Conspiracy

111

“What the hell is going on, Billy?” demanded President Marcke as Rubens entered the Oval Office. “Why are the details of a top-secret mission being broadcast on national television?”

Bing was sitting next to the President. Her gaze was directed at the floor.

“I’m not sure, Mr. President,” said Rubens. He braced himself. The entire trip down — he’d decided he better use the helicopter — he’d gone over different scenarios, different plans for what to say and do depending on what the President and, more important, Bing said. But they fled in the face of Marcke’s anger.

Marcke’s desk was littered with twisted paper clips — not a good sign.

“Are the Vietnamese involved in this, or what?” demanded the President.

“No, sir,” answered Rubens. “There’s no evidence of it at all.”

“Who is?”

“I’m not sure. To this point, the investigation—” Rubens stopped speaking as Marcke dropped the paper clip he’d been twisting in his fingers and rose. Rubens had often watched the President pace in his office before, but never like this. He nearly speed walked from side to side.

“McSweeney called me, you know,” he told Rubens. “We were senators together. I always thought the man was a jerk, though we did manage to work together when necessary. We actually got a few good bills passed into law. But regardless.” The President stopped his pacing and glanced over at Bing. “You can go, Donna.”

The President’s glare made it clear there was no point in protesting.

“Yes, Mr. President,” she said, her voice barely a whisper as she made her escape.

Marcke waited for Bing to leave.

“Who shot at McSweeney?”

“I only know for certain that the Vietnamese government was not involved,” said Rubens.

“I want this figured out,” said Marcke, cutting him off.

“Do you understand?”

“The Secret Service and FBI—”

“Aren’t getting squat done. That was a U.S. senator who was shot at, Bill. A presidential candidate,” said Marcke.

“I’m working on it, Mr. President.”

“Good. You can go.”

“There’s one thing that you should be aware of,” said Rubens, deciding he’d better tell Marcke everything he knew about the situation. “We’re still working on this, but there’s a possibility that the attempt was connected with the theft of money in Vietnam during the war there. Senator McSweeney was an officer there at the time.” Rubens explained what they had found, carefully noting that there was no proof that McSweeney had taken the money, or that any American had.

“When did you find this out?” asked the President.

“Within the last twenty-four hours.”

“Why

haven’t you been briefing me on this yourself, Bill?” Rather than angry, the President seemed almost hurt — or, more accurately, disappointed.

“You told me to report to you through Ms. Bing.” Marcke furled his arms in front of his chest. “Get to the bottom of this. I don’t want any elected officials assassinated — even if they’re running against me. Especially then.”

“Yes, sir.” Rubens waited a half second, then turned to leave.

“And Billy — you talk to me directly from now on when the matter concerns Deep Black. Everything else can go through channels, up the ladder with Admiral Brown when he gets back, Ms. Bing, and so on. But not Desk Three. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said Rubens.