Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [117]
“I’m not sure I want to do that, Sam.”
Greenleaf’s voice rose in volume. “Now, hold on, Rich, and listen to me. You entered into a deal with us, and that included cooperating with the Widmer hearings. Russo getting killed wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t control that. But you can control the tapes and how they’re used.” He paused for breath. “I’m getting the impression that you knew all along that Russo’s claims weren’t valid, that you conned us.”
“I didn’t con anybody,” Marienthal said, feeling his own ire rising. “It doesn’t matter whether I believed Russo or not. All I did was write a book based on what he told me, and that’s what you bought, nothing more, nothing less. You’re right; Louis Russo’s death was beyond my control. And you’re right that I can determine what happens with the tapes. I’m sorry if things haven’t turned out the way we all wanted them to. I still haven’t decided what to do with the tapes, but I’m getting close.”
Marienthal could almost see Greenleaf in his office chair, willing himself to become calm and to inject reason into the argument. Judging from Greenleaf’s revised tone, that’s exactly what he’d done.
“Okay, Rich, let’s approach this in a reasonable, rational manner. There’s an opportunity here to salvage the book and see it achieve the sort of success we all envisioned for it, especially you. I must admit that I don’t understand why you’ve adopted this protective attitude toward the tapes. All they represent is what Russo told you, true or false. Playing them for the public at the hearings is the fair way to go—the American way to go, it seems to me. Let people hear what the man had to say in his own voice, and make up their own minds about his veracity.”
The American way, Rich thought. A nation ruled by the political sound bite.
Senator Widmer would proclaim in stentorian tones that the American way did not include assassinating visiting foreign leaders, and that those responsible were not fit to hold high office.
The White House would disperse its cadre of talking heads to the Sunday morning talk shows to accuse Widmer and his Republican supporters of blatant political motives in an election season, and to brand Russo and Marienthal as kooky pawns of the right wing.
Either way, and no matter how the public reacted, this was not the end result Richard Marienthal intended when he set out to write a best-selling book, his breakthrough, his claim to fame, his credential for a long and lucrative writing career.
“I’ll get back to you no later than tomorrow,” Marienthal said.
“Tomorrow?”
“Yeah, tomorrow.”
He ended the conversation and waited for Kathryn to arrive.
Stripling parked across the street from the building in which Winard Jackson’s apartment was located, and where Rich Marienthal had been holed up. He’d received another call on his cell phone from the Com Center in the Hoover Building, advising him that intercepted messages indicated that the subject had announced his intention to go to New York later that day, and that the subject did in fact have in his possession certain tapes.
He wasn’t sure what his next step should be. He had no way of knowing how many people might be with Marienthal inside the building, and was reluctant to attempt to confront the writer there. Marienthal was going to New York—which meant he’d be coming out, hopefully soon. Better to wait for that to happen, and trust he’d be alone. He pressed his elbow against the Smith & Wesson in its holster beneath his arm, comforted by its presence, although confident he wouldn’t have to use it. Marienthal was a writer, probably effete, lightweight—a lover, not a fighter. The worst that could happen was that he’d have to display