Conspiracy

126

Dean wondered whether Senator McSweeney might recognize him from Vietnam somehow, and vice versa. But there were many captains and many, many more privates, and nothing registered in McSweeney’s face as he shook Dean’s hand and gestured for him to take a seat in the hotel room.

Nothing clicked for Dean, either. He’d seen McSweeney so many times now in the briefings that it was impossible to visualize him as he was thirty-some years ago. And this was a good thing — insulation from his emotions.

“I’m supposed to give you the update alone,” Dean told the senator. More than a dozen people were milling around the room.

“Oh, that’s all right. These people know just about everything about me anyway, right down to the color of my un-derwear.”

McSweeney turned to one of his aides and examined the clipboard in her hand. Dean waited until he had McSweeney’s attention again before answering him.

“I’m afraid my orders were pretty specific.” The senator frowned. “This is a pretty busy day.”

“Yes, sir.”

McSweeney turned to another aide, who had questions about how to deal with the local press. Dean folded his arms and scanned the room. The Secret Service had blocked off the entire floor of the hotel as well as the one below it, and it was impossible for anyone who didn’t have a confirmed appointment to get up here. The curtains were drawn and the furniture had been rearranged to make it almost impossible for a sniper to get a good shot from the only building in range.

But that wouldn’t keep a truly devoted assassin from making an attempt on the senator’s life. The easiest thing to do, thought Dean morbidly, was to blow up the whole damn suite — fire a mortar or rocket round point-blank from across the way and everyone in the room would be fried, Dean included.

“How long will this take?” McSweeney asked.

“A few minutes,” said Dean.

“Let’s go into the bedroom then,” said McSweeney, leading the way.

Dean closed the door behind him.

“The President sent you?” said McSweeney.

“The President ordered the briefing,” said Dean.

“Well, shoot.”

“Do you remember Vietnam very well, Senator?” the question caught McSweeney completely by surprise.

He tried to cover it by seeming annoyed.

“Of course I remember Vietnam,” he told the NSA agent.

“Do you?”

“As a matter of fact, I do very well.” Something about Dean’s manner and appearance — perhaps his erect stance, or maybe his buzz cut — told McSweeney that he was a fellow Marine.

“Where’d you serve?” McSweeney asked him.

“I was a Marine Corps sniper,” said Dean, adding some of the details of his tour.

“Jesus, we were in-country at the same time,” said McSweeney, relaxing. He patted Dean on the shoulder and pulled over the chair in the corner to sit down. “Have a seat.

Sit on the bed; go ahead. I didn’t know you were a Marine. I should have known. I apologize.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Senator.”

“You know, I went back to An Hoa a few years ago. Has to be one of the most beautiful places on earth.”

“I imagine you’re right,” said Dean.

“You’ve seen some shit, I bet,” said McSweeney.

“Absolutely.”

“So what’s going on? Are the Vietnamese really targeting me, or is that all bullshit?”

“You’re definitely being targeted, but the information about the Vietnamese being behind it is wrong,” said Dean.

“Good. Surprised?” added McSweeney. “That I think it’s good?”

Dean shrugged.

“I don’t want to be an international incident,” McSweeney told him. He started to get up.

“How well do you remember Vietnam?” Dean asked again.

McSweeney gave Dean a puzzled look, then suddenly realized he knew everything.

dean carefully repeated what Rubens had told him to say, highlighting the missing money and the suspicion that Tolong had arranged to fake his own death. He didn’t mention Gordon by name; Rubens wanted Dean to listen for the name, to see if the senator volunteered it. They weren’t sure if McSweeney knew he was dead or not.

“One theory is that Tolong, or what ever he calls himself now, is the person who’s hunting you,” said Dean.

McSweeney’s face had remained placid as Dean spoke; nothing seemed to have registered. He spoke without emotion now, without even the mild excitement he’d displayed earlier when Dean told him he was a fellow Marine.

“What’s the other theory?”

“That whoever shot at you got Ball.”

“I see. So, what does he want? Revenge?”

“We’re still trying to figure everything out.”

“I knew Tolong,” said McSweeney. “I sent one of my aides when his body was recovered. I don’t see how his death could have been faked. Are you sure about this?” Dean nodded.

“Have you done DNA testing?” asked McSweeney.

“Yes.”

McSweeney made a face, then rose. “All right,” he said.

“Thank you. I assume you or someone else will keep me updated.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dean knew he was getting a performance, but he wasn’t exactly sure how to interpret it. The senator seemed disturbed and concerned, but no more than anyone might be.

Maybe he wasn’t involved. Maybe Tolong or whoever was trying to kill him had other reasons, and McSweeney was innocent.

“You’re welcome to stay, Mr. Dean,” said the senator, opening the door to the suite room.

“I have to check back with my boss,” Dean told him. “I’ll be around.”

“Good.”