartwright worked at leaving no impression on the minds of strangers and remote subordinates. He fit "the type" that would be calling on the Watergate for business meetings of an evening: three-piece suit; salt-and-pepper hair, now mostly gray around the temples; wing-tip shoes. He was unarmed and had not carried guns with any regularity in a dozen years. But there were times like now when he still missed the reassuring weight beneath his arm. Its absence caused a pang, like sending a favorite child off to college in the fall or breaking with a mistress who had been particularly skilled.

The danger lay within connections, and he hoped to break the link with Gianelli soon, perhaps when they were finished with the current project. In the meantime he was on for the duration, and there was no viable alternative to absolute success.

He waited for the elevator with an older couple, tuning out their conversation, concentrating on the purpose of his visit. Gianelli had been agitated on the phone and with good reason. There were indications that his plan might be unraveling around the edges, but they had no other options now. They were committed, and the mafioso would be waiting for suggestions, ways of nailing down the battle plan before it rolled up in their faces and was blown away.

Cartwright had no answers for him yet, but it was in his own best interest to secure the game before it slipped away. He had as much at stake — and more, perhaps — than Gianelli. Everybody knew that Gianelli was a thug; they simply couldn't prove it in a court of law. In Cameron Cartwright's case, however, there were reputations to protect, an image to preserve, and he could not — would not — allow the present freakish circumstances to destroy what he had worked to build since he had come of age in Washington.

He loved the town, and hated it, the feelings sometimes surfacing together simultaneously. The nation's capital had nurtured him, allowed him to become the man he was, and it would just as cheerfully destroy him. It would be Cartwright's task to see that no such opportunity was granted to any of his enemies. Or any of his friends, he added silently, relieved by the arrival of the elevator. There were no such things as friends in Washington, not since Lee Farnsworth, and he was reminded of that fact each time he spoke to Gianelli. In emergencies allies would betray you at their leisure once the danger to themselves was past. It was a lesson that America had failed to learn in 1941, in 1945, in '59 and '63 and on and on. It was a lesson Cartwright only had to suffer once before he read the writing on the wall.

Trust no one but yourself. Reveal no weakness to your "friends" or enemies at any time. Permit yourself no public indiscretions and confess no errors of judgment. Stonewall to the end, and cut another deal beneath the table if you have to, anything to save yourself.

He disembarked, abandoning his elderly companions on the fourteenth floor. He took no pains to hide his face from other men and women passing in the corridor as he approached Gianelli's suite. They didn't know him, had no reason to remember him. As perfectly anonymous as any man alive, he reached the door that was numbered 1425 and rapped twice against the polished wood.

The door was opened by a six-foot-eight behemoth, decked out in a suit that seemed about to split along its seams. He held the door for Cartwright, closed and double-locked it when he was inside, and frisked the Company operative for weapons. Cartwright kept the grimace from his face, inured to the embarrassment by now, convinced that Gianelli's private paranoia was a sign of weakness. That could be useful knowledge in the future when the time was ripe for eliminating Gianelli's shadow from his life. Soon.

The ape conveyed him through a narrow entry hall into a sitting room with bedrooms opening off either side. The doors were open, the bedrooms vacant. As soon as Cartwright was delivered, his companion ambled back in the direction of the door to stand his watch.

"You're late."

"I'm never late."

Still, Cartwright ignored the urge to check his Rolex. It was one of Nicky's favorite ploys, Cartwright knew, a childish bid to knock the other side off balance, prior to opening negotiations. It was stupid of him to be playing games with Cartwright at a time like this, and Cartwright made another mental note regarding Gianelli's ego. The fanatical one-upmanship could be a fatal weakness, leading him to reckless action when the chips were down, and it was good to know.

"You want a drink?"

"No, thanks."

"So, sit."

Cartwright sat and waited for the mobster to begin, examining his adversary for perhaps the thousandth time since their association had begun. He might not fit the profile of a mobster, with his stylish haircut, understated suit and jewelry, but there was something oily in the mafioso's mannerisms, even in his voice, that had a way of setting Cartwright's teeth on edge. He felt contaminated any time he came into contact with the man who held his past, his future, in those manicured hands.

"Your end all right?"

"It's covered," Cartwright told him. "I understand you've got the target marked."

"You understand exactly right." There was a shadow of uneasiness behind the mobster's smile. "The bastard's here, and I can tell you that he's hot as hell."

"You were expecting that."

"Damn right. I didn't think he'd take it this fast off the mark, but I was counting on some losses here and there."

The capo's tone betrayed his anger, faint bewilderment at what was happening on the streets of Washington. From quiet sources, Cartwright knew that Gianelli had been taking hits all evening, from the ghetto to his favorite pleasure palaces. It was the price he had to pay for setting up an operation in his own backyard.

"I set the meeting with Brognola as you asked. It's Arlington at midnight."

Gianelli frowned. "I wish we'd set it earlier, the way this bastard's tearing up the town, but what the hell. It's just a few more hours, right?"

"Four hours, thirty-seven minutes."

"Yeah, all right. You mentioned something on the phone about another problem."

Cartwright nodded, drawing cautious pleasure from the mobster's agitation.

"It's the media. Specifically a free lance by the name of Susan Landry. Someone tipped her to the move against Brognola, and she's pressing for supporting evidence."

"Goddamn it. Was it Landry? Why's that name familiar?" Gianelli's scowl was carving furrows in his cheeks. "I know that name from somewhere, dammit."

Cartwright gave it to him on a platter. "She's the one who broke the story on that little business in Virginia. Prior to that, she had alleged connections with your target's Cleveland operation. Someone in the Family up there should have the details."

"Shit, I know the score on Cleveland," Gianelli growled. "The bitch was there, all right. Goddammit, what's she up to now?"

"An educated guess would say that she's attempting to corroborate — or to expose — the evidence against Brognola."

"Christ, that's all we need. The frigging media. How badly can she hurt us?"

Cartwright didn't even have to think about it. "There's a single source of information she could tap, outside this room."

"DeVries."

It hadn't come out sounding like a question, but he nodded all the same, confirming Gianelli's choice of the potential leak.

"We'll have to take him out. You wanna set it up?"

It was the CIA man's turn to frown. "I think it's better handled out of house. Less chance of comebacks in the long run."

Gianelli chuckled. "'In-house,' 'out of house,' what the hell's the difference? I'llhandle it, and we won't have no fucking comebacks, neither. Shit, you cloak-and-daggers kill me."

Not a bad idea, thought Cartwright, but he kept the icy smile in place. The time was not yet ripe for dumping Gianelli. Later, when the present mess was all behind them.

"While we're on the subject, Nick, I think you should be covering the meet in Arlington.''

The mafioso dropped his smile, bent forward, elbows planted on his knees. "Why's that?"

"My ass is hanging out a mile for no good reason on this thing. I laid the groundwork, got your target here. It's your show now."

"My show? Your ass is hanging out for no good reason? Maybe you should take another look around and find out who your friends are, Cam. Think about the shit you'd have to wade through if Brognola tied you in with Farnsworth and that fuck-up in Virginia."

"He was nowhere close. You know that."

"What I know is that it only takes a phone call, and your little world goes up in smoke. Capisce? Somebody ties you in with Farnsworth, and you wouldn't have a pot to piss in by this time tomorrow."

Cartwright bristled.

"This has never been about Brognola, dammit. It's about his contact."

"What's the matter, you can't say the name? It's Bolan, asshole. Say it."

"This is childish."

"Say it!"

The explosion took him by surprise, the dark contorted face reminding Cartwright that the mobster might be capable of anything. Behind him in the entryway, he heard the hulking gunner sucking wind and waiting for the order to attack.

He said it.

"Bolan."

Gianelli rocked back in his easy chair, retreating from the brink of detonation, and the sudden shift confirmed for Cartwright that he had been dealing with a psychopath these past two years. "See there? It's easy when you try."

"I've got no argument with Bolan."

"Oh? Well, I'd lay money on it that he's got an argument with you. He lost some people in Virginia, just in case you don't remember, and the bastard has been known to hold a grudge. He finds out you were in the deal with Farnsworth, chances are that you'll be dead before you come to trial."

"It wouldn't stand in court," the Company man responded. "Nothing ever went on paper, and the principals are dead. Assuming that you wanted to involve yourself with federal juries, any testimony you presented would be hearsay."

"You want evidence on paper, pally? Think about the notebooks Farnsworth left behind. Dumb move for such a cagey bastard, huh? He wasn't stingy with the names, I'll give him that. And all those memos that he cycled through the Xerox for a rainy day. I'd say it's raining pretty hard right now."

"The statute's run on that by now. It's ancient history."

"So, tell me why you're sitting here right now? Could be that you're embarrassed by the thought of all that shit resurfacing? Could be the statute doesn't run on murder... or should I be calling it assassination?"

Cartwright couldn't answer. He was rooted to his chair, jaws locked, his mind racing back across the years and miles. He flashed on Dallas and the motorcade turning off Houston, running west on Elm Street toward the triple underpass, the grassy knoll. There was a telltale puff of smoke behind the fence, an echo from the book depository, thunder in his ears... And he was instantly transported to Los Angeles, amid the crush of campaign workers at the great Ambassador Hotel. It was congested, even claustrophobic in the kitchen, but he saw the slender figure edging forward, reaching with the pistol to bestow his special blessing, firing blindly toward the ceiling while another shooter closed on Bobby's flank to pop the lethal caps at skin-touch range, secure in his silent weapon, the invisibility of his policeman's uniform.

For Cartwright, the recovery of here and now was the emotional equivalent of diving naked into icy water. For an instant, impact with the present took his breath away.

"All right."

"What's that?"

"I said all right."

"That's better. Arlington is your show, and you'd better get it right the first time, 'cause you won't get any second chances, dig it? I'll take out DeVries, and if the Landry bitch gets burned, we can consider it a bonus."

"Anything you say."

The mobster flashed a savage grin. "I like our little chats, don't you? Let's keep in touch."

He turned away and ambled toward the bar, dismissing Cartwright like a servant, carving one more notch out of his dignity. The man from the CIA retreated through the entryway, ignoring the gorilla's smirk, and took the elevator down.

For now he would be forced to play along, but there were ways of breaking Gianelli's stranglehold when this was finished. He had written history before, with Farnsworth, and he would again. It mattered little that no authors had recorded their achievements for posterity; it was enough that Cartwright knew and understood.

For now it was enough that Gianelli felt self-satisfied, his confidence inflated to the bursting point, assured that Cartwright was his stooge. When it was time to break the news, it would hit him that much harder.

Cameron Cartwright would be looking forward to that moment when he saw the recognition dawn in Gianelli's eyes. The recognition that it cut both ways, that nothing in the world was settled while you had an enemy still living.

But there would be other business first. With Hal Brognola and his batboy out in Arlington. The Bolan reputation did not frighten Cartwright. He had lived through Vietnam, the Bay of Pigs, Grenada, and the enemy had never laid a glove on him. Not yet.

It wouldn't be a piece of cake in Arlington by any means, but it would not be Armageddon, either. When the dust had settled, there would be time enough for Gianelli and his files.

Cartwright was taking first things first and keeping his priorities in order. It was the mark of a professional.