Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [113]
Initial reports that Russo had been killed by mobsters seeking revenge salved any pangs of conscience he might have suffered, allowing him to focus on his responsibility of guiding Adam Parmele to a deserved second term. The meeting with the CIA’s Roper had never happened.
The attorney general stood and came around behind Fletcher, placing large hands on the political adviser’s shoulders and kneading them. “Russo and Widmer and his hearings will die their natural death, Chet. Business as usual, which is what the country needs to go forward.” He released his grip on Fletcher and stood silently behind him. Fletcher didn’t move, feet planted on the floor, waiting to hear what was inevitable.
“The best way to put this behind the president, Chet, is for us to put some distance between you and the administration. The president will accept your resignation—for personal reasons. He’ll respect your wishes to spend more time with your family and to get back to the thing you love most, shaping the young minds of our future leaders. I’m sure you’ll have no problem lining up a job at a top university. And there’ll be the lecture circuit, Chet, after this dies down and blows away like dry seed in a gale.”
“I didn’t realize what would happen,” Fletcher said, realizing how feeble he sounded. “When I agreed to extreme measures, I—”
Garson came around to the front of the chair and loomed over Fletcher. “You’re a brave man, Chet Fletcher, and I admire brave men.”
Fletcher looked up and swallowed against bile in his throat. “In the same honor are held both the coward and the brave man,” he said. “The idle man and he who has done much meet death alike.”
Garson’s expression was quizzical. He smiled. “That’s true,” he said, although Fletcher doubted that the attorney general truly understood what he’d said.
Fletcher slowly got up and went to the door. He stopped, turned, and said, “The president knows?”
He was met with stony silence.
Fletcher returned to his office in the West Wing, closed the door behind him, sat behind his desk and reached into a drawer, withdrawing a sheet of paper carrying his letterhead. He uncapped a favorite Montblanc pen, and slowly, carefully, methodically wrote a letter of resignation, which he placed in an envelope, sealed, and wrote on it: The President of the United States. He locked the envelope in a drawer, pocketed the key, and drove home.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Kathryn Jalick was up before the sun after lying awake in bed for what seemed an eternity, and debated going back to work. There was a ten o’clock staff meeting at the Library of Congress she knew she should attend; seventeen boxes of material left to the library by the widow of a prominent nineteenth-century Washington physician. Their contents chronicling the doctor’s life in D.C.’s social circles were to be opened and catalogued.
A palpable excitement always accompanied the opening of materials from the library’s vast storage areas in which more than twenty million items awaited perusal and cataloguing. The occasion marked an opportunity to peer through a window into the private lives of others, a legal voyeuristic experience that was both valuable to the understanding of history and titillating.
On the other hand, Kathryn wasn’t anxious to face questions from her colleagues about Rich, his book, or his disappearance. She’d received a number of calls from fellow workers since the news broke, friendly inquiries in search of firsthand inside information to share with the curious.
A call shortly after seven made the decision for her.
“Hey,” a voice said.
“Rich. I was hoping you’d call.”
“I’m in a booth, can’t talk long. Look, I’ve decided what to do.”
She sighed with relief. It didn’t matter what decision he’d made, as long as it resulted in some sort of action. As the shrinks say, “Any action is better than no action. At least you have a fifty-fifty chance of being right.”
“I’m glad,” she said. “What are you going to do?”
“I’ll fill you