Read Online The Machiavelli Covenant by Allan Folsom - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Allan Folsom
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you had your way and the assassinations were carried out, what would you expect to gain? Exactly which people would you want in power and how could you make certain they were elected? And even if they were, what makes you think we could trust them to do what we wanted, whenever we wanted and for as long as we wanted?"
"There are such people, Mr. President," Lowe said quietly.
"It can be done, sir," Marshall added, "and rather quickly. You'd be surprised."
Harris's eyes darted angrily from one man to the other. "Gentlemen, let me say this one more time. There will be no political assassinations on the part of the United States, not while I'm president. And if the subject comes up again you can both dig out your golf clubs and call for a tee time because you will no longer be part of this administration."
For the longest moment neither Marshall nor Lowe took his eyes from the president. Finally Marshall spoke, and in a tone that rang with condescension. "I think we understand your position, Mr. President."
"Good," Harris held their gaze, giving them no ground. "Now," he said brusquely, "if you don't mind there are a few things I'd like to go over on my own before we touch down in Rome."
16
• MR. HENRY'S RESTAURANT, PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE, 11:50 A.M.
Marten and Peter Fadden sat in a back booth in the dark-wood-and-authentic-retro atmosphere of this Capitol Hill saloon where the lunchtime crowd was just beginning to make noise and where decades earlier Roberta Flack was first crooning "Killing Me Softly" upstairs.
"Your friend Dan Ford was a heck of a reporter, a very special kind of guy, and—" Peter Fadden leaned inacross the table when he talked. It was a manner, studied or not, that accentuated his presence. "His future was bright as hell. To be murdered the way he was? It was all wrong. Nobody should ever die like that. I still miss him."
Fadden, thickset with gray hair and a trimmed gray beard and ruddy complexion, was closer to fifty than seventy and looked even younger. A byline reporter with an old-timer's rough demeanor, he wore brown slacks with a tattersall shirt and worn herringbone jacket. His eyes were sparkling blue and piercing as he watched Marten take a sip of coffee or a bite of tuna sandwich.
"So do I, every day," Marten said genuinely. Nearly five years had passed since Ford's murder in the French countryside, and even now Marten was plagued by the thought that Dan's death was somehow his fault. There was another level too, especially now, because, as with Caroline, they'd been best friends since childhood and all those memories, all their history, compounded his death even more.
It had been Dan Ford the professional journalist with his never-ending string of connections who had made it possible for John Barron to become Nicholas Marten, thereby enabling him to make a new life in the north of England, one far from the reach of the Gunslinger, the deadly LAPD detective Gene VerMeer, and his equally vengeful associates still on the force.
"You said you had a story. What is it?" The sentiment was done. Peter Fadden took a sip of coffee.
"I said I might have a story," Marten said, then lowered his voice. "It has to do with Caroline Parsons."
"What about her?"
"What I tell you has to be off the record."
"Off the record is not a story, period," Fadden snapped. "You either have something or you don't. Otherwise we're wasting each other's time."
"Mr. Fadden, at this point I don't know if there is a story or if there isn't. I'm looking for help about something that's very personal to me. But if it turns out to be true, it's a blockbuster, in which case it's all yours."
"Oh for chrissakes!" Fadden sat back. "You want to sell me a used car too?"
"I want some help, nothing more." Marten's eyes came up to meet Fadden's and held there.
Fadden judged, then let out a sigh. "Okay, off the record. What the hell is it?"
"Caroline Parsons believed her husband and son were murdered. That the plane crash
"There are such people, Mr. President," Lowe said quietly.
"It can be done, sir," Marshall added, "and rather quickly. You'd be surprised."
Harris's eyes darted angrily from one man to the other. "Gentlemen, let me say this one more time. There will be no political assassinations on the part of the United States, not while I'm president. And if the subject comes up again you can both dig out your golf clubs and call for a tee time because you will no longer be part of this administration."
For the longest moment neither Marshall nor Lowe took his eyes from the president. Finally Marshall spoke, and in a tone that rang with condescension. "I think we understand your position, Mr. President."
"Good," Harris held their gaze, giving them no ground. "Now," he said brusquely, "if you don't mind there are a few things I'd like to go over on my own before we touch down in Rome."
16
• MR. HENRY'S RESTAURANT, PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE, 11:50 A.M.
Marten and Peter Fadden sat in a back booth in the dark-wood-and-authentic-retro atmosphere of this Capitol Hill saloon where the lunchtime crowd was just beginning to make noise and where decades earlier Roberta Flack was first crooning "Killing Me Softly" upstairs.
"Your friend Dan Ford was a heck of a reporter, a very special kind of guy, and—" Peter Fadden leaned inacross the table when he talked. It was a manner, studied or not, that accentuated his presence. "His future was bright as hell. To be murdered the way he was? It was all wrong. Nobody should ever die like that. I still miss him."
Fadden, thickset with gray hair and a trimmed gray beard and ruddy complexion, was closer to fifty than seventy and looked even younger. A byline reporter with an old-timer's rough demeanor, he wore brown slacks with a tattersall shirt and worn herringbone jacket. His eyes were sparkling blue and piercing as he watched Marten take a sip of coffee or a bite of tuna sandwich.
"So do I, every day," Marten said genuinely. Nearly five years had passed since Ford's murder in the French countryside, and even now Marten was plagued by the thought that Dan's death was somehow his fault. There was another level too, especially now, because, as with Caroline, they'd been best friends since childhood and all those memories, all their history, compounded his death even more.
It had been Dan Ford the professional journalist with his never-ending string of connections who had made it possible for John Barron to become Nicholas Marten, thereby enabling him to make a new life in the north of England, one far from the reach of the Gunslinger, the deadly LAPD detective Gene VerMeer, and his equally vengeful associates still on the force.
"You said you had a story. What is it?" The sentiment was done. Peter Fadden took a sip of coffee.
"I said I might have a story," Marten said, then lowered his voice. "It has to do with Caroline Parsons."
"What about her?"
"What I tell you has to be off the record."
"Off the record is not a story, period," Fadden snapped. "You either have something or you don't. Otherwise we're wasting each other's time."
"Mr. Fadden, at this point I don't know if there is a story or if there isn't. I'm looking for help about something that's very personal to me. But if it turns out to be true, it's a blockbuster, in which case it's all yours."
"Oh for chrissakes!" Fadden sat back. "You want to sell me a used car too?"
"I want some help, nothing more." Marten's eyes came up to meet Fadden's and held there.
Fadden judged, then let out a sigh. "Okay, off the record. What the hell is it?"
"Caroline Parsons believed her husband and son were murdered. That the plane crash
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