Power Play

Natalie said, “I wonder if he could be convinced his father was murdered rather than driven to suicide by me.”

Davis said, “I wouldn’t count on it.”

“No, let’s not,” Perry said. “Mom, you and I are going to fly to Hawaii, under assumed names, or maybe Bali or Australia. What do you think?”

Incredibly, Natalie laughed. “A fine idea, but do you know what I’m doing in about three hours? More interviews with the major news networks, and then with the BBC. I have a live speech at the UN tomorrow morning, so I don’t see Bali or Australia in my immediate future.” She paused. “No, I’m not going to disappoint the president. I’ve got top-notch security, and an important job to do. William or no William, I’m going to be on my way to the United Nations tomorrow morning.”

Marilyn’s B&B

Bowie, Maryland

Sunday, early evening

He wasn’t in nearly as much pain as he had been that October evening last year when a trainee, a sixteen-year-old boy from Beirut, had accidently set off a bomb too close to him and he’d been thrown a good six feet against a pile of rocks and felt like his guts had been punched in. He’d broken his leg then, and it hadn’t set right.

He lifted off the bandage and lightly laid his fingertips over the neat row of stitches on his side. Only slight swelling, only a bit of heat. The small blood collection that showed purple beneath the wound was expected and would fade. But there was no sign of infection. The antibiotics were working fine. He scratched around the stitches. It felt good because it itched already, and it didn’t feel particularly tender. He smeared more antibiotic ointment over the wound, then flattened down a new bandage. He took two pain pills and laid back down on his bed, closed his eyes.

The doctor had done an excellent job since he hadn’t wanted to die. He’d seemed to be a good man who didn’t deserve to die because he’d had the bad luck to be home and alone.

He wondered if the doctor had helped them identify him as William Charles McCallum. He knew they would, sooner or later. It made no difference. If he was digging his own grave as well as Mrs. Black’s, so be it.

He shouldn’t have gone out so soon, nor should he have performed the postures of the salat, the ritual prayer. It wasn’t required of an injured man. He would rest now, a day more, maybe two; that was all he needed.

He heard a knock on his door, grabbed the Beretta 418 from beneath his pillow, bought off a hood in Baltimore the week before. He felt the stitches pull and moved slowly.

“Mr. Garber? It’s Marilyn. Would you care for some dinner?”

He wasn’t hungry, but he knew he had to eat. He tucked the gun back beneath his pillow. “Yes, thank you, Ms. Marilyn.” She was a big woman, angular and nosy. He’d bet if she could, she’d sneak into his room, see what she could find. He’d left a sign on the door saying he was sleeping and wasn’t to be disturbed, and hoped that would keep her outside. “Would you please put a tray right outside the door? I’d appreciate it.”

He tried to speak in an American accent hinting of a childhood in the South. He thought he sounded down-home, but he couldn’t be sure. Still, no reason to announce himself as British. He was glad Marilyn hadn’t seemed to notice.

“Not a problem, Mr. Garber. I’ll bring it right up for you. I hope you feel better. Do you have the flu? Would you like me to contact a physician for you?”

“No, thank you, Ms. Marilyn. I need rest and your delicious cooking. Thank you.”

He heard her heavy footsteps retreating away from the door, past the two other bedrooms, down the single flight of stairs, and back to her kitchen.

There were two other couples staying at the B&B, both older, both out all day, sightseeing, he supposed. He’d heard one couple arguing through the walls.

His stomach rumbled. When he heard her call out again that she had his tray, he thanked her once more, asked her to leave it, and waited to hear her hulking steps back down the stairs. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and gingerly rose. He stretched carefully, only a little, not too much, and walked to the door. He listened, heard nothing. He opened the door to see the tray covered with a large sheet of aluminum foil. He smelled spaghetti and garlic bread. Good, he needed the calories.

He watched TV while he ate, scanned the news stations for any stories about Mrs. Black or her attacker. He was happy to see no leads were mentioned, that he had not been identified, at least publicly. He saw Natalie Black being interviewed on three channels, by the usual talking heads. Not a single one of them seemed to doubt any part of the story she was telling, the credulous fools. The showed a clip of her meeting with the British prime minister, all big smiles. They didn’t ask her why she was gracing them with an interview, tried instead to outdo one another with the warmth of their reception of the damsel in distress. She was good, yes, he’d give her that, very good indeed, smooth and believable.