The Coldest Warrior Read online

  “Go inside,” Gabriel said to Sara, pointing at the front door. “I’ll be right in.”

  Gabriel started across the street, but when he approached, the parked car drove off.

  9

  Washington Hilton Hotel

  White House Correspondents’ Dinner

  Mrs. Phillip Treacher waved at reporters who surged forward when she stepped from the black Lincoln Town Car that had stopped at the festively lit entrance of the Washington Hilton Hotel. She emerged from the left side of the limousine, and her husband waited as she came around. Velvet rope cordoned arriving guests from onlookers and the numerous journalists, who leaned in from either side of the red carpet, shouting questions.

  Treacher held his wife’s elbow, and he escorted her toward the hotel’s revolving door, which was guarded by Metropolitan Police and a few Secret Service agents wearing wireless earpieces. Tammy Treacher’s chiffon gown swept the carpet, her blond hair was gathered in a sculpted updo, and her pink hoop earrings swung as she turned from one reporter to the next, waving and savoring the attention.

  “Now, you’re throwing so many rumors at me, I can’t possibly answer all of them. My husband has assured me he was not involved. Couldn’t have been.”

  She was baited by a provocative question that was shouted at her.

  Tammy Treacher stopped and faced the Times reporter, Neil Ostroff. He had his notebook open, poised to record her answer. She gazed at him, lips curling, and clutched her sequined purse. In stopping, she had also brought her husband to a halt. Tammy scrubbed her Georgia drawl when she was among friends, but lazy rounded vowels crept into her speech when she performed for the press. Her smile had the tart charm of an annoyed Southern lady.

  “If he was,” she shouted back, “I wouldn’t know! He never talks to me about his work. Church and State. I trust and pray he was not part of any scandal. The CIA is a dirty business. But it’s got to be that way, doesn’t it? It’s dangerous work fighting Communists.”

  She had stopped to answer one question and suddenly found herself fielding another. “Knew Wilson?” she said. “God, no. I’ve never known anything about the CIA except that my husband had the privilege to work there and, of course, what you in the press write. I’m glad it’s all coming out. All these terrible family jewels—nasty stuff. It’s a big relief, isn’t it, like opening a pigsty and letting the stink out.”

  Treacher stood patiently at his wife’s side, mildly exasperated but also cautious of the potential for cameras to capture an embarrassing moment. Stoic. Calm. Seething. Treacher nudged his wife forward to extract her from the reporters.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you. Excuse us.” To his wife in a whisper, “Let’s go.”

  “Careful,” she said tartly to her husband, smiling at the reporters.

  “I don’t have time for this,” Treacher said.

  Tammy spoke in his ear. “Don’t forget, I’m the one who made you.”

  “I’m afraid my parents had that honor.”

  “They did the easy part,” she whispered. She allowed her husband’s arm around her waist, and as she moved past the Metropolitan Police, she shouted back, “Thank you, all!”

  Tammy and Phillip Treacher joined the queue waiting to enter the International Ballroom. Treacher’s white bow tie and paisley cummerbund set him apart from the dignitaries in black-tie tuxedos. He had let his hair grow to his neck, and he wore aviator glasses, in line with the current fashion. He acknowledged the British ambassador and his wife, a dry, withered flower with a sapphire diamond necklace, and she returned his smile with a condescending nod. The Speaker of the House was surrounded by men eager to bend his ear, and at his side, looking unamused, his plump wife.

  Treacher and Tammy looked around to see who they knew or recognized.

  “There’s what’s his name,” Tammy whispered in her husband’s ear. “Cute, isn’t he?” Tammy stood tall, proud, glowing in the company of celebrity glamour. Her pale freckled skin set off her ruby brooch, which she touched with nervous fingers. Her head was turned at that moment, as she stared at a Marine officer in smart dress blue, conscious of her place in the social pecking order.

  That’s when the accident happened. Tammy didn’t see two Secret Service agents opening a path through the thick crowd. Her head was turned, and when she swung back around, she bumped into one of the agents, and the collision sent her staggering sideways on her high heels. She grabbed her husband’s tuxedo, and then tripped on the uneven stone floor and found herself falling into the rescuing arms of a tall, distinguished man. Her ankle had wrenched painfully, but she managed to keep a smile for the camera that recorded her moment of distress. Then she turned to face the man who’d caught her.

  “Mr. President,” she gasped.

  The president stood beside the First Lady, and around the couple were three members of the security detail, who opened a small area. Guests who had seen what happened commiserated with Tammy’s misfortune.

  “Are you okay, Tammy?” the president asked, helping her stand.

  She smiled through the pain. “Yes, it’s nothing. I’m fine. Really, it’s nothing.” She smiled bravely at the president. Idiot, she thought. Her ankle was mangled. Dancing would be out of the question. There was tearing hot pain when she put weight on her foot. “I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

  “I’m so sorry,” the First Lady said. “We were being pushed along. Apparently, we’re late.”

  “I was distracted,” Tammy said. Her eyes sought the real culprit, the handsome major, but he was gone.

  “They’re with us,” the president said to the security detail, dragging Treacher and Tammy out of the queue. The president offered his deputy chief of staff a big, insincere smile. “She’ll be fine. You’re doing a good job, Phil. Tough election coming up. We’ll need all the oomph we can get.”

  The president turned to Tammy. “You look stupendous.” Then to the First Lady. “Doesn’t she look stupendous?”

  i i i

  INSIDE THE INTERNATIONAL Ballroom, the Treachers stood alone beneath the magenta ceiling shaped like the underbelly of a sperm whale that hung over a vast sea of round tables with flower arrangements and numbered cards. Tammy suddenly turned to her husband. “How did he know my name? I’ve never met him.”

  “He perfected the skill of knowing names in Congress. He put it to good use every two years.”

  “A common man,” she said, “with an uncommon touch.”

  Treacher smiled at the emphasis his wife put on the last word, turning the ad hominem remark into a rude slander.

  Everywhere elegance was on display. Women in strapless gowns stood beside husbands, or dates, who preened like displaying penguins. Everyone in the room was conscious of who was there and who was not, and guests glanced about, looking where others looked, thinking a celebrity had arrived.

  The only completely stationary person in the room was the patient hostess behind the dais’s microphone, miserably pleading for everyone to find their table. The huge banner behind her welcomed guests to the White House Correspondents’ Dinner.

  Tammy followed her husband as he pressed forward with an aggressive excuse me, and when he got no response, he cleaved an opening with his shoulder. She grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and hobbled after her husband, sipping as she limped.

  They found their table, but as the last to arrive they found the two unoccupied seats were across from each other, not adjacent, so they sat beside strangers. The table was in the middle of the room, just beyond the row of tables reserved for broadcast network executives, television newsmen, and dowager big-money contributors. Tammy waved to get her husband’s attention. “Where are the Cheneys, the Rumsfelds, the Albrights? I don’t know a soul.”

  DENIED HIS WIFE’S company, Treacher turned to the young woman on his left, whose wedding band linked her to a balding, older gentleman at her side. She had dazzlingly platinum hair and wore a low-cut strapless dress that provocatively revealed modest c
leavage. “I’m Blaire,” she whispered in his ear. She put a limp hand forward to shake his. “Nice to meet you.”

  She tipped her head back and laughed, and Treacher, not wanting to be rude, also laughed, a tolerant laugh. Treacher thought her face, with its bright eyes and passionate mouth, was lovely. It was only the slur in her speech that made her a sad, lonely thing. Her sober husband poked at his Bibb lettuce with his spoon. The couple reminded Treacher of the hell of marriage.

  He looked up and saw Tammy staring at him from across the table with scolding eyes. Tammy nodded at the inebriated young woman and mouthed, She’s flirting with you.

  Again, the hostess pleaded for quiet. A chorus of shushing swept the room and struck crystal settled the crowd. “Thank you. Thank you.” Then she looked to her right, where a stage door had suddenly opened.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the president of the United States.”

  The president moved along the dais, greeting seated politicians and newsmen, stopping to shake a hand or pat a shoulder. A spotlight illuminated his bone-white hair. Open microphones on the dais caught his husky speaking voice, which added to his impression of friendliness, even toward those people he disliked. And there were a few known enemies of his new presidency that he ignored on his way to the lectern.

  “I do appreciate Helen’s kind and gentle introduction,” he said, removing his speech from his jacket pocket. “As you know she has a reputation for speaking her mind. Seven years ago, when I was a congressman, Helen and I were walking down Pennsylvania Avenue when we passed one of those scales that gives you your weight for a penny and tells your fortune. Helen said, ‘Why don’t you try it? I might get a scoop.’ So, I got on the scale and put in a penny and a card came out that said, ‘You are handsome, debonair, sophisticated, a born leader of men, a silver-tongued orator, and some day you will make your mark on history.’ Helen looked at me and said, ‘It’s got your weight wrong, too.’”

  Treacher felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to find a waiter who leaned down and whispered loudly over the room’s booming laugher. Treacher took the note the waiter offered. The waiter pointed to a far exit. “There,” he said. “That man asked me to give you this. He wants to see you in the bar.”

  i i i

  TWO MEN STOOD at the far end of the empty hotel bar. That was Treacher’s first surprise. Their backs were to him, but at the sound of the door opening, both men turned, and Treacher got his second surprise. Herb Weisenthal stood next to Michael Casey. The bar was quiet except for the president’s voice piped through the public-address system. A waiter behind the bar looked up, his hands vigorously drying washed tumblers.

  “Who chose this place?” Treacher said, when he joined the other two.

  “It was the convenience of it,” Weisenthal said. “It chose itself. I knew you’d be here so I arranged to come. I thought we should talk.”

  Treacher gazed at his old adversary. He saw that Weisenthal’s face had aged, his hair now grayer and longer, his face thinned, eyes softened, but he still claimed the authority of a former boss. What he remembered about the man came back, the odd tricks of memory pulling up the man’s tics, his sayings. People don’t change. They only get worse. Later, on the way home, Tammy would ask Treacher, Did he look nervous? Did he look put out? He must have said something. But as Treacher looked at Weisenthal standing in the bar, he didn’t think he looked like anything. He didn’t blink, there was no tremor in his hand, just the face of a man he hoped he’d never see again.

  “Talk about what?” Treacher asked.

  “Don’t impugn my intelligence with your stupid act. You read the newspapers. Ainsley is dead. He always was a risk.” Weisenthal lifted the bottle of scotch the bartender had left. “A troubled man, but a colleague.”

  Treacher made no move to join the condolence.

  “Not drinking?”

  Treacher’s eyes didn’t respond to the offered glass. “I gave it up.”

  “You were a big drinker.”

  “Things change. Sometimes for the better.”

  Weisenthal laughed. “When?”

  Treacher looked directly at Weisenthal. “Twenty-two years ago.”

  Weisenthal threw back the liquor in his glass. “I’ve made a few changes also. We live in Virginia on a farm.”

  “I heard.” Treacher felt the old grudges stir up. The false pleasantries passing for real concern, the probing comments disguised as casual conversation. Treacher studied Weisenthal, looking for a sign of the man’s conspiring intelligence weaving its web.

  “Well,” Weisenthal said. He placed his glass on the bar and waved off the bartender, indicating they needed privacy. “Ainsley’s name was also on the invitation. His death is unfortunate, but he was an unsettled man. The Metro police detective who interviewed me called it a suicide, but he seemed to have some doubt.”

  No one spoke, no one offered a kind word, no one discussed how he’d died. The collective silence of the group spoke for itself.

  “We have nothing to worry about,” Weisenthal continued. “I was careful. We scrubbed the documents, hid some, destroyed most. We put down a story that stands, and there is no record on Wilson.” He looked at each man. “We did our job. There is no shame in that.”

  “Bullshit,” Casey snapped.

  Silence lingered for a long moment.

  “You’ve been called to testify,” Treacher said. “Not a pleasant thing to be summoned out of retirement and put on that stage.” He looked at Casey and then back at Weisenthal, eyes taking a measure of each man. “If you are right and there are no incriminating documents, the danger is among us and what we say. That’s obvious, but sometimes it’s important to say the words.” Treacher looked directly at Weisenthal. “You asked for this meeting?”

  “I didn’t volunteer to testify. I was subpoenaed. You need to know that I am not cooperating with them. Each of us has his thoughts about what happened, and maybe you have regrets, but there is no shame in our work.”

  Treacher interrupted. “You talk too much, Herb. We are beyond what happened. We are in the here and now, dealing in the present.” He turned to Casey. “Anything yet?”

  “His phone is wiretapped. He’s called the Wilsons. He’s being diligent, asking questions, probing until he excites a nerve. He spoke with Ainsley, and he tried to call you, Herb.”

  “I didn’t take his call.”

  “Why not?” Casey asked.

  Weisenthal’s eyebrow arched. “For the obvious reason,” he said caustically, then smiled. “This sideshow will pass. It serves no one’s purpose to dig up old bones.”

  Treacher looked at Weisenthal. So sharp with his orders that Thanksgiving evening, now quiet in retirement. “When you testify, keep your doubts to yourself and your answers short. Tell the truth—as little as you can get away with.”

  The meeting ended. Treacher held back when he felt Casey’s hand, and they let Weisenthal walk ahead.

  Treacher turned to Casey. “Do you trust him?”

  Casey’s eyes came off Weisenthal, who disappeared through the exit. “Retirement has stirred up his ghosts.” He adjusted his cuff links and rose to his full height over the shorter Treacher, like a bronze statue, impressive and unimpressionable. “Gabriel will try to get to Herb. Gabriel is the one I worry about. But I have an FBI contact with a grudge against the CIA. Gabriel will make a mistake, and when he does, they’ll take him down.”

  Treacher walked beside Casey and said nothing. His mind played out the reasons that Weisenthal might have asked for the meeting, going over and over the ways in which their acquaintance, which he thought was a thing long past, was now a present danger.

  TREACHER BROODED ABOUT the word “jeopardy” on his walk back to the ballroom. It had an urgent resonance. He didn’t need to discover the precise meaning in a dictionary, but he had done so that morning out of curiosity. He got satisfaction in finding just the right word to describe a feeling: “danger to an accused person on trial.” By that definition h
e was not in jeopardy, but events were unfolding and they were aligned against him.

  TWO HOURS LATER, Treacher sat beside his wife in the back of the Lincoln Town Car on their way home. She’d had several drinks, and her eyes were closed against swirling inebriation. He was clearheaded and stared out the window at the false peace the evening laid on the sleeping city. Government buildings along Pennsylvania Avenue were old and dilapidated, or new and soulless. All were dark. Far ahead lay the luminous cupola of the Capitol. The Statue of Freedom, in her aging glory, was shrouded in scaffolding, awaiting a facelift. Treacher gazed at the tableau and then looked out the rear window and watched the White House recede.

  Washington had been his life, but he hadn’t been born there, and he wouldn’t die there. It was a city of transients: men and women drawn to public service and to power—its rewards, its privileges, and its corruptions. Here he was, he thought, on the far side of an old choice that kept him in its gravitational pull.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” Tammy said.

  He turned to his wife. Her face was deep in shadow, but streetlamps punctuated the shadow with flashes of light, and in the moment of illumination he saw her concern. Treacher was aware of the driver, so he answered with a reassuring smile. He was aware of the first lie he’d told her that Thanksgiving long ago. That deception had metastasized in his soul. He felt more alone than ever.

  10

  Lincoln Park

  Days and nights tested Gabriel’s patience, and he agonized over the slow pace of his efforts. Questions followed questions, and he exhausted his few leads. It was about this time that he noticed a change in behavior among his colleagues. He found himself being ignored in subtle ways, which he dismissed as the light dusting of incivility toward a man who’d chosen to leave the Agency. Requests to have lunch were rebuffed with the usual excuse that pressing assignments required the colleague to work, but when he got the same response from different men over several days, he knew he was being cold-shouldered. And the slights got deeper. Without his having told anyone of his special assignment, everyone seemed to know. Coffin took Gabriel aside one morning and confided that case officers who disliked the director had transferred their animus to Gabriel. It was then that Gabriel put two chalk marks on the mailbox.